“Why are stars seen as romantic? They’re forever alone, doomed to destroy anything that comes too close.”
~ excerpt from Serenade of the Quiet Heart by Jaylee Dini I2—2027
Wednesday January 1, 2070
California District 21
Los Angeles
Commonwealth of North America
Iteration 2
Hunger woke Sam. Not the mild pangs she associated with sleeping in but a gnawing, bone-biting hunger like she’d never had before. Sixteen hours without food. She’d never gone that long without something. She rubbed her fingers on Bosco’s ear. “I am not going to survive on the street.”
Which meant doing something drastic. The buses wouldn’t let her bring Bosco, there was no one in the Commonwealth to call, and her cash was at the bottom of the harbor. Eyeing the aquarium duffel bag, she mentally calculated how much selling the T-shirts would get her. Enough for breakfast and something for Bosco. But not enough to get her a car.
Bosco whined, stretching at the end of the lanyards that had finally quit flashing a little before dawn.
She stood up and stretched. Sleeping behind the bushes next to the DMV had seemed like the safest choice last night, but now it seemed like a bad idea. There were lines of people, a crowded parking lot, and across the street a police substation with its own impound lot. She’d thought everyone would have closed for the holiday, but apparently not. A beat-up brown car pulled up in front of the impound delivery gate, and the driver hopped out.
“Oh . . .” She looked at Bosco. A story from her past bubbled up from under the demands of hunger and the fog of frustration. Ruthie Reid, the Polynesian rugby goddess from the Academy, kept a mailing loop of craziest stories. Sam had never contributed, but before Troom’s death, Mac’s meteoric reentry into her life, and the decision to jump back in time, Ruthie had told her about the wonders of the new volunteer program. The police and the CBI were understaffed on the West Coast, so some brilliant mind in HR had decided to farm menial work out to volunteers. Sometimes clones, but usually college students who could use the hours for credits at the government-funded colleges.
The volunteer program ended when a carjacking ring started posing as drivers. They showed up, volunteered to park the car, and drove it to a chop shop across district lines before anyone was the wiser. It had taken months to sort things out, and the CBI had never recovered all the cars.
Bosco whined.
“Yeah, this is fine.” She watched the volunteer take the paperwork from the impound’s front desk and drive into the parking lot. “Let’s go find breakfast. I probably have something we can sell.” Searching through the duffel, she didn’t see anything the pawnshop down the street might want until she checked the pockets of the jeans she’d jumped off The Piper in. There was an Aussie ten-dollar bill, and a bill worth 1000 rupiah. Both worthless in the Commonwealth, but they might have value to a collector.
Whistling, she led Bosco down the street. He lapped up a bit of a puddle left by the sprinklers, peed on the gates of the DMV, and let his tongue hang out as she pushed open the door of the pawnshop.
“Hey!” the man behind the counter shouted. “No pets allowed.”
“He’s my comfort animal,” Sam said without missing a beat. “I was assaulted.” She looked him in the eye to see if he’d squirm. He did. “Bosco makes it so I don’t have panic attacks.”
The man grimaced. “Fine, but if he ruins anything, you bought it. Hurry up.”
“I’m here to sell, not buy,” Sam said, holding up the bills. “We’re moving grandpa to a nursing home, and I’m in charge of cleaning out his old things. Grandpa said I should shred these, but I figured I’d check and see if they were collectible.”
With a disappointed look, the man slid the bills across the glass counter. “Australian? And, what’s this?”
“Indonesian,” Sam said, pointing to the rupiah.
“Where’s Indonesia?”
“Ah, it used to be a group of islands north of Australia. I think it’s part of the South Asian Union now. Like I said, older than fossils.” She smiled.
He shook his head and pushed the bills back. “I don’t sell currency, lady. I don’t even take cash. But there’s a coin shop two blocks away. Go north, second left. It’s Art’s Coins and Collectables. I can’t promise he’ll pay anything, but he’s the only one around here who might unless you want to go to the valley.”
“Nah, Art’s will be fine.” Her stomach growled.
The guy looked at her. “There’s a deli down the street that does a good breakfast.”
“I’m not really hungry,” Sam lied.
