Mist fell like a slowmotion ivory waterfall, chilling Killeen and setting Toby’s teeth to chattering. The boy was tired from his struggle. He had a hacking cough. A gray pallor had crept into him. Killeen’s good arm now throbbed in steady protest. He was grateful for the chance to put Toby down at the foot of the high, endlessly featured wall. Regularly spaced vault hatches stretched away, up into the swirling cloud layer high above. He wondered how even a mech could get up such a sheer face to open the high compartments.

Use grappler mechs.

Climb like spiders.

We don’t need grapplers though.

Parts Crafter wants are low on wall.

Killeen relayed this to Hatchet, as he had been doing throughout the march. Hatchet listened, nodded. The entire team was edgy, eyes leaping at any sudden sound. The least surprise made hands grasp for weapons.

Killeen shared their jittery alertness despite his fatigue. To come here at all meant placing your trust in the Crafter. It knew mech ways. But it was a criminal among mechs and could not save them if things went seriously wrong.

Hatchet began organizing the work. Killeen relayed the Crafter’s orders automatically. Bud’s small laconic voice was a silvery tenor note in his mind among a rich burgundy surge of emotion. He was a mote tossed by deep loathings and fears that seethed within him but could not find a voice. He spoke woodenly. Hatchet nodded, seemed even pleased at Killeen’s robotlike reciting of Bud’s messages.

Killeen felt cold strike into his chest from the chilly refrigerated wall, like a long-fingered hand jutting from the enameled vaults and piercing his heart. He worked stiffly, trying to isolate his mind, to stop its endless spinning in a black abyss. He found himself gazing at his own legs as they moved, looking in absolute amazement at how easily they functioned, thinking of himself as a machine which did not know it was a machine.

He shook his head but nothing would clear it.

“Pop that first one. See? Yeasay, that one!” Hatchet was calling orders to Cermo-the-Slow.

The men pulled forth the Crafter replacement bioparts. Each vault held organic segments in chilly isolation, fully grown. Killeen called out Bud’s directions, his voice flat and dry. He caught Toby looking at him strangely but gave it no mind.

The vaults were the right height to allow men to slide the packaged units out and hand them down into an open hatch in the Crafter’s upper cowling. Some parts required delicate handling. There were great disks of chunky, fibrous stuff like huge kidneys.

Many-elbowed articulating units like coiled bronze wire that could dance and weave, snakelike.

Small, intricate pumps that were clearly made from hearts.

Each had its attached tubes and monitoring wire couplers.

Each pulsed with muted energy.

Killeen tried not to look at most of the things the men took from the vaults. But he was standing halfway up the Crafter when Cermo-the-Slow jerked away from a vault he had just opened and cried, “Nossir noway! This’s human!”

It was one of the legs.

Feeder tubes forced sluggish fluid through fat blue veins. It was bigger than the ones Killeen had seen. The leg bulged with muscles and thick tendons. It wore collars of carefully shaped cartilage at each end, where the hip and foot should be.

Cermo dropped the leg. He backed away, eyes wide.

One of the leg’s feeder tubes popped free. Its collar of gristle spasmed.

Hatchet came rushing over, yelling, “Pick it up! Don’t let it lock up on you, it’ll go bad.”

Cermo stood stock-still. Hatchet fumed in exasperation and snatched up the leg himself. He plugged the feeder line back in. A tiny digital window in the cartilage flashed five meaningless symbols. Hatchet ignored this and shoved the leg into the top hatch. Some minor mechs inside the Renegade were taking the cargo from the men.

Crafter wants you to know.

It must use human parts, yes.

Sometimes better than metal parts.

These legs can regrow selves.

Easy to reproduce.

Mechs need.

Efficient to use.

Killeen smiled grimly. Was the Crafter apologizing? “So we’re a resource? Why they kill us, then?”

Crafter says humans also damage mech factories.

Mechs have to control humans.

Use them in factories though.

Cartilage good for shock absorber.

Not all of human used.

“So I saw.”

Hatchet stood with hands on hips, watching the last of the Crafter bioparts come out of the vaults. He licked his lips. “Best damn haul ever. Renny’s gonna owe us a lot.”

Killeen said, “You knew they use human parts?”

Hatchet’s eyes slid toward him, then away, decided to be offhand. “Sure. I was the one met this Crafter, set up the first trade. It was me took the risk.”

“By yourself?”

“Damnsight right. We were down, had nothin’. I saw this Crafter limpin’, treads all wore out. Figured I could take it. Only it didn’t fight. Made some pictures in my head. I had my translator along, she explained the pictures. That’s how I saw it was a Renny. Made my first deal.” Hatchet said this flatly and factually, the way a man does so he can’t be accused of bragging.

“You got it bioparts?”

“Yeah. Was easier then. Mechs’ve got smart since.”

“You saw things like that leg?”

Hatchet pursed his lips and shot Killeen an assessing look. “Yeasay. Gotta understand, mechs have their own way. It just figures.” Hatchet said this like a man explaining his religion, as if it were simply common sense. “We do what we gotta. Help our Families. Can’t change the mechs.” Hatchet smiled tightly at the very idea.

“Just you be sure this Crafter delivers.”

“My Family’s been dealin’ with Rennies lot longer’n any Bishop ever did,” Hatchet said mildly. He was right, Killeen knew. His father had told him once that the Kings had a dozen or more Rennies. They specialized in it, the way Bishops knew scavenging better than anybody, and Pawns could grow food better. It was a tradition that came down from the earliest times.

Still, the Kings needed his Face’s translating ability. He could see that this galled Hatchet. They’d lost their translators on these raids, in ways Hatchet didn’t want to discuss. All this made Killeen doubly wary of the King Cap’n.

He went over to see if Toby was all right. Shibo was helping hand down the last bioparts. The team stayed atop the Crafter.

Get on.

Crafter take us.

“Where?”

Fix you.

Then must go. Hurry.

Overseer is in complex.

“What’s the Overseer?”

Image not clear.

Is small mech.

But many parts.

Very smart mech I think.

They mounted and rode. There were few mechs working the huge bay. The Crafter froze them with staccato microwave bursts. Killeen’s eyes swept each lane as they passed.

Hatchet was jubilant in a subdued way. He moved among the team, reassuring, complimenting them on their fast work. The Crafter hummed down corridors nearly too narrow for it. Its treads clanked and at this lower speed Killeen could hear it squeak and grind and whir. He knew the sound of parts worn nearly to the breaking point. When Hatchet passed by, using the pipes for handholds, Killeen asked him how old the Crafter was.

“Plenty,” Hatchet said. “It’s been runnin’ for its life for long time, I figure.”

“How you tell?”

“It’s made from old stuff. Designs I never saw before. My translator said the mechciv changes parts deliberate like that. So’s they cut off the Rennies.”

“Make ’em come in like this one? Looking for replacements?”

Hatchet shrugged. “Sure. More likely a Renny just craps out. When I was a boy I saw some Rennies broke down. Out in middle nowhere, busted. Marauder comes by, catches it easy.”