Mosh bit into a fish roll and talked with a mouthful.

  “RJ. It’s all on him. We were there. Scylla? He confessed. I voted to space him. How about you?”

  “C’mon. You heard Lan’s orders. No talking about him. People will kill to find him.”

  “So, what did you vote?”

  Hoshi and Muna shared a knowing glance.

  “Space,” they said in unison.

  “I didn’t want to,” Mosh said. “He used to be one of us. But he set himself up as our hero then betrayed us. Nothing’s changed that I can see. Whatever’s being done to him isn’t enough.”

  “He’s not in our lives anymore. We have to do this for ourselves. Let’s try to get some sleep. We’ll rotate watch. You’re still filling your belly, Mosh. You can have first shift.”

  Mosh threw up his hands.

  “Who appointed you squad leader?”

  “I’m not, but somebody has to be practical. We’re in this together. Please?”

  Hoshi struggled to fall asleep. She didn’t have great confidence in Mosh, and she couldn’t dismiss the encounter in the alley. That man knew far more than he was letting on. Was he working with others, or was he a solo free agent who talked a big game – like Mosh – while posing no real physical threat? Hoshi was frustrated; she used to be better at reading people.

  Those concerns appeared trivial hours later when she awoke to a clamor and smelled the breath of a man who’d been drinking heavily. He leaned over as if preparing to kiss her, but she knew better. The knife he held at her throat clarified the picture.

  16

  T HE BLADE WAS CURVED AND SERRATED, long enough to fillet a lunker or open a carotid with blink-and-miss-it efficiency. The man, whose ginger hair leaked out from the sides of his putan, shook his head when she tried to speak.

  “Sit up slow, or I’ll bleed you.”

  He kept the knife within a hair’s breadth as Hoshi lifted herself up. She scanned the hut and saw scattered wares and a toppled cot. Muna was sitting upright on her own cot, the alley man her company with an equally efficient blade. Mosh lay against the wall just inside the door, his head slumped and eyes shut.

  “It’s like this,” the alley man told Hoshi. “You could have done me a service out there, young lady. But you anthropology students think you’re too special to carry on a simple conversation with a stranger pleading for help. Now look what’s it come to. Terrible business.”

  Hoshi glanced at the ginger then the alley man.

  “Can I speak without getting cut?”

  “Why, it would be appreciated,” alley man said. “If you help us out on the matter of Lan Chua, we’d be in your service.”

  “Is that code for ‘we might let you live’?”

  “I don’t use codes, but these blades speak loud enough.”

  She ignored his threat and focused on Muna.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Breathing. He’s the asshole you met today?”

  “The same.” She nodded toward Mosh. “Is he alive?”

  Alley man chuckled without loosening his grip on Muna.

  “That one? He went down with one hard right. Looks like he pissed himself. You want him to live? You lot best cooperate.”

  “How can we do that if we don’t have information? I told you. We’re anthropology students. That’s all.”

  Ginger looked around with a sneer.

  “I don’t see no books. Not even a tablet. Don’t students take notes and such?”

  Muna jumped into the fray.

  “We observe. I doubt you’d know much about what it takes to be a student of anything.”

  “Not nice.” Ginger turned to alley man. “I think that one’s asking to be bled.”

  “You might be right.” Alley man pressed the knife against Muna’s neck until it drew a few red drops. “I’m not the sort to do ugly by a woman, but this situation here is called the point of no return. If you don’t give us what we need, you won’t return home. Lan Chua. Where is he?”

  Hoshi didn’t want to be the first to crack, but these men were skilled and bore the hallmarks of hired killers. If she and Muna held firm, they’d die here. Then these assholes could show Mosh what would what happen if he played the silence game.

  “I’m not going to carry on a conversation with a knife at my throat,” she told the men. “Give us space or kill us. The second option won’t do you much good.”

  She amused alley man.

  “Very brave for a mere student,” he said. “I think your blood runs as cold as ours.”

