into the desert
A short story.
I'm standing on the roof when she finds me, watching the cottonwood drifting on the wind, enjoying the warm midsummer breeze. I've been feeling disoriented all day, disjointed, not quite real--it happens a lot, these days--and I'd really rather be left alone, but . . . well. The rent is due. She says my name, a question, a polite invitation. I take a breath, run a hand through my hair, and turn around.
"That's what they call me."
"I'm looking for a missing person. My sister. They said you could find her."
She's dressed all in office drone chic--charcoal pencil skirt and jacket, a too-perfect white blouse--and I can't see her eyes behind the big dark shades she's wearing. Blonde hair in a tight bun, guarded expression. And--probably not intentional, but it's a red flag still--she's standing between me and the exit. I find myself instinctively disliking her.
There's a gust of wind, and she remains unflappable as I'm forced to push my hair from my face. "I can try," I tell her. "How long has she been missing?"
"Since . . . last night? No. Night before last. We were supposed to meet for dinner." I'm finding myself unreasonably annoyed by how calm she is. Even that hesitation seems like it was calculated. Like she's trying to establish rapport. "For reasons I'd rather not go into, I'd prefer not to involve the police, but I was able to pull some surveillance video." She raises an eyebrow in question.
"I'll take a look," I say. And as she initiates the file transfer, "Listen. If you don't trust me with information about your sister, it will make it harder for me to find her. If she has something to hide, that's a reason to disappear. Or be disappeared."
"You haven't taken the case yet." Is that a smirk? Is she smirking at me? "But you raise a fair point. If you agree to take the case I will . . . refrain from shielding her." The video shows a young woman getting on a bus bound for, if the sign is to be believed, Spokane. She looks like she's alone, and I don't see any luggage--just a messenger bag, slung across one shoulder. "But either way, I don't know why she'd be leaving town."
I say nothing.
"We have dinner together once a week and we talk most days. Last time we spoke she seemed fine."
"Do you have a recording?"
"It's just text, but . . . here."
It's nothing. Standard empty chatter--confirming dinner plans, inside jokes and references I don't understand. If there were something in there, I wouldn't be able to catch it. Not without knowing the missing girl. And since then a lot of unanswered messages: [Where are you? Are you okay? Kat, answer me.] I guess her name is Kat. [Do you need help?] I make a noncommittal sound. "Don't suppose you got footage from the bus? Where she got off?"
"Sorry. I don't have connections like that."
"That's fine." A thought occurs. "How did you know to check this bus terminal?"
"Brute force. Found footage of her leaving her apartment and just followed her." Here she offers a smile that I can't help thinking shows too many teeth. "I have a lot of connections in the city."
Is that how she knew I'd be up here? How she was able to get onto a roof that's supposed to be restricted access? There's another gust of wind and I turn my back to her to look out at the city. It's calming, at least. "I'll need that footage, too. Anything else you have of her from the days before she disappeared."
"You haven't--"
"I'll take the case."
"In that case, it's yours."
"Let's talk payment. I need half up front."
She doesn't put up a fight even when I charge her four times my usual fee--partly because an out of town case is expensive and partly because I'm in a bad mood. I'd feel bad, but like I said, the rent is due. So she sends over the first half, and all the footage she has of Kat in the past few days. "I should warn you. I'm not kidnapping anyone. I'll find her, but if she doesn't want to come back . . . you get a location, and proof that she's there, and that's my job done. And then, if it happens she wants a ride back, I'll offer her one as a courtesy."
"Of course." Her face remains perfectly impassive. "I've recorded a message for her, actually. For you to give to her, if she doesn't . . . will you deliver it to her? Ideally without watching it yourself?"
"If I can." One more file transfer--I think that's all I need to get started. Over a full day is a long head start, but . . . no one is as good at covering their tracks as they think they are. "You'll hear from me when there's news, and not before."
Another smirk. "I look forward to it. Good luck out there."
I push past her and into the elevator, and I am so glad, metaphorically speaking, to finally see the back of her.
Included among the files my client has sent me is a little note explaining that she believes Kat has been involved in, in her words, "some illicit activities." There's a few included dossiers on her "known contacts;" it looks like a few anarchists and leftists and street people and other mostly harmless types that terrify the corporate classes. Maybe one of them knows something, but I can't help but feel there is a certain way my client would like this investigation to go, and I don't think she's going to like the outcome.
I message my client, just in the interest of completeness, to ask sort of illicit activities she thinks her sister might be involved in. She is reluctant to answer but folds under pressure: [I know they have been doing some illegal gambling. I think she might cheat. And of course there's the drugs.]
["of course"?]
[Well. You know how anarchists are.]
I find myself grateful that we are communicating via text, because she can't see how hard I am rolling my eyes. Still. I resolve to pay at least some of the folks on this little dossier a visit tonight--it's unlikely I'll be able to leave the city until the morning, and who knows? If I'm very lucky they'll have an answer for me before I even start.
There's a coffee shop downtown where the messengers like to hang out. It opens onto the street and there's bike racks and enough seating to hang out while waiting for something to do, and the coffee is good and cheap. That's where I'll find Era. I need a ride. And if she's not good for it, at least I can sit and drink coffee while I get this footage analyzed and work out my first move. I need to figure out where Kat got off the bus, of course--her ticket said Chicago but I doubt that was her destination. But the client doesn't want the cops involved and if I press the bus company the wrong way that might tip them off that one of their customers might be on the lam.
In the meanwhile I keep watching the surveillance footage of Kat at the bus depot. She keeps glancing up at the camera drone, but she doesn't seem nervous. I'm trying to divine patterns from static, here. A better investigator would be telling you she listens to her gut in times like this, but that's not me. My gut tells me I don't know shit.
There's a quick way to get the info I want, at least. My little black box. Pythia, the device is called, a little fragment of a synthetic intelligence that I . . . sort of inherited from a client. Or I may have stolen it; I'm honestly not sure. The AI calls herself Oracle. I don't trust her--don't trust the strange dreams I've been getting since we met or the fact I keep dissociating since then, don't trust that using this device won't eventually draw the wrong sort of attention. So, like the Pythian oracles at Delphi, I must be careful how often I turn to Apollo for the gift of prophecy. The truth may well shorten my lifespan.
I'm about to brush my thumb along the box and make my request--though I'm confident Oracle is watching me even without that--when someone sits down opposite me. "Well, look who it is."
Era is tall and athletic in that particular bike messenger way--you know, does demanding physical labor for a living and lives primarily on a diet of energy drinks, cheap beer, and pub food--and has a demeanor of such aloof indifference it has come around the other side to "extremely cool". She was my partner back in the day, back before we both gave up the life of the independent journalist for something safer--a private investigator and a bike courier, respectively. Now . . . every year I promise I'll try to do better at keeping in touch with my friends, and it's always her I'm thinking of. And every year I only talk to her when I need something. "Hey Era. Been a while."
"Yeah. You need something?"
