What a fucking mess.

Not really. I touched the stacks through the fabric of my coat pocket. I got what I came for.

Any special reason you couldn’t just cut their throats while they slept?

They needed to know. They needed to see it coming.

Plex came back from the bar, bearing glasses and a tray of tired-looking sushi. He seemed unaccountably pleased with himself.

“Look, Tak. You don’t need to worry about those sniffer squads. In a synth sleeve—”

I looked at him. “Yes. I know.”

“And, well, you know. It’s only six hours.”

“And all of tomorrow until the ‘loader ships out.” I hooked my glass. “I really think you’d better just shut up, Plex.”

He did. After a couple of brooding minutes, I discovered I didn’t want that either. I was jumpy in my synthetic skin, twitching like a meth comedown, uncomfortable with who I physically was. I needed distraction.

“You know Yukio long?”

He looked up, sulkily. “I thought you wanted—”

“Yeah. Sorry. I got shot tonight, and it hasn’t put me in a great mood. I was just—”

“You were shot?”

“Plex.” I leaned intently across the table. “Do you want to keep your fucking voice down.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I mean.” I gestured helplessly. “How the fuck do you stay in business, man? You’re supposed to be a criminal, for Christ’s sake.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” he said stiffly.

“No? How’s that work, then? They got some kind of conscription for it up here?”

“Very funny. I suppose you chose the military, did you? At seventeen fucking standard years old?”

I shrugged. “I made a choice, yeah. Military or the gangs. I put on a uniform. It paid better than the criminal stuff I was already doing.”