genre: science fiction
Lucas Donson hated sorting heads. The whole job sucked, but the heads
were the worst. Twisted expressions of horror or agony, glassy
eyeballs, residual blood spatters—the stares were the worst. Hands
didn't stare at him. Hell, none of the parts were as bad.
He tossed the current head on the grinder disposal line. It had a
dented skull and ugly, blotched expression. One eye had been swollen
shut. Maybe the guy had been a wannabe suicide that hadn't had the
balls, or time, to go through with it. More probable was that the man
had resisted his permitted abuser or murderer. What an idiot.
Aw, hell, I'm thinking about them again.
Luke wiped his hands on his jumper and pocketed the extracted
BrainChip into a hidden seam opening. No alarms. He kept his breathing
steady, expression blank. If he didn't twitch, no one would notice the
thefts. He picked up the next head, a woman's. Good hair, decent skin
tone. Prosthetics could probably use the lips and eyes.
He flicked on the laser-cutter and made a quick cut at the crown. He
flipped the cutter around and used the opposite end to flick the
BrainChip out. By now, having been at the job for three years, he
could have the 'Chips extracted in ten seconds flat and the parts
assessed and sorted in half a minute.