[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 22:20, Murphy's Law, Cedar Street and Western Avenue, Downtown, Seattle]

Al shrugged. "Questions. Thoughts. Cogitations, if'n ya will." Speaking as discreetly as the noisey surroundings allowed, he gave LeFey the Matrix Digest version of their conversation from the park, pausing to let Peaches add details. "So if'n ya cared ta add any o' that there virtual wisdom ta our little discussion, perhaps enlighten an' illuminate on who them folks was down there, an' why they went so loco…"

He shrugged again, finished his beer, and pointed at hers. "If yer not gon' drink that…"

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 23:07, Murphy's Law, Cedar Street and Western Avenue, Downtown, Seattle]

And so the cute little geeka-chica proceeded to tell Al and Peaches what she knew, or had heard, about some sort of virus that stole people's souls. She didn't have a name to put to it yet, but warned of ominous portents, stirrings of unease in quarters best heeded.

Sounded like a load of hooey to Al, but then he'd seen what he'd seen. And, as he was fond of saying when faced with irreducible conundrums, once you eliminated the probable, the only answer was the improbable.

He wondered who'd first said that, and after a moment decided it must have been himself.

After finishing the computer girl's beer, two slices of pizza, and three more beers, he stubbed out his Lucky Strike in the overflowing ashtray and stood up. "Hell of an evenin' all around, ladies, and we's appurciate yer comin' out ta enlighten us there, Miz LeFey. But if'n you'll pardon ol' Al, got a late date with a Witch I promised I wouldn't miss."

As he took his leave, staggering out into the closest alley where he stood swaying on unsteady feet to relieve himself, it occurred to him that he wasn't likely to fully remember all that they'd discussed this evening.

And something in the back of his mind told him that might not be a good thing.

[Saturday September 14th, 2075; Puyallup, Seattle]

松井 郎 Matsui Ichirō dreamt.

The duty of every faithful samurai would be to repeat every day with chanting humility the one never-changing event whose incontrovertible truth can be asserted. But we see now through a glass darkly, and the truth, before it is revealed to all, face to face, we see in fragments in the error of this world, so we must search out its faithful signals even when they seem obscure to us and as if amalgamated with a will wholly bent on evil.


Shuji Amano is but a young boy- maybe ten or just small for his age, who is to know these things. His hair is unkempt- why this should be so is a source of contention between Amano and his mother. He is immersed in his work. He plugs a data cable from his deck to the lock’s universal port and sits against the wall, flipping to VR. The maglock unbolts just as Amano's head disintergrates into a mass of bloody pulp. Ichirō turns and with his magnified vision sees movement in a window of the plex across the way. But the Yaks are already going through the door to find and neutralize the target. Ichiro looks down one last time at his partner and friend. His hair is perfect and his eyes are closed as if he were merely sleeping. No traces of the wound remain, just a small child in the fetal position waiting for all eternity to wake up.

Ichirō wakes: Strange that I should remember Shujisan as when we were children. The realm of dreams are not to be questioned. Answers will come as they come. He checks his surrounding to see if anything is amiss. Satisfied, he stands and stretches. The gajin Silk is sure that the leader of the strike team that killed Shujisan will be operating here in the Barrens today. Honor must be satisfied- today will be his last. Shujisan will not rest until all of them have been hunted down.

Ichirō pulls a scarf over his face as he leaves the shack he was holed in. The dust in the barrens was heavy today. It matters not, he had work to do. Ichirō began the long walk to the ambush site, determined to end a life or die in the trying.

Friday, 23rd August, 2075; 0023, Rocco's, Puyallup

Al walked into the red room and her look reminded him of how he looked.

“Don’t worry, it ain’t mine.”

“If it was, you’d be dead.”

“Man’s gotta earn a living.”

“So does a woman, but not on a blood-drenched canvas.”

She pointed to the shower.

He knew the drill.

Once he was cleaned up he emerged in his boxers, his clothes bundled into a garbage bag. Laid on the table.

She worked in silence for a while. Then she said, “Tell me about them.”

“Who?”

“These three angel dogs.”

“Why?”

“”Why? Do you think I can do the work I need to do without knowing something about them?”

“Been doin’ great so far.”

“No, it looks great so far. The hard part is still to come.”

“So whatcha wanna know?”

“Well, if you had to use one word to describe each...”

“Lover, fighter, joker.”

“Go on.”

“Well, Rufus, he’s the first one you did, he was a lover.”

“Bitch in every port?”

“Heh, well, that was true too. But I mean his whole life was love. Seemed like all he thought of was makin’ other folk happy. Other dogs, too. Not weak, though. He loved from strength.”

“Blessed are the meek.”

“Damned straight, woman. That dog paid some high prices, made sacrifices, fer love.”

“And the fighter?”

“That’s Rex. He lived his name, yessiree. Warn’t a hound on the mountain would stand up ta that dog. He was a Plott Hound, mostly pure, though he got some brown in his coat somewhere ‘long the line. The best hog dog inna great state of Arkansas. Stared down a piasma once, done scared the abomination right off its turf, sheer will alone. He took down black bears in his time...an’ worse.”

Al was silent for a moment, then, and she sensed not to speak. Then he said, “Hannibal, he was the joker. He’d wheedle a table scrap off a starvin’ man. Turned beggin’ inta art. Thought a dozen times ‘bout changin’ his name ta Houdini, though. You could tie that boy up, fence ‘im in, lock ‘im up inna cage. Hell, solid steel walls couldn’t o’ kept that dog pent up.”

Friday, 23rd August, 2075; Redmond Barrens

Restituto surveyed his domain. It wasn't much, but he was its master. That would suffice. The priest exited Joselito's shack. Joselito was dying and the priest had come to perform the Last Rites. The Church called it something else nowadays, but it was what it was, the Last Rites. Restituto wondered about this gringo priest in his too expensive suit. Something was not right in the way he carried himself. He had inquired and was told the priest named himself Brother Rutger. A strange name that. And he had a strange accent too. No, this was no ordinary priest. And this made Restituto nervous. He did not like what he did not understand.

As the priest began to walk down the street, one of the Rico twins steps out of a doorway and confronts him. Restituto thinks it's Juan but it's too dark to see if he has the scar the differentiates him from his brother Miguel. Manuel starts to rise.
"Where are you going Manuel?", asks Restituto.
"That pendejo Juan is bothering the priest. What would my dead mother think if I let him harm a priest. Even if its just a crazy gringo priest?"
Restituto shakes his head, "Let it be Manuel. I do not know about this priest."
"As you say Don Tuto."

The priest says to Juan in a voice loud enough for the neighborhood to hear, "Repent of your sins.- for the hour of your doom is at hand."
Juan begins to pull out his knife while exclaiming, "I guess we'll do this the hard way." The priest, this strange gringo priest, with his too perfect but strangely accented English, is faster than Juan. He pulls out a an Ares Silvergun and fires a burst into Juan who drops. Somehow Juan still clings to a bit of life and trys feably to crawl away. The priest begins to chant. Restituto recocnizes it as Latin- he had gone to Mass when he was a boy after all- but what the priest was saying was lost to him. The priest puts away his gun, pulls out a knife and proceeds to calmly slice open Juan's throat. No one in the neighborhood moves, they are all transfixed by this spectacle. The priest removes his jacket, laying it on the sidewalk and opens up his bag. He pulls out a white chasuble and puts it on. He prepares the water and the oil and begins his prayer.

"What the!? What kind of priest is this Don Tuto? And what is he doing now?"
"Didn't your dear dead mother teach you anything, Manuel? He is performing the Last Rites. Aren't you glad I told you not to get involved?"

Friday, 23rd August, 2075; 0057, Rocco's, Puyallup

“All right, they sound like impressive animals. But why angels?”

“Well, they warn’t jist strong, or smart. They was good dogs. Loyal. Always loyal. To the end.”

“Dog is like that.”

“Yeah, dogs is like that.”

“No, I said Dog is like that.”

Al turned over on the table to look up at her.

“That what this is all about?”

“Of course.”

He chuckled appreciatively. “Well, knew there was a reason I like you - certain eccentricities notwithstandin’. Mighty fine totem ya got there.”

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

Friday, 23rd August, 2075; 1400, Marge's, Downtown Seattle, near the railyards serving the docks


Al spent a lot of time the next day thinking about what Honesty had said. Not that he particularly wanted to, but some of the more inflammatory things she said had a way of sticking in his craw, digging their heels in deeper the more he tried to send them on their way.

It was not, of course, that there could be anything at all to what she’d implied. But he was perplexed as to why she would even think such a thing. And think it enough she’d spend the time she had trying to convince him of it.

So he sat there in Marge’s and sipped black soykaf and pondered on it until Buntha walked in. “Sorry I’m late,” growled the Seattle-born Khmer ork. His voice was gravel and glass, but it sounded smooth as 40-year-old Scotch next to Al’s. He wore a plaid flannel lumberjack shirt, sleeves tightly rolled high on his mammoth biceps, and his usual Timber Wolves cap. The springs in the cracked red vinyl booth seat creaked when he sat.

The two men shook hands, and Buntha ordered a soykaf of his own, extra caffeine. “You sure it’s safe for you to be here?”

“Reckon not.”

“Well, whatever. What can I do you for, buddy?”

“More like what kin ol’ Al do fer you all.”

“Can’t say we don’t need some cavalry from somewhere, but you’ve done enough.”

“Seemin’ more like I done sent you all a world o’ pain an’ sufferin’.”

“Heh, we were in that well before that night, and it was Hun got us there. You, you saved our lives, friend, and I won’t forget it.”

“Reckon I’d still like ta lend a helpin’ hand.”

“In my book, you’ve done enough.”

“In yore book?”

The ork looked embarrassed. “You know Hun. In his mind, he had everything under control, and then you went and unleashed hell.”

“So ya don’t need muh help cuz Hun won’t have none of it no-how anyways.”

“It’s like that, yeah.”

Al lit a cigarette that hadn’t been there a second earlier. Buntha was always trying to watch the little man’s hands - one day he’d spot him doing that.

“So whatcha up against?”

“Shit, same as before, only ten times worse. When the shit part of it is we shouldn’t even be in it anymore. We left the docks behind, along with the old building, cleared way out of Gianelli turf, way out of Family turf. Doing residential renovation work, freelance-like. Good living there for us, or there would be if they didn’t get to all our clients. Right now we’re a step away from homeless in the Barrens, and still they raid us at night.”

“Past makin’ sense.”

“Listen, man, just between you and me, I tried paying them off. Called them up. Promised them twenty-five percent of our business, behind Hun’s back. They just laughed at me. Arty told me I knew what he wanted and until he got it, he was going to keep bleeding us.”

They were both silent for a bit. They both knew what it was Arturo Gianelli wanted.

Buntha was the first to speak again. “Weren’t for Esposito and Pratt, we’d be done.”

Al raised his eyebrows, and the ork explained: “Couple of Knight-Errant dicks. We were wary at first, but they are good people. Saved all the women and kids in the building that night they burned us out, and they’ve been keeping an eye on us since. They got no back-up worth a damn, but that doesn’t stop them.”

“Only thing more dangerous than a cop is an honest cop.”

“Yeah, I hear you. But these two, they’re not just honest. They actually care.”

Friday, 23rd August, 2075; 2340, Rocco's, Puyallup

The Akita wasn’t there when Al arrived that night. He was a bit disappointed.

They ordered pizza and beer before getting started, then she worked for a few hours while he lost himself in her weird bossanova fusion music.

