got about five minutes before they’re here, no more.”
He nodded to the other man and looked away. “Detroit,” he told Pritchard. “It’s time I came home.”
THREE
DETROIT – MICHIGAN – UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
It was cramped and uncomfortable in the automated truck’s maintenance compartment, barely big enough for the two men to share it without stepping on top of one another. But somehow they managed the journey in companionable silence for the most part, Stacks gently snoring his way through it and Jensen hovering on the edge of the same, but never quite allowing himself to slip fully away into sleep.
With nothing but a small glass porthole in the hatchway, there was no view to speak of, and so Jensen gave up on marking the passage of time as the vehicle headed eastward through the day and into the night. It was early evening when he felt the truck start to slow down from the constant pace it had kept up since Alaska, and he nudged Stacks with his boot.
“I’m awake,” grumbled the other man. “We there yet?”
“Looks like.” The truck rocked and he felt it shifting lanes, until finally it came to a halt. The hatch hissed open on hydraulics and a gust of cold, damp air blew in. Jensen climbed out, grimacing at the aches in his back as his boots hit the road.
Stacks was a step behind him, taking a deep, grateful breath. “Man, that whole rig stinks of oil. I almost forgot what fresh air tastes like.” He coughed and spat. “Well, not that this air is so fresh, neither…”
They were barely out of the compartment before the hatch hissed shut and the truck rumbled away, leaving them behind on the shoulder of the freeway. Jensen glanced around, finding a road sign telling him they were on an elevated section of I-94 – the Detroit Industrial Expressway, just past Dearborn. As he got his bearings, he turned around and found the dark band of the river to the east, beyond the ill-lit streets of Mexicantown. And further to the north, the city of Detroit itself, a cluster of skyscrapers that glowed faintly through the low cloud. A fire was burning steadily out there, and the flames reflected off the bottom of the cloudbank, giving it a sullen glow. Jensen picked out the Renaissance Center toward the riverfront and used that as a reference mark to search for the twin pillars of the Sarif Industries building.
For a jarring moment, it seemed as if the towers had been erased from the skyline. He was used to seeing the glass and steel spars lit from within by soft golden light for miles around. His optics adjusted for the distance, and he realized what was wrong.
The Sarif towers were still there, but they were pitch dark against the night sky, no illumination visible in them except for the pinpricks of crimson aircraft warning lights at the very highest levels.
Stacks made a show of looking around. “Nice place here. Now I’m wishing I’d got your buddy Pritchard to detour us to Seattle instead.”
“He’ll get you there, if that’s what you want.”
“Maybe…” Stacks winced and shifted his arm stiffly. “Don’t know if I’m ready to go back,” he went on, almost to himself.
Jensen crossed to the guard rail, casting a wary look over his shoulder at the traffic streaming past behind him on the freeway. He pressed a fingertip to his mastoid bone, bringing his infolink out of sleep mode. “Pritchard. You there?”
The response took a moment. “
Welcome home, Jensen. A pity it’s not under better circumstances.
” Was that sarcasm, or a note of real regret in the other man’s voice? It was hard to tell with someone like Frank Pritchard. “
There’s a metro station to your northeast. Get there, head into the ticket hall.
”
“Copy,” he nodded, beckoning Stacks to follow him.
“
Watch your step
,” Pritchard added, “
and try not to draw any attention. This city’s not how it was when you were last here.
”
The two of them slipped over the rail and made their way down a
He nodded to the other man and looked away. “Detroit,” he told Pritchard. “It’s time I came home.”
THREE
DETROIT – MICHIGAN – UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
It was cramped and uncomfortable in the automated truck’s maintenance compartment, barely big enough for the two men to share it without stepping on top of one another. But somehow they managed the journey in companionable silence for the most part, Stacks gently snoring his way through it and Jensen hovering on the edge of the same, but never quite allowing himself to slip fully away into sleep.
With nothing but a small glass porthole in the hatchway, there was no view to speak of, and so Jensen gave up on marking the passage of time as the vehicle headed eastward through the day and into the night. It was early evening when he felt the truck start to slow down from the constant pace it had kept up since Alaska, and he nudged Stacks with his boot.
“I’m awake,” grumbled the other man. “We there yet?”
“Looks like.” The truck rocked and he felt it shifting lanes, until finally it came to a halt. The hatch hissed open on hydraulics and a gust of cold, damp air blew in. Jensen climbed out, grimacing at the aches in his back as his boots hit the road.
Stacks was a step behind him, taking a deep, grateful breath. “Man, that whole rig stinks of oil. I almost forgot what fresh air tastes like.” He coughed and spat. “Well, not that this air is so fresh, neither…”
They were barely out of the compartment before the hatch hissed shut and the truck rumbled away, leaving them behind on the shoulder of the freeway. Jensen glanced around, finding a road sign telling him they were on an elevated section of I-94 – the Detroit Industrial Expressway, just past Dearborn. As he got his bearings, he turned around and found the dark band of the river to the east, beyond the ill-lit streets of Mexicantown. And further to the north, the city of Detroit itself, a cluster of skyscrapers that glowed faintly through the low cloud. A fire was burning steadily out there, and the flames reflected off the bottom of the cloudbank, giving it a sullen glow. Jensen picked out the Renaissance Center toward the riverfront and used that as a reference mark to search for the twin pillars of the Sarif Industries building.
For a jarring moment, it seemed as if the towers had been erased from the skyline. He was used to seeing the glass and steel spars lit from within by soft golden light for miles around. His optics adjusted for the distance, and he realized what was wrong.
The Sarif towers were still there, but they were pitch dark against the night sky, no illumination visible in them except for the pinpricks of crimson aircraft warning lights at the very highest levels.
Stacks made a show of looking around. “Nice place here. Now I’m wishing I’d got your buddy Pritchard to detour us to Seattle instead.”
“He’ll get you there, if that’s what you want.”
“Maybe…” Stacks winced and shifted his arm stiffly. “Don’t know if I’m ready to go back,” he went on, almost to himself.
Jensen crossed to the guard rail, casting a wary look over his shoulder at the traffic streaming past behind him on the freeway. He pressed a fingertip to his mastoid bone, bringing his infolink out of sleep mode. “Pritchard. You there?”
The response took a moment. “
Welcome home, Jensen. A pity it’s not under better circumstances.
” Was that sarcasm, or a note of real regret in the other man’s voice? It was hard to tell with someone like Frank Pritchard. “
There’s a metro station to your northeast. Get there, head into the ticket hall.
”
“Copy,” he nodded, beckoning Stacks to follow him.
“
Watch your step
,” Pritchard added, “
and try not to draw any attention. This city’s not how it was when you were last here.
”
The two of them slipped over the rail and made their way down a
Similar Books
