The diesel engine beneath the rear bench rattled with a steady shudder as the armored Route 04 bus climbed the viaduct ramp toward District 2.
Rain drummed against the wire-glass windows in silver ribbons. Up in the driver’s cab, Marcus “Mac” Cole wrestled the heavy steering wheel with his flesh hand and nickel-plated prosthetic fist, guiding thirty thousand pounds of armored steel across slick expansion joints. Through the front glass, southern New Marrow glowed amber with restored power, while far to the north, the darkened monolith of the District 1 Uptown Spire rose like a dead obsidian fang.
In the back of the passenger compartment, away from the front seats, Elena Rostova switched on the small gooseneck examination lamp above the engine cover.
The cone of warm light illuminated the wooden table fixed between the benches.
“Sit down, Julian,” Elena said, her voice quiet, firm, and brooking no argument.
Julian leaned against the stanchion pole, wiping drizzle from his face. “I need to check the paper feed on Clerk 03’s register -- ”
“The printhead can wait,” Elena interrupted, catching his left wrist with cool, calloused fingers. “Your palm is bleeding into your sleeve, your knuckles are raw, and you’ve got thermal burns from wrists to elbows. Sit.”
