I’ve got to tell my controls at the Star. I’ve got to tell them everything, from the mysterious corp contact with the Cutters to the possibility that their own data fortress has been compromised. (I don’t know the name of the mysterious corp, but I’ve got to call them something. The label’s irrelevant—how about IrreleCorp?) And I’ve got to take into account the possibility—no matter how slim—that this corp might have a mole inside the Star, possibly even one of my controls. I sigh and stare up at the underside of a highway off-ramp, ten meters above me. If this is the kind of drek Finnigan writes about, I’m glad I’ve never read any of his books. Interlacing my fingers behind my head into some semblance of a pillow, I close my eyes and wait for dawn.