"Who's asking?"
"You're going to D-9," she said. Not a question.
I stared at her. Then at the slate. Then at the poly track stretching ahead, its amber lights winking like slow, sleepy fireflies.
"Someone who needs to stop you." She reached into her lab coat. I tensed, hand drifting to the tire iron under my seat. But she pulled out a data slate, cracked and taped at the corners. On its screen was a live feed: Facility D-9, surrounded by Enforcement Union vans. Red lights. Hazmat suits.
She climbed into the passenger seat, smelling of ozone and wet wool. I killed my headlights. The poly track went dark.
I lit another cigarette and drove into the dark. Ahead, a single red light blinked somewhere far below—a signal that wasn't on any chart. A way out.
She walked to my window. I rolled it down a crack.
The woman smiled. "Welcome to the real poly track, driver. The one they don't want anyone to know about."
