Thanks, Past Diz. You’re a jerk.
Jaesin is obviously hung over and doing a terrible job of pretending otherwise, and I’m still mostly unconscious. The number of unanswered notifications in the corner of my lenses ticks ever upward, but caring is just not in my arsenal right now. I know I owe Davon a message, and a thank-you for his gift, but that’s going to require some serious emotional energy, and I’m tapped dry.
Not that I can complain about energy. Remi slept in way late and had to be dragged to the clinic under duress to go to their monthly appointment with their care team. Blood draws to check cell counts, prescription adjustments as needed, gold stars for daily cardio (some of which comes in the form of running from cops, not that the doctors need to know that)—all the usual maintenance care, plus a little extra poking and prodding in the name of science, since the spellplague is still so little understood.
Ania is out too, probably stress vomiting at the tech division of the Department of Maz Oversight over her A-level certification final exam. At least she isn’t around to see her late-night protests proven right.
One night down, six to go. Six more things we’ve always meant to do or see together in Kyrkarta. Six more days with all four of us.
I’ll be sleeping even less than usual. Worth it, though.
Jaesin and I hover over the latest traffic and policing reports in the back of an empty train car, the city racing by below us. I liberated them from the police database during a fit of insomnia after the others went to bed last night. Not even a 3:00 a.m. sugar crash can knock me out, apparently. Red icons litter the three-dimensional map of the city projected in our contact lenses, marking contained ruptures, collapsed buildings, blocked-off streets, and every other problem we could possibly run into.
The city is an utter mess. Yesterday’s earthquake might have been one of dozens we’ve had this year, but it was the strongest we’ve had in months. So many things that were on their last legs have finally given way, and the city is aching and sore, slow to bounce back the morning after.
It’s awful to watch, but it might also work in our favor. People are home from work, avoiding certain areas. Police have their hands full redirecting traffic and maintaining safe clearance around buildings deemed to be structural threats, weak enough that they might give way during an aftershock. Kyrkarta is a minefield.
Perfect for doing a little light snooping.
“So, it looks to me like the spot where we pulled our last job is isolated from the rest of the city right now,” Jaesin says, tracing a finger through the air to circle a spot near the western edge of town. “The trains aren’t running to the industrial sector today, and all the major landing zones are closed to the public. Essential personnel only at the factories and plants.”
I nod, chewing on my nail in thought. “Good eye. And there are lots of underground access points around there,” I say, my finger leaving behind cheery blue markers on the diagram everywhere I touch. “I think it makes sense to just tap the same point we hit last time. We’ve never encountered maz-15 anywhere else, so it might only be in that one area.”
“Could be. Seems odd we’ve been pulling these jobs all over the city and never run into it before, but the first time we hit there, we find it.” He tosses back the last of his coffee with a grimace and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Also, can we talk about how awful the name maz-15 is? Can we please give it a new one?”
I snort. He’s right. “What do you have in mind?”
He shrugs. “I dunno, Supreme Overlord, you’re the one with a talent for naming things.”
“Super Magic Ultra Plum? Special Sparkle Dream Power? Fancy Ultimate—”
Jaesin cuts me off with a finger pressed to my lips. “Shh. No. Just . . . I have regrets. Please stop.”
“Whatever you say, Awesome Strongman McDad Friend,” I say around his finger. He throws his empty plastic coffee cup at me (totally uncalled for, and definitely worthy of some internet revenge) and slumps back against the seat, gesturing to the map again.
“Right.” I trace my finger from the marker on the map to the nearest MMC junction station, leaving a green line on the image pointing straight to station twenty-nine.
The station where my dad worked, when he was alive. Ground zero for the spellplague outbreak.
Over the past two years, we’ve had a silent agreement to avoid doing jobs in this part of town. Remi visits the memorial site near the station there several times every year, and Jaesin and Ania always go with. I refuse to go, other than at the new year and on Midsummer Remembrance. We broke the rule for the first time on what we thought was our last job. Now we’re back again. It puts a weird creeping feeling under my skin.
I shove the thought aside and continue. “The place we hit yesterday is right near that downed building on Vin Street, though, so there might be too many eyes there. Workers and police and all that. The next access point up the pipe might work—by the bakery, right?”
“That’s the one, yeah,” Jaesin says. He glances at the route map on the wall and runs a hand through his hair. “Let’s check that one out. As long as the earthquake didn’t mess it up, it should be our ticket. Off at the next stop, go the rest of the way on foot?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” I say with a salute, and he rolls his eyes, then winces at the pain in his skull. The train blinks its notification onto our lenses: next stop, Montague Street Station. As the train begins to slow, we stumble to our feet and pull ourselves down the aisle by the vertical bars, which I of course have to swing around on. You can’t be in an empty train car and not. It’s just not right.
The doors slide open and we slip onto the platform, which is unusually quiet for the time of day. This stop is typically busy from the morning commute through last call at the nicer bars, but it seems the whole city has taken an earthquake vacation day. Only those who can’t afford to miss work still hustle along in their uniforms, wearing name tags and harried expressions.
Once we descend to street level, the difference is even more noticeable. The sun shines cheerily overhead—it obviously hasn’t gotten the memo; feel the room, bro—and the pale ghost of the moon hangs in the bright daytime sky over largely empty streets. Jaesin and I set off, getting a good distance away from the station before activating our gliders. A quick subvocal command to my deck clicks on the tiny power source in my shoes, and we’re off, gliding near-frictionless over the cracked streets in the shadow of the hulking gray factories of the industrial center.
Ania and Remi think we’re childish for still ordering shoes with glide tech, to which we say a kindly “Fuck off.” Jaesin was on the glide team at school for years and he’s wicked fast, and I love exploring the city, which is much easier with frictionless speed. I don’t wear them on jobs because the sewage would ruin them, though I really could have used them on that last one, at least. I shoot a quick look at Jaesin from the corner of my eye—and he looks back. We drift to a wordless stop at the next intersection.
“Ready?” he says.
“Steady.”
“GO!”
We explode off the line, racing across the intersection and into the street beyond, piled high with debris. As far as improvised obstacle courses go, it’s a good one, full of holes to jump over, piles of rubble, and heavy machinery abandoned for morning coffee breaks. I kick off the wall of a run-down sandwich shop with a bright red awning and throw myself into the next alley over, bouncing from pile to pile with a little assist from my boots on each push.