The Receiver

2 5 - F O O L P R O O F

Zander and I stand next to each other on the skytrak, holding onto the rail, gazing out across the city. We don't talk. The plan that's been forming in my brain all morning keeps me stoic. I'm not sure why he's so quiet. He's hard to read today.

A mile below the world is neat and compartmentalized. Small, distant, and peaceful. Pods speed by in a blur, coming and going, locking together, doors sliding open and closed again, passengers flowing in and out like fish changing direction in the current.

I glance over my shoulder to read the holographic schedule above our heads that announces arrival times of the incoming pods. Making my way to the appropriate exit as casually as I can, Zander follows without thinking, our minds and bodies in sync.

Without warning, I turn to face him, pulling him close to me and pushing him up against the door.

"What are you doing?" he breathes.

Out of my periphery I see the westbound pod a mile away maybe, but closing in fast. It slows until its matched our eastbound pod's speed and reversed directions. But it only lasts for maybe ten seconds. The pods interlock, the double doors slide open, and Zander stumbles backwards through the pod's open doorway with a little help from me.

Too surprised to catch his balance, he lands on his ass, looking up at me in utter confusion.

A few uninterested passengers squeeze by. One man actually offers Zander his hand, but he ignores it, too in shock to notice.

"Don't follow me," I say.

The doors close.

The pod picks up speed quickly, whisking him back in the direction we just came from at breakneck speed.

I try to forget the look on his face as I wait for my own exit. There was probably a nicer way to ask him to sit this one out, but better to ask for forgiveness than permission. I only hope he heeds my warning.

Within five minutes I'm approaching the two massive guardbots who stand stiff as sentinels on either side of a doorway that shimmers with a hologram. Where its liquid light ripples between two walls it must measure at least twenty feet high, three times as tall as the droids guarding it, and gives the illusion that I'm looking down into a pool of molten silver.

Almost imperceptibly, the bots move forward, growing more aware of my presence as I get closer. Even from a distance I see their sensors spinning, trying to match my retinas or facial structure to one of the technocrats he regularly meets with.

"Good evening, miss," the one on the left says.

Together, they've cleverly blocked my path, standing shoulder to shoulder as the distance closes between them and me. I have to admit they do have a certain finesse downcity bots glaringly lack.

"We're sorry to inform you," the right one says, "but the Engineer is only available by appointment. Please set up a time with his secretary—"

In the middle of his babble both the bots' eyes rotate in their sockets as their circuit boards scramble.

"The Engineer will see you now," leftie smiles.

"You bet he will," I say, winking at their sensors. "Thanks, Frank."

"Anytime, miss Rho." The guardbot's mouth moves, but Frank's voice comes out.

Brushing past the bots, I stride through the silver pool and emerge into a wide corridor tiled with cold, red marble where at least a dozen sets of blinking eyes stare at me.