Notice of Eviction

The smell of burnt ozone and crushed cedar hung thick over the gravel lot.

One corporate surveyor drone lay upside down in the weeds, its rotor blades snapped against the splintered posts of our perimeter fence. A second drone hovered four feet off the dirt, its sensor orb pulsing an angry crimson as it tried to map the clinic's dark doorway.

I stepped off the porch before the machine could finish its sweep.

"Looking for a soft target?" I muttered.

I brought the copper-wrapped tip of my iron grounding rod down hard across the drone's top casing. A sharp pulse of bio-magnetic current surged from my palm, traveling along the iron core in a blue snap of static. The machine gave a pathetic electronic whine, threw off a shower of orange sparks, and dropped like a lead weight into the gravel.

Behind me, Bram let out a low rumble that sounded dangerously close to laughter.

"Clean strike," he said, his boots crunching on the stones as he stepped up beside me. With his left shoulder finally freed from its knot, his posture was broad and level. His dark eyes swept the highway shoulder. "Too bad the boss brought backup."

A sleek hover-coupe glided through the shattered gap in our cedar fence. It had no license plates, no mud flaps, and not a single scratch on its pearl-gray finish. The vehicle settled onto its pneumatic cushions without making more noise than a sigh.

The driver door slid open. A man stepped out into the dust, brushing a speck of imaginary lint from the lapel of a tailored charcoal overcoat.

He looked like someone who had never eaten a meal that didn't come in a vacuum-sealed nutrient pouch. His black hair was slicked back with military precision, and his polished Italian leather shoes hovered an inch above the greasy gravel as if the very dirt offended him.

"Fascinating," the man said, pulling a pair of thin silver-rimmed spectacles from his pocket. "A localized bio-magnetic discharge. Crude, but moderately effective against scout-grade optics."

"You're trespassing," I said, resting the iron rod over my shoulder. "And your little plastic bugs owe me three hundred bucks for fence repairs."

The man smiled, though the expression never reached his pale gray eyes. "Miss Martell, I presume. I am Corin Halloway, Regional Acquisition Director for Meridian Logistics Conglomerate."

"Congratulations," I said. "The diner is closed. The clinic is closed. And you're standing on private property."

Halloway pulled a stiff parchment sleeve from his coat. "Not for much longer. As of midnight, this sector of the Grand Meridian Transit Corridor has been designated for automated infrastructure upgrades. We are replacing this dilapidated rest stop with twenty-four high-speed robotic charging stalls and sterile maintenance pods."

Hollis stepped out onto the diner porch, holding a dented aluminum coffee pot in one hand and a dish towel in the other.

"We don't need sterile pods, mister," Hollis called out, his apron flapping in the night breeze. "We've got hot water, beef stew, and cherry pie that doesn't taste like battery acid. Care for a cup of decaf while you pack your toys and leave?"

Halloway didn't even turn his head. He kept his gaze locked on me, his thin lips curling with disdain.

"The freight industry is evolving, Miss Martell," Halloway said smoothly. "Biological haulers are erratic. They get tired. They suffer from muscle strain, emotional fatigue, and reflex degradation. They require hot showers and peach cobbler. Automated drones require only steady voltage and a clean slipstream."

Bram shifted his weight. The gravel under his heavy work boots ground to powder.

"Say that again," Bram said softly.

His voice didn't rise in volume, but the resonance rattled the loose trim on the clinic porch roof. The hair on his thick forearms bristled, and a dark shadow rippled beneath his skin as his inner bear tested the leash.

Halloway took a half-step back, his pristine shoes clipping the edge of the drone wreckage. A flicker of calculation crossed his face before his mask of corporate arrogance snapped back into place.

"Threats will not alter corporate transit mandates, Mr. Oster," Halloway said, glancing at the trucker's towering frame. "We know who you are. An independent hauler with twelve citations for route deviations. Your guild token won't protect you when Meridian automates the entire southern corridor."

He extended the document toward me. "Sign the voluntary relinquishment form tonight, Miss Martell. Meridian will wire a modest relocation stipend to your account. Refuse, and our heavy demolition units will clear this lot at sunrise under regional eminent domain."

I took the envelope from his manicured fingers. The paper was heavy, cold, and smelled faintly of synthetic bleach.

I looked down at the crisp corporate logo at the top of the page. Then I looked at the dark outline of the diner, where my parents' neon sign had guided lost drivers through blizzards for thirty years. I looked at Hollis watching from the porch, and at Bram standing beside me with his claws grazing his knuckles.

"Relocation stipend," I repeated.

"A very generous one," Halloway said, straightening his cuffs. "Enough to open a small boutique clinic in the city. Far away from greasy diesel rigs."

I crumpled the paper into a tight, ragged ball.

"Hollis," I called out. "Where's the grease trap bucket?"

"Right by the porch steps, boss," Hollis shouted back with a grin. "Freshly scraped from tonight's pork chops."

I dropped the crumpled eviction notice straight into the bucket of cold pork fat. It sank with a wet, heavy plop.

Halloway's smooth composure cracked. A vein pulsed along his pale temple. "You just made an extraordinarily expensive mistake."

"My parents built this waystation with their bare hands," I said, stepping closer until the tip of my iron rod tapped the toe of his shiny shoe. "We take care of the people who keep this continent running. If you want this dirt, Corin, you'll have to drag every rig in the county off it first."

"Sunrise," Halloway hissed, backing toward his hover-coupe. "When the sun clears the ridge, the automated scrapers will tear down every board of this hovel. You have six hours to pack."

The hover-coupe's door hissed shut. The vehicle rose on a cushion of compressed air, spun on its axis, and shot back toward the main highway, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

Silence settled over the parking lot, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the cicadas in the pines.

"Six hours," Hollis said, leaning on the porch rail. "I'd better start baking more biscuits. Standing a siege always makes folks hungry."

I turned to Bram. "You think he has demolition rigs nearby?"

"He does," Bram said. He ran a broad palm over his bearded jaw, his expression deadly calm. "Meridian staged a dozen autonomous earthmovers at the rail junction five miles north. I saw them on my haul down from the pass."

"Then we need a wall," I said.

Bram didn't waste words. He walked across the lot toward his twelve-wheeler. The massive dark-green Kenworth rig stood like an armored fortress under the moonlight, its chrome grille reflecting the stars.

He climbed into the cab. A moment later, the twin-turbo diesel engine turned over with a deafening, chest-shaking roar that chased away the lingering chill of the night. White exhaust puffed from the dual chrome stacks.

Bram engaged the transmission. With masterful precision, he swung the massive eighty-foot rig around in a sweeping arc, backing the heavy steel-reinforced trailer dead center across the driveway entrance.

The tires locked with a sharp hiss of the pneumatic air brakes. The twelve-wheeler sat broadside, completely sealing the only gap in our fence from post to post.

Bram cut the engine and dropped down from the cab, wiping grease from his palms with a rag.

"Nothing gets through that gate without climbing over twelve tons of hardened steel," Bram said, walking back to the clinic porch.

I looked at the barricade, then up at the giant bear shifter standing on my steps. A warm, stubborn spark caught in my chest.

"Let's see them try," I said.