I’m packed into a train car with twenty-nine others, all of us destined for Cascadia. Some share my runaway expat status, but most are local colony residents who won the immigration lottery. None of us are handcuffed, but four guards flank the tinted doors with their stunners ready.

I know this route. The Zephyr. Denver to Salt Lake to Sacramento, then home. It’s the most common entry route for midcontinental immigrants. If things go as they usually do, we’ll pass through two customs checkpoints—state border and city limits—then we’ll be autotaxied to Santa Luz Medical Center for psych and bio processing… Shit!

They’ll take the Eyes.

I don’t want to be Issho, but I refuse to be mutilated. I must not give myself away. I’ve remained unveiled, and there are no Issho on board who could detect me unveiled. Maybe no one knows. But even if I get through customs unbothered, I won’t evade detection at Santa Luz, which prides itself on being the last stop for foreign bionics. I’ll be scanned and prodded, and then bound, doped, and cut until I’m deemed pure.

Yes, I’m returning home, but I feel like contraband.