No small talk. No catching up. Straight to the point. I like that about Era. I find myself smiling despite everything. "Need a ride. Looking for a missing person who left town."
"You paying now, or later?"
"Standard rate now. I'll split the rest of the pay with you when we find the runner."
"Cool. I'm in." I wire her the cash and she says, "You could get away with paying me less, you know."
"You're a friend. Wouldn't feel right."
She shrugs. "All right, I ain't complaining. Gimme a few to let everyone know I'm out for a while, then I'm all yours."
As she gets up to make her phone calls and clear her schedule, I press the button on my little black box. [hey there! need something?] I try to suppress the little pang of guilt that Era and Oracle both immediately ask if I need something when I talk to them.
[i need to figure out at which stop a certain customer got off a certain bus. discreetly.]
[i'm always discreet. unless you don't want me to be.]
[more work, less chatter.]
[fine, fine. you're awful grumpy lately.]
I could probably have found a more elegant solution to this, but it would take time, or resources, or both. And I'm trying to find if there's any pattern to when and where my client had footage of Kat. There's minimal footage of her in her apartment--unsurprising, since this all seems to have come from surveillance drones. Any time she's not at home there is nearly perfect coverage of her nearby but much patchier when she's further out. I check if there's some pattern there--is she eluding coverage somehow?--but I can't find anything concrete until I check the metadata. All of this came from a single surveilleur's drones. My client paid off a drone operator. It's almost certainly nothing--just evidence that I'm glad she's not my sister--but I file that away in case it's useful later.
Then Era's back. "All set. I can have the car here in twenty."
"Cool. Probably not leaving town until tomorrow but . . . I got some stops to make tonight. Question some witnesses, search the apartment. You know the deal."
"You're the boss. Be back in a flash."
That twenty minutes is time enough for me to finish my coffee, and time enough for Oracle to finish whatever work she was doing. [hey bestie. she got off in leavenworth. sending you the footage. and to save you some time, the same guy is working there tomorrow, same time. you're welcome.]
[i don't suppose you have trivial access to the surveillance nets there?]
[i have not previously given that town a single thought in my entire life. dying tourist traps aren't really "me," you know?]
I don't dignify that with a response. Instead I queue up the video. The bus makes a short stop at a gas station there, and several guests disembark, including Kat. She disappears into the restroom until the bus has departed and the guests for whom this was their final destination dispersed, then lingers for a while, buys some snacks, and talks to the attendant for a minute or two. Then she's gone. Off on foot towards the main drag.
This looks planned. She doesn't seem nervous, she's taking precautions to make sure her fellow passengers don't notice that she's disembarked, and if I had to bet, that the station attendant doesn't associate her with the bus, either. So whatever she's doing, she seems to be doing under her own power. But then, not all coercion is physical.
Time to start getting answers, I suppose.
My client's dossiers lead me to a dive bar north of town where one of Kat's "known contacts" holds court on Sunday afternoons and evenings--most of them should be there, and it's a big enough group they might not be immediately suspicious if I show up. Era decides to tag along. She at least makes me look like I have some street cred by association.
She fits right in; I'm already feeling like none of this is real by the time our drinks arrive. So when the bearded gentleman I'm sitting next to leans over and asks what I'm doing here, someone with my voice says, "I'm looking for someone," and shows him a picture of Kat, posing for the camera and smiling, dressed for a night out.
"Huh. She in trouble or something?" he asks.
"I was kind of hoping she'd be here tonight," I see myself say. The lie comes easily, channeling a memory that doesn't feel like mine--a missing friend who ended up dead. Someone I never knew. Someone whose dreams I keep having. "We were supposed to meet up yesterday but she never showed, and I'm only in town for a few days . . ."
"Haven't seen her around lately," he says. And I just know he's lying--he knows something. I know guilty looks from people who really wish they could help. That's the one.
"I hope she's okay," I say. I try my best to look worried, hopeless. It doesn't even make sense for me to be using this tactic. I'm volunteering too much information. I don't like being perceived. Much easier to just say as little as possible, let people see what they want to see. "I feel like I'm always worrying about her. I just want . . . sorry. You don't want to hear it."
He looks like he really wants to help me, and I think he's smart enough to realize that his face is probably giving him away. He excuses himself and goes to get a drink, and on his way out he whispers something to the woman at the head of the table. The dossier I have on her gave her name as Zoya; I haven't heard anyone call her by a nickname here but these are the sort of circles where nicknames are the name people are known by. Call someone by the wrong name, that will mark you as the wrong kind of outsider.
She fixes her gaze on me, says something back to the bearded fellow, but then she returns her attention to her companions. Maybe I've missed my shot. I'll have to try something else later. So my attention drifts, and I take a drink of my coffee, and . . .
I've been having memory lapses lately. Mostly in the mornings--I'd been waking up pretty disoriented from the dreams I'd been having. That's my theory, anyway. Sometimes, though, like now, it happens at other times. One minute I'm letting the sounds of conversation wash over me, the next it's . . . later. I know time has passed but I don't remember anything. I'm getting in Era's car, feeling a little drunk, which is weird--I don't usually drink much and I wasn't planning on drinking anything tonight--but I can still focus. I pull up my audio recording of the evening, start playing over it. From the length of the file, and the timestamps, there's nothing missing. So that's good. "Hey E. Weird question. Did I . . . talk to Zoya, at all?"
She gives me a sidelong look. "You two disappeared for like . . . fifteen, twenty minutes? Maybe thirty? Came back all tipsy and smiling. It was kind of weird."
"Thanks."
"You blacked out? You don't seem that drunk."
"It's not that. I think. I'm fine. Probably."
"Not my business, but you're really not selling me on that."
"You don't need to worry about me, E." I close my eyes, find the last bit of audio I recognize--my voice saying "Sorry. You don't want to hear it." It's my voice but it's not. My usual speaking tone is the bottom of my normal register, fairly flat, frequently dipping into vocal fry. Here I'm speaking with a lilting cadence, higher in my register.
The din of the conversation makes it hard to pick out individual sounds, but I hear an unfamiliar voice say, fairly close to me, "I'm going for a smoke," immediately followed by the sounds of me getting up from the table. The din changes, presumably as I walk through the bar, then goes quiet, replaced by the distant sounds of the city. And after a few footsteps and a long pause the voice says, "So. Who the fuck are you?"
This must be Zoya. I'm trying to picture this in my mind, but I'm struggling to bring her to mind. I'd imagined her, on reading the dossiers, as tall and commanding, or at least striking in some way, but if I didn't know her I wouldn't have guessed from seeing her at the head of the table that this was her crowd. Mousy brown hair, a dingy grey bomber jacket, black work pants and a black t-shirt . . . she could have been anyone.
"Just someone who's looking for Kat," says my voice. I'm still speaking in the same register as before, though somewhat less lilting now. It almost sounds like I'm trying to imitate my usual tone.
"Well. She's not here." The sound of something being poured into a glass. "Here."
