66

Tungét, what are you doing here? I thought you were still on paid leave for another ten days.”

Wenthi put on his best smile to the desk clerk at the garage entrance, whose name escaped him. “Oh, I absolutely am. I’m not formally here, so don’t check me in or anything like that.”

“Really?” the clerk asked. “That’s kind of against protocol.”

“Listen,” Wenthi said, leaning in close, speaking like he was confiding. “They’re about to ship out all those rebel shitheels I caught, and I’m, you know, not supposed be part of the team who takes them to the train and such. But I just want to see them get shuffled out.”

“I hear you,” the clerk said. “Just keep your head low.”

Wenthi winked and went inside, keeping his face from showing how uncomfortable and out of sorts he was coming in the headquarters. He had taken a dose of mushroom, and while he was not synced with anyone, it pushed his senses to the edge. He tried to feel for Ajiñe, Nália, Mensi, anyone. Recapture that feeling he had last night. But he couldn’t reach them.

Every member of the patrol put off that same spiky, static sensation, which helped him wind his way to the uniform room without otherwise being spotted. The fewer people who saw him right now, made note of him, the better. Not that he’d be able to go back to work once he did this. There was no going back. But every swipe was going to count, so anything that kept patrol off his trail for a few moments was going to be worth it.

No one was in the uniform room. Good. He quickly stripped out of his clothes and dressed in full cycle uniform: black coat buttoned up, gloves, helmet, and goggles on. He dug through the lockers, hoping that someone had been sloppy, and of course someone was: Cresai. One of the laziest riders on the night sweep, always leaving his gear anywhere. He found Cresai’s badge and ident plate, pinned them to his coat. A glance in the mirror: perfect. No one would look twice at him. No one would note him as Wenthi Tungét.

He strode out of the uniform room, through the operations floor. He gave a glance at the assignment board, noting that several cycle patrol were escorting the transport trucks to the train platform. He checked the times and the clock.

Shit, he was already too late. They left twenty-five swipes ago. That’s why he couldn’t feel any of them.

He kept moving, making his way toward the main doors. Next part of the plan. He had anticipated this. It didn’t matter. He needed to move on, to the most important part of his plan. The part that could only happen at the stationhouse. The rest would sort out. It had to.

He left the stationhouse, flashing Cresai’s plate at the desk as he went, and went around the curve to the alley behind a fancy carbon shop. Enzúri Hwungko was waiting nervously there.

“Well?” he asked.

“Too late, plan two,” Wenthi said. “Ready?”

“Not really,” Enzúri said. “But I suppose we don’t have time for me to be ready.” He took a packet out of his pocket and deposited a bit of the mushroom on his tongue. Wenthi had gambled when he made this plan that not only would Enzúri be willing to join in, but that he still had a stash of the mushroom. He couldn’t have done this without it.

Enzúri stroked Wenthi’s cheek, and the contact confirmed them getting into sync with each other.

“Come on,” Wenthi said. He slapped his tether cuffs on Enzúri and took him by the arm, leading him back to the headquarters. This time, using the bus doors on the side. This would have been where the prisoners were all unloaded into trucks, now long gone. Wenthi brought him through to the intake desks. Spiking static all around him, going over to the clerk who looked youngest and newest. Needed someone who he didn’t know, and, hopefully, didn’t know Cresai. He flashed the plate again.

“Got one for the cells?” the clerk asked. “He looks—”

“Yeah,” Wenthi said, lowering his voice to a gruff whisper. “He’s not just llipe, but from one of the Families, hear?”

“Spirits,” the clerk said. “So are you—”

“He’s also buzzing like anything on the myco. I already have orders and it’s crucial that it’s, you know, quiet. Not an embarrassment.”

“When my aunt finds out I’ll have your uniform,” Enzúri said.

“Quiet,” Wenthi said. “You deserve to be celled up for the rest of the season.”

“So what do you need?” the clerk asked him.

“I need to take him to the ice rooms in the subbasement. That way we can cut off his buzz.”

“Right,” the clerk said, nodding with understanding. He produced a key from his desk. “Down that hall, take the lift, and use that key to get access to the sublevels.”

“Thanks,” Wenthi said. He pulled Enzúri along.

“That was too easy,” Enzúri said as they reached the lift.

“I wonder if this happens more often than I realized,” Wenthi said. They got inside, turned the key in the access panel, and started down.

“How will we find our way down there?” Enzúri asked. “Do you know what we’re getting into?”

“Not entirely,” Wenthi said as the doors opened to the sublevel. Pale, cold walls, unmarked doors. He would not normally be able to navigate his way through the place. But on the mushroom, synced with Enzúri, he could feel the spiky static coming off everyone down here.

Almost everyone.

There it was: the hint of the familiar connection of Nália Enapi. She was here.

“Got her,” Wenthi said. “Let’s go.”