Skin by Kathe Koja Read Free Book Online Page B

like her: a pair of eyes, a hungry little mouth that kept saying More, more .
        Still much to adjust to: Bibi's dawn returns from one of her endless forays, dance clubs and street theater, under the underground and bright eyes, whispered reports to half-wakened Tess, too much fun to hold till morning. Bibi on the phone for an hour at a time: to Sandrine, Raelynne. To the ex-director, yelling so loud it spooked the dogs below to whining. To Paul, who came without warning, "just stopping by" each time, dour and silent, Bibi's barkless dog. Listening to them fuck behind cardboard; listening to them argue, Bibi quick, so very quick to plant the knife, Paul's exit always with a virulent slam of the door. It was not always fun, after all.
        But, again: Bibi silent as Tess struggled, never intrusive, never disrupting either Tess's schedules or her frustration when the work went poorly; which was often, this new discipline so clumsy in her hands she must learn everything all over again, even the things she took for granted. Modification was more than this here, and this here, and this gone altogether; it was an art in itself, demanding a new eye: scrapyard scrounge was, here as well, the first step, but she had to be able to see motion as well as line, inherent and possible. Sometimes in frustration she paced, worktable to her makeshift metal rack, again and again through the manuals that could no longer help her, studying the new books designed for disciplines she did not need; sometimes sat staring at the pieces scattered before her as if by sheer rage she would force assembly. And the muscular spectacle of Bibi, silently stretching, bending, long legs in positions asymmetrical, seemingly arranged to rack bones from flesh, they had horrified Tess when she first saw them but now she saw them differently, as sculpture, a template of sorts for her machines; or, as now, curled into that peculiar graceful C-shape-fetus-bent, wrapped arms and legs bound each to the other by hooking ankles-an insect mummified in silk, she could sit like that for hours, Tess called it hedgehogging-keeping others away with a peremptory "No: Tess is working."
        Still curled, glancing at Tess, "Trouble?" and Tess's instant litany, hands on the worktable as if she would push it like Titan through the floor: she had no idea what she was doing, she was fumbling like a tyro, she was making it up as she went along.
        "Did you want it to be easy?"
        "No. I just want it to work. " Glaring down at the small elementary being, thin cable ligature and drops of oily blood. "It doesn't even walk like a person. When it walks. Which is never." Glancing back at her sculpture, rowed now before the windows, wry notion of informing them with motion, at least they were already built. At least they-
        - and silent, staring, Bibi saying something but she ignored it, rising to touch the sculptures, feel them roughly up and down like a soldier or an athlete, do you have the blood? Do you? Hands scraped and pinked by their varied surfaces, blind-eyed to see them covered in the white arc of flying sparks, ranked onstage in full dark and the dancers, Bibi, between them, roped claustrophobic with cable and chain, struggling, struggling, Tess behind spraying that continuous fire in the air. And the small human figure, not made to walk, not made to do anything but what it already did, jerk. And twitter. And spasm. Lit from above like the last live human caught by God's wandering eye.
        And Bibi, beside her, "What? What?" and grinning, little teeth in bare excitement. "What?" and Tess turning, her own smile-she felt it-long and sharp across her face like electricity itself, archangel in motion with the message of constant light.
        Dressed in metal, faked from beer cans and duct tape, Raelynne making Tin Woodman jokes as she wrapped her feet with Ace bandages and long swaths of pewter-colored cotton, her head in a black turban; they