A moment's pause, and I start coughing. Not like I'm choking, but like I just drank something extremely unpleasant. And Zoya laughs, and there's a sound like she's clapping me on the back. "At least you're not a cop."
"I'd probably still have drunk that if I was a cop," I say. My voice sounds hoarse.
"Yeah, but a cop wouldn't have been such a wimp about it."
"Hey, fuck you."
Another laugh from Zoya. There's another sound of something being poured. Longer, this time. "So, tell you what. Let's make a deal. Info for info, yeah? You give me the actual truth and I'll tell you what I know."
"Her sister hired me to find her. She went missing two nights ago."
"And, what, you thought she was here?"
"No. Her sister wanted me to suspect you were involved, I think. She gave me, like. Full dossiers on your whole group."
"Seriously?"
"You want to see them? If your info's good, I can show them to you."
"Hmm. First, tell me, what do you think happened to her?"
"I think something spooked her and she had to leave town. And I think that's unlikely to have anything to do with you. But I've seen surveillance footage; she didn't seem nervous. So I think she has somewhere she's running to."
"Well. I don't know anything about that. And that's the truth." There's a pause here--I can't quite parse it, but I'm guessing she's trying to meet my eyes, prove she's being truthful. She seems like the type who thinks an honest gaze and a firm handshake can't be faked. "And before I tell you anything--which I will, deal's a deal. What's your plan if Kat doesn't want to go home?"
"My job ends when I find her. If she doesn't want to come home I'm going back alone and telling my client the last place I saw her. Deal's a deal."
"You know what, I respect that." Another pause. Probably for dramatic effect. "All right. Let me tell you about Kat."
Kat first started showing up at Zoya's poker nights as a plus one of one of the other attendees. That in itself wasn't too weird--the only real rule, after all, is "no cops, no weirdos". You get in by passing someone's vibe check; you get kicked out if you fail everyone else's. And the vibe Kat gave off, apparently, was "corporate brat trying to break away." She had adopted her particular idea of a countercultural aesthetic and was maybe a little too strident about the ideals, but she hadn't quite mastered the art of fitting in. Her clothes were too new, too nice, too artful; her theory didn't feel lived in. But she was trying, and she didn't seem like a cop.
The thing about poker night is it wasn't really about the poker. Some nights they didn't even play. It was an intimate, informal gathering of friends, no pressure to perform, no crowds--a place where you could really just be yourself, in a world where "being yourself" was frowned upon. But it helped that Kat was pretty fucking bad at poker.
Another month or two (and here there's the sound of my drink being refilled once again) people might have stopped thinking of Kat as someone's plus one and started thinking of her as part of the group. But she showed up one night, seeming weirdly agitated, and after a while Zoya took her aside to make sure everything was okay. And she pulled out a little electronic device--just a small, slender plastic thing--and said, "I need to get rid of this."
"What is it?"
It was, she said, some "super illegal corporate tech" that was designed to autonomously compromise local networks; it also had some software to analyze camera footage in real time. "Can get a key impression just by looking at it from across the room. Instant analysis of security devices. Shit like that. A real spy's spy toy."
"What the fuck did you bring it here for?"
"I don't know! I can't just chuck it. I thought maybe you could . . ." If Kat hadn't looked so pathetic here, Zoya tells me, she would have been furious. But she seemed genuinely lost, and--once again the sound of a drink being refilled--God help her, but she has a soft spot for helpless idiots.
"Look, man, you can't bring that shit here. They'll bring the corps down on us. But look. If you can't . . . if you can't figure out something to do with it, I'll ask around. See if I can find someone who can dispose of it properly."
"Thanks. And . . . sorry. I know I fucked up. Just didn't know where else to go."
"You're a good kid, Kat. Just . . . you gotta think before you do this shit in the future."
"I know. Sorry."
"That was the last time I saw her. Obviously I told everyone, hey, if anyone comes asking about her . . ."
"Yeah. I get it." There's a playful note in my voice at this part of the recording that I am finding somewhat annoying. "You should have asked where it came from."
"Fuck, you think I didn't want to? I was terrified, though. Was sure the city corp was going to kick down the door right there and lock us all up."
"What did the device look like? Did you see it?"
"Bit like any consumer electronic device, I guess. Mostly plastic, some wires and ports and shit. I didn't get a good look. She had it in her backpack and it looked like it took up most of the main pocket." Zoya--I think it's her, anyway, it doesn't sound like my voice--sighs heavily. "It'd be nice to know what the hell's going on. Weird corporate brat or not, I liked her, you know? She was a friend. Or on her way to becoming one." Another long pause. "You look like you have a thought."
"Mm? Oh, I try not to. Have thoughts, I mean."
"Come on, humor me. Info for info, right?"
"Hey, I'm just as lost as you. But I don't think she's trying to fuck you over. She wouldn't have disappeared if she was." I can almost hear myself shrugging here. "Anyway. I promised you those dossiers. Y'all need better opsec."
"Thanks, uh--I don't think I got your name?"
"You sure didn't! But I gotta run. Lots to do. I'll see you around, Zoya." I can't quite make out what she says to me after that--the din of the bar returns, I say "We're leaving", presumably to Era, and then we're in the car, and I turn off the recording.
I'm not sure why I was fixating on what the device looked like. It doesn't seem relevant. "One more question. Where are we going?"
"Uh, home? Your place? Is that right?"
"That's . . . that's fine. Sorry. Very out of it tonight."
"If you say so."
Normally I'd search the missing person's apartment before leaving town, but my head's swimming from whatever drinks Zoya kept pushing on me and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't get anything done. I could try in the morning, but last time we saw Kat, she was still alive. That means there's a timer.
It's much easier to deal with murders. Murder victims stay dead for as long as you need.
Era's waiting outside with coffee when I get up in the morning. What I like about her is there was never a point when she would have tried to anticipate what kind of coffee I wanted--she gets me whatever she's drinking, and she doesn't fuss over whether I like it or not. It's coffee. It's hot. It wakes you up.
As soon as we step out into the street a gust of wind blows my already messy hair back, and the early morning sunlight is making my head throb, but already I'm feeling that thrill of excitement for the beginning of a voyage. And as I'm climbing into the passenger seat, Era says, "I got snacks, too. And granola bars. Since I know you forgot breakfast." Personally I would characterize it as choosing to skip breakfast because there's not enough time in the morning, but the point is valid.
"Thanks."
"Anyway. Leavenworth, right?"
"That's the plan."
Leavenworth is a few hours' drive from the city by one of the old state highways that winds its way over the Cascades. Era rolls the windows down and puts music on, and leaves me to my thoughts. I should be doing research, trying to dig, trying to piece together my thoughts, but I'm enjoying watching the mountains and trees, feeling the wind in my hair. I can worry about what I've gotten myself into later.
