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I got off the mag-lev in Havana just under forty-eight hours later, emerging from the vast terminus to once again suffer a wave of disorientation as the sky unfolded above in all its bluey vastness. The ID Mr Mac had supplied named me as David Cross, International Security Consultant for Dynamic Protection GLC, a genuine multi-national he’d purchased an interest in a few years before. The company’s business included several government contracts which required select employees to carry concealed weapons on public transit. The ID got me through terminus security without a blip, then it was a short taxi ride through the archaically surreal streets of Havana to the airport and onto a flight to Barbados. Modern materials meant aircraft windows formed about thirty percent of the fuselage, af
