I pressed two fingers to the bridge of my nose. “If I’d done this, do you think I’d stand up and announce it?”
“Aren’t you a little young to know if we’ve been hijacked?” asked the older lady.
“I look young,” I said. “But I’m with law enforcement.” That was only sort of true. ISD didn’t so much enforce laws as treat them like fun little guidelines that could be bent for the government’s benefit.
“Shouldn’t you have a badge?” asked the turquoise-hair girl.
“I have a keycard,” I said, digging a white-and-blue card out of my pocket. Technically also true. But it was just a customer loyalty card for a national doughnut chain. I kept my finger over the words “Glazed and Confused.”
A few people looked relieved. “Do you know where we’re going?” asked a man with sunglasses. He had the sleek look of someone with money, which made me wonder why he was even on public transportation.
I shook my head. “No idea.”
“Should we try to break into the driver’s cabin?” the turquoise-hair girl said.
“It’s reinforced,” said another person. “You can’t shatter those walls or pick the lock.”
“What are we supposed to do?” asked the dad. His two kids were shifting uneasily in the seats beside him.
I held up both hands. “We’re supposed to stay calm,” I said in my most level voice. “Help is on the way. But in the meantime, they told me what to do. Does anyone have a tote bag?”
There was utter silence for a moment.
“A tote bag?” said the boy, frowning. He had one of those stickers on his shirt that said “Unaccompanied Minor.” He was probably around ten or eleven.
“A bag capable of toting,” I said. “A shopping bag? Extremely large purse? Anything?”
Finally, the dad reached down and came up with a pink backpack. A cartoon unicorn glittered across the front. “Would this work?”
“Perfect,” I said. “I am going to bring this bag around to everyone. I want you to power down your cell phones, visors, tablets, ringware, and computers. Then put them into this fine backpack. And as youdo so, please say your name, your destination, and your favorite ice cream flavor.”
When people panic, they get dangerous. It’s best to keep them off-balance; confused is better than frightened. If I remained cheerful and authoritative, most people would go along with what I asked.
The dad pulled out a large phone and a laptop and tipped both into the backpack. “My name is Shin,” he said. “My twins are Sara and Haruka. We’re going on a camping trip with family in Washington. And—um. I don’t know. Chocolate?” One of the toddlers perked up at the word “chocolate.” The other was too busy mashing a stuffed bear’s face against the window.
As he moved, his sleeve rolled up enough for me to see his electron-ink tattoo. My visor scanned it, confirming his name. Not that I thought he was the hacker—most criminals didn’t believe in “take your toddlers to work” day.
“Good answer,” I said, taking the backpack. I turned across the aisle to the boy. He had sandy brown hair, a light tan across his forearms, and a cynical scrunch to his eyebrows. “Electronic devices, name, destination, and ice cream flavor, kid.”
The boy looked doubtful. “I’m Peter. My parents are divorced and I’m going to stay with my dad near Lake Oswego. And I like mint chip.” He reached up and unclipped an earpiece phone. He dropped it into the backpack. When I eyed his tablet, he clutched it a little closer to his chest. It was the kind of tabletparents bought for kids—limited internet access and cheaper than a visor.
“Keep it, kid,” I said. He might need a distraction in the next few minutes, and I wasn’t heartless.
The turquoise-hair girl was more reluctant. “What if this is some kind of trick?” she said. “You could be the hijacker and stealing our phones. How do we know you called anyone?”
I let out a sigh. Then I flicked my fingers, activating my ringware. I booted up the ID scanner on my visor and let my eyes flicker over her hand. The bars of silver ink came to life—and at once, all her information poured across my vision.
“Katharine Walsh,” I said. “Nineteen years old, currently employed as a PA for a lawyer working in San Francisco. You’re on this bus probably to visit your Great Aunt Helena, who I see was just hospitalized in Portland. Sorry about that. You also have a sealed record. Looks like some kind of juvie thing when you were fifteen. It would take me about two minutes to break that seal, so if you want to continue this conversation, please.” I held out my hand in invitation. “Let’s.”
Her face paled a little. Civilian visors couldn’t read ID tattoos. It was considered a violation of privacy. My pulling her personal info was more impressive than my doughnut loyalty card. “Fine,” she said, yanking off her own ringware and dropping it in the bag.
“Much appreciated,” I said brightly, and moved on to the next person.
It took about ten minutes, and at the end of it I had a backpack bulging with cell phones, laptops, rings, and tablets. Among the passengers were a middle-aged woman (Claire, headed for Tacoma, was lactose intolerant) and a couple in their late twenties (Craig and Oliver, going to visit the in-laws in Albany, couldn’t agree on strawberry or vanilla). Most people were reluctant to give up their tech, but one glance out the window at the dead trees and broken homes seemed enough to convince them.
Going around to each of them allowed me to take their measure. But I still didn’t know who was the hacker. None of them seemed the type.
I hauled the pink backpack toward the front of the bus. All the devices had been turned off, so whoever had hijacked the bus couldn’t input new orders. If they wanted to retaliate, to cut their losses by driving us into a tree, they were out of luck.