It's approaching noon by the time we roll into town. Leavenworth was an old lumber town that very nearly dried up when the rail office moved out, but the town pivoted to tourism to try to stay afloat. And it worked--they created this whole little fake Bavarian village and people loved it. Even now, after the collapse of the old Union made just leaving the city a rare luxury for most people, it's still limping along, still offering an artificial taste of the Alps in the heart of the Cascades.
Even the gas stations have that Bavarian theme, which I've always felt is a little uncanny. We pull in, and Era starts charging the car while I walk in and try to get a cold read on the guy working the register. Maybe I should have seen if Oracle had personnel files or something.
"Hello!" he says, a little too cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"
"Hey," I say. I keep my voice level, professional. "I'm hoping you can help me find someone who came in here a few days ago."
"Oh, uh. I'm not sure I can--"
I pull up some stolen city corp police credentials--it won't hold up if he calls it in, but we're far enough from the city that verifying that I am who I say I am is probably more trouble than it's worth. "She's a missing person, and she was last seen here by one of her fellow passengers." I never like pretending to be a cop, but authority works pretty well on a lot of people.
"I'll do what I can to help," he says. He sounds like he means it.
I show him a picture. "She got off the bus here and never got on. I'm hoping maybe you saw her, or can pull up surveillance footage, or . . ."
He's gone pale, his hands shaking. Shit. It's far too early for him to be panicking on me. "I don't think I saw her," he says weakly.
"You're not in any trouble," I say. "Please. Her life could be in danger." I meet his eye, fake a look of earnest sincerity, and he calms down.
"All right. Sorry. Yeah, she came in here. It was kind of weird, because, you know. I saw her come in off the bus but she was clearly trying to pretend she hadn't, you know?"
"Did you talk to her?"
"Yeah. She wanted to know if there was, you know, good live music in town."
"Is there?"
"I mean. Nobody comes here for the music." He smirks. "But there's a bar that does live music most nights. Pretty much the only spot in town for it. I told her where it is. Funny thing, though. I went there for the show that night, you know, when I got off shift." A sheepish smile quickly fades. "She wasn't there. Do you think she . . ."
"I don't know yet. But I'll find her. Did you tell her anything else? Did she say anything?"
"Nope. She left once I told her about the venue. I offered to tell her, you know, some restaurants, a good hotel, but she wasn't interested."
"I see." I consider leaving him my contact information, in the off chance he remembers anything, but that feels like it would be inviting complication. So I leave instead. I doubt we'll be staying in this town for long anyway. "Thanks for your help. We'll be in touch."
The bar in question is about half a mile from the station, a few blocks off the main drag--it's still decked for tourists but I suspect this part of town might be where the locals gather. The place is pretty much deserted. Era and I claim a seat at the bar and earn a skeptical look from the woman tending bar. "Can I help you?"
"Looking for someone we think came here . . . what, two days ago?" I make it sound conversational, look over at Era, who just nods.
"Sounds right." She's always been a good sport about being used as a conversational prop.
The bartender narrows her eyes. "You gonna buy anything?"
"Is the kitchen open?"
She sighs and throws a menu at me. "Don't waste my time."
When the bartender is out of earshot Era says, "Glad to see you haven't lost your touch."
"Quiet. I know what I'm doing." I spy a few static surveillance cameras--they look pretty standard--and their network doesn't seem to have any abnormal security--or much at all, for that matter. I plant a repeater under the bar so I can take my time hacking into that later, and transfer some listening bugs to my jacket pocket. I doubt their cameras have audio--if it comes down to it I can take the time to read lips and figure out what Kat talked about when she came here--but I haven't written our bartender off yet.
She softens marginally when we order lunch, and even more when I order a beer. I slip one of my listening bugs and another repeater in her pocket when she arrives with our food, and then ask, as politely as I can, "Do you mind if I ask you about our friend?"
"Fine."
I show her a picture of Kat. "Seen her?"
"Doesn't look familiar. Friend of yours, you said?" I can't tell if she's stonewalling me or genuinely doesn't know.
"She's gone missing. Trying to make sure she's okay."
"Well, she hasn't been here." She shrugs. "Sorry. Lots of places to go in this town."
This seems suspicious enough that I try to press. "You're sure? Could one of your coworkers have seen her?"
"You said two days ago, right? I was working then."
"All day? No breaks? No coworkers for the night shift? No chance you missed her?"
She scowls. "I said she wasn't here, all right?"
I hold up my hands. "Hey, I'm just trying to find our friend. Wouldn't be a very good friend if I just gave up without trying, would I?"
"Just finish your food and get out of here."
She storms off once again, and Era says, in a tone mimicking mine, "'I know what I'm doing.'"
"Talking doesn't always work." I consider our options. "We may need a hotel."
"Luckily this town is made entirely of cute little Alpine lodges."
"Unluckily, that's another day of travel she has on us."
"Could canvas the other businesses? It's a pretty small town."
"Yeah. Yeah, we should do that." It's unlikely to turn anything up, but it'll make it look like we're doing something in the event anyone's watching us--meaning, ideally, they won't wonder why we gave up so easily.
The bartender returns with the bill, and I hazard one last question. "Hey, looks like we might need a place to stay tonight. Any recommendations?" This is mostly paranoia: if there's any sort of conspiracy going on here, this information might help us avoid accidentally staying at a hotel which is part of it.
She narrows her eyes, but gives us the name of a nearby hotel that she recommends. I make a show of entering the info on my phone and say we'll check it out, and leave her a generous tip. Then I book a place on the other end of town and have Era leave the car near the place she recommended. Worst case, we get to have a nice walk.
My little listening bug has already picked up something useful. Just after we leave, as we're walking back, a voice--from the ambient sounds, probably someone in the kitchen--says, "You seem tense."
"Oh, those two were just . . . you remember that girl who came in here?"
"That--oh, her?"
"Yeah. Told them I didn't know anything. But you know I hate lying to people, so . . . pret-ty sure they're suspicious."
"At least they left, right?"
"Yeah." A long pause. "Just wondering if I should call Singer." A name? A nickname? Something to look into.
"Nah. No need to bother him. Maybe if they come back."
Our lodging for the night is a little bed and breakfast which would probably seem quaint if the entire town didn't look like this. Era insists on taking a selfie with me out front, and we settle into the room.
I send Era out to canvas the town. "You know I was just saying that, right? I don't think we'll actually get any info."
"Humor me. I'm feeling paranoid."
She gives me a skeptical look.
"You can scout for dinner."
"Sold." She tosses her jacket at me. "See you when I get back. Don't get murdered."
I flop down on the bed and activate one of the repeaters I planted at the bar. Time to get to work.
The bar's network is set up to accept guest logins--common enough at bars and restaurants. That guest connection is enough to scrape information about the device it's running on. Default admin password doesn't do it, but there are a few vulnerabilities that should be patched, if their admin has kept their firmware up to date. The first two don't work, but with the third one--a bug in input validation--I was able to get a list of credentials, and from there I was able to log in to an administrator's account.
