13.7

Fingers' Fragment Roamer is already idling outside the logistics station by the time we limp out into the loading bay. We don't waste a second – just hustle across the wet asphalt and collapse into the back seats. Fingers slams the jeep into gear the moment the doors shut, saying that it's only a matter of time before the blues show up and chase us clear across the scrubland. Up front, Vander sits shotgun, calm as ever. He runs a chapstick over his blue lips, checks himself in the side mirror, and doesn't look even mildly concerned we nearly died back there.

"Who's she?" Fingers asks, as if suddenly noticing.

"A friend," I say, slumping back into the car seat. "She needs medical."

"It's not that serious," Riven says through pained breaths. "Couple of broken ribs – maybe a collapsed lung. Got struck with seventy pounds worth of liquid and fell thirty feet. I'll be fineeee."

"Where's Dance?" I ask, opening a window and letting in some cool air.

"Back at the motel," says Fingers, looking at me in the rear-view mirror. "And what about you, Rhea? Your mouth's bleedin'. The fuck went on in there?"

I take a bit of time before responding. "Calyx Ward knows I'm alive," I say, trying to catch my breath. "She… she sent Sloan after me. Had to kill her. Don't ask me how she knows. Someone must have told her everything."

"Who?" Fingers asks anyway. "We kept this shit airtight. Now we have the top dog of an entire city writing our names down on a list? I think we might need to pull out."

"What?" I ask, looking at her intensely. "What do you mean you think we should pull out?"

She looks back at me briefly. "Look, she caught on to the plan – if we show up in the Capital she'll have every badge sweeping the streets with our faces up on their neurals. It was already difficult enough without that to consider."

"Screw that." I laugh ruefully. "Where is this comin' from? You said you'd help."

"I'm not sayin' we need to completely ditch tryin' to stop Ward," Fingers says, pulling out onto the back road that leads to Sector Eight. "I'm sayin' we might need a new plan, because chances are that if she knew you were working in that building, she also knew why you were there. She'll probably have a SWAT team waiting at the Capital's gates."

"She didn't seem to know much about the plan," I say, leaning forward now. "She just knew I was there. There's a chance she might have heard about us in Neo Arcadia when we snuck into The Ghost in Satin. I doubt she knows the ins and outs of what we're doing."

"Anything even remotely touched by you she's going to lock down, Rhea," Fingers says. "I don't want you getting hurt."

Some silence. Only the sound of the windshield wiper is daring enough to slice through it. Swish-swash, swish-swash, swish-swash.

"Morgan," I say softly, and I slide up into the next row of seats, and then the next, until I'm right behind her. "I saw something in there – something big. It looks like after all these years she's finally starting to put her plan in action. Call it a coincidence, but this is some messed-up shit. Can I show you?"

She sighs, as if cogitating. She brings one of her hands back and wraps it around my back. "We'll talk about this later, 'kay? But right now we need to get the hell out of here."

Later. I suppose that will have to do.

I remove the shard-copy from my neural port and stash it in my front jumpsuit pocket, resting my head on Fingers' shoulder, keeping my eyes on the road ahead.

The rain doesn't let up for the entire journey back to The 404.

When we get there, Dance is waiting outside under the awning, flicking through his brickie with one hand while the other brings a lush bottle of Spitz up to his Aussie lips. He looks different now. Wears a white trench coat that, in some other universe, maybe, would make him look like a doctor of sorts, and given the gravity of Riven's situation that's exactly what we need. He steps up from his plastic chair, puts the brickie away, and hurries over while I ease Riven out of the back seat. He has the same first question that Fingers had – "Who's this sheila?" – but rather than wasting time playing catch-up, I tell him she needs some of that virothene he's so good at cooking up. And thankfully he already has plenty left over from the batch he'd concocted in Neo Arcadia. So he takes her into his motel room – or well, Vander does, sweeping her up in his hulking arms – you know, considering Dance doesn't look strong enough to lift anything other than that godforsaken brickie.