  He cleared the blade from Muna’s neck and nodded for ginger to do the same. Ginger relaxed his hold on Hoshi but tightened his grip on the handle, as if ready to thrust at the first opportunity. Alley man glanced at Mosh, who remained still.

  “You Green Sun aren’t as sorry a lot as you appear. Dunno about your friend over there. He’s made quite the puddle. Now, let’s talk Lan Chua. He’s your patron, so you’re loyal. You don’t wanna spit him into the dirt. I understand. But here’s what you have to know: Lan Chua is a dead man. There’s no place on Huryo safe for him. If we don’t get to him first, there’s a queue.”

  “How much is the bounty?”

  “Ah. Nice one. You wouldn’t be asking for a cut?”

  “If I said yes, you’d know I was lying.”

  “Or trying to buy time.”

  Hoshi mustered a smile.

  “That too. The truth is, we haven’t seen him since he smuggled us off Hokkaido.” She caught Muna’s concerned glare. “He gave us new ID and a local contact to settle us here. That was about twenty days ago. Last we heard, he was spending most of his time in Quanteel.”

  He nodded, as if contemplating her story. Had he concluded Hoshi was the steadiest of the threesome? That his likeliest path to success was negotiating with her? Hamilton Cortez, the Chancellor who agreed to allow these Green Sun agents to leave Scylla and join the fight back home, took her aside before she left and said she needed to hold the team together.

  “Mosh and Muna have their strengths,” he told her, “but Mosh is impulsive and Muna is too much the cynic. Be circumspect, Hoshi. Display a fair balance of courage and pragmatism, and you’ll keep your friends alive. Yes?”

  She needed those words. They provided comfort whenever she wavered. But this situation might require an untested set of skills.

  Alley man finished thinking over her story and sighed.

  “So, you’d be surprised if I said we had proof Lan was in Corvaal’s Bay taking an off-world delivery not a week ago.”

  That’s not good. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

  “That’s twenty kay from here. I told you all I know.”

  “Hmm. If that’s all you got, then you’re not much use anymore.” He turned to ginger. “Maybe this girl or the piss boy will talk if they see the brave one gutted.”

  Ginger didn’t say a word. He must have seen the movement a split second before Hoshi did. He turned his blade into a defensive posture, but he was too late.

  The hut’s door swung open. A dark figure filled the threshold. A simple snap of metal followed. A projectile cut a quiet but direct path to ginger’s chest. He offered a hoarse exhale and keeled over.

  Alley man swung around just as Lan Chua entered the hut and redirected his crossbow. He fired a bolt, which caught its target in the gut. Alley man unleashed a string of incoherent profanities.

  Hoshi grabbed ginger’s knife, and Muna jumped clear.

  Lan dropped a bag which had been slung over his shoulder and approached alley man.

  “Apologies for the close call,” he said. “I’ve had a busy night.” He knelt beside his second victim. “I could have made fast work of you, same as your compatriot. But I’d like a couple of answers before you bleed out. As way of introduction, I am known in some circles as Lan Chua.”

  “You … cud … nothing. You get nothing from me.”

  “I wasn’t expecting much, truth be told. Answer one question. Who is paying you?”

  Alley man bled through his crooked smile.

  “You … are … a dead man.”

  “Who is paying you?”

  Maybe he thought it was a nice way to go out, but alley man spit one word and died:

  “Everyone.”

  Lan sighed then stared at the young women.

  “Strangely enough, I think he might be right.” He noticed Mosh. “Wake him,” he told Muna. “It’s time for the three of you to leave.” He turned to Hoshi and displayed the crossbow. “It’s not as spectacular as a laser pistol or a blast rifle, but it does the job. The local fishermen swear by it.”

  “How did you know we were in danger?” She asked.

  “My contacts warned me a couple of mercs were in the area.” He reached into a pocket and revealed his hand-comm. “And I was listening.” He pointed to the hut’s back wall. “I planted an extra ear before you moved in.”

  “Then you heard what he said about Corvaal’s Bay?”

  “I did. A satellite sweep, most likely.”

  “Who? The KumTaan?”

