Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Twenty-Two

I stared at Piper, confused. I'd never needed glasses, and feeling them now in front of my eyes—partitioning, so near—unsettled me.

She said, "They're tagging some subway station—Hatch got the spray paint." Was that all he had in the sausage cart? "One of these newbies could be a plant. They try feeding our position to somebody outside? Bad day for them."

From her hip pocket, she removed a cellophane sheet of browns nubs. They reminded me of those candy buttons I'd eaten growing up, which I had once found in a vintage sweet shoppe and offered to my own kids. Zach's take: "You basically, like, bite sugar off paper? Pass."

Piper didn't eat these nubs. She peeled one off and stuck it high on her cheek, then passed me the sheet.

"Take two. I don't know what the algorithms do with freckles, but we should mess with 'em if possible."

Tentatively, I unstuck a pair of squishy fake moles. I placed one on my cheek like Piper's and the other above the left corner of my mouth a là Cindy Crawford. I kept my face still and held my finger near my face, expecting them to slough off, but they stayed.

Next Piper produced a stack of cards. She cut them like a playing deck, gave me half. "In case they want proof."

I read the top one. OFFICER OF THE INFORMATION SECURITY TASKFORCE, NEW YORK STATE, above an Albany address.

My mind swam. The meaning of these business cards—which were convincing, embossed on creamy cardstock—troubled me, but worse: Piper's statement about newbies having a "bad day." If Hatch's bag blocked incoming and outgoing data, how would a plant feed the Mice's position? How would he (she) get found out?

Was Hatch going to inspect all the phones, maybe as they were tagging the subway stop? Scour the message logs? He wouldn't need to scour mine; Durwood's message was right there on my lock-screen like a confession.

Suddenly I had a stomachache. "Hey. Should we have phones?"

Piper looked up from her tablet.

"Just for authenticity," I said. "Because if we have cards, shouldn't we have phones too?" I forced a chuckle. "What kind of bureaucrat doesn't have a phone?"

She glanced in the direction Hatch and the other Mice had gone, consternation flashing in her face.

I offered, "I'll go, I'll grab them—yours had the red case, right?"

And took out, jogging through the tunnel, walking rapidly back above ground toward the subway. I caught up with Hatch two blocks from the plaza and explained that Piper and I needed our phones back.

"We're supposed to be bureaucrats, bureaucrats need phones!" I bulged my eyes urgently.

His green-inked face was stern. He said nothing but a moment later did bring the frequency-blocking bag forward.

I stopped myself from gushing Thank you thank you thank you, then fished around until I found our phones.

Then double-timed it back to the tunnel.

Piper was waiting, toes tapping, holding her tablet overhand. As I approached, she showed me the back of a business card. It had scribbled digits.

"My number." She traded me the card for her phone. "In case we get split up, which we might. That was smart."

I pocketed her number with a smile, grateful for the compliment.

After confirming each other's appearance, Piper and I took the tunnel to the south skyscraper. We paused outside the revolving doors. Without being obvious, I raised my eyes up the building face. This close, it seemed to sway—maybe they actually do?—and loom over me. A window washer's cart hugged the upper third, impossibly high, attached by cables partly obscured in clouds.