Then the big white dog was licking his hand as it hung from the table. Absently, he stroked her head.

“You must be a very loyal person.”

“Say again.”

“She likes you. She sees something in you.”

“What’s she see?”

“Ask her.”

“Dogs can’t talk, sister.”

“Apparently not to you. She’s calling you. Calling you so loudly even I can hear it. Why can’t you?”

“Must’ve been somethin’ I ate.”

Sunday, 25th August, 2075; 2355, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Done. All but the final step.”

She’d been working for forty-eight hours straight. If Al hadn’t occasionally whined about needing beer, smokes, and, once, food, he seriously wondered whether she’d have even stopped to pee.

Well, he had nothing better to do.

And then, round about the witching hour, she switched off the gun and pronounced the work finished.

“So ya gon’ talk about it or give ol’ Al a look-see?”

She wiped his back with an alcohol swab, set up the projector, and there it was on the wall. And it was all he could have wished for to honor their memory, and more. It was the dad-blamed Sistine Chapel of tats. The Holy Trinity Caninus, or whatever Latin was for dog. Damned images leapt right off the flesh, shining halos and quiet nobility. Rufus was serenely beatific, Rex proudly bellicose, Hannibal unabashedly jocular.

He shook his head in appreciation. This had definitely been worth all her crap. “How much?”

She walked out to the lobby and plopped down on the red settee in exhaustion. He followed and sat in his usual chair, lit a cigarette. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t speak until ash was falling onto his bare chest, still stubbly after his misadventure with the organleggers. “Two prices. The first - well, I do have to eat. The second,” and she opened her eyes, fixing him with her gaze, “I’m not sure if she’ll want anything, but the deal is, you have to accept that it’s from her.”

“Her? Oh, you mean it’s, like, a gift from yer totem.”

“Our totem.”

He smiled, as one would at an extremely persuasive child who had just made an irrefutable argument that she should be allowed to run away and join the circus. “Done toldja a thousand times if I toldja once, it’s the voodoo gods takes care of Al.”

She was impassive. “Fine. Then cash and we’re done.”

“Whaddaya mean done?”

“You’ve got some world class art on you. One of a kind, I daresay. It’s a memorial to your dogs that’ll be with you as long as you live. They’re finished. Call it ten thousand. You can come by later if you don’t have it now - I know you pay your debts.”

But Al had not forgotten her mention of a “final step.” And something told him he was about to sell his birthright for a mess of pottage. “O’ course, if’n Dog wants ta give some extra juice ta ol’ Al’s ink, I ain’t hardly gon’ bellyache none about it.”

But the look she gave him warned him it would not be so easy.

“Tell me again about these dogs.”

Monday, 26th August, 2075; 0023, Rocco's, Puyallup


“I done toldja.”

“But why angels?”

He’d never come out and said it to her. He hadn’t wanted to cheapen it in the quiet fracas of their nightly verbal fencing. But now it was different. They were no longer dueling. They were trying to get somewhere together. “Gave their lives.”

“For you.”

“Yup.”

“It’s good to be loyal.”

Al thought about loyalty. Loyalty to family. He’d been blessed in that regard, but not everyone. And family you couldn’t choose. Loyalty to country. Was there any longer one anywhere worth being loyal to? Loyalty to God. That went without saying. To the corp. That was just loyalty to the hand that feeds you, which is just loyalty to yourself.

“Loyal to yer friends,” he clarified.

“Then tell me about your friends,” she said, but before he could collect his thoughts, she was fast asleep.

Monday, 26th August, 2075; 2301, Rocco's, Puyallup

The next night they were in the same seats as before. It was almost as if they hadn’t moved. She’d changed into a fresh pair of jeans. He hadn’t. And his T-shirt was on now.

The big white Akita was there, lying in a corner, but she wasn’t paying any attention to Al’s story. Like she’d heard it before.

“Bruce Lee was our Chief Officer, which put ‘im in charge o’ deck operations, loadin’ an’ unloadin’ an’ so forth. But truth be told he warn’t no more’n a glorified able seaman. Hell, the kid was barely twenny. Thing was, the Haixiang-hao - that was our ship - meant S.S. Walrus if’n you kin believe it - but then ol’ Al’s surely sayin’ it wrong anyhow, since they always broke out laughin’ whenever I done tried ta utter it. So anyway, she was a dainty thing, an eight-thousand dead-weight-ton mini-bulker refitted fer blue water sailin’. She had a low stowage factor, so we was mostly limited ta light grains or manufactured goods. We crewed ‘er with five, an’ that made ever’body chief o’ some damn thing or another. Chop Suey, he was Chief Steward, but on the Walrus that meant cook. Chairman Mao, he was first officer, which stood fer somethin’ in his case, bein’ he could pilot an’ navigate better’n me. Hell, even ol’ Al was Chief Engineer once I’d fell in with ‘em, just cuz I knew my way around a two-stroke diesel.”

He would speak slowly, his nostalgia congealing the words to a trickle, and then they would come rapid fire as if trying to catch up, keep up the momentum. Like he was afraid of losing himself in memory’s quicksands if the sandpaper words stopped flowing.

“But this was afore that. First time I saw Bruce, a full moon’d found an open spot in the clouds, shinin’ down onna rain-wet streets of Sa Dec. I’d jist kissed an oil rig in the Spratlys g’bye couple three weeks earlier, an’ was drinkin’ my way from bar ta bar up the Mekong. Sa Dec was the last port onna river could handle any sorta real freight, so there was seafarin’ folk about, enough to keep the night life spicy, even in buttoned up commieland ‘Nam. I was on a particular sorta street, eyein’ the wares an’ tryin’ ta guess which one wouldn’t give ol’ Al the clap again, when I heard a commotion nearby, fightin’, an’ some sort o’ hootin’ an’ screechin’. Went round the corner an’ there was Bruce. Skinny feller, shirt off, takin’ on three or four local boys. He had some moves on him, not real fightin’, mind ya. No real boxin’, nor even real American karate, fer that matter. But as kung phooey goes, he looked purty good. He was givin’ them boys a run fer they money, dancin’ about, hootin’ an’ hollerin’. Then one of ‘em tagged ‘im with a spur. Kid stepped back, touched the cut, an’ damn if he din’t suck the blood off his finger, sendin’ his eyes wide jist like The Dragon himself. After that, there was only one name ta give ‘im.”

“So his name wasn’t really Bruce Lee.”

Monday, 26th August, 2075; 2310, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Woman, I am at times perplexed at yer lack o’ sense. What in goodness name would he be doin’ with a name like Bruce Lee? But I couldn’t hardly remember, much less pronounce, the kid’s real handle. His or any o’ the others’. Now don’ interrupt. As I was sayin’, he had some moves on ‘im, like ta coulda taken on three o’ them fellers, but four was one too many. However many times he nailed ‘em, he din’t have the heft or hit ta keep ‘em down. Well, this was back in ’69, an ol’ Al was built a mite sturdier then, by virtue o’ clean an’ healthy livin’, so it warn’t no thing ta shave the odds a bit for ‘im. Course, once they was all laid out inna gutter, he starts chatterin’ at me, an’ no idea in creation what he’s on about, I jist go along an’ soon it’s rainin’ in sheets again but we’s under the eaves of an open-air liquor stand drinking ruou thuoc rice wine, an’ between swigs we’s admirin’ the big ass scorpion an’ cobra fermentin’ inna bottle.

“So you kin allow how we was taken unawares when them four fellers come an’ found us, along with a dozen or so o’ they compadres. I won’t say we went down easy, but there’s some possibility we was somewhat impaired at that point, an’ it warn’t long afore we was both onna wet pavement discoverin’ whole new meanin’s o’ the phrase ‘kicked while yer down.’ So I made the mistake o’ grabbin’ one o’ they feet an’ breakin’ the ankle.”

Seeing her raise an eyebrow, he took a knee on the floor beside her seat. “Ya hold the ball an’ the heel, just like this, an’ give a twist like...” Honesty yanked her foot back from his hands-on tutorial and he shrugged, sat back down in his chair.

“Well, you git the idea. Anyhoo, big mistake, cuz that brought out the knives, an’ things warn’t so friendly no more. Which is when Mao an’ Chop Suey showed up, bless they doomed heathen Chinaman souls. Them two, well, din’t know me from Adam, but with Bruce onna choppin’ block they did not hesitate, just hurtled into that crowd o’ fellers like two bowlin’ balls through ten-pins. Half a minute later, there was us four standin’, seven or eight o’ them out cold, an’ the rest was headed fer the hills.”

“Good story, hands-on demo notwithstanding.”

“An’ how nice it woulda been to say it was followed by libations an’ womanizin’ till dawn. But it warn’t ta be. Them commies, they’s a bit sensitive ‘bout folk lettin’ off too much steam, likes things buttoned up purty tight, an’ it don’ help if’n the troublemakers is foreigners. No sooner’d we’d all caught our breath than the sound of the gendarmes’ approach sent us scurryin’. By instinct, I headed fer the river, an’ they went inna same direction. ‘Cept there was method ta their madness, they knew where they was goin’, and purty as ya please we was all onna Walrus, Cap’n had already weighed anchor, an’ we pulled away from the dock minus their cargo but plus our skins.”

“And you stayed on, then.”

“Well, the way those two put ‘er onna line fer they friend. An’ the Cap’n, boogeyin’ without the cargo din’t make his life no easier, but he put his crew first. So knew right off they was good folk. An’ never takes anyone too long ta see the value o’ havin’ ol’ Al around.” Then he stopped, and his gaze became distant. But before she could say anything, he shook himself, and added, “Anyhoo, they said they made the trans-Pacific run from time ta time, City of Angels-bound, an’ that was all I needed ta hear.”

Monday, 26th August, 2075; 2316, Rocco's, Puyallup


“And how long did you stay on the S.S. Walrus?”

“Well, like I said, joined her crew sometime in ’69. That part o’ the world ain’t much fer seasons, you understand, so kinda hard fer memory ta pick an exact month.” He started counting on his scorched fingers, but then seemed to lose interest and lit a fresh cigarette. Then sat and smoked, shoulders hunched, head hanging, almost lolling from side to side, maybe humming something.

Honesty tried a new line to break his reverie. “And I don’t suppose Chop Suey and Chairman Mao were those men’s real names either.”

“Well hell,” his head snapped up, “Fer all I know those was they names, in Chinese. There was no pronouncin’ ‘em in American, though, an’ quick enough they come ta answer ta the names they was given. Chop, like I said, he was the cook. Best damn pastry chef in Fuzhou once upon a time, or so I gathered, until some sorta trouble involvin’ rubber gloves, a duck, an’ the daughter o’ some local bigwig or other. By the time I come aboard, reckon the ancient fart’d been at sea a good thirty-odd years. Generally an indifferent cook, the crew put up with the tasteless slop and cigarette ashes in they food cuz ‘bout once a week he’d snap out of his perpetual cloud o’ grumpy self pity, an’ they’d eat like princes an’ kings.

“So one day we was in Dongfang, well, Basuo ta be precise, a welcomin’ little burg onna west coast o’ Hainan, an’ I run into the rest of ‘em after a hard day o’ shoppin’.”

Honesty raised her eyebrows.

