Hacking the Sun

By Mario Brash

Jessica Leibniz tried to be a normal teenager, but unlike most teenagers in the 22nd century, she can tell time without a clock. So what good is a watch... unless it comes with incriminating A.I? It's part of a fashion sense that involves 1980's nostalgia, nerdom, and rebellion. Otherwise, you have a normal, nineteen-year-old delivery girl by day and freelance hacker by night. Everything else is unremarkable in a future where aliens rule the planet.
After assimilation in the 21st century, which could have ended more violently, Earth has become relatively peaceful and technologically efficient, so they say. Corporations still reign supreme, except a new species sits at the top of the social ladder. These overlords have constructed a new kind of city in the web of planetwide sprawl. Eden: a modern megapolis.
Jessica has learned to embrace Eden and its challenges. Without a cause, she confides in three friends or smacks into boredom. But when she seamlessly cracks an uncrackable security algorithm, nothing makes sense, and boredom gives way to danger. Hacker life takes to the streets, and beyond, in a desperate flight from the world's most powerful corporation. Faced with conspiracy, tragedy, and a new life on the run, normal is no longer an option.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mario Brash
• Release date: May 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463723876

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All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without crediting the author.

ISBN-13: 9780463723876

ISBN-10:

Cover illustration by: kittisak Thangrod

Prologue

Under the morning rays of a New York City sun, traffic was terrible. Nevertheless, energy circulated around every corner of the streets. Just another restless Tuesday cologned with gasoline, propane, and coffee. Grind to grind, shot to shot, and dog to dog, people learned to get along with the hassles of one sunrise and the next.

Posters littered the dirty canvas of urban sprawl: corners, fronts, and apartment sides. Everywhere, paperback letters hurled warnings about political affiliations. But the news was of no concern to the street artist; not to the performer, the demo distributor or entrepreneur, and not the morning jogger.

Man's relief from the terror of the morning workday – Smiles. Sometimes they were scarce, despite the homeless man on the corner of Greenwich and Fulton promoting them with a cardboard sign. Alas, the aim of a weekday, even a sunny one, was to keep moving.

So, a single vagrant kept going. He contemplated, second-guessed, and watched, through thick sunglasses, the day-to-day minutia.

Watch the road!

He could barely hear the exclamation outside his headphones, but turned his attention left, toward the street, and found the middle finger outside of a taxi window.

Muffled vehicle engines, ghostly faces under urban boughs. He passed the whites and reds of cement and brick, in the direction of the tallest building he could find, past another tall building. Another squirrel crossed his gaze, past the solemn structure with arches for windows and a cross in the center. Greenery gathered underfoot until he reached the wet squares of New York City's most recent memorial.

Among the souls visiting the park—venturing through bushes, meditating throughout concrete—he missed one peculiar pedestrian stuck in a phone. He was a young Caucasian wearing a green hoodie, casual jeans, and thick-rimmed glasses. The smartphone maneuvered him, guided his eager steps as he failed to see the impending trench coat.

Ah! The student grabbed the pool's edge to avoid falling. In recovery, he finally saw the wanderer.

The wanderer, a taller man enclosed in a white trenchcoat, stood upright and unfazed. His hands reverted to the rim of his thick sunglasses.

Meagerly, the student jerked upright; his gaze fell on the sunglasses and large headphones over a beanie. Only vestiges of pale skin underneath.

Apologies! the stranger exclaimed.

That may have been my fault, said the student, scratching his head before returning to his phone. Damn, almost had a Squirtle.

No matter. It may be that I could have avoided you if my thoughts would only return to what they were.

The student escaped his phone after catching an air of remorse. They had collided by a pool, a grand square of black reflection. Placing the device in his pocket, he looked back at the names inscribed in marble rim before turning back.

"Did you lose someone? If you did, I didn't mean to offend. Well, I never mean to offend."

But the stranger shook his head. These are not the names clouding my thoughts.

Just out for a stroll? Procrastinating? Same.

I do wish it were a simple stroll... And the strange man's eyes swept the ground. Quickly, he looked up. Excuse us. Questions, they keep stirring in my mind. Can I confide in a stranger like yourself to answer just a few?

The student shrugged. I guess. I got some time before classes.

You attend an academy? The stranger inched closer.

The student eyed him. Yea, I go to a University.

