the little abandoned towns. Straight shot, with the dosimeters clicking and vintage rock-and-roll jamming in the helmet speakers and the Kawasaki purring, thrusting, eager to spring and run.
There were worse days to be alive.
She dropped it to fourth and throttled back coming up on that flyover, the big one where the Phoenix to Reno highway crossed the one that used to run LA to Salt Lake, when there was an LA to speak of. Patch had said flyover’s down, which could mean unsafe for transit and could mean littering the freeway underneath with blocks of concrete the size of a semi, and Harrie had no interest in finding out which it was with no room left to brake. She adjusted the volume on her music down as the rush of wind abated, and took the opportunity to glance around a bit.
And swore softly into her air filter, slowing further before she realized she’d let the throttle slip.
Something—no, someone—leaned against a shotgunned, paint-peeled sign that might have given a speed limit once, when there was anyone to care about such things.
Her dosimeters clicked aggressively as she let the bike roll closer to the verge. She shouldn’t stop. But it was a death sentence, being alone and on foot out here. Even if the sun weren’t climbing the sky, sweat rolling from under Harrie’s helmet, adhering her leathers to her skin.
She was almost stopped by the time she realized she knew him. Knew his ocher skin and his natty pinstriped double-breasted suit and his fedora, tilted just so, and the cordovan gleam of his loafers. For one mad moment, she wished she carried a gun.
Not that a gun would help her. Even if she decided to swallow a bullet herself.
“Nick.” She put the bike in neutral, dropping her feet as it rolled to a stop. “Fancy meeting you in the middle of Hell.”
“I got some papers for you to sign, Harrie.” He pushed his fedora back over his hollow-cheeked face. “You got a pen?”
“You know I do.” She unzipped her pocket and fished out the Cross. “I wouldn’t lend a fountain pen to just anybody.”
He nodded, leaning back against a K-rail so he could kick a knee up and spread his papers out over it. He accepted the pen. “You know your note’s about come due.”
“Nick—”
“No whining now,” he said. “Didn’t I hold up my end of the bargain? Have you ditched your bike since last we talked?”
“No, Nick.” Crestfallen.
“Had it stolen? Been stranded? Missed a timetable?”
“I’m about to miss one now if you don’t hurry up with my pen.” She held her hand out imperiously; not terribly convincing, but the best she could do under the circumstances.
“Mmm hmmm.” He was taking his own sweet time.
Perversely, the knowledge settled her. “If the debt’s due, have you come to collect?”
“I’ve come to offer you a chance to renegotiate,” he said, and capped the pen, and handed it back. “I’ve got a job for you; could buy you a few more years if you play your cards right.”
She laughed in his face and zipped the pen away. “A few more years?” But he nodded, lips pressed thin and serious, and she blinked and went serious too. “You mean it.”
“I never offer what I’m not prepared to give,” he said, and scratched the tip of his nose with his thumbnail. “What say, oh—three more years?”
“Three’s not very much.” The breeze shifted. Her dosimeters crackled. “Ten’s not very much, now that I’m looking back on it.”
“Goes by quick, don’t it?” He shrugged. “All right. Seven—”
“For what?”
“What do you mean?” She could have laughed again, at the transparent and oh-so-calculated guilelessness in his eyes.
“I mean, what is it you want me to do for seven more years of protection.” The bike was heavy, but she wasn’t about to kick the sidestand down. “I’m sure it’s bad news for somebody.”
“It always is.” But he tipped the brim of his hat down a centimeter and gestured to her saddlebag, negligently. “I just want a moment with what you’ve got there in that bag.”
“Huh.” She turned over her own shoulder to glance down at her cargo, pursing her lips. “That’s a strange thing to ask. What would you want with a box full of research cells?”
He straightened away from the sign he was holding up and came a step closer. “That’s not so much yours to worry about, young lady. Give it to me, and you get seven years. If you don’t—the note’s up next week, isn’t it?”