14.2

By the end of the week, I get a short phone interview – and yeah, it isn't anything special. Just a few questions about who I am, why I want the job, and where I'm from. I stick to the answers Arden gave me: my name's Rita Scale, I like working with big machines, and I'm a disabled veteran from Arkansas – apparently that last part helps with getting hired.

The following Tuesday, they schedule me for an in-person interview in Sector Four. Forward Priority – that's the company – has its office downtown, wedged between a payday loan shop and a pawn broker. I still wear a suit, since some interviewers appreciate that sort of thing, and wait in the anteroom with Vander, ready to be called. The others don't look like operatives; most are gaunt, like they've only shown up hoping to siphon a bit of Lumina from the trucks' exhausts. No suits either: mostly raincoats, rough cargos, and eyes that can't help but bore into your soul, as if trying to unnerve the competition. But I'm not nervous. Not as much as I thought I'd be, anyway.

After ten minutes of waiting, the previous candidate steps out of the interview room, and a voice plays through an intercom embedded above the doorway:

"Rita Scale."

Well, this is it. Time to see if I remember how not to bomb an interview after almost a century.

Vander wishes me good luck, and I step into the interview room. It's small, dingy, with a single desk pushed against the far wall. Behind the desk sits a man in a beige shirt with rolled-up sleeves, tie loosened, a half-eaten sandwich parked beside a terminal stacked with forms. A large poster flares out behind him in bright red with the words Work Hard—Dream Harder! Its optimism feels almost cruel in a place like this. When he raises his hand, I half-expect to see an army-issue .45 tucked underneath, the same kind Strannik kept at the police station, but he's just offering a handshake. I take it – firm, but not too firm – and sit down in the swivel across from him.

So far, so good.

"You're the first one to show up in a suit today," he says.

I hum, keeping my tone polite. "I hope that's a good thing."

He lights a cigarette, the flare briefly painting his face in amber, then snuffs the match between two fingers. He takes a great puff, clears his throat, and says, "Depends." He picks up a sheet of paper, which I presume is my résumé, and goes quiet. After a moment, he says, "You're not applying for a clean role, so some might see you as a bit of a goody two shoes, but with a haircut like that I can tell you're only wanting to be polite, so I respect the effort. You're already off to a good start."

"I'm glad to hear that," I say, smiling – and it's genuine, funnily enough.

He leans back in his chair, the springs squealing faintly. "So, Rita Scale. Says here you're a vet?"

I nod. "That's right. Logistics division. Mostly ground transport. Big rigs, loaders, anything with a motor."

He taps ash into an overflowing tray. "Huh. Not many of your kind still around. You got your certs?"

"Yeah. Commercial license, hazard clearance, mechanical maintenance level two. Can still fix a busted driveshaft if I have to."

"Good," he says, though his tone makes it sound like he's not convinced yet. He scrolls through his terminal, squinting. "You know what this job is, right?"

"Operating heavy machinery," I say. "Working on the ground floor of the logistics station. Night shift."

He smirks. "That's the polite version. What it really means is you'll be hauling biofuel drums through the loading bays at three in the morning while the rats try to steal your boots. And I can see you only have one arm. You lose that in the war?"

I take a moment, realising that question isn't one I'd rehearsed. "Oh, no – I lost this as a child. It's a really long story. I built a robot with my friend when I was twelve, and – well, I'd rather not get into that right now."

He exhales a slow ribbon of smoke. "Touchy subject?"

"It's not something I like to remember," I say.

He studies me for a long moment. "Fair enough. Everyone's got something they'd rather forget."

I nod slightly. "Guess that's why we're all here."

That earns a faint grin. "You'd be surprised how many people come through that door with nothing but excuses. At least you own it."

"Never saw much use in lying," I say. "People can usually tell."

"Can they? Because I've met some real professionals at it. Folks who could tell me their name was Mary one minute and Mark the next, and I'd believe both."

"I believe that," I say. "Everyone's doing what they can to survive, and – well, I guess sometimes that leads to people breaking rules."

He stifles a laugh at that. "You can say that again. Ever been to Neo Arcadia?"

"Oh," I say. "A few times."

"Place is one corporate meeting away from total economic collapse," he says. "At least in Paxson we have control. Out there?" Another laugh. "Good luck."

I'm not sure I agree with that, but in lieu of remaining silent, I feel it's a good idea to nod along. "Yeah, there's more opportunity out here from what I heard."

