At the entrance to the locker facility was a keypad, and on the screen, four blanks.

  I glanced at the scrap Aiden had given me, and entered the four-digit number.

  The keypad beeped. The light turned green. And the door clicked.

  With my heart in my throat, I stepped inside.

  As expected, all along the wall were numbered lockers. Sure enough, one of them matched the three-digit number. Holding my breath, I entered the final number he’d given me. After I’d punched in the sixth digit, the lock clicked.

  I glanced around again. There was no one else in the room, though I had no doubt someone was watching the feed from the cameras above my head.

  With a shaky hand, I opened the door. The locker was empty except for an envelope. On the front of that was a handwritten K.

  I was sorely tempted to open it right then and there, but… not with those cameras over my head. Instead I tucked it into a pocket, closed the locker, and walked out.

  No one bothered me. All the way out of the hub, and on the cab ride home, I didn’t see a single cop. Somehow, that didn’t make me feel any better. I was being tracked and watched, but they didn’t just want to catch me with an incriminating note. They wanted me to lead them all the way to Aiden.

  So this was what paranoia felt like. What was that phrase? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you?

  Didn’t seem nearly as amusing as it used to.

  * * * *

  Alone in my apartment, standing at my kitchen counter with God only knew how many sets of eyes on me, I took the envelope out of my pocket. My stomach was sick, my heart thumping—I couldn’t begin to guess what this flimsy thing held, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to know.

  Nevertheless, I broke the seal and opened the flap. Inside was another scrap of paper, this one slightly larger and folded in half. As I unfolded it, I kept the edge curled over enough to obscure it from the cameras.

  Shaded by that edge was more of Aiden’s sharply-angled writing.

  I’m sorry. There’s so much I wish I could explain. You were being targeted—had to make them believe you were there against your will. They’ll follow you for a while, but will lose interest as long as you don’t do anything to make them suspicious.

  You won’t see me again.

  Stay in the New City.

  I won’t ever forget you.

  A.

  My throat constricted and my knees buckled. I grabbed onto the counter for balance, not sure if I was reeling more from the confirmation that the cops had been specifically after me that night, or from that one heart-stopping line.

  You won’t see me again.

  I folded the paper and tucked it back into my suit. Then I ran trembling fingers through my hair, my whole body starting to shake as reality set in. As I realized just how bad my situation could be. And how bad it was.

  I still had my job. My home. My freedom.

  If Aiden was caught, he’d face even more severe charges than I would have. Forcing a person into a wireless lounge, drugging them, raping them—each of those crimes alone carried penalties in the same class as a murder conviction. The gentlest sentence he could expect was castration and thirty years in a mining camp.

  And if I even tried to find him, I’d lead the cops right to him.

  Which meant it was over. His words were, more than anything he’d ever said to me, profoundly true:

  You won’t see me again.

  I slumped against the counter.

  Buried my face in my gloved hands.

  And cried.

  Chapter 21

  I didn’t know what to do with myself. Going through the motions should have gotten easier, but it didn’t. The methodical, mechanical routine of the simhouse didn’t make sense anymore.

  The nights in Aiden’s arms at the wireless lounge seemed less and less real with time. A period of dark oblivion divided the time we’d spent together from this existence without him, like I’d woken up from a dream and was only just beginning to accept that it had been a dream.

  But those nights were real, and though the memories were dreamlike, the effects ran deep. His existence, however briefly I’d known it, extended into every other aspect of my life like the cracks gradually splitting apart the parking garage above the first wireless lounge.

  Every day without Aiden only made the distance between me and everyone else that much wider. What had once been a comfortable space was now a deep, icy chasm, a constant reminder that I could never legally be that close to someone.

  Every time something brushed my suit, my skin crawled beneath it. The dull pressure of someone grazing my arm or my glove pressing against someone’s flesh as I prepared them for a sim session drove me insane. A touch without touching. Contact that wasn’t. Cold where there should have been warmth.

  Even sitting at a table with coworkers, or across from a woman on yet another government-arranged date, I felt miles away from everyone. Separated by space that couldn’t be crossed, knowing all too well what I was missing. Who I was missing.

  I was alone in a cold, touchless world. I was constantly monitored, and yet totally alone. Even a government-issued companion would never be—and could never be—what Aiden had been.

  I didn’t bother with suppressors. I couldn’t even perform for my sims. The fantasies I had were more likely to reduce me to tears than get me off—lying still, silent, and naked beneath a blanket with him. Maybe kissing, maybe not, but just being. Arms around each other. His foot running along the side of my calf like he just needed as much contact as possible.

  My entire body itched for contact. The interior of my insulated suit irritated nerve endings that ached for something warmer, softer. Every time I moved, I thought I’d lose my damned mind. Lying awake at night or standing numbly in the shower or trying like hell to get off during a sim, all I could think of was the thing I needed most: contact. For want of touching someone else’s, my skin threatened to turn inside out.

