Louie Hong, a fully human young cowboy in a world of frontier cyborgs, faces a challenge: Proving he's not an outlaw, which will be a lot harder than he can possibly imagine!
Rebuilding the American West after it was destroyed in a series of biological disasters isn't easy, especially for a "control natural"—anyone who doesn't have any mechanical implants. In a world where even the cattle are mechanical hybrids, most folks look down on a man who doesn't have at least one bionic hand.
But Louie Hong is determined to make his way in the new Wild West. All he has to do is explain to the bounty hunters who are chasing him for robbing a bank, and the outlaw gang that's chasing him for stealing their loot, that he didn't do any of it—and he needs to find proof and hope somebody will listen to him!
With a little luck, and the help of Chuck, his cyborg steer companion, Louie Hong hopes to find a home on the range that nobody can take away from him—not the bank robbers, not bounty hunters and scouts, not any cyborgs, not even talking, singing steerites!
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"A rousing, fun science fiction saga complete with cyborg cowboys and outlaws...an exciting and witty subgenre of science fiction by Hugo and Nebula Award finalist William F. Wu" —Chosen by the American Library Association, Booklist, and the Library Journal for their Recommended and Best of the Year lists.
For an audio excerpt:
Excerpt from Chapter One:
First I could only see that something large was displacing the tall buffalo grass ahead. Then I reached the spot and found a steerite lying down with his steel legs neatly folded underneath him. They gleamed silver in the sun and his hinged metal tail swished back and forth, its brush swatting the flies that buzzed around the natural hide of his meaty, biological middle. As I pulled my battered hat off by the brim and squinted at the steerite, he turned his steel bovine head toward me, short horns and all.
"Hi, there," I said.
"Hello," he answered pleasantly. He had been programmed with excellent enunciation and a trace of a Boston accent. "Good day to you. Where are you bound?"
I untied my red bandana and wiped off my forehead with it. "I'm going to Femur to look for a job. Pardon my asking, but ... have you lost your herd? What are you doing here?"
"I am merely waiting. Have I lost my herd? More accurately, my herd has been rustled."
"I dutifully escaped. None of my comrades succeeded in this endeavor. Since our trail crew ran off, I have no trail boss to whom I must report. Nor am I honor bound to join the herd after it has been rustled."
I nodded toward the mark stamped onto the shining metal base of his tail, where it extended from his natural hindquarters. "Waiting for what? You still have your serial number."
"Oh, yes. I am fully programmed and ready to report to any authority who can restore me to my legal owner."
"I don't know. We get basic programming for herding, pasturing, and speech, but little precise data. Of course, we can accumulate information as we go, but no one ever told me the owner's name or where to locate him."
"I guess the trail crew was supposed to get you there?
"Indeed they were, those cowardly louts." He lowered his head modestly. "I am led to believe that my mechanical parts are quite expensive. Not to mention my beef."
(End of excerpt)