Skin by Kathe Koja

engineered versus the organic, Tess had the same problems from the other side: Nicky most of all but even patient Jerome less so, we put in most of the grindwork, Tess, we do most of the work and you know it. Did she know it? The pure hot drip of solder, flat splash drying to thinnest chrome shine; she knew that.
        "I tell 'em they can all be replaced," and Bibi right side up, blood in her cheeks. "Fuck 'em. Especially Paul. This's the greatest thing any of them will ever do and they know it. -Listen, I'm going to a club tonight, there's this fou music thing I want to see. I forgot the name of it, but Andy says they're pretty good. Want to come?"
        Tapping Death Almost with the hilt of her soldering gun, jingling skulls as small as charms: "Can't. Besides I don't know what fou music is."
        " 'S like art brut, only music. Crazy people," and she bared her teeth, comical glare and uncoiling in one long reptile stretch, dressing backless and bright new piercing jewelry, shiny surgical steel: beautiful, Bibi, pale hair hacked shorter than ever, pale eyes now covered by heavy cataract shades even though the sun was down. Tess in the glow of her own sun, indoor burn and Andy at the door, immense in heavy leather: "Knock knock-hey, hi, Tess, how's it going? You ready, Bibi? Tess, you want to come?"
        "Not her," Bibi tapping tart and fond across her back, "you know Tess. Slave to the grind," and Tess's correcting smile, "No, slave to the burn, " and the door closing again on the dark coming on, stench of solder and singed plastic, the blood-quiet drip from the smoldering tip of the gun.
        "It won't work because you can't do it." Sickle-eyed through the mask in matte afternoon shadow; deep in a pleasing problem and here they were, in without knocking and ringing her worktable with another bright idea. Trio stare reminding of the Triple Deaths, she felt a dry smile that came nowhere near her mouth. "Do I have to pull rank? Is that what you want?"
        Nicky's ragdoll hair in sullen shake, Peter picking at a hangnail. Only Jerome met her head on, glare for glare, only Jerome bold enough, mad enough to say, "It's not fair."
        "Of course it's not fair." Flipping up her mask to point from one to another with the burnt flux tip, "It doesn't have to be fair, remember? And you don't have to stay." The limits of dominion were her limits, as far as such could be prosecuted, and she knew it; what authority she had they gave her and she knew that, too. "Now either help me with this, or leave me alone," and turning back, ticking off seconds and Jerome's sigh, angry hands taking the work from her, the others silent on the other side.
        And Bibi breezing in, handful of flyers and new jacket jingling with zippers, "Hey," and the three in one collective motion removing the slippery jumble of cable, fragile as an intubated body, off the worktable and out the door. Staring after them, "What's their problem?" and Tess careful not to speak until the finite sound of the service elevator.
        "Oh, they're pissed off at me, they want to try this new effect with the laser and I won't let them."
        "Why not?"
        "Too dangerous." Brief mind's-eye glimpse of the first show, the girl stumbling back behind the shielding panels. Crane's voice: How about the kid who got all cut up? No more of that, please, and thank you very much. "Where've you been?"
        "Back to the Asylum. Look," new flyer in hand: actual torque in heavy black sans serif on a background of pure arc flash, a woman's-Bibi's-bare back defined by lash marks and behind her a tall masked figure clenching a stylized joystick, connected by sparking cables to something angular and metallic just barely in frame. Tess stared at it with a vague discomfort; it seemed unnecessarily lurid, and it was so big; almost poster-size.
        "That's you," Bibi's chewed nail on the figure. "I already put some up, at Greco's, and the Bar H, and