“Not fer womernly frippery an’ whatnots. Stuff I needed. Ol’ Al warn’t on board fer long afore realizin’ jist how backwater these fellers was. They warn’t tied ta no motherly mega like the big boats. They was a tramper inna true sense, cargo ta cargo, port ta port. Sometimes they used a dispatch agent outta Macau, sometimes they snaked loads from vessels that were late in comin’, but usually they jist took on whatever they could find at they last drop-off. Din’t have a doc, sat-comms was shoestring. An’ they papers was iffy at best. These boys got in trouble, they was on they own an’ ill-prepared. But parts o’ China they was from, they reckoned they’d hit the mother lode. Gettin’ paid, fed, roof over they heads. Lotta desperate people willin’ ta settle fer not much in this here benighted world, which’d be fine, exceptin’ a lotta people like that don’t live long.”

He paused. A long pause. The longest she’d ever seen him take without either a cigarette or a word in his mouth. Then he continued. “Ol’ Al, well, livin’ smart is livin’ long, an’ I’d been buildin’ up my own stock o’ goodies almost since joinin’ the crew. That day, I had a Curie-series Vasotech U-Doc over my shoulder. It was a bulky bitch but that baby could keep me alive if a shark took my leg an’ then a container fell on me. Which brings me back ta when I ran into the boys. They all had a look-see at my find, an’ then a good chuckle. Chop Suey kept a bunch o’ nasty herbs an’ rat entrails or some such pagan nonsense in a pantry off his galley, an’ whenever anyone got sick he’d give ‘em somethin’. They seemed ta think buyin’ a decent medkit an’ entrustin’ myself ta the fickle gods o’ Western medicine was the height o’ foolishness. Or at least I think that’s what they thought, cuz naturally I couldn’t understand a damned word they was sayin’.”

Monday, 26th August, 2075; 2321, Rocco's, Puyallup

“We ended up at this joint called the Huangliu Old Duck Shop on Jianshe Road, right down by the railroad tracks. Soy-free, all-real chow, kinda upscale, ‘cept fer the rumble o’ the trains, cheap glass chandeliers like to shake themselves loose o’ the ceilin’ ever so often. Supposed to have been this hidden trove o’ culinary treasures, leastways that’s what the English entry said on my ‘link. Now how it could be hidden if’n it’s right there on the public database ain’t fer me ta judge - hell, I was jist happy to be in a town with a workin’ grid fer once. Never did find out why old Chop wanted ta go there, but it’d been his idea.

“We ordered the works, an’ it was damned fine fare, leastways by my own humble reckonin’. Had all my favorites - sweet an’ sour pork, kung po chicken, egg rolls - jist like we used to get at Happy Dragon when we’d make the trip down Little Rock way. An’ there was mostly other round-eyes there, so felt right at home. Mao an’ Bruce, they seemed a bit bemused, like the food warn’t precisely what they’d been expectin’, but they took to it well enough, an’ was tuckin’ it away real good. Only one not havin’ a good time was Chop. He’d jist taste a bit here, sample a bit there. An’ the more courses they toted out fer us, the darker his expression done got. Well, finally he had himself a bite o’ mar far chicken an’ jist spat it on the floor. No sooner was the offendin’ substance free of his oral cavity than he launched into one hell of a rant at the servin’ gal. Felt bad for her, jist a pretty young thing, cute crooked teeth and a caboose ta catch a feller’s eye. Reminded me o’ this one Chinagirl whose acquaintance I’d made in Kowloon. She could do this thing with...”

“Why was Chop Suey so angry?”

“Oh, right. Well, I never could be sure, but obviously it was the chow. An’ then he was up an’ brushin’ past her an’ off fer the kitchen. Mao an’ Bruce gave a ‘not again’ roll of they eyes an’ they was on they feet too. Reckon we done established that was the sorta mates they was.”

“Indeed we have.”

“Well, I was a bit reluctant, I’ll admit, since ta my taste buds this was a fine spread. But they give me a certain look an’ there warn’t nothin’ for it. So I grabbed a greasy handful o’ deep-fried shrimp and caught up with ‘em as they went through the swingin’ portholed doors an’ into a world simmerin’ in steam an’ crowded with chaos. Hell, that place was so full o’ rushin’ about an’ shoutin’, reckon it took a minute or so fer our presence to become gen’rally known amidst all the flashin’ Beni Hana-style blades an’ squawkin’ an’ squealin’ o’ condemned chickens an’ cats. Respectively speakin’.”

Monday, 26th August, 2075; 2328, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Well, we followed the crotchety feller deeper into the bowels o’ that there culinary Hades, ol’ Al jist munchin’ on that oh-so-tasty shrimp fast enough ta burn my tongue. Eventually a couple o’ dishwashers said somethin’ ta Chop an’ didn’t care much fer the answer they got, an’ one sorta raised the alarm afore Mao an’ Bruce laid ‘em out. Warn’t long till a general brawl had ensued, an’ I tried ta finish my fried shrimp fast so as ta be o’ some use. Then Bruce, that boy done sent a cast iron skillet whizzin’ right past my ear. I felt the wind tickle my scalp an’ whipped my head ‘round in time ta see the feller he’d beaned staggerin’ back, big ass pot o’ boilin’ egg flower soup he’d been about to pour on yours truly splatterin’ onto the deck, little kernels o’ corn scatterin’ ever’ whichaway.

“Well, resistance sorta stiffened as we got towards the back o’ the joint, an’ then this big galoot pushed his way through those clear plastic strips comin’ outta the freezer - had ta duck jist to get out the door - made Mao look small, danged Goliath in a Fu Manchu, meat cleaver you could use ta chop firewood flashin’ in circles in a right fine display o’ kitchen fu. Bruce an’ Mao appeared at a slight loss as ta how best ta proceed. Looked like a two-handed job ta ol’ Al, so I pushed the last shrimp into my mouth an’ walked the feller back into his freezer. Had a helluva work ethic, that one, which I had to respect, but I soon had him settled in fer a long winter’s nap. When I come out, Mao had the head chef hangin’ by his collar from a meat hook. The cat’s face was beet red as he tried to curse a blue streak around the fat white turnip they’d stuffed in his pie hole. An’ there was Chop Suey standin’ onna big stainless steel prep table, issuin’ the bruised an’ bloodied kitchen crew they new marchin’ orders.

“An’ glancin’ way in the back at the spot they’d fought so hard ta keep us out of, I could see the cause of our beloved galley rat’s righteous indignation. Seems all the leafy greens an’ squallin’ critters out the front o’ the place, that was all jist garnish to mask the fact they was chargin’ three-hat prices fer what, at its core, was upscale soy. They’d fooled ol’ Al, but there was no pullin’ the wool over Chop’s tasters. But he warn’t gonna expose the place, no, the black-toothed coot had what, ta his mind, was a more poetic brand o’ justice. He was gon’ churn meals outta that kitchen that the geezer on the meat hook would never in his life live up to. An’ soon that place was back to it’s usual frenzied level of activity, plus a passle of angry waitresses wantin’ ta know what was holdin’ up they orders. So Mao broke open the booze stores an’ plied the crowd with free drinks while they waited, an’ damned if by the end o’ the night, the whole damned kitchen staff didn’t stand up and applaud that crazy Chop, then escorted him out to the dinin’ room where folk from all over the world done praised him to the skies. An’ I don’t mind sayin’, it brought a tear ta ol’ Al’s eye ta see the feller restored, jist fer one night, ta at least a shadow of his former glory.”

“And how was it?”

“How was what?”

“The food. The food that won Chop all the accolades.”

“Well it warn’t like I was gon’ eat it. Are you crazy? Don’t get me wrong, ol’ Al loves Chinese food. But this was Chinese Chinese food. Not a sweet an’ sour sauce nor a crispy noodle chow mein in sight. Hell, one dish had grasshoppers in it, an’ another was made of everlovin’ chicken fetuses! After many a year of keepin’ an’ open mind an’ samplin’ any damned thing placed before me, I had come up with Al’s own sure fire formula fer fine fare: if’n it looks like it gon’ taste nasty, then it most assuredly will taste nasty.”

“So after all that, you never tried the food. Was Chop offended?”

“Dammit, woman, ain’t you been listenin’? We was brothers. Once the guests had all gone home, an’ the last few o’ the staff were sweepin’ up, well, there I was in a corner suckin’ on a Lucky an’ nursin’ a Tsingtao when a hand found my shoulder an’ Chop put a heapin’ plate o’ House Special Fried Rice an’ General Tso’s Chicken on the table. Ol’ Al never ate better.”

Honesty smiled warmly. “I think I have what I was after. Come back tomorrow, we’ll see about those finishing touches.”

Al rose to his feet with a sigh of resignation. “Still stringin’ this along, huh? Well, I’ll allow as artists got they ways. At least we got through one blamed night without talkin’ ‘bout Dog.”

She smiled archly. “We’ve been talking about Dog this whole time.”

Tuesday, 27th August, 2075; 1510, KE safehouse, Auburn

“Milspec stuff,” Esposito said, as her sausage fingers placed the tiny scrap of tech firmly on the tabletop with a neat little click. “Not yet on the market, but once it’s launched it’ll be nationals and triple-As only. Lose half it’s value once the world even knows it exists.” Al pretended to be paying attention, when in fact he was searching her mouth in vain for any signs of tusks, past or present. Bupkus. But there was no way an elf could be that big, was there?

She’d have to have eaten a helluva lot of dandelions. It was driving him to distraction.

They were in a small room. There was only a table and four matching chairs - the cheap kind that are molded of one piece of plastic each. Esposito was standing, because she had to.

The walls were covered with some sort of polystyrene sound baffling - low-tech but effective. They’d been in this room when he arrived, having been ushered in by a kind old lady past her collection of porcelain cat figurines and quilt-covered 20th century furnishings.

“Thought the one good side o’ bein’ cops was not havin’ ta hide,” he’d said upon finding them in the room.

“Arty’s doing his best to keep eyes on us. It’s a good thing, really, once you get past the hassle of always having to ditch the surveillance,” Pratt had explained.

“So how d’ya know he ain’t watchin’ me?”

“You’re still alive.”

Fair enough, Al had thought. And then they had proceeded to try selling him on the most harebrained scheme he’d heard in a while. Apparently he was supposed to meet Gianelli, at which point, after a suitable amount of gloating, the mafioso was certain to restrain, then torture, then kill Al. “The torture is the key part,” Esposito had explained, as if she was telling him her recipe for fruitcake. “It means that once an actual capital crime is commissioned, you’ll still be alive long enough for us to come in and get you.”

Tuesday, 27th August, 2075; 1515, KE safehouse, Auburn

“An’ if ol’ Al don’t take kindly ta bein’ tormented, maimed, or martyred in any such manner?”

“The entry team will be thirty seconds out. You can probably keep him talking for most of that. Once he restrains you that’s kidnap, so you signal us then.”

“If’n he knows yer gunnin’ for him, he’ll have the waves jammed eight ways ta Sunday afore he does anything hisself. Place’ll be darker’n this here hidey hole we’s in right now.”

“That’s where this comes in,” the huge woman said. And she showed him the device. She explained that it would send a burst signal that would cut through any sort of jamming or other interference. “I don’t know how it works. My friend at Ares Arms that passed it to me, he tried to explain, but the physics went way over my head. Point is, this is plastic, and small enough to fit behind a tooth or under a nail or wherever. You’ll definitely be able to call for the cavalry.”

“An’ I’m supposed to believe this here prototype’ll actually work.”

“Have faith. Trust us.”

“An’ speakin’ o’ trust, why not use someone ya know?”

“You’re the only one that we’re sure Arty hates enough that he’ll risk doing the deed himself.”

“An’ no good jist killin’ ‘im?”

