By the time I’ve got my bike out of hock from the Washington Athletic Club parkade and ridden to my doss on Northeast Sixtieth Street in Ravenna—a convenient few blocks from the Cutters’ safe house—I’ve slotted the chip Cat passed me, downloaded the contents, and scanned them. Didn’t take me long. Predictably, my orders are: "Keep your head down and keep reporting." (Am I psychic or what?) There’s nothing specific the Star wants me to watch for, and if they know about anything strange coming up, they don’t see fit to warn me. I mentally trigger the utility that triple-overwrites and wipes the chip, and I eject it from my jack. I don’t even bother to use the chip carrier, just let it fall out onto the road as I ride.