  “Complicated history, I’m afraid. I suspect many in the Huryan government have been paid to look the other way in our case. They won’t allow extradition, but they’ll tolerate the KumTaan finding justice through other channels.”

  Muna woke Mosh, who complained of a sore jaw.

  “What happened? Who were those …?” He looked down at his puddle of urine in horror. “What did I do?”

  “Get yourself cleaned up,” Lan said. “We have little time.”

  Hoshi saw the picture coming together.

  “Does this mean Huryo isn’t safe for any Green Sun?”

  “It’s less safe, for certain, but what are the alternatives? We can’t send everyone back to Hokkaido. Just securing your passage out of Quanteel has been delicate enough. If we tried to evacuate to Hamilton’s new ship, too many hands might be tipped, and such an operation would take many days. No, our people on Huryo will have to be vigilant and disappear into the swamps and fog banks, so to speak. In the meantime, we need to remove these bodies. They’ll create a considerable aroma in a day or so. Best no attention be drawn to this hut.” He pointed to his bag. “I brought the necessary packaging.”

  “And then what?”

  “I secured a jump-craft. You start your journey to Quanteel tonight. It’s not a straight shot, but if you’re fortunate, you’ll be riding the system ferry in two days.”

  Hoshi picked up enough of his message to understand a hard truth: They might never reach Quanteel alive. More assholes like alley man and ginger might stand between them and Hokkaido.

  “What about the attacks in Pinchon? You said you’d have more information for us.”

  “It’s ugly. Worse than the wedding massacre in some respects. But as far as anyone knows, Ya-Li Taron still lives. I can’t make promises about what you’ll be walking into. Now, to these bodies.”

  They disposed of the corpses in the swamp a hundred meters beyond the village, working with a stealth first learned in missions for Green Sun. Lan didn’t expect trouble from the villagers if none among the native population went missing.

  They began a lengthy trek through backroads and across marsh platforms to reach their rendezvous point, five kilometers south of the village. They carried little beyond the clothes on their back, though Hoshi and Muna wielded the fishing knives that might have taken their lives. Lan provided Mosh with one of his own. Hoshi carried a bag with the last six fru’ho patties.

  As they neared the destination, Lan handed Hoshi an envelope.

  “Everything you’ll need. Credentials to move you from station to station. My man in Quanteel will have your InterPass docs.”

  Reality dawned. “Wait. You’re not going with us?”

  “No. My presence will compromise your chances. You three are a capable lot, and I’m sure you’ll keep these two in check. A contact will meet you at each stop. Look for a green putan. Plus, I have urgent business behind me. If your arrival was in fact detected in a satellite sweep, it’s possible the mercs are sniffing around for a much bigger prize. The prize.”

  He didn’t have to mention Ryllen Jee by name.

  17

  R YLLEN SAW NO END to the Scroll of Sins. He began the fourth day having recounted only his first five killings for Green Sun, yet so many bodies remained. It was a roadmap traced in blood, spanning two universes. He killed nineteen people before stumbling upon the Splinter. War against the Chancellor Swarm laid low thousands more. The Taron massacre seemed like a brief epilogue. The Scroll treated each murder like a trial unto itself, forcing Ryllen to shake his memory loose and delve into sensory minutiae long forgotten – even if unnoticed at the time of each killing.

  Motive. Preparation. Timing. Weapon. Victim profile. Method. Crime scene. Aftermath.

  The Scroll did not allow him to skip or shortchange any aspect. Lying was non-negotiable, though Ryllen tried to expedite his accounts with credible embellishments. Each time he did, his stomach twisted tighter, his head turned to stone, and his desire to satisfy the fat man on the stool intensified.

  “It’s the drug,” Sela said while he ate one evening. “I warned you not to fight. This practice goes back centuries. Only fools resist.”

  “I hurt everywhere,” he told her. “How does Scroll expect me to keep going like this?”

  “He doesn’t. You must answer every question honestly. A Scroll hears truth in your voice. He also hears fiction. He is never wrong.”

