Normally the trash dispensers came through and destroyed the garbage nightly, but they must not have come through yet. She leaped over the waste, smelling offal and excrement and blood. The end of the alley branched off into three separate passages. She shot left, trying to keep buildings between her and her pursuers.
The bag slammed against her back as she ran. She wasn’t going to make it if she didn’t ditch it. She rounded a corner, then another, heading deep into the labyrinth of residential complexes. She turned every chance she got so she wouldn’t be in the men’s direct line of sight.
Her lungs gulped for air. Why did they want her? What had she done wrong? Did they know she’d taken a break from her work and explored under the man’s living pod?
Her foot skidded on something slimy in the trash heaps, and she went down hard on her back. The bag swung to the side, the strap twisting on her neck. Up ahead she saw an alcove in the wall, an old battered metal door without an electronic lock. She scrabbled to her feet and ran for it. She pushed its battered handbar, but it was locked. She ran ahead, pressed against the wall behind a mound of trash, and listened. The footsteps were close, but she’d gained ground on her pursuers. They must have taken a few wrong turns. She kept running, turning left and right so many times, she knew she’d have to use her PRD if she ever wanted to navigate back to her quarters.
Then it hit her.
She could never go back to her quarters.
Her life as she’d known it was over.
If these men caught her, she would never be the same again. She’d be one of those wiped automatons she’d seen in the underbelly of the warehouse she lived in. Button pushers. Vacant stares. Complacent. Unaware.
Panic bloomed in her chest, and suddenly she didn’t know where to go. She’d had nightmares like this before, running and running from some terrible evil, never able to gain enough ground. Never able to get away. She could hear the men’s footfalls, closer now, and she turned down another alley. At the end, an old metal door stood open a crack. She raced to it, finding it rusted and loose on its hinges. She didn’t know what lay beyond. But she had to stop, had to catch her breath and figure out where to go. She stepped into the shadows and quietly swung the door closed behind her. Her grasping hands found a deadbolt on the inside of the door, and she engaged it.
As blackness took over her world, she ran her hands along rough brick. She had her headlamp, but she didn’t dare switch it on. She didn’t want the men to see the light under the door. Her groping hands found another door, but it was locked. She heard the men run by. They didn’t try the door.
Her chest heaved, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her side burned with the effort of running. She slid her tool bag off her shoulder and felt around the contents. She tossed out as much as she could—her cleaning supplies went first, followed by the body bag. She kept the rope, the harness, her headlamp, her multitool. She could feel the cold, round discs she’d found, along with the small plastic and metal devices. She zipped them up safely in an inner pocket. Now her bag weighed much less, so she slung it over her head, then tightened the strap securely against her.
She listened, waiting for the men to come by again, terrified to hear the rattling of the doorknob as they tried it. But it didn’t come.
Her own body finally quieted, and her breathing eased. Her heart slowed. Then she heard something else. Someone was breathing, only feet away.
She grabbed her headlamp and flicked it on. Crouching against the same wall she leaned against was a male about her age. But she’d never seen anyone like him. He met her gaze, his blue eyes bright and sharp beneath a crop of short, spiky blond hair. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, as evidenced by the golden whiskers on his jawline. Colorful tattoos covered his tanned arms. She’d seen tattoos before, but they were always utilitarian, like marking the location of someone’s living pod. But these were elaborate, decorative . . . beautiful. His clothes were ragged and artistic, sewn together from different pieces of cloth. He wore knee-high black boots over a ripped pair of red pants, and a black tank top that clung to his muscular frame.
She stared, not saying a word.
He smiled.
She heard distant footsteps, and he brought one finger to his lips in the universal symbol for quiet. He reached out and touched the lamp she was holding. She switched it off. She could feel his warm fingers touching hers. The men ran by. This time they did try the door, rattling the doorknob. But the deadbolt held, and they moved on. She heard one shout, “Split up!” and the footsteps faded away, heading off in different directions. When they were gone, she switched the light back on. He removed his hand, stood up, and slung a tattered gray canvas backpack over one shoulder. Cautiously he went to the door. He opened it, glanced both ways, then turned to her.
She stared at him there in the doorway. His tanned face was not the lax, apathetic face of a citizen, and he had no head jack. He grinned at her once more and entered the alley, closing the door behind him.
She was too scared to move. She switched off her light and huddled in the darkness. Before long she realized he wasn’t coming back. She switched the deadbolt back to its locked position and waited.
Minutes dragged by. When a half hour had passed, she knew she’d eluded
