Kham brought his bike to a halt, but didn't bother to put down the kickstand. He draped his hands over the high-rise handlebars, fingers dangling. The sweat-warmed grips were a warm and comforting presence under his meat wrist, and the pressure sensors from his artificial arm gave him the same positional information. Either hand could reach a firing stud for the Uzi. Kham waited until the catboy's bike rolled up beside him.