ONE
Akoma Addo watched as light from a low-hanging lamp streamed through the hole in the palm of her right hand. She flexed her wrist, staring at the shadow she had cast on the ceramic cup of abenkwan soup still steaming on the table. With her thumb, she traced the shiny rope of scar tissue that circled the nickel-size gap. At the pressure, it burned as though set on fire, and she flinched.
This had happened before. In recent days, her scar flared with heat from the slightest touch. Akoma willed the pain away and then, gingerly, tugged on her father’s gloves. The soft black leather welcomed her fingers, and for a second, she could almost feel the warmth of his calloused hand holding hers. A lump formed in her throat. But in that same moment, laughter swelled about Akoma, and the singsong rhythm of voices speaking Twi at Bokko’s Bistro broke the spell of her thoughts. She glanced at her watch. It was six forty-five. She had fifteen minutes left to complete her inspection.
Akoma surveyed the room. Her eyes settled on three women seated nearby. Their table was laid with plates of fried tilapia floating in a red stew, plantains, and goblets of palm wine. They put an eclectic blend of West African styles on display: bold print patterns with embroidered lace details. One of the women turned her delicately boned face toward her companion while adjusting her scarf—a swath of blue silk that covered her hair and fell in waves down her neck; her skin deep brown, like Akoma’s.
Smiling, Akoma lifted her cup and blew on its steamy surface. She noted the group’s easy banter, the ways they seemed to enjoy one another: leaning forward in laughter, raising glasses in a toast, tapping their sandaled feet in rhythm to the highlife music pumping through hidden speakers.
Vibrance, vitality, fun, Akoma told herself. All believable.
She sipped her soup, staring at the other patrons. A man dining alone watched her with curious eyes. She stared back until he murmured something and looked down at his meal. A sudden raucous cheer shifted her attention to the far end of the room. A huddle of sports fans watched a game on a holoscreen above the bar. A player had scored. The group slapped one another on the shoulders and punched the air, hooting and hollering.
All in all, what Akoma saw satisfied her.
She was ready to declare the scene all set when she glimpsed motion from the corner of her eye. She turned. A server stumbled between tables, eyes locked on a distant point, an empty plate balanced in his hand. Akoma tightened her grip on her cup in dread. This can’t be happening, she thought as the man’s body flickered between solid and shadow. With a lurch, he came to a stop. Confusion creased his features. He tried several times to move again but remained rooted in place as if his shoes were glued to the ground.
Akoma swore beneath her breath. That server’s glitch threatened to ruin a week’s worth of planning. She pushed back from the table and was halfway to her feet when a familiar voice spoke in her mind.
My bad! I’ll handle it.
She glanced around and spotted a figure across the room. A brown-skinned young man sat spinning a fork on his table—her partner, Darian Holt. He smiled at her from his window-side booth. Akoma looked past him at the town square outside and, far beyond it, a densely wooded national park: pine trees, tall and imposing, loomed up against the fog-streaked, navy-blue sky.
What happened? Akoma thought the words into Darian’s mind and sat back down.
Darian shrugged, brown locs falling over his round eyes. Sometimes the toys misbehave.
I still think it’s weird when you call them that, Akoma said. Darian quirked his lips into a mischievous smile, making the ever-present lollipop twitch in the corner of his mouth. Akoma frowned. Can you fix it?
Not enough time, he said. Better to remove this one from the scene.
Akoma nodded. Darian slid out of the booth, singing painfully off-key and rocking his broad shoulders to the music in a syncopated pattern that drew a laugh from Akoma.
“It’s 2051, Holt,” she said. “That dance move expired five years ago.”
“There’s no expiration when I do it.”
Akoma shook her head and scanned the items in his booth. A Baccha & Bolt electric pistol lay next to a bag of candy and a silver rectangular case. She glanced at the
stainless-steel pistol on her own table, its chamber loaded with electro-darts. It had taken almost a year, but she had finally gotten used to the weight of the weapon in her hands.
Ready to obscure? Darian asked.
Nodding, Akoma fished into her pocket and produced a thin, shiny disk between gloved fingers. Darian caught her toss with a flourish and a bow. She laughed. He stuck the disk to a window and pushed a few buttons. A silver film streaked across the windows, coating the entire wall of glass, and screening them from curious pedestrians. It gleamed like a mirror. Akoma caught her reflection there: a square face, high cheekbones, and full, pomegranate-red lips. She nervously thumbed at the star shape cut into the band of shorn hair above her left ear. She turned back to Darian in time to see him whispering to the server.
