Page 101 of Too Many Beds

Tarrant drops the weights he’d been crunching; they hit the ground with a dull thud.

“Who’s … Heron Kim?” I ask.

“Former top dog,” Tarrant says.

“Stone-cold nasty son of a bitch,” Kon adds quickly. “As dangerous as they come. And you can bet he’ll be wanting his throne back. Better get a muzzle on him, Tarrant—fast. Before he has time to rebuild his crew.”

Tarrant stretches his neck, then bends to retrieve the dumbbells and return them to the rack. He’s calm but unnaturally so, quietly calculating the situation. But the silence itches like badly woven synth-wool and I have to say something to scratch it.

“Well, what’d he do?” I venture. No one ever talks about what they did to get themselves locked up here, but for them to talk about thisHeron Kimthe way they did, he must have a rather notorious story. Call it morbid curiosity, but if I’m about to be ordered into this man’s bed, which I don’t doubt is Tarrant’s solution to all this, then I’d at least like to know what I’m up against.

Unlike the first time.

Tarrant and Kon exchange a glance. The silence is killing me. But when Kon starts undressing, I stiffen—and then move to do the same.

Kon’s jumpsuit gathers at his feet and he stands there in his briefs, otherwise making no advance on me. I relax but my eyes are drawn immediately to his left leg, rigid and glinting in the harsh artificial light. A plexichrome exoskeleton—a mechanical brace—is fitted to his leg from ankle to hip. The Authority issue them as alternatives to amputation, where the strength and functionality of a limb is severely compromised but not diseased, and the injured party’s productivity measure is not worth the cost of a neurogenic prosthesis.

Kon presses a button on the exoskeleton and shifts his weight wholly to his right leg. Steam hisses from the loosening seals as the brace depressurises. It opens like a hinged door and Konpulls it aside. I draw a sharp breath. The limb is a mangled mess of scar tissue and atrophied muscle. Great chunks of flesh are missing where damaged meat has been excised away. His knee is red and swollen, protruding like a boil; the rest of the skin is purple and scaled, dry and cold with poor circulation. The pain Kon must be in …

“My uniform got snagged on the Podz conveyor belt,” Kon says, jaw firm. “Pulled me in. Leg was crushed in the gears.”

“Or so the Authority was made to believe,” Tarrant adds, folding his arms across his chest. “No one speaks about how Kim and his pack held Kon down as theythreadedhim through the belt like raw synth about to be moulded.”

Everyone is silent as I process that. Kon silently refixes his exoskeleton and redresses. I’ll never look at his limp the same way.

And I’ll never question Tarrant’s methods again.

Heron Kim is released back into the yard at 1436, during the mid-afternoon stretch break. He’s escorted by Fargus and two other guards I’ve not seen before. His hands are bound, and he waits with no apparent urgency as the guards swipe him into the gated outdoor rec area. A heavy silence smothers the inmates like a fire blanket.

“So he still has crew in H,” Tarrant whispers in my ear. He’s standing behind me, arms looped possessively around my waist as I observe Heron Kim’s interaction with the inmates who approach him. One after the other, they clasp hands and embrace him with brotherly back pats. Finally, he turns his attention to Tarrant and I shiver.

He’s tall and hawkish. Long and lithe. Athletic. Strong. His skin’s the colour of raw honey, rich and deep against the sullen beige of his prison jumpsuit. Silky black hair cascades past his shoulder in loose, lazy waves; a silver bolt pierces the centre of his bottom lip.Thathas my attention. Body mods are rare. Hair dye, piercings, tattoos—all pointless markers of creative expression that have no place under the Authority’s new world order. For Heron Kim to so brazenly persist with this act of defiance … he truly mustn’t give a shit.

He walks towards us. I clench against Tarrant’s embrace. The other man’s jumpsuit is opened to his waist, revealing a splay of ink etched into the shape of a bird in flight.

A heron, I realise. My skin prickles.

“Kim,” Tarrant greets as the tattooed man stops before us.

“O’Connor.” His voice is like oil. A half-smile parts his lips as he pats Tarrant on the shoulder.

And walks off.

Tarrant wastes no time in his attempt to placate Heron Kim; I’m sent to H Block that very evening like a welcome basket filled with muffin-flavoured NourishPodz. My whole body is ablaze, taut with anxious energy. I’d stopped feeling anything after the first half-dozen beds, but this is different. This is Heron Kim—the most dangerous man in here, the biggest threat to Tarrant.

And I need to seduce him. Need to bring him to heel. Make him obey. Like it was even possible for me to do that.

Five sets of eyes turn to me as I appear in the doorway of the H Block common room. In place of the hungry, horny grins thatusually greet my appearance, they look … amused. I even catch an eye roll.

“I, um …”

“Kim, peace offering’s here,” an inmate calls, not moving away from his PKT.

“Send him in.” The voice comes from inside an open cell door.

“You heard the man. In you go.” A chin gestures to the room behind him. A dry chorus of chuckles erupt as I pass them to the room.

Heron Kim sits on his cot, cross-legged with his jumpsuit rolled down to his waist, exposing the tattoo in all its glory. It’s … beautiful.Heis beautiful. I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. He’s magnetic. Like a predator I dare not turn my back on.

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