I swung up to the Cloudberry Tower in a hot morning drizzle. You could see the place was on the blink from halfway down Dagenham Dock Avenue, the ninth floor flashing green and opal in a lengthy, repeating rhythm. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The lobby lay silent and deserted, as they all do these days. Up on ninth, I swiped in and entered the office. Employees shimmered in their nooks like hummingbird wings, faces flipping back to front with every surge peak. Some were translucent — always a bad sign. I checked the manifest. Cubicle 18 was the locus point. First, I’d calibrate the wavefronts. Next, wrap a firewall around the entire grid, and —
The inhabitant of cubicle 18 stared up at me, mouth drawn tight with worry. Hair, skin, face — she was as human as me. Neither of us said a word. I don’t know who was more surprised.
“You’re auditing?” I finally managed. “Or did they keep someone on?”
She looked like my aunt. Her lanyard said Pam Dewsbury. “Did … did they send you to remove me?”
I indicated my badge. “Travis Ovis, maintenance. Where’s number 18?”
“I’m number 18.”
I’d heard enough. I said, “That attitude’s hardly going to help you. Don’t you know about the Time bomb?”
Pat gave out a sad little laugh. “Right. The Time bomb.”
Just to make sure she understood, I explained the Time bomb.
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