Mickey's cube lies at the opposite end of the table. I walk over to it
without saying a word. I don't know how it works, but I know the puzzles
of the earth.
"My boy, what are you doing?" Mickey sighs in pity. "That is not a toy."
"Have you ever been in a mine?" I ask him. "Ever used your fingers to
dig through a faultline at a twelve-degree angle while doing the math to
accomodate eighty percent rotation power and fifty-five percent thrust so
you don't set off a gas-pocket reaction while sitting in your own piss and
sweat and worrying about pitvipers that want to burrow into your gut to lay
their eggs?"
"This is …"
His voice fades as he sees how the clawDrill taught my fingers to move,
how the grace with which my uncle taught me to dance is converted into
my hands. I hum as I work. It takes a moment, maybe a minute or three. But
I learn the puzzle and then solve it easily according to frequency. There
seems another level to it, mathematical riddles. I don't know the math, but I
know the pattern. I solve it and four more puzzles, then it changes once
more in my hands, becoming a circle. Mickey's eyes widen. I complete the
circle's puzzles and then toss him back the device. He stares at my hands
while working his own twelve fingers.


- Red Rising