I hold the door for him; he grunts an indelicate acknowledgment that isn't quite a thank-you. His name's painted across the back of his leather jacket over a lovingly detailed oriental phoenix in crimson and gold, going toe to toe with an indigo dragon. “You're welcome, Farley,” I say, and grin when he turns around, pale eyes startled under heavy brows. “That jacket your work?”
“Yeah.” Defensive.
“Nice,” I say, and let the door shut over his face before I hustle to catch up with Gabe.
“You're such a bitch sometimes, Jen,” he says, and drapes an arm over my shoulder.
“I was nice. Why do kids like that always seem to wear name tags?” I know the answer, though: so the world will have to concede that they're people and not just stereotypes.
Gabe ignores me and sticks his nose in my hair. “How come you smell like chocolate?”
“Funny story about that. A girl threw her cocoa in my face this morning.”
“Student? Patty?”
“No, in the hotel lobby. And she called me by name.”
“Stalker?” His lips thin. I don't look much like I used to, before the scars were polished away.
“Maybe.” I speak in low tones, trusting the traffic noise to help confuse anyone trying to eavesdrop, hiding the shape of my lips behind his collar. It's a good excuse, right? “She looked like… Gabe, remember Bernard Xu?”
Of course he does. Rhetorical question. “Daughter? He didn't have any kids, did he?”
“I—”—never bothered to find out. “He had a brother, at least.”
“You think she's a threat?”
“I think she tripped over me by accident. She didn't expect to see me there. Recognized my voice, not my face. Probably from old news files.” Bitterly level. “A lot of my testimony was aired. I imagine if she's related, she's seen the footage.”
“I know.” He stops walking; I look around before I realize we're at the coffee shop. We get our drinks and go to walk around campus under the bare trees, on the dying lawn. A pale winter sun warms skin through my jacket. “She just happened to be there?”
“Sitting in a chair drinking cocoa, as if she were waiting for somebody. And she was shocked to see me. Recognize me. Bolted like a deer.”
“Huh. So what was she doing there?”
“Good question, huh?”
12:00 PM
Tuesday 5 December, 2062
Wellesley Street East
Toronto, Ontario
Indigo paced. She'd been pacing for hours. The rhythm of her boots squeaking on cheap carpet soothed her enough to think.
Master Warrant Officer Genevieve Casey had sent Bernard Xu, the freedom fighter Indigo had modeled her life after, to jail for treason. He was the closet thing Indigo had known to a male parent; Indigo's father, Benson, had been killed in the South African conflict and she barely remembered him.
And Uncle Bernie had died behind bars.
Casey was a dangerous woman. And probably still a loyal patsy of the oppressive government regime Indigo lived to do battle with. Which meant that if Razorface was visiting her furtively in middle of the night, he had things to say to her that he didn't trust to electronic media. Which meant a closer connection than Indigo had assumed. He wasn't looking for Casey; he was working with her. And the things he had to pass along were most likely about Indigo. Indigo, who paced in the rat-gnawed confines of another water-stained safe house, eyes blind to grime and peeling wallpaper, and waited for word on where to go and what to do.
She'd wanted Razorface because he might lead her to Casey. And he had. Something pressed thumbs into her throat when she stopped pacing. She refused to recognize it as grief.
At last, a coded tapping roused her, and a key turned in the old-fashioned lock a moment later. Indigo breathed a sigh of relief when Farley pushed the door ajar and came in. “Any word?”
He nodded, put a pouch of milk and a pouch of cereal on the counter. “We're going to have to cut the American loose.”
“I figured as much. What do we know? Do they want more than that?” Do they want him dealt with? She hoped not. The idea tasted—off.
He shrugged. A square of wan sunshine illuminated the light tattoo on his cheek as he found bowls and fixed breakfast. “No, just walk away and stay hid. I think they want to watch him.”
“Speaking of which. We're not walking away from the Unitek issue.”
“If we take out Riel, we damage Unitek.”
“Riel? I want Holmes, Farley. Before she kills any more kids. You were the one who told me one of their test subjects is going to spend his life on a ventilator.”
Milk dripped from his lower lip. He swallowed. “My sources did, yeah. But they've got an idea now that Casey might give us the shot at Riel, so we're to keep an eye on her. I guess the PM is getting more personally interested in what her underlings are up to. My sources tell me Riel's opposition to the starflight program is public only. Her party's in Unitek's pocket — hurt one, hurt both.”
“Really.” The beginnings of a grin tingled her cheeks. “Not that I would jeopardize a mission for personal reasons. But assuming it works, do they have any objection to Casey meeting an unkind fate as well?”
5:00 PM
Tuesday 5 December, 2062
Richmond Hill, Ontario
Dexter spread burgundy tail feathers against the nap of a dark terry towel draped over the sofa back and clucked tenderly, turning her head to coax Georges a little closer. Slate-gray feathers ruffled at the back of her neck.
Valens leaned back in his armchair and chuckled. “She's just sweet-talking you in so she can steal your glasses.”
Georges tucked a chile pepper between his lips and bent toward the African gray. She eyed his spectacles, but after some consideration appeared to decide that snacks were better than tormenting Papa, and very neatly extracted the dried fruit from his mouth. “Pretty, pretty!” she said contentedly, nibbling leathery red bits off the treat.
“We got the names backward,” Georges commented. Sinister — another African gray — slept on a rough-barked perch near the holo stand, making a strange hunchbacked shape with his head tucked under his wing.
“We did. Is that good, birdy-bird?”
Dexter put the fruit down on her towel and clucked. “Red fruit!” She was a mature African gray, with a vocabulary better than many three-year-olds Valens had known.
“Pepper,” Georges replied, clearly. The birds were his babies, and he was convinced they understood most of what he told them.
“Pretty!”
Valens laughed again, and then closed both broad hands on the arms of the overstuffed chair and pulled himself out of its embrace. He headed for the antique oak liquor cabinet in the corner and knelt to look for a bottle of Scotch. “Patricia's doing really well in the program, by the way. Kahlúa? Who do we know who drinks that?”
“That's good to hear. And I think we got the bottle for my birthday three years ba— Ow!”
Valens glanced back over his shoulder, distracted from the rustle and clink of half-full bottles. Dexter had hopped to Georges's shoulder and was gnawing on his ear. “Do you need a rescue?”