to get their suits dirty. Theyâre on my tail the entire run. Then I feel it for the very first time, about ten yards behind me in the main tunnel.
Pop. FLASH . BOOM.
The whiz of a bullet through the tunnel.
And by the way, having a gun fired at you inside a tunnel is nothing like having one fired at you up on the surface. The echo alone makes it differentâa dislocated sound that toys with your senses and plays with your mind. Suddenly it isnât just the space that feels tighter. Everything feels tight. Everything is cramped. Everything carries a different weight down here. Even the twisting trail of wind zipping behind the bullet with my name on it, even that adheres to a different law of physics down here. The only thing I can do now is run. Leave it behind. Run faster. Run until the dim light of the tunnel can no longer illuminate the distance between us. The only thing I can do now is run like hell, and that is exactly what I do.
By now itâs easy to see what Red Tail meant about disruptors and retrievers. Data retrievers canât fire their guns blindly into a dark tunnel. Most of the time they canât fire their guns at all. With them itâs like a game of tag; they actually have to lay their hands on me. But these guys trying to stop delivery on my load from Wexler Pharmaceuticals, they have no interest in recovering the cargo stored in my wing, they just want to shoot it down. And even though Iâm just the data runner whoâs not supposed to know what heâs carrying in his wing, I know why.
I was told a lot of thing about running the sneakernet, given a lot of tips. But the one thing I figured out on my own is how invaluable it is for my trade to follow the news closely, particularly the business news. I know that these interceptors have to be from Applied Microgenetics. Two days ago the Journal reported that Wexler Pharmaceuticals was within hours of filing a long-awaited patent application for a brand new type of molecular gene therapy that could be worth billions right out of the gate. This was a very big deal in the biotechnology world. Apparently, for the past ten years, Wexler had been in direct competition with Applied Microgenetics to see who would bring their molecule to market first; and whoever did would essentially wipe out the other guy.
Thatâs how I know, even without seeing the load, exactly what Wexler Pharmaceuticals has tasked me with when they load me up and give me the address for the Free City branch of the patent office. This is the final lap in a very long raceâten years long to be exactâand I am the one they are trusting with the baton. Itâs a pretty big run for someone who has been on the job less than a month. Probably the biggest Iâve been given so far. But I can handle it.
Whatever reticence I had on my first couple of runs is gone. Now I donât think twice about switching over to an active track and running straight for the headlamp of an oncoming train. The interceptors from Applied Microgenetics dig their heels into the dirt and slide to a halt. They have no idea what Iâm doing. And because they have no idea what Iâm doing, they have no idea what to do themselves. With a train coming straight at me, there is no way out of this passage. No way outâ¦but over. But surely Iâm not about to leap over an entire train, am I? Not quite.
As the train bears down I wall-run up the side of the tunnel until my toes find footing. Itâs just a tiny little nub, but thatâs all I need to push off. I use everything I have to pop vault up to the overhead beams and hang on for dear life as the train roars past beneath me. And just as my pursuers dive for cover, I drop onto it and sail past. At moments like these, the tunnel wind in my hair feels good. Like victory. I donât even care that the air down here smells like urine and is so thick with grime that I can taste its gritty chalkiness in my mouth. I
Pop. FLASH . BOOM.
The whiz of a bullet through the tunnel.
And by the way, having a gun fired at you inside a tunnel is nothing like having one fired at you up on the surface. The echo alone makes it differentâa dislocated sound that toys with your senses and plays with your mind. Suddenly it isnât just the space that feels tighter. Everything feels tight. Everything is cramped. Everything carries a different weight down here. Even the twisting trail of wind zipping behind the bullet with my name on it, even that adheres to a different law of physics down here. The only thing I can do now is run. Leave it behind. Run faster. Run until the dim light of the tunnel can no longer illuminate the distance between us. The only thing I can do now is run like hell, and that is exactly what I do.
By now itâs easy to see what Red Tail meant about disruptors and retrievers. Data retrievers canât fire their guns blindly into a dark tunnel. Most of the time they canât fire their guns at all. With them itâs like a game of tag; they actually have to lay their hands on me. But these guys trying to stop delivery on my load from Wexler Pharmaceuticals, they have no interest in recovering the cargo stored in my wing, they just want to shoot it down. And even though Iâm just the data runner whoâs not supposed to know what heâs carrying in his wing, I know why.
I was told a lot of thing about running the sneakernet, given a lot of tips. But the one thing I figured out on my own is how invaluable it is for my trade to follow the news closely, particularly the business news. I know that these interceptors have to be from Applied Microgenetics. Two days ago the Journal reported that Wexler Pharmaceuticals was within hours of filing a long-awaited patent application for a brand new type of molecular gene therapy that could be worth billions right out of the gate. This was a very big deal in the biotechnology world. Apparently, for the past ten years, Wexler had been in direct competition with Applied Microgenetics to see who would bring their molecule to market first; and whoever did would essentially wipe out the other guy.
Thatâs how I know, even without seeing the load, exactly what Wexler Pharmaceuticals has tasked me with when they load me up and give me the address for the Free City branch of the patent office. This is the final lap in a very long raceâten years long to be exactâand I am the one they are trusting with the baton. Itâs a pretty big run for someone who has been on the job less than a month. Probably the biggest Iâve been given so far. But I can handle it.
Whatever reticence I had on my first couple of runs is gone. Now I donât think twice about switching over to an active track and running straight for the headlamp of an oncoming train. The interceptors from Applied Microgenetics dig their heels into the dirt and slide to a halt. They have no idea what Iâm doing. And because they have no idea what Iâm doing, they have no idea what to do themselves. With a train coming straight at me, there is no way out of this passage. No way outâ¦but over. But surely Iâm not about to leap over an entire train, am I? Not quite.
As the train bears down I wall-run up the side of the tunnel until my toes find footing. Itâs just a tiny little nub, but thatâs all I need to push off. I use everything I have to pop vault up to the overhead beams and hang on for dear life as the train roars past beneath me. And just as my pursuers dive for cover, I drop onto it and sail past. At moments like these, the tunnel wind in my hair feels good. Like victory. I donât even care that the air down here smells like urine and is so thick with grime that I can taste its gritty chalkiness in my mouth. I
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