Jet Pack

“Not anymore, Herr Doctor,” she said. “And never again.” Behind her teeth brass cylinders rotated, clicking together to form the right shapes to transform the air from her bellows into words.

If the virus gets into his shoulder muscles, it could mess with the signals that run from brain to arm in a game of bioelectric telephone. Permanent damage.

She takes out the flash drive. She puts it on the glass table and drinks some more coffee, regarding it like a law-abiding citizen looks at a bag of cocaine.

— Oh, all right, then. Anything once.

Maybe, she hoped, maybe he was just some garden-variety dirty creep who picked up what he thought was a lonely hitchhiker. Maybe all he wanted was carnal, and all she’d have to do was navigate his fantasy romance routine…

The stretch he can see runs away from him, due north, along the International Date Line…