We hit them. They responded by accelerating the program.
"Twenty-three women," I say. My voice is flat.
"They have already started grabbing them.”
I close my eyes.
The patch on my chest is cold now.
"What is the second transmission?" I say.
Dean cues the audio-feed forward. The second transmission comes through the cab speaker. A different voice this time. Higher up. The flat clipped tone of a senior officer giving a directive across a secure network.
The voice says:
Subject Forty-Seven has activated. Bio-signature exceeds projected ceiling. All pursuit assets converge on the Cascade theater. Bring her in.
The transmission ends.
The cab is silent.
I look at Thaw.
"They want to take me back."
"Yes."
"They do not get to do that."
"No."
The audio-feed hisses with carrier-static. Dean is reaching to turn it off when it crackles again.
He stops with his hand on the dial.
A third voice comes through. Different frequency. Cross-channel bleed. Quieter than the first two, the way a signal sounds when it is not on the same network as the one you are tapped to and you are getting it through a wall.
A man, mid-sentence:
— transport confirmed. Subject Hollens, M., secured. Crossing into Cascade theater inbound. ETA six hours.
Dean's hand goes still on the dial.
Thaw closes his eyes.
The cab goes silent in a different way.
The file of M. Hollens is on my lap. I have been holding it.
She is being moved.
Right now. Six hours from where I am sitting. The Syndicate has moved her in response to my activation signal.
The patch on my chest does not pulse.
It spikes.
Not heat. Not pull. Direction. A hard violent absolute aim, due south of where I am sitting.