I set about pulling the surveillance footage from the day Kat would have visited, but that's not really what I'm here for--that's something to look at later when I should be sleeping. The main thing is I now have a connection to the bartender's phone. That one falls quickly now that I have a username; apparently she reuses passwords, so all I have to do is search a couple data leaks and I have full access to the device. I pull as much data as a I can, and before I leave run a quick search through her contacts and message history.
No contacts called Singer but there's a message from someone named "do not answer": [Sending someone your way. Same deal as last time.] Not a lot to go on, but everything else is work-related or the sort of empty chatter that makes my eye twitch. Idle gossip and small talk and memes, and . . . maybe there's a reason I don't have many friends.
That's a thought for future me to worry about. I change the contact number for "do not answer" to my number, install a logger that will send any future activity to my device, and log out. A routine security check will detect what I've done here but then, if she did routine security checks I wouldn't have been able to find her password on a search engine. And anyway, I only need these hacks to stay in place for tonight.
Before I pivot to looking over surveillance footage and doing a deep dive of my newly stolen data, I close my eyes for just a moment--the coffee's long since worn off and I'm sleepy from having a beer at lunch, and I convince myself I just need to rest for a few minutes.
In my dreams these days I'm always running. I don't remember much else about them--I wake up with my heart pounding and this sensation that something absolutely terrifying is inches away from finding me. It doesn't get easier. Every time it happens I feel like I wake up a little more disoriented, a little more lost.
This time it's a message from Era that wakes me up--[i'm getting thai food what do you want]--and for a moment I just lie there, trying to steady my breathing, trying to remember where I am. There's an unfamiliar voice chattering in my ear, which is not helping. I try to take inventory.
I can't quite parse the clock on the wall--why is there a clock on the wall? What am I doing here? But finally the voice in my ear registers. The bartender, the listening device. I'm looking for someone, and I think she knows where she is.
My heart finally starts settling down. I tell Era I would like some fried rice, and I sit up, and get back to work. It's a long, tedious process to go through all this footage, and I've already wasted enough time going to sleep in the middle of the day. It takes some effort to force myself to focus, but I manage.
Then it's a few hours later and I'm stepping back into the room from our little kitchenette, the lingering taste of garlic in my mouth, two cups of tea in my hands, and a file open in the corner of my screen with copious, disorganized notes. Timestamps and thoughts. I'd say this doesn't seem like I wrote it, but I don't really take notes. It'd probably look a lot like this if I did.
Era is sprawled on the sofa, looking pleased with herself, and I hand her one of the tea cups and sit down at her feet. I quietly pull up the past few hours of conversation--I'm always recording; expensive implants from my journalism days that don't show up on most scans--and scroll back a few hours. There's a clip of Era walking in, saying, "I was sure every restaurant in this town would be barbecue," and tossing a bag of takeout at me.
My response then is lost now as Era looks at me and says, "You okay?"
"Hm? I'm fine. Just thinking of the case."
She looks skeptical. I pull up the last few minutes of audio log. She's telling a story--"Then she tries to punch me, right? Zero idea how to throw a punch. Practically didn't have to do anything for her to lose balance and eat shit. It was like a goddamn slapstick routine."
Followed by my laugh. "Oh, hold on, tea's ready." I'm using that voice again--the cheerful one from when I was talking to Zoya.
Back in reality--I think--Era is saying, "I worry about you sometimes. But okay."
"Sorry." I try to affect the voice I was using in the recordings. "Anyway, you were telling a story, sorry."
She shakes her head. "Spent the next, oh, thirty minutes just pinning her to the ground while my friend loaded her shit in the car. She was like a wasp in a jar. You know. Angry and powerless. When I finally let her go she practically ran away. Had a good laugh about that one."
"Wild." I take a long sip of tea. It's the ginger tea I've been drinking recently, and that always makes me feel more grounded. "I told you I got a hit, right?"
"Huh? Oh, on the case? Yeah. Cryptic messages and a conversation about it, right?"
"Yeah. Normally I'd wait and see if anything happens but I keep feeling that time pressure. Thinking about confronting her with that."
"She's not gonna be happy to see you."
"You catch more flies with vinegar." I stand up. "Mind coming with me while I stake out the place?"
"You're the one paying me, so." She shrugs. "Probably be more fun than hanging out here."
I offer my best smile. "I'll try."
Some part of me always enjoys when an investigation gets to this point--a showdown, all cards on the table. I don't like lying. It's part of the job, and I've gotten used to it, but . . . there's a refreshing honesty to walking up to someone and saying "tell me what you know", to breaking them down not with subtlety and persuasion but with evidence and force of will.
It's probably still a few hours before the bartender leaves work, so in the meanwhile I look over the notes I apparently left for myself, at the timestamps and cryptic thoughts. Looks like Kat did indeed come into the bar, around midday, and talked to the bartender for a while. She hung out for a while, ate lunch, and then left with a tall man in a hat and a grey hoodie who came in, said a few words to her.
The bartender gets off work at around ten; she stays to have a couple drinks before leaving via the back. I let her get a few steps in, emerge from my hiding spot, and say, "Hey. We need to talk."
She's not that much taller than me, and in the dark I don't think she recognizes me at first. I have her phone play the captured audio of her talking to her coworker: "You remember that girl who came in here? . . . Just wondering if I should call Singer."
I can't quite read her face, but her body language sags. "How did you . . ." She shakes her head, steels herself. "What are you, some kind of cop?"
"You shitting me? You think cops care about evidence?" I shake my head. "I'm just looking for Kat. I need to know what happened to her."
"Or what?"
"Look. This can go two ways. You help me out, I'll help you patch the exploits I used to get this info in the first place." I can't help her get better at spotting pickpockets, but she doesn't need to think about that just now. "Then I fuck off and you never hear from me again."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I feed what I know to the cops, and we see how they feel about you helping disappear a city corp citizen."
"I didn't--that's not--"
"You think they care?"
She sighs. "You're a real piece of shit, you know that?"
I say nothing. Silence is always a useful tool to keep around.
"Fine. What do you want to know?"
"Tell me everything. And before you consider making things up, remember: you don't know how much I already know." I know very little, but . . . well. Some people seem easier to bluff than others.
Another sigh. "All right. So, the other day I got a message from Singer."
This happens, not a lot, but once or twice a year. Singer, she explains when I press for details, is "just someone who helps people escape." I find this suspect but also see no point in arguing. The bartender, at least, asserts that she has almost no contact with him directly; the bar is just a place for them to wait for his driver to show up.
It's convenient because the surveillance cameras on the streets downtown have been tampered with, and the bar's running theirs privately, so if anyone were trying to track either the driver or the person trying to escape, they can make that transfer without attracting attention. Singer also has the people he is helping ask someone for a music venue in town rather than giving them a location to search for, so the rendezvous point is not digitally logged anywhere. "And nowhere else in town plays live music, so there's no chance of confusion," the bartender tells me. I don't think I'll ever get used to small towns.
