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"
They
found
it
,
"
I
said
.
"
They
did
.
The
New
York
line
probably
has
a
sweeper
attached
,
flushes
out
the
call
vicinity
on
connection
.
"
"
Or
one
of
the
others
does
.
"
"
Yeah
.
"
Ortega
punched
up
the
screen
’
s
memory
and
stared
at
the
call
codes
.
"
They
’
re
all
three
routed
through
discreet
clearing
.
Take
us
a
while
to
locate
them
.
You
want
to
eat
?
"
Homesickness
isn
’
t
something
a
veteran
Envoy
should
confess
to
.
If
the
conditioning
hasn
’
t
already
ironed
it
out
of
you
,
the
years
of
sleeving
back
and
forth
across
the
Protectorate
should
have
done
.
Envoys
are
citizens
of
that
elusive
state
,
Here
-
and
-
Now
,
a
state
that
jealously
admits
of
no
dual
nationalities
.
The
past
is
relevant
only
as
data
.
Homesickness
was
what
I
felt
as
we
stepped
past
the
kitchen
area
of
the
Flying
Fish
and
the
aroma
of
sauces
I
had
last
tasted
in
Millsport
hit
me
like
a
friendly
tentacle
.
Teriyaki
,
frying
tempura
and
the
undercurrent
of
miso
.
I
stood
wrapped
in
it
for
a
moment
,
remembering
that
time
.
A
ramen
bar
Sarah
and
I
had
skulked
in
while
the
heat
from
the
Gemini
Biosys
gig
died
down
,
eyes
hooked
to
newsnet
broadcasts
and
a
corner
videophone
with
a
smashed
screen
that
was
supposed
to
ring
,
any
time
now
.
Steam
on
the
windows
and
the
company
of
taciturn
Millsport
skippers
.
And
back
beyond
that
,
I
remembered
the
moth
-
battered
paper
lanterns
outside
Watanabe
’
s
on
a
Newpest
Friday
night
.
My
teenage
skin
slick
with
sweat
from
the
jungle
wind
blowing
out
of
the
south
and
my
eyes
glittering
with
tetrameth
in
one
of
the
big
windchime
mirrors
.
Talk
,
cheaper
than
the
big
bowls
of
ramen
,
about
big
scores
and
yakuza
connections
,
tickets
north
and
beyond
,
new
sleeves
and
new
worlds
.
Old
Watanabe
had
sat
out
on
the
deck
with
us
,
listening
to
it
all
but
never
commenting
,
just
smoking
his
pipes
and
glancing
from
time
to
time
in
the
mirror
at
his
own
Caucasian
features
—
always
with
mild
surprise
,
it
seemed
to
me
.
He
never
told
us
how
he
’
d
got
that
sleeve
,
just
as
he
never
denied
or
confirmed
the
rumours
about
his
escapades
with
the
marine
corps
,
the
Quell
Memorial
Brigade
,
the
Envoys
,
whatever
.
An
older
gang
member
once
told
us
he
’
d
seen
Watanabe
face
down
a
roomful
of
Seven
Per
Cent
Angels
with
nothing
but
his
pipe
in
his
hands
,
and
some
kid
from
the
swamp
towns
once
came
up
with
a
fuzzy
slice
of
newsreel
footage
he
claimed
was
from
the
Settlement
wars
.
It
was
only
two
-
d
,
hurriedly
shot
just
before
an
assault
team
went
over
the
top
,
but
the
sergeant
being
interviewed
was
subtitled
Watanabe
,
Y
and
there
was
something
about
the
way
he
tilted
his
head
when
questioned
that
had
us
all
crowing
recognition
at
the
screen
.
But
then
Watanabe
was
a
common
enough
name
,
and
come
to
that
,
the
guy
who
said
he
’
d
seen
the
Angels
facedown
was
also
fond
of
telling
us
how
he
’
d
slept
with
a
Harlan
family
heiress
when
she
came
slumming
,
and
none
of
us
believed
that
.
