CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PARANOID, BEDRAGGLED AND bleeding, I rode the escalator down to the automated vactrain station. My hand rested on the book under my belt, my mind wondering if it could somehow be a clue to unlocking everything else. I stopped at the base of the escalator, forcing strangers to push me aside. I didn’t even know which direction I’d take the tube, much less where to go. Twitchers could blend into society, walk among us.

Us. I wasn’t even sure the label applied to myself anymore. I swiped my campus ID across the reader and pushed through the gate. Only afterwards did I wonder if I’d tipped my hand to whoever might be watching.

I stood on the narrow platform rolling my hands in front my face, scrutinizing them. The smattering of people present wisely kept a bubble of several feet on all sides. Maybe cascading thoughts was a transitional symptom of twitch infection.

I slapped myself mentally. My background mind felt brackish and muddy, making it hard to trust my own thoughts. I needed simplicity and common sense rather than confusing surges of raw data. I glanced up at the red LED clock above the boarding doors—16:18. Three minutes until the next car. I set my background to the simple task of counting seconds.

The same men from the lab had been watching my house—trained twitcher soldiers. I tried to picture their faces. A flash of a craggy-skinned man with red-eyes aborted the process. I rubbed my temples, wiping sweat and grime from my forehead before starting over.

Marisol knew of them. Feared them. She hadn’t told me everything, but I believed her when she said she cared for Evie. She was still the closest thing I had to an ally. I needed her help. From the lab I could call Evie, call the Claxtons. Maybe they’d seen the twitchers and decided to leave together out the back. I hadn’t checked the garage. They might have gotten clear of the whole mess.

The twitchers were still after me. That could mean they didn’t have Evie. An automated voice announced the impending arrival of the car. “It is highly recommended passengers with pacemakers and other similar devices do not board the Texi-tram at this location. Be safe upon boarding cars 48 and 49 to UT and downtown.” I’d forgotten they ran double cars into town on the weekends.

Thirteen seconds early, the cars slid into the station and lowered onto the buffers. With a whoosh the doors opened. I waited to board last. Before the doors closed, I turned to face out toward the nondescript station. A long-haired youth, college-aged, stood there with a pained smirk on his face.

“Channel three.” He tossed a small device through the doors as they slid shut.

I opened my hands to find a radio transmitter, a closed-circuit communicator good up to short distances. My gut sank. With a surge the mag-lev vacuum car accelerated at conventional speed. Stabilizing myself with one hand, I affixed the earpiece with the other. Dutifully I set my background mind to its standard vactrain commute routine—the financial viability of mag-lev for mass-transit based on current usage.

I set the channel to three wondering two things. Who would I hear on the other end, and did they have my daughter.

“Dr. Buckner.”

“You got me. And this is…?”

“I’m a member of the winning team, sugar.” The voice was that of a woman’s with a thick Southern accent, glorified almost. “You know, champion of truth, and all that rah-rah.” She sighed. “It’s tiring, isn’t it? The truth can feel like a ball and chain sometimes. Anywho…”

“My daughter?”

“She’s safe, Jim.”

“Jim?”

“Well, it’s your first name, isn’t it?”

“Are you going to tell me where she is?”

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll show you.”

A lump rose in my throat. “What do I have to do?”

“All you have to do is take this car to the I-35 commuter connection. Take the commuter south to the Parker Lane station. You’ll be reunited with Evelyn there.”

“How do I know…wait.” A thought occurred to me. “How are you communicating through the car’s EM field?”

“Why, Dr. Buckner, we both know that I could not. Besides, in what way would that be secure?”

“Son of a—” the car had slid to a stop at the Lamar/Shoal Creek station. I shoved my way through the crowd trying to board and dashed for the doors to the trailing car. Just before they closed, I forced myself in.

“Jim, what are you—” the car’s field activated, lifting it gently off its buffers and killing the signal. I pressed my face against the glass doors. A tall, red-head with her finger pressed to her ear disappeared in a flash as the car shot forward.