Which one?

Columbia.

One of the good ones, yes?

Heh. You aren't from around here.

It is, as they say, a long stor— He seemed tiredly mid-sentence. We should sit down.

They paced backward a few feet, to a bench guarded by white oaks. As they awkwardly sat in view of the black water, the cool November breeze set in, and the wanderer wasted no time. Do you think the planet is in a fair state?

With a wince, the student replied, Kinda depends.

Because you do not know? Or because it is a question that cannot be answered?

I mean, it could be better. But it could always be better, right? It's a really broad question.

And the stranger looked away, twiddling his thumbs in silence. I suppose you are right. Then he returned more eagerly. What of these posters around the city? Could your election improve things?

The student cynically scoffed, a white smile painting his face. But a few seconds into the question, the smile faded, and his demeanor retreated into sobriety. I... Things aren't looking great. And I can't really explain how it ended up that way. Maybe if you asked a Political Science major. Looking over at the wanderer's lap, he noticed his latex thumbs still twiddling and his knees quietly trembling. Are you okay, man?

Yes! he wobbled. I've just been without my, umm... Something once calmed me.

A medication?

Yes! A medication! For the past few months, I have been without this medication, and I don't perceive anything as I once did.

An emphatic look then dropped from the student to the stranger. So that's why—he coughed—Why go without your medication?

I've been here for too long, thus exhausted all of it. There is no more.

You try a pharmacy?

I know it does not exist here. Only where I'm from.

Well, you can Amazon that stuff. Or something. What's it called?

Hmm?

The name of the medication.

But the wanderer sighed, losing himself in thought and the overcast. He stood from their bench and made eye contact one last time. What is your name?

It's Adam, said the student.

Adam from Columbia. I wish you grace on your path, and hope what comes next only befits your aspirations.

I appreciate that, Adam said, extending his hand. What's your name?

The wanderer stared at the hand suspiciously, at first, then met the student's grip with his own, answering, Mik'ael.

Mick Al. Nice meeting you.

And you.

They parted ways, one toward the memorial and the other sauntering into the city's tallest tower nearby.

See Forever. Darkness in the elevator. After a long ascent in a dimly lit box, hundreds of years fell before Mik'ael's eyes. A winding screen depicted the relatively brief history of this part of the city. Something about the towers' disappearance on-screen had made him nervous, lament almost.

Afterward, he entered a queue alongside the same group of people who accompanied his elevator ride. Together, they crossed shadows and light that painted the room a dark blue, flanked by bright tapestries of New York City, that lit every step on the path towards See Forever Theater.

Being nervous wasn't going to help him or anyone else. He knew that. It's the right thing, he mentally repeated over and over again. Then the blackness came undone, the walls rising, rising on all sides, to let the sun beam through every window. Despite all his years, he could barely recount anything so mesmerizing. New York City's morning glory reigned nowhere more apparent than it did high inside One World Trade Center.

A stream of emotions struck with the sunlight. Its careening morning melody gravitated him towards the windows as he stared across the Hudson. He had to calm his breathing.

Everyone else dispersed throughout the room, taking pictures, tapping tablets, and posing by the grand view. Contrarily, he simply stared and loaded everything he saw into memory. How to proceed from here, however, that question thumped his heart.

Rebounding from his long inhale of the city, he looked down, away from everything but the floor. After a long and sorrowful sigh, he eventually returned his gaze. The lack of clouds in the sky made it seem rather empty.

I wonder how events would have transpired...

Finally, he removed his glasses and beheld New York's Jewel through unadulterated vision, through bright yellow Irises. He removed his headphones, his beanie, and let his long, tapered ears hear without muffles. A figment of his likeness reflected off the window, a pale complexion that was unlike any human.

Near the apex of the One World Trade Center, Mik'ael treated himself to one last peer beyond the screen, his final overlook of New York City below noon. Brief recollections of a starry sky accompanied visions, recollections unhindered by sun and light pollution. It was a nuanced place without a horizon, a limitless space. He contemplated the northernmost pole to the southernmost; he debated his lot in life and on the planet before peering toward the future. So, his eyes rose to the sky, slave to the anticipation of a presence already weighing on his shoulders. Then he checked his watch, which flashed a red light and jargon text. Reluctant as he felt, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled a plastic firearm.

