Aria spent the next day inside. She had plenty of books full of sticky notes and highlighting and she stared at her computer screen for hours.

But the words wouldn’t come. She had ideas, but no thesis. No coherent story for her paper. She had no thread to pull that would unravel into a line of thought.

Except the uneasy suspicion that there were things the Empire didn’t want her to know. But that was silly. Every government has secrets. It doesn’t mean the government is immoral. No government can operate with complete transparency. She knew that. She wasn’t so naive that she didn’t understand the need for secrecy… sometimes.

But why had she heard nothing about forests in the last few years? Surely someone would have mentioned forests, or woods, or rivers, or something. Not busy waterways like the Anacostia and Potomac, but a real river, with fish and rocks and maybe even a waterfall. The images in her mind were hazy and dreamlike, but she knew they were real.

Where had the book gone? Why did Dandra deny it? Aria was sure Dandra knew which book she meant. But why would she lie about it?

What if he’d died?

He had died, of course. No one could live with those injuries. No one could evade the IPF, much less when injured so terribly. Maybe they’d found him and taken him to a hospital. But that’s not what they intended.

She bundled up against the cold and went out. A walk would clear her head. Or perhaps give it more to think about. More questions might lead to answers or connections between questions, which might be almost as good.

She considered turning toward Connecticut Avenue, where her friend Amara lived. But this was an alone kind of walk. An alone kind of mood.

Aria looked in the shop windows as she passed. The familiar upscale clothing boutiques and trendy bistros didn’t interest her. Fashionable mannequins modeled outfits she couldn’t afford on her graduate student stipend. Only the restaurants and coffee shops were open this late.

She considered a hot drink, perhaps tea to break with her coffee tradition, but decided against it. The shops looked small and cozy, but the bleak weather suited her mood better. She had warm boots and a hood against the coming snow. She pushed her gloved hands further into her pockets and continued on.

There were few others walking the streets; they all looked like they were headed somewhere in a hurry. Maybe they’re smarter than I am. It’s miserable out here. But there was traffic, the bluish headlights and red taillights of electric cars meandering through the commercial district. A door opened briefly as a man entered a little bistro, and she heard laughter from inside.

Without meaning to, she found herself near the river. The edges were just crusting with ice; it was barely below freezing. She turned southeast, with the river on her right, and followed it morosely.

Had she caused his death? Had the IPF caught him? Why had they hunted him anyway?

Was it her fault?

She wondered if Dandra’s shop was open this late. Probably not. Should I tell her what happened? Aria headed to the bookstore anyway, not looking up until she was nearly to the door. Then she stopped in surprise.

The lights inside were off, of course; that was as she’d expected. A handwritten note taped to the inside of the glass door said Closed until further notice. That was odd. She peered in, but the streetlights behind her barely illuminated the interior. Nothing looked unusual. The row of tiny tables near the coffee bar at the front was neat and clean; behind it, the aisles of books could barely be seen. Shadows cloaked the bookshelves and tables, but nothing looked out of place.

She ran her hand along the icy handle and finally turned away. Maybe Dandra was ill or something. At the bridge, she looked to her right across the undergirding. She almost walked past, then a barely perceptible movement caught her eye, and she froze.

There, forty feet above the water, was a dark form on the metal. Well out of the light, the dim shape was scarcely visible, but it was in the same place she’d seen him before.

It was impossible. He was dead. He had to be. Anyone would have died, wounded like that.

But she stared anyway, trying to make out the shape. Was it a person? A dead body? His body? She glanced up and down the street and saw no one.

It took only a moment for her to decide. She slipped down the dark, wet slope toward the base of the bridge. The ladder rungs were high, and she had to jump to reach the bottom one. Her glove slipped and she nearly fell, but she caught it again and kicked hard against the metal piling until she could lunge upward for the next one. Finally, she got one foot up high enough to climb the ladder the normal way. She was breathing hard, and she stopped at the top to catch her breath and look across the girder. The supports were arched, making room for the ships that traversed up the Potomac River.

From this angle, it was clearly a man’s form. He lay on his back with his feet toward her, one leg dangling off the edge toward the water. He was barefoot and completely motionless.

She edged toward him on hands and knees. The girder was wide, perhaps three feet, but the water was far below and very cold, and it made her nervous to be so high. She tried not to think about the height. Closer. Breathe, Aria. She focused on her hands as they moved, dark gloves against dark metal. At least, the girder was flat. Even without an angle to it, the metal was slippery in the damp.

When she glanced up again, he was sitting, leaning forward with one arm resting on his knee.

