“Easy.” I hit the power and the screen goes dark. “He never had the guts to jump.”
The city hates mornings, so I end up at the Market—probably the only open place in Low South. It buzzes with off-school kids, lunching professionals, and the ancient in their hoverchairs. The unending line of shop windows sport digital models that flex and smile, morphing from one outfit to the next. Overhead, stringed bulb lights bounce and shimmer under the massive cooling fans. Each fan doubles me in height, blades wide and near silent. Perhaps even sharp. Though at that height and speed, they wouldn’t have to be.
Huh.
I refocus on the street and almost run into the Brink kids. They’re out in full force today, huddled in a yellow mass near the Market’s arched entrance. Their digitized shirts blink protests across their chests, while a projector spins words against passing shoppers. Stop wasting energy, and You won’t gut us to fuel your markets.
The kids match the digital words with spoken ones. Energy is running out. We killed all independent planets outside House borders by extracting fuel from their cores. And once we burn through that garnered energy, where do we think the next batch will come from? Right now, planets on the Brink are rationed down to five hours of energy a day, while here we gawk at nonstop ad-screens and control the temperature outside.
And there’s the flaw. If our House was really amid an “energy crisis,” somebody would turn the cooling fans off. This may be an upscale market, but it’s not like lordlings shop here.
One of them spots me, a tall guy in a skin-tight black shirt and heavy eyebrows that flatline over his nose as he stares. And stares. He has that look, like the woman in the corner grocery yesterday, or the power technician this morning on the roof.
I know you. You’re her.
I duck into the nearest side street, then circle through an open-air restaurant toward the public elevators at the far end. The best part of Low South isn’t the hours or the shops; it’s the walkways. High glass paths with thin rails that crisscross from one skytower to the next.
Best of all, they hang above the cooling fans.
Up here the blades move too fast to track, creating an empty sheen that carries power. More, a promise. You won’t feel this.
I grab the silver railing. It’s thin and high, with no room to sit, stand, or waver. I’ll have to vault it, jump out just far enough. A beat and done. It’d be over.
Except for the breakfasting crowd below, who’d end up with blood all over their eggs.
And nightmares for life.
Wouldn’t that be a legacy? Maybe not quite the terror of Mom’s, but close enough.
My hands slide off the rail and I slide to the floor, cross my legs above the smudged glass. Below the fan spins, close, almost touchable. Taunting.
“Shut up,” I say. It doesn’t.
Farther down, at ground level, everyone gets on with their lives. Everyone unconcerned, or else desperate and hiding it well. Enjoying the cooling fans while ignoring the blades. No one looks up, except a dark-haired guy by the fountain who stares or seems to. A thick mop covers his ears and his eyes, but his neck cranes back as if he’s blissed out or asleep or both. Either way, he’ll wake up starved.
Come to that, so am I.
Market breakfasts try to rival cloudsuite prices, but Mr. Remmings did count out the money he owed me to the last red before kicking me out. A methodical chant in front of the whole staff, so no one could say the museum didn’t do right by their employees.
Even me.
“You’re Kreslyn Franks.”
I look up from my plate of eggy noodled joy. Mr. Skin-tight Shirt with Abs has tracked me down and brought company. They flank my perfect cube of a table on all sides except mine.
I don’t think there’s anyone behind me. I don’t turn to look.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” says T-shirt guy, sliding into the chair opposite, “But I’m not wrong.”
A blonde girl with the double topknots slips in the chair to my right, while a skinny guy takes the left seat. Skinny’s yellow shirt flashes save the brink in neon red. It’s not a good look on him. The girl has more muscles than both boys together, which is an excellent look on her. The trio lean back in casual coordination, sharing looks and tapping fingers.
I lay down my fork.
Skin-tight Abs leans in, both elbows on the table. “Your mother is a god.”
My mouth opens and I—have no idea where to go from here. “My . . . mother blew up the Archive.”
He grins. “Yes. She did.”
Waking up this morning was a bad idea. Or was it yesterday morning? One of those.
Ordering breakfast was definitely stupid.
I lean back in my seat. “What do you want?”
“Millie Oen.”
Him and everyone else.
“She’s dead,” I say.
His smile gains an edge. “You sure?”
Here we go.
“What do you want?” I repeat, slower this time.
“She cleansed us,” says the skinny one. He’s got a pretty mouth and an open face and eyes that are almost reverent. They spark.