06.05.2391
Mornings like this reminded me of why I loved my insignificant little life, and this tiny, lost planet. The click of the dual heliwheels locking into place, the whir of the blades lifting the Harley helicycle into the air… ahh, nothing could compare, because a thrill always followed. I let my heart soar in tandem with the Harley as I rose seamlessly into the tiers of traffic overhead.
I maneuvered the gauntlet of morning rush hour traffic like a bee buzzing through a genetically engineered flower garden. At least it lightened my spirits enough to forget what awaited—my job. I used to think of it as my dream career but lately, it seemed more a nightmare. But hey, we all had problems, and mine were miniscule in comparison to others’. Here on Jerseyana, people followed the rules, or disappeared. The only way to rise above was to play the game.
A shiny black wall of metal squashed that thought. Nearly shuttle-sized, the vehicle cut ahead of my front cylinder blades, missing by mere inches, and then zoomed forward. The rush of wind tilted up the Harley’s front and slammed into me, jolting me back on the seat. My heart revved as the cycle’s twin blade wells see-sawed, adjusting to regain balance. For a terrifying instant, panic had my reflexes on lockdown while traffic streamed past me, some close enough to rock the cycle again. I gripped the bars tighter and surfed the wakes of air current. The black vehicle dodged around cars and trucks, speeding faster.
A Hummer J2. I’d always wanted to see one up close, but not by becoming a smear on the bumper. Among the fleet of battered, outdated transports driven by all Jerseyanians, the Hummer stood out as an arrogant intruder.
Once I had the Harley—and my heart—stabilized, I gunned the helicycle into high speed.
“Siren.” At my command, the blue glow on my wrist device flashed red and triggered an ear-splitting wail through an amp on my handlebars.
I sped up to the Hummer’s tail. The vehicle slowed to a hover, then eased to the ground.
Shouldn’t mess with the bee if you don’t want to get stung. I had my stinger at the ready—my Memphisville government-issue LaserGlock strapped to my side. I tapped it, a touchstone to reality as my boots crunched along the gritty street to the driver’s side.
The driver leaned an expensively suited elbow casually against the open window. The gloss of his black suit matched the Hummer’s finish.
The man stared ahead from behind stylish sunglasses. Silver streaked his dark hair, longish for his age and obvious wealth.
No one in the three territories owned such a high-end vehicle, so he must have stowed it on his transport shuttle. A man of power, no doubt, who was used to having things his way. It came through in his bearing, some primal strength pawing just beneath the surface of his cool demeanor, and in his gaze, which trailed across me with an attitude that demanded, Bow to me, peon.
“Problem, officer?” He spoke with a haughtiness that oozed attitude.
I was damn tired of off-worlders who looked down on our rules.
I kept my expression a mask of cold justice. “I could ask you the same. You nearly knocked me out of the sky back there. Sir.”
When I spoke, he jerked his head around, tipped his sunglasses down his nose and took a long, slow look at me, head to toe.
My lip instinctively curled, and my blood threatened to boil over. Still, tingling trailed down my neck, a warning that put me on edge. Something about this man set off silent alarm bells in my head.
His gaze flicked to my LED badge across my chest pocket, which read “5-8-3” with “THURGOOD” below. Memphisville residents knew the numbers as shorthand for Precinct 5, Sector 8, Security Level Three.
The man grunted. “I didn’t recognize you as security.”
Predators smelled fear, so I smiled as pleasantly as I could and made my voice silky-smooth. “The siren didn’t give me away? Or the uniform?”
A glance back at my Harley, and a chuckle grumbled deep in his chest. “That’s not the standard-issue security vehicle. Unless you’re a renegade?” His smirk and arched brow said he hoped I was.
I dropped all pretense of humor. “Not a chance.”
“Pity.” His huff of a laugh said he’d aimed for that sore spot.
He was obviously aware that the three territories of Jerseyana were marred by protests, sometimes bloody, always launched by the same group—Warriors for Peace. Members targeted politicians and security enforcement. Because they didn’t care who got caught in the cross-fire, I had no great love for the group, either.