“Why are you following me?” His voice was soft. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

“I wasn’t following you. I was walking, and I saw a shape here. I wasn’t sure it was you.” She edged a little closer. “I was worried. You were hurt, and the IPF…” her voice trailed away. “I thought they meant to help you at first.” She frowned.

He huffed softly, a short hard sound that might have been a laugh. “They never mean to help us.”

Aria tried to see him in the darkness. His form was shadowy, and she could see only the pale, angular shape of his face, his arms, and his bare feet. Closer. “I wasn’t looking for you, but you’re hurt. It’s freezing out here, and you don’t have any shoes. Let me give you mine. I have more at home. They’re boots, and they’re too big for me anyway. They ought to fit.”

She sat back and started to pull at her laces.

He reached forward and stopped her with one bare hand. “I’m fine.” There was a hint of warmth in his voice now, and she met his eyes.

He swallowed and looked away first, glancing back toward the empty street beyond the steep bank. “Thank you for your concern. It is unusual.”

She stared at him. “You must be freezing. You have no coat either?”

He looked back at her. “No.” He rested his left hand against his stomach and shifted with a wince.

She stared at his hand. It was bandaged with what looked like torn strips of one of his dark shirts.

“Are you healing? Who are you? What are you?”

He laughed softly. “Dandra told you not to ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

She stared back at him. “How did you know that? You were gone.”

“I hear many things.” He smiled at her, teeth very white in the darkness.

“What maps did you want?”

He cocked his head to one side, staring at her with cold suspicion. “Who do you work for?”

“What?”

He lunged at her, caught her by the throat, and flipped her on her back. He knelt by her and whispered with icy menace, “You ask a lot of questions. Who do you work for?”

She shook her head, unable to speak against the pressure on her throat. Tears squeezed from her eyes against her will. “No one,” she gasped. Mouthed. The words were inaudible, and she stared at him, willing him to believe her. Her heart thudded wildly.

He let her go and sat back. He was breathing as hard as she was, and he pressed his bandaged left hand against his stomach. He glanced past her toward the street again.

She wiped at her eyes. Her gloves were wet, and the chill stung her cheeks. “I was just trying to help you. Why do you keep assuming the worst? I don’t even know what you mean.” She wanted to go, but curiosity kept her. And compassion.

He leaned back against the vertical support, and this time, his pain was more obvious. He stared at her for a long moment, then looked back toward the street again. “You should go. If you’re not one of them, you won’t want to see what happens next.”

“One of who?”

“Them.” His eyes flicked toward her face again, and she blinked at their cold intensity. “Hunters.”

“Hunting you?” She let her confusion be obvious. If she didn’t know what he meant, perhaps he would trust her a little more. The wind gusted suddenly. It caught her hood and dragged it backward, and she tugged at it, shivering.

“They can track you, you know.” His blue eyes watched her for a reaction. “You’re leading them to me.”

She frowned at him. Was he mad? “No. They can’t. They wouldn’t. Why?”

“Trackers. They’re in almost everyone. Except for my people.” The cool blue gaze rested on her, gauging her reaction before moving back toward the street again.

She glanced back toward the street too. “Why? Where? How?” She shivered, and this time, it wasn’t only because of the icy wind.

“I believe you. That means you have a choice.” He pressed his bandaged left hand hard against his stomach and stood, with a soft huff of pain. He leaned back against the vertical support and looked at the opposite shore of the river for a long moment before looking back at her. “You can leave the tracker in and follow their rules. Go back to your life. It’s the easiest way. Safest.”

He glanced over his shoulder again thoughtfully. “Or you can let me remove it. There’s no going back. You’re out of everything. No job, no school, no electricity, no money. You’re invisible. And hunted.”

She swallowed. “What happened to Dandra?”

He watched her face. “What do you mean?”

“Her shop is closed until further notice. What happened to her? Did you tell Petro?”

“No.” His voice was flat, as if he didn’t really care whether she believed him.

“Why should I leave my life?” She wondered that she was even considering it. But then, it wasn’t so great, was it? A school she didn’t enjoy. A thesis that made her question everything she remembered. A boxy little apartment that she’d tried unsuccessfully to make cozy. A family that consisted of fragmented memories. A few school friends. No one close, not anymore.

“I didn’t say you should.” His voice was soft, and she glanced up at him. He was watching the street again, and she studied him for a moment in the dim light. Lean and hard. Like a soldier, she thought again.

“What are you?” she asked again.

He glanced down, meeting her eyes. “There’s not much time. Make your decision.”

“Do it.”

He knelt suddenly in front of her. “You’re sure? There is no changing your mind, afterward.”

She swallowed. “I’m not giving up much.”

