Chapter 4
Chapter Four
By the time Connor’s clothes came back from the cleaner, the hotel was busy. Maybe people were wrapping a long shift at a crude job somewhere, although he couldn’t imagine what sort of work was available down in Winter. The bass thump of dance music almost drowned out the whispers and completely different rhythm of customers and streetwalkers that leaked through the walls and floor.
Connor had heard it all before. He popped the jacket collar, turned to where Toshiko leaned against the wall, and struck a pose like he imagined an old entertainment star might. Not only did his outfit smell cleaner than he could remember, but some of the stains on his jacket that managed to mar the black material had been removed. “What do you think?”
A reluctant smile spread across her face. “It’s all right. The other outfit was fine.”
“Other—? Oh.”
She turned away. “Joking. I was joking.”
Heat flooded Connor’s chest and face. She wasn’t joking. “Toshiko—”
“Don’t.” She tapped her jacket where the rolled-up plastic video sheet was hidden. “Do you want to do this or not?”
He’d been honest from the start: Those jobs were important. But he hated the thought that she was still angry and hurting after all these years.
He sat back on the bed and patted the spot next to him. “Can we talk?”
She groaned. “No. In case you forgot, you’ve got assassins on your tail.”
“A few minutes isn’t going to change that.”
“Connor, these people are trying to kill you. Like, dead?”
“I understand that. I also see that I’ve done you wrong.”
“It’s been a decade. I think that’s a little late for an apology.”
“It’s never too late to say I’m sorry.”
“Fine. Say it. Then we connect you with these potential customers.”
Connor patted the bed again. “Talk to me.”
“You’re so stubborn.” She plopped down beside him. “What?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what do I have to say?”
“Well, how about you explain why you’re still mad all these years on? When I told you I was going off to join Wentz’s movement, you told me you were fine with that.”
Her eyes narrowed when she turned on him. “You thought I was serious?”
“Why wouldn’t you be? You kept telling me I was just a fling.”
“No.” She held a hand up, palm toward him. “You don’t get to turn this into a me problem. You left because you got turned on by some crazy philosopher-king.”
Connor palmed his face. “Zacharias Wentz was a good guy.”
“All revolutionaries are good, right? Fight the evil empire or whatever. Make life better for everyone. Except they all eventually become what they fought against. You know that.”
“No. Not him. The Nyango Revolt was about basic human rights. It—”
Toshiko pressed a finger to his lips. “You told me to talk. That means you listen, okay?”
“Okay.” Connor clenched his jaw. She had this all wrong, but he owed her a chance to vent.
“Whatever you did, whatever happened on Nyango, it didn’t change a thing. The Directorate still runs everything. Most of us still live like animals. And I heard a rumor when the final stronghold fell that all the rebels were killed. Do you know what that did to me? I was ready to wait if you were arrested and sent to a reeducation camp for a few years. But dead?”
Tears welled up in her beautiful eyes.
He brushed the hot drops away with his thumbs. “I’m sorry.”
She punched his shoulder—hard. “Yeah? Then why didn’t you ever call me? Why didn’t you tell me you’d survived?”
“Because—”
A soft creak came from the door to the hallway, as if someone were leaning against the fake wood. It was the sound a spy or assassin might make just before launching an attack.
Connor put a finger to his lips and shook his head, then pulled Toshiko to the wall next to the dresser and edged closer to the door.
That same soft creak came again, and the metal door handle lowered slightly.
Someone was definitely out there.
Stories about the Nyango Revolt and Zacharias Wentz and his struggle for basic human decency in the face of mass automation—a fight against the obsolescence of the species—would have to come at a later time.
Toshiko had the scroll of plastic laid out on the dresser and was navigating through the interface. Even though she hated Connor, she was living up to her end of the bargain.
Something clicked: the door lock!
And then the handle dropped, and two people in black burst in, rail gun pistols pointed at the bed.
In an instant, Connor had the sense of the two of them: The closer one was a slender, pale-skinned black man with hawk-like features and a squat, muscular Pacific Islander woman whose black hair was shaved into a mohawk with pink highlights.
Splinters. At least Umbra hadn’t sent the big guns yet.
Connor raised his right foot and kicked the man in the chest as he turned, driving him into his partner.
The two of them banged against the door before dropping in a tangle of thrashing limbs.
There was no letting them up, no letting them draw a bead with their pistols. That would be suicide.
So Connor stomped on their gloved hands, snapping bones. Then he kicked them in the head, silencing their gasps.
Toshiko shoved him in the back. “There’re more downstairs.”
“I know.” He dragged the unconscious assassins in and closed the door.
“Well, that means you can’t get away. You understand?”
“Yes. Did you make the connections for me?”
“Check your pocket computer.”
“Thanks.”
He crossed to the window that looked out onto the front and pulled the curtain back just enough to see the street outside. One agent stood there, watching the entry. There would be another at the back, making sure that if their quarry somehow managed to slip past the assassins coming up to finish the job, that there would be no escape.
That meant there was only one thing to do.
Connor pulled the rail gun pistol Toshiko had given him.