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after Wire finished up, she almost even forgot about finding Martstellar altogether. However, a routine skim of backchannel intelligence revealed that Martstellar was still alive and the Ultimate Sanction status on her head was still collectible. The news just pissed Wire off all over again. Being bested by that has-been, it wasn’t something she could stomach. No way, no how. Wire had a reputation, a nearly pluperfect capture/liquidation record. If word got around that she’d bailed on a second-rate target like Martstellar, Wire might soon find herself being passed over for additional gainful work.
    She has to concede it was a bit of a conundrum why Martstellar ended up back on The Sixty. You’d think after your supposed superior engages a directive to wipe your mortal being off the face of the planet you’d choose some other locale rather than the terra firma that left a bad taste in your mouth. Not so. The spunky little scamp apparently got off on the resort’s dissolute
mode de vie
. With some additional investigation, Wire learned that after Martstellar settled the score with the woman who had put out her kill order (quite the spectacular shoot-out, or so Wire had heard), she ended up cutting a deal with the CPB and The Sixty. Got herself set up with a whole new arrangement. A top-shelf saloon with a demimonde bill of meretricious sex hustlers, gambling options, and even a lap pool. Yeah, her and that gangly dork who’d helped her elude Wire in the first place. A former sky-cop Wire now knows goes by the name Jedidiah Flynn.
    A second teal-tinted hologram larger in dimension appears in the air alongside the heavyset officer’s image. The second display runs an edited playback from camerascope receptors placed in and around Martstellar’s establishment. Expressionless, Wire studies the playback like the most cringeworthy of dreams.
    First, she sees herself with her HK U-50 drawn as she exits the brush and heads toward the building. The playback then smash-cuts to assorted voyeuristic angles (above, ground-level, behind, and so forth) all of which take in her swift and deadly approach. The recording then cuts to a fish-eyed overhead view of the saloon as she enters. Wire relishes the next part when she pops the man called Flynn in the back of his leg with a pulse round, but what Wire sees next sickens her. Like a glockenspiel figurine, a skinny young man in shiny gold shorts smashes a huge glass jug right over her head. Wire wants to review what happened next as she was down for the count, but the second display darkens and disappears.
    “You’d think with your track record you would’ve been, I don’t know, less brazen? That young man who knocked you out? His record indicates multiple arrests for pub brawling back in Melbourne before he was recruited by Martstellar.”
    Wire seethes. “Brilliant. Taken out by some shabby-ass, Aussie boywhore.”
    “Tut-tut. Here on The Sixty we now refer to them as release specialists.”
    “Spare me the semantics. So, what’s the story here? Am I being charged with something or what?”
    “Well, in the midst of your recent escapade you did shoot one of our employees.”
    “Oh, come off it. Replay that footage. I only winged that guy. I bet he’s doing just fine. Besides, I was just getting warmed up.”
    The image of the officer starts to weaken, and it seems he is getting ready to sign off, playing more of his sly power games.
    “Hey! Hold on, you didn’t answer my question.”
    The hologram strengthens. “We’re trying to keep this incident under wraps, so no, you’re not being charged, not exactly.”
    Not exactly?
    “All right, so when
exactly
do I get released?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “Tomorrow? Swell. Then what?”
    “Deportation from The Sixty Islands, officially.”
    “Deportation to where?”
    “Surabaya. You’ll be housed in the brig on a short-haul flight craft, I believe.”
    “But I don’t know anyone in Surabaya.”
    “Whether you know anyone