“We need him dead to rights and facing life in an Ares cage in order to turn him, get higher up the ladder. After that he’ll go into protection. But we can leak you his location if you want and then you can go kill him yourself if you like.”

Al made a face like he was actually thinking about it. Then stood up. “You’ll pardon me if I want ta sleep on this genius plan.”

“Just hurry.”

“Ya onna time schedule?”

“More like you are. You know his organization will find you. And if they take you on their terms, everything you risk by working with us happens anyway, only with considerably more finality. And we, and your Khmer friends, end up with nothing.”

“Ya work that out all by yerself? I do this, it’s fer them, not you. Call ya later, sister.”

Then they let him walk out, which he figured meant they’d bought the fantasy that he’d even consider it.

Saturday, 23rd August, 2075: Redmond (aka Touristville)

He has been informed by the owner of the Los Caribe Bodega that the new crime boss had doubled his protection fee and that he could no longer afford the payment. Extortions was to be expected. But outright greed to the point of starving a man could not be tolerated. So Brother Rutger decide to pay this new crime lord a visit to explain the meaning of temperance.

Unfortunately, the crime boss would not see reason and ordered his henchmen to attack the priest. But greed truly was his vice for his henchmen were but regular men. Not a single one was a professional. And so it went that all five men met their fate at the hands of Brother Rutger.

The doorbell rang and Brother Rutger answered. A Lone Star officer stood outside. Reading his name badge Brother Rutger said, "Evening, Officer Kilpatrick."

Officer Kilpatrick: "Evening Father."

Brother Rutger: "Noise complaint?"

Officer Kilpatrick tilts his head and notices the five bodies on the floor: "Noise complaint."

(pause) Officer Kilpatrick: "Ummm. are you 'working' Father?"

Brother Rutger: "No, just working some stuff out. Tell me Officer Kilpatrick- an Irish name that- are you Catholic?"

Officer Kilpatrick: "Yes, Father."

Brother Rutger: "Do you attend Mass regularly?"

Officer Kilpatrick: "Yes, Father."

Brother Rutger: "Anything I can help you with, Officer Kilpatrick?"

Officer Kilpatrick: "No. Well, I'll be leaving be than. Good night, Father."

Brother Rutger: "Good night, Officer Kilpatrick. May the Lord keep you safe."

As the officer leaves, Brother Rutger picks up his commlink and connects to Brother Constantine: "Brother, here is the address of five wolves that were preying on the flock and have repented of their sins..."

Tuesday, 27th August, 2075; 2335, Rocco's, Puyallup

Al had almost a spring in his step as he burst into Rocco’s late that night. Since blowing off the KE dicks he’d been killing time watching anime with the subtitles turned off. He’d recently taken a shine to the Jap cartoons, and found he liked them better when he could just make up all the dialogue himself. Still, the evening had passed slowly, but now here he was and tonight was the night. He wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to with this one price for the Witch and one for the Dog business, but in for a penny, in for a pound, he reckoned. After endless jabbering over nights and weeks, she’d promised him she’d do whatever this last step was tonight.

He found her on the red settee, the Akita at her feet. As was often the case, her black jeans were on, and an oversized, tightly knit sweater. Her long, kinky blond hair was down, which suggested that whatever this last step was, it did not involve her tattoo iron.

Facing her, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, he gave her a quizzical look, pointing alternately to the back room and to his usual chair, asking where he should go, but meaning he wanted to get started.

She smiled, glad to see him enthusiastic and unguarded for once. She nodded for him to sit. “I want to hear about Chairman Mao.”

He stopped his hand just short of slapping himself in the forehead, then lit a cigarette. “Mother Theresa’s teats, woman...”

“No cause for alarm. I heard all I needed yesterday. She’s satisfied. We’ll finish the work tonight. I’m just asking for myself. I really enjoyed hearing about Bruce and Chop last night, fell asleep smiling. I just figured you probably had a story about Mao, the fourth musketeer.”

“He was the best of all of ‘em. Simple truth of it is, though, we jist didn’t get up ta so many hijinks with that boy. He had a habit o’ keepin’ to hisself on a great many a shore leave, an’ it warn’t till...well...warn’t till I’d been on the crew fer several months afore I figured out why.”

Tuesday, 27th August, 2075; 2343, Rocco's, Puyallup

“The reason we thought he often din’t go out a’hellraisin’ with us, an’ it shore ‘nuff was a part of the truth, was that he was always savin’ his money. Din’t smoke, rarely drank, bought nothin’ for hisself. That boy sent every damned penny home to his wife an’ kids in his home village. Had seven little rugrats, an’ no matter how many times he showed us they pix, we din’t mind. They wuz cute as all get out, them pups, an’ they proud papa glowed when he spoke of ‘em. Hell, we always wanted ta help. Chop would make him sweets - he din’t miss the smokes or the drink, but you could see his eyes go wide an’ downright watery every time we passed a bakery. An’ we’d always offer ta buys his drinks when we went out onna town. But half the time or more, he’d have some excuse or another. Eventually, I reckoned he had ta be gettin’ up ta somethin’ else when we was in port.

“We was docked a few miles south-by-southeast o’ nowhere, little burg called Kunak on the Sabah coast o’ Borneo. Place barely had anything you could call a proper port facility, but that warn’t new ta us. No one around, but we was half a day early. So we went ashore, headed into town. Few dogs, we heard some cryin’ babies now an’ then, but no one movin’ onna streets. Found a bar, an’ there was some men in there. There always are. It was jist me an’ Chop an’ Bruce. We tried askin’ what was up, but either no one spoke English or Chinee, or they didn’t care ta talk ta us, or both. So we jist shrugged an’ started drinkin’. Ol’ Al could tell, though, somethin’ had the locals on edge. So I took my leave an’ headed out to see where Mao had got hisself to.

“There was only two real roads outta that town, so I went with my gut and headed west. Dirt road seemed to plunge right into the side of a jungled mountainside, an’ soon the canopy covered the sky. I was thankful for the shade, as it was hot in that humid nightmare of a way that made me wish I was back in the Sahara. Didn’t have to climb long before I come to a roadblock. Looked like mostly local fellers, variety of weapons, tried ta wave me off. One had somethin’ approximatin’ a uniform, Dayak Council insignia on it. No one spoke American.

“After a bit o’ charades, I come ta unnerstand that if’n I was to pass, I wouldn’t be welcome back. But since it also seemed that a hefty, round-faced feller had passed by earlier, well, that was the way I had to go, an’ off I went. Further up the mountainside, deeper into the bush. Come to a sign, only part I could read was the big red cross, an’ a number, which I hoped meant klicks an’ not miles. Late afternoon by the time I come over into a little valley, little more’n a gorge with a flat bottom, really. Sharp, tree-covered ascents on both sides of the road surrounding a cluster of four quonset huts. Four warn’t enough.

“Folks in scrubs an’ surgical masks scurried in an’ out, not many, maybe a dozen, mostly young lookin’. I guessed half were jist locals helpin’ out. But them what warn’t on they feet, there was hundreds, an’ that was the ones I could see, the ones outside the huts, the ones just laid out onna ground. A lot warn’t movin’ no more, but they was all mixed up with the ones that was. Coverin’ the valley floor, folks writhin’, retchin’, chokin’, old ones, kids, babies, mamas layin’ next to ‘em, but too sick to help ‘em none. Once I’d crested the ridge an’ come into sight of it, the sound hit, a hundred throats coughin’, wheezin’, strugglin’ fer breath.

“An’ the smell...

‘An’ there, right amidst ‘em, there was a man on his knees, helpin’ a five-year-old girl throw up. It was Mao.”

Tuesday, 27th August, 2075; 2351, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Well, there warn’t nothin’ for it. I had some duct tape in my pocket. Didn’t know how much good it’d do, but wrapped it tight ‘round my mouth an’ nose, switched to internal air. Not like I was gonna be able ta actually talk ta no one anyway. Headed down to git that boy the blazes outta there.”

“What was it?”

“Well, it were the VITAS, o’ course.”

“No, there hasn’t been an uncontained outbreak since 2027.”

“Well, I’ll allow as I ain’t never seen it onna news since gittin’ back ta the world. Reckon the corps is doin’ they best to take care of us, not worry us none. But places like Africa, Oceania, South Asia...it happens. Things was jist gittin’ bad in the slums o’ Mumbai when I lit outta there in ’64, never heard about after, so reckon they clamped ‘er down. But she’s around, yesirree, an’ worse.”

“What could be worse. I’ve seen image dumps...”

“Yeah, the fever, pukin’, an’ a few hours later the anaphylactic shock constricts your broncheal passages down ta nothin’ an’ ya ‘sphyxiate. Not a good way ta go. More recent strains, though, they go slower. Good news is, ya got a bit more time fer meds, but places that get hit, ain’t hardly no meds ta git anyway. Bad news is, lasts longer, especially the last part. The final allergic reaction is persistent, but weaker. Means instead o’ suffocatin’ over the last an’ longest few minutes of yer life, ya take hours, fightin’ fer every breath like yer suckin’ air through a cocktail straw, till finally, mercifully, yer oxygen-starved brain shuts down.

“An’ there was Mao, doin’ what he could, which was not a blessed damn thing. Holdin’ a wet rag to a child’s forehead, givin’ water to an old man, strokin’ a baby’s head as it cried an’ spit up in its dead mother’s arms. Couldn’t fault ‘im, but he was jist gon’ git hisself killed too. Had on a respirator, but shit, it were industrial, not medical grade, an’ I could see at least one frayed joint. My own air warn’t good for longer’n ta git in an’ right back outta that valley, so I went up an’ let ‘im know it was damned well time ta di di mau. ‘Course it warn’t gon’ be that easy. He din’t git mad, jist waved me off in that gentle giant way o’ his. An’ there we was arguin’ when the trucks rolled up.

“An’ the guys with flamethrowers jumped out.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0000, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Some o’ the docs or whoever run up, tried ta stop ‘em. They was the first ta burn. Then they set ta work. Real methodical. No one had it in ‘em even ta run, really, though a few tried. Mao finally saw wisdom, but there was two kids he warn’t gon’ leave. Nothin’ I could do an’ no time ta argue, we humped those two into the jungle an’ up that damned wall o’ foliage. They spotted us an’ a couple came after. When they couldn’t catch us, they tried burnin’ the forest behind us, but it were too wet. But I won’t fergit that run. Air ran out, an’ I pulled off the tape, which were Russian roulette with five inna chamber, that poor kid wheezin’ his disease right over my shoulder. An’ on up we went till I was sure we’d lost ‘em. Mao warn’t built fer runnin’, an’ when I signaled ta stop he ‘bout collapsed as we put those kids down. Warn’t till then we realized he’d carried a corpse up that hill.

“The other one, well, we’d bought him another two hours of life. An’ I will never know which woulda been worse, thirty seconds o’ burnin’, or two hours o’ suffocatin’. I guess the second way, he could feel someone lovin’ ‘im as he left this benighted world.”

Al took a break, lit a cigarette. Smoked for a bit. “So that was what he’d been gittin’ up to. Near every port. ‘Course, it gen’rally warn’t so dramatic. Clownin’ fer kids inna hospital, helpin’ dig a well fer a leper colony...there’s no shortage o’ folks in need, ya bother ta look for it. After that, I used ta go with him sometimes, but I never told Bruce an’ Chop. He hadn’t, so why should I? But now I wish I had.”

“I think they would have joined you.”

“Yeah, I think they would have.”

