“New rule.” He turns more fully toward me, and his ridiculously long legs brush against mine. In the swampy forests of Dagobah, Yoda’s torturing poor Luke under the guise of training him. “Every time you say that I hate you, you have to come over and express Schr?dinger’s glands.”
“You say it like it wouldn’t be enjoyable.”
“Since you clearly have a fetish: every time you mention this nonexistent enmity I supposedly feel, I’ll add a mile to the race you owe me.”
“That’s crazy.”
“You know what to do to make it stop.” He pops a kernel into his mouth.
“Hmm. Can I say that I hate you?”
He looks away. “I don’t know. Do you hate me?”
Do I hate him? No. Yes. No. I haven’t forgotten how much of a dipshit he was in grad school, or that he reprimanded me about my clothes on my first day of work, or any of the dickish things he’s done to me. But after a big day like today, when he saved me from total, catastrophic implosion, it all seems so distant.
No, then. I don’t hate him. In fact, I kind of like him. But I don’t want to admit it, so while Han and Leia bicker about how much they love each other on the screen, I punt.
“What are you wearing tomorrow?”
He gives me a puzzled look. “I don’t know. Is it relevant?”
“Of course! We’re spying.”
He nods in a way that clearly showcases how full of shit he thinks I am. “Something inconspicuous, then. A trench coat. Sunglasses. You brought your fake mustache, right?”
I smack his arm. “Not all of us have a long history of espionage—by the way, what’s the story behind the MagTech pics?”
“That’s a secret.”
“Did you really risk your career, like Boris said?”
“No comment.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, if you did . . . thank you.” I settle back into my pillow, focusing on the movie.
“Hey, Bee?”
I love Wookiees so much. Best aliens ever. “Yeah?”
“If tomorrow you see Annie and Tim and feel . . . like you felt today. Just take my hand, okay?”
I should ask what that would even accomplish. I should point out that his hand is not a powerful brand of instant-release benzodiazepines. But I think he might be right. I think it might just do the trick. So I nod, and steal the entire bag of popcorn from his lap.
He does have a point. Space is kind of scary.
15
FUSIFORM AREA: FAMILIAR FACES
“THEY HIRED A neuroscientist,” Levi says, gaze locked on the podium where engineers with heavy Dutch accents are discussing their stimulation headgear.
I’d nod, but I feel queasy. MagTech’s helmets are at the same stage as ours. Maybe a bit further. A tiny bit further, but still. The banana I had for breakfast is lurching in my stomach. “Yup.”
“They solved the output location problems in a different way,” he murmurs. He’s talking to himself, one hand clenched on the armrest, white-knuckled.
Yep. This sucks.
Hey, Dr. Curie. I know you’re busy frolicking naked with Pierre, and I know that it’s unfair of me to ask, but if you or Hertha could do me a solid and zap MagTech’s stimulation headgear with radioactive lightning, that’d be lovely. If they patent the technology before we do, they’ll just sell it to whatever militia pays the most, and as you know, humans don’t need cognitive enhancement when it comes to killing each other. Kthxbye.
“They’re stuck on merging hardware and software,” Levi says.
“Yep. Just like us.” I squirm in my chair. This trip was pointless. Absolutely pointless. I want to go back to Houston and put in five, ten, twenty hours of work. Go through every single piece of data we’ve collected and see if I missed anything that will help us move forward.
This is a race. It always was, from the very start, but after the uncertainty of my first week on BLINK, I was so grateful for the opportunity to have a shot at it, it almost slipped my mind. Doing our best, making progress—that seemed enough. Spoiler: it wasn’t. For the first time in weeks I think, really think, about my job at NIH. I’ve been sending weekly reports to Trevor and the Institute director. There hasn’t been much of a reaction on their end except for “Nice job” and “Keep up the good work.” I wonder whether they read or just skim for buzzwords. Neural networks. Magnetic pulses. Neuroplasticity’s always a hit, too.
What would they say if I told them that MagTech might reach the finish line first? Would they blame me? Would my job be safe? And what would happen to the promotion I want? I’ll either be fired or work for Trevor in perpetuity—is this what my career ambitions have come to, an eternal quest for the lesser evil?