Are you really talking to it? she asked.
Promising to fix the malfunction, he said, smiling.
With his eyes still trained on the server and a wink for Akoma, Darian dropped a small black ball near the man’s feet. It hit the floor with a sharp clang, and its top unfurled like a mechanical rose blooming. Even though Akoma had witnessed these deactivations before, she still found them disturbing, especially as the server was pulled up off the ground, pausing to float a foot above the tables, his head lolling from side to side. He then began vibrating faster and faster until he shattered into thousands of tiny crystal shards. They reflected sparkling light across the restaurant. It took some seconds, but the crystals converged into a single floating sphere, which plunged into the deactivation ball with a loud whoosh.
The others pass, yeah? Darian said.
Akoma swept the room a final time, eyeing the diners, their smiles, their frowns, their movements, searching faces for flaws she may have missed. Pleased, she waved a hand at the room and spoke in a dramatic thespian tone. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re all perfect.” And they were: The men and women gathered at Bokko’s Bistro shared a love of Ghanaian cuisine and the lack of a heartbeat. Darian’s microbot illusions were minutely programmed, and Akoma’s meticulous eye made sure they felt convincing.
Solo guy at your two o’clock has been checking you out all night, Darian teased. He scooped up the ball and snapped it shut. His brown eyes flashed humor. Don’t you need a date for junior prom or something?
School’s out for the year, genius, Akoma huffed. Plus, that’s not funny.
Of course it is. Darian settled into the booth’s cushions.
If you make it come talk to me, D, I’ll kill you, Akoma said. Frowning, she swept her mass of black curls up into a ponytail.
It? Darian shot her a look of mock hurt. They have names, you know.
Akoma scowled at him as static crackled in her earpiece. She pressed a finger to a tiny dot behind her ear to mute her PsychLink with Darian and open the team’s OuterComm channel.
“Addo, Holt, this is case support,” the voice said. “You read?”
“We read, Kat,” Akoma said out loud. “But why no PsychLink comm?”
“Y’all have tested it enough,” Kat replied. “Plus, I prefer to have y’all in my ear rather than in my mind for as long as I can help it.”
Darian snorted. “My mind’s a great place to be.”
“Also, I need to test this OuterComm channel,” Kat said. “Scene set?”
“Yup,” Akoma confirmed. “What’s your status?”
“Stuffed,” Kat said matter-of-factly. “Bad idea to set me up in this kitchen. Can’t stop eating. The roasted plantains, the fried fish, and oh! The boiled yams. Ugh, I hurt.”
Akoma giggled. “Should’ve paced yourself like I told you to.”
“My belly takes orders from no one,” Kat said. “Maybe one more piece of yam and—”
“Katarina Smyth!” Akoma and Darian said in chorus.
“Friends! No need for formal name-calling,” Kat said, sounding put out. “We’re all clear. I’ve cordoned off the area with velvet rope to indicate a private event tonight.”
“Backup?” Darian asked.
“On standby waiting for my call,” Kat assured them.
“Cams?” Akoma said.
“One in your overhead lamp—nice outfit, by the way.”
“Thanks, Kat.”
Akoma smiled up at the lamp as if Kat had pinned a best-dressed medal to her chest. Not one to fuss over fashion, she had made an effort tonight with a black linen jumpsuit that was fitted and crisp, its cap sleeves embellished with cowrie shells worked into a wave pattern.
“What about me?” Darian said.
“Don’t be needy, Holt,” Akoma said, ignoring his scowl.
Kat continued. “Two more cameras at the bar and one in the foyer. Each one is fitted with a scanner. And yes, I’ve double-checked the disruptors in the streetlamps. So, tech’s all set.”
“How’s our drone?” Darian said. “See our Guest yet?”
“Still searching pedestrians … wait, no,” she said. “I think I’ve got him! Yup. I see the red pocket square he said he’d wear as a visual identifier. He’s turning onto Sahara Drive from Benin.”
“So, that’s—?” Akoma asked.
“Three short blocks out. Oh!” Kat went silent.
“What?” Akoma asked, concerned.
“He’s what I’d call quite pleasing to the eye,” Kat murmured. “Looking really good in high-definition zoom.”
Akoma snickered, but Darian rolled his eyes and began unwrapping a new lollipop.
“Focus, Kat,” he said. “Any unwanted friends in his perimeter?”
“As far as I can tell, he’s alone …” She paused, then continued in a measured tone, “Okay, team. Drone’s scan reveals no weapons on Guest, but it’s picking up an energy frequency signature coming from him.”
