Free Cog by K. Ceres Wright Page A

is registered in a foreign diplomat’s name.”
    “How’d you manage that?”
    “Couple of friends. Check the news, see what’s going on,” Nicholle said.
    Chris searched on their names and transferred the images to the car’s diodes. Scrolling text appeared on the passenger side of the windshield:
    Nicholle Ryder of American Hologram took a page from her brother’s book. She has been accused of embezzling twenty billion dollars from the company. Her brother, William, was accused of taking fifty billion earlier today, after their father, Geren, was rushed to a hospital when he collapsed at work. Perim Nestor, American Hologram’s vice president, reported the money missing this evening. Police have put out an APB for her.
    “That bastard! And I haven’t even met him! We can’t go back. We can’t even call the police. Come to think of it, I’m afraid to call my friends. The ones I have left. The police might have them tapped.”
    “I’ve got a friend I can call,” Chris said. “He’ll let us stay for a while.”
    b
    Dried Earth Boulevard, Wind Rider Way, Burnt Mountain Path—names of streets in Columbia. Like disjointed, random sentences in a pakz-induced haze. Nicholle had heard tell Columbia was a city with premier neighborhoods once upon a time, with tree-lined streets and emerald grass. Now it boasted a run-down mall, dilapidated housing, and dirt-filled front yards decorated with rusted cars.
    She and Chris drove through the neighborhoods, passing house after house with peeling paint and broken shutters.
    “Nice place,” she deadpanned.
    “Not everyone’s an heiress,” Chris said.
    She bit down a retort.
    “Left here,” he said.
    She turned on Canyonhead Lane, onto a cracked asphalt street, where trash littered the gutters and cats’ eyes peered from sewers.
    “What’s the address?” she said.
    “Here it is. On the right.”
    She pulled into the driveway. Nicholle shook as she alighted from the driver’s side. Since the shooting, she had put up a front, but now she was crashing. Her legs quavered as she staggered to the front of the car and leaned against the hood. Her heart thumped in her chest, banging in her ears. Chris walked around and put his hand on her shoulder.
    “Hey, you okay?” he said.
    “Just shaken. Guess it’s been longer than I thought since I got shot at. Not quite used to it.”
    “Well, c’mon. Let’s go in.” Chris motioned his head toward the house, a narrow blue frame affair with dead grass in the front lawn and a leaning Bradford pear tree. The style reminded Nicholle of the pictures she had seen of her great-grandmother’s house back in the late 1900s.
    “This one’s your friend’s?”
    “Yeah, Corland. Taught me everything I know about wiho mesh,” Chris said.
    “I thought you were Geneware certified.”
    “I am. But that’s front door. Corland knows the back door, side door, trap door.”
    “Ah. Mm, they still have concrete.” Nicholle noticed the cracks in the driveway and sidewalk. Chris cut her a look, and she raised a hand. “I won’t be a snob. Promise.”
    When they reached the top of the stairs, a bell sounded from inside the door. Beethoven’s Fifth .
    A far-away clanking sounded, then grew louder, coming up the street. A red truck sporting flashing yellow and blue lights hovered up the street, then pulled into the driveway, sounding as if it would fall out of midair. Shaking violently, it barely cleared the mailbox, then landed with a loud bang.
    The door whisked open and a bald-headed man with heavy brows arched over dark eyes emerged. He wore a black viscous sleeveless shirt that varied its texture continuously, but whose sensors were painfully obvious under the shifting material. The man smiled generously when he spied Chris.
    “Chris! You nuch. Long time no see.”
    They hugged like old friends while Nicholle visually scanned the man for weapons.
    “Hey, man, it’s been a while,” Chris said. “Hey, this is Nicholle Ryder.