Chapter 9

Timing his exit with a crush of people, Mikel squeezed out into a pack of tourists in their garish garb, carefully making his way to the train station. Even if he had to wait in a doorway for a moment, he managed to never walk alone the entire route. He realized as he plodded along that the train station would be under three or four types of surveillance, but Ms. Rasmussen had been insistent, and Remy had practically promised him the moon if he followed her orders. For whatever reason, he liked both of them.

One block from the train station, the power was up and running. There were plenty of people milling around the train station, more than usual for a weekday afternoon before the rush hours. Protesters, police, vendors, tourists, and pissed-off office dwellers were circulating with the dance of chance and avoidance. Vendors were calling out their wares while the protesters led their chants and cheers. Any other day, Mikel would have taken a slot leaning against the wall across the street to watch the parade. Instead, he crossed the street with the light.

Inside the station was rich pandemonium. The gates to the suburban routes were clogged with people watching the boards for track announcements. A track was announced, and herds of frantic travelers pushed and shoved to get down the ramp while the onlookers struggled vigorously to get away from the stampede. As another herd migration slowed to a trickle, Mikel stepped up to the gate, scooping up a man’s hat that had been lost in the shuffle. Although a quarter-size larger than his head, he exchanged his cap, dropping the tourist bangle in the armored garbage can. With a bit more local prestige, he continued down the main subterranean concourse to the outbound regional trains.

The digital accessories store had several looky-loo’s who were killing time as they waited. Mikel pulled another burner phone from under the display and added ear pods because he deserved them, goddammit. Whoever tried to kidnap him was not the government; they would have identified themselves. Maybe it was Wyoming Bison and their nutjob leader, Solanio, call me Sal. As far as the balance sheet worked, another set of enemies demanded another set of ear pods, or Eer Poods as printed on the box. The off-brands were getting ridiculous.

He tapped the pay display with his new blank card and was rewarded with a musical do-do-doop going up the scale. “Sale complete” appeared on the screen. Taking his newfound merchandise in hand, he strode to the little pharmacy next door where he picked up a bottle of liquid antacid. He also snatched a baguette at the takeout bakery at a near unthinkable price, thinking he should be able to handle plain bread when his stomach finally returned to complain.

The few chairs in the waiting hall were taken. He sprawled on the floor with his back against the wall, laying his purchases beside him. He had chosen his spot carefully, giving him a clear view of the train schedule board. This end of the station was quieter and not near as crowded although many people were milling about. Children were whining and a baby was crying nearby as an old lady walked past tut-tutting something or another. Mikel kept his hat pulled down in front of his face.

He removed the thin paper shield in the battery bay and pushed down the battery until the contact was secure. Taking a deep breath, he watched the software boot on the screen. He brought up the messaging app and put the word ARIA in the TO: box followed by a question mark in the message box. Hesitating with a wavering thumb hovering over the screen, he finally tapped the SEND button. The phone bleeped once and then bleeped again.

“Aria is away from her desk and not available at this time. All calls and messages will be returned when she returns. Have a nice day.”

“She’s channeling the office bitch meme,” Mikel realized. “I wanted to be left alone and when I am, I am thoroughly terrified.”

His phone bleeped again. “Choo-choo, muthafucka.” He could not hold back the sick little laugh.

Standing up and gathering his stuff, Mikel moseyed over to the newsstand that was more candy, chips, and other almost digestible crap than things to read. He reached for the bestseller first because, of course, he was a writer, and he should. Having read the blurb he decided that Shepherd and Emily could go find themselves with some other douchebag reader. The Zane Grey rip-off western appealed for a minute until he read the first paragraph and predicted the ending. Almost all the rest of the choices were variations on bodice rippers, some of which seemed pretty good, but still adhered to the Harlequin formula. He settled for two current culture mags, one with celebrities, and a speculative mag on A.I.’s and their doings. All of it was fiction as far as he was concerned. Not only did he add the big bag of Choco Chews to his pile, the grey card still worked too.

His phone dingled, signaling a text message. “Your train is boarding at Track 2. Please make your way to the boarding platform and have your ticket out for inspection, muthafucka.” Looking up, Mikel saw no one else walking to the ramp entrance and the board was not showing his train boarding either. Still, he gathered up his gear and sauntered over. Just as he hit the gate, the announcer began broadcasting the boarding call.

“Choo-choo,” Mikel whispered as he handed the gate agent his ticket. Finding a window seat was not a challenge as he was the first one onboard. He grabbed the one at the back of the carriage with extra legroom.

As he waited for the rest to find seats, he reached into his bag for a Choco Chews. He could not wait longer, and his stomach called out for food. Screw his burning esophagus. When he bit down for the first bite, the chocolate gel in the middle squirted on his tongue: he quietly moaned in delight. He pondered whether Corrigan should suggest everyone put Choco Chews on their bucket list before they croak. He could not figure out how to work the angle without coming off as a marketing gimmick. He popped a second candy in his mouth.

The train was emerging from the tunnels when Mikel looked up from his genuine printed on paper magazine. The tactile slickness of the glossy pages always invoked feelings of childhood nostalgia along with the oversized, photoshopped images of impossible people with perfect features.

“That’s Bridget Bumbleflick,” the old lady next to him exclaimed as she pointed to the picture with a skeletal finger with a bright purple painted fingernail. “Who is she blowing today?”