"At least more opportunities to follow the law," he says, dragging a hand down his face. "Nothing but filthy animals out there. Both the people at the top and the bottom, though I do feel bad for the children."

A bit dismissive from him, but I shrug it off, remembering who I'm supposed to be. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"I don't give out names," he says blackly. "Not on this side of the table. Just policy. Which I suppose leads us to the first big question of the day: who is Rita Scale? Tell me about yourself, and don't mention anything I already know."

That last part – don't mention anything I already know – catches me off guard. My natural instinct is to jump to the script, because Arden said that's all these people care about, but he wants to go further.

"Nothing you already know?" I repeat, voice a trifle shy.

He breathes deeply. "Yeah, I want to know the person outside the paperwork. It's all well and good for us to sit here and pretend checking boxes matters, but I'm not like that. I like to know the person behind the documents. So, tell me things I don't know."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

I suppose he has a point there, though it is disorienting.

Nevertheless, I take a bit of time before responding, because panicking isn't a good look. After a deep breath, I say, "I could tell you about my experience in the workforce, my years of manual labor, waitressing, driving rigs – but I can tell you're not really asking about that." I adjust my tie, though it's already straight. There aren't many things I can say, and I'm not very good at making things up on the spot, so as dumb as it might be, I think being open and honest is the best way out of this. I go on: "When I was a little girl, my mother built a roof garden above my father's lab. She said it was the only way to make the machines look less lonely." A faint smile ghosts across my face. "She had leukemia. Said the plants gave her something to live for. My father – he was a computer scientist. He worked too much, but I think it was his way of not breaking down."

The interviewer puts his hands together, looking at me intensely.

"My dad built machines that could think. Said one day they'd outlive us all. He wasn't wrong." I pause, feeling my throat tighten, but I keep my composure. "One day, my friend and I built a robot out of scraps. Took us a while, but we got it moving. Heh, we called it Scrapboy because we thought it'd fight for us – and it did. Some men showed up to steal my father's work, and I wouldn't let them have it. I was just a dumb kid. I didn't know any better. It sounds ridiculous – I know – but we used my dad's AI shard to control the robot and it fought them off."

"Wow," the interviewer says.

"The problem came when one of the thieves shocked Scrapboy with my mother's garden hose," I continue. "It malfunctioned, and it – well, it locked onto my arm. My friend was pulling me left towards the stairs, and Scrapboy was pulling me right. It eventually tore out. I almost died."

"Christ," says the interviewer. "What happened then?"

"I was rushed to hospital, but supposedly there was nothing they could do. But my dad – he worked with this scientist. I can't remember the name. She had this micromaterial still in its prototype stage, and he made the decision to inject me with it, and I survived."

"What material?"

"Microbots," I say, "and to this day I still have them. But, the story doesn't end there." I clear my throat. "Many years later, I joined the force, tried to get revenge on the people that almost got me killed. I got these upgrades that helped me a lot with heavy lifting. I practiced my aim, got pretty good at it…" I exclude the part where I was tasked with infiltrating a warehouse to secure Priest, discovering that Calyx Ward was behind it all. "... My dad ended up dying in a fire. No one knows who did it," I lie.

Some silence.

"So when you ask me, who am I…?" I pause, making sure my voice doesn't shake. "I'm many things: I'm a daughter, I'm a friend, I'm a builder. I'm someone who loves too much and tries too hard to fix things that are already broken. I'm someone who doesn't know when to stop, even when it hurts. And maybe that's my flaw – or maybe it's the only reason I'm still here. I don't know."

More silence, this time more suffocating than the previous instant, but I don't let it bother me; I've grown used to it.

Finally, the interviewer stubs his cigarette in the ashtray, looks me straight in the eye, and says, "Is your friend the big bulky one outside? Lander?"

The fake name. "... Yes, he is."

One final bit of silence. He grabs another sheet of paper and stacks it on top of my CV before filing them both away in the desk drawer. "You got the job, Rita."

My eyes light up. "Thank—"

"And I'll tell you why you got the job." He leans back, chair groaning under his weight, and fixes me with a look that's hard to read: somewhere between curiosity and warning. "Most people who sit in that chair tell me stories that sound rehearsed. Nice, clean, polished lies. You? You told me something raw. Maybe too raw. You remind me a little of me when I was your age, as corny as that sounds."

"Thank you," I say, finally.

"You start Monday, at 9 P.M.," he gruffs. "I'll send the details to your e-mail. Best hopes and dreams." He shakes my hand, this time lighter.

