The Concordia slued sideways and tipped, covering half a block on her side before a light post caught her fender. She spun around hard and crashed into a building. Andy felt like the little ball in an aerosol can that someone was trying to shake loose. The Concordia tipped back down onto her wheels and rocked to a stop. Like wannabe shrouds, the air bags deflated and draped Andy and Markowitz. The riders had survived, but the Concordia was dead. The interface was down, the windows dark, and the stink of burnt rubber and burning plastics fouled the air in the car. Andy coughed in the increasing smoke.