“There’s nothing healthy about skipping meals,” he said. “My granny died of doing that. Kept starving herself to lose weight, and her bone density was awful. Here”—he rummaged behind the counter and handed her a card with a flower and a handful of almonds on it—“that’s the number of my dietician. She’s very patient. Very affordable. Give her a call, tell her Paul sent you, and she’ll give you a free consult. With a little mindful eating, you can make a whole lifestyle change.”
“A lifestyle change?” Sam nodded in confusion. “Of course. What a wonderful idea. I’ll call her. Paul, you said. Good. Thank you, Paul.” When she was back on the street, she looked down at Bosco. “Do I look like I need to diet?”
He grumbled. “No. I didn’t think so either. I can run a six-minute mile. I paddleboard. I parkour. I eat healthy!” she shouted loud enough to draw worried glances from customers leaving the DMV. She waved and walked down to Art’s. He bought both bills for four hundred—enough to buy used sneakers at the thrift shop next door and breakfast for both her and Bosco, with enough left over for meals throughout the week.
After finding a pet store and a good leash, she and Bosco circled back to the DMV. It was three in the afternoon, people were shouting, people were sweating, the lot was filled to capacity. In other words, it was perfect chaos.
Sam waited until the manager walked out back to evaluate the chaos before she attacked. Smiling, she walked into the arctic cool of the air-conditioned building. The bell overhead rang, and the clerk sneezed.
“No dogs!”
“Oh, he’s a comfort animal,” Sam said. “And I’ll just be here a minute. Someone said you need one of the cars moved to the other impound? I’m with the volunteers . . .”
The harried clerk sagged with relief. “Oh, thank you! We have been calling for hours. Someone said something about orientation today, and all the volunteers were busy?”
Sam shook her head. “I used to live down in San Diego, and I did the training down there. I told them I wouldn’t mind helping while I was up here visiting my grandpa.” She nodded, then looked at the ground and counted to ten. Pressing her lips together, she let the stress and fear of the last month show when she looked back up. “He’s not . . . he’s not okay. And his memory . . .” She shook her head and covered her mouth. “He probably only has a few weeks. This sounds so selfish. It’s just, when I’m there, all I do is cry. I need to get out for a few hours. Pretty please, can I help?”
“Yes,” the clerk said with a sympathetic smile. “That would be perfect. Ah . . . what are you comfortable driving?”
Asking for something that was fuel-efficient and nondescript might raise a few red flags. “Well, if there’s anything flashy, I’d love to drive a Sunburst.”
“No,” the clerk said. “We have pickups, a food truck, an ice-cream truck that was used for selling drugs, and a bunch of midrange cars.”
“In that case, I’ll take anything with working air conditioning,” Sam said.
The clerk looked through the computer. “An Alexian Gemini, dark blue, everything works but it’s been here for five months and needs to be driven before it goes bad. Did you give the chief your paperwork?”
“Mmmhmm, outside,” Sam lied, earning her another five Hail Marys. It was getting easier every time. At this point, her next confession would take over an hour, and penance would take a few days of constant prayer. “He said I should check in with you. Where am I delivering this one?”
“Long Beach is full. Bellflower is near capacity. Do you think you could go to Bell Gardens? I know it’s halfway to Vegas, but they have an empty lot since the auction was last week.”
Pretending to worry, Sam hemmed and hawed. Finally, she shrugged. “I guess. Does it need fuel?”
The clerk grabbed the keys and a fuel card. “Take it to any station around here. They’ll do a quick road check and make sure the water battery is running right.”
“I thought all the cars out here were on solar-capture cells?”
“They’re supposed to be,” the clerk said. “This one is from Oregon. We’re lucky it doesn’t run on goat cheese.”
Sam laughed obligingly at the joke, took the keys, and all but skipped out the door. A friendly nod to the chief, fifteen minutes getting the car checked, and she was on the highway.
Bosco sat in the front seat, scaring drivers as they passed.
“Don’t drool on the upholstery,” she told him. “This is genuine leather. And I’m pretty sure this is quartz decorating the steering column. We’re going to Vegas and selling this to the first shady dealer we find.” It was one of the advantages of grunt work at the CBI—she knew which rocks to flip over to find slime in every district in the Commonwealth. All she had to do was change her MO. Instead of watching the slime and arresting them when the big gangs were broken down, she’d make them work for her. And do so while staying under the radar and getting to Florida District 8 before Henry Troom blew himself to Kingdom Come.