The cab of the semitruck pulsates with rap music, the bass low and loud. I can smell fast food and lotion and sweat. But only barely. The air-conditioning is gushing icy odorless air into this oasis of life support, this pod wrapped in a ten-ton pile of hot speeding metal.

The autonomous rig looks a lot like the old-school trucks from the movies. A few more video screens, maybe. There’s a steering wheel and gas and brake pedals. The driver, Cortez, leans back in his seat, pudgy arms crossed over his stomach, hands lightly resting on puffy touch pads embedded in the steering wheel. His tiny pinkish fingernails list lazily with the wheel as it adjusts itself.

As we roll, my thoughts turn to the machinery that I carry inside my skull. Something special, my dad said. Something extra. Leaning my head against the cool window, I let the hum of the road vibrate through me. I imagine that I can feel the anonymous black plastic inside as it sends feathery pulses of electricity forking away into my gray matter.

Fwish. Fwish. Fwish.

Like a clock counting down, a time bomb wedged in the meat between my eyes. How long until it explodes? If the biocapacitor fails, the implant will lose power and I could die fast—lights out. If the clock falls too far out of sync, then the implant will send bad commands to my brain and I could die slow. And if the temperature or vibration or current fluctuates, or my bio-gel runs out or spoils, there’s a chance I’ll die and, honestly, who cares how fast or slow it happens?

There is no separating me from the amp. Our fates are grotesquely interwoven—a tree grown through a chain-link fence. Live or die, it’s a part of me.

I must have reached up and stroked the nub of plastic jutting from my temple without knowing it, because Cortez swivels his great head toward me. He watches my face for a long second, his three-hundred-pound frame quivering in his seat, settled in there like a scoop of chocolate ice cream.

Shit. How stupid can I be? I burrow deeper into my cushioned seat and nonchalantly press a palm against the tinted window. Outside, relentless sunlight acid washes the highway, sending up dazzling heat lines that make the horizon dance. Shadows of clouds skate across rolling green hills. Nothing else moves save the glinting of far-off traffic.

I can’t remember ever being able to see this far.

“You coming from out east, huh?” asks Cortez.

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

“Why?”

“These rednecks out here don’t like people being too smart,” says Cortez, tapping his temple. “Pure Priders are always preaching that y’all will steal their jobs, you know? They probably have a point.”

The dash-mounted video screen chirps, stutters on.

The thudding music recedes on an automatic quick fade and an emergency alert tone squawks. A fuzzy, nasal voice reads: “All-points bulletin. A BOLO has been issued for Covenant Transport vehicles. Operators are instructed to be on the lookout for the following persons of interest. Be advised these suspects are former military and should be considered highly dangerous, even if unarmed. On contact, please report immediately to your regional coordinator. Operators are advised to verify information before taking action.”

A grainy video appears. A title card reads: Echo Squad Conspirators Sought. A series of faces flash by—each of them young and hawkish, aggressive. And oddly similar. These are military portraits taken during boot camp. Each has a name underneath. Valentine. Crosby. Stilman. Daley. Gray.

Oh, shit. The next face blinks onto the screen and there I am.

My school photo, lifted from the Allderdice Web site. Starkly different from the others. Softer. It stares at me and Cortez for a second and a half, then disappears.

Cortez snorts, wide nostrils flaring. “Thought I knew you. Seen you on the tube, pardner.”

This has to be a mistake. Why the fuck am I on a bulletin? How could I be swept up in a manhunt with real criminals? I keep my face pointed forward, panic rising in my chest. “What are you going to do?” I ask.

“Turn you in, man. I’m responsible for this truck. Anything goes wrong in here, it’s my fault. This is a good job. I don’t want to lose it.”

“Look, they’ve got me confused with somebody else. You can see I’m not military. Just let me off anywhere,” I say, my voice going hollow with fear. I’m staring at a button on the steering wheel. It has a phone on it. With a touch of his finger, Cortez can send me to jail or worse.

“I won’t tell anybody you picked me up,” I say. “No harm, no foul.”

“Sorry,” he drawls. “Company already knows somebody in here. This truck is wired to the tits.”

It’s true. If the big man’s hands leave those pads on the steering wheel for more than a few seconds, the truck will pull itself over and cut the engine. This is because years ago an original model autonomous tanker with a sensor malfunction and no driver rolled off the road and smashed into the side of an office building. Wouldn’t have been a big deal if the truck weren’t hauling a double load of gasoline. The trucking company was sued out of business. And the rest of the industry realized they needed an insurance policy. Someone to take the blame.

In other words, a human driver.

“Why not turn yourself in?” asks Cortez. “You look like a damn schoolteacher or something. You don’t want to be on the run from the cops.”

I could stop running now, minimize the damage. I didn’t push Samantha Blex. Let them arrest me and I can set the record straight. It’s the sane thing to do. But I can’t forget the edge of panic in my father’s voice. Naked, ugly fear was on his face, the kind you never show willingly—the kind that’s contagious.

I turn to Cortez.

“You heard amps are going to steal your job? Well, guess what? I couldn’t drive your truck if I wanted to,” I say. “No amp could steal your job after today.”

“How come?”

“I can’t take the blame for a wreck. Legally. In the eyes of the law I don’t exist. You’d be better off having a three-year-old drive this thing.”

Cortez snorts again, his deep-set bluish-gray eyes scanning the featureless, blazing road ahead. I can’t read his expression. Can’t tell if it’s good or bad. But discrimination is legal now, and from what I’ve seen the regular people are getting the hang of it real fast. If this guy sends me back to Pittsburgh, it’s all over.

“That’s messed up,” he says finally. “They’re saying you’re not even a person.”

“It’s what they’re saying. I can’t get picked up by the cops. I don’t have any rights. They can do whatever they want to me. Will do.”

The emergency alert squawks again. A tinny voice from the dash speaks: “Come in, Cortez. Come in.”

Eyebrows up, Cortez paws a button on the dash and responds. “This Cortez.”

“Cort. It’s Jason. I’m doing the BOLO follow-up. Fleetscan indicates you took on a passenger in Nashville. Can you confirm?”

Cortez frowns at me. “Yeah.”

“Okay, can you let me get cab video?”

Cortez blinks, as if he’s just woken up. He takes one hand off the steering wheel and scratches his unkempt beard. A light begins to blink on the dashboard, and his chubby hand flutters back to its roost almost unconsciously.

“Jason … it’s my cousin. Giving him a ride to Tulsa to see his momma.”

“That’s nice, Cortez. Now let me get cab vid.”

“Nah,” says Cortez.

“Dammit, Cort. Are you smoking weed in there again?”

“Man, get out of here with that. Check my environmental.”

“Then give me video.”

“Do I come to your work and stare at you?”

“I’m trying to do my job here, Cortez. I don’t have time for this shit. If you don’t grant me vidrights, I’m engaging the override and flagging you for law enforcement inspection. Now, are you going to do it or not?”

“This is bullshit. It’s called privacy, Jason—” responds Cortez, and then the whole dashboard flashes red. The doors thunk as they lock themselves. We start losing speed.