“I can’t say I’m surprised we’re having this conversation, Sharkie. I’m just- ahhm!- surprised at when.”

“Sorry, man! I didn’t know it was your day off.”

“Oh, it’s fine. Business waits for no man.”

I’d slept for a solid sixteen hours before waking up early, surprisingly full of energy. Figuring I’d better get my firepower problem sorted quickly, I’d headed up to Tanje’s only to discover I was waking him up. He’d still been kind enough to let me in. In my defense, it wasn’t like he posted hours.

He yawned again, leaning against the wall in his stark-white showroom. He wore sweatpants and an oversize buttondown soft from wear, his dark hair pulled back into a messy bun. I’d gotten him out of bed so quickly he hadn’t even dressed up like usual.

He crossed his arms. “So. What happened to your SiKaHae, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well…” I stuck my hands in the pockets of my jacket. “It got slightly, ah, cut in half.”

“As I said, I’m not surprised.” He sighed, smiling slightly. “I hope you’re alright? You’d seem to retain both hands, so the power cell must not have decomposed too violently.”

I blinked. “No, I guess not. I didn’t know it could ’decompose violently.’”

“I believe it’s in the safety section of the operator’s manual, which you are, of course, required to read before use.” The smile widened. “If I recall correctly, it’s right next to the part where they tell you not to microwave it.”

“And corpos wonder why no one reads the warnings,” I muttered. “I’ll make sure I go through the literature like a Kestite priest this time. Do you have another one around, or do you have to order it in?”

He burst out laughing, then saw the look on my face. “Ah. You were serious. Do recall that for all the sophistication I may lend it, this isn’t the most legitimate of businesses- and even if it were, pickings are rather thin on the vine right now. All the factories are busy filling Admin contracts. SKH, Thayer, Amsidyne, Kayne Kinetics, BSO Hardrada…even KT Bureau.” He counted them out on his fingers.” I can’t even get spare parts, let alone guns.”

“Huh. The invisible hand of the market reaches forth once more.”

“To molest the hardworking small business owner, yes.”

I barked out a surprised laugh. “So what you’re saying is you can’t get me another coilgun.”

“Indeed.” He raised a finger. “Perhaps I could present a few alternatives?”

“Oh, by all means.”

He reached under the counter, pulled something out and set it in front of me. “Try that on for size.”

I gave him and the gun both a dubious look. “What is that?”

“I...Frankly, I’m not sure. There’s no markings.” He at least had the decency to look ashamed.

“Tanje, it’s a double-barreled shotgun with the stock sawn off.”

“To be fair, the barrels have been shortened too. You can tell by the rough cut-marks at the muzzle end, here…”

“Man, you really can tell. I wouldn’t have thought you could even hold a hacksaw when you were that drunk.” I shook my head. “Not to sound like a priss, but why are you even showing me this?”

He looked pained. “There is something to be said for the simple approach. To be honest, I never should have taken it on trade. I’m going to have a hard time getting rid of it, but I thought it might be…’up your alley,’ so to speak…”

“What am I supposed to do if there’s more than two people, Tanje? Or they’re wearing armor?”

“Both valid points. Valid indeed.” He sighed. “I’ll never be rid of this damned thing, will I? Now, if capacity is your great concern, I believe I have just the thing.” He put away the ridiculous little shotgun and rummaged around some more. “I just- rgh!- got this in last week.” From behind the counter he heaved up a monstrous weapon of gray-finished metal. It was longer than my leg, with a pistol grip and jacketed barrel. He set it down on its built-in bipod, then leaned back with his hands on his hips. “The Thayer MG6-SF general-purpose machine gun, chambered in .338 Rybinsk Magnum, fed by fifty or one-hundred-round belts. Recoil-operated with a cyclic rate of over a thousand rounds per minute.” He smiled at it like a proud parent. “Technology is always progressing, but you can’t beat the classics.”

To be honest, I was drooling too. The thing looked mean, and like Jet Colter once said- happiness is a warm belt-fed. “It’s nice, Tanje, real nice. Uh, can I hold it?”