He studied her for another long moment, then nodded once. He pulled a shirt from his rucksack, nearly invisible in the darkness. “Cut a strip off this.” He pulled a knife from his belt and held it toward her, hilt-first. She stared at it. Eight inches long, sharp on both edges and narrowing to a needle point.

“You’re going to cut me.” She pulled her gaze away from the blade to stare at him.

“Yes. You said you wanted it out.”

“Will it hurt?” She felt her breath becoming short. The cold air burned her lungs, and she shivered again, pulling her coat closer around her chest. As if that would protect her, if he wanted to kill her now.

He snorted softly. “Yes.”

She took a deep breath and felt her heart thudding. She forced herself to take the knife from him. The blade was razor sharp, but cutting the fabric into a usable shape was hard in the darkness. He reached out with his good hand to help her stretch the fabric taut. She tried not to think about what she was doing. It was crazy. She was crazy.

“Take off your coat and pull up your sleeve. Right arm.” He set the knife down beside his knee.

She pulled off the coat and put it behind her, shivering harder. It was getting foggy, and though the wind had lessened, the cold still cut through her thick sweater to her bare skin. She pushed her sleeve up just above her elbow.

“More. No, take it off completely.” He glanced over his shoulder at the far shore, then back at the street nearest them.

“It’s freezing,” she whispered.

“I’ll be fast.” He was still searching the street, cold blue eyes flicking down the long stretch of road and resting for a long moment on something. She turned to look over her shoulder as she pulled her right arm out of the sweater sleeve, but didn’t see anything. She pushed her arm down and out the bottom of the sweater, keeping the rest of it on. The thick knit bunched around her throat and she pulled at it, trying to keep as much covered as possible.

“Lay down on your coat. And get your phone out.”

She lay back, shivering. Aria, you’ve officially lost it. This is insane. You’re on a bridge with a crazy man with a knife, and you’re about to let him cut you. No, you asked him to cut you. What is wrong with you?

He moved forward, still kneeling, his bare left foot on the edge of the girder, his right knee beside her ribs. He bent to look at her arm, eyes intent. What will it look like? I don’t know why I believe him, but I do.

He reached out and ran his hand along her upper arm, fingers cold as the metal, and she gasped at the chill. He prodded at one spot, then brought his bandaged hand up to the place and held her arm down firmly. “Don’t move.”

The warning was unnecessary. The knife flickered in and out so fast she barely had time to gasp at the sudden pain. He pressed, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Then it was done. He held a tiny metal object up for her to see.

“Hold it.” He dropped it into her hand and wrapped the strips of cloth around her arm. She stared at the tiny metal capsule, the size and shape of a grain of rice. The wound burned, but not as much as she’d expected.

“What does it do?”

One-handed, he had a hard time tying the bandage, gripping one end in his teeth, and she helped with her left hand. He moved his right hand to cup icy fingers against the back of her neck, sliding up into her hair. She shuddered. He cocked his head, eyes half-closed as if he was concentrating. Then she blinked. A red light appeared on his shoulder, wavered a moment, and then shifted to his head.

“Move!” He jerked her upward and behind himself. “Around the upright, now.”

A shot cracked, and he jolted into her. She slammed into the metal face first, stunned. He jerked her left arm, pushed her to the side, his body close to hers. “Around it. There’s a step. Drop the tracker and your phone into the water.” He sounded like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Around. Panic rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. His bandaged hand on her shoulder steadied her as she put her booted feet on the ridge that circled the upright.

He followed her to the other side. He was breathing hard, unevenly.

“You’re hit.”

“Yes.” He coughed, a short hard cough. He caught her arm again, kept her in the shadow of the upright. The laser caught the underside of the bridge and moved slowly away, then back toward them. Searching. Floodlights blazed in the darkness, flaring up at them and across the water. “You dropped the tracker? Phone? Good. Wait here for at least an hour. There’s a coffee shop three blocks north of Dandra’s.” Another cough, nearly a groan. “Called Franco’s Fuel. Go there. Stay in the shadows. I’ll find you.” A pause, then, “Don’t go home.”

Then he stood, visible, and took a few steps into the clear. He stood in the cold floodlight until the laser veered toward him, then stepped off the girder. A shot rang out, then more, following him down. He landed feet first with a barely audible splash. She heard boots running across the bridge to look for him. She huddled in the shadow of the wide metal girder.

More searchlights flooded across the underside of the bridge, and she shrank even further into the tiny shadow. She could hear them talking, though some of the words were indistinct.

“Which one is it?”