At the same time, Fingers and I head into our room – the one we'd been sharing ever since we got together – and start talking things over. There's not much to the conversation that hasn't been said already – especially the point about the risk of Ward already knowing our entire plan – but I explain, once again, that it certainly did not seem that way in Sloan's office. I also show her the picture of the humanoid robot rabbit, the prototype LAPIS-9. She simply can't believe it, because why on Earth would someone need to give an android a pair of rabbit ears if it was designed to be a complete killing machine? But something that bizarre certainly has no good intentions. It's just as well to say that Ward's got an obsession with rabbits and decided to add the ears as an artistic asset. It's not uncommon, matter of fact. In old wars, commanders used to paint teeth on the fronts of their tanks – big, stupid grins with fangs and eyes – just to give the metal some personality before they sent it rolling over a field full of kids. It was used to distinguish them from their enemies, and – of course – to intimidate anyone who dared stare it down. Maybe something similar is going on here. It further adds to the point that she's gunning for a war, and Fingers sees my point – understands it completely, that there's very little time, that there are not many options, that we've already come so far – but still she thinks that we're walking into a trap.

She sinks onto the edge of the mattress, elbows on her knees, hands wringing the damp from her gloves. The neon outside stutters and bleeds through the blinds, painting her face in little flashes of blue and rose. She's thinking so hard I can almost hear the electrics buzzing behind her eyes.

"From the story you told me," Fingers starts, "she's very clever. Even if we do manage to make it through the Capital's gates, she'll know eventually, and when she does, the entire city will hunt us down, know?"

I lean back against the peeling wallpaper, letting my head thud once against it – hard enough to sting, not hard enough to dislodge the boiling in my chest. "Maybe. But we don't have the luxury of maybes anymore. There's not much time. We need a way in, and this is the way."

"I know," she says. "Truth be told, I'm just worried now. Goddamn it. I wonder how far along in the process she is."

"It looked fairly new," I say. "Though – well, yeah, it could have been an old photo. But Sloan mentioned they 'would be able to handle it', and I presume by that she meant transporting the pieces for the bots. A great majority of them are probably not put together. I could be wrong."

"What's her deal, anyway?" Fingers steps up and grabs a bottle of water off the night table. She looks at me a little contemplatively before continuing. "Why does she want to take over N.A. so bad? By the time she wages war and all the damage is done, it'll cost more to repair everything than she can possibly hope to make back."

"That is – a good point," I say, raising my finger. "Maybe it's not about the money."

"Then what? Pride? Ego? Some ideological crusade against the closest city?"

"Could be all of that," I say, pushing away from the wall. "But those machines were designed. Someone spent time making them look like something. Making them mean something."

"Rabbits," Fingers says. "Why rabbits specifically? Why not give them teeth? A marking? This seems highly, highly specific. Does she like rabbits?"

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I take my time before responding. "Not that I remember, but – well, there is someone who did. Though it might be irrelevant."

"Who?" she asks, taking a sip of the water.

I take a seat on the sofa. I reach into my pocket and pull out the shard-copy, twisting it around in my fingers. "Elysia…" I say.

"Elysia?" Fingers says. "Where have I heard that name before? It rings a bell."

"The woman that killed Cormac," I say. "With the red mask: Isolde Crane."

"That psycho bitch?" Fingers lets out a scoff. "Haven't forgotten about her. She's dead the second we get time to hunt her down."

"Elysia was her autistic daughter," I continue. "In 2085, she died in a fire, and that's why she hated Cormac so much, because he could have saved her, but he… didn't. She apparently loved rabbits. Used to play with them in a park, according to a news article. I know it sounds crazy, pretty much like a conspiracy theory, but what if the reason they look like rabbits is because someone with the power to create Elydrine is working with her? Isolde Crane, the woman who invented it?"

Fingers throws me a side-glance that seems suspiciously like uncertainty. She folds her arms, walks over, and takes a seat next to me. "I know that story," she says. "Feel bad for the kid, though I didn't know the specifics. I think Isolde Crane is… well, what word is there to describe her other than 'crazy'? She lost her child. Her life is over. She made the decision to keep living, and now she's hurting people who she thinks contributed to her daughter's death."