“You always speak of your friends in past tense. Do you know what became of them?”

“Reckon I killed ‘em.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0005, Rocco's, Puyallup

The little man’s guttural croak gave way to a slow, measured rasp, almost like the hiss of a needle that someone has forgotten to lift off the vinyl after it's played to its end.

The faint red glow from the table lamps had dimmed somehow, and the big white Akita was paying attention now.

“We was finally makin’ that blue water run fer LA. Closest landfall was Hawai’i, an’ that was three days’ south of our position. Smack inna middle o’ the North Pacific, which warn’t hardly livin’ up to her name that night. Way the ship was pitchin’, blamed bunk was tryin’ ta do somersaults ‘round my cabin, but the reason I got up was the combat biker play-offs went black. Reckoned the wind had thrown the starboard comm dome out of alignment again, an’ since that was the only one that would occasionally work, it meant ol’ Al was gon’ git wet. Stopped by the bridge to pick up a slicker an’ some tools on my way out, deck pitchin’ under my feet.

“It was the captain’s shift, but Mao had the helm, which in weather like that meant keepin’ yer eyes open, autopilot or no. He was drinkin’ somethin’ smelled like hog shit an’ ginger - hit me the moment I come through the hatch - one o' Chop’s concoctions ta be sure - so even before he hefted the mug an’ pointed at his crimson nose, I knew he was sick. Gave me his usual big grin. Bruce was there too, chatterin’ away, shirtless as always. He blew his nose and then showed it to us. Mao’s eyes went wide and he started laughin’. Hell, me too. Told ‘im he’d better check through that payload, see if any brains’d come out, which natcherly he couldn’t understand a word of. But damn, that were some nose soup. Not to be outdone, Mao pointed to a nearby wastebasket - it was near to overflowin’ with tissues.

“I was pullin’ the yellow coveralls on when Chop come up. Handed another mug ta Bruce. Smiled, joinin’ in whatever joke he’d missed, but there was somethin’ forced about the old sea dog’s expression. Mao asked him somethin’, an’ he shook his head. They were quiet fer a minute, an’ everything came ta me like ice, jist as clear, an’ jist as cold. Maybe fer them too. I was already on internal air when I made a joke. They could tell it was a joke by the tone o’ my voice, an’ as per usual they all took the cue an’ laughed. I shrugged into the slicker then, an’ took my leave. Out the door, I didn’t head fer the comm dome, but back towards my cabin. Chanced a look back. Maybe we’d been through enough together, we was thinkin’ alike, like old married folks. Or maybe...hell, ta this day I can’t say what they wanted, but Chop an’ Bruce had followed me out an’, in that moment at least, I was shore I knew why. They waved, but I pretended not to see an’ kept walkin’. They come after an’ I walked faster. So did they, an’ next thing I knew I was runnin’ an’ so was they. They was callin’ to me, my name mixed in with they Chinese. On the way ta my cabin I grabbed a tank o’ compressed air. Those days, load like that din’t slow ol’ Al down a bit. An’ those days, they ended that night.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0009, Rocco's, Puyallup

“I was fast, an’ they was sick, an’ I had a half a minute on ‘em. Thought it were enough, an’ raced fer my footlocker, hauled that Vasotech autodoc out onto my bunk. Cracked her open an’ had the Zeta-interferon in my hand when they appeared in the doorway. Hell, they was grippin’ the door sill fer dear life - looked like they’d run a marathon instead o’ the length o’ that little freighter. It was movin’ on ‘em fast now, runnin’ must’ve sped it up.

“They looked at the meds an’ then at me, an’ they eyes was dark pits o' betrayed accusation. What I know they didn’t understand is it were a one-man kit. An’ by the looks of ‘em, they was too far gone anyway. Was the first an’ last time I wished I’d spoke they language. Tried wavin’ ‘em off, but they blood was up an’ they throats already constrictin’. Man without air don’t think right. They rushed me.

“Bruce was in first, an’ he was the dangerous one. Put my fingers in his eyes. Only meant ta slow him down, but he was comin’ hard. Helluva feelin’, insides of a feller’s eyeballs. Then Chop was lungin’ fer the vial, an’ I planted a boot near his hips an’ pushed him off. But my blood was up by then, and ever’thing crackled an’ crunched in there, an’ he went down inna heap. Bloody eye sockets an’ shattered pelvis, they was both like ta scream, but couldn’t hardly git enough air with which ta do so. An’ that’s when Mao showed up inna hatch.

“I looked at him as he took in the scene. Never fergit his face. That boy’d seen some things, but what lay before him then, he couldn’t hardly take it in. He said, “Well friend Al?” in a strangled gasp of a voice. An’ I moved to swing the heavy hatch shut. He caught it, tried ta keep ‘er open, but big as he was, he warn’t no match fer ol’ Al back in those days. Thought he’d pull his hand back, but I shoulda knowed better, and three fingertips dropped to the cabin floor when I slammed the hatch shut.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0014, Rocco's, Puyallup

Somehow, the lights in the red room had dimmed further still. All that Al could see now was the white outline of the Akita, now sitting up, looking at him. The flare of his Zippo as he lit a fresh cigarette showed Honesty for a split second, motionless on the divan. And, he thought, other shapes, moving furtively at the edges of the room in the spaces between shadows.

“It was just the three of us then. I was still on the internal air, an’ with the tank I’d brought I didn’t reckon I’d need to breathe in there fer a good coupla days. Shot myself full o’ the antivirals, knowin’ it warn’t no guarantee. Chop watched me, cursin’ a blue streak through his clogged windpipe as I emptied the vial. Bruce had sat hisself up in a corner, just sat there. I looked at the old guy. Face was white with pain, an’ was already fightin’ fer every breath. I put on sterile gloves from the kit. He got quiet. He couldn’t breathe, but still tried ta squirm away as I approached. Caressed the sides of his head an’ gave it a clean twist.

“Bruce knew the sound, but made not a twitch. Blood was runnin’ pretty freely out his eyes, an’ he was tryin’ not ta show any pain. Squatted in front of him, put his head in my hands. He wheezed, “Al,” so I stopped, come in close. Soon as he felt my breath, he spat all over my face. Jist a final fuck you, or a partin’ gift ta make sure I shared his fate, reckon I’ll never know. But whatever awaited me, I made sure he din’t suffer no more.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0015, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Mao pounded on that steel door fer the longest damn time. No tellin’ how long. I jist set there on my bunk. There was a hunnerd things I shoulda done, an’ not one that I could. Eventually, slowly, the poundin’ died down to a steady tap. Then not so steady, An’ ever’ time I thought it’d stopped, it’d start up again fer a bit. An’ there was the eyeless face o’ Bruce, starin’ up at me from hell, pagan soul unsaved.”

In the half-light, something glistened on Honesty’s cheek, but she was soundless.

“Reckon I dozed off, don’t know fer how long. An’ the dreams I dreamed, dreamin’ ‘em ta this day. When I sleep. Was the combat biker playoffs woke me up. Someone had fixed the comm dome.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0018, Rocco's, Puyallup

“I turned off the commlink. Listened. Nothin’. Cracked the hatch. No one. Captain an’ Mao the only two people coulda fixed that dome, an’ I woulda had money on neither bein’ fit ta do so.

“But with the proper motivation, man can do ‘bout anything.

“So I went lookin’, fearin’ what I might find. Had ta know. If they’d called in our position, our situation, well hell, it’d be jist minutes afore a couple o’ fast movers with air-to-surface payloads’d be on hand ta send the ol’ Walrus ta the bottom o’ the Pacific.

“Found the captain in his cabin. Mug o’ Chop’s special formula half drunk on the table. Body swingin’ by a belt from an overhead pipe. Reckon the last stages was too much for ‘im. He was a good sailor, tied the knot right, neck snapped, went fast. An’ he was good an’ cold.

“That left Mao.

“Found him in in his cabin. Dead. But still warm. Bloody snot still wet, runnin’ down the side of his face from his nose an’ mouth. Rag wrapped around the stumps of fingers. Blue under his remainin' nails told me he’d been oxygen deprived fer hours afore death’s mercies overcome ‘im. Commlink by his side, some sort o’ traditional Chinese singin’ on it - that was what he’d realigned the comm dome for. I hoped it was a comfort to ‘im, layin’ there for hours. Alone.

“Warn’t hardly manly, but my eyes welled up and nose started runnin’. Knelt by his side, an’ I told the Lord Jesus here was a Christian if ever there was one, but I knew it were for naught, him never havin’ entered the waters. Stood up. An’ that’s when I realized the singin’ had given way to voices. Din’t sound like no dee-jay, sounded like little kids. Bunch o’ little kids shoutin’ outta that tiny box o’ plastic.

“It might be apparent by now that ol’ Al don’t have no truck with linguasofts. Hear a man’s voice, grasp his hand, ya find out all ya need ta know. But I had to know what those kids was sayin’, though I feared I already did.

“Downloaded the program, an’ there they were. Must’ve been five, six of ‘em.

“‘Are you still there Papa?’

“‘Be strong, Papa, you can make it!’

“”We’ll keep singing, Papa, we’ll sing your favorites.’

“‘That’s right, we’ll never stop, never.’

“‘Papa, Papa, talk to us Papa...Papa?’

“Sing everybody, keep singing...’

“I flipped the switch.

“By the time I’d left the room, my tears, they’d long run dry.

“But my nose, well, my nose was still runnin’.

“I was almost glad fer it.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0022, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Survival rates varied by strain, an’ the autodoc din’t know this one. Ranges from maybe naught-point-one ta naught-point-five percent. That point, warn’t even hardly sure it was a lottery I wanted to win. Sat out on the deck for a while, tryin’ ta make my peace. As it got harder ta breathe, thought about eatin’ a bullet. An’ the moment I contemplated it, that’s when I knew that warn’t right neither. Packin’ ‘er in like that, warn’t the way I was brung up.

“But I’d wasted enough time. I sucked down some anti-histamines from the kit, that kept me mobile long enough to strip the boat of anything with a signal, then set the autopilot to take ‘er way off course, out of any reg’lar sea lanes. Laid the crew ta rest inna sea. Din’t have the heart fer no ceremony, nor felt worthy of it.

“Then I settled in to ride it out. Antihistamines lasted about six hours, which I’d hoped would be enough, but the bitch was still goin’ strong. An hour later I was gettin’ jist enough air to stay conscious, nose an’ throat constricted an’ congested ta nothin’. Now, I got an internal tank, an’ I tried jist bypassin’ the congestion thataway, but it still feeds into the esophagus, not straight to the lungs, an’ the sick, it went way down. Got so desperate for a clear breath, thought of trachin’ myself, but if the tank din’t work then that sure as hell wouldn’t. Used an IV ta oxygenate my blood, try ta minimize tissue damage, but warn’t no real comfort.

“I soon knew the answer ta what I’d wondered back in that jungle - burnin’ woulda been better. The not bein’ able to breathe, that’s jist what gen’rally kills folk first. But on top o’ that there’s the fever, the pukin’...but a day later I was still somehow alive. Meant the antivirals was workin’, but whether it meant eventually recoverin’, or jist extended the agony afore the inevitable, there was no sayin’.

“Four days later I’d not had a clear breath nor a wink o’ sleep. Tried tranqin’ myself fer some relief, but took my vitals so low I near ta checked out before stimmin’ myself out of it. An’ puttin’ on those patches was the hardest thing I ever did.

