Free Data Runner by Sam A. Patel

show up at the address given to me by my cortex chip, but the one thing I don’t expect is that it will be such a dump. It isn’t even a high-rise, just a crummy 12-floor walkup that smells old.
    The suite is one large room in which people sit at long tables sectioned into workstations. There is nothing dividing one workstation from the next, so everyone can see and hear everyone else. The only private office is located in the back corner. Figuring that’s where I’m supposed to go, I start down the narrow aisle between the last row of workstations and the wall, but before I get there a hand reaches out and pulls me to the floor. Normally it wouldn’t have, but my legs are still weak from the bullet. Not to mention the bruise on my chest the size of a softball.
    I try to get up but a second hand grips my shoulder and shoves me back down.
    I glance up. Sitting above me are two guys in white shirts who look identical except for their chins and ties. One makes a shushing motion with his fingers. “Arcadian?” he asks.
    â€œYes,” I answer, wondering if any of this is normal.
    â€œGood,” says the other. “We’ve been expecting you.”
    He motions for me to stay down as he does something at his desk that I can’t see. A moment later he lowers his hand to pass me a SQUID sensor, and I wonder again if any of this is normal. I pull up my sleeve, exhale hot breath onto the contact and stick it over the crow’s eye. For some reason, this is when it hits me that I am actually doing this. I am a data runner.
    The data stream enters my chip in magnetic pulses that feel like the ball end of a sewing pin tapping Morse code into my arm. It has no discernable mass of course, but it’s almost as if I can feel its weight loading into me. This goes on for about thirty seconds while the two guys above me act as if I’m not even there. Then comes a two second pause followed by a quick series of five rapid pulses, then nothing at all as the light on the sensor goes out. The same guy who handed it to me reaches down with a scrap of paper. Scribbled on it is an address. I try to take it but the guy won’t let go. I try again but his fingers hold tight. I guess I’m supposed to memorize it. I do, then fold the SQUID into the paper and let him retract both.
    The other one warns me to stay down. “I’ll tell you when it’s clear.”
    I take a moment to admire the bird on my forearm before pulling down my sleeve. It really is a beautiful image. I have to be sure to give Snake my compliments when I see him again, if I ever see him again.
    â€œThere is a brown envelope taped under the desk,” he says. “Grab it.”
    I see it immediately, a small padded envelope. I peel it off. The rip of tape is louder than either man is comfortable with; both look around the room nervously.
    â€œWhat am I carrying?” I ask.
    Now they eye each other. “We were told there would be no questions,” says the man with the address.
    â€œThat we could rely on it,” says the other. “We were told there would be discretion.”
    â€œAlright,” I say. “So what do I do with the envelope?”
    â€œThat’s your red herring.”
    Red herring? I wonder.
    â€œIt’s your ticket out of here,” says the other. “Security will stop you on the way out. They will search you. When they find that envelope on you, they will take it. You should make a fuss over it, but let them have it. Then deliver the real package.”
    I slide my backpack off my shoulder and stuff the envelope inside. “Anything else?”
    Neither guy answers. Neither guy says anything until, all of a sudden, “Go now!”
    I crouch-walk along the wall to the beginning of the row before popping back to full height. If anyone else notices me, they pretend not to. I nearly turn around and look back at the two guys but manage to check myself. I’m