Falcon nodded. He walked around the sleek machine and opened the passenger door. The seats were low, almost like fighter plane combat couches he’d seen on the trid. There was no rear seat—and no room for one—just a small, carpeted space behind the two front buckets. He stashed Smeland’s cyberdeck there, trying to arrange it so it wouldn’t rattle around too much. Then he slipped inside, the seat almost wrapping around him, supporting him from the sides as well as the back. He shut the door. Sly was sliding into the driver’s seat, arranging her long legs under the steering wheel. She shut her door, too, with a solid thud-click.