He waved a languid hand, and I picked it up- it was even heavier than it looked, maybe thirty pounds. “How do I clear it?” He showed me how to get the top cover open and pull the bolt back, and I practiced shouldering it. “I love it, don’t get me wrong, but you gotta admit it’s not the most concealable thing in the world. And isn’t .338 Rybinsk some kind of big sniper rifle round?”

“Yes, technically, but there’s no reason not to use it in a machine gun. When you’ve got to shoot a lot of targets from very far away…”

“I’m usually not very far away, though.”

He deflated as I set the thing back on the counter. “So I surmised. I’m sorry to waste your time like this, it’s just, well…I haven’t got any handguns in right now, whether expensive or cheap.” Tanje leaned back again, thinking. “You could try Suvorov. I’ve sent people his way before when I couldn’t help them. Mother Bronze is supposed to be trustworthy as well, though I’ve not met her myself-“

I leaned forward. “You’re sure you’ve got nothing, Tanje? Absolutely nothing?”

“I’m afraid so. The recent unrest has seen demand rise and supply-“ His eyes lit up. “Wait. I’ve forgotten something.” He scampered off into the back rooms without another word. Who knew what I’d end up with now. He returned soon, setting a large case of gray-stained wood down on the counter. “Speaking of things being hard to get rid of, I’d forgotten about this entirely. It seems it was just waiting for the right customer.” He reached forward to press an almost-invisible latch and opened the box up.

“Holy shit,” I muttered. Within was a monstrous black revolver, almost comically oversized. It was slab-sided and blocky, the grips of finely-checkered black wood. The cylinder was long, the barrel at least nine inches. When I picked it up its weight was solid as a hammer. I lifted a catch by the rear sight and the gun broke open, revealing a seven-shot cylinder with broad, deep chambers. Whatever this thing fired, it was nasty. On top was an old-school holographic sight, hooded with metal and projected onto a lens of glass rather than empty air. “What is it, Tanje?”

“It is a Termoballistica Ultima 7 auto-cocking revolver chambered in .460 Sarissa- which you’ll note is usually fired out of Glassland hunting rifles.”

“So that’s why it’s so big.”

“It’s often carried by Praetor pilots, who tend to be either heavily enhanced or wearing soft exo-armor. The recoil would be too much for…almost anyone else.” He gave me a pointed smile.

“An Admin weapon, huh…” I snapped the gun closed and aimed down the sight. “So what else is so good about it?”

“You already saw the seven-shot capacity and top-break action- that makes for fast reloading. The hammer is recocked after every shot for a crisp, light pull, and the barrel is aligned with the bottom chamber for reduced muzzle flip. That button under your thumb allows you to select a specific chamber to fire. The switch inside the trigger guard, however, activates- well, see the blocky section along the top of the barrel?” He pointed.

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s an additional magnetic accelerator, ultracapacitor-powered, recharged by recoil. Only good for one shot at a time, but perfect for when you want to hit something very, very, very hard.”

I turned the weapon over in my hands. “….Okay, that’s pretty cool. What kind of ammo are we talking, though?”

“Oh, there’s plenty.” He opened the case all the way and pulled the liner out of the lid. Beneath were several boxes of ammo. “The standard round is a 260-grain jacketed hollow point with a hardened steel penetrator in the center. 2700 feet-per-second muzzle velocity. Good for soft or hard targets.”

I shook my head. “Kings, Tanje, you weren’t kidding about hunting rifles. Is that actually safe for a human to shoot out of a pistol?”

“A normal, unaugmented human? I wouldn’t recommend it. For you, though?” He grinned. “Probably.”

I rolled my eyes. “Alright, what else?”

