With a start, Pita realized that this cop had not, in fact, recognized her. She was just a young meta he’d picked of the detention cell because she was smaller than the others and he thought he could bully her. He didn’t believe she had any magical ability at all and didn’t see her as a threat; he’d just used the cat shaman book as an excuse to bring her to this room. But the thoughts that whirled through his mind as he looked at her now-as she looked through his eyes at herself, cringing with eyes closed and mouth whispering as she sat on the plastifoam chair-made it clear that this wouldn’t help her. He didn’t care which ork he took out his misguided “vengeance” on. He only cared about making her too frightened to tell his fellow cops about it afterward.
Entering the cop’s mind had taken only a second or two. Pita changed her whisper, molding it to train of thought. Let the kid make one telecom call, she urged. It’ll look better that way. You can bring her back to the room later, in a few hours, when things cool down. It’ll look less suspicious that way. But if you don’t let her make the call, the guards in Detention will start to talk. They’ll wonder why the was taken from her cell. And why you’re not following procedure.
Pita was still inside the cop’s mind when she felt lips begin to move. “One telecom call.” He said it time with her whisper.
“One call, and then back to the detention cell you. We’ll continue this interrogation later.”
Pita rushed down the corridor toward the barred door that was all that stood between her and freedom. “Masaki!” she shouted. “You came!”
The reporter waved at her from the public waiting room. He was a most unlikely looking rescuer. His shirt was half untucked, and hung loosely over his chubby stomach. His wide cheeks were spotted with gray stubble, but even this wasn’t enough to make him fit in with the tough-looking crowd of orks, scragged out humans, and streeters who crowded the containment facility’s waiting room. He looked old and soft, his face too open and friendly. If Pita had seen him on the street, she would have pegged him as an easy mark for panhandling. But right now, she looked upon him as her knight in fragging shining armor.
She waited impatiently for the Lone Star guard to key the code into a panel behind the door. When it opened, she ducked through it quickly, still afraid that some fragger would change his mind and order her back to the cell.
Masaki half lifted his arms, as if expecting a hug. But when Pita stopped a few steps away, he dropped his hands. She gave him a nervous grin. “Uh, thanks, Masaki.”
The reporter nodded. He looked chill about posting her bail, but he’d probably want a more concrete thank you later. They all did. But for now, that didn’t matter. Pita was happy to see a friendly face-any friendly face.
“You were lucky the holding facility was full. They were eager to clear out a few detainees,” he said. “And lucky to have only been charged with a misdemeanor. If it had been anything more serious, they wouldn’t have let me post bail. Certainly not on the night of your arrest, anyway.”
“I know that.” Pita couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. Masaki sounded like he was lecturing her. Who did he think he was, anyway? Her fragging father?
“They said you could collect your stuff from the property office,” he said. “It’s down this way.”
Pita followed him out of the waiting room and down a corridor. At the property office, the cops made her sign an electronic signature pad before they gave back the things they’d confiscated from her earlier. Pita heaved a sigh of relief, seeing that the book on shamanism was included among her possessions. Her final mental command to the cop who’d tormented her had taken root, after all. She opened the plastic bag and took out Chen’s ring, the loose change, and the book, then dropped the bag on the floor. Let some drekhead cop clean it up.
“I’m parked in the visitors’ lot,” Masaki said. “Let’s go.”
Pita followed him outside, smiling as the door closed behind her. It was dark; it must have been close to one n the morning. The night air was cool and fresh; the light sprinkling of rain had washed much of the smog from it. Overhead, between the patchy clouds, a few stars sparkled.
Pita savored her freedom as they climbed the parkade stairs to Masaki’s car. The feeling was overwhelming, better even than being on Mindease. Except, of course, for the small tickle of worry she still felt. How long until that cop-Number 709-caught up with her again? It won't happen, she told herself firmly. He isn’t looking for me. He’ll find someone else to pick on. But she couldn’t be sure.
Masaki drove slowly, keeping exactly to the speed limit, despite the lack of traffic. Only after they had put several blocks between themselves and the containment facility did Pita think to ask where they were going.
“Back to my apartment,” he answered. “You can spend the night there.”
Pita gave him a sideways glance. “1 already have a place to crash,” she said carefully. “Just off Denny Way, near the highway. You could drop me there on your way home. Or I could walk if you don’t want to-”
“1 don’t think so, Pita. You wouldn’t be safe on the streets. You’re better off with me. For the time being, at least.”
“I wouldn’t he on the streets. I’d be-”
A note of irritation crept into Masaki’s voice. “Pita, I just paid five hundred nuyen to bail you out of that detention center. I think that gives me some say in where you’re going to sleep tonight. Or don’t you think so?”
Pita immediately fell silent. She stared out the window, suddenly very tired. She’d wanted to think that Masaki was a good guy, that she’d read him properly. Now she wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t been out of jail ten minutes, and already it was payback time.
The drive to Masaki’s place took about fifteen minutes. He lived in a highrise complex in Bellevue. The entrance to the parkade was through a double-doored security gate that required the driver to provide two separate retinal scans before admission was granted, and the lobby of the apartment block itself was watched over by a live guard, rather than the usual remote cameras. Pita decided that the building was designed either for the very cautious city dweller-or the very paranoid.
The fellow gave Pita a long look as she trailed through the lobby after Masaki. Why was he staring at her? Didn’t they allow orks in this building? Or was he just wondering what Masaki was doing, dragging in “street trash” in the early hours of the morning?
An elevator whisked them up to the twenty-fifth floor, Masaki led Pita down a corridor, carpeted with soft plush, to a door that bristled with yet more security features. He not only had to slide a magkey through the lock but also had to provide a voice sample and yet another retinal scan.
When the door was at last open, Pita reluctantly followed Masaki into the apartment. It was a little on the sloppy side-jackets that had been tossed on a coat rack had spilled onto the floor, and dirty dishes were piled in the sink-but it was a nice place, all right. Nicer than her parents’ low-rent condo, and certainly nicer than the streets. It must have cost him some serious nuyen. The furniture was a bit sparse; this place probably ate up most of his salary.