“Hadn’t eaten neither, an’ an IV was the only thing keepin’ me partly hydrated. Four days, like ta drownin’ in my own mucous from one second to the next. Time does funny things to ya. Or yer brain does. Or the fever. I saw things. Sometimes still do.

“Day five the fever broke, and breathin’ got easier. Couldn’t walk, though. Strength’d left me. I’d lost near ta forty pounds, an’ these five years later, it ain’t come back. Dragged myself to the sink in my cabin, drank from it. Ate some chocolate. Next day I could git to the galley.

“An’ then it was back. Three times before I made the West Coast it hit me again, an’ each time it took a little more of me. By the time Seattle come onto the horizon, I was a ghost. Rigged up an underwater sled, scuttled the ship, made my way onto the coast of Everett by night. An’ stayed sick fer the better part of the next five years.

“Body’s a bit better o’ late. Not like it used ta be, but I ain’t a half-decade case o’ walkin’ pneumonia no more.

“But I still don’t sleep. Not hardly. Not real sleep. Sleep. God’s gift to the torn in heart. I’d helped my friends find it...when they din’t want it. And not helped when they did.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0130, Rocco's, Puyallup

Then he fell silent. And the three of them stayed silent for a very long time, there, in the shadows.

Then Al’s comm chirped.

Buntha’s voice. <<Hey bra, just wanted to let you know, looks like he’s going to pull through.>>

<<What? Who?>>

<<Oh shit, man, you ain’t heard? Little Heng. Arturo’s boys hit us again, Heng got hit bad, three from a Cobra.>>

The boy’s impish face was clear as day in Al’s mind, no more than eight. Name meant lucky.

Buntha was still talking, but his guttural ork voice gave way to Al’s mother, reading to him - And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, it is better that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea...<<...but doc says he’ll make it. So stay frosty, watch your back. Gotta go, other calls to make.>>

Al looked at Honesty.

The lights were back up. Had they ever been down?

“Has she got the juice?”

Her face was lowered, not looking at him. Distracted. “What?”

“Has she got the damned juice? Will she make me stronger than the voodoo gods will?”

She looked up, eyes puffy, coming back from somewhere far away. She rubbed them. “The voodoo gods don’t come into it. They’re not real, not for you, any...”

“Dammit, woman!” he shouted her down, his gravel voice amplified to an avalanche. “Whatever. Has...Dog...got...the...juice? Will she make me stronger?”

“She can...”

“Then I’m in, she can name her price.”

“But I don’t know anymore if she will.”

“No no no, you been sayin’ all along it was her brought me here.”

“Yes, but I don’t understand. All that she stands for...all that she is...”

“Is operatin’ here, in this imperfect, fallen world, missy. Whatever may have been news ta you tonight, it warn’t no surprise ta her. Now finish yer job, an’ if’n its my soul she’s after, she’s welcome ta whatever’s left of it.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0135, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Take your shirt off. No, don’t go back there. Just take that filthy shirt off and turn around.”

She touched his back, three times. Her hand was as cold as her voice. The Akita watched from the curtained entrance to her back room workshop.

His back to her, he heard her sit back down on the sofa. He turned. “That’s it?”

She looked tired, and older. “I have imbued your images with their essences. They are with you now - always - in more than just memory. Whether they will serve you, though, only Dog can say. And that is between you and her now. Please never come back here.”

She rose and went through the curtain without a look back. Al pulled his shirt and his jacket back on, went to let himself out.

He was startled to see the Akita waiting near the front door. At the door, Al beckoned, but it did not approach.

“C’mon girl,” he muttered under his breath, “reckon this might be sayonara.”

But the beast just looked at him, and he left.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0214, Puyallup City, Puyallup

Al got into his Gaz and drove around aimlessly under the garish neon of Puyallup’s night spots. He’d never wanted to kill anyone as much as he wanted to kill Arturo Gianelli right now.

But he knew that was the one thing he couldn’t do.

He’d have to figure something else out. He would figure something else out. Three filterless Lucky Strikes later, he wasn’t sure exactly what it was yet, but he knew what the first piece of the puzzle would be. He dialed the commcode, using the ID they knew.

“I’m here.” She tried not to sound like she’d just woke up.

“I’ll do it.”

“When?”

“Like you said, kitchen’s gittin’ hot.”

“Same place as last time, oh-eight-hundred.” And she hung up.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0730, Circle-T Truck Plaza, Bellevue

Al surveyed the array of empty plates covering the formica-topped table and released a full-throated belch that would’ve put a bullfrog to shame and elicited scattered applause from the long-haul men at surrounding booths. He loved truck stops, and the ones here in Bellevue were the only ones he could always count on to serve real food, even if you did have to put up with slumming wage slaves.

Today was not a soy food day.

Back in his room, he’d spent the night thinking, sketching, and conniving, and by dawn he’d been mailing details of what he wanted to that place downtown that had taken such good care of him a few weeks earlier. Then he’d jumped in his truck and stopped here on his way to Auburn. Ordered the Peterbilt Platter with extra hashbrowns, along with breakfast burritos and oatmeal with honey and bananas. Washing that down with a pot of coffee, he’d followed it up with a side of biscuits and sausage gravy, and then a huge stack of flannel cakes.

Now the waitress was clearing plates with a sweet, “Will that be all?” which was friendly enough but obviously perfunctory.

But there was a big photo of waffles on the wall. It’d probably kill him, but why the hell not?

“Well, I think you haven’t eaten in weeks, sugar.”

“You only live once,” answered Al as she freshened his coffee. “You only live once.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 0805, KE safehouse, Auburn

“...that’s it, link the activation to the readin’s...groovy...yeah, those kin wait a coupla days, no worries...yeah, ten-ish...see ya soon, doc, ‘perciate it.”

Al looked at the chronometer on his comm as he ended the call. Five past. Late. But he knew they’d wait, and those folks downtown, they were legit. Meant the guy he’d needed to talk to wasn’t online until eight.

He lit a fresh Lucky as he climbed out of his truck, paused after slamming the door shut, admired suburbia. Tree-lined street, lawns around modest detached houses. Sprinklers on a few places busy prepping the green grass for the late-August day ahead. Standing there smoking in the street in his yellowing wifebeater and shredded jeans, he attracted more than a few looks from moms hustling their kids into cars for the run to school. Congratulated himself for the effect he had on women.

He crossed the street, knocked. The old lady that answered the door made him wait - either she had a hard time getting around these days, or was keeping up appearances to that effect. Once he was in, she ushered him past the quilts and porcelain cats to the saferoom.

Pratt’s shirt was somehow whiter than usual, stark contrast to his jet-black complexion. The breast pocket sported the usual array of pens. Esposito was seated this time - all the furniture was still that one-mold plastic lawn crap, but they’d brought in a double-wide for her, and her gigantic mystery-metatype behind was settled into it nicely.

Pratt stepped forward, hand extended. Face much warmer than before. Al noticed a wedding band - these OC crusaders usually weren’t family men. “Sorry about Heng, man. We went by the hospital. With his parents’ permission, I was able to administer a priesthood blessing. He’s doing much better now.”

Al’s eyebrows rose despite himself. “You a Christian, son?”

“Very much so.”

“Well, I suppose that’s some comfort. Now where’s the dingus?”

Esposito slid a clear plastic case holding the tiny device across the table. “Shame that’s what it took to get you on board.” Not a shade warmer than before.

“Heh, as ya may well imagine, I was hopin’ to suss out a diff’rent way to go about things. But seems y’all’re the only show in town.”

“You’re doing the right thing. Do you need help prepping the device?”

“Nah, reckon I’ll work ‘er out.”

“It won’t show up on any scan. You activate by crushing it, so you can put it in a tooth, or under you skin, or a nail. Anywhere that won’t be found and where you’re sure you’ll be able to apply a focused few ounces of pressure. Crushing it will shatter a porcelain barrier, creating a circuit. The range is only a hundred meters or so, but we’ll be there. And you only get one shot - the pulse needed to cut through the jamming will burn the thing out.”

“I’ll try not to lose it.”

“When and where?”

“When’s the only part arranged so far. Tonight, oh-two-hunnerd. He’s gon’ call me with the where an hour before. Then I call you.”

Pratt couldn’t resist asking. “What’d you tell him?”

Al’s only answer was a big, yellow-toothed grin, cigarette clenched dead-center.

The grin.

And a wink.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 1422, Seattle Center, downtown

“And then Sheila was staring over my shoulder and what do you think I saw when I turned?” The graying, white-coated man didn’t wait for Al to answer. “The biggest damned manta ray you could ever imagine. It was so beautiful. Price of the trip right there.”

Chatting in the sawbones’ office after their long session, Al glanced at the too-fancy-for-numbers analog clock. He’d already read over the hardcopy bill they’d kindly printed up for him. He was used to the raised eyebrows.

“Well that do sound like a right purty sight.”

“Two, maybe three meter span.”

“Sheee-it, now I know I never seen an’ animal o’ that size.”

The doctor had deduced from the nature of Al’s order and his existing ware that the diminutive Southerner was a fellow diver, but a professional of some sort, and Al had not disabused him of the idea. Anyway, it had certainly been true once, he thought, idly tracing the outline of the Troubleshooter tattoo on his forearm with a burn-melted forefinger.

“Really? You must be doing some out-on-the-edge work, with your implants.”

“Well, mostly industrial stuff. Ya jist don’t git the wildlife like that in yer built-up areas. Anyhoo, doc, ya want ta break some o’ this here down for me?”

It was getting late, after all, and he still had so much to do today. The damned transfusion had taken longer than the calibrating and tissue-typing and cutting all put together. And this kind of work was seldom cheap, and never cheap on the spur of the moment like this. Of course his savings from the past five years on the docks was long gone, but even after emptying his MIB account - his back-up slush fund courtesy of the drug lords he and his compadres had jacked back in northern Thailand - he was going to be pushing it to swing the next couple of purchases he needed to make.

“Of course, Mr. Salesco. Everything’s been smooth as silk. Blood work shows all the expected markers, and diagnostics have the new modification clocking in at optimum levels.” This was not the tech that had upgraded his eyes a few weeks ago. This was the head of the clinic. For what Al was paying, it had better be. “I am still a bit out of sorts about the ‘special delivery’ request,’though.”

“Well, I see ya done already charged me for it.”

“Oh yes,” the physician chuckled, “where there’s a nuyen there’s always a way. Although highly unusual, it’s not the service provision that puzzles me. Rather, given what I can readily see of the circumstances, it is that I can’t even conceive of any sane scenario in which you’d require this.”

Al transferred the cred and stood to go. He was screaming for a cigarette. “Sanity don’t hardly come into it, doc.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 1524, International District

Leaving the posh clinic, Al made straight for Capitol Hill markets he loved so much. They’d have everything.

He picked up cards, a big stainless steel lighter - not a real Zippo, but those spaghetti-eaters would never know the difference - some extra cigarettes, a crap commlink. The hardest was a brown leather jacket, but he knew where they kept the vintage stuff. He figured it had better be real leather to be convincing - not like these guys didn’t know who he was. Found what he was looking for in a back alley shop off Broadway.

Finished at the butcher shop, then back up to his old place in the International District. It was still a burnt out shell, and he only had to drive around for a few minutes to track down the pack.

He parked and got out. Spike spotted him straightaway. Looked at him, waiting. Al knew how it would go. He whistled, called out the dog’s name, and beckoned him closer with a guttural Tamasheq phrase that made his voice seem even more abrasive than usual. The dog’s ears stood up, but he had pride. He couldn’t seem easy in front of his pack. So Al pulled out the steak.