He opened up several boxes, revealing an exotic array of magnum-caliber death. “You’ve got, hmm, conventional hollow points, full-caliber armor-piercing and armor-piercing incediary, sintered frangible, heavy hard cast, tungsten discarding-sabot- very zippy, those are- high-explosive squash head, and my personal favorite: the Hammer.” He passed me a fat, bottlenecked cartridge longer than my thumb. It looked like a pistol round in the same way a roided-up bodybuilder looked athletic. The projectile at the tip was a solid cylinder of blue-gray metal. “That’s a thousand-grain slug of depleted uranium. Were I you I’d only load one at a time.”

I waited for him to tell me he was joking. He didn’t. “Wow. Alright. I mean, it can’t be that bad, can it?”

“Shall we find out?”

About half an hour later, I left Tanje’s place still rubbing my wrist. It hadn’t been that bad, it had been worse. The gun was damn impressive, though, and its nearly five-pound weight now hung at my side. That would take some getting used to, just like the kick. I took the Bussomat back down to my building, reflecting as I watched a pair of drunks fight over a handheld virtuporn unit that I really ought to get a car already. A tiny cybird like a thumb-size ball of tinfoil peeped at me as it built a nest in the corner of the vehicle’s ceiling. Upon disembarking I bought a pizza from a street vendor with lengths of wire woven through his cheeks and took it up to my apartment. After I ate, I finally called up Walker and told him what I had in mind for my dad’s Pact Day gift.

“So, do you think you could help me out?” I finished.

“Oh, yeah,” he answered without hesitation. “I can make something happen. Maybe not ’til the day of, but we can do it.”

“Thanks, boss. Appreciate it.”

“No worries, Sharkie! You have a good one. Keep safe.”

“You too.” I hung up and lay back on my bed, smiling. Everything was coming together.

—

I was able to spend the next couple of days resting and recuperating. With my dad’s help I got some more furniture- including exercise equipment- into my apartment. It started to look like an actual home instead of a squatter’s lair. I got some more hand-to-hand practice in with Willy, though in deference to my leg injury it was lighter-duty training than last time. One afternoon I went over to Tanje’s and we caught the new Princess Deya animated holo-movie. It sucked, but in a good way. Pengyi and I texted every night, too, and we worked it out that the day after the holiday I’d go visit him in the park. It was a pleasant time, and would have been perfect were it not for one thing.

D-block was rife with gunfire. Oh, even at the best of times you’d hear five or ten shots an hour, more at night or if it was hot out. Now, though, I heard two or three full-scale gun battles a day. Not just pistols, either, but the sustained chugging of military machine guns and the echoing cracks of sniper rifles. Yera and her boys were taking their injunction to fuck shit up seriously.

On the morning of Pact Day I eagerly awaited the call. When my slab finally went off I answered it before the first ring stopped.

“Walker?”

“Yep. It’s all yours, hon. Hope ‘e likes it.”

“Thank you so much, man. Seriously.”

He snorted. “Don’t be too grateful. You still paid.”

I smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “Still, though. Thanks.”

“I aim to please. You have yourself a fine holiday, Sharkie.”

“You do the same, man.” I hung up and scrambled down the stairs two at a time, practically yanking the front door off its hinges in excitement. It was there, just like he said. It was all I could do not to pump a fist in the air. I hopped in and eased it over to Livery and my dad’s shop, driving like I was on eggshells. The twelve cylinder turbodiesel purred along smooth as nice clothes, barely clattering at all. I parked outside the shop and headed inside.

It was empty as you’d expect for a holiday, the quiet music echoing airily off the concrete walls. I hoped Sawada wasn’t in the middle of messing around with the codex. Yanking him away from it without blowing the surprise would be tough, especially today. Luckily, I found him at the back counter, helping a rather distraught young man with an air/water purifer unit. I lurked in a corner, watching my dad slot in various spare control boards until he found one that made the display light up. A quick bit of soldering later and the relieved customer was on his way. I sauntered over to the counter myself, surprising my dad.

“Ellery! Good to see you.” He smiled at me, but I could tell he was in the same prickly mood he always was on Pact day.

“Same, Dad. You busy right now?”

“No, of course not,” he said suspiciously. “What is it?”