The trigger ejected a transparent substance onto the window panes. As the liquid made contact, it dematerialized everything it touched: the glass quickly melted and oozed its way down to the floor.

A middle-aged woman noticed a thin veil of smoke rise from where Mik'ael was standing, then noted the strange device in his hand. From knee-jerk terror, she screamed, Someone stop him! and immediately called the room's attention.

Every tourist gaped with delayed horror. The closest visitors jerked away, while the woman yelped in tears, embracing the old man next to her as tower security sprinted forward.

Two suit-and-tie guards stopped in front of Mik'ael, their pistols pointed down. Sir! one of them called. He grew nervous upon noticing the culprit's alien facial features. Since staring achieved no explanation, the other guard proceeded.

Sir, I'm going to need you to back away from the window, put down your weapon, and get on your knees with your hands up.

It's not a weapon, Mik'ael replied. Just a tool.

Everybody watched, rattled as a gaping hole formed on the screen window. The glass touched the floor as a viscous material, emanating smoke beside the stranger's feet. It blew over them with the rushing wind that entered the room and chilled their sanguine faces. Inevitably, panic levels increased.

At this point, both security guards were pointing their Glock barrels directly at Mik'ael's head. Sir, this is your last warning! A warning slightly muffled by the high-altitude wind.

Nothing changed. Mik'ael stepped outside the window cavity when the foremost guard fired his weapon. The loud bang made everyone jump; hands over their ears, their instinctive duck came with screams.

But when the ringing stopped, only the wind remained, and people opened their eyes to the sight of Mik'ael by the window completely unharmed and comporting a casual look. The guards were smacked by awe as Mik'ael continued outside and set his feet on thin air.

He floated upright against the New York City backdrop, turned from the frightened group of people and, again, observed the magnificent city sprawl in its entirety. Floating further back before the grand length of One World Trade Center, he rotated three-sixty degrees. The view buried his thoughts, throwing a grin on his face while the wind massaged his scalp. The plan never involved being enraptured; he simply succumbed.

He was no less awed than the witnesses, who took pictures from behind the new hole in the window. Beaming, they eventually noticed his boots and the strange wave emitted underneath. Assuming this wasn't a magic trick, something from the boots kept him airborne.

As mesmerized as Mik'ael was, in his levitational musing, a tick and blue light from his smartwatch brought him back to the real world. Dismay caught him, his thoughts silent as he stared at the strange letters onscreen. When his conscience found its voice, he remembered what he had to do.

Solemn, sober, and prepared, he upturned to the sea of sky. The boots carried him farther, up to the spire, slowly toward the peak.

Dauntingly elevated, Mik'ael had a vantage of the world's curve. At the stakes of the great skyscraper's beacon, he grabbed onto the metal and stared down the enormous length of steel, while his legs remained free to swoon in the air.

Helicopter rotors echoed in the wind, nearing, loudening. More choppers began a circuitous patrol nearby. A new noise then took his ears, not of the wind or helicopters. Jet engines. Military aircraft soared in New York City's airspace, looming at eye level as their wings deftly navigated the horizon.

On the peak of New York City's tallest skyscraper, he waited. Several jets populated the sky now, environing him with the screech of burning fuel. That's when they came.

The first one eclipsed the sun, a behemoth of a craft whose mass literally engulfed Brooklyn in shadow. Panic, wonder, fear—all solicitations of the unknown came with their arrival.

The sky darkened, a second ship arriving just above Mik'ael. It was a solid, opaque mass looming adversely to the god rays in its descent. Mik'ael watched them consume the sun.

As he removed his watch, he stared down the overhead behemoth. Fist to the sky, his bitterness suddenly prevailed when a grand and resonant bell expelled from the ship. A chaotic dance of wind, turbines, and echoes then fondled him, mid-air, never once removing his relentless gaze from the dark mass.

I have what you wanted!

Smothered by the sounds of a frightened city devolving into Pandemonium, Mik'ael stared at the ship as if awaiting a response. Rage accompanied his sun-colored eyes.

"I have what you wanted! Show me what your word means, Xynocephles, and do as you promised!"