The huge black dog bounded toward him, pausing only long enough to nip savagely at a couple of the other animals that had presumed to join him. But when he reached Al, the tiny man held the steak up, just out of reach, and grunted the equivalent of “down,” in the alien tongue.

He’d been courting this dog for weeks. He’d known he could get him to come. That was the easy part. But he couldn’t let the monster into his truck until it knew who the boss was.

The dog made to spring for the meat. Al could never hope to hold it higher than the dog’s reach. He didn’t try. He simply caught the dog’s eye, and repeated “DOWN!” with a quick, pointed nod of his chin. The dog bared his teeth, hesitated. Al liked this dog, and hoped he wouldn’t have to kill it.

It was a strong animal, and held his gaze longer than he’d expected. And a funny thing happened - Al felt a warmth, almost a burning, on his back, across and up and down the center, where Rufus was. And then Spike flattened his front paws on the ground and lowered his snout to meet them, eyes still raised to meet Al’s, but now pleading instead of threatening.

Still Al withheld the steak. He motioned and commanded “up” in the desert language, and the dog obediently got into the truck.

Once they were on the road, Al still made the animal wait a few minutes, giving it a stern look each time it dared whine. Only after he managed to stay quiet long enough did Al toss it the steak.

It disappeared in less time than it took Al to light a fresh cigarette.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 1615, Mechanicals compound

Spike was running around Al’s room at the commune, sniffing every corner frantically, and occasionally sparing a growl for the snakes.

Al had been sure to lock their terrariums. He’d already taken the dog around the compound, let the animal mark everything in sight. Now they were home. Later, he’d cut some kind of hatch in the bottom of his door, key it to a proximity sensor on a collar or something, so the dog could come and go as he pleased.

He was a friend, not a prisoner. And an animal like Spike, he was wasted in a cage. Yeah, Puyallup would be a lot rougher than the International District, but this one could take care of himself.

Clack showed up. And started talking. At least until Spike jumped the young troll, knocked him down and started licking him all over the face. Good, the dog already knew how to sense from Al’s scent, tone of voice, and body language who was a friend. Smart. But he’d known that.

Once Al called the dog off, the troll resumed talking as if he’d never left off, and Al sat on the modest sofa and lit a cigarette. Waited for the boy to talk himself out. Took a good ten minutes, but he had the time, and it caught him up on the hippies' comings and goings.

Eventually Al offered the kid a beer, which gave him as chance to speak as the boy drank. “You got an account, boy.”

“You mean for cred?”

“Yeah, for cred.”

“Heck no. You gotta have a SIN for that. It’s all cash or barter here with us.”

“Well, there’s other sorts of accounts, boy. Check this out.”

He shot some numbers to Clack’s comm. He knew it was secure - the boy was a wiz with tech.

“That’s a certified account I set up. I’m goin’ away fer a bit. Ain’t rightly sure how long. Want you ta feed the snakes an’ Spike here till I’m back. Instructions are there inna file, an’ you take twenny-five a week fer your trouble.”

The juvenile troll, already triple Al’s weight and a head taller, went wide-eyed at the sum, but did his best to act cool. “Sure thing, Al. I know how important these snakes are to you. I won’t let you down. Now do you want to go down to the range? Frizzen’s got a new...”

The man held up a hand. “‘Nother day, boy. Gotta go see a lady. Oyl inna clinic today?”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 1631, Mechanicals compound

Oyl considered Al’s offer impassively. He’d been here for a while now, but they’d not had much chance to get acquainted. And him not being around for the Steamer thing...Friz had explained it, but, well...

“What you’re asking, I couldn’t to it on my own. I’d have to call in several markers.”

The basement rooms were a far cry from the upscale clinic where he’d spent part of his day. Both were clean, though the one used sonic disinfectors while the other used elbow grease. Both, he suspected, were functional in their own way - the one to enhance, the other to preserve. And the other one didn’t have mature ork women in charge.

“So although your offer is extremely generous, I am inclined to settle for ten thousand. Plus, you know, the ‘some day, I may call upon you to do a service for me’ thing. Sorry about the cash on top. I’ve got bills to pay, and it’s not my daughter’s wedding day.”

Al grinned. Normally, he hated this sort of thing. He’d much rather pay more and be in the clear. But in this case, hell, he might be the one getting a bargain.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 1724, Bellevue Cadillac

“Yes, sir,” purred the immaculate sales representative, trying to act like he hadn’t just made his bonus for the week. “And of course you’ll be interested in our menu of extras. For the discerning client, we offer....”

“All of ‘em,” Al interrupted. “Fully loaded. All the best.”

In his yellowing T-shirt and tattered jeans, Docs unlaced and leather jacket cracked with age, he had nearly been thrown out of the dealership. It sometimes amused him to wait until the nicely dressed security goons were well in motion before letting his cred balance show on his PAN, and then watch them nearly fall over as they attempted to change course as unobtrusively as possible so as not to offend a potential customer.

“Yes, sir, that can all be ready for you in a few hours, just as we discussed. Now, I am required by law to advise you of the risks of an open registration. Anyone would be able to easily....”

“Yeah, gotcha amigo,” Al interrupted again. So much still to do. The man started to ask about payment plans and Al transferred the balance in full, smiling as the man’s eyes went wide despite himself. “Now ya think ol' Al can smoke in here?” the little man asked.

But his business here was done anyway, and he sauntered out of the Cadillac showroom while the man stuttered something about company policy.

Climbing into his Gaz, Al could swear his commlink felt lighter now, minus the last of his retirement stash. He popped a beer and entered Arturo Gianelli’s private code.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 1725, Bellevue Cadillac

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Reckon we met a few weeks back. Vinnie introduced us. You know Vinnie. Yer nephew. Or yer cousin. Hell, with you all, maybe he’s both.”

“I am searching my memory, sir. Vinnie introduces me to a great many people. Though I will confess your voice and manner are distinctive. Oh, yes, why of course. This must be Al Guthrie, the inbred hillbilly fuck I am going to skin alive and let bleed out in a vat of salt water.”

“Except that being unable ta find ‘im, you’ve settled fer mowin’ down little kids inna street.”

“As much as you are clearly someone in love with the sound of his own voice, you did not call just to trade barbs.”

“Called ta render my apologies.”

“What you did, you impudent runt, you do not apologize for on the phone.”

“Let’s do it in person. Maybe share a brew. Bury the ol’ hatchet.”

“Yes, I’d like that. I’ve got a place, Utah and South Stacy.”

“Well, unshakeable as is my trust in yer integrity an’ honorable intentions, we ain’t meetin’ on your turf.”

“Yet I remain most eager to cordially accept your heartfelt apology.”

“You know Harbor Island Marina? It’s Vory territory, but that shouldn’t scare off a big strong goombah as connected as yerself. We won’t be there long nohows. There’s a boathouse, number thirty-nine.”

“Tonight?”

“Eleven.”

“Come alone, Guthrie. They’ve started sending their kids to school...”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 1810, Humpty's Dump, Port of Seattle

Al stabbed it and steered. It was a straight shot across the lake and Seattle Center back to his old stomping grounds around Terminal 46. It was just after six when he drove his Gaz to the end of the decrepit jetty that was home to Humpty’s Dump, so still hours from dusk in the Emerald City in summer.

But it’d be dark by eleven. Somehow, it just wouldn’t be right if it wasn’t.

The swing shift at the terminal was well underway, and it was too early for the night crowd, so there was no one in the ramshackle watering hole but Mordecai. The sideburned scarecrow was wiping down the counter in his tattered Reverend Horton Heat T-shirt, Concrete Dreams’ classic Esmeralda oozing from the sound system.

“Boy, ever’ time you show that ugly mug o’ yours in here, it’s like another round o’ Russion roo-lette,” the former roadie said, popping a beer for Al and sliding it across the counter. It was smooth - the only part of the place Mordecai bothered keeping clean, and he shined it obsessively.

“Reckon it’s okay today.” Al took a long pull from the smokey brown bottle.

“Okay? They’re in here lookin’ for you near every damned night.”

“You still got the keys to that old boathouse on Harbor Island?”

“Yeah. Sold the boat when I lost that packet on that nag Rockabilly Queen last month, but ain’t found a buyer for the shack. Needs a few coats of paint, I’ll allow.”

“Gon’ need the place tonight.”

“Sure, what for?”

“Havin’ a meet with Arty.”

Mordecai tried to act as nonchalant as Al. He found a spot on the counter and scrubbed it into extinction.

“He’ll kill ya, boy.”

“Don’t doubt he’ll do his dangedest.”

“So why?”

“Some things, they gotta be set straight.” He paused. “Some things, they done got outta hand.” He looked up at the tall barkeep, knew he must have heard from Buntha about little Heng, knew he understood now.

They let Andrea Frost’s vocals wash over them for a while. And then Mordecai realized something. “Hey, whatever you’re scheming, boy, you may not have heard that the Gianellis pushed the Vory back out of Harbor Island a couple weeks ago. That’s Arty’s own turf now.”

“Yup, reckon I know it.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 1825, Humpty's Dump, Port of Seattle

“Now, here’s what I need ya ta do, amigo...”

Al drank another beer and ate a couple of soyritos as he explained things to Mordecai. The bartender just shook his head, but knew it would be pointless to try talking sense into the little man. “I’ll be there,” was all he said.

“With bells on, I’m sure,” Al grinned. He got up and headed for the door, but Mordecai called out, “Hey didn’t you want these?” He threw a set of keys at Al.

But Al threw them right back. “Naw, reckon it’ll be open when I get there.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 2100, Mechanicals compound, Puyallup Barrens

Al sat on his sofa with Spike, savoring a brew and a smoke. There were certain times when simple pleasures meant the world. So of course he also had the trid on.

Over in the kitchenette the table was covered in tools and and microcomponents, a fixed stand magnifier looming over the lot of it. The work had been exacting, and now the finished product lay ready.

With an hour left, he’d flipped on an anime channel. He was really starting to appreciate these wacky Jap cartoons. Somewhere between the robot suit show and the one where unimaginably buxom thirteen-year-olds fought to the death in their underwear, there had been an entertainment news spot, and he’d listened with some interest about how Tony Franciosa had relocated his media empire to London. Al shook his head at life’s little ironies.

The end credits on Candy Toilet Monsters started to roll, and it was pushing nine o’clock. No putting it off any longer. He stepped over to the table. First time for everything, he thought, and dropped his pants as the dog looked on with a bemused expression.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 2153, Mercer Island, westbound on i-90 Express

Congratulating himself on the heroic lengths he was willing to go to, Al pulled his jeans up and buttoned the fly. Then he put his knife on the table, took off his father’s jacket, tossed it on the sofa, and replaced it with another brown bomber number, this one lighter without the non-conductive venlar polyweave lining. Filled the pockets with the knock-off Zippo, the cards he’d let Spike chew on for a while, the burner commlink, and so on.

Fingering the sore spot on the inside of his left wrist, he left the room without a look back. Traffic was light, and he made it to Bellevue Cadillac before ten. They’d agreed to store the Gaz. His new Nocturne was ready for him, and brushing off their repeated warnings about an open registration, he loaded the blank paper onto the burner along with the codes and took off westbound.

It was time to call the cops.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 2154, Mercer Island, westbound on i-90 Express

He dialed while he drove. Esposito answered.