I beckoned him around the counter. “Come out front for a second. I want to show you something.”

Right away, he knew something was up. “Oh, come on, El, you know I don’t-“

I smiled at him. “Seriously, come on. It’s too late to stop it. You might as well just come see.”

He sighed the sort of sigh you make when something you spent all day fixing falls off the workbench and shatters. “Alright, alright, fine. Let’s see it. But you better not have gotten me anything.” I just grinned wider, and he shook his head.

I led him through the cluttered shelves and out the front door. He got to the curb and froze. “Is- is that-“

“An MCC T-45 pickup truck. Second gen, 4x4 dually, extended cab, long bed, tow package, and the high-output twin-turbo V-12, all in Cayenne Red Metallic.” I rattled off the specs quick enough to make Tanje proud. “So what do you think?”

“Well- I mean, I like it, of course! Just like the one I used to have…” He was quiet, almost awed.

I put a hand on his shoulder. “You better like it. It’s yours.” With slow care, I pressed the keys into his hands.

He looked from them to me a couple times, nervously slicking a stray lock of hair back. “What do you- That’s not- Damn it, Sharkie, you know I don’t do this Pact Day stuff! You- you don’t need to get me anything.”

“You always got me stuff,” I shot back. “Books, Jet Colter holos, my very own Westling hammer…”

He stared wistfully at the T-45, a variety of emotions warring on his face. “But that’s different from a Kings-damn truck!”

“I promise you I can afford it, Dad. Don’t worry about that.”

“But- but where am I going to keep it?” He was grasping at straws, now,    looking for a way to convince himself not to take it. Stubborn old man.

“Put it in the pole barn out back. I know you don’t keep the kei truck in there.”

“It’s full of junk!”

I scoffed. “It is not full. I’ll help you clear it out right now, in fact.”

He was staring at the truck now, his face almost desperate. I could tell it was taking all his willpower not to get in and fire it up. “But what’ll I even do with it?”

I shrugged. “Pick up salvage with it? Hop it up and take it racing? Sit in the garage and stare lovingly at it while you drink a beer? I mean, if you really don’t want it it can go back to the crusher yard where I found it-“

“No!” he almost shouted. “No, I mean. That won’t be necessary, really. I…I can hang on to it for a little while. Won’t be a problem.”

Got him, I thought smugly. “I’m glad. So we taking it for a spin or what?”

“Eh? Yeah, yeah, I guess we better.” I got in and he hopped in the driver’s seat. With slow reverence, he put the key in the ignition and twisted. The big diesel growled to life immediately. My dad grinned despite himself, shaking his head slowly. “Runs better than my old one.” He put it into gear and eased out onto the street. We spent the next few minutes cruising around the neighborhood, listening to the turbos whistle. My dad flipped a switch on the dash without needing to look, and when he got off the fuel pedal a great staccato growl boomed out of the exhaust stacks. “Who’d ever think to put a compression brake on a light-duty truck,” he muttered happily. “So unnecessary. So fun…” I just grinned. He was loving it as much as I’d thought he would.    Unbidden he began to tell me about the first one of these trucks he’d owned, about winning it in a motocycle race from the local coca dealer and all the work he’d put into it getting it to run right. “Never quite got it a hundy percent sorted,” he said. “Always had a miss on number ten when it was cold. Sold the thing before I could really figure it out and put the money into buying the shop. Never regretted it, really, but-“

“But still. I think I get it.” I watched his face as he pulled us into the backyard behind his shop. For all he’d protested, he was beside himself with joy. I’d done right by him. As if to reinforce that fact, he turned to look at me after shutting the engine off.

“I…I don’t even know what to say, El. You didn’t need to do this. This is one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I grabbed his shoulder and gave him a little shake. “It’s the least I can do, Dad. This ought to cover at least a year or two of raising me.”

His eyes widened. “I didn’t do that because I thought I’d get something back, hon-“

“I’m joking, Dad! Come on,” I laughed. “Still though, I felt like I had to do something for you. You deserve it. And I remembered you talking about your old truck, so I made some calls and here we are.”