"Yeah," I say. "I met her outside my apartment before we left for Paxson. She was fucking psychotic. Her friend – his name is Silas. He's a very kind man."

"Silas Harbor?" Fingers asks.

"Yeah," I say. "You know him?"

She nods. "Yeah – jeez, I think everyone in the South knows that man. When I first showed up to N.A., he offered me a ride to the hospital. Long story. I got done with a gig, was bleedin' pretty bad. Didn't have any MX on me. Thought I was gonna die. He stopped in his van, saw me in the alleyway, stepped out, and helped me into the passenger seat. He knew I was a crook, but he still viewed me as a person. I guess there are just some people like that."

"Yeah," I say again. "Sometimes I guess you don't need a reason to do the right thing; you just do it because that's how you are."

"He told me that if I ever needed anything to visit his stall on—"

"—Lower Elm Street," we say at the same time.

"Yeah," she says, then goes silent before adding: "Anyway, went off topic a bit there. If you're right about Isolde working with Ward, and that's a big if, then that'll complicate things even more. But at least… I suppose we'll be able to kill two birds with one stone. Literally."

"Yeah." Boy, I sure am saying that a lot. "Like I said, there's not much time to try something else – probably. We should prep for the trucks' rollout."

"What about that girl Riven?" Fingers asks. "She need a ride somewhere?"

"Good question," I say, standing up. "I'm gonna go check on her. You comin'?"

Fingers stands and says, "Sure. Gotta make sure you two don't make out."

I snort and speak with a posh British accent. "I prefer blueheads to pinkheads, thank you very much."

She grabs her beige coat – the one far too big for her – off the rack, slips into it, and follows me out the door. It's still raining quite fiercely – borderline a storm – complete with squalls that take icy bites out of my skin.

When we make it to the room at the end of the motel, Vander, Dance, and Riven are inside alright. Dance has Riven sitting on a swivel chair, and he's plastering a bloodspot where I presume he had injected her. Sure enough, there's an empty syringe on the floor stained with red liquid. I'm reminded of the first time I'd seen Dance, in his little lab back in the Old Mill. Back when he was injecting Cormac in the sternum and telling him 'Easy, big fella'. Funny. Life has sure changed a whole lot since then, though for better or worse is debatable.

As if re-living the moment himself, he says, "Easy, big girl. Ol' plaster does the dookie-doo."

"The dookie-doo?" Riven lets out an exasperated groan. "Is that English – or am I just losin' blood here?"

"It's Dercnesperk," says Vander. "Werds that sernd nice to ser but ultimetler have no merning."

"... What?"

"Dancespeak," I say, laughing, and she looks over at me. "Just nod along and say 'uh-huh'. It helps."

"You two goosemonkeys finished yabberin' yet?" Dance says as he gets up, facing us. "Heard you were thinkin' of pullin' out, Fingers. Not like you at all."

"It's alright," Fingers says, stashing her hands in her coat pockets. "We talked it over, but we need to work fast. There's no tellin' when Ward will start locking the place down before we have a chance to get inside."

"Bang on," Dance says. "We oughta head for the scrubland now, then. Might be muckin' about for a couple hours, but better rock up too early than too bloody late." He grabs the empty vial off the floor and throws it into a cardboard box.

Then, popping up from her chair, Riven says: "You mind if I come with you guys?"

It's a question that I hadn't expected. Not one bit. Why would she want to come with us? I have to make sure I heard her correctly.

"Sorry?" I say. "You want to… come into the Capital with us?"

"Hm," says Dance, templing his chin with his fingers. "Let me think about that: how 'bout no, mate."

"Hold on a sec," I say, and approach her. "Why do you want to come with us? This is dangerous. You know what we're planning to do, right?"

