Page 51 of Coldwire
My hand lashes out, gripping his collar hard and pulling him down. It’s such an abrupt move that he complies, his ear brought to my mouth.
“There’s a camera!” I shout. “Right above us!”
Nik turns to look.
“Don’t worry about that,” he says. He doesn’t make the effort to shout, but now my hearing is enough to collect the shape of his words, my lipreading filling in the blanks. “Public transport surveillance is older than what’s on the streets. Easier to mess with.”
I release his collar, frowning. I’ve rumpled the fabric there, but Nik only has to reach up and pat the creases casually before his shirt is straight again. He’s kept his other palm flat over his jacket pocket the whole time, protecting his handheld inside. I have to assume we’re not riding far to reach the address that Miz found for Xixi.
The train car shudders when it passes along rough tracks. There’s a row of three seats before us, but only one man sitting there, the seats on either side of him taken up by his bags. He has his glasses on a transparent setting. I can see what he’s doing on his screens, albeit mirror flipped. He cycles between different apps to access the feed. In fascination, I watch him scroll for five seconds on each interface before getting bored and opening a new one. There are multiple ways to access the feed: on one app it’s text-based, and on another it’s video-forward. They used to be owned by separate companies, but the moment any app grows prominent, NileCorp purchases it as a subsidiary, so it’s hard to perceive them differently when our profile is shared across everything. As much as I scroll the feed too, I try not to put anything on it.
The man, with his transparency settings as bright as daylight, types in a post declaring that he hates it when perfectly normal Medan girls cut their hair to Atahuan styles—
“Excuseme—”
“This is our stop!” Miz shouts, grabbing my elbow. The train car slows, then comes to a halt. Before I can say anything, she pulls me off along with half the other passengers, all spilling out at this stop with their backpacks and knapsacks.
“Did you see that?” I ask.
“I try not to read backward if I can help it. It gives me headaches,” she replies. She lets go of me quickly. “But yes, I saw that. Please mind your business. Getting into a scuffle that has you thrown into Medan jail counts as failure to hold up your end of the bargain.”
A clap comes from ahead. Blare, trying to get Miz’s attention after they’ve already jumped the turnstile to avoid scanning out. Nik’s even farther ahead. He pauses by the staircase just long enough that we’ve seen where he’s going before surging out first.
Another commuter checks my shoulder hard while walking by.
“Ugh,” I mutter. The train car may have been full, but the exodus into the station still doesn’t warrant walking so closely to me. The space is large. The marble walls are scuffed with dirt, the painted orange ceilings flecking wherever there is water damage from the seeping pipes overhead. At one point they built these stations to accommodate the rush-hour crowds coming into the city in the morning and leaving in the evening, but downcountry has downsized since then.
“This way.”
I follow Miz. I had my eye on the commuter who slammed into me, but they disappeared into thin air, turning the other way upon hopping the turnstile. Miz goes first when we approach, easily lifting over the arm. I duck instead, and while I’m out of view, I stick my hand into my pocket, confirming a suspicion.
That lumbering commuter was someone on Teryn’s team. And gauging by the tiny metal sphere hanging out in my pocket, they’ve slipped me a tracker.
I emerge from the turnstile with my expression smoothed out, my armsswinging at my sides. Miz isn’t paying attention anymore anyway, resolute on staring forward. Blare waits for us before we ascend the steps out of the station into central Upsie under the cover of the other commuters. They disperse in varying directions, but we walk straight slowly, catching up with Nik.
“I’ve mapped us,” he says the moment we approach. “Three blocks away.”
I sniff. Something is burning in the distance—chemical and metallic, wafting from the poisoned sea on our right. Last night’s rain is going to start again soon too. It had finished falling by the time I was hauled back to the hotel, but the clouds stayed plump, waiting for their next opportunity. I’d give it a half an hour more before it bursts.
“Backtrack.”
I don’t hear Nik’s instruction in time. As he turns, I slam right into him, still eyeing the clouds, and instead of waiting for me to maneuver properly, he grabs the sides of my arms, turning me around.
“Hey, hey”—I twist away—“I can do that myself.”
He must think it’s a complaint against the contact. A flash of alarm crosses his face. Nik releases me, splaying his hands out to prove himself unoffending.
I was only thinking about keeping him away from my pocket.
“Why is there police?” Miz hisses. “Surely not for us.”
“It looks like they’re roping off the street,” Nik murmurs in reply. He picks up his pace. I didn’t get a chance to see, and it’s too late to crane my neck back without inciting suspicion. “It’s not for us. They would already be searching the area otherwise. It could be general reports of foreign presence. Maybe NileCorp sent a few lackeys.”
I face forward. I go where Nik steers, obedient while he pauses to check our diverted route. We turn into an alleyway, continue past a restaurant’s open back door. Oil and salt thicken the air’s scent, heavy against the humid threat of rain. Two line cooks stand outside for theirbreak, eyeing us suspiciously. One of them says something under their breath.
“I think we almost got robbed,” Blare whispers after we’ve emerged from the alleyway.
“Not a chance,” Nik replies. “Too many cameras.”