Chapter 1 Dreams of Yet Another Retro Geek

Babel Her watch beeped. Play Sweet Dreams by Eurythmics. Then came that electronic beat, a fantastic sequenced synth bass line. She listened to the synchronous drum and stared over the skyline from a sixteen-story complex, a view beholden to its fair share of skyscrapers and flying cars in the rising Summer sun. Hover lanes soared at separate altitudes of glittering streaks. The morning light rose over them and the many top-floor domes, transparent bio-domes graced the top levels of the most modern buildings. The best views of the modern city offered by the modern city, yet the view could only hope to beat the ginormous Pepsi billboard on the nearby skyscraper.

All that blue, red, and white; all that red, white, and blue, she sighed.

Bio-domes were the upper echelon of skyline real estate, reserved for greener pasture persons. Jessica sat on a regular concrete roof that happened to have stairs, though she seldom found a use for stairs.

She sat care-free on the precipice of old-fashioned concrete while city sounds came to and fro, memorizing the city plan until she heard the door burst open several yards behind her. Her watch, 9:30 on the dot. Predictable. She then lip-synced to the security guard.

Hey, you're not supposed to be up here! he growled.

She turned and saw her reflection in a pair of sunglasses: fitted black pants creasing around the ankles, and a pair of mismatched shoes outer-soled with metal. Her red vest was a blast of color, underneath which her black t-shirt emblazoned a cross-armed robot. She lifted her polymer gauntlet, lowering to lock eyes beneath a pair of goggles. Sun-grazed hazel eyes laughed underneath a jagged black shag and aviator lenses that, in turn, mirrored the guard's angry mug.

He was an average Joe, bound in blank gear around his arms and legs. Across his utility belt, he carried a smoke grenade and cartridges for the stun gun on his right holster.

His scrunched face definitely resented her presence on the roof. That hat with a shield stitched, it fired an aura of authority that glared with its meaninglessness.

I'm a rebel, so it's okay, she told him. McFly, and the board under her arm extended several inches. At the drop, it hovered beside her feet. When the guard advanced, she hopped on-deck and floated to the ledge. Cracking a wide, playful grin she dove off the ledge.

Stupefied, the guard lunged forward. He found the young woman angled ninety degrees, cruising down the column, and her board never touched the building; it hovered over the windows as she leaned backward. Thus, in lieu of a teen spread all over the pavement, the view was a casual wave goodbye and a smile as she touched down.

Welcome to New Sumer, Eden of the Anglo-AllianceHolo-skits of people in their jumpsuits, staring at tall and stain-free buildings by the sunrise. Similar animations played throughout the modern sprawl, non-stop. Jessica observed everyone in haphazardly surfing the streets.

Watch where you're going!

She countered, "Eyes off your phone, Jackass!

Jessica - A peek into the identification screen of her e-card gave the basics.

Last Name: Leibniz

First Name: Jessica

Height: 180 cm

Address: 3254 Apple Mire, Suite 13

PD (Population Designation): S1867222

DOB: 03/15/2110

Occupation: Sustenance Delivery. Because 'food' or 'fast-food' delivery is too informal. Then you get the awkward mugshot. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a stone face, longer hair, and a thin white suit that passed for a school uniform. A full-body picture would show the accompanying red skirt—not because aliens believe in gender roles but because they find its implementation ingenious to telling sexes apart, despite the fact that the alien physiognomy is negligibly different.

Everywhere, a rainbow of advertisements showcased alien and human, side by side. One preached the issues burning carbon, while another lectured on proper recycling habits. And the list goes on.

Sing to me with more fake voices.

The biggest propaganda board always came with a big font and the chipper female voiceover: Make the year 2129 another testament to the success of Earth-Azarea relations. Be sure to report any suspicious persons to your local law enforcement.

And by 'persons' you mean humans. Silly space elves.

Azareans were an odd species, so far as Earthlings were concerned. They were stoic, sharper—whether or not a result of their stoic nature was a matter of some debate—and the ones on Earth had light and unblemished skin. Aside from uniform paleness, they also had pointy ears, which made common folk wonder if the spacefarers came from Middle-Earth. To put an epitaph on that stupid discourse, the aliens officially denied all affiliations to Tolkien. Nevertheless, people took to calling them space elves while prolific readers of Fantasy tried communicating with them in Quenya. Unique ears, eyes, and complexion distinguished the space-elf species. One other, unpleasant method was talking to them.

Jessica passed under a shaded sidewalk, floated right past a man in a satin coat, noting his alien eyes of violet and how they scowled, then mockingly bowed at his glare without the care to stop.