Darian sat up, alert. “Known or unknown?”
“Not matching any known ones in our files,” Kat said. “Definitely an unknown frequency signature. Initiating UFS protocol now.”
Those words churned Akoma’s stomach. She had hoped to avoid that tonight. The presence of a UFS required extra precautions—she knew the drill. She glanced at Darian. Everything about him was eager: the smile on his face, the shift in his posture. He whisked the silver case off the table and started toward Akoma. But before bringing it to her, he adjusted the Obscuro-disk on the window. The coating on the glass morphed. Now, while they could see the world outside, the public remained blissfully unaware of the activity inside Bokko’s Bistro.
Coming to her table, Darian spun a chair around backward and straddled it. Akoma looked at him, and then away. Anxiety constricted her throat, like a thick ribbon tightening around her neck, choking her resolve, especially as her eyes landed on the case.
Darian took Akoma’s arm and squeezed it once. “Hey,” he said, tone soft. “I know today’s a tough anniversary for you. If you need me to, I can run point tonight. I memorized your mission brief just in case.”
A heavy ache lodged in Akoma’s chest. She felt the burning pressure of tears building behind her eyes and willed them to recede. “I’m fine,” she managed with a smile. She dipped her hand into the pocket of her overcoat, hung on the back of her chair, and pulled out a sheet of thin of blue glass small enough to fit in her palm—a Commspad.
“Ready?” Kat said.
TWO
A man appeared in the bistro’s arched doorway, the foyer’s bright lamps backlighting him and throwing his face into shadow. When he stepped forward, detaching from the glare, Akoma’s eyes widened. Kat hadn’t exaggerated: Tall and striking, he was clothed in an exquisitely tailored navy-blue suit. She admired the embroidered cuffs and hem of the white tunic he wore underneath the suit coat. His deep brown face was a study in angles—a sculpted, aquiline nose, chiseled cheekbones, and a strong, squared chin. Overhead lights illuminated a clean-shaven head as smooth as river stone.
The Guest scanned the restaurant interior. Akoma knew what he saw: wood walls stenciled with gold-leaf patterns. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the west side made the space appear larger than its modest size. Logs crackled in a cone-shaped fireplace nearby, shifting as they fell to the flames. His gaze went to the holoscreen, where the soccer game had paused. A breaking-news headline scrolled across the screen: Violent brawl erupts at Arcana Movie Theater—the second such incident this week in one of the city’s wealthier districts. More at nine.
The Guest clenched his jaw and looked away as he stepped fully into the room.
Okay. Okay, Darian said. Let’s do this!
Yes—wait, are you seeing this? Akoma asked.
A small red light flashed by the Guest’s left ear. Akoma leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity. It was a firefly. It buzzed about before dropping down to pulse like a tiny sun under the Guest’s chin. The man brought a gloved hand to his face, and the tiny creature landed on a gold ring—slipped on over the fabric—that graced his middle finger. Akoma stared at the substantial piece of jewelry, then froze. The Guest’s lips were quivering fast as the firefly circled in front of them. Then, all at once, the red light was gone. It happened so quickly she wasn’t certain if her eyes were deceiving her. Had the bug vanished? Had he been talking to it?
Where did it go?
Where did what go? Darian asked.
Thought I saw a firefly. Did you?
No. But it’s early summer …’Tis their season.
But a red one?
Hmm, Darian said. Let’s make a note to check our Known Creatures Files later to see if fireflies of any color are mentioned.
The Guest turned toward Akoma with questioning eyes. She raised her cup, the agreed-upon gesture of recognition. He nodded and took lengthy strides to her table.
“Akwaaba,” Akoma said aloud, welcoming him with the traditional Twi greeting.
“Medasi,” he thanked her. He spoke their Ghanaian language with a melodic baritone.
Akoma motioned to the seat across from her. He sat alert and poised, his smile impossibly bright. Up close, the Guest seemed even more alluring—and one of his mirror-black eyes sparkled more than the other …
“We meet at last, Host,” he said, still in Twi. “I haven’t kept you waiting long, I hope?”
“Not at all, Gues—”
“Please, call me Webb,” he interrupted.
Akoma raised an eyebrow; he was changing one of their rules of engagement. Then again, she doubted Webb was his real name.
“Okay, then. Webb,” Akoma said, switching to English so that Darian and Kat could understand as they listened in. “I hope this location works for you.”
“A fine choice,” he replied in English. “I’ve been eager to dine here. I am told the soups and fish are the best in AfricaTown.”