There was nothing unusual about this particular visit. Kat showed up, identified herself with the expected passphrase, and the bartender gave her drinks and a meal while she waited. "I don't really do much," she says. "Just make sure the rendezvous goes smoothly. And if anyone comes sniffing around--and you're the first person who ever has--I'm supposed to, you know. Make sure they don't interfere."
She knows the driver, apparently--not by name, but she's chatted with him a few times. He drives them to Coulee City and makes another drop there with a driver who, he thinks, works directly for Singer.
Quite the little setup. "How was she, though?" I ask. Not sure what compels me to--curiosity, I suppose.
"What do you care?"
"Look. I'm just an investigator. Her sister is worried and wants to know where she is. I'm not taking anyone anywhere they don't want to go."
She's trying to decide whether to believe me, eventually decides there's no harm in it. "She seemed . . . fine. Guarded. A little agitated. I figure that's normal. We just talked about bands we liked, mostly so I could keep her mind off it." She meets my eye. "It's scary, leaving everything behind. You know? Sometimes you have to cut people off who care about you."
I shrug. "And you really don't know anything else about Singer?"
"I really don't. He sends cash by courier. I think even the contact number I have for him isn't actually him. I don't think he trusts many people."
"Mm. You know what the best part is about working for myself? I don't have to worry about whether my boss is secretly fucked up." I already know she is. I turn to make my exit.
"Hold up. You said you'd patch those security holes, or whatever." She runs to catch up to me.
"Oh. Right. Change your passwords and update your firmware."
"That's it?"
"Sorry. Didn't really have to work for it." I keep walking, and after a moment she once again runs to catch up.
"All I have to do is warn Singer you're coming and you will never fucking find her. Come on."
"Tell you what. If I find her, I'll come back and give you some proper consulting on your security. Walk you through exactly what I did."
"Whatever." This time when I walk away she stays behind.
I'm barely back in the car when I get a call from her--the number she thinks is Singer. Shit. I hand the phone to Era. "You gotta . . . she thinks this is Singer's number."
She shrugs, answers the phone, and injects a little edge into her voice. "Yeah?"
"Hey. It's about that girl you sent here."
"Yeah?"
"Some investigator's been sniffing around. Pretty sure she's going to trace her to . . . wherever she's going."
"I'll take care of it. Anything else?"
"No. That's it."
"Got it." Era hangs up.
Coulee City's barely a town--a few hundred people at a crossroads between two old state routes, a handful of farms. Not quite off the grid, but far enough from the big corporate towns that it's easy enough to disappear there. It's about an hour and a half by car--I tell Era we'll make another early morning of it, and then, thinking of the notes earlier, I write down what I learned. It's messy and disorganized, like the notes I found open for me earlier, but it's something. If I forget--when I forget--it'll be easier for me to piece together what happened.
I've lost an entire day. I awaken from a dream I can't remember in a room I don't recognize; it's dark, about four AM. It looks like a motel room--they all look the fucking same. I don't know where Era is. The other bed looks slept in but there's nobody there.
Nothing else to do but see if I can piece together what happened. I pull up my screen. I kept notes, at least. And accompanying the notes from the day, text:
There's so much poetry in these old state routes. Tracing the contours of the Cascades, through the canyons, along the scablands . . . God. You don't feel really alive until you've left all the pines behind, rounded that corner and found just nothing but sage and cheatgrass and tumbleweeds as far as the eye can see. And yes, the desert is flat and featureless and boring, and just cutting a straight line through endless fields isn't the most exciting drive, but holy shit. That contrast. Like you can find the line and stand one foot in the forest, the other in the desert. I will never get over that.
It's so hot here. We got out of the car in Coulee City, along the shore of Banks Lake, and I'm not sure I'd ever really felt a hot wind before. It's so strange, so dry. The feeling of it in my hair, in my face . . . it's peaceful. I'm not used to peaceful. There's nothing here for miles.
Probably should have been working while we drove but I really enjoyed just driving through the scablands with the windows down singing along to the music. I should sing more. I think people are meant to sing.
Then a block away from the lake it's just ugly buildings with corrugated steel roofs and you can't even see the desert anymore. Just poorly maintained lawns and the odd tree. Easy to remember why I don't like it here. They drown the horizon and hide from the wilds.
It's actually kind of sad how easy it was to track down the driver. There's not a lot of watering holes in town and all I had to do was make them think I might be a cop, and they were more than eager to help. Got about half a dozen candidates, and we found the guy on our third interview. Met him at a little cafe overlooking the lake.
There's video and a timestamp. I pull that up--we're sitting outside drinking coffee. The driver is an unremarkable-looking fellow, a little taller than average, bad posture. I can't tell if he's uncomfortable talking to me or if he just normally sits like that.
I'm sitting upright, looking polite and attentive--an interviewer's posture. I wonder how often I normally sit like that. "So. Tell me about the person you delivered Kat to. You see her regularly?"
"Every time someone comes through. I don't know anything about her, though," he's saying. "Just that she won't let me drive her car. I asked."
"You make it all sound very normal."
"We're not doing anything illegal," he's saying. It's conversational, not defensive. "Sometimes people just want to disappear. I like helping people, and I like driving."
"You're not worried someone might come after them?" My voice is curious here, not accusing. We might as well be talking about the car.
"Nah. Look, Singer's paranoid, I'll grant you. But you think I'd drive someone anywhere if I thought they were, you know, being coerced? Hell, there's only room for one passenger in my car. Kat was just fine. Nervous, but, you know, more a moving to a new city kind of nervous."
"And another driver comes and picks them up, so you don't know where they go from here?"
"Nope. Wouldn't tell you if I did, either. I'm helping them get away, remember?"
"Fair enough." I give Era a look I can't quite read here. "Well, I appreciate your time. I think I'll call it a day--tell my client her sister is safe and doesn't wish to return home. But before I go, I think my friend here would kill me if I don't ask if we can look at your car."
Era takes it in stride--or did we plan this in advance? "Would love to see what you're driving," she says.
"Oh, my car's nothing special. You should see what Singer's driver has though."
"Oh?"
He pulls out his phone and shows her a picture. Era raises an eyebrow, which is about as enthusiastic as she ever gets. "I'll be damned. Never thought I'd see one on this side of the Atlantic."
"I always ask if I can take it for a spin. Hell, I'd even let her drive. But I don't think she wants to make friends."
The notes from around this time also feature the make and model of the car, and a photo from Era. I tune out the rest of their conversation and skim through the rest of the notes.
There's another block of text.
South along the highway, along the canyons, the sun setting beyond the mountains. I'd never looked at the maps here--maybe I've never looked at any maps, I don't know. The freeway chases the canyon, chases the lakes . . . I heard it was all carved by some catastrophic floods thousands and thousands of years ago. You can almost see it here. It's powerful. And then the land flattens out and there's all these abandoned factories and warehouses and farmhouses . . . like the desolation of the desert finally reached civilization.
This is where you go to disappear. Is that what brought us here?