“Unknown. The human was Aria Marie Forsyth. Birthdate August 19, 2061. Age twenty-four. Address 19 McKenna Walk, North Quadrant. Lives alone. Currently enrolled in Historical Studies at City Central University. No family.”

Aria had to bite back a cry. He was right; they were tracking her. But why? Hearing her life summarized like that, it seemed so small. So sad.

“Did it kill her?”

“Unknown. Probably. She dropped first. We didn’t have the lights up yet.”

“You didn’t hit her, did you?”

“Unlikely. The reading was cold.”

“Could have been her jacket, if it’s thick. Insulation could mask the body temp.”

“Could be. I think I got it, though.”

“Search for her body too. Either way, she’s dead.”

“Unless… no. Never mind.”

“You think it knows about that?”

“No.”

They searched the shoreline. She shivered as she counted them, her teeth chattering in the cold. Nine spotlights downriver. Four upriver. They tilted up toward her again, moving slowly across the undergirding of the bridge, and she held her breath, her knees pulled in to her chest as she stayed out of the light. She tucked her hands inside her sleeves and hugged herself. Her arm hurt, a throbbing pain that burned against the cold, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She felt the bandage gingerly with her left hand. He’d been inhumanly fast. If I’m the human, what is he? And good with his knife. The cut wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. He’d been efficient. She tried not to think about the shot that had slammed him into her. The sudden rush of air from his lungs at the impact.

He didn’t deserve to die. He’d been hostile, yes, but could she blame him? As much as they wanted him dead, it was no wonder he was suspicious. They called him an ‘it.’

The spotlights moved slowly down the river. She heard dogs barking, IPF dogs on leashes. Big ones, though not like the beast he’d killed. She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. The cold of the metal stole through her clothes and took her strength. No. If he’s still alive, somehow, I need to meet him. How long has it been?

She glanced cautiously around the upright. The searchlights were distant now, and as she watched they moved farther down the river. Searching. Would they come back? She waited a while longer to be sure but heard nothing aside from the hum of the city. A dog barking. The quiet lapping of the water beneath her.

She took a deep breath and pushed herself up to stand against the upright. She pressed her back to it and glanced at both shores. No one was there now. No one to see her.

Aria felt for the ridge with her foot, slid behind the upright, and eased onto the girder on the other side. She paused, half-expecting a searchlight to flare in her face. Nothing happened, and she crept forward, using the glint of the streetlights on the edge of the girder for a guide. She slid each foot forward carefully. They hadn’t noticed his rucksack, which he’d left on the girder. She pushed it ahead of her, advancing on her knees now. She felt around the top of the girder, unable to see whether he’d left anything else. Nothing.

She found her coat. It was damp inside now with the misting rain, but she put it on anyway and then slipped the strap of the rucksack over her shoulder. She crawled to the end of the girder and felt for the ladder. It was darker here under the overhang, and her heart was in her throat as she swung her legs off the girder and felt for the ladder rungs. She climbed down as silently as she could, and swung from the bottom, trying to judge the distance before letting go.

She landed with a jolt, falling to one knee, then pushed herself to her feet and trudged up the muddy slope toward the street. It was still empty, and she wondered how late it was. She hadn’t worn a watch.

Aria paused at the top, under a streetlight, then thought better of it and moved to a shadow. Last chance. Last chance to stay out of it. She took a deep breath and began walking.

Aria knew Franco’s Fuel, but she didn’t like it. Their coffee was always over-roasted and bitter. The storefront was distinctive, though, which made it a good place to meet. She took a circuitous route, uneasy now about being followed. Which is stupid, because the tracker is gone and no one saw me. But it won’t hurt to be careful. She came to it from the north, slipping through the shadows. She stopped across the street and crouched in the shadow of a hedge.

She jerked in surprise when he put an icy hand over her mouth.

“Follow me.” His voice was only a breath in her ear. “Be silent.”

She nodded and he let go. She trailed him down an alley barely lit by the faint reflections of streetlights on windows along the main road. Then another turn into pitch-blackness. He took her hand in his, and she could feel the cold even through her gloves. Another turn, then the soft swish of a door opening.

“Steps down.” His voice was barely audible. He closed the door behind her, and then took her hand again, guiding her down the stairs. Then, they moved through what seemed to be tunnels, the air cold and still. She could hear his breathing, a catch in each breath, though he made no other sound. She could hear her own, too, over the thud of her heartbeat and her quiet footsteps. He coughed, a short, hard sound. Another turn, and another. Then another door. He put his hand on her shoulder and guided her through, then stepped through himself and locked it. He moved away from her, and she waited. A light flared, and she blinked for a moment in the brightness.

