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Ashlock

They’re tourists, in Tasmania.

Ashlock flicks fragments of Twistie at the emus under the sign that says not to flick fragments of Twistie at the emus. Her new finger is clumsy, but she likes it. Nobody’s going to confiscate this brass knuckle.

“So,” she says finally, “any holes in your brain?”

“The first illegal number I ever memorized,” Tach says, “was set down in haiku. A clever form of transcoding. It unlocked certain rights for the management of digital media.”

“I’m sorry I did it,” says Ashlock.

“You did all right. One has to know something before one can forget it.”

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