I went to the wall and stared up at the floating sleeve. Slim, hard-looking and brown, with the delicately lifted Japanese eyes on the shelf of unscaleably high cheekbones, a thick, straight drift of impenetrably black hair like seaweed in the tank fluid. Gracefully flexible with the long hands of an artist, but muscled for speed combat. It was the body of a tech ninja, the body I'd dreamed about having at fifteen, on dreary rain-filled days in Newpest. It wasn't far off the sleeve they'd given me to fight the Sharya war in. It was a variation on the sleeve I'd bought with my first big pay-off in Millsport, the sleeve I'd met Sarah in.