"I do." Riven's gaze never falters. Her voice is soft and intense. "You want to assassinate Ward; you're not the only one. It's the reason the Capital is walled off from the rest of the city and why only the elite can get inside." She crosses her arms, and I think that it's immediately clear she feels a whole lot better. Then she winces a little, breaking that clarity, and adds: "Look, I'm unemployed now. I have nothing. No one to go back to. No family. It was already hard enough getting that job, even harder keeping it. I'll probably end up on the streets eventually. If I help you, I'll feel like I'm actually contributing to a good cause rather than… withering away like the rest of society that's too cowardly to do anything. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I understand what you're saying," I say, and then add slyly: "But you also have to understand that you're not exactly built for this sort of stuff. I mean, how much tech do you have under your skin?"

"Not a whole lot," she says, running a finger through her eye. "I don't have the kind of blood that acts well with implants, I admit. But I'm not thinkin' I'm gonna be helpin' out with anything that involves weapons. I know the Capital. It used to be a normal city, and I used to live there – before Ward renovated it and built a giant wall around every access point. There's not a whole lot of media you'll find on what it looks like. It's a little like North Korea, though not quite as successful in ridding of crime. There're still places that are a little bit clandestine. You know tech surgeons? You know arms dealers? Fixers? Those are in the Capital too, just in very tough-to-find spots. They're still lookin' for 'em, and I know where a lot of them are."

"Your point is?" Dance says, picking up the cardboard box full of red, glowing vials.

"My point is," she begins, "if you go in there blind, especially if you're wanted, it's not like you'll be able to book a room at a motel and wait it out. You'll need a place where the blues won't be able to see you. Do you even have a plan for when you're walking the streets? What if you get spotted?"

"Oni masks," says Fingers.

"Good idea – won't work," says Riven. "Oni masks are outlawed in the Capital, because you're not allowed to hide your identity or interfere with the scanner. You'll need to alter your names and wear normal masks, hoods, anything that'll help you blend in."

"Fine," says Fingers. "So you know your way around the Capital. That doesn't mean you're not gonna get shot the second we cross a checkpoint."

Riven shrugs one shoulder, slowly, carefully, like the pain is still stitched to her bones. "Then you're gonna need someone who knows which checkpoints actually have scanners, and which ones are for show. Ward's regime likes theatrics. Half the gates are empty scarecrows."

We share a glance between each other, and a single thought runs through my mind like a bad omen: I can't believe I'm actually considering this.

"Look," Riven says, tugging on the collar of her grey jumpsuit. "I'm not tryin' to be a hero. I'm tryin' to be useful. You saved my life. Let me repay the favour – again."

Dance shrugs. "I honestly don't give a dookie at this point, mate. Tag, don't tag. I already have an idea of what spots are good and what spots are bad. Should we call a vote? Vander? You've been awful quiet, mate – what do you think? Ditch or stick?"

Vander is leaning against the wall, his arms folded tight. "I don't see kner harm. Could always er use an extra pair of hands. Have to remember that er Cormac would be with us too if not for that Isolder. If she kners the place well, then… yer."

"Righty-o," says Dance. "What about you, Fingers?"

Fingers shrugs, then lets out a sigh. Her hands are still stuffed deep in her pockets. "If Rhea's alright with it – then I guess I am too."

"I see havin' sex removes all autonomy from the human brain," Dance says. No one laughs. "Alright then, Mono. What'll it be: ditch or stick?"

I look at Riven for a moment, running the decision over in my mind a couple times. The part that worries me most of all is how guilty I'll feel if she dies trying to help us. It'll be like the situation with Cormac all over again, where I take the blame even when it doesn't make sense, even when it's not rational. But she could prove useful, especially if she knows things we don't about the Capital.

Riven watches me with that strange mix of fear and fire, like she's already stepped onto the tracks and is daring the train to come. I exhale, feeling every pair of eyes in the room pin me in place. "Alright," I say at last, letting the word settle. "She sticks. But you listen to us, Riven: every step, every turn, every breath. You stay close, you stay smart, and the second shit goes sideways, you run. I'm not losing another person to this city." A crack of thunder rolls over the motel, rattling the thin walls, and for a heartbeat all any of us can hear is the rain hammering down like the countdown we've just agreed to race.

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