To hate a part of yourself is to hate yourself, and I know no blacker feeling. The Ticker had helped me come to terms with my talent—we were business people, she always said. We made our living in B-town from the things that made our old lives hell. We were proud to take payment for what we did: fixing things, in her case; finding stuff in mine. You can live in Bordertown without actually supporting yourself. You can scavenge or bum or steal—but that’s a hard life, harder every year you live it. Tick-Tick showed me that, with the ability I hated and feared, I could do better.

I hadn’t hated my talent like this for years.

Rico had a car. They’re not common in Bordertown, because a motorcycle is so much easier to spell-power, and rarer still in Soho because they’re expensive. This one was close to the ground, shaped in needle points and glossy curves. It looked as if it ate road surface for breakfast. I got in the passenger side.

“Triumph Spitfire,” Rico said, pride in her voice. “Older than I am—hell, way older. When anything breaks, I have to find somebody to build the part. Belt up.”

I was sitting in a nest of nylon webbing that I finally realized was a racing harness: lap belt and straps over both shoulders, fastened by one quick-release. Then I realized that the arc of metal over the top of the car was a roll bar, and I shot a look at Rico. “Do I need a fire suit?”

“I drive like an idiot,” she said, embarrassed.

She did, too. It made me feel better, the summer night thick with coming rain yanking at my hair and shirt, the rubber smell and screech from the tires, the staccato of intermittent streetlights flashing over me. Loud music would have made it perfect. Loud music and different company and a whole new set of reasons for being there.

She was called Sunny, I knew from that night at Danceland. “What’s your real first name?” I asked.

“Why?”

“Curious.” I chose not to say anything about making us even.

She shot me a glance. “Alexandra,” she said finally.

I leaned back in the seat. “Feminine form of Alexander. Means ‘helper of men.’ “

The glance was longer this time. “You just happen to know that?”

“I was in a private treatment center.” If was called that; I’ve always thought of it as a reform school with pretensions. “The only book in the place that wasn’t a tract for behavior modification was about the meanings of first names. I memorized it.” I stared at the buildings going by until I was dizzy.

“Murder,” I said finally.

“Mmm.”

“Pretty steep.”