* * *
The instructions came in: midnight, at the intersection of two streets, on the legal side of the stormwall. Phaira kept to the alleyways until she reached the border. She could smell the sea, and something rotten.
A flicker of movement up ahead. A rope ladder was thrown over the stormwall, slapping against the ground. Lander was already climbing, gesturing for Phaira to follow.
On the other side of the wall, a girl in black helped Lander to the ground. Phaira ignored her outstretched hand, jumping to the ground, immediately rattled by the soft, wet ground under her boots. She stared at the coastline, the old world before the Impact. On this side of the wall, the only light came from the two tiny moons above, highlighting the wreckage: the looming shadows of foundations and poles, disintegrating rovers, and the boggy stink of swamp overpowering. The Mac was one of the worst Impact sites, Phaira remembered.
She held her breath and followed Lander through the muddy path, through a rusty doorway of a crumbling apartment building, and up three rotting flights of stairs.
On the third floor, twenty-odd men and women wandered the halls. Some lay on the floor talking, the light from candles on the floor outlining their bodies. Some hooked up makeshift workstations as they argued. Lander was drawn into a discussion about linguistics when Phaira gestured with a jerk of her head for him to step away.
As they moved to a quieter spot, he studied her face. She did the same, cataloguing all his identifying characteristics: faint scar through eyebrow, pierced ear, triangle freckle pattern on his cheek.
“I ran general searches on our members,” Lander whispered. “Everyone has some kind of record, but not for violent crimes.”
“That’s a start.” Phaira said quietly. “I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
As she walked the floor, her dress felt incredibly tight and revealing, or as revealing as it could be with its high-neck, long sleeves and skirt with blood-red lining at the hem. It was one of the random items that Cohen packed when her brothers came looking for her. Since they reunited, Phaira often wondered if her little brother was drunk when he went into her closet, so random were the gatherings. She hadn’t worn this particular dress in years. But she did fit in, visually, at least. And for once, her dark-lined eyes and mouth were almost boring, compared to the visual drama all around. She focused on taking in the hushed whispers, the high-pitched giggles, waiting for a way in….
“…. shouldn’t gather like this anymore.” To her right, a black man with a shaved head hissed at a white man with stringy hair. Phaira leaned against the peeling wallpaper, listening. “…. just setting us up to be killed - what are they thinking?”
“You came out,” the stringy-haired man pointed out.
“Because I’m afraid,” the shaved man said. “Better to be together than alone. Some operative is just waiting to hunt us down. It’s a government crackdown, I tell you.”
“Come on,” the other man scoffed. “You’re making us out to be too important here.”
“Oh really? Did you know I got a message asking about a job, but I couldn’t trace the cc? You know how weird that is? Not a trace - just one name.”
“What’s the name?” Phaira broke in.
Both the men jumped
Phaira thought quickly. “I got a request too,” she added. “About work. Just before coming here.”
“Really?” the shaved man asked eagerly. “Did you recognize the handle? I’d never heard the name before.”
“Oh, I know everyone in the system,” the stringy-haired man boasted, his eyes darting over to Phaira. “You’re just paranoid because of what happened to those other two.”
“And you’re not?” the shaved man snapped. “I got the request the same day they were killed! So who is to say that it’s not a trap? Some plan to lure me in to be murdered like them? Or kidnapped like Emiyo!”
“I wonder if we got a message from the same handle,” Phaira interrupted. “What was yours under?”
The shaved man glowered. “Saka. Yours?”
“Saka,” the stringy-haired man repeated. “I don’t know anyone by - ”
“Big surprise,” the shaved man said. “You - ”
A shaft of light streaked down the hall. The two men shielded her eyes. Phaira didn’t need to see what it was; she pulled the hood over her head instead.
“Clear it out of here!” someone bellowed. “You’re under arrest for trespassing and public disturbance!”
The Hitodama protested in union, swarming into the light. As they swept past her, Phaira searched for an alternate exit. In a shadowy corner, behind a disintegrating chair, three Hitodama girls waved at her to join them. One by one, they slipped into a hole hidden under a flap of torn wallpaper.
Phaira glanced back; the outcry grew louder. A fight was about to break out. Phaira darted over and slipped through the opening, pulling the greasy wallpaper behind her.
The tinny sound of their bodies on metal made it hard to hear anything. The three Hitodama crawled down the airshaft; Phaira followed. Together they moved along the corroded vent, turning down one corner, and then another, finally coming to a metal grate. The leader, the one with short black hair, fiddled with the screws.
Finally the grate came off with a loud bang. The Hitodama crawled through, stepping down into what used to be a storeroom. Through the walls, Phaira could hear the officers yelling, the sound of glass breaking. Reluctantly, she joined the others crouched in a cleared space, shielded by rusty metal crates and old lighting strips.
Together they waited. Phaira’s skin prickled with fatigue and heat. She kept her eyes low and her face hidden.
“Tell your fortune?” said someone to her right.
At Phaira’s sour look, the girl smiled. Waves of incense came off her, mixed with the musty smell from the vent. Phaira leaned away, irritated.
Suddenly the girl grabbed Phaira’s hand, turning her palm upwards and pressing her nose to her palm. Phaira battled her instinct to punch her.
“I see,” the girl began, her voice an octave lower. “You are searching for something.”
Phaira’s throat closed up.
Grinning, the girl released Phaira’s hand. “I’m just teasing. You’re Lander’s hire, right? I thought we should meet.”
Phaira glared at the girl. The other two Hitodama exchanged glances.
