“Fine. Call a cop or arbiter,” I said, fumbling at the flap of pseudoskin. “We’ll see who pays a fine, punk. I’m not playing simbat games. You’re impeding the double of a licensed investigator. Those shooting at me are real criminals …”

I glimpsed figures emerging from the alley. Yellow-skinned members of Beta’s gang, straightening paper garments and trying to look innocuous amid the crowd of strolling archies, bowing and giving way like respectful errand boys, not worth noticing. But hurrying.

Damn. I never saw Beta this desperate before.

“… and my brain holds evidence that may be crucial in solving an important case. Do you want to be responsible for preventing that?”

Two of the teens drew back, looking unsure. I added pressure. “If you don’t let me get about my owner’s business, he’ll post a charge for restraint of legal commerce!”

We were attracting a crowd. That could slow Beta’s bunch, but time wasn’t on my side.

Alas, the third punk — with the artificially translucent skin — wasn’t daunted. He tapped his wrist screen.

“Giga. I got enough juice in the bank to cover a blood fine. If we’re gonna pay this dit’s owner, let’s have the joy of shutting it down hard.”

He seized my arm, clenching with the strength of well-toned muscles — real muscles, not my anemic imitations. The grip hurt, but worse was knowing I’d overplayed my hand. If I’d kept my mouth shut, they might have let me go. Now the data in this brain would be lost and Beta would win after all.

The young man cocked his fist dramatically, playing for the crowd. He meant to snap my neck with a blow.

Someone muttered, “Let the poor thing go!” But a noisier contingent egged him on.

Just then a crash reverberated across the courtyard. Voices cursed harshly. Onlookers turned toward a nearby restaurant, where diners at an outdoor table hopped away from a mess of spilled liquid and shattered glassware.