Free Subterrene War 03: Chimera by T.C. McCarthy Page B

understand that.”
    “Where are you going, the train to Barcelona?”
    Before I could answer he cursed in Spanish, and the cab slowed, its electric motor whining. “La Guardia,” he explained. “The cops. They have traffic blocked all over the area.”
    I did my best to look concerned—which wasn’t difficult—glancing at my watch in frustration. “Oh? What do they want? I have a train in an hour; do you think I’ll miss it?”
    “It depends.”
    “On what?”
    He laughed and looked back at me. “On if you’re the one they want to catch. It shouldn’t take long. A test here, a test there, and then through.”
    The rain came down heavier than it had before, and even at full power the taxi’s wipers couldn’t keep up with it, and sheets of the stuff fell outside my window, turning the sidewalks into a distorted fantasy where yellow lights and shopwindows looked like molten steel. These were the moments that meant everything. They proved I was alive. The important thing about adrenaline, I recalled, was that for me it made time slow to the point where I appreciated a view from a taxi and marveled at the beauty of situations and surroundings. Our vehicle crept forward a car length at a time until they were in sight: the Guardia Civil. Ten of them clustered around a checkpoint where traffic had been stopped in each direction, and two APCs stood guard, their turrets open and their commanders holding rain ponchos over their heads while they smoked. The rain had been fortunate. None of the men wanted to be out in this weather, and they performed the scans as quickly as possible.
    When it was our turn, the taxi stopped and someone tapped on the windows. I rolled mine down to see a young soldier, eighteen or nineteen, a stubby Maxwell carbine strapped to his chest, its banana clip pressing up into his cheek.
    “You speak English?” I asked.
    The taxi driver had already finished with his tests and explained what the soldier wanted. “He wants your passport and a finger—for DNA.”
    I nodded and handed the soldier my chit. He scanned it, then motioned for me to place my finger in the analyzer, which I did until it flashed green.
    “Now a retina scan,” the driver said, so I leaned forward, staring into the optics of a handheld unit. A moment later, we had been waved on, my passport returned.
    “See, that was easy.”
    “Who are they looking for?” I asked.
    The man shook his head. “A bad one, this man. He killed seven people in a club in the old section of the city and one more not too far from here, where they recovered a sample of his DNA. Stan Resnick. The Guardia think he’s still nearby.”
    “He acted alone?”
    “
Sí
. I think so. That’s the word I hear, but who knows for sure?”
    A few minutes later we pulled up to Atocha Station, and I paid the driver, along with a good tip. He handed the extra money back.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “This is España,” the man explained. “I get paid well for my job, do I look poor?”
    I was about to say yes when he sped off.
    They had isolated my DNA—or Jihoon’s.
It was worse than I’d realized, and I moved through the station on autopilot, my feet feeling as though they were detached from my body, my brain floating in a cloud of fear. There was one good thing about them having one or both of our DNA sequences: it meant that they would rely on scans more than visual checks, that my picture wouldn’t be the main focus, which was fortunate because once my hair dried I’d start looking more like their holo still. So farluck had been with me, but there was no guarantee that I wouldn’t have to go through the whole process again; even if the train left the station on time, there was still the border crossing to worry about.
    At La Jonquera.
    The train slowed, and I woke with a start, glancing at my watch to find that I had slept for four hours, but it shouldn’t have surprised me; I’d gotten no sleep for the previous two days. Until I had