“I can certainly praise the abenkwan,” she said, though in truth, it needed less ginger and more onions to even out the flavor, the way Grandma Esi made hers.
“Excellent. Attractive gloves, if I may say so.” Webb nodded at her hands. “Sheepskin … South African?”
Akoma nodded, surprised. “How can you tell?”
“I have a keen interest in fabrics.” He raised his gloved hands, turning them back to front for Akoma’s appraisal. “It seems we share similar tastes. Where did you come
by yours?”
“They were a gift,” Akoma said dismissively. “But we aren’t meeting to compare notes on pan-African fashion, are we, Webb? The item. Please.”
Webb smiled, then folded his arms over his chest, revealing shiny black wrist cuffs, ornamented with sapphires that sparkled in the ambient light. “How old are you, Host? Seventeen? Eighteen?”
“How old are you?” Akoma knitted her brow. “Twenty-five? Thirty?”
Webb chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll bet you’re not even out of high school. Yet scouring the dark world markets, procuring—let us say, illicit goods—for wealthy buyers.” A small smile touched his full lips. “How does such a young girl end up in such an unseemly line of work?”
“Would you be more comfortable if I were a boy?” Akoma said, her tone icy. “You didn’t ask my age when we arranged to meet. If it was a nonissue then, it should be a nonissue now.”
You tell him, Darian interrupted.
Stay out of my head, D.
But you’re so, so good.
“Indeed, indeed.” Webb’s dark eyes regarded her with obvious amusement. He gestured to a digital menu board fixed to an easel. “Shall we order? I quite enjoy breaking bread before a transaction. You know, bless it with good vibes.”
Shit, Darian said. We have no server.
I’ve got this, Akoma responded. Offering a smile, she said to Webb, “I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“I see,” he said, pulling his eyes from the menu.
“The item?”
“The funds,” he cooed.
Akoma pushed a metal case out from under the table with her foot. “One and a half million US dollars,” she said, “pending final approval of the merch, of course.”
“Of course.” Webb spared the case the briefest glance. He slipped his long right-hand fingers into his suit coat and produced a leather pouch, the contents of which he shook into his hand and placed on the table with a smile.
“For your assessment.”
Akoma had never seen anything so beautiful. A mask of wrought gold with emerald eyes, it depicted the serene face of a woman but was sized for a child to wear. Crushed gems sparkled along its edges, and the whole piece shone as if the sun itself burned within
within it. But it was the stylized engraving on the mask’s forehead that held Akoma’s attention: a bird with feet facing forward and head turned backward; it held an emerald egg in its mouth.
“Sankofa,” she said, admiring the art.
“The young one knows her Adinkra symbols,” observed Webb approvingly.
Akoma nodded. Her grandmother had taught her at an early age to recognize most of the proverbial Ghanaian symbols—even a few of the obscure ones. Sankofa, however, was more well-known; it meant learning from the past to build the future.
“Se wo were fi na wosan kofa a yenkyiri,” Webb said in lilting Twi.
“It is not too late to go back for what you left behind,” Akoma translated.
“Indeed.” Webb tapped a gloved finger against the mask. “Beautiful, is it not? One might even call it magic.”
The expression on Akoma’s face must have soured because Webb chuckled. “It’s clear you disagree, Host. Why?”
“Well, for starters, magic doesn’t exist.” The lie was automatic, drummed into her by her superiors.
“Magic doesn’t exist …” Webb’s eyes flicked to the diners at nearby tables, as if only now becoming aware of them. “Yet you work for a buyer who believes it does.”
“It is not my business to guess at what my buyers believe,” Akoma said, wondering if Kat had captured enough images of the mask from the lamp camera to run a recognition search. The sooner she could end this ruse the better. “Now, if I get paid more because a buyer thinks some item possesses power, good for me.” Webb interrupted with a laugh, and she scowled. “And what’s so funny?”
“I like you, Host,” he said, tenting his fingers. “Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye.” He gestured at the mask. “Please, pick it up. Inspect it. Make sure it is real and not an illusion.”
Akoma fought to hide her shock. The word had rolled off Webb’s tongue layered in sarcasm. Resisting the urge to glance at Darian’s toys, she said, “Yes, of course.”
Addo. Darian’s voice was sharp. You’re doing great. Your cover is rock solid. Let Kat finish her search. Once we get a hit, show’s over. We grab him. No need to go playing with it.
Status, Kat? Akoma asked, looking at Webb.
Something’s interfering with database access, she replied. Can’t even upload my images. I need more time.
Okay, Akoma said. What’s my risk? ...
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