"Who," Kikaru asked, "is writing that to you?"
Commuters shoved past them on the concrete stairs. The lower-sector morning rush operated without margins. A heavy-set man carrying a welding rig clipped Caleb's bruised right shoulder, and the impact ground a dull ache straight down to the bone. Caleb planted his boots and kept the module covered with his palm.
Another worker, reeking of machine oil and cheap tobacco, shoulder-checked Kikaru hard enough to knock her off line. Her carbon-fiber brace clicked against the stair edge. She barely registered him. All her attention stayed on the cracked glass at Caleb's belt.
Caleb killed the screen. "Somewhere off the stairs. Now."
"That is restricted code," Kikaru said over the roar of the arriving mag-lev. The demand in her voice had sharpened past embarrassment. "That is a direct breach of the military grid."
