Rules for eating oysters

As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.

—Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Rule One: Never deal with lecherous freaks. Shay Silvermoon smells of ocean decay. That's the first thought Racter has when he sees his future colleague standing in his workshop. If he shifts his perception to color, the electromagnetic radiation surrounding her appears as an intricate tapestry of emerald hues — like storm-tossed waves under heavy clouds, with silvery sparks shimmering coolly in the depths. In sound, she's a low, resonant chord, punctuated by quick, high notes — a bright patter, reminiscent of spring drops in Racter's distant homeland. Unlike Hong Kong, that place knew snow. But it's her smell that strikes him first. Not her physical scent, no — this is a construct of his brain interpreting her EM waves into something vaguely human. For Shay, it's a peculiar damp aroma, undeniably tinged with something rotten. The first thing she does is spread her thumb and forefinger into an imaginary frame, squint at him, and scrutinize him with unsettling intensity. "Exactly like that," she declares with a sigh. "...What?" Racter asks, certain he must have misheard. Not that it's likely, given the suite of augmentations fine-tuning his senses. "Exactly like that," she repeats, as if that clarifies everything. Then, she smiles — a wide grin, her teeth white as rice, a small gap visible between the front ones. "They told me there's a creepy Russian on my ship. Hello." Her Cantonese is abysmal, so bad that a native Hongkonger wouldn't understand a word. Yet "on my ship" is delivered with regal indifference. Racter silently lights a cigarette, taking his time to study her in return. This time, in the spectrum visible to human eyes. She doesn't flinch under his gaze. She's small — for an elf. Her enormous black eyes, sharp southern features (he's seen her face before, in surveillance footage) — Italian? Greek, maybe? Her complexion is tanned but fine, the blue veins of her forearms faintly visible. She looks, at most, fourteen. Racter had scoured the Net for her background, finding nothing definitive about her real age. She could be anywhere between those fourteen years and — he calculates quickly — forty-something, starting when the wave of Unexplained Genetic Manifestations had first swept the globe and pointed ears began to appear on newborns. She looks young, impossibly so, but that's elves for you. His own age, of course, presents its own mysteries to those who meet him. The lack of wrinkles combined with his gray hair often leaves people at a loss. The nanobots preserving his youth are every bit as effective as elven genes. "Exactly like that, meaning I'm creepy?" he asks, because it seems like the kind of question she wants him to ask. "No," Shay replies, offering no further explanation. "That's what Gobbet thinks of you." "If you'd be so kind, tell Gobbet the creepiest thing I've encountered on this ship is the contents of the pot I saw on her table last night." She snorts. "No one's cleaned it yet, and now—" Her sentence breaks off, some clever rejoinder clearly dying on her tongue. It's Cantonese she started with, and Cantonese he used to complain about the pot. Racter has no intention of making her life easier by switching languages. She hesitates, her brow furrowing, her expression both frustrated and amused — a rainbow breaking through rain in the EM spectrum. Finally, she clicks her tongue in annoyance and says: "You're Dr. Racter. I'm Shay Silvermoon. Shall we speak English instead? You do speak English?" He smirks. "I get by. So, what about the pot? Has it gained sentience?" She twitches her long ear, catching nuances in his pronunciation. Complains, "Yes, that's exactly what I was going to say. You've stolen my joke. And you have an accent. Though, admittedly, not as bad as the ones in movies about creepy Russians... Maybe because you spent so much time in Berlin?" She leans into the word accent, her emphasis turning it into an exaggerated victory, as though the simple fact that her English is more polished than his is a triumph. In that moment, Racter could almost believe she really is fourteen. She has two faint laugh lines framing her mouth, as if she smiles often or talks too much. They don't make her look older, just more alive. Naturally, the fact that she knows so much about his biography doesn't escape his notice. But that's exactly what he expected. "You're saying I borrowed half my accent from movies about creepy Germans?" he jokes. She tilts her head thoughtfully, taps her nose with one finger, then, in a sudden shift of seriousness, asks: "What are you doing tonight? There's a restaurant nearby with amazing oysters." "Yes, I know. I've lived on your ship long enough. Tonight, I imagine I'll be working on some schematics," Racter replies pleasantly. Her brows shoot up in surprise — surprise tinged with the haughty disbelief of someone unaccustomed to refusals. "You completely ignored the point of the question. I invited you to have oysters with me." "Fine, let's get to the point. Let me save us both some time. People invite others to restaurants for one of two reasons: business or romance. In this case, it's business. Obviously, you've done your homework about my skills; I've heard some things about you as well. We don't need oysters to confirm that I'd be happy to work with you." "And why," Shay Silvermoon asks, not removing her finger from her nose, "do you assume this isn't the second case? Can't a woman in the 21st century ask a man out to dinner?" Well, then. "It would be presumptuous to believe that a young, beautiful woman might be interested in an old Russian with metal legs," Racter replies, and only belatedly realizes his words sound less like a tactful rejection and more like the bleating of a flirtatious pervert. Judging by the way her smile skews into something crooked and unpleasant, Shay has the same thought. "I'm older than I look," she says. "Are you sure?" Her gaze sharpens, testing, as she leans her head slightly to one side in what she presumably thinks is a seductive gesture. Her logic must be that seducing a seemingly underage elf without legal consequences is some kind of achievement. True, she's objectively attractive (elves almost always are), but Hong Kong is full of beautiful, willing women. Especially for a foreigner with enough cash to buy a few glasses of wine or whiskey. "Well, I'm older than I look, too," Racter says. "Trust me, I'm truly old. Perhaps I'd have been thrilled by your invitation when I was younger and... more whole. But sex has long since fallen far outside my interests." His accompanying smile is blinding, a deliberate show of teeth. This Italian Lolita appreciates directness — he can manage that. To her credit, Shay neither blushes nor giggles. Her bold, dark eyebrows arch slightly, and her emotions bloom brighter in the EM spectrum: a sharp yellow flare of surprise, followed by a ruddy orange curiosity. Her gaze lingers on the wires trailing from his datajack, disappearing beneath his shirt, then slides lower — over his torso, hips, legs, the concealed mystery of what lies beneath. In an age where magic and implants enable the wildest fantasies, his admission reads as something mad. And the girl's spectrum belatedly splashes with a dirty-gray wave of caution: how much humanity is left in the body of her possible colleague? And what about the soul?.. (It is at this moment that the interlocutors usually mutter: "Fucking crazy riggers"). Still, there's another thread in her field, startling in context — a warm salmon-pink... relief?.. "You just turned me down," she says, almost laughing. "Good God, you turned me down. And so brutally! I want to work with you." Racter blinks, losing the thread for a moment, before realization strikes. This wasn't seduction. It was an interview. "A test of professionalism?" Shay nods. "I don't want colleagues hitting on me. And unfortunately, most don't know how to say 'no.'" "I understand. It must be hard to conduct business when you look like a beautiful high schooler." At his words, her spectrum jolts — a sudden, sharp pulse of obsidian black, a discordant spike of something ugly: fear? Anger? Shame? Her blood flow quickens, though her voice remains upbeat. "Sometimes it works to my advantage," she says breezily, but her gaze shifts away, her smile uneven again. "But you're right. I have rules. About oysters. And people. Rule one: never deal with lecherous freaks." "A very sensible rule." Racter's smile is sharp, almost predatory, yet approving. "Although, I'd point out — there are many kinds of freaks. Trusting everyone who simply has the self-control to decline oysters at dinner might be... unwise." Shay studies him for a long, deliberate moment, then steps closer. Her gaze tilts upward, serious now, almost conspiratorial, as though about to share a secret. "Those kinds of freaks," she says softly, "are the ones I fear most. The ones like you. I have other rules for them." "And what are the others?" She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she throws back a seemingly unrelated question: "Is that a human brain in there? Or is it all processors and cerebral accelerators now?" "May I ask why you're so curious?" "I could lie," Shay says with a grin that's equal parts glee and malice. "Tell you that, since we're going to be working together, I need to know all about your cybernetic upgrades — especially the unconventional ones. But the truth? I just felt like asking something wildly inappropriate." "It's not a question of appropriateness," Racter replies smoothly, hiding his irritation behind a soft, shark-like smile. "I rarely discuss my modifications with colleagues. No one's complained yet. This is a matter of my safety, my