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ends. Every available hint of shade provided by the squat buildings is occupied, and Soltznin and I identify a good option in short order.
    As we approach the racks of pants, shirts, and jackets, a woman who I take to be the vendor rises from a chair perched against the building’s rough, sandy flank.
    “I got papers for everything I’m selling,” she informs us, her glare of loathing as clear as the raised purple scar running from the side of her throat down the top of one breast and disappearing into the low-cut collar of her shirt.
    For a moment, I consider using the angle of Corpsmembers tasked with confiscating nonregistered trade goods to get clothes from her for nothing. I’d willingly bet the price of a cosmetic surgeon who could remove her disfiguring scar that any papers she may have legitimizing her wares are as false as my story would be. But then I think better of it. Why lie? My loyalty to the Corps died on Ohm Lumi. Yet being a soldier still serves my purpose as cover, for now, and this is a smallish outpost. Word will get out soon that two Corpsmembers—two Corpsmembers with no apparent backup —are wandering around hassling people if we don’t employ risk avoidance every chance we get. Better to refrain from antagonizing the locals.
    “We’re not here to check your papers,” I answer. “We want to trade.”
    Her eyes, already deeply sunken inside a nest of loose wrinkles, seem to narrow. “I don’t deal in Admin bills.”
    “How about these?” I pull off and open the carrying pack I’d brought, which is filled with the extra uniforms we’d found on the evac craft, then tilt it so she can get a good look inside. “Maybe you know a market that you could get a good price?”
    Her eyes bounce from the uniforms to my face and back twice, gauging my intent. Then she reaches inside and feels the material, as if for authenticity. “What you want for them?”
    Easier than I expected, and trading the uniforms could let us hold on to our currency for better uses. Dropping the bag, I leaf through the garments on her racks and quickly select items that will fit David and me. Soltznin does the same, never taking her right hand from the stock of her Bowker.
    “These should do. And how about a couple extras in exchange for the uniforms we have on?”
    The vendor quickly zips the pack and nudges it behind a heavily laden rack with her foot. “They’re yours. You want to trade up the uniforms ”—she almost sneers the word—“you’re wearing, you can take them off over there.” Her chin lifts toward an alleyway just across the street.
    Too easy. Suspicion suddenly lays a rough hand on my heart and squeezes. “You know, I think we’ll just keep them, but I’ll have that bag back.”
    Shrugging, she pulls a keycard from the pocket of her pants and waves it across the lock in the door of the building behind her. When she turns around to start collecting the extra uniforms to put inside, I let the AK strap drop from my shoulder and cradle the carbine in a fashion that assures anyone watching that taking aim and pulling the trigger will come as easily as drawing a breath. If they give me a reason.
    “Second thought,” I say casually, “my friend and I could change in there.” I glance to the doorway, taking in as much of the gray interior beyond as I can.
    “No, that’s—”
    “I think, yes,” I cut in. Her quick protest tells me it’ll be safer inside there than in the alley. I’m not doing much to avoid antagonizing the locals, however.
    This time she does sneer. “Fuckin’ Corps deserters. You scum may leave the Admin, but you’re still double-dealing cockroaches.”
    “Hey, lady, we’re just modest girls who want to use your indoors to change clothes. No need to hurt our feelings.” I keep my tone dismissive, hiding the surprise and curiosity her statement evoked. Corps deserters? There have been others?
    The vendor pulls the clothes free and flings them messily inside, her move a