BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

undesirables would be pushed outward yet again, as far away aspossible from the ones who really mattered—those with robust, expendable linesof credit. The city officials would turn a blind eye as deals were struckbehind closed doors by people of influence, but the end would justify themeans: the city would flourish, and it would become what this Province wasknown for, its pride and joy, attracting humans and synthetics alike from allover the continent. And the owner of The Pearl would triple his fortune in theprocess.

But for now, it was as it had always been: the outskirts, theother side of the tracks, the area you avoided at night.

Locals called it HellTown.

With the boy jostling over his shoulder, held in place with a handon his back, the man mounted one flight after another of indoor stairs.Tenement 3166 had its share, dull grey in the stairwell's weak light. Seven floorsremained before he'd reach his apartment. So far, the kid hadn't stirred. Hadto be out cold for this climb notto wake him up.

The man tried not to think too far ahead. Get the kid warm,wrapped in a blanket or two. Let him sleep. Keep an eye on him. Figure out whatto do next. He knew better than tofret too much about it. He might turn around and headright back down.

The hallway on the eighth floor was unusually quiet. The walls,stained with graffiti, seemed to be watching as the man carried the boy pastfive scuffed doors toward unit 806. He raised his hand, ashen in the jitteryfluorescent light, and pressed his palm against the sensor grate beside thedoor. The momentary glow showed through his squared fingernails. The doorclicked open, and he nudged it the rest of the way with his foot.

"Lamp on," he said, and light instantly emanated fromthe far corner of the room where a small lamp sat on an end table. Itilluminated the black faux-leather couch beside it, strewn with wrinkledlaundry.

He brought the boy to the couch and set him down with care. Stillout. The corner cushion made a good pillow. There was a thin blanket among thelaundry, and he covered the kid with it. He watched him for a moment. Then heshook his head and turned away.

Let him sleep. Figure things outlater.

He was hungry, he realized. When had he eaten last?

The wet soles of his shoes squeaked across the black and whitekitchen tiles. He tugged open the steel door of the refrigerator, and itcreaked too loud in the silence. He shot a glance toward the couch. The kiddidn't stir.

The man took off his hat and set it on the linoleum counterbetween the empty sink and the fridge. The humming light washed his face inwhite as he bent forward to peer inside. He blinked. There wasn't much. Coldcuts. Mayo. If the remnants of sourdough in the cupboard were still good, hehad the makings of a passable midnight sandwich.

He pulled off his overcoat and draped it over the back of a chairin the kitchen's dining nook. Wincing slightly, he adjusted his shoulderholster. He usually took it off this time of night, but seeing what hadhappened to the kid's father, he decided to keep the revolver close. Not thatone of the pulse rounds in its chambers could do much against a mandroid. Butall six might cause some damage. Slow the thing down, maybe. That's all hecould hope for.

The man exhaled as he let the refrigerator door creak shut. The tuxedo andthose mandroids in that alley—hired muscle.Titanium. They'd torn up the old man like he was nothing.What had the tuxedo wanted from him? Why this kid's father? Who was he?

No longer hungry, the man sat heavily at the round kitchen tableand looked across the room at the boy. The blanket covering him rose and fellwith each breath. He looked like hewould be sleeping through the night.

Then what?

The man dropped his head and squeezed the back of his neck. Thiswasn't a good idea. He didn't get involved in other people's problems. Notanymore. Not since...

He stood up. It didn't matter—looking back, trying to make senseof where things had gone wrong. There was nothing he could do about it now. Hewas stuck here. He just had to deal with it, make the best of things.Nothing could be changed. He had to move forward.

He focused on the kid's face—unable to shake how familiar helooked; maybe someone from another life, as crazy as thatsounded—recording it with his ocular implant as he tapped the plug behind hisear and activated the Link interface. Instantly, his vision was consumed by theentry portal, a white expanse of virtual fog. It waited for his log-in name andpreliminary pass-image, which he provided, blinking out of habit. Once he wasin, he ran the boy's face through a dozen citizen search programs but wascareful to shuffle his pass-images at random intervals to keep prying eyes offhis trail. He didn't want company tonight.

A coastal scene of crashing surf at dawn. A classical guitaristperforming in concert at an outdoor amphitheater. A birds-eye view from ahang-glider over a yawning canyon. Images slid past the periphery of hisvision, verifying his ident and user privileges while the Link attempted amatch. Some people had only a few pass-images loaded in their plugs, but heknew better; the more you had, the less likely you could be hacked.

He liked his privacy. He'd earned it.

He held out his hand, blindly returning to his seat at the kitchentable. SCANNING… SEARCHING… scrolled acrossin tandem. It didn't usually take this long. A few seconds, tops.

Maybe the Link was more congested than usual tonight. That mightexplain why the hall outside was so quiet. Was there something going on that hedidn't know about? Some kind of virtual celebrity meet and greet? Judging from thefoot traffic outside The Pearl, he would havethought everybody was enjoying their Friday night out on the town. Everybodywho mattered, maybe—the ones with the robust credit. For everyone else, therewas the Link and its countless virtual vices.

SEARCHING… A polar bear and two cubs wandering across an ice shelf.The sun rising over a desolate wilderness. Evening urban traffic with lightsand honking horns.