Marked by Jenny Martin

says. “Do you have any idea what a headache bio-index interfacing is with these old things? There’s a point-six-second lag with this hardware, but none with the latest models. But then again, system updates are such a pain in the exhaust.”
    â€œOh yeah?” I’m not exactly sure what’s she talking about, but I appreciate her breaking it down for me. Sindal’s not as impressed. He inspects his fingernails. The securityguard barely blinks. “So,” I say to Miyu. “You’re a crack pilot and a tech expert?”
    â€œNot at all. My girlfriend’s an intern at AltaGen. Research and development,” she says. “That’s her day job, at least.”
    â€œWhat else does she do?”
    Miyu smiles. “Let’s just say she takes on a lot of freelance work.”
    I don’t have the chance to pry any deeper. The elevator stops and the doors open.
    â€œHere we are,” Sindal says. He steps out, and we follow.
    There it is. What we’ve come for. Right in front of me: a massive armored entrance.
    Immediately, we’re scanned again, baptized in another grid of red laser light. A second later, there’s a pressurized gasp, the metallic snap