“‘Made some calls’…” He shook his head wryly. “Well, whatever silly reason you use…Thanks again, Ellery.”

“Love you, Dad.” I leaned in and hugged him tight.

“I love you too.” We pulled away and he ruffled up my hair like he used to when I was a kid.

“Quit it!” I laughed, mock-shoving him away. “Come on, I gotta go to dinner with Dezhda tonight!”

“Oh, that ought to be fun.”

“Yeah, I think so.” Talking about Dezi reminded me of something. “Oh yeah, Dad. One more thing. Uh, if you ever notice any weird cars lurking around the neighborhood, well…”

“You know, I have noticed that once or twice.”

“…it’s ‘cause I asked some of my friends to help keep an eye on the shop. More for me than for you!” I quickly protested as he narrowed his eyes. “It’s not like they’re hassling customers or anything, and it’s not like I think you can’t take care of yourself. It’s just, with this shit I’m involved with now…you can end up making enemies, you know. It’s just for my peace of mind.”

“Ellery…” He rubbed his temples and sighed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. And it’s not like I noticed them so far, I guess.”

“At least let ‘em stick around for the next few days while you think about it, Dad. I’m sure you’ve heard the shooting, lately. I’m not involved with that, not directly, but I can tell you it’ll keep up like that until the end of the week, at least.”

He met my eyes for a few moments, then slowly nodded. “Okay, El, okay. I’ll think about it. I know you’re just looking out for me.” He smiled. “’Sides, I wouldn’t want this thing getting ganked out from under my nose.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I gave him another brief hug. “You want to clear out this pole barn quick?”

“Sure, sure.” He hopped out and unlocked the sheet-metal buildings doors, and we spent a half-hour or so loading junky old spares onto pallets and moving them into some of my dad’s other sheds. Finally we had enough room to pull the new truck in. My dad took one last look at it before closing the doors and locking it in.

“Thanks for the help with that, El. I really got to get rid of some of this crap.”

“I wouldn’t. You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t a bit of a hoarder.”

“I am not!” he retorted all mock indignant. “What am I ever gonna do with…with a mismatched stock wheel off a Motegra GZ100?” He nudged the offending motorcyle wheel with his toe.

“You never know…you might need it some day…” I sing-songed. It was a refrain I’d heard from him a hundred times, the hoarder’s eternal excuse.

“Aw, shut it! Don’t you have a dinner to get to?”

I checked my slab. “Shit, I actually do have to get home and get ready. Thanks for hanging out, Dad.”

He grinned. “Hey, any time you want to give me a free car I’ll clear my schedule. I think that’s fair.”

“Don’t get too hopeful, Dad. Have a good one.” I started walking backwards towards the gate.

“You too, Ellery! Thanks again!”

“Sure! And have a happy Pact Day!” I burst out laughing and ran out of the yard, chased by his faux-irate shouts.

—

I took a deep breath and got ready to knock on Dezhda’s door. The address she’d given me led to a building partway up Alba’s heaping conglomeration of shanties and slums. I’d taken ladders, gantries, exposed catwalks, and an honest-to-goodness rope bridge to get to her third-story doorstep. I was pretty sure I was at the right door- it said “Kuznetsov” on it in carefully painted letters- but buildings were crammed so close together here that I couldn’t tell where the place actually began and ended. Finally I decided I’d just have to do it.

The door opened before I could rap on in twice, revealing a grinning Dezi. “Sharkie! You found it!”

“Your directions were good. Hey, am I dressed okay?” I’d worn jeans, my Wiken Tool jacket, and the least offensive band shirt I owned (with mere occult symbols on it rather than an actual human sacrifice or something).

