Halo is tired. Halo is wounded. Halo is not dead.
Around eleven, I leave Darlene in charge and head out for a supply run because the delivery company has once again decided that “guaranteed morning arrival” means “perhaps the goods exist somewhere in the universe.” The coastal air hits me damp and cool, carrying the briny slap of the harbor beneath the sharper stink of overheated engine coils from the mechanic shop next door. I pull my jacket tighter, tuck my credit pouch beneath my shirt, and step into the foot traffic.
“Don’t get mugged,” Darlene calls from the doorway.
“Thank you for the blessing.”
“I mean it. If you die, I’m not running this place.”
“That’s because you love me.”
“That’s because paperwork gives me hives.”
I wave over my shoulder and keep walking.
Halo at midday is louder than dawn but not brighter. Vendors shout over one another from narrow storefronts. A mechanic argues with a delivery driver beside a skiff balanced crookedly on repulsor jacks. Two teenagers in Poison Memories colors swagger past an old man selling bootleg holodramas, and everyone nearby becomes very interested in looking elsewhere. Their jackets carry the gang’s symbol in purple and black, an ugly stylized bloom curling around a skull. One of them catches me staring and grins like he hopes I will flinch.
I do not flinch. I also do not keep staring because I am stubborn, not suicidal.
The grocer is six blocks over, wedged between a pawn shop and a clinic that advertises discount cybernetic maintenance in three languages. I buy flour, yeast, bitter cocoa, and a crate of ugly citrus that will make excellent tarts if I cut away the bruised spots and lie to myself about market standards. The owner, Mrs. Pell, gives me the invoice with a sympathetic wince.
“Prices went up again,” she says.
“Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they? Joy is illegal now.”
“I knocked off what I could.”
“I appreciate it.” I scan the total and feel my stomach sink anyway. “Do you accept payment in charming smiles and emotional damage?”
“For you, sweetheart, I accept thirty percent now and the rest by Monday.”
“You are a goddess among grocers.”
“I am a businesswoman with cataracts and a soft spot for your grandmother’s memory.” Mrs. Pell bags the cocoa herself, then lowers her voice. “You be careful going back. Memories have been thick around Rusk Street.”
“I’ll take Mercy.”
“Mercy floods when somebody spits too hard.”
“Then I’ll swim heroically.”
She gives me a look over her glasses. “Evie.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Being cute about danger does not make it less dangerous.”
“No, but it does make me more fun at parties.”
She shakes her head, but she adds two extra citrus fruits to the crate.
I balance the smaller bags in my arms and have the crate hovering behind me on a rented cargo disk that whines like it resents employment. The route back takes me past the oldtransit shelter near Rusk, where the street widens into a cracked plaza ringed by shuttered shops. Rain begins again in a fine mist, soft enough to bead on my eyelashes but cold enough to creep beneath my collar. People move quickly through it with hunched shoulders.
That is when I see him.
The Vakutan stands near the mouth of an alley beside the defunct laundromat, half in shadow beneath a patched hooded jacket that would be enormous on any human and still looks strained across his shoulders. He is massive in a way that makes the street rearrange itself around him. Seven feet at least, maybe more. Broad enough that two men would have to cooperate to equal the width of him, and even then they would lack the sheer dense power in his frame. The rain darkens the fabric over his head and runs in silver trails down the charcoal scales visible at his jaw and throat.
Everyone notices him. Everyone pretends not to.
