“This transaction will put you in the red,” he said quietly.

Orr glared. “Never fucking mind. I’m shipping out tomorrow, I’m good for it and you know it.”

The operative hesitated. “It is because you are shipping out tomorrow,” he began, “that—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Read the sponsor screen, will you. Fujiwara Havel. Making New Hok safe for a New Century. We’re not some goddamn bootstrap leverage outfit. I don’t come back, the enka payment covers it. You know that.”

“It isn’t—”

The exposed tendons in Orr’s neck tensed and lifted. “Thefack are you, my accountant?” He levered himself up in the chair and stared into the operative’s face. “Just put it through, will you. And get me some of those milissue endorphins while you’re about it. I’ll take them later.”

We stayed long enough to see the implant operative cave in, then Sylvie nudged me away towards the back.

“We’ll be upstairs,” she said.

“Yeah.” The giant was grinning. “See you in ten.”

Upstairs was a spartan set of rooms wrapped around a kitchen/lounge combination with windows out onto the wharf. The soundproofing was good. Sylvie shrugged off her jacket and slung it over the back of a lounger. She looked back at me as she moved to the kitchen space.

“Make yourself at home. Bathroom in the back over there if you need to clean up.”

I took the hint, rinsed the worst of the gore off my hands and face in a tiny mirrored basin niche and came back out to the main room. She was over at the kitchen worksurface, searching cabinets.

“Are you really with Fujiwara Havel?”

“No.” She found a bottle and cracked it open, pinched up two glasses in her other hand. “We’re a goddamn bootstrap leverage outfit. And then some. Orr just has a datarat tunnel into FH’s clearance codes. Drink?”