The first-hour proved uneventful. Papa was fast asleep and snoring, balled in a corner with blankets from overhead bins. Warchild was watching the onboard television, immersed in some news. Rotter was wedged in a seat, playing with his hand terminal, cranking out a series of beeping noises. The straight shot, up the Jersey Turnpike, was mag-lev smooth through denser traffic. Yet it was orderly, thanked computer-sync driving. In no time, the turnpike entered a refinery forest punctuated by dozens of gas flares that lit up the low cloud cover. The refineries gave way to a giant tank farm owned by Phillips 66, a company of Atlantic Economic League, where tanker liners waited in long queues to dump their loads. Ten minutes later, the bus exited the fuel park and ran parallel to Newark's runway.

Then things began to change.

Warchild, no longer watching the screen, called Rotter upfront. A road work area, fast approaching, forced the right lane to merge into the maglev space, slowing down their speed. Warchild pointed to Rotter the real trouble. Waiting in the shoulder taper were two police interceptors, painted in AEL colors and proprietary fief markings. As the bus passed, the two vehicles rolled out and accelerated, placing themselves behind the bus.

"And we have number three," Rotter called out as a third police interceptor merged from the shoulder ahead. A fourth soon joined to box in the bus, their sirens, and lights inert.

"What's going on?" Papa snapped awake and quickly assessed the situation. He checked the dark sky and saw red nav lights and white strobes. "We got a pack of police birds on our ass."

"How they track us so fast?" Rotter questioned defensively. "We cleaned every tracker on this bus."

"Not all," Warchild mumbled. "All right, no sudden movement. We play cool. Hop on and deactivate autodrive."

Rotter took the driver seat and soon found it inert.

"Trying." Rotter gritted his teeth, gripping the wheel. "I got no control."

"The bus got captured," Papa muttered the truth. The Blue Bird's drive AI had been slaved to the Master Traffic Controller.

The wheels turned by themselves as the power train decoupled from the mag lanes to drift toward the curb. The two lead interceptors shepherded it to a complete stop on the right shoulder.

"I'm not going down without a fight," Papa said.

"Me neither," Rotter agreed, stepping back from the driver seat, one hand on his wounds.

"Man," Rotter said. "What I wouldn't give for an SMG or my blades refilled."

"Bare knuckles and teeth can do wonders," Papa growled.

"Everyone calm the fuck down," Warchild barked.

It was peculiar the cops hadn't rushed the bus or pulled out their guns.

The loudspeaker from the front interceptor bawled, instead: "This is Green Sector, Newark PD. You got weapons, put them away. I'm coming up to talk."

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Talk? The trio inside the bus glanced at one another, astonished with this development.

A broad-shouldered man in a worn trench approached the bus from the front with his hands raised and a stubby soaked cigar in his mouth. He rapped on the door, metal against metal -- brass knuckles or metallic fingers, they wondered.

Warchild okayed for Rotter to open the door. It hissed aside as the glass panels folded to one side.

The man entered and climbed the steps. They could see he was armed from the bulge in his jacket. His square face was etched with micro-seams, a sign he had cranial cyberware implants. One iris focused imperceptibly.

"You schmucks know you're in a stolen bus? You stand out like a beacon in the dark. Thank your lucky stars we got to you first."

"Who the hell are you?" Rotter said, backing away deeper into the bus. Warchild and Papa did the same, drawing the cop inside.

"Never mind who I am," the cop said. "Ditch this thing and come with me if you want to live."

"Forget it," Papa snapped, his stance aggressive. "I ain't going swimming again."

"We went through some shit couple of days ago," Warchild explained.

"No shit," the man said. "Why I'm here."

"To finish the job?" Rotter growled, eyes checking out the cop's target zones and the piece under the coat.

"You could stand there and waste my time, or come with me and save yourselves. Oh, I should mention, your wife and kids are waiting for you, Papa."

Papa rushed forward menacingly. "I'll kill you if you lay a hand on them."

Warchild put a hand against the big Smurf. "Hear the man out!"

"They're safe," the cop said quickly. "Your friends saw to it."

"What friends?" Warchild said, now interested. "Who you work for?"

"That's my business. I got my skin to protect too. You coming or staying? Last chance before hell and high water."

The cop didn't wait for an answer as he backed out of the bus.

The three men followed him out to the lead cop vehicle and climbed in the back. The four police interceptors accelerated and merged left into the mag-lanes, leaving the Blue Bird behind for a robotic tower to handle.

Ten minutes later, the interceptor they were in came off maglev, decelerated abruptly, and took the exit ramp as the others continued on. They were alone and dawn was approaching.

The cop interceptor entered a maze of industrial grayness that extended from ground to sky.

The cop in front with the cigar said, "We're here."

Warchild checked his whereabouts. "Where's here?"

"Doubt you know, so relax."

The vehicle stopped at a heavy gate with steel barrier as auto-cameras and security orbs investigated the visitors. After the proper scanning, the steel barrier came down, allowing their entry. The patrol car drove into a vast industrial canyon made from forty-footer containers stacked hundreds of feet high.

Warchild nudged Rotter awake. Papa was already bug-eyed alert anxious to see his family.

"I'm hungry," Rotter said, feeling bold and smelling the air.

"This is a food distribution hub," the cop said. "You'll get your fill."

"Who runs this place?" Warchild asked.

"This is a Free Trade Zone which supplies a good chunk of perishables to Meg One. This corner here is the main meat and dairy hub, run by Midland," the cop replied. "Does that answer your question?"

Papa heard but didn't care. He was in a rush, but not for food, his eyes darting about missing nothing. "Well, where are they, dammit?"

"I told you they're safe, patience."

The car stopped in a gravel-filled compound surrounded on three sides by unloading semis and forklifters the size of small houses.

"Midland Paramountcy . . . what do they have to do with us?" Rotter shrugged.

"You'll find out, kid. Good luck," the cop said and walked off to shake hands with an unremarkable man waiting some yards away who took delight in their arrival.

The trio disembarked.

Med-techs led Rotter away to tend to his wounds. Papa's family rushed forth from their places and fell into a bear's embrace. Warchild noticed that not far away, standing from the doorway of an office trailer was another figure -- the silhouette unmistakable. Instead of welcoming warmth, he felt chill.