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  I introduced Berger to Carroll on a Thursday. We were at Carroll’s house in the Bayside Estates overlooking the water. Property on the water was expensive. It came with gates and guards and during the uprising it was a sanctuary.

  Cars never passed through the neighborhoods that Berger and I called home. You would see an occasional truck, usually some RomaCorp vehicle delivering something or other to one of their big, shiny shops, the ones that were driving all the other stores out of business. But anyone who’d had a car before the government fell had long since sold it. They either needed the money or got tired of not being able to find fuel. And if they didn’t sell it outright they stripped it themselves for parts. But in Bayside Estates there was a vehicle in every driveway, sometimes two.

  Carroll’s place was on a hill, overlooking the private marina where Bayside residents kept their toys. We were on a porch that came off the living room. A pair of reclined lawn chairs sat next to a table covered by an umbrella. A wrought iron railing circled the patio, and Berger seemed distracted by the boats that were racing the sun back into the marina. Several sails were fully extended and puffed out by the wind. Carroll had the help, Magda, bring three tall glasses of iced tea. She sat them in front of us and Carroll slid a list of names and addresses across the table to me. I did a quick count. Five items on the sheet.

  “We start tomorrow night at 9 p.m. Those first two names go then. The other three go on Saturday. Early morning so don’t go staying out all night. I need you fresh. Him too.” Carroll pointed at Berger and Berger turned and looked at us.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll be fresh.”

  As we walked back to Raul’s to get ready for that night’s action we stayed on the streets that were well lit. The sun was setting and casting long shadows down the asphalt. The buildings were getting taller as we headed into downtown and I explained what it was that Carroll did.

  “It’s called data running,” I said, waiting at a corner for a man pulling a small cart on the back of his bicycle to pass, the orange flag attached to the seat popping in the breeze. A horn blew down the block and a moment later a large box truck with a RomaCorp “R” painted on the side rumbled through the intersection.

  We waited for the truck to pass before we crossed and I continued explaining. Berger nodded like he knew what I was talking about but I know he didn’t.

  I lifted my left sleeve to expose the port in my arm, just below my elbow.

  “You’re on the wire?” Berger asked.

  I nodded and told him that I could be. “I’ve got the equipment, but I don’t use it. Not often anyway.”

  Obviously, a lie.

  “So, what does your port have to do with Carroll and this job?”

  “It’s how they run data.” We turned the corner and passed the restaurant we ate at a few nights before. Generators rumbled to life. Shop keepers were preparing for the night and little pools of light began to litter the sidewalk. “They sit a guy in a chair; hook him up to a feed. They dump whatever info that needs to travel securely into a part of the brain that’s not being used and send him off with an address on a page and the name of someone to ask for. Once they get to wherever it is they’re supposed to go they get hooked back up and the data is pulled out of their heads. All we have to do is make sure they get there.”

  “Ever done it? Run data?”

  “No. Dealing with a data feed that intense you can get hooked. Plus, it’s risky. I’ve seen too many runners not get up from the chair.”

  Berger shook his head. “I don’t think I could. I don’t care what the pay is like.”

  We took the steps down to Raul’s basement two at a time. A crowd had gathered and it looked like it would be a good night. Get too many men in the basement and it felt like you were in a coffin. You were sure the low ceilings were about to close in on you and the crowd made the fighting area small. You were grappling more than fighting. Not that it mattered much since outcomes were predetermined, at least for the most part.

  Early fights, like the ones that we’d walked in on, were legitimate. Raul was scouting talent. It was during one of these fights a few months ago that we each first saw Berger. He was paired with another man who was a head shorter and at least fifty pounds lighter. Berger made short work of him, leaving the other guy little more than a bump on the floor.

  Raul nudged me in the middle of the fight and smiled. I only nodded.