Free Data Runner by Sam A. Patel Page A

pretty sure that’s the last thing they would want. Moving toward the door, I keep looking for the security they mentioned, but I don’t see it anywhere. For a moment I think I might avoid it altogether, until I exit the suite and find him waiting for me outside. Not that big, as security guys go. He’d probably be about Dexter’s size if not for all the artificial growth hormones.
    â€œStop right there!” He rips the backpack off my shoulder and pulls it open with far more zeal than necessary. I’ve hidden the envelope in the hydration compartment to make it look like I’m trying to sneak it through, but it doesn’t take him long to find it. He removes the envelope and drops the bag.
    Seriously, would it have been that difficult for him to just hand it back to me?
    He turns the padded envelope over in his hands. “This is a secure work environment. All shipments in and out are processed through Consolidated.”
    Consolidated, or what used to be the Postal Service. Nothing is secure in their hands. They’re a huge part of the reason we have a sneakernet to begin with. Trust me, it isn’t the Consolidated salary that’s put so many postal carriers in luxury vehicles and vacation properties.
    â€œLook, I’ve got a job to do,” I say and make an attempt for the envelope.
    â€œAll shipments are processed through Consolidated,” he repeats. “Your services are not required here!”
    He whips it away and widens his eyes like we’re about to have a problem. We aren’t about to have a problem. I think I’ve played the part convincingly enough. I throw up my hands. “Okay, fine. But if you don’t want me showing up then you should tell your people not to call. I don’t have time for this crap.” As soon as I say it I realize I might have pushed it too far. The last thing I want is for him to start grilling me about which employee handed me the envelope. “Whatever, man. I’ve got another job downtown.”
    I move to pass. He stops me. I step back and stare at him. Neither of us blink. I should be plotting my lane past him, but somehow I know it’s not the right move. He has the envelope. I have no reason to run. Running now would only arouse suspicion. So I don’t. Finally he lets me go. I move past him and down the stairwell.
    Behind me, I hear him take the envelope back into the suite. This is of no concern to me. I make my way out the building and head for the nearest subway station. I have real cargo to deliver.

9
    According to the monitor, the next train is only three minutes away. I check my watch and lean over the platform to scan the tunnel. There is a very sharp bend coming into the station so I won’t see the train’s headlamp until the last second. I look around.
    Standing there with my backpack over my shoulder, I look like any other upscale student on his way to a Free City charter school. And now that I’ve introduced a dollop of hair gel into my mane, I blend into the Free City crowd even more than I did when I was an actual member of it. It throws me at first. Every time I catch sight of myself in a reflective surface it’s like I’m looking at a much more stylized version of myself. Dare I say, a cooler me? It reminds me at once of all those rich kids who would return to school each fall glistening with Mediterranean tans, sporting styles so new they haven’t even made the fashion magazines yet.
    Passing a few girls on the platform, I catch a few looks that might even convince me I am one of them, if not for that damn itch on my arm. Well, not an itch exactly—just an acute awareness of the chip in my flesh loaded with data. I try not to favor my arm in any way, try to remain calm, nonchalant, but it’s hard. It’s hard because I know it’s there, and now I have this uncontrollable urge to clutch it. I know it’s all in my head, that the data itself is