the floor as the shriek got louder.
Yavlinski’s mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear. My legs went out from under me. The room spun, and I went down on my back on the cold, hard floor. Garbage puked out of my JZI. The three guys in the corner jerked and started to fall. Behind me, I heard the door open, and someone ran out.
The carriers fell. Their bodies hit the floor near my feet. The last thing I saw was Yavlinski as he came down on his side a foot away from me.
What the—
A vein in Yavlinski’s eye turned black. It popped, and black spots bled through the white of it.
Huma.
I got it then: the fucker had finally done it. We were too late. After two years, Fawkes dropped the ax. The inhibitor was a wash. I was going down with the rest of them. Yavlinski’s ugly face was the last thing I was ever going to see.
The light popped and went out.
Nico Wachalowski—Mother of Mercy Clinic
Fog drifted across the clinic’s lot as I pulled in next to a bank of snow pushed against a twisted chain-link fence. Van Offo watched the entrance with a flat orange glow behind his pupils, as a strip of fabric, part of a shirt, maybe, flapped from a coil of razor wire out back. The building face was covered in graffiti and darkened by years of smog. I’d seen too many places like it in the past year.
I cut the engine. A gust of wind blew powdery snow across the windshield and made the clinic’s metal door rattle in its frame. Through the window, I saw the waiting area was full.
“Let’s go,” I said. But Van Offo didn’t move. He leaned back and watched the door through half-closed eyelids. His mood had taken a turn since we left the train yard. He stared at the entrance to the clinic, but not at the people crowded inside. He had that far-off look he got when he saw something else, something only he could see. It was the same look Zoe used to get.
“You know something?” I asked him. He shrugged.
Orange light flickered softly behind his pupils. He had a secure connection open through his JZI, like he always did. The others watched and listened with him.
“Van Offo, if there’s something I need to know—”
The orange light went out and his eyes cleared. He’d killed the connection and left us alone in the car.
“The team is still getting into position,” he said. “You mind if I smoke?”
“Knock yourself out.”
He pulled one of his black cigarillos from his pocket and lit it. The tobacco crackled as he took a long drag, and smoke drifted from his nostrils. He clenched the end between his teeth and fished a business card out of his wallet, then scribbled something on the back. He handed it over to me, under his palm.
“What’s this?” I flipped it over. He’d written a phone number there, and under it he’d written a name:
ZOE OTT
“That was not easy to get,” he said.
“Is she still in the city?” I asked him.
He nodded. “She is.”
I watched him smoke for a minute.
“Is she safe?”
He looked amused as he blew smoke through a crack in the window.
“You think you know something about that woman, Nico, but you don’t.”
“I know she needs help.”
“Not from you. She could kill you where you sit and not even mean to. She’s seen things almost no one else has seen. Trust me—she’s bigger than both of us.”
“Then why give me this? Why now?”
“Because the end is nigh,” he said, and he smiled, but eyes were serious.
Van Offo, and those like him, had alluded to something like that before, but the way he said it made me uneasy. It didn’t sound like theory or rhetoric just then.
“When?”
He blew smoke from his nose. “Soon.”
“Will the city be destroyed?”
“The city? This city is just a drop in the bucket, I’m afraid.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Motoko doesn’t tell you everything.”
“Then you tell me.”
“Let’s just say that if what we’ve seen is true, I’ll be glad to not be around for it.”
“Around for what, Al? What
Yavlinski’s mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear. My legs went out from under me. The room spun, and I went down on my back on the cold, hard floor. Garbage puked out of my JZI. The three guys in the corner jerked and started to fall. Behind me, I heard the door open, and someone ran out.
The carriers fell. Their bodies hit the floor near my feet. The last thing I saw was Yavlinski as he came down on his side a foot away from me.
What the—
A vein in Yavlinski’s eye turned black. It popped, and black spots bled through the white of it.
Huma.
I got it then: the fucker had finally done it. We were too late. After two years, Fawkes dropped the ax. The inhibitor was a wash. I was going down with the rest of them. Yavlinski’s ugly face was the last thing I was ever going to see.
The light popped and went out.
Nico Wachalowski—Mother of Mercy Clinic
Fog drifted across the clinic’s lot as I pulled in next to a bank of snow pushed against a twisted chain-link fence. Van Offo watched the entrance with a flat orange glow behind his pupils, as a strip of fabric, part of a shirt, maybe, flapped from a coil of razor wire out back. The building face was covered in graffiti and darkened by years of smog. I’d seen too many places like it in the past year.
I cut the engine. A gust of wind blew powdery snow across the windshield and made the clinic’s metal door rattle in its frame. Through the window, I saw the waiting area was full.
“Let’s go,” I said. But Van Offo didn’t move. He leaned back and watched the door through half-closed eyelids. His mood had taken a turn since we left the train yard. He stared at the entrance to the clinic, but not at the people crowded inside. He had that far-off look he got when he saw something else, something only he could see. It was the same look Zoe used to get.
“You know something?” I asked him. He shrugged.
Orange light flickered softly behind his pupils. He had a secure connection open through his JZI, like he always did. The others watched and listened with him.
“Van Offo, if there’s something I need to know—”
The orange light went out and his eyes cleared. He’d killed the connection and left us alone in the car.
“The team is still getting into position,” he said. “You mind if I smoke?”
“Knock yourself out.”
He pulled one of his black cigarillos from his pocket and lit it. The tobacco crackled as he took a long drag, and smoke drifted from his nostrils. He clenched the end between his teeth and fished a business card out of his wallet, then scribbled something on the back. He handed it over to me, under his palm.
“What’s this?” I flipped it over. He’d written a phone number there, and under it he’d written a name:
ZOE OTT
“That was not easy to get,” he said.
“Is she still in the city?” I asked him.
He nodded. “She is.”
I watched him smoke for a minute.
“Is she safe?”
He looked amused as he blew smoke through a crack in the window.
“You think you know something about that woman, Nico, but you don’t.”
“I know she needs help.”
“Not from you. She could kill you where you sit and not even mean to. She’s seen things almost no one else has seen. Trust me—she’s bigger than both of us.”
“Then why give me this? Why now?”
“Because the end is nigh,” he said, and he smiled, but eyes were serious.
Van Offo, and those like him, had alluded to something like that before, but the way he said it made me uneasy. It didn’t sound like theory or rhetoric just then.
“When?”
He blew smoke from his nose. “Soon.”
“Will the city be destroyed?”
“The city? This city is just a drop in the bucket, I’m afraid.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Motoko doesn’t tell you everything.”
“Then you tell me.”
“Let’s just say that if what we’ve seen is true, I’ll be glad to not be around for it.”
“Around for what, Al? What
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