Hiral was a climber, one of the guys who actually hung from a wire in midair while the rest of the crew manned the operation from the tunnel above—a job that took courage, or maybe just blind hubris. Because of that, he had a full-length locker, in a prime location near the exit door. She pushed aside his dark gray swing suit, made of a thin but nearly impenetrable carbon-composite fiber, and his heavy-duty ecramold helmet, which supposedly could prevent brain damage from a fall of up to two hundred stories. Not often useful, given that most repairs were needed in the upper floors, where altitude and cable strain led to lift closures.
Under Hiral’s climbing boots and magnetic grip gloves, Rylin found what she was looking for: the tiny ID chip that snapped into place on his helmet.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
She whirled around, shoving the ID chip the only place she could think of—in the crevice of her bra. “I’m sorry,” she said to the young man who stood before her, his burly arms crossed. “I’m getting some things for Hiral Karadjan.”
“The kid who got picked up for drugs?” he growled.
Kid? This guy couldn’t be more than a few years older than Hiral. But she just nodded as she said, “Yeah. I’m his girlfriend.”
“I’ve seen her here before,” the other guy called out from the corner. “Leave her alone, Nuru.”
But Nuru stood there watching as Rylin grabbed the first thing she could think of—Hiral’s high-pitched silent whistle, as if that mattered at all to him in prison—and slammed the locker shut. “Sorry. I’ll be going,” she mumbled.
As she hurried out, she could hear them talking in low tones behind her. Most of the words were too quiet for her to make out, but she heard “damn shame,” and “shouldn’t do that to her,” and she thought she heard V’s name mentioned. She wondered, suddenly, if they hadn’t been fooled at all by her excuse.
She made her way hastily to the C local train and got off on 17, wrinkling her nose at the smell of oily machinery. It had been a while since Rylin went lower than 32. She’d almost forgotten how depressing it was down here. The bottom twenty floors housed most of the Tower’s cooling facilities, with dim warrens of rooms crowded in the spaces between. The walls were thicker down here, and the ceilings lower, lined with the triple-enforced steel that supported the unthinkable weight of the Tower over their heads.
The lift was mostly empty. Still, Rylin waited for everyone else to filter off, turning toward the machine rooms or their dismal apartments. When the coast was clear, she fished Hiral’s ID chip from where it was nestled in her cleavage and used it to open the tiny, almost invisible door on the corridor marked MAINTENANCE ONLY.
It was utterly black inside, the darkness pressing down on her like a weight. Rylin fumbled for a light button. She found it, then hesitated. She couldn’t risk drawing any kind of attention to herself. Maybe someone, somewhere, could see what lights were on throughout the maintenance areas, and would notice that the liftie tunnel on 17 was occupied when it shouldn’t be.
Cursing under her breath, she unearthed her tablet and put it in flashlight mode. A thin beam of light blinked into being. Rylin waved it before her, stepping carefully over the boxes on the floor, until she found the mech panel on the left-hand side. Biting the tablet with her teeth to keep the light steady, she pried the panel open.
There they were: dozens of plastic baggies filled with multicolored powders, pill bottles whose contents she didn’t even recognize, and, at the back, the dark envelopes of Cord’s Spokes. Rylin stood a moment in sick shock. She was trembling, causing the tablet’s light to dance wildly over the panel, as if she were some messed-up version of an explorer standing over a pile of buried treasure. She’d taken drugs so many times with Hiral, and yet the sight of all this stuff was sobering. He’d become a complete stranger to her. How long had he been squirreling things away here?
She swung her empty backpack off her shoulder and began filling it, tossing handfuls inside as fast as she could. But she froze at the sight of Cord’s name on the Spokes packets, in small capitals at the top of each individual prescription label. DR. VERONICA FISS, COLUMBIA HILL PHARMACOGENOMICS; PATIENT: CORD HAYES ANDERTON JR.; DOSAGE: AS NEEDED (MAX ONE TABLET DAILY).
Quickly she peeled Cord’s name from each label and shoved the sticky paper into her pocket, where she wadded it into a tiny ball. Then she zipped the bag back up and closed the mech panel—carefully, using the hem of her shirt so she didn’t leave fingerprints—before retreating into the hallway. On the lift upTower, she pulled out her tablet and replied to the message she’d received earlier this week. It’s done.
Excellent. Meet here. There was a location drop attached to the message.
Rylin reached to put her hair up in a ponytail, trying her best to look like a normal high schooler, just walking around on Saturday with a backpack full of homework. Following the message’s instructions, she got out on the 233rd floor. An old woman bumped into her as she stepped off the lift, and Rylin reflexively pulled the straps of her backpack closer over her shoulders. The lights overhead were dimming as the day grew later; it must be at least six o’clock by now. Rylin passed a few Laundromats and takeout noodle shops, turning onto High Street ahead.
The location drop led to Fisher Elementary School. Really?
She slowed as she walked past, a little creeped out by the dark, empty windows of the school leering at her.
“Glad you could make it,” she heard V say, from the playground.
Rylin looked both ways before climbing the low-tech metal fence. Her hands were white by the time she jumped to the other side. “I’m here,” she said, glancing around the monkey bars, where during recess holographic monkeys would clamber alongside the kids. A treetop canopy soared overhead, dotted with tree houses that resembled whimsical shapes like a tortoise shell or a giant cloud. This was way nicer than her own elementary school had been, just seventy floors down.
Rylin’s shoes sank into the recycled rubber covering the ground. V stepped forward from the shadows, an impish smile dancing across his face.
“Why couldn’t we have just met at the steel forest?” she asked, but V shook his head.
“Too many people. Now let’s see it. What do you have for me?”
Rylin shrugged off her backpack but held it tight. She didn’t like the feel of this at all. Her deep-rooted survival instincts were stirring, warning her that something wasn’t right. “I need to get paid first.”
“Let’s just see what you’ve got.” V laughed and snatched the backpack from her grasp.
Rylin ground her jaw angrily as he dumped the contents of the backpack onto the playground and sorted through it. “You’ve taken the name off these Spokes,” he said, an eyebrow raised.
She struggled to keep her face impassive. “You know it doesn’t matter. No one gives a shit who their Spokes were originally prescribed to.”
“Trying to protect him?”
Rylin’s breath caught. She opened her mouth to say something, to deny any feelings for Cord—
“Whatever. You’re right, it won’t, really. You don’t know where Hiral got these, though, do you?” V asked, with a sidelong glance. “He never did tell me.”
Rylin shook her head, feeling stunned. Hiral had told V that he was the one stealing the Spokes? He must have done it to protect her.
V swept all the drugs into his bag and gave a dramatic sigh. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t enough.”
“What do you mean, it’s not enough?”
V shook his head. “I can’t give you fifteen thousand for this. It’s barely worth ten.”
“You lying little—” Rylin lunged forward, but V put his hands out and grabbed her shoulders, squeezing them so hard that Rylin felt she was running into a wall. He gave her a little shove and she stumbled back, her breath still coming fast.
“Come on, Rylin,” V muttered, shaking his head. The inktats around his neck looked almost darker with his anger. “Play nice.”
She stayed mutinously silent.
“Now, about the extra five thousand.” His eyes traveled over her in a way she didn’t like. “You and I could always just strike up a little trade of our own.”
“Go to hell, V.”
“Thought you’d say that. But for some reason I like you, so I’m giving you one last chance. Tell Hiral he needs more Spokes,” V demanded, his words unyielding. “At least five more. You’ll have to grab them, since he’s locked up.”