This is the End 2(29)

She nodded. I wanted to kiss her again, but she was already covered with foul-smelling gunk and I didn’t want to add to it.

Vicki had no such concerns, and she leaned in to kiss me. For ten magical seconds, all was right with the world.

I heard a snoring sound, and turned left. My raccoon visitor was sleeping in the hemp bush, all four legs in the air. He had marijuana all over his whiskers, and I may have been projecting but it sure looked like he had a smile on his furry face. I pulled my knife.

Vicki’s eyes got wide. “What are you doing?”

“This needs to be done. You don’t want to watch.”

I advanced on the animal with my blade drawn, trying to get my courage up, trying not to hesitate.

“Talon!” Vicki covered her eyes. “Oh…Talon…”

When I was finished, I tossed the raccoon onto that dick Chomsky’s roof. Then I crawled to the sprinkler and turned it on, cleaning myself up as best I could and drinking at least a half gallon in a futile effort to quench my thirst.

“Talon! They’re here!”

Three cops poured through my roof door, guns drawn. I struggled to my feet, got up a head of steam, and threw myself into the air again. And once again, I came up short, hanging from the edge of Chomsky’s building. But my bloody hands couldn’t hold on, and before I could get a leg up I lost my grip.

Luckily, Chomsky’s wall was covered with thick vines—the same vines that I’d been fined for harvesting. I hooked my hands into the vines, ripping them off the wall as I fell. They lowered me gently down. By the time I reached the ground I had two hundred credits’ worth of foliage in my arms. I gave them a rough yank, uprooting them. Served Chomsky right, the dick.

Cops appeared in front of me, Tasers raised. I backpedaled, squinting against the glare as the wax bullets struck my armful of vines. I dropped them and tore ass around the corner, finding my abandoned biofuel scooter, the motor still running. I put on the helmet, jumped on, and revved it, cutting into an alley, right into a swarm of two dozen peace officers.

They surrounded me, guns raised. I braced myself for the Taser attack, knowing that if more than ten of them shot me, it would likely be fatal.

But no one shot me. They all ran past, oblivious to my presence.

I turned around, confused, then saw what they were chasing.

My raccoon buddy was scurrying along the edge of Chomsky’s roof. But the cops weren’t looking at the animal. They were looking at their DT screens, which tracked my chip. After cutting the chip out of my wrist, I’d shoved it down the sleeping raccoon’s throat. Chips ceased functioning when their biological host died, or if they were removed from the body—with the exception of GPS. That worked as long as there was some biological matter still attached. Apparently I’d removed enough tissue for it to still work for a while.

I stitched myself into westbound traffic, heading to an old friend’s house.

Well, maybe friend was the wrong word. He was an ex–peace officer, and currently a tracer. I’d worked with him when we were both cops, and used him freelance on runaway cases after he was fired. After the Libertarian Act emancipated children, giving them the option of quitting school and living on their own if they got qualified employment, those without jobs but still yearning to be free of their parents went the dissy route. It was possible to track them by timecasting, but the process was painstaking and lengthy, especially since runaways weren’t technically breaking the law.

Harry McGlade had his ear to the ground in the dissy community, and could often find people faster than a time-caster could. He also had his hand in any number of underground, potentially illegal activities, one of which I needed his help with.

I merged onto the expressway, heading north to Rock-ford. I hadn’t seen him in a few years and hoped he still had the same address.

The three-hour ride was grueling. I was in considerable pain. My arm still wasn’t fully operational from when Sata hit me. The skin left on my knuckles kept scabbing over and bleeding every time I moved my fingers. The hole in my arm where I dug out the chip had clotted, but unless I cleaned it out and took some meds I was sure to get an infection.

The worst pain of all came from my ribs. After a self-inspection I felt two that were wiggly. The stop-and-go traffic, while sitting on a biofuel bike, wasn’t quite torture, but if I’d had to endure it for more than those three hours, I would have gladly confessed state secrets to make it stop.

McGlade’s house was as I’d remembered it; run-down and ugly, his front yard covered with junk, half-buried by weeds. Rockford had a lower biofuel tax, and McGlade apparently paid it in credits rather than foliage, because he hadn’t done any gardening here since Mary-Kate Olsen was elected president.