The tram glides into the station. “Now,” Wen commands.
We run like every system’s hell has unleashed its horrors on our heels. Shouts chase us, and a distant buzz sharpens in my ears. I glance back over my shoulder.
Three motorbikes come howling up the street, dodging between pedestrians. Two Cutters apiece. I will my legs to go faster, my gear to get lighter. My pack traps the blaster I stole against my back, and the one in my hand fires only grappling lines.
Wen dodges around one of the massive poles that support the wiretram lines, and something clicks in my head. I plant my feet and skid, whirling as I lift the grappling gun and fire a line clear across the open street, the bolt at the end taking root in a building’s façade. I run the line twice around the support pole, and it snaps taut as the motorbikes close. The drivers try to divert, skidding and swerving to burn their momentum, but one of them takes the wire full-on, clotheslining the gunner off the bike as the driver ducks.
I abandon the grappling gun and take off after Gal and Wen. They’ve reached the station, and Gal’s fumbling with his datapad at the till. Wen beckons me over frantically, her eyes on whatever’s going on behind me.
The wiretram driver starts yelling something at Gal in a thick Corinthian accent, his vowels so broad that they threaten to bowl him over, shaking his head vehemently and pointing at the Cutters in the street. I blow past them, grabbing Wen by the collar and hauling her on board. The commuters shrink toward the back end, the front bobbing up as the weight redistributes. I glance back. Three Cutters are on their feet and running for us.
“Launch the tram,” Gal commands, and his imperial voice shoulders through the tram driver’s last scraps of resistance. Or maybe it’s fear of the Cutters closing. No matter the reason, the man moves to the controls, throws up the gates, and releases the brakes as the motors spin up. The wiretram sways forward.
Not fast enough. As it gains speed, the Cutters run alongside. They leap, catching the rear handholds as the tram lifts clear from the station, and my stomach drops as three black-clad mobsters haul themselves into the tram with us. A glance down confirms even worse—the other three have gotten their bikes under them. They come screaming after us as the tram gets up to speed, running along the parallel streets beneath.
“This doesn’t have to get messy, Iffan,” one of the Cutters says, stepping through the commuters. Her eyes are shielded by her helmet’s visor, giving us nothing but beetle-black plastics to read her through. “The boss wants you alive. Not a scratch on you, he said, or we’ll be the ones hung out to dry.”
Wen shrinks behind me, her lips thinning. “Doesn’t fill me with confidence. Dago Korsa just likes to know which work is his.”
A lazy smile cracks across the lower half of the woman’s face. “Didn’t say anything about these two, though,” she says, nodding to me and Gal.
“Now—” Gal starts, the word heavy with his negotiator inflection, but before he can say anything else, I’ve launched clear across the wiretram. The woman fumbles for the gun on her hip, but I knock it out of her hand, sending the weapon flying. She swings, her knuckles grazing my cheek as I yank my head back.
Her two companions reach for their guns. They draw fast, but I’m faster, slamming a stunner bolt into the one on the right before he has a chance to fire. He goes limp, his helmeted head cracking against the wiretram’s floor, and one of the commuters shrieks. The woman grabs my wrist, yanking my aim astray before I can target the other Cutter.
The fight sings through me. Pounds in my blood like drums. I drop low and jam my elbow up under her chin, striking soft flesh. She chokes, but her grip remains, her other arm coming around as she tries to plant her weight and wrestle me into submission. She’s lighter than me, but I’m several years removed from the last time I had to scrap for my life. I try to break her grip on my wrist, but she twists viciously, and the gun pops free, clattering to the floor.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her companion shift his aim to Gal.
The rational part of my brain knows Gal’s wearing the deflector armor. Knows any bolt shot at him will go astray. Knows I need to focus on not letting this woman crack my head open on the wiretram’s plastic seats. But the rational part is no match for what takes over. I plant my feet and heave, using my weight to twist the Cutter woman in front of her companion before he can get a shot off. She kicks off one of the seats, redirecting her momentum straight into me, and I stagger back, collapsing as she drives a knee into my chest.
But before she can pull back her fist and do some major damage, the wiretram lurches, the brakes squealing, and the woman goes flying down the aisle. I tilt my head back to find Wen at the controls, throwing a manic grin my way as Gal holds off the driver. I struggle to my feet and shrug the pack off my back as the tram reaccelerates, bouncing slightly along its line as we climb above Isla’s skyline. We’re going fast—far too fast for normal travel speeds, fast enough that the noise of the motorbikes beneath us is fading.
The Cutter woman lunges for the fore of the tram, and Gal steps forward to meet her, his fists up. I try to rush after her, but a hand comes down on the back of my shirt, and I whirl to face the other Cutter. I don’t know where his gun has gone—maybe he lost it in the braking—but in any case, his fists do just fine. He snaps a right hook across my face, and my vision goes starry.
The tram lurches again, and I dodge to the side as the Cutter stumbles past, grabbing a bar to keep myself upright. The commuters in the back scream, pressing against the walls, clinging to their handholds, some of them holding up their datapads to capture the moment. I scoff. Guess we put on a good show.
As my opponent regains his bearings, I glance to the fore of the tram in time to catch Wen tossing her umbrella at Gal as he dodges the Cutter woman’s swing. He grabs it by the hilt and spins it around, catching her upside the head. With the helmet she wears, it only disorients her, but Gal follows through with another spin that slashes the bladed tip over her arm.
And like the blood blooming in the wake of his slice, a smile the likes of which I’ve never seen spreads over Gal’s lips.
Bile rises in my throat at the sight, but I can’t afford the distraction. I leap sideways as the male Cutter charges me. But instead of taking a swing, he dives past me for one of the blasters. Too late, I dive after him. He rolls on his back to meet me, firing a shot that rattles my teeth as it cracks past my ear, and I land hard on his chest, elbows driving into his sternum. The Cutter chokes, and I use the distraction to pin his wrist before he can take aim.
But before I can pull my fist back and drive it under his chin, a kick catches me across the side of the head, knocking me onto the grimy tram floor. I roll on my back to find the other Cutter—the one I dropped with a stunner bolt—is on his feet again. He’s woozy from the aftereffects of the hit that took him down, and maybe it’s that wooziness that mercifully drives his next kick into my shoulder instead of my head.