I looked at the data-slate. One hundred masin . Not cars. Not vehicles. Masin. The old word. The heavy word. Military-grade, AI-ghosted, armored transports. Each one a 20-ton beast with a caged demon for an engine. And they wanted me to herd a hundred of them through rush-hour chaos.
Most drivers would brake.
The Ram-9 landed hard, suspension crying, but I kept it straight. Behind me, masin after masin caught air like leaping whales. Some landed wrong. Three flipped. Two exploded. Ninety-five left. Then ninety. Eighty-five. skacat- city car driving 100 masin
"They're not lost," I said, lighting a cigarette with a shaking hand. "They're still out there. Wrecked, burning, scattered across forty kilometers of city." I looked at the data-slate
The counter stopped at forty-seven.