San Diego is not Topeka or Boston. I keep my head down, my pack gripped tight, trying to pretend that my heart isn't pounding in my ears. I stay with the departing crowds, moving quickly, making a straight shot to the exit to find the CabBots, hoping the guards weren't really after me and will soon discover their mistake.
As soon as I step through the doors of the tunnel that leads out of the station, I am struck with the deafening clatter of rain. A few travelers hesitate in the protection of the overhang, but then they move forward, stepping into cars that speed forward to get them, or they disappear into the dark sheets of rain with fist-sized umbrellas they have pulled from their pockets.
I step off to the side and rifle through my pack. At the last minute, Miesha threw in a small black cylindrical package she plucked from a bin. A Bot at a nearby kiosk wrin
kled her nose and called to us, "No one takes those. We have real coats over here. Much nicer for citizens of your status--"
Miesha dismissed her and said to me, "Government issue. Free. Superficial stab at public display of charity. Most citizens won't touch them, but I'm not too proud, and you shouldn't be, either. They're designed to adapt to whatever the weather is, and that makes them better than any so-called fashionable protection."
"But those are for--"
Miesha cut Dot off. "They're for anyone. My husband wore one. I know they work." And plunk, it went into my pack. Miesha knows me. I don't need or even care about fashion--just protection. I may have a lot of CabBots to talk to before I find one who can help me.
I find the five-inch cylinder at the bottom of my pack and read the words on the outside of the package for the first time. Not for resale. Benevolent Protection Program. National Offices of Human Welfare. I pull the tab, wondering how much coat there could really be in such a small package, but anything is better than what I have right now.
Slick black fabric immediately unfolds. I shake it out, surprised to see that it really is a full-length coat with a hood that slips out of a hidden seam. I put it on and feel the warmth almost instantly. Miesha is right--fashion or not, they do work. I turn to pick up my pack and catch my reflection in the glass door behind me. I stop, frozen by my image--ghostly in the glass, but oddly familiar. I step closer to be sure, and see someone who is not quite me staring back. Her husband wore one. The wind catches the black fabric, whipping it around my legs, making it flap like it's alive. Like a bird. Like a raven. Like something with broken wings trying to fly.
Like something dark and dangerous.
I pull the hood over my head and step out into the night. It's time to find Jenna before Kara does.
Chapter 39
The line of CabBots is short. Seven or eight at most. I walk to the last cab, and a line tender waves and yells at me, "Front of the line! Front of the line!"
I ignore him and bend down to the driver, who opens his window. "I'm looking for a Mr. F."
"Is that a new restaurant? I don't have it in my database."
I shake my head and move on to the next one, repeating my question. The line tender is still yelling at me but not moving from his podium that is sheltered from the rain. The CabBot shakes his head no, and I move on.
The third CabBot lowers his window when I knock. "Go to the front of the line," he says.
"I'm looking for a Mr. F. Can you help me?"
He smiles and nods, but it's a smile that makes me uneasy. Not like Dot's. It is slow and dawning, and distant. He turns back to his panel, pressing a spot that expands and blinks. "We got ourselves a Runner here. Come pick him up." He reaches out and locks his hand around my wrist.
"What--" I try to pull away, but his grip is like an iron cuff.
His distant smile returns. "You think we don't know their code words? I get points for every one of you I turn in. Five more, and I get legs."
I feel a rush, my head flooding with my own dawning realization. Never show your weakness. I put my foot up against the side of the cab for leverage as I return his grip, grabbing his wrist with my hand. "You better use those points for arms," I tell him. There is only a split second of confusion on his face before I pull, forcing my weight with whatever inhuman strength Gatsbro and BioPerfect gave me in one direction--away.
There's a quick pop, and then as I twist sharply, the artificial flesh tears, and the exposed blinking tendons hiss and crackle. The horror on his face is only a flash, because I am already running into the night, his arm attached to mine. I conceal the ripped arm beneath my coat, blindly running into the dark, and soon I'm swallowed up by pounding rain and the unknown. Needles of rain sting my eyes as I look for any sign of stars or moon for direction, but there is none, so I just run and never look back, the Bot's hand still gripping my wrist.
Chapter 40
Where are the stars?
You can make it a few more miles. Just a few more.
My pace slows with each step. I ran for the first hour without stopping. Like a bat out of hell, my dad would say. That pretty much describes it. I'd still run if I could, but running was not something I ever trained for. For the last two hours, all I've been able to manage is a steady walk. I spot a dark storefront doorway to duck into and rest. I eat a protein cake and swig down a bottle of energy water in two gulps. At a time like this, I could curse Gatsbro for making me way too human, but instead the weakness of my hunger strengthens me. It's a reminder that I'm right. I eat, therefore I am. I'm human. I am one of the Eaters and Breathers.
So is Kara. Has she eaten? She ran off without any money. If not for Miesha's money card, I would have nothing either. Is Kara hungry and huddled in some dark corner too, but without any food? How is she surviving? But Kara is resourceful--and determined. She will find a way. I have to believe that.
I finish the cake; the Bot arm is still attached to mine, and that is my next task. I rummage through my pack with my free hand and find the Swiss Army knife. It was another thing Miesha gave me at the station. "It used to belong to my husband," she said. "It's all I have left of his. He had lent it to a friend, and the friend saved it for me all those years I was in prison. It got Karden out of more than one jam. Put it in your pack."
I knew the knife meant a lot to Miesha, but I took it anyway. I need all the help I can get. It's already gotten me out of one jam by destroying the iScroll. I hope it can handle a Bot arm too. I examine the knife more closely. It has several different tools, some the same as the ones on my grandfather's knife, but also a few that I don't recognize. I decide to stick with the old-fashioned blade. I begin prying and cutting away the arm, piece by piece, finger by finger, sometimes digging into my own wrist to accomplish it. Beads of blood form where I dig too deeply. Eat your points, dirtbag. I finally break his greasy thumb loose, and the arm falls to the ground.