Azareans irises ranged into the spectrum ranged of reds, oranges, yellows, and violets. Once again, she contemplated the physiological reason for this trait, but it remained a mystery like most aspects of this species that technically ruled the planet. She didn't like mysteries.

'Some of them want to use you'—Shit!

She nearly tripped over the egg near the corner crosswalk. Looking back, it was one of many knee-high robots: white, shiny, and smooth little mechanical bodies floating along the streets. When active, their only expression was two bright green ovals on a black monitor. Thanks to these little bots, clean pavement littered the streets.

Litter being hugely frowned upon, a recycle bot could be found around every city block. Their smooth shells withheld utensils that picked trash and dispensed it into many properly labeled receptacles: aluminum, glass, plastic, paper, carbon fiber, nuclear waste, and the color-coding goes on. 'Unknown' trash went into the sad face bin. The bots always got it right, however. Polished surfaces explained why Jessica nearly tripped; their paint jobs matched the pavement.

Overhead traffic curtailed as the bicycle lanes opened. Jessica mused over the speed of her board without its inhibitors, which would make it illegal. She skated near a pair of cyclists until one of them, a stalky blonde, noticed her riding alone. His smile was whiter than the pavement when his front wheel hit a hydrant. And the poor cyclist lost his grip, front-flipping on his back. Fortunately for him, his collar-bound airbag deployed. Suppressing the urge to laugh out loud, Jessica leaned over his body.

Are you alright? she said.

I'm good! he moaned, trying to play it off.

Well, I would go to the dentist if I were you.

Why the dentist?

Because you just ate shit!

Useful technology, the airbags. Sophisticated. They inflated around the body to cushion the biker's impact, and fit into a waterproof collar. Jessica had a rare moment to appreciate their effectiveness, and remember why she wore one.

At the end of the housing clusters, Jessica reached a corner complex: eight stories of blue windows surrounded by lush oaks. Just down that sidewalk, she glanced at a park where hipsters played old-fashioned basketball.

Inside the complex, she uttered But doc, retracted and hopped off the gravity board, then gleefully skipped past the scanner. Good morning, Misty. Welcome back.

Up the elevator, after the fifth floor, she scurried across pink carpet and white plaster until she reached the sliding door with number 59 illuminated. Her e-card triggered the sliding door, on the other side of which she rediscovered a pair of armoires that framed the center window. Only a mild glint of tinted sunlight bounced off the violet walls. Otherwise, her suite was as plain as the bed and armoire attached, with its black sheets and lacquered drawers beside.

Above the bedrest, a clothing rack held five of the same red, white, and green jumpsuits. Shelves below and to the side contained stacks of black tablets, but only the Stevie Nicks poster stood out.

Jessica cornered the clothing rack, replaced her casual getup with the red, white, and green jumpsuit, and it automatically shrunk to size. Nearly skin tight. To top it all off, she donned a green whose black font spelled Tacquizza. Board in hand, she departed.

***

Thank you for ordering from Tacquizza, where your satisfaction is ours. Jessica maintained her widest smile—not very wide—while reciting the motto.

The customer, chest hair flushing out of a white tank top, ignored everything but the carriers in her hand. He appeared in his forties, balding, and had hairy arms. You got here fast, at least, he said raspily.

Jessica presented the receipt on her tiny tablet. Eight tacos: four carne asada, four el pastor, all with salsa and lettuce and a side of lemon.

I didn't ask for lettuce.

I know, but we're obligated, she replied matter-of-factly. Insurance reasons.

No tip for you, then! He touched his thumb on the tablet, seized the carrier, and the door slid shut behind him.

You're not supposed to tip me!

36, 37, 38, 39...

Thank you for ordering from Tacquizza, where your satisfaction is our satisfaction.

A youthful brunette, holding a crying baby, gawked from the doorway. Right! Right! she sighed. Be right back! When the woman returned, Jessica began reading the receipt out loud. Is the chicken farm-raised? the woman interrupted. I just wanted to know because I read an article about how they cause no disease.

Jessica darted at the woman in disbelief, but she took a quiet breath and replied, They are whatever you want them to be, ma'am. The woman nodded absently and accepted the box before sliding her card.

60. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7...