  This couldn’t continue. I needed to go back to the life Aiden had shown me. I needed to go back to Aiden. There was no straddling these two worlds anymore. It was one or the other, and I couldn’t cope with this one anymore.

  No two ways about it—I had to find Aiden.

  First, I had to deactivate the tracker in my chip. The fact that it was a felony to do so only mattered if the deactivation didn’t kill me, and that only mattered if I didn’t get myself killed on the way to or from getting it done. Considering the part of town I had to visit, that was a distinct possibility.

  But if I did, I’d lead the cops right to him. No matter where I ran, they’d find me. Before I made any other move, I needed to get to the slums on the other side of the city and find someone to deactivate this thing.

  But it had to be done because I needed to find Aiden.

  And as soon as I left the safety of my sector, there was no turning back. No stopping. If I stayed still for any length of time, I’d be found.

  Well, Borden—what’ll it be?

  I looked around my apartment, wondering when it had begun feeling like a prison cell. At this rate, a prison cell was my fate one way or another. Either I stayed in this place, or I took my chances and risked the real thing in exchange for the minute possibility that I might succeed, find Aiden, and have the life I was craving.

  Without a second thought, but with a pounding heart and sweaty palms, I walked out of my apartment and didn’t look back.

  * * * *

  Tucked behind the industrial sector, the slums in the westernmost end of the Western Quadrant were dangerous, but they were also filled with so much unfiltered electronic activity from the factories and plants, the police couldn’t track anyone digitally. That was why the slums had become so dangerous in the first place—fugitives and criminals flocked there to avoid detection.

  Out here, it was impossible to tell where Old City ended and New City began. Most of the buildings were crumbling relics of a bygone age, with makeshift renovations so they’d be somewhat livable. It was technically part of the Old City, existing just beyond the mech track. It was the only part of the Old City that was still legally populated. There was no telling how long that would last.

  Without the ability to track fugitives, the cops were out here in force. The distinctive white stripes on their black suits made them stand out even from a distance; it seemed foolhardy to be so conspicuous, but that was like a “fuck you” to the criminals.

  Yeah, you can see us. We don’t need to hide from you. We will find you.

  So I kept my head down and kept pace with everyone else on the crowded sidewalk. Didn’t walk faster, didn’t walk slower, just went with the flow so I didn’t draw any attention to myself.

  I’d never been closely involved with the underground, but I’d heard rumors of felons and fugitives finding merchants with legitimate front businesses and shadier operations in the back room. Considering every merchant out here looked like he was running a shady front business, I could only imagine what went on out of sight.

  The best place to find someone who could fuck with electronics seemed like someone who sold electronics, so I found a place that did. The shop smelled like mildew and burnt circuitry. A one-eyed man glared at me from behind the counter.

  “What do you want?” he muttered.

  “I’ve got a tracker activated in my chip. How do I get that deactivated?”

  He narrowed his one good eye. “You don’t look like someone the cops want.”

  “Trust me, I am.” I shifted my weight and looked over my shoulder, scanning the crowd outside for a familiar white-striped uniform. Facing the man again, I said, “Just tell me what I need to do.”

  He regarded me silently, then grunted and gestured for me to follow him. I glanced out at the street, worried I was putting myself in unnecessary danger by moving deeper into the building, out of sight of passersby, but what choice did I have?

  So I followed him.

  Over his shoulder, he said, “This’ll cost you.”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred credits.”

  I almost choked on my breath. “Three hun—”

  Movement beyond him caught my eye, and on a monitor showing the exterior of the storefront, I tracked a pair of cops just before they disappeared into the crowd again. “Fine. Fine. Three hundred.” I took out my revenue card. The thing would likely be frozen in a day or two anyway, once the cops saw that I’d gone off grid.

  He went to grab the card, but I held it out of his reach.

  “You scan it now,” I said, “you’re going to tell the bank where I am. The cops will be on this place before you’re finished.”

  I half expected him to tell me to get the fuck out, but he just eyed me. “How do I know there’s enough money on that thing to cover my fee?”

  “Won’t make much difference if the cops show up.” I gestured with the card. “If you run it now, and they show up, we’re both going to jail. If they show up and I’m gone, you just tell them someone brought the card in. Stolen or whatever.”

  He scowled but then shrugged. “Fine.” He gave me a pointed look. “Just so you know, if I don’t get my money off that thing when we’re done here, you ain’t leaving. And the cops won’t find you alive neither.”

  In spite of the shiver crawling up my spine, I nodded and shoved the card back into my pocket.

  He showed me to a chair that had obviously seen better days. The metal was corroded, one armrest had been partially snapped off, and the torn edges of the vinyl curled back over rat-chewed stuffing. “Sit.”

  I regarded the chair suspiciously but did as ordered.

  “This might sting a bit,” he said without a trace of sympathy, and I didn’t let myself look at the instrument he’d just dug out of a dirty, squeaking drawer. Best not to know what it was. It would either kill me or it wouldn’t.

  Something cold and hard pressed against the chip behind my ear. I cringed, resisting the urge to draw away from it.