“Oh, definitely! You’re fine!” She herself wore a soft-looking sweater above a dark skirt and stockings. “Come in, I’ll show you around.” She ushered me inside and locked the door behind us. “Um, this is the foyer, of course.” The space was cramped but homey, with walls of painted conplas and an incandescent light fixture giving it some warmth. I noticed several pairs of shoes lined up neatly by the door. “And that’s the workroom…” Dezi led me on a whirlwind tour of the premises. The home’s structure was mazelike, worming through the local collection of buildings, additions, and shanties on three different stories. The architecture was just as schizophrenic. In some places it was the brick and wood of ancient tenements, in others conplas or shellacked plywood or carefully-brazed sheet metal. The whole place was lived-in but clean, obviously cared for well despite its origins.

Eventually we made it back to the level I’d come in on, arriving at the doorway to a small, dim room with scavenged sound-deadening material lining the corrugated walls. “And here’s the inner sanctum, the holy of holies: the sim-racing room.” Dezi presented it with a proud sweep of her hand.

“Holy crap, this is a sweet setup…” A pair of heavy-duty homebuilt computer towers lurked in the corner, fans whirring. Tidily-routed cables connected them to a stout steel frame. Inside that was a chair- complete with steering wheel and pedals- mounted on a series of electric rams that shifted to simulate G-forces. A teenage boy sat in it, wearing a slim VR headset. A flat-panel mounted on one wall showed us what he was seeing: a first person view of an A-division Prix Noire car screaming around the St. Anthony Circuit in B-block.

“Lyosha!” scolded Dezi, hands on her hips. “It’s a holiday! Stop playing video games and spend time with your family!” It sounded like she was only half joking. Lyosha paused the race and took off his headset.

“Come on, Dezi, I spend time with the family every day! It’s not like I’m playing through dinner or anything.” He stood up and stretched, turning. “In fact, speaking of-“ His voice cut off when he saw me standing there. “Whoa. Is…is this your friend you were talking about?”

“Yup! Lyosha, this is Sharkie. Sharkie, this is my brother Lyosha. He’s fifteen, so please don’t blame me if he does something stupid.”

“Hey!” he snapped as we shook hands. “Uh, nice to meet you.”

“You too, man. Happy Pact Day.” The kid looked a lot like Dezi, I thought, pale and slightly freckled with brown hair. He wore a pair of half-rimmed glasses, though his eyes were hazel rather than green. “Did you put this rig together? It must have been a pain getting all the parts up here.”

“Oh, man, don’t even remind me,” he replied with an exaggerated eye-roll. “Yeah, me and Dezi built it. And Ved. Um, I don’t want to be rude or whatever, but…”

“Seven feet on the dot.” I said with a smile. “Seven-three in boots.” It was the one thing everyone wanted to ask when they met me.

“Whoa. Holy crap. Sorry our ceilings are so low, I guess.”

I waved that away. “All good. I’m used to it.”

“Well, still. Wow. And are your eyes bionic?”

“Just this one.” I tapped a fingernail on the SKH optic’s hard surface.

“How’d you lose it?”

“Lyosha!” Dezi snapped.

“Sorry. Uhhh…” He glanced back at the sim rig. I could tell he desperately wanted to finish the race.

“Like I said, it was nice to meet you, Lyosha. See you at dinner, then?”

“Yeah! Same! See you then.” With a final worried glance at Dezi- who’d watched the whole exchange like a terrifyingly cheery hawk- he scrambled back into the chair.

“Alright, and don’t be late for dinner,” Dezi warned him before turning to me. “Sorry about that. He’s-“

“A kid. It’s all good. I was a lot worse at his age. Still am, probably.”

She let out a relieved sigh. “Good. Thank you. Next is…next is Dyedushka, actually.” She led the way down the hall, up a couple of random steps, and into a cozy room with a biochemical space heater in the middle of the floor. Across from the door, a wizened old man sat in a rocking chair, muttering a martial-sounding song to himself in Sovish. His hands were gnarled, but their movements were dextrous as he sewed up a tear in a pair of pants.

“Sharkie, this is my grandfather. Happy Pact Day, Dyedushka,” Dezi said gently.

