So Yesterday - By Scott Westerfeld Page 0,68

followed, were you?"

"Don't think so. Walked up through Stuyvesant Town, then back down along the river. Not much cover in Stuy Town."

"Good thinking."

"Roger that."

She smiled, said, "Roger this," and handed me the binoculars.

They were heavy, military, camo-printed. Our fingertips touched for a moment.

The waterfront jumped into detail before my eyes, every quiver of my hands amplified into an earthquake. I steadied my grip, following a bicyclist along the Brooklyn Promenade.

"What am I looking for?"

"Check out the Domino Sugar factory."

I swept ahead of the bicycle, everything a blur with my speed. Then the familiar, long-stained factory walls flashed across my view. I backtracked, found the unlit neon letters of the name, the diagonal sugar chute that connected two buildings. Finally, a small, empty lot between the factory and the river.

"Rental trucks," I said softly. A few figures moved between the trucks and an open loading dock. "Jen, did you ever trace the license number of the truck we saw in front of the abandoned building?"

"Uh, no. Turns out I have no idea how to do that."

"Me neither. But... have you ever seen professional movers wearing all black? In summer?"

"Never. And see how they're parked? All squeezed up against the wall like that, so you can't see them from the street."

I lowered the binoculars. The trucks were grains of yellow rice to the naked eye, the human figures no bigger than iron filings moved by a hidden magnet. "They weren't expecting anyone to be watching them from Manhattan."

"Yeah, those field glasses were fourteen hundred bucks. Former Soviet Union military. But the guy said I can return them tomorrow if I don't like them."

"Jesus, Jen." I handed the binoculars back very carefully.

She raised them to her eyes, leaned against the railing, the binoculars' neck strap dangling over the water now. "The client must have coughed up some serious cash for the shoes. I heard they were turning those buildings into residential condos. Beautiful Manhattan views at a million a pop."

"Not all of them, apparently. My guess is that they've got a TV studio in their part of the factory, an editing suite at least, and who knows what else. So the Jammers are probably zoned light industrial."

She smiled. "Postindustrial, you mean."

"Postapocalyptic."

"Not yet. But give them time."

We stood there in silence for a while, Jen following the movements across the river carefully, me just glad to be there - analyzing how the Brooklyn waterfront had changed over the years, watching Jen's buzzed hair ruffle in the wind, liking the way it felt to be beside her, even if this was as close as we'd get from now on. j

"How do you like your jacket? ' she said.

"My what?" Then a strobe of recognition flickered in my brain. I reached out, touching the black, silken surface with its pattern of tiny fleur-de-lis. It was the lining of my thousand-dollar disaster, now on the outside. The horrendous rip was gone, along with the sleeves, the seams re-sewn to pull the jacket's elegant lines into its new inside-out configuration.

"Whoa."

"Try it on." She slipped out of it.

It fit me as beautifully as it had two nights ago. Slightly better, as things sometimes do when they're inside out. And this new jacket - unexpectedly sleeveless, silken ersatz Japanese, and bow-tie resistant - didn't belong to the non-Hunter; it was all me. "Gorgeous."

"Glad you like it. Took all night."

Her hands felt the seams down the sides, ran across the breast pocket (originally inside, now out), felt the fit across the shoulders. Then they slipped around my waist.

"I'm sorry, Hunter."

I breathed out slowly, looking into her green eyes. Relief flooded through me, as if some terrible test were over. "Me too."

She looked away. "You weren't the one being a bitch."

"You were just telling the truth. Possibly in a bitchy way, but the truth. I watch too much. Think too much."

"It's what you do. And you do it in a really cool way. I like the stuff in your brain."

"Yeah, Jen, but you want to change things - and not just how people tie their shoes."

"So do you." She turned to look out across the river. "You were just trying to make me feel better yesterday, pretending the Jammers weren't such a big deal. Weren't you?"

"Not exactly." I took a deep breath, because in between crippling bouts of feeling sorry for myself all night, I'd actually thought about this. "Jen, I'm not sure about the Jammers. I think they shoot for easy targets. And they take risks with other people's