Thank you for ordering from Tacquizza, where your satisfaction is our—

I placed the order over thirty minutes ago! snarled the young student, whose stomach nearly blocked the entrance to his dorm room.

If he were any bigger, he would be illegal. That was a real thing – The Azareans outlawed obesity a long time ago because obesity reflects maltreatment of the self, and aliens were all about that self-loving. Few exceptions remained, however. Any uncontrollable medical problems, for instance, provided they were properly diagnosed.

Darting her eyes side to side and cupping her chin, Jessica double-checked her tablet and found the time the order was placed. Martin Haussman? she asked.

Yes!

The screen read 13:14. Four more seconds to 13:35. She watched the minute strike from 13:34 to 13:35 on her watch. Who taught you how to count? she wanted to say. Rather, she politely reminded him that no payment meant no food.

Begrudgingly, the student inserted his card, mumbling something in German, to which Jessica replied Das ist unhöflich, Ruck. She delivered the carrier and left.

Later that afternoon, outside another terrace home. Food's here, Jessica said, and the door slid open. On the other side stood a boy of about twelve years. He had short hair, brown skin, and looked stalky in a white shirt whose tapered letters spelled Iron Coffin.

Apa! the boy exclaimed, looking away. A man in his thirties, wearing a yellow jumpsuit, stepped in front of the entrance.

Hello! he said with a silky accent. What do I owe you?

Treinta créditos, she replied.

Hablas español?

Si hablo español.

De qué tipo?

Puertorriqueño, y conozco un poco de España.

Órale, jefa!

Ich spreche auch Deutsch. Beide sind nützlich.

Calmate, jefa. Ya no sé lo que estás diciendo.

After an exchange of exclamations, the man paid with a final comment on the deliciousness of the pizza. Que te valla bien!

A ti tambien! 

It was the difference between a bad day and a good day. 

By her estimation, the current time was 15:47. Glancing her watch, she saw the time was 15:47. Thank goodness for five-hour workdays.

At the base of the terrace stairs, she fastened her goggles before peeking at the low sun. McFly. She rode to the next sidewalk corner, due east.

Pythagoras came to mind as Jessica hovered down the sidewalk, around a park of pines. New Sumer's sprawl was a series of circular neighborhoods, the tallest buildings in the center. The Azareans praised the Parisians for being among the first to exemplify such urban planning—even though many would argue the French did not plan deliberately. Also, Azarean plans allowed more living space. Modern communities accommodated larger populations per square mile than pre-alien society.

They could accommodate more humans if they so choose but understand that we're not sardines.

Stop Playback.

Pine Rim Hovels read the wooden sign with green pines and a rising sun. Like Jessica's complex, its walk-through scanner spoke as she whimsically walked by.

Welcome, guest of suite 31.

Lithely, grinning, she skipped down a red carpet that ran the gamut of ivory walls. She carried another box carrier all the way down, down to the sliding room door number 31. 

Inside the apartment room, Jessica saw the back of a sofa draped with long, white hair. The head turned and revealed the face of an elderly woman, whose smile the sun envied. Hey Jess, she said warmly.

Heeeey, Beth. Jessica lifted the box. Know what I brought? The usual. See, you didn't even have to guess. It's got that special cheese and e'erything.

Beth's sofa lay beside a blue cabinet, whose color that warped into the flanking dresser and walls. The blue came in spiral shades, like the deep sea. And before the elder woman there lay an ottoman, its holoprojector playing the news: TNN, a live segment where aliens and humans conversed in satin.

Jessica ay the carrier on the kitchen counter. 

...The New Pharaoh of Egypt recently held a conference with delegates from The Chinese Confederacy in order to renegotiate the budget for trans-national infrastructure. Namely...

Beth broke away from the hologram. Jess, she said. I prepared tea and forgot. Be fantastic and turn on the kiln, would you?

After tapping the stove interface, Jessica placed a stool on one end of the sofa.

Anything new happen today? Beth began.

Nothing out of the ordinary, she said, taking a seat.

That's strange for someone who sees everything.

Nah. Some customers cool and-or respectable, and the usual normies who need help in this spotless cesspool. By the way, my average travel time rounded to thirteen minutes

Less than last time.

Chya! Barely, considering the district stretches twelve miles in every direction. Tacquizza leaves a six-mile radius every way.

"You travel that fast on