Eric “Sparrow” Shields's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Sparrow crouched on the plank deck of his tree fort and watched the camera crew through a slit in the painted scrap metal. Three workers in gray coveralls were bolting a new rig above the station mouth he used every night. The rig had three lenses, glossy and green-shelled, set in a triangle so nothing could pass under it unseen. In two hours those lenses would be live. After that, his way down into the tunnels was finished. He ducked back inside the fort and set his field terminal on the crate he used as a table. The hard-shell case clicked open. The green screen woke up. He lifted the red receiver, dialed into the city camera grid, and pulled the crew's work order onto the display. Install window: ninety more minutes. Patrol drones: one pass, southbound, in twelve. He marked the timing on the screen with a grease pencil. Below the city, in the dark lines of forgotten subway, he had been hauling cots and water drums for months. He was building a place where people the cameras hunted could live without being seen. He was not losing that tonight. The plan was ugly but simple. He needed gear from the crew's own supply tote, the one they had left chained to a railing at the curb. Spare lenses. A handler tablet. Anything he could use to feed the new rig a loop later. Then he had to skip his usual entrance and drop into the tunnels through the service grate two blocks over, the one wrapped in yellow rail and graffiti that no transit map admitted existed. He waited until the drone pass cleared his terminal, then climbed down the rope ladder. The crew was on break behind the truck. He crossed low and fast to the tote. The lid was already propped open. Inside, coiled cable, three dome cameras, a black handler box. Curled around the handler box sat three beetles the size of his thumb, shells slick with rainbow oil, green vapor drifting off their backs. Bait. The crew kept them in the kit to discourage thieves. One sting would put him on the ground. He pulled his sleeve over his hand. He lifted the handler box by its corner, slow, and slid two spare lenses into his coat with the other hand. A beetle clicked and shifted. He froze, then eased the lid back down and walked, not ran, to the alley mouth. Two blocks over, he reached the grate. He pried up the corner he had loosened weeks ago, swung his legs through, and dropped onto the ladder below. The grate clanged shut above him. He had the gear. He had a way in the crew didn't know about. But he had also just stolen from a city contractor, and somewhere on a desk above ground, an inventory count was about to come up short.