I keep thanking him, sounding almost robotic, and before I leave the interview room, he says:

"Oh, and Rita."

I turn back.

"I hope they catch your dad's killer. Whoever lit that fire deserves a punishment worse than death."

I look at him evenly, my eyebrows crossed. "Don't worry," I say. "They will."

And for a split second, he looks like he believes me.

When I head into the lobby, I give Vander a knowing smile, and he's called in next. Outside, Fingers is waiting for me in the driver's seat of the Fragment Roamer. I hop into the passenger seat and tell her about everything that happened, and that I passed the interview and should expect an e-mail soon pertaining to the job. She's pretty proud of me in a way I've never seen her before. Like the romance has finally caught up with her and she's feeling rather attached. Not that I mind. It's a nice feeling all the same.

After about twenty minutes, Vander comes out of the building, nodding indifferently. Turns out he also got the job. He says a huge part of the reason he was hired was his experience as an engineer, while the rest was his association with Arden – and, apparently, me. He didn't have to lie much at all, just swap his name for Lander Vainclair, which, while not exactly inspired, earns a half-smile out of me every time I hear it.

Fingers pulls the Roamer out onto the main road, the rain-slick glass swallowing the sodium vapour lights as we blend back into the current of traffic. It doesn't take us long to make it back to The 404, and when we get there Dance is waiting under the awning with his brickie in hand. Arden is with him, which is a welcome surprise given that she clearly has a distaste for him. We step out and let them know of what happened, and Dance has some more details to the plan that don't involve him simply sitting on his ass the whole time; it turns out he found an old snapshot of the interior of the logistics station from over a couple decades back. It has the rough layout of what it used to look like, and he explains that the central floor is where they'll be keeping the trucks, which makes things a little more difficult because it means lots of cameras and, potentially, lots of eyes; carrying a spoofer out onto the floor with that much attention is a recipe for disaster. So what Dance recommends is staying back one early morning, pretending to be just finishing up some last touches, grab the visor from the locker room, head out onto the floor, and alter the routes of the Lumina trucks for the morning of their departure. This is, of course, after getting a copy of Sloan's logistical shard, which is undoubtedly the hardest part of this whole operation, especially given that any wrong move could end in her ripping me apart. She has enough technology to make Cierus Marlow look like a child building sandcastles, after all.

Still, this is a problem I'll have to figure out once I actually have boots on the ground. If there's anything I've learned from all these past jobs, it's that overthinking can cause failure; sometimes you have to bite the bullet and just do it.

Come nightfall, I'm stuck thinking of the interview while in the shower. There was a risk to me telling the interviewer that story, the risk that it might pass up the line to Calyx Ward's ears and spark a forbidden tomb of memory, but it's highly unlikely that bitch remembers me. All I had been was a pawn, a shell to house a horrible creation.

It was a painful memory in the moment. I miss my dad so much that some days it feels almost unbearable, but I do my best to push on, because pushing is all I have left in this life.

Ward is waiting out there, housed in her castle, and once we cross the barrier into the Capital, I understand it won't be over. I'll still have to jump through hoops, power through an extremely powerful line of security just to get within breathing distance.

But I will.

I promise you, Dad.

I will kill Calyx Ward.

When I step out of the shower, Fingers is waiting for me in bed, one arm thrown over her eyes like she's pretending to nap. She watches me with that lazy, fond look she only ever gives me after a long day. I throw on some PJs, crawl in beside her, let her hand find the small of my back, and for a few heartbeats I let myself breathe.

Then my phone perks up on the nighttable, and when I check it out it's a confirmation text of the job: Forward Priority, along with a link for the contract and a digital signature. I waste no time signing it, and another text pops through with the word 'Confirmed'.

Fingers squeezes my shoulder. "You alright, Rhea?"

I turn to her. "Huh?" I say. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"I dunno," she says. "You just seem off – like you're nervous or somethin'."

I take a bit of time to respond to that. Her eyes, glowing pink in the dark, can see right through me. "Just thinking of my dad."

"Hey," she says softly, "we'll get that bitch. Promise you that."

"Thanks, Fingers," I say.

She smirks at me. "I think you've known me long enough to call me by my real name."

I smile back, thinking that she's probably right, and give her a goodnight kiss before turning off the lampshade.

Monday, 9 P.M.

One step closer.

Eventually, Ward will have nowhere to hide.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.