survival." "Exactly. A matter of safety and survival — but not just yours." Shay's reply comes quick, pointed. Racter lets the silence stretch between them, his gaze cold and measured. But in just two minutes of this strange exchange, Shay Silvermoon has already hooked him — her mystery a gleaming lure lodged deep beneath his surface. He wants to keep talking to her, keep unraveling her. Perhaps, in time, they'll discuss plans, share grim jokes after missions where everyone miraculously survives. Perhaps, if he were younger — and more whole, again — he might've even entertained the idea of oysters and whatever might follow. But right now, he only wants to know: Who is she? Not the basic intel he's already unearthed from the Net — he's past that. There's something locked inside Shay Silvermoon, something rare and impenetrable, a vault that Racter feels compelled to crack. Racter loves rarities — and he loves breaking locks and safes, too. She is extraordinary, and he needs to understand why. So, he offers her an olive branch: "One day, if I trust you completely, I'll tell you all about my brain, my processors, and the rest. And in exchange, you'll tell me about your oyster rules." Shay nods, her expression calm. "Fair deal," she says. If Racter weren't reading her EM field, he might think she was joking — her lips seem perpetually shadowed by the ghost of a smile. But right now, she is entirely serious. She stands close enough that he can make out the wild tangle of her black curls, hair that looks as though it hasn't seen a comb — or water — since birth. Once again, he catches her strange scent. Shay smells of cold fish scales and the pebbles of a harbor floor. Of torn fishing nets and silky green seaweed clinging to the wooden hulls of old junks. She smells of the damp fog that clings to Victoria Harbour, shrouding sun and moon alike, settling in ghostly wisps on hair and clothes. Even after she leaves, her scent lingers in his workshop. A little while later, voices drift down from the ship's deck. The ancient camera mounted on the ceiling above has never worked, not in all the time Racter's lived aboard. But the rasping, low voice is unmistakable. He can easily picture the face of its owner: rough-edged and shrewd, yet oddly childlike, with tusks jutting out of her mouth. Gobbet, the foul-mouthed orc mage. "He's creepy, right?" Gobbet complains. "How'd it go? Did you two work something out?" "We did," Shay's voice answers. "Well, spill it," Gobbet demands. "How much of a cut does he want? Can he crack safes? What happens if there's security on-site — will he still join the run?" "I think," Shay says, pausing slightly, "he won't refuse. According to the Berlin records, Dr. Racter is very proficient with weapons." "Think? According to?" Gobbet mimics, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Amazing, Shay. Truly genius negotiating skills. Did you even discuss anything? I bet he's gonna ask for so much cash we'll be broke." "Doesn't matter how much he wants," Shay snaps. "We don't have many options, Gobbet. We need a security specialist. Or are you suggesting we open the locks with our fingers?.. As for his fee — I don't know. I... got distracted. I was expecting a nerd like Is0bel. But him..." "Him what?" Shay is silent. Racter wishes he could see her face in that moment. He makes a mental note to repair all the broken cameras on this ship. Shay's face is fascinating — alive, fluid, like the ocean. "Ohhhh no," Gobbet groans, likely clutching at her dreadlocks. "This is what I was afraid of. You've got a crush, haven't you? Yeah, you do! I can see right through you. It's obvious now why he agreed to work with us so easily, without even asking if we could afford him—" "No, Gobbet, you've got it all wrong," Shay interrupts, her voice hurried. "I invited him to a restaurant on purpose. He turned me down." "You invited him where? Oh, Shay. This is worse than I thought." "No, listen — it was a test. And he passed. He's not like that. He doesn't want anything from me." "Sure, sure," Gobbet mutters, unconvinced. "Guys like him — those smug cybered-up bastards — don't give a damn about people like us. Trust me, he wants something. Maybe he thinks an underage elf girlfriend will go nicely with his expensive coat. Look, this is Hong Kong. No one gives you anything for free here." "Enough already. I'm not underage! And not everyone is obsessed with sleeping with someone. Has it really gotten that dull in Hong Kong?" "I'm serious, Shay," Gobbet growls, loud enough that Racter would've heard her without the ship's audio systems. "I don't mind having that brain-modded psycho in the team, but don't you dare climb into his pants. I know he's got a pretty face, but his brain leaks worse than this damn boat. He'll saw your legs off in your sleep, and don't say I didn't warn you." Racter chuckles. Hong Kong — that's what she smells like, he thinks.