Cyberpunk by Pat Cadigan

have the tools or the light.
    Mouse came and sat next to him and her warm leg rested against his.
    What should we do?
    She shrugged. You got something sharp?
    He nodded, I guess. Tharpoon. Hand me yours, I’ll sharpen it.
    She passed him her tharpoon and he ran the tip of it over his whetstone shard until the edge caught at his thumb.
    Now what, he said.
    Then we stay quiet, she said. Stay warm and stay quiet. When morning comes we take your bot home. She huddled in closer and whispered that she did not feel right and touched the back of her neck.
    Pico tentatively put his arm around her and let his hand rest on the bicep of her goosebumped bare arm and she moved into his embrace.
    I’m scared, he whispered and she shushed him, but it was not unfriendly.
    He held absolutely still then, wary that anything he might say may disrupt their pseudo embrace. But he couldn’t help himself, the nacker in front of them haunted him and he wanted to explain it, to tell her that if he could only fix it up maybe the others would forgive him, that he knew he could do it, but when he turned to tell her she surprised him with a kiss and he kissed her back.
    After a while she pushed him backward into the trash and climbed on top and they stayed curled like so, keeping each other warm. The putrid smell of the dump combined with the smell of her, and Pico thought maybe he could die like this after all. He was so happy to touch her skin. Around her, he felt he could see a soft electric-blue glow, electron residue perhaps, or it was only his eyes playing tricks.
    Then the dogs came. At first it was just the sound of a scrabbling out in the dark, and the sound moved fast, circling about them. Pico and Mouse stood and gripped their tharpoons, pointing the ends toward the roving sound. There was a dim light from the city far away, where real people were, in their real houses, doing. He didn’t know what the pendejos did. He could feel Mouse shivering next to him, and this alone made him want to run at the dogs, stupid as it was. Güey , he thought. I don’t want to die. He felt like crying. I have a nacker and almost a girlfriend.
    You got any charge for light? Mouse asked.
    Maybe couple minutes, but it’d just call the rest.
    There was a low growl off to Pico’s right and he crouched with the tharpoon. The growl was followed by a series of eerie barks, answered by many others. Dios , Pico whispered. Mouse, he said.
    It’s okay, Pico.
    The sound of dogs’ feet scrabbling was intense now. They had no idea how many were out there.
    Pico heard one come close and Mouse swung her tharpoon at the sound and connected. They heard a howl of rage and other dogs answered, a terrifying chorus of sound. Then one got a jaw’s grip around his tharpoon arm. He yelled and punched at it with his other fist but its hold was strong. It pulled him over and he heard Mouse behind him fending off another. On the ground another one got a bite-hold on his shoe. Another tore into his thigh and he kicked and screamed and clawed.
    An intense flash lit the terrain suddenly. They saw a dozen or so dogs frozen in the instantaneous light. In the ensuing blackness, there were two shots fired and an answering canine howl of pain. The dog biting Pico’s thigh yipped away into the night. The one on Pico’s arm got suddenly light, its jaws loosening, and when Pico went to punch it off found that only its head remained, dripping blood and wire. It slipped to the ground with a soft, wet thud.
    Hello? Mouse said, her voice a lonely human sound in the dark, afraid and hopeful.
    They won’t trouble you now, a woman answered.
    Pico tenderly touched his thigh and his hands came away slick. His arm burned and ached and felt cold. I’m hurt, he said.
    Who are you? Mouse said.
    My name is Lucy. The voice was close now. Reach out your hand, Pico.
    I can’t see, Pico said. Light?
    No lights, Lucy said. She took hold of his hand and slowly placed something on his forearm. He could feel