SmallvilleGuy: Been private messaging with researcher, told him we were journalists & trying to stop the experiment.
SkepticGirl1: Nice cover story.
Funny that it was the truth. I was a journalist, and I was definitely trying to stop the experiment.
SmallvilleGuy: Thought you’d like it. I think disrupting the signal how you plan will work.
Except the disruption wouldn’t be exactly how I planned. It would only be me, outside the real-sim.
The taxi screeched to a halt at the curb in front of the tall, mirrored column where ARL made its home.
“Here you are, big spender,” the driver said, “safe and sound.”
I tapped out a final response: Thanks for the floor. I’ll try not to get hive minded.
SmallvilleGuy: I’m here for you. Good luck.
The wish for luck was what I’d asked for before I signed off without warning the night before. But when he said he was here for me—he wasn’t. I was on my own for this part.
Knowing the floor did help, though. And maybe the research guy would be more likely to pitch in if he could.
“Sweetheart, you getting out?” The driver extended his hand, the other pointing at the meter.
“I’m no one’s sweetheart.” But I dug out the money and gave him a bigger tip than I could afford.
I got out of the cab and looked up at the sleek building. It was too bad SmallvilleGuy had wished me luck. I was going to need something more than that. We all were.
Fortune never had done me any favors. There was no reason to expect it to start today.
The building had no revolving doors, only a trio of entrances that reflected an image of me back as I approached. No preview of what waited inside.
I squared my shoulders and entered a lobby with white walls and floors and steel furniture. The entire pristine and cold effect evoked some sterile minimalist ideal of a laboratory.
A suited woman with her hair pulled back and bright red lipstick sat behind a desk that had a sign-in book on it. Beyond her was a bank of three elevators. She didn’t say a word of greeting as I approached.
Two could play the brusque game. I picked up the pen and leaned over the table to sign in. “I’m here to see the CEO,” I said, but as I looked at the sign-in book, I choked on my next words. Well, started to choke. I recovered with a cough.
A few lines above where I was about to write my own name was a familiar one.
A very familiar one: General Sam Lane.
My finger traced across the line. He’d signed out already. Two hours earlier.
“Whew,” I exhaled.
Then I remembered that the woman had been watching me the whole time. I put on the best innocent smile in my arsenal.
“You feeling okay?” the woman asked. “I don’t have any more appointments noted for Mr. Jenkins today except the one he’s in now. And none with a child.”
I blinked. I’d half expected this.
“Oh no,” I said, letting my face fall in as exaggerated a manner as possible. If Superior Sally here wanted to think of me as a child, I could run with that. “I’m going to be in so much trouble if this doesn’t happen. I emailed him to set it up. The principal got so so so mad at me for just a slight mistake, and I was assigned to do this article to get back in his good graces. I’m new in town. I just need to write this glowing profile. But I can’t do it without interviewing Mr. Jenkins. My dad even asked him for me too, when he was here today.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, and her lack of sympathy was both frustrating and—I had to grudgingly admit—impressive. “Your dad?”
Everything goes in the heat of battle. It was his own rule.
I wished I knew what he’d been doing here.
I pointed at the line with his name. “He was here earlier. General Lane?”
“Yes, he was, a meet and greet,” the woman admitted, not sounding happy to have to concede the point. “And he wants you to see Mr. Jenkins?”
“I have to write this story. Then the principal and my dad will be off my back. Can you point me in the right direction?” I batted my eyelashes, keeping my expression wide open. “I’m such a screw-up. I swear I sent him an email about all this.”
“Sign in,” the woman said, picking up the phone. “I’ll buzz his assistant to come down for you.”
I didn’t bother to argue that I could make it on my own. The silver roman numerals on the clock behind the woman told me that my lead on the Warheads was ticking away by the moment. I couldn’t afford another delay or they’d spot me way too early. Without protest, I scribbled my name on the line, embracing a sloppy penmanship so that none of the Warheads would be able to read it if they had to sign in too.