The door opens. I freeze, my heart pounding, and from the doorway Era says, "What are you doing up?"
I make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Just . . . looking over my notes."
"Since when do you keep notes?"
I shrug. "I'm trying something new."
"Seriously though. You good?"
"No, but I don't need to be." I return my attention to the notes. Knowing the car was the key to tracking her down--social media posts from car enthusiasts pinpointed it around Moses Lake, and I apparently found some traffic camera footage confirming it left and entered town around the time we'd have expected based on Kat's known movements. About four days ago. "I don't suppose I had any brilliant ideas about how to track her down once we get here?"
"Not that you said out loud, anyway." She sits down on the other bed. "Go back to sleep. It can wait until morning."
I can't sleep, of course. I lie down and close my eyes and let my thoughts keep racing, an endless loop of half-formed anxieties, trying to figure out how to find someone in this town.
Moses Lake has a population in the tens of thousands; cheap land and electricity made it a popular site for corporations to offload their server farms and warehouses, and when there was still a federal government to provide them, renewable energy subsidies bolstered the local economy with several impressive factories on the outskirts. The slow collapse of that, and the ongoing automation of farm and factory labor, saw that little economic boom turn into a bust, and now it's a depressed town full of empty buildings and lost hopes. This is where you go to disappear, indeed. I can only hope the trail ends here.
Era stirs a few hours later and wakes me up--I must have finally drifted off. I feel groggy, but that's an improvement over the last several times I've woken up. I'll take it.
My jacket's hanging off the end of the bed. I fumble around in the pocket for my little black box, and take that in my hands and turn it over. I could canvas the town for the car; I could beg, borrow, or steal my way into the local security network and see if I can track its movements; but all of that takes time. We're late as it is. And I have the services of the Pythian Oracle.
[hey bestie. funny story, i was actually thinking about your little case.]
I haven't activated the device yet. [go on.]
[just thinking. that little toy zoya said kat has. sounds familiar, you know?]
A little black box that breaks security and gets you the information you need? I think I see her point. [need you to find where this car went.] I thumb the device on. [and if you happen to know if kat left town]
[yeah yeah. gonna warn you, i don't know this town. might not be able to cover my tracks.]
Given what she just brought up--Kat's "toy", as she put it--that's concerning, but, [in for a penny, in for a pound.]
[cool just wanted you to know]
I sit upright. "Hey, you up?"
"Yeah." Era stretches. "You doing all right?"
"Doesn't matter. I've got a plan."
She sighs. "Listen, sorry to break character and all, but you really should value yourself a little more. Like. Just a non-zero amount."
"I'll consider it."
The plan, while I wait for Oracle to do whatever it is she does, is to get access to the surveillance net. I have some stolen credentials from a citycorp inspector to use here--this will probably burn them within a day or two but that's plenty of time to install a backdoor. In a real city this would never fly, but security practices tend to be a little lax out in these smaller towns. All they care about here is the server farms.
My inspector credentials earn me a quick audience with the local surveillance chief, an older gentleman who is as eager to help as he is to share stories about the good old days. He's telling me about how he helped manage the transition from the old pre-corporate system, and I make a note to revisit this when I have time because it sounds fascinating, but I'm not really paying attention. Too busy planning how to make sure I can get back in once they realize these credentials are stolen. So I almost miss when he says, "Sure you can't say what you're looking for, miss? Might be I can help."
I'm almost tempted, but my client asked for no police involvement. "Sorry, it's confidential. Above my pay grade."
He sighs. "Not your fault, miss. You want my advice, you ask your superiors to let you share that with us. It'll make your job a lot easier."
"I'll see what I can do," I tell him. "But you've been a big help already. Thank you."
No word yet from Oracle--I've left her little black box stashed in the car for now--so I decide to head back to the motel and do some legwork from there. But when I get outside, there is a car waiting, blocking off our parking spot. And I don't have to be a car person to recognize it's the one we're looking for.
A door opens. "Get in. Both of you."
"She's just the driver. You're looking for me."
The sound of quiet voices conferring within the car. Then, "Fine by me. We will use lethal force if you try anything stupid."
Era looks like she's about to say something, so I cut her off. "You heard the lady. Sit tight. Get some lunch."
"You're the boss."
I get in the car. I can't see the driver, but there is a woman in a black suit in the back of the car, a pistol in one hand and a truncheon in the other. She points the gun at me, by way of greeting, and says, "Drive."
"So," I say. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Don't be smart." She lowers the gun. "Just stay quiet. Boss wants to talk to you."
"Singer?"
"I said be quiet."
A message from Oracle. [hey just so you know this wasn't me. looks like they were tracking you before i went live. i think they saw me go live and panicked for some reason? so maybe that is my fault? still not apologizing though]
I open my mouth to say something and she swings the truncheon and hits me, once in the collarbone, once in the gut. The pain steals from the first blow turns whatever I had to say into a shapeless scream and the second leaves me retching and gasping for breath.
"I said be quiet," she repeats. What can I do but obey?
The rest of the ride passes in silence. We arrive at what looks to be an abandoned warehouse, and she drags me from the car, hits me a dozen more times for good measure--arms and legs and back--so by the time I am guided into the building and into the little office where "the boss" can apparently be found, I've long since left my body behind. That poor frightened limping creature that is shoved into the office and directed to sit down isn't real. That fear and pain is someone else's.
The enforcer runs a scanner over me, announces, "She's clean," then steps outside, leaving me alone with the person I can only assume is in charge here. The boss is an older woman who smiles warmly at me from behind her desk. "Sorry about the rough treatment. It's important that you understand who you're dealing with." When I say nothing in response, she clarifies. "We are people who can hurt you very badly. You needn't worry about the details. But, fortunately, I think we can work together."
I remain silent.
"You're looking for a young woman who has something that belongs to us. A very powerful device. She had agreed to deliver it to us, but, well, sometimes things don't go to plan. She decided she no longer trusted us, and when she was meant to complete the delivery, she instead used the device to disable our network, incapacitated our courier, and stole her gun." She offers something that is probably meant to be an embarrassed smile. "We're not sure where she's gone, and frankly we'd rather not risk any of our own people retrieving her."
My distant awareness that she is expecting a response here finally catches up with my body. "So you want me to find her?"
"Just the device. We think she's activated it again. There is a lot of . . . suspicious network activity. I won't bore you with the details."
[pretty sure that was me actually]
"So, here's the offer. Track her down, and give us the device, and we'll pretend we never met. You can take her back to Seattle or whatever it is you're planning to do. And so long as we don't see you back here sticking your nose into our affairs again, we're even."
And to my continued silence, she says, "And I'm sure I don't need to tell you what happens if you let us down."
"I'll do what I can," I say.
"That's the spirit." She stands up and helps me to my feet, then claps me on the back, sending fresh waves of pain through my body. I buckle to my knees. "Good luck out there."
