Free Transhuman by T. K. F. Weisskopf Mark L. Van Name Page A

be otherwise, but I've found a way around that. I switch to a security camera in the dispatch center, pan and zoom it to the workstation that my message has arrived at. I watched while the dispatcher's eyes flicked over it, then pressed the button on her microphone. I can't read lips, but there is software that can, a very useful tool in a world where there are far more cameras than microphones. I watched her make the initial call to the foot patrols in the area, then let the software read me what she was saying while I switched my own video awareness back to the station. A pair of beat cops came in almost immediately, moving quickly, their eyes alert. They must've been close.
    The dispatcher had called up the same cameras I was watching, and I heard her directing the cops onto their quarry. Cohan was standing on the platform for the northbound Blue train, unaware of how close he was to capture. The cops began to make their way down the crowded platform, and then the train slid into the station. The cops began to run, but the train doors slid open, spilling a herd of commuters into their path. Cohan boarded, the doors slid shut, and the train left, leaving the frustrated police standing trackside. I registered frustration myself, but the game wasn't over yet. One possibility was to dispatch officers to get on at the next station and arrest him on the train, but that would be a very obtrusive operation for the other passengers, and I had learned in my years on the force that this sort of thing is better kept out of the public eye. A wiser choice would be to take him on the platform or, better still on the street outside. That would require sending cops to all sixteen northbound Blue Line stations, and I also knew no sensible dispatcher would divert a platoon's worth of cops across several divisions when a single unit would do the job. Perhaps I shouldn't have cared, neither the department's public image nor the efficient use of its resources were my problem anymore. I cared anyway—I wore the badge with pride when I was alive, and in my heart I still wear it. The Blue Line went to O'Hare and I was certain that's where Mitch Cohan was going, on his way back out of the country again. We would intercept him there. I flashed a message up on the dispatcher's screen suggesting exactly that. My role within the police department is purely advisory, but the dispatchers have learned they should take my advice. Once I spot a runner, I never fail to bring him in. O'Hare airport L Terminus, thirty-seven minutes and 170,000 frames later. The train slides into the station. I watch through the cameras impatiently as the passengers disembark, and then a highlight appears over a face. Mitch Cohan. I follow him down the terminus, giving the dispatcher a text-line play-by-play of his movements. A pair of cops are waiting at the exit, eyes scanning the crowd, and I can tell by their expressions that they're listening to the dispatcher narrate my words. Cohan walks between them, to give him credit he doesn't miss a beat, shows no hesitation, no suspicion, nothing that might give him away if he had not already been given away. The cops fall in on either side, a firm hand on an elbow, the official words spilling out. There's no audio, but I don't need lip reading software to hear them in my mind. "Mitch Cohan, you are under arrest for the murder of citizen D'arcy Fullbright. You have the right . . ."
    The cops take him out through a side door, and I switch cameras to follow their progress to the waiting cruiser. A second pair of cops leaves the station, the backup team in case Cohan ran. Another fugitive brought to justice, quietly, efficiently, and inevitably. I am the arm of the law, and my reach is long indeed. I return my awareness to the lab. "We have him, Gennifer."
    "Mitch Cohan?"
    "Yes."
    "Good. Well done. Anything unusual?"
    "Nothing. I could be more effective if I could send and receive on police voice channels." She nods, not looking up as