They were in a small room, perhaps ten feet by twelve. There was a camping cot pushed against one wall. A lantern sat on a worn table, and the man stood just to the side and a little in front of it, nearly silhouetted. He studied her for several long seconds while she tried to see him against the light.

“Where are we?” she whispered.

“Under the East Quadrant.” His voice was low, but he didn’t whisper, and she took it as a sign that they were safe. He looked at her a moment longer, then stepped back from the light. “Sit.” He nodded toward the chair.

He leaned against the table, half-sitting on the edge. He took a deep breath and coughed once, hard, and then again, leaning forward as it shook him.

“I’ll ask a favor,” he said hoarsely.

“Sit down. Or lay down.” She reached forward to help him and he drew back, blue eyes on her face. “You’re hurt. What do you need?” She glanced around the room. There was nothing here, nothing that could help him.

He studied her face one long moment, then drew the knife and held it toward her, hilt first. “The bullet is in my right lung. Dig it out. It’s poison.”

Her mouth dropped open. She backed away, shaking her head. “No. You’ll die. You’re dying now. I can’t…” I can’t believe you’re still standing.

He coughed again, doubled over with his right hand braced on his knee, still holding the knife, and his left held to his stomach. Harder and harder, he coughed and could not stop for a terribly long minute. He gasped and swallowed hard, took a deep breath, wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. It came away streaked with blood.

He stripped off his shirt with one quick motion and dropped it to the floor. Around his waist was the bandage made from his pants. He’d cut off the extra fabric and the knot was against his left side, the fabric pulled wide across his stomach, black and stiff with blood. The caked blood had softened in the river water and now leaked from the bandage, soaking his damp trousers. He picked up the lantern and put it on the floor, then knelt with his back to it.

“Find the bullet. It must come out.” He held the knife toward her again. “There’s not much time.” He bent forward, coughing so hard he couldn’t speak.

Aria pulled off her gloves. She took her coat off and tossed it on the chair.

She took the knife from his hand, which tightened convulsively as he coughed. She moved around behind him and covered her mouth, suddenly nauseated. The bullet had hit just below his right shoulder blade. Blood soaked his shirt and now pulsed out in a slow rhythm, streaking his pale wet skin. The hole was as large as her thumb. Scratches and bruises crossed his back, probably from the fight with the vertril, she imagined.

“Can you lie down?” Her voice was hoarse.

He almost fell forward, caught himself with his right hand, and lay on the cold stone floor, jerking as he tried to control the coughing.

“Do it. Don’t be afraid.” He coughed again. “Break a rib if you have to. Get it out. It must come out.” Then he was racked with coughing, so hard his knees jerked beneath him and his face scraped against the floor.

She took a deep breath. Do it. It’s not going to get any easier. She pressed her left hand hard against his back, the muscles alive beneath her fingers. She stabbed the knife in, trying to push the nausea away. He gasped beneath her and dug his fingers into the floor. She shifted the knife to her left hand and pushed two fingers inside. His flesh and blood were cool, though not as icy as his hands, and the sudden shock of that made her blink in surprise. He truly wasn’t human, despite his looks. A human would be warm, hot, even. Didn’t they say “hot blood” when they described a human bleeding? He was definitely cool.

Farther. She could feel nothing that might be a bullet. She felt the strong solidity of bone, the rib cage, and how the hole passed between two of the ribs into the lung. She pushed, and her fingers moved wetly through and wiggled in the emptiness inside. He jerked beneath her. She was light-headed and queasy at the thought of what she was doing, but she pushed the feeling away.

“I’m going to break it.” Her voice felt like it came from someone else.

He nodded once.

She raised the knife and slammed the hilt downward. Not hard enough. Again with two hands, and there was a nauseating crack. He jerked, eyes shut. He spat blood onto the floor near her knee and coughed again. Quickly now. He said there isn’t much time. She pushed her hand in, fingers reaching past the broken ends of bone. She closed her eyes. Looking at it only made her want to vomit, and she felt more confident as she operated by touch alone. She had a little more play now, and she felt around. She leaned onto her left hand as he twitched and jerked, coughing more weakly, choking on his own blood.

There. The bullet was large and had flattened a little as it hit the front ribs and lodged against the bone. She could feel the layers of tissue sliding against each other as she pushed. She could barely grasp it between her index finger and middle finger, at the very extent of her reach. She pushed a little farther, and he made a small, choked sound. There. She had it. She drew it out, paused to get a better grip on it, and then all the way.

She caught her breath, chest heaving like she’d been holding it for hours. “I got it. It’s out.” She put it in front of his face.

He was still. Eyes closed. She sat back and stared at him. No. Not after that. You can’t die now.