Sherry flicked sand from her nails—green, this month. Some vacation, with her watching Polly solo and… Sherry paused, frowned. Come to think of it, where was Polly? She pushed to a sit, then struggled to her feet. Hummocks of sand tilted and slewed under her feet and made her wobble like a drunk. Sherry shaded her eyes and peered left down the strip of white beach. The sand was so hot the far horizon shimmered like a mirage. There was a forest of gaily colored umbrellas and oiled bodies strewn at haphazard angles on towels, but no Polly. To the right, there were more umbrellas, a volleyball net, the lifeguard’s high wooden platform, and a bank of portable toilets snugged beneath the underbelly of a boardwalk. Then, straight ahead, she spotted a blue polka-dotted bum and two dimpled legs standing at the water’s edge.

“Polly!” But Polly didn’t turn; probably couldn’t hear her over the noise of the sea. Exasperated, Sherry picked her way around bodies that reeked of suntan oil and sweat. “Polly?”

This time, Polly turned. Her sunglasses slid to the nub of her nose. They were child’s sunglasses, the kind with mermaids at the corners and tangles of colored plastic seaweed along the brows. “Look, Mommy!” Polly jabbed a chubby finger up at the sky. “Stars!”

“The sun’s out,” said Sherry, crossly. “When I call, I expect you to snap to. Come on.” She clamped a hand around Polly’s left wrist. “We’ll play…”

“Nooooo!” Polly went rubber-chicken limp, slewing sideways as dead weight. A neat kid’s trick that made Sherry stagger. “Lookit the stars, lookit the stars!”

Now, other bathers at the water’s edge were turning to gawk. Mortified, Sherry hauled back on her sagging daughter. Snapshot: mother with screaming child. If there hadn’t been so many people around, Sherry would probably have let go. “All right, all right! If I look at the stars, will you come along?”

The transformation was immediate. Polly beamed and scrambled to her feet. “There!” she cried, pointing at a spot behind Sherry’s shoulder and high to the right.

Sighing, Sherry turned, shaded her eyes, and looked. Seawater foamed around her ankles. The things you do for kids… Then, she stopped thinking, felt her stomach get cold, the warmth drain out of her toes and soak into the sand.

“Pretty!” Squealing, Polly clapped in excitement as the shooting stars screamed toward the sea. “Pretty!”

“Oh, God.” That was all Sherry said, and then the roar of the fighters’ sonic boom rolled like thunder, and with so much force that Sherry felt the impact in her chest.

And then, the stars opened fire.

19

Two Forks, Junction

Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine

Evening, 10 May 3135

The café was named Cuppa Joe, and McCain smelled the place a block before he saw it: an aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with spicy cinnamon. He sucked in a lungful, grateful at the prospect of a really good cup of coffee and the freedom to walk without keepers trailing a discreet distance behind. The café was located in a cobblestone walking district that ran for seven blocks north and south, and four blocks east and west. Pedestrians and vendors only: no hovercraft, not even a bicycle. The evening was cool enough to be just the other side of brisk; the streets were jammed with people loitering before shop windows or wandering aimlessly; street performers strummed guitars or did magic tricks; clots of tables set in outdoor patios were filled with couples eating, talking, drinking.

Cuppa Joe’s red-brick exterior was the last of a string of storefronts on that particular block, and packed, natch. But then he spied an empty table set back along the wall and at the corner: dark green lacquer with spindle legs and two black wrought-iron chairs. Sauntering over, his eyes flicked to a soft pack propped against the bricks: Lucky. When he looked, he saw eight smokes left, filter-tipped.

Luck be a lady. As McCain slipped the pack into the front pocket of his leather jacket, he felt eyes on his back and, turning, he met the frankly curious inspection of a young couple the next table over. McCain gave a sheepish smile, shrugged. “Trying to quit, but you know…” Trailing off, he shrugged again to put a period on it.

“Mmmm.” The woman, a nondescript brunette with hair down to her waist and hoop earrings trimmed with beads, eyed him, then turned her attention back to her date.

The coffee was black and tall, and just as good as he remembered; strong and laced with chicory. He sipped, scalded his mouth, put the cup—one of those heavy white ceramic jobs—aside to cool.

It had been touch and go for a while, but Akata, the kid he’d been commandeered to treat, pulled through. Somewhere along the way, Muscle, aka Tony Ito, decided McCain was on the up and up because he’d made a proposal: work for them. That the “them” was the yakuza clan Ryuu-gumi, Family of the Dragon, was precisely the break McCain and Drexel had been hoping for. But McCain played his part, feigning reluctance until Ito pointed out that the hospital would be unlikely to rehire a recovering drunk who’d disappeared for almost five months.

“Okay, you got me there,” McCain had said. It had been evening, and Ito had invited him to share a pot of green tea—an offer McCain wanted to but could not refuse. During the preceding months he’d had enough green tea to float a battleship. The sacrifices one made for duty… “But I’m not exactly sure that working for a drug cartel is a step up.”

Ito, indignant. “Sure, yeah, I’m Waka-gashira, but no way I’m gonna be Number Two running drugs. Man, you been reading too many novels, you know. Not every yakuza’s Kabuki-mono.”

“I didn’t say you were crazy.” McCain had held up his hands, palm out. “But I’m crawling out from under here. I need to stay squeaky clean.”

“Yeah?” Screwing a cigarette into the corner of his mouth, Ito’d scratched a match to life, sucked in. “How fast you think you gonna get hired back when you don’t show for work for four, five months, huh?” said Ito, his voice strangled around a lungful of smoke. “Man, they gonna think you were off on some bender.” Twin gray streamers flowed from his nose. “You never gonna work there again.”

“But there are other hospitals, other planets.”

“Yeah, sure.” Ito let out a horsey snort. His eyes slitted against smoke, and when he spoke, his cigarette marked time. “When they ask you for references, what you gonna say? Look, this is a good gig. Good money, good life, no malpractice.”

Then it had been McCain’s turn to smirk. “Except I say no, next thing I know I’m sleeping with fishes.”

McCain remembered the brief flare of violence in Ito’s dark eyes, there and gone quick as a flash of lightning, and for an instant McCain thought he’d gone too far. But then Ito relaxed, laughed, settled back into his shell of smoke. “Man, don’t say no until I take you to meet someone.”

Only it hadn’t been just someone, but Matsuro Kamikuro. In. The. Flesh.

Just what the doctor ordered. Cupping his coffee mug in his hands, McCain allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction. Yes, now he had an in with the Ryuu-gumi’s elderly oyabun, but he couldn’t make the next move without Viki Drexel, and what the devil was keeping her? McCain let his gaze wander aimlessly right, and then left, his eyes flitting from one anonymous face to the next. The pack’s here; that’s the signal, eight cigs for eight o’clock and it’s quarter past now, so where…?

Then he saw something very familiar: a wheeled cart rounding the far corner. McCain’s chest spiked with hope. The tamago lady’s cart, heading his way; had to be, so maybe Viki was sending word through their cutout. Christ, this espionage stuff was for the birds, all the hoops… Impatient now, McCain watched the cart’s slow progress up the block. Twilight had given way to true night, and so he couldn’t quite make out the color of the awning or the woman’s face, but he thought the cart was right, except he wouldn’t know for sure until the cart got closer.