  “But it’s so hard, Sela. I spent five hours describing how I killed an immo in a sewer nine years ago. I never knew his name.”

  “I heard your confession. You are not surrendering to the past, like Scroll instructed you to do. Scrolls believe every instant of life is recorded. The drug frees you to find those recordings.”

  “Time travel would be easier.”

  He heard little sympathy in her tone, but Ryllen believed Sela wanted to help him to whatever extent possible. Surely, she recognized the savagery of this torture. Even a killer deserved better. Yes?

  “Remember the goal,” she said. “Annihilate then rehabilitate. Allow the Scroll and the pond to destroy you. Otherwise, you will never leave here. Have you finished your meal?”

  He licked the last of his drug-infused food.

  “Please don’t leave me, Sela. Each night is more painful. I’m having trouble sleeping.”

  “Those are signs of progress. Use your waking time to prepare your testimony for the next crimes. Come to terms with them before you face the Scroll. This is how criminals survive the pond.”

  She disappeared into the fading light.

  Ryllen did not want to follow her advice, but common sense told him otherwise. It was time to face Number Six, the last immo he killed for Green Sun before his life turned. Before Ronin Swallows. Before he lost Kai.

  First, the date. Scroll always demanded the date.

  It was 5364. The day was Meolin. Which one? Which one?

  Kai took us to KinDome the night before. We danced to the drifting opera. Twenty-five! That was the annual week when KinDome allowed public contestants.

  Date: Meolin 25, Standard Year 5364.

  We met other patriots for drinks afterward. There was talk of a new wave of immos being smuggled in. Collaborators in the elite families off-island. We even heard rumors of gangs being organized to fight us in the streets. New assignments were coming soon.

  He remembered waking to a stronger than usual sense of righteousness. Kai left early to meet with Lan Chua at the port. He’d return by mid-morning with their assignment. Ryllen wanted their flat to be spotless when he returned, so he set about cleaning.

  It was comforting. It felt like I was setting the world in order before the next kill. I was a professional. I had a duty to behave like one. For myself, for Kai, for Green Sun, for The Lagos. Kai always liked coming home to a clean flat.

  Kai returned by lunchtime. Ryllen made Kohlna rolls with sweet cabbage. After they finished, Kai mentioned the assignment.

  He was angry, and I think he was justified. One of the smuggling rings brought in whole families and spread them across Pinchon. Our targets were in Zozo. Kai was mad at these immo parents. How could they risk their children’s lives by bringing them to a place where they weren’t welcome? Didn’t the news make it to the continent that immos were being killed? Others disappeared? I felt his anger. It didn’t help our cause whenever we killed children, but what could we do? We were protecting The Lagos for the long term. Allowing children to escape was no different than giving the disease room to spread.

  They spent the afternoon comforting each other in bed before heading out to scout their targets. This part of each job was considered critical. Lan Chua insisted his agents set eyes on their targets before the hit. Collateral damage was not an acceptable option.

  We were assigned a father and son. They came from a village outside Puratoon. We knew it because Lan’s contacts captured a smuggler and flipped him to work double sides. There was a village called Noola where people worked the potato fields until the land was poisoned. They could have moved to the city to look for work. Instead, they turned their eye to Pinchon and paid up their savings. We saw them at a kiosk. They bought sandwiches and disappeared into an alley. You could always tell an immo in broad daylight because they never looked you in the eye, and they smelled of the sewer. Not as bad as this pond, but close.

  We pretended to be like them. We said we’d been in the city for about a month and were feeling our way around. We volunteered to show them the ropes. The father was cold to us. He seemed like one of those men who won’t take help from anyone, especially with his boy right there. He was selfish. He probably knew how much danger they were in, but he reckoned he’d be the one to survive and come out on top. Asshole.

  The boy was different. He was fifteen. He had brown eyes, a small nose, this huge dimple, and his hair was like a rat’s nest. But he listened to what we had to say. We were a few years older, so he trusted us. We spent about twenty minutes with them until the father grabbed his hand and took the boy away. We followed at a safe distance until we knew where we’d find them later.