Era picks me up about twenty minutes after the enforcer leads me outside. I don't remember calling her. She helps me into the car then hands me a takeout box of teriyaki. "Eat. You can worry about . . . whatever the fuck you're planning on doing later."
I eat, and I take notes, and I can't stop my brain from planning. The boss gave me a timeline, and with the access I have to the surveillance net that should be enough to track Kat, so long as she's still in town. Food makes me feel a little more real--food, and the rhythm of the road. There isn't really a way to sit that doesn't hurt, but it's starting to feel like my pain, in my body, and maybe that's an improvement.
I'm able to find footage of the meeting that went wrong, at least. Shortly after Kat arrived in town, she was taken to an unremarkable looking house overlooking the lake. A brief conversation ensued; the woman in black drew a gun on Kat, and at that moment . . . just sort of collapsed, firing the pistol as she went down, after which Kat snatched the pistol and ran off, limping, to the north.
I was a little worried the device she used would create gaps in the surveillance net--something I know Oracle is capable of, at the very least--but either it doesn't have that capacity or Kat chose not to use it. Her escape route seemed calculated to throw off pursuit, but the surveillance net captured it all. Stopping into a convenience store, stopping at a park to bandage a wound on her leg--looks like the bullet grazed her--and then, finally, arriving at her final destination.
There's a little municipal airport just outside of town, not much more than a landing strip, a place to fuel up, and rows upon rows of hangars, next to a city water facility. Is that deliberate, I wonder? Proximity to the network? Or is it just a good place to hide?
"All right," I say. "Municipal airport. Looks like Kat's holed up in one of the hangars."
Era gives me a look, but doesn't complain. She's used to my bullshit, I suppose. We drive up to the airport, down the dusty gravel road that leads to the hangars, and pull up to the one that Kat is--should be--still hiding in.
I knock on the door and call out her name; I'm greeted by the sound of a gunshot.
"Second shot won't be a warning," she calls.
I sigh. "Your sister sent me."
A long silence, then a click at the door. "Come in with your hands where I can see them."
She is training a pistol on me when I enter; I think the fact that I am in obvious pain softens her resolve to murder me if I look threatening. "You here to drag me back to Seattle?"
"If you want. Can also just leave you here. Or drop you off somewhere on our way back. Or if you have money, pretty much anywhere you want."
"Do I look like I have money?" She doesn't. She looks like she's been living in a dusty hangar for the past few days. Her hands are shaking from hunger.
"You look like you could use something to eat." I turn back to face the exit and raise my voice. "Hey Era. You still got snacks in the car?"
"Yeah." Era tosses a box of granola bars in through the door, and I kick it towards Kat. She picks it up and, after a moment's hesitation, sets the gun down and opens up a bar.
I gradually lower my hands. "I should let you know, the people you didn't give that device to are threatening to murder me if I don't get it back from you."
"Great. Love that for me."
"So if you could tell me everything you know, that will make my life a lot easier."
"So they definitely tracked you here?"
"I'd assume so. They probably would have tracked you down themselves but they didn't want to risk anyone getting shot."
She sighs. "Any port in a storm, I guess."
She wanted to get away. Not just out of the city, out of the continent altogether. And after a while of digging, she found someone who said he'd help--a passport and a flight across the Atlantic--if she'd just help steal a little device for him using her sister's security credentials.
"He likes using lots of people, as you probably figured out. All I had to do was show up and pick up the parcel. And he told me not to look into it but I think he thought I was too stupid to actually figure it out." But figure it out she did--with a little help from some friends--and that spooked her enough that she tried to offload it. A top secret prototype. "Some kind of reverse engineering? They stole some lab notes from somewhere--some AI research division in Boston, I think--and tried to recreate that." The sort of thing that the corporations would probably kill you for having. The sort of thing that would be a disaster if it fell into the wrong hands. I have a suspicion I know exactly which lab those notes came from. I've never been there, but I see it in my dreams.
So she tried to offload it on her new friends, because she was panicking, and when that failed, she kept her head down and followed the advice of her new patron to act like everything was normal and just disappear when the time came. It would be someone else's problem in a few days; all she had to do was get a bus ticket east and follow some directions. Easy.
But curiosity got the better of her on that canyon road south from Coulee City, and she found some messages that made her suspect that a passport and a plane out of here were not in the cards. And when she arrived and was asked to hand over the device, she demanded assurances, and was met with a gun.
"Dumb luck that it could shut down her augments, I guess. Bullet grazed me and I took the gun and ran for it. And now I'm here."
"What . . . exactly was your plan, from here?" I'm slipping into that voice I keep hearing myself use in recordings.
"I don't fucking know! It's an airport, right? Maybe I could talk my way onto a plane out of here. Or just stow away, or . . . I don't know. I don't know."
What's anyone's plan when they're cornered, I suppose, if not to run, and hide, and hope?
[hey bestie sorry to interrupt your conversation but i have a really fun and cool idea] I was wondering when Oracle was going to chime in.
[yeah?]
[plug me into that fucker]
[...yeah?]
[trust me it'll fucking rule]
I shrug. It's more painful than I'd like when the fabric of my shirt shifts against my bruises. "Hey Era. In the glove compartment there's a little black device. Looks like a phone but isn't. I need that."
"You got it, boss."
Kat gives me a suspicious look. "What's your plan?"
I hesitate. [just say you're installing a virus or something, that's basically what i am when you get down to it] "Gonna leave a little surprise for our hosts."
She narrows her eyes. "I didn't say you could have it."
"They will hunt you and me both down until we are dead."
She frowns. "Can I use it as payment?"
"What?"
"You said you could give me a ride somewhere if I have money. Can I use this instead?"
From behind me, Era says, "I got at least another week before work needs me back." She hands me Oracle's device. I shrug, and try not to wince. "Fine. I need a vacation anyway."
She hands me a messenger bag. I connect the two devices together. I'm expecting something here, but there's nothing, just silence until, finally, I get the text [got it]. And that's that.
I step outside, the now-compromised device in hand, and hold it aloft so any nearby surveillance devices can see it before leaving it in the dirt. I send a message to the number the boss left me. [got the device. leaving it at the airport--can't bring myself to trust you for some reason.]
One last task before my job's completed. "Oh yeah, Kat. I have a message for you from your sister." I run a scan on the file. "Short video message . . . infested with viruses, looks like. Rude. You want it?"
"No."
Then once we are in the car--Kat takes the front seat and I am in the back--I finally send a message to my client. [found your sister. she is currently in moses lake. she has declined our offer to give her a ride home.] I attach a photograph from the hangar's interior as proof. [i expect to be paid in full.]
[Did you give her my message?]
[she declined receipt. probably because of the viruses.]
My client doesn't respond, but she does wire the rest of the payment. With luck it will be enough to cover the costs of this detour we're taking.
We hit the freeway, eastbound, the windows down and the music blaring. It's a flat and featureless road, just mile upon mile of uninterrupted farmland, and the hot summer air in my face comes as nothing but relief. For once, I take my own advice, and I sing. People are meant to sing.