Episode 1 - The Beam

They were behind; he could outrun them. His destination was nearly directly below him, so he dove, nearly nose-down. His back pressed into his seat like an astronaut in a centrifuge. The gap between Doc and the autocops widened as they shied from his reckless dive, taking a more level approach. Official-sounding entreaties to stop where he was blasted around him, but even if Doc stopped now, he’d end up being fined half a year’s profits just to retrieve his license — if, that was, he was lucky enough to remain undiscovered by his pursuers.
    Doc’s hover dove between the buildings below. He banked hard right, nearly striking a large glass office spire. You weren’t allowed to fly this low, and Doc caught sight of several shocked faces staring out at him. He slipped down a street he didn’t recognize, then darted down a smaller one lined with quaint looking shops and parked with a lot of wheeled vehicles. Pedestrians looked up and hoverbikes braked hard as drivers rubbernecked at him. He heard at least one accident, and hoped no one was hurt.
    Doc sped through a residential neighborhood, eventually flying out near Houston, by the old bomb crater that had been kept as a themed tourist district.
    Shops. Spires. People still watched him, aghast. So he slowed down, dipped into a line of traffic and continued at street level. After a few more blocks, people stopped looking. The autocops were long gone. They’d communicate his car’s description along The Beam and every traffic light would be looking for him, but Doc drove a Ford Magnum, powder blue — the most popular hovercar and color on the market. And thanks to his jammer, they’d only gotten the car’s spoofed Auto ID, which he’d already toggled to a new value.
    His heart still thumping, Doc pulled the car to the side of the road, engaged the security, and half-walked, half-jogged the remaining five blocks on foot.
    It was noon. Doc knew he’d wake Kai when he rang her buzzer because she worked at night. And he knew she’d be pissed.
    But Kai was also the only person in the world Doc could trust to help him.

Isaac swiped his connection closed by raking his hand in front of his kitchen wall. In its place, his projection of Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon reappeared. This was bullshit. Nicolai earned an incredible living, placing him just below Isaac and Natasha in the Directorate. A few more notches up and Nicolai would be in the Beau Monde, the top 1% of the wealthiest NAU citizens, where life truly got interesting… not that anyone in the lower 99 had any idea about that, of course.
    And what was Nicolai paid so well for? Not just for being Isaac’s speechwriter, but his right fucking hand. The person Isaac bitched at. The person who, when he was fired up about something, made it all better — just like he’d done when that riot erupted at Natasha’s concert. Isaac was supposed to be able to reach Nicolai 24/7, and right now he needed a sounding board: someone to make the bullshit disappear.
    He should have left a message.
    Isaac sighed, swiped the connection open again, and waited while his canvas tried to locate Nicolai’s ID on The Beam. If he was anywhere remotely civilized (and alive, Isaac mentally added), The Beam should know where he was and should light up any Beam-enabled surface around him — the wall of a building, a counter in his apartment, the tabletop in a coffee shop. Failing that, Nicolai wore a communicator in his ear. He seldom answered with video, but wouldn’t flat-out ignore the call even if he was with a woman. Isaac had tried to call half a dozen times, so Nicolai was sure to see the missed calls and know it was urgent. But still. Isaac should leave a message, even if only to put it in bold type.
    The connection trilled. Then, instead of hearing Nicolai’s voice, Isaac watched as a young man with a sober, professional haircut appeared in the connection window.
    “My name is Simon. How can I help you, for Nicolai Costa?” said the young man, giving no indication that Isaac had slammed a window in his face thirty seconds ago. Virtual assistants reset if no business was transacted, so the program was oblivious to Isaac’s earlier brash manners.
    “Where is Nicolai?” Isaac demanded. But this was already stupid. If the assistant had picked up, Nicolai was unreachable. He was only asking out of frustration, as if the man in the window were a real person who would respond to anger.
    “Nicolai is