His head snapped up. “Eh? Pact Day? So it is, so it is…” His speech was clear, though he had a thick accent. “And who’s this strapping young man, Nadezhda? Finally you bring home someone worthwhile to meet me! Not like that ridiculous redhead…what was his name, again?”

I smiled, bemused, but Dezi looked mortified. “Dyedushka! Sharkie’s a girl! And you like Rhoann! I’ve watched you talk with him!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Come here and give me a hug.” She did, still looking embarrassed. “Yes, a strong young man indeed. When’s the wedding?”

“Dyedushka, please!” she protested. Meanwhile, the man himself looked over and winked at me, grinning. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. “At least introduce yourself properly,” she mock-scolded him as she pulled away.”

“Right, right. Felix Timofeyevich Kuznetsov.” He stuck out a knobbled hand and I took it.

“Sharkie Sawada. Thanks for having me.” His grip was shockingly firm for such an old man.

“Oh, it’s not a problem. We’re missing the other sister, of course, so there’s plenty of room.”

“Dyedushka…”

“Okay, okay, I’ll quiet down!” He harrumphed. “Let me get this done before we eat, would you?”

“Yes, we will,” Dezi told him as we left the room. “I’m sorry about him,” she whispered to me. “It’s like he stopped caring how he behaved as soon as he got older.”

“I think he’s funny, Dezi. And seriously, don’t worry about me getting offended. I’m just happy you thought I was worth inviting.”

“Well, of course you are! And since we had the room, this year, it was obvious.”

“Uh, about that,” I ventured. “What he mean about the other sister?”

She looked down, blinking. “My older sister, Ved, um…she’s not really talking to my parents right now, so she’s not coming. She joined the Guild last year, and she dances at this club up in Parkside. I went once or twice, and it’s really nice…but my parents still don’t like it. Especially not my mother. It always turns into a fight when she gets brought up, so...” She met my eyes with her green ones, pleading. “Could you not talk about it at dinner?”

“Of course, Dezi, anytime. In fact, thanks for letting me know so I don’t put my foot in my mouth.”

“No worries. And are you really that flexible?”

“Doubt it.”

She laughed. “Come on, let’s find my parents.”

We did a couple minutes later. They were cooking in the Kuznetsov’s big kitchen. Dezi’s father was a tall, blond man wearing a slightly rumpled suit, wire-frame glasses perched at the end of his long nose. He seemed very thin, almost as though he’d been sick, but the color in his cheeks seemed to say he was on the mend. Her mother, on the other hand, was short and broad-shouldered, with a round and pretty face. From the elbow down her arms were green-and-gold Gyeoksung composite. The cybernetics looked very new. “Oh, hello there!” she said, surprised. “Veliki koroli! Honey, she’s here!”

“Mm?” Dezhda’s father looked up from the stove where he was frying something up. “Ah, so you’re Dezhda’s friend! I’m her dad. Call me Leon. I’d come shake your hand, but I don’t want to burn this-“

“All good, uh, Leon. I’m Sharkie, Sharkie Sawada.” I waved while Dezi watched proudly.

“Nice to meet you, Sharkie.”

“Yes, nice to meet you!” broke in her mother. “I’m Varvara. Um, Dezhda’s mother, of course.”

“Good to meet you too.” I put out my hand and she carefully shook, her bionics smooth.

“Sorry if I squeezed too hard. I’m still getting used to these.”

“No, no, you’re fine.”

Varvara pretended to wipe her forehead. “Whew! It’s so nice to be able to feel with my hands again! My old ones, tch! Like big metal claws, no haptics at all!”

“Yeah, those do look new. And nice.”

“Oh, they are!” She wiggled her fingers rapidly. “This wonderful daughter of mine got them for me!”

Dezi gave an embarrassed smile. “Mom…”

“Oh, stop it. Of course I’m going to be grateful.” Varvara turned to me. “And I should thank you too, Sharkie.”

“W-why?”

“Because you helped Dezhda get her new job at this shipping company! She’s much happier than she was at her old work.” I glanced past her at Dezi, who was frantically shaking her head. I guess she was in the same situation I had been.

