They cruised past a steady stream of oblivious transports. Mistletoe envied their brainless detachment—would it be so bad? Did they remember things from their former lives as A.I. units? Suddenly she felt sick and stopped the scoot. In the final seconds of his life, Jiri had looked at her, and his eyes were full of pain. She retched. The cop’s weapon had done something horrible to his insides. She rested her hand on the side of the access wall and threw up again.

“Are you okay?” the boy asked.

She answered with a choked sniffle, wiped her mouth, and kicked the scoot into gear. It lurched forward up a ramp to the street level, where a group of ragged little kids were throwing glitchy holo-dice against an empty crate. All at once, the familiar chaotic sounds and smells of Little Saigon blended with the noise of Nelson’s engine. She sped through the middle of the dice players and maneuvered expertly through the crowd, crossed the street, and dismounted at the base of a shanty-stack a few blocks from her own. She was conscious of how close they were to the scene of Jiri’s death, and her street instincts told her to go up, always up. She was also conscious of the fact that, behind her, the boy was trying so hard not to cry that his body was twitching in surprisingly violent jolts. She didn’t want to look, or she would burst into tears. Her nerves felt raw and exposed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I’m supposed to go to my aunt Dita’s if anything happens to Jiri,” she said, as matter-of-factly as she could manage. “They made me promise.”

The boy twitched once more and was quiet. She led him to the open door of the boxy lift and shoved her scoot inside.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m—thank you.”

There was a single dark grease smudge on the boy’s pale face. Other than that, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a fashion wiki.

“So who are you?” she asked. But before he could speak, her eyes blurred, and hot tears came. The door closed and they ascended.

“I’m—,” he began, then stopped and stared at the metal wall of the lift, where someone had spray painted a wilted orange flower. “This morning I was somebody else.”

She blinked away tears, steadied her voice. “You’re from topside.”

He nodded.

“So what are you doing in Little Saigon?”

He put his palms against the wall of the lift and let himself fall forward until his forehead rested against the center of the flower. Orange petals drooped around his shiny hair. He took a deep breath and let it out.

“It’s been a very strange day.”

2

THE BOY IN THE BUSINESS SUIT

HIS NAME WAS Ambrose Truax, and his strange day had started just after dawn with a crisp knock upon his bedroom door and a voice that called to him.

“Sir? It’s time.”