  The instrument buzzed. A high-pitched whine rose from it, making me cringe again.

  “Don’t move,” the man growled.

  I held my breath. Closed my eyes. Waited.

  Zap!

  I grabbed the broken armrest. “Fuck!”

  My head spun. Oh, hell, the whole room spun. And tilted. God, yeah, it was tilting. What the hell?

  “You’re fine,” the guy muttered. “The shock just rang your bell a bit.”

  “A bit?” I rubbed my temples and eyed him, seeing double. “How long does this take to wear off?”

  He furrowed his brow. “For what to wear off?”

  “The…dizziness. That’s normal, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged and set the device aside. “You’ll be fine. Give me your card.”

  Vision still blurred and equilibrium still reeling, I fished my card out and handed it to him.

  “Get up and get on your feet,” he barked. “Once this goes through, I want you out of my shop.”

  I nodded. “Hurry up, then.”

  He grumbled something. My heart beat faster as he put the card into the machine. Definitely no turning back now. We both stared at the machine, watching the red diode blink. I prayed to anyone I could think of that the light turned green, that my account had only been flagged but not yet frozen; I’d heard stories about cops doing that to give fugitives the opportunity to reveal their location.

  The light turned green.

  I let out my breath.

  The machine spat out my card, and the man shoved it into my hands. “Go on. Get out of here.”

  “I’m going.” I snatched the card from him and headed for the back door. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Go!”

  I didn’t hesitate, and hurried out the back. My balance was still off, and I felt mildly drunk, but my feet were more or less under me as I shuffled out into the melee of people.

  Several cops were already jogging toward the man’s shop, so I slipped into the crowd and tried to disappear from their view as quickly as I could.

  When I was a safe distance away, I glanced over my shoulder…

  Just in time to see the man who’d deactivated my chip talking to a cop and pointing in my direction.

  The cop looked right at me.

  And started running.

  Shit!

  I elbowed my way through the crowd and darted toward an alley. I had hoped he’d lose me in the chaos, but when I glanced over my shoulder, he was just bursting out of the mob to come after me. And he wasn’t alone.

  I pumped my legs even faster. The alley was slick, the ground uneven, but I managed to skid around the corner at the end and wade into another crowd. From there, into another alley.

  Damn it, they were still behind me.

  Up ahead, the end of the alley was fenced off. I tried to vault over the fence, but stumbled, turning my ankle slightly. Despite the pain, I scrabbled up the fence and over the top, and landed hard on the other side. Fresh pain shot up my leg, but I ran anyway, limping but not slowing down for anything.

  Behind me, the fence rattled. One set of feet hit the pavement, and then I whipped around a corner and couldn’t hear if the other followed. Then I took another corner. And another. I didn’t dare stop until they were completely gone, and—

  Oh fuck.

  Up ahead, a huge concrete wall.

  Dead end.

  No, wait. It wasn’t a wall—it was the mech track.

  I didn’t have any other option, so I ran faster, heading straight toward the track’s high edge. At the maintenance stairwell, I took the steps two at a time, ignoring the throbbing in my ankle, and jumped over the barrier at the top.

  Before my feet had even hit the battered asphalt, my heart stopped.

  A mech—one of the bipeds—lumbered toward me. I wasn’t worried about the mech itself—it was the men on motorcycles escorting it.

  They gestured to each other, and then at me. No doubt the cops had radioed ahead, and now I had half a dozen motorcycles bearing down on me.

  I ran like hell, but they quickly overtook me. Without any other options, I grabbed one of the handlebars, throwing the rider off balance. Another grabbed me, and we both went down.

  Every ounce of hand-to-hand combat training kicked in, and it kicked in hard. I threw fists, feet, and elbows into anything soft—guts, thighs, groins. Nothing was off limits. Someone caught me hard in the ribcage, turning my vision red for a split second, but I brought him down with a swift kick to the back of the knee.

  I grabbed one’s rifle and used it and its sling to spin him around, then let him go, sending him stumbling toward the two escorts who were still on bikes. One caught him, but the other spun out. He went one way, and the bike went the other, skittering across the track.

  And right into one of the mech’s legs.

  The machine’s foot came down, partway on the bike, and even as the bike crunched beneath it, the mech groaned to a halt, and wobbled. The escorts all turned, and I didn’t wait around to see if the mech toppled—I kicked the man in the chest and scrambled to my feet.

  With a potentially crippled mech, the escorts had bigger fish to fry now, and didn’t try to stop me, but two of the cops had caught up.

  I hurried over the next barrier, and down the stairs, and by the time I hit the ground, they were hot on my heels.

  Down here, though, I had the luxury of darkness—what little light there was came from the mech track and the distant city. Even the slums were brighter than this place.

  Praying like hell that I didn’t impale myself on a piece of metal or break my leg in a crevice, I ran into the darkness. They followed, stumbling and cursing. A gunshot cracked and a bullet pinged off something nearby. Then another.