“Rrright, right. I kind of fell into it by luck myself, so I wanted to pay it forward, you know?” I rubbed the back of my neck, hoping the lie didn’t sound too awkward.

“Well, we’re glad you did,” called Leon from the stove. “Cooking you dinner’s the least we can do.”

“I-I appreciate it.”

“Do you want something to drink, Sharkie? A beer, maybe?” Dezi went over to a huge fridge that looked like it had come out of a restaurant. It must have taken a crane to get it up here.

“Yeah, sure.” She got a pair of Lekkerbraus out and passed me one. We leaned up against the counter and chit-chatted, with Dezi’s parents refusing to let us help. Lyosha and Felix eventually wandered in and were similarly rebuffed. Soon enough all the food was done and Dezi led me into the adjacent dining room. Her parents set the food out on the huge old table. There were local greens, arpaste loaf, borscht made from hydroponic beets, and the main course: real pork chops in a spicy-sweet sauce. Those couldn’t have been cheap.

We sat, and Dezi’s mom said a brief Dakessar grace over the food: “O Kings of Humankind, hear our thanks for your gifts of peace and bounty. Though gone beyond the veil, you guide us still.” Unsure what do do, I just sat quietly with my head bowed. My dad wasn’t religious and hadn’t raised me in it, so it was a little awkward. After that line, though, she grinned and said “Let’s eat!”

I’d skipped lunch, so I tore in with gusto. The food was incredible despite being relatively simple fare. It had that unique sort of heartiness only a home-cooked meal could produce. “This is amazing!” I told Dezi’s parents. “Thanks for having me, seriously.”

“Of course, of course!” Varvara replied, smiling. “We’re happy you could come! I just hope there’s enough protein for you. You must lift a lot of weights…”

I laughed. “Yeah, I guess I do. Don’t worry though, this is a lot better than what I usually-“ I stopped, hearing something. There was a faint noise from the street, like an engine ticking over at idle. Something’s not right…

A gunshot popped off right in front of the house. Everyone froze for a moment, and then I shouted “Down!” I dropped out of my chair and pulled Dezi to the ground with me just before a deafening fusillade of fire tore into the room. I heard chairs and bodies hitting the floor, desperately hoping it was because they’d listened to my warning. It was three or four light weapons firing long bursts of full auto, blowing out the windows, the bullets slapping through the thin walls and sending dust and debris sifting onto our heads.

After a few seconds it stopped. I considered standing up and returning fire while the assailants reloaded, but then there was more shooting from below. This came from a different spot, though, and didn’t seem to be directed at us. Probably the security team Dezi’d asked for, for all the good they’d done. Tires squealed and we heard the car roar away.

I was coughing on dust from the walls. “Is- is everyone alright?”

“I’m good,” said Dezi from beside me.

“Fine! I’m f-fine!” Lyosha stammered.

“Varvara?” called Leon. “Are you-!”

“Yes, yes, I’m good! Wait- they hit my arm here, but it’s just a graze. I’m fine. Papa? Papa, are you hurt?”

“They got me,” wheezed Dezi’s grandfather.

“Felix! Where are you hit?” Leon stood and rushed over to him.

“They got me- in the wrong leg!” He cackled, pulling up his cuff to reveal an old bionic- complete with a still-smoking bullet embedded in its metal casing.

Varvara was mortified. “Papa, don’t joke about such things!” He kept laughing.

Meanwhile, Dezi and I turned to each other, sick looks on our faces. I felt terrible and it looked like she did too. They had to have been after me. Only by sheer luck and the incompetence of our attackers had everyone escaped serious harm.

“What do we do now?” Dezha whispered.

A strange anger was filling me, not the white-hot rage of pain or combat but something liquid, heavy, deathly cold. “First we double-check everyone’s alright and clean the place up. Then we go downstairs and ask the security team what they saw.”

“And…and then?”

I looked right into her eyes and set my jaw. “And then somebody fucking pays.”