<<You got it early?>>

<<Well, yes an’ no. I got it, but whole thing’s been moved up to twenny-three-hunnerd.>>

<<That gives us barely an hour.>>

<<All you were gonna git before. Countin’ on ya here, lady.>>

<<We’ll be there, Guthrie. We want this too.>>

<<There, just texted ya the particulars.>>

<<Why’d he move it up?>>

<<Tryin’ ta keep me off balance, I reckon. He ain’t so stupid he don’t think ol’ Al’s up ta somethin’.>>

<<But he isn’t so smart he’ll stay away.>> it was the first time Al ever heard a smile in her voice.

And that made him smile.

<<Appears you done got ever’one all figured out.>>

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 2215, Boathouse 39, Harbor Island Marina, Seattle

As soon as he’d crossed the bridge over onto Harbor Island, Al pulled the sleek new Caddy to the side of the road in the shadow of a dark MCT warehouse, got out, and took a long piss. A full bladder just wouldn’t do for this sort of work.

The industrial side of the island didn’t have the greatest aroma, but with the Sound just to his north, he could still smell the sea, and that counted for something. He would have liked to just stand there for a few more minutes. Would really have liked it. But he was on the clock - he had to show up in time that it looked like he was trying to get there ahead of them.

Of course, when he pulled up at quarter past ten, the big doors were ajar, light spilling out from inside. As he nosed the car forward, they swung wide, and he rolled to a stop in the center of the wide space. Shut off the engine, allowed himself five seconds to look around before opening the door. He wasn’t sure he’d have a chance, once he got out.

They’d come in three cars, two parked at the far end by the enclosed berth where Mordecai used to keep his boat, and the nicer one, Art’s, over by the right hand wall. It was a fairly big space, so even with the new Caddy pulled inside and the doors closed, there was a nice open spot left in the middle, the boathouse’s single overhead light hanging from the ceiling directly over it. The bright circle of light left shadows around the fringes of the place, and Al counted twelve wiseguys, most with long guns, lounging around trying to look music-video cool. Over by one car was a chair, a nice, solid, metal job.

He lit a cigarette and got out, the unfinished planks of the floor creaking slightly under his feet. Slammed the door. No one made a sound, no one moved until he’d stepped well forward of the car and stopped, standing there alone in the light. Then Arturo Gianelli stepped out of the shadows, his grand entrance.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 2215, Boathouse 39, Harbor Island Marina, Seattle

The mob underboss was flanked by the magenta tie twins. Al didn’t see Vinnie anywhere.

“You brought me a new fucking car!” Gianelli said, stepping forward with a hugely pleased smile, arms wide as though for an embrace, though he stopped short a few paces from Al.

Al counted two heartbeats. He could count them because he could hear them. He wondered if everyone else could. Then he shrugged congenially. “Factory-fresh smell an’ all. Token of ol’ Al’s remorse an’ contrition.” He reached into a pocket, and a dozen weapons swung to the ready. They were slow, but Al played his part and stopped moving. “You assholes flatter me,” he chuckled around his Lucky Strike, then gingerly pulled his hand out with the burner ‘link in it, held it up, tossed it gently to Gianelli. “Blank reg is on there - jist fill in yer name.”

Magenta One gave a nod, and Al heard men go to work on the car. Idiots. If he’d put something in it, he’d have rolled it in on autopilot and they’d all be dead by now. If only it could possibly so simple. But it couldn’t. He figured Arty was smart enough to know this, and raised his eyebrows. The mobster shrugged. “My boys are very protective.” He brushed some imaginary dust off a suit that had cost two-thousand nuyen and still looked tacky. “And yet, things happen. Things that pain me. Or worse, cost me face, to use the chinks’ language. I can’t seem to be careful enough.”

“Aw, that’s alright,” drawled Al, voice all floor sander and nail heads, “I can’t seem ta be careful at all.”

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 2217, Boathouse 39, Harbor Island Marina, Seattle

Silence. Gianelli seemed determined to act cool, but every word from Al’s mouth brought a little more blood to his face. “No.” More silence. “No, you don’t seem to. You’ve been quite...rash.” And then the man’s smile returned. He said, “But you take responsibility for your actions, and I respect that.” His eyes said it was a lie, and after only a moment’s hesitation he worked up the courage to close the last few steps and embrace Al.

Magenta One and Two tensed slightly. Al accepted the embrace. Arty held it, arms around Al, his paunch and man-tits heavy against the smaller man’s gaunt frame, face retreating only an inch or so. He had sour garlic and cigar on his breath, and Al could smell his sweat. Nose to nose, only the two men could hear one another.

“Car’s a nice gesture. I appreciate it, and I will be gracious enough to accept it. But you must understand, you sorry fuck, what a hollow recompense it must seem to me. In my position. You come to me with a...a thing. But my pain, my hurt, it transcends the tangible.”

Al kept his tobacco-ravaged rasp as low as Gianelli’s sibilant whisper. “So I drove it here myself.”

“That you did.” One hand slid up Al’s back and into his hair, fingers lacing themselves through the greasy brown locks, and he shook his head, the tip of his nose brushing Al’s. “I understand loyalty. I mean, of course I understand loyalty. My allegiance, though, is to family. But you, an American, for fuck’s sake...for a pack of filthy boat people.”

“Call it a weakness.”

The fingers in Al’s hair pulled tight. “All right. All right. This will make us even. I’ll let that sorry fuck Hun Sen and his pack of mongrels off the hook for what they owe me, wiped clean,” Gianelli hissed in Al’s ear.

“They go they own way. No more connection ta you or yer organization.”

“Right. Sure.” The mafioso broke the clinch, patted Al on the cheek and stepped back. Creating space.

Al didn’t have to turn to know that the men were done going over the car. Now one stood a bit to each side of him, and he could sense at least two more behind him. He didn’t move, just looked at Gianelli, and then his eyes flicked tellingly, back and forth, one side, then the other. They both knew what was happening next.

But there was one last step in the dance.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 2218, Boathouse 39, Harbor Island Marina, Seattle

“Now call,” Al said quietly. His cigarette was almost spent.

“What?”

“Call Vinnie. Tell him that. Let everyone hear it.”

Gianelli’s face went pink, threatening crimson. He struggled mightily to keep his cool. “You...fucking...doubt...my...you...I already said....”

Al looked on impassively as the man blustered. Sucked the last bit of life from his Lucky Strike, then threw it on the floor when it burnt his fingertips.

The offended underboss managed to compose himself enough to throw a coherent sentence together. “What would give you the fucking cheek to even ask me that? Why should I do that for you? For you?”

“I brought ya yer car back.”

Gianelli shrugged in disdain. Walked over, spit on the car. Walked back.

Water lapped against the boathouse pilings.

“An’ I brought ya me.”

“Yeah.” The hatred in Gianelli’s voice was tinged for the first time with a grudging respect. Mostly, though, his eyes were gauging how much of an asshole he was in danger of looking like in front of his crew.

Never taking his enraged eyes from Al’s, Gianelli fished his commlink from his pocket and made the call. Told Vinnie they were done with the Khmers. No more debt. That they were strictly hands off. Citizens. He stepped back up to Al, put his mouth to his ear, and whispered, “This is gonna go twice as hard for you now.”

And a black bag came down over Al’s head.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 2219, Boathouse 39, Harbor Island Marina, Seattle

“Are we clear?”

Sounds of something heavy and metallic being dragged over wood planks.

“Sure thing, boss. All sewn up tight. Nothing’s going out from...now.”

The edge of the chair hit the back of his knees and he fell into it.

“Then take his eyes first.”

His arms were pulled behind him, metal cuffs ratcheting tight on his wrists.

“Boss, that’s what the bag’s for. No pictures that way.”

Knives cutting off his clothes, leaving long shallow cuts in the process.

“But I can’t see his face.”

The sound of a case opening. Tools being laid out.

“And I want to see every look on his ugly inbred mug while I break every bone in his skinny little body.”

“Okay, here you go, boss.”

And something, probably an ice pick, came stabbing through the hood. The first try missed his eye, bounced off a cheekbone, tearing flesh.

“Dammit, hold his head.”

Fingers on his face, finding the eye socket.

Then the pick rammed straight into his left eye. It didn’t hurt. Not exactly. But he hadn’t counted on the way it did feel, the way hundreds of electroreceptors sent waves of confusion into the vision centers of his brain. He almost broke his promise to himself and screamed. Then the other eye. Once he was blind, they pulled off the hood, and the cool evening air washing over his face was some relief.

Then Arty got to work. He was not a sophisticated man. He liked his whores one at a time, and potatoes with his meat. Whatever other implements of pain his men had helpfully provided him, he went with a lead pipe. Started with the shins.

Wednesday, 27th August, 2075; 2226, Boathouse 39, Harbor Island Marina, Seattle

Al had freed his hands in seconds. But it was just an exercise, something to do to keep his mind off his knees being shattered. Didn’t work. And then everything was harder, because he had a choice, sort of. Soon his palms were bleeding from gripping the rungs of the chair back.

Arty broke Al’s left clavicle with a particularly vicious overhand. It was around then that Al’s resolve not to scream or cry fractured along with his bones. He did both, cursing as colorfully as a little sailor could, even when the pipe crashed across his teeth. But pretty soon it was just sobbing. The best he could do was at least not cry out for his mother. So many times his fingertips found the tiny bump on the inside of his left wrist. And each time, through the blinding haze of pain, he kept enough of his wits to remind himself that, not trusting himself, he’d already burned that bridge. And the next crossing was miles away yet.

When Arty had broken every bone his pipe could easily reach with Al secured to the chair, he told his men to lay him out on the floor. “Not like you’ll be trying anything clever now, hey Guthrie, you hillbilly shit.”

The man that went to uncuff him said, “Boss, he slipped the cuffs. Sorry. I don’t know...”

“Forget about it.” They were laying him on his back, every movement grating pieces of broken bone together along the fractures. It was worse than the beating, and Al screamed uncontrollably. “He wasn’t trying anything.” Gianelli had to shout to be heard over Al. “That was just a final fuck you from Mister Smartass here, wasn’t it Al?”

Then Arty went back to work. First the femurs. Asshole had done this before, studied it or something. He’d known what order to do it in, how to keep the pain mounting to new levels. Then he got started on the body.

Ribs. Sternum. This was what would kill him, he knew, as every blow to already broken ribs led to lacerations of kidney, lung, gut. Layered over the pain, the feeling of dying inch by inch, sent Al’s tortured mind into a panic. A panic he knew he couldn’t afford, he had to stay conscious, focused, just a little, had to keep some deep part of his brain straight. But it was too much. When his pubic bone was shattered, his mind slipped into an unthinking oblivion, a surrender he knew would be fatal but which he had nothing left to resist.

A lick on the face dragged him back to his suffering. Didn’t do a damned thing about the pain, but it brought him back. He could see her there, blind or not, that big white Akita. Charging her own toll. And saving his ass.

She stayed with him from that point, keeping his soul in its husk a little longer.

When he started coughing up great gouts of blood, one of the goons commented that it wouldn’t be long now. “Yeah, you’re right. And he has to still be awake for the last part. Fuck it. Cut him a few more times so the salt wakes him a bit. Then throw him in.”

They picked up his shattered body, but Al was past pain now. And if his face wasn’t swollen past movement, he might have smiled. Predictable assholes.

Then he dropped into the cold waters.

It was dark.

Out of their sight, it was so tempting to breathe. But that would come. For now, no bubbles.

It was only a last few interminable minutes before his heart stopped, and when it did he pressed the spot on the inside of his left wrist and gave in to the beckoning black.