Taking the Highway

ON ANOTHER DAY, TOPHER Price-Powell would never have crossed the first lane. People who have a breakdown on 75 didn’t get out of their cars unless they were suicidal, stupid, or both. Not that drivers would try to hit someone, but—and the fact was becoming a thorn in Andre’s brain—the reliance on Overdrive made it less likely for a driver to notice a pedestrian and there was no way for the system to see them. Anyone whose car broke down called for help, sat tight, and waited for rescue.

Thanks to Topher and whatever virus he carried on his datapad, the crashes had stopped all forward movement in the northbound lanes. Topher ran across the empty asphalt, threw himself at the neck-high concrete divider, and scrambled over it like a monkey on flash.

Andre swore foully and started forward himself, moving past tangled metal and angry drivers caught in the airwebs of their cars. He peered over the dividing wall to see Topher already on the other side. The southbound highway, though not empty of traffic, was less like a raging river of cars and more like a videogame about dodging sniper bullets. Whatever the fourths had done, it was working.

Andre stepped into the flow of oncoming traffic, trying to keep one eye on the retreating Topher and one on the cars around him. Individual cars whispered past him like ghosts before he could do more than flinch, the people inside just four oval mouths of surprise. He imagined what they must see. How many of them were already on their screamers, yelling about a maniac in ill-fitting kincloth with a wild tangle of black hair and a gun in his hand?

Topher stood in the breakdown lane and pulled weapons out of pockets. In his right hand, Sofia’s Guardian. In his left, a datapad. He lifted his head to look up the hill that led away from the highway and toward the service drive. At the top, silhouetted against the sky, was a crane-like tower sporting dozens of antennae. No doubt this tower housed the Overdrive node that watched over this section of road. Andre watched traffic, watched Topher, and attempted another lane.

Topher took one step up the hill, then turned and faced the highway. His eyes fixed on Andre and he raised his right hand.

The shot was wild, but it almost killed Andre anyway when he flailed to the side and was nearly hit by a passing Ford. Topher trotted upward.

Andre crept forward, scanning the berm, using his peripheral vision to look for the cars, afraid to turn toward them. He saw his opening and dashed across the remaining lanes. He reached the breakdown lane on the opposite side and put his hands on his knees for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control, then bounded up the berm after Topher.

Halfway up the hill, he roared out Topher’s name, told him to stop. Topher raised his left hand, brandishing the datapad, but the tension in his stance said it all. He still wasn’t close enough to the Overdrive node. He took another step up the slope of the hill.

The Yavorit felt suddenly perfect in Andre’s swollen hand. Part of him—perhaps a larger part than he cared to admit—wanted to end this here and now, wanted to end Topher.

No. If Topher dropped his weapons, both gun and pad, Andre would arrest him, cuff him, and lead him away to trial. He wasn’t like Talic, choosing amputation over pain. “Don’t give me an excuse, Topher.” He didn’t shout, but the words carried. “Drop the datapad.”

Topher turned his head to look sidelong at Andre. “I think you’d better drop your gun. I’m close enough. I’m in. You shoot me and they all die.”

It started with a chuckle at the back of Andre’s throat that swelled into laughter.

“I mean it!” Topher’s voice, so sure, so controlled, was now shrill with anger.

“All who?” Andre mocked. “Take a look, Topher. Did you notice how few cars were on the road with us? Check out the on-ramp down there.” He didn’t take his eyes off Topher, but nodded his head to the north.

Topher turned toward the highway. His eyes widened “They . . . they . . .”

“You and Madison,” Andre said, “you both have the same idea about what Detroit is. To you it’s all just a big mechanical construct. The gears mesh together and those in power turn them. Turn one cog wrong, it all falls apart. Take a good look, Topher. Detroit isn’t a machine. When things stop working, people start.”

Andre shook his head in mock sadness. “You’ve been a pain in the ass, but after I arrest you, the spinners will cover your trial on a flash-pad. You and your little organization will be yesterday’s news.”

Topher’s nostrils flared under burning eyes. “You can’t arrest me.” He held up his datapad and looked over his shoulder at the tower. “I’ll do it! I will!”

Andre laughed again, low and long. “If you were close enough to release the virus, you would have done it already.”

Topher swung the gun in a flat arc, but Andre was ready for the movement. The Yavorit’s sight laid a perfect crosshatch on Topher’s furrowed brow and his squeezing finger was already at the trigger’s breakpoint. Topher’s head snapped backward, whiplashed forward and then back again as the second bullet scored. His arms flung wide and part of Andre’s attention tracked the gun as it dropped from Topher’s hand. He would need to mark that for retrieval. Sofia would want it back.

Topher spun halfway around as if still trying to flee, but instead thudded to the earth and lay there. He twitched once and was still.

Andre climbed the few remaining meters to the top of the hill and stood where he could see the highways laid out in complicated spirals below him. He activated his phone implant and placed a call to Captain Evans. He gave her GPS coordinates and called for an investigative team.

The glow of artificial streetlights had taken the place of fading sunlight, and Andre could clearly see the on-ramp to the north where a dapper row of fourths stood arm in linked arm, preventing the line of cars from entering the on-ramp. He could see more in his imagination, fourths up and down the highway, standing between the cars and danger—making a line and then putting themselves on it. He wondered if Bob was down there. He wondered if he should help them.

Andre smiled and shook his head. He wouldn’t go to the on-ramp. He didn’t have to. This was bigger than him. Bigger than any one of them. The fourths were on the job and would do what they always did. They would take care of their city.