The girl raised her hands in defense. “I’m Anandi.” One of her thick black eyebrows rose. “Know the name?”
“Should I?” Phaira said cautiously, taking another look at the girl. She was maybe twenty, petite and boyish, with short black hair, golden brown skin and mismatched features: round nose, thin lips, weak chin. But she radiated energy. Or perhaps it was just the glow of her deep orange embroidered dress, peeking through her black cloak.
“Well, at the very least, you know my father.” Anandi said. “Emiyo?”
Her father? Phaira turned to face the girl and chose her next words carefully. “Do you know what happened? Do you know someone named Saka? Is that a Hitodama?”
“I read the reports,” Anandi said. “And no, I don’t know the name. But it’s more complicated than that. My father isn’t really a true member.”
At Phaira’s puzzled face, Anandi sighed, her exhale a musical hum. She looked at the two Hitodama watching. “Sorry,” she told them. “I’m not a fan. Neither is my father. We’re just pretending.”
“I wondered,” Phaira said dryly. “I can see some color on you.”
“Oh that,” Anandi said, picking at the colorful cloth of her dress. “I’m not much into black. But I do like secrets, and the Hitodama has some good ones.”
This girl was unreal. Phaira couldn’t help but ask questions. “So you’re just around them for fun? This group doesn’t seem very entertaining.” She ignored the scowls of the two Hitodama.
“We were getting ready to take our leave,” Anandi said. “Then my father disappeared. So my plans changed. Did Lander mention his medical c
ondition?”
“No specifics. Just that it was time-sensitive.”
“It is.” But the girl offered nothing more.
They listened to the activity outside. Shouts descended into tired conversation. Tables were being moved back into place. It would be clear soon.
Something slipped into Phaira’s hand: paper, with a series of numbers and letters scribbled on it. Her cc, Phaira realized.
“Call me if I can help,” Anandi said quietly. “My father’s real name is Emir Ajyo, and he’s worth saving, I promise.” The girl touched the ends of Phaira’s hair. “I like the blue. Suits you.”
Then she darted around the boxes, unlocked the door and ran. The two Hitodama followed.
But Phaira didn’t move from her hidden position, studying the paper for a long while.
IV.
When she finally got back to the parking hanger, inside the Volante, and secure in her cabin, Phaira peeled off her damp, stinking dress and kicked it into the corner. She slipped into a loose white shirt and shorts, then rubbed her hair with a towel to get the salt out. Sitting on the bed with a thunk, Phaira opened up an audio-only channel on her Lissome, and punched in the cc for Lander. “You get out okay?” she asked when the connection formed.
“Barely,” Lander’s voice was exhausted and sour. “We lost four members to the patrol.”
“Well, there’s one bit of good news. I have a name. So hack into the victims’ workstations and see if you can find anything from someone called Saka.”
A snort of derision rippled through the Lissome. “I will not. Hitodama never invade a colleague’s realm.”
“Their privacy is no longer relevant,” Phaira said pointedly. “If it was, you wouldn’t have hired me.”
“These two were brilliant at their work,” Lander argued. “To try and recover any information - you can’t even imagine - ”
“Then figure out something. I do nothing until you do.”
Phaira disconnected. Then she padded out of the room in search of her brothers.
She found Renzo in the cockpit, half-hidden under the console as he wrestled with wiring.
“What’s wrong?” he mumbled from underneath.
“Nothing,” Phaira said, leaning against the doorframe. “I just hope I’m asking the right questions to find this Emir Ajyo person. When I was in service, I got the information upfront in a neat package.”
“If you’re so uncertain, why did you solicit the work?”
Phaira ignored him. “I see two solid options here,” she thought out loud. “One, the killer’s a former member of the group who’s holding a grudge. Second, the Hitodama got into some highly classified material and this is a cover-up. Still seems strange, though.”
“Who’s to say, Phaira? They probably have a million enemies. These people are criminals: they deface property, manipulate communication servers.” Renzo’s hand waved, listing each offense.
“Oh, you get that with any kind of youth group,” Phaira scoffed. “That’s nothing. I used to deface property when I was a kid.”
“Yeah, and look how you turned out.”
“A joke!” Phaira exclaimed. “A real joke! I can’t believe it!”
A red light flashed on the console. Renzo’s hand slid out from underneath and tapped the surface. “All yours.”
He was right; it was Lander. “I did it,” he burst out, when the connection was made. “I found the mail, buried in a hard drive, received thirty-four minutes before the killing. It’s this Saka person, isn’t it?”
“Possibly. If you knew where he was, I could ask him. Or her.”
“I do,” Lander said with a smug tone. “I tracked her to the south side of the Mac. You could recover Emiyo tonight.”
Before Phaira, the console flickered to life: the symmetrical grid of the city, the outskirts of the Mac, with a single red dot, blinking like a warning.
“Any indication that Emiyo is actually there, too?” Phaira asked, studying the map.
“No. But this is enough information, right? You’ll avenge their deaths?”
Phaira felt Renzo’s eyes on her. “Find and retrieve is all we agreed to,” she told Lander.
“But they - ”
“I’ll be in contact.”
Phaira broke the connection. The word floated through her mind. Avenge.
“Avenge?” Renzo rolled out from underneath the console.
“You know that’s not what I agreed to,” Phaira said. “You heard me. Find and retrieve. That’s it.”
But Renzo’s eyes remained wary.
Phaira raised her shoulders. “That’s it, Ren,” she repeated.
Renzo hoisted himself up, hopping onto his good leg as he steadied his balance. Then he turned away from her and limped over to the other side of the cockpit.