Weakest base. Strongest school.
“Why, Niles!” Mrs. Divs’s expression lifts, whole demeanor changing. “Where have you been keeping yourself? I haven’t seen you in an age!”
“Aw, come on Mrs. D. It’s only been a day and a half.”
He slides in beside us, fresh and put together. Hair combed, slacks sharp, shirt crisp with buttons. Not quite a suit, but close enough. The fabric glides with his frame as he leans forward to kiss Mrs. Divs’s cheek.
She beams. “Now, where you off to all fancied up?”
“Takin’ Kit to work and making a hash of it.” He throws me a grin. “Sorry, I’m late.”
I don’t say anything.
Mrs. Divs’s cane magically disappears. “Oh, so that boss of yours did call? How very grand. Off with you, then!” Her mouth takes on its no nonsense line as she looks at me. “And, of course, you’ll come right back.”
“Of course,” I say as Niles jogs to the lobby door and holds it open.
“After you,” he says.
“Did you find the power tech?” I ask as we hurry down the entrance steps. I hurry. Niles keeps pace. “Was he still in the alley?”
He laughs. Not a happy laugh, hands thrust deep in his pockets.
I stop midstep. “Oh God, don’t tell me he’s dead.”
“He’s fine, just a little preoccupied about your mom’s feedshow. Wouldn’t shut up about it. Don’t know why you were worried, he certainly wasn’t about you.”
“Oh.” I hug my arms. “Well, at least he’s not dead.”
His lips part, form a word or thought, but he thinks better of it.
I have no business looking at his stupid lips.
I kick the cracked pavement. “I’m guessing you saw it, too—Mom’s thing. You didn’t mention it.”
“And when should I have brought that up? In the hall outside your suite, or after I got you wasted?”
I wince. “Right. You’re right. Skip it.” I take off down the street.
Niles swears and catches up. “Where are you going?”
“Work. I’m late.”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Ride’s this way.”
“I don’t have reds for transit.”
“My ride. I’ve a hover. It’s shit, but it’ll get us there.”
I stop. “Wait, the offer was real?”
“Of course it’s real. And if we don’t turn around, you will be late.”
“But don’t you have to be somewhere?”
“This morning? Just your work.”
“But you’re . . .”
“What?”
All dressed up. Why is he dressed up?
Niles jams his hands in his pockets, only to tug them back out.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“You’re late.” Mr. Remmings sweeps me away from the employee side door as if he’d been pacing the hall. There are no chairs to sit on this side, nothing but walls and doors. “You know when the early shift starts. I distinctly remember giving you the time.”
He clips his T’s the way he cracks his heels, footsteps weighted heavy. He looks like a T—broad shoulders, slim waist, narrow legs.
“I’m early, sir.”
Niles sped through the growing traffic as if his life was at stake. Or maybe just to get out of the silence. His whole focus fixed on the road, mine on the side window.
Mr. Remmings raises his wrist, shakes his cuff, and flashes an ornate digiwatch.
It backs me up.
“Five minutes hardly counts as early, Franks. Conscientious employees leave at least fifteen.”
No one’s met that standard as long as I’ve been on staff.
Assuming I’m actually on staff again.
“Does that mean I have my job?” I ask.
He doesn’t bother answering, spinning on his heel to trek down the pale hall. Doors face off at intervals, between employee notice screens. Staff meetings, tour schedules, random updates. Sari finally settled on the Market for her birthday party. Trent wants to start an amateur skidball team. Mac’s pissed because someone has stolen his lunch for a week straight.
For the first time, I want to stop and tap the screen. Type in: Pack cloudcakes for lunch, then pump them full of hotspice and agen. Remember that week Denze spent puking up his guts? Trust me on this.
Except no one would, not Millie Oen’s daughter. Or for that matter, Kit Franks. I didn’t circulate much. Everyone was older or in school, lived in High South or Blue East. No one came from West 1st, and no one read Gilken for the joy of it. This wasn’t a dream but a job to them. I didn’t fit.
But maybe I didn’t try.
Mr. Remmings pauses at the last door, which leads to the museum’s central lobby, and checks his watch again. We’ve a minute to spare. He reaches for the door handle.
“Mr. Remmings?” I ask.
He jumps. “What?”
“You know that power technician you hired? I ran into him yesterday, and he looked pretty ill.” Or did after Greg got done with him. “I think he was going to the clinic, so if he doesn’t call in they probably have him drugged up.”
“Power technician?” Mr. Remmings asks. “What power tech?”
We just needed to talk to you without the Shadow, the Brinker had said.