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I was Slated. Finding out about Nico’s AGT and their plans for me didn’t make anything better, did it?
    Some part of me notices that while I’ve been thinking, the train has stopped. For much longer than at any other stop. I open my eyes; the doors are still closed. We’re not at a station?
    I glance about at the other passengers, and it is tangible, the growing unease. What is happening? The woman and boy get out of their seats, and walk to the connecting door to the next car at the front of ours. I’ve seen people go in and out of it, returning with steaming cups in their hands. But this time the door won’t open. They go back to their seats.
    Moments later the locked door opens, and unease turns to dread. Lorders. Two of them, with steely, dead eyes. In black ops gear, vests. One has a weapon in hand, the other a small device. There is a train guard with them, a bead of sweat on his brow.
    ‘Get your tickets and ID out, folks,’ the train guard says, his voice not quite steady. And passengers shuffle, get cards out of bags and pockets. I get mine out, hand shaking. Get a grip . Aiden’s notes said a ticket and ID check is common. That mine’ll pass fine, to stay calm if it happens. But he never said anything about Lorders being involved.
    The Lorder with the gun stays at the door; the other follows the guard. When they get to the first passenger, the guard scans his ticket and ID. Then the Lorder holds up the device he carries, and orders the passenger to look inside it until it beeps; first with one eye, then the other.
    A portable retinal scanner?
    This is not a standard check. Swirls of fear turn to panic. Glasses must come off to scan retinas; they’ll see my eye colour is masked. If only I’d let DJ change them to grey permanently, not mask them: vanity to keep my eyes green might kill me. I could take them off before they get here, hope they don’t notice, but then I panic further: who knows if my retinal key will show up the wrong name, that of a dead girl, Kyla Davis? We had them done at school. And at the hospital. I glance back, but there are Lorders at the back door also. Blocking the way.
    Nowhere to go. Trapped. As a Slated, seeking out my past life is completely illegal. Not to mention the IMET and travelling under a false identity. After everything, is this as far as I get? Keswick should be just minutes away now. Did my fake ID trigger some warning? Are they looking for me?
    They get closer, row by row. The guard checks each ticket and ID; the Lorder operates the retinal scanner.
    Something bumps my foot and I almost scream. I glance down: the small boy? Crawling under the seats. Ahead they have reached his mother. Her face is beyond pale, more grey, and her shaking hand holds out ID and ticket. The guard scans them: they pass. But the Lorder’s lips curve in a small smile of satisfaction. He knows. He is certain he’s found the one he looks for. It’s not me . He holds up the retinal scanner to her eye. Instead of a beep, it buzzes. His smile widens.
    His hand clamps on her shoulder, pulls her up. Pushes her into the aisle. ‘Walk!’ he barks. They start towards the front of the car. There is a small cry behind. I don’t dare turn, but she does, and her face crumples. Moments later one of the Lorders from the back of the car walks past, dragging a small boy along with him.
    They disappear through the front connecting door. No one says anything; no one looks at anyone. I’m horrified, but also relieved . They weren’t after me. Not this time. But if my seat had been before hers, and they’d scanned my retinas…I quake inside.
    And then I’m ashamed. What will happen to them now? I’ll never know if she did anything bad enough to warrant being hauled off by the Lorders like that; I’ll never know what happens to her, or her son. What if everyone in this car had said, together: no, you can’t take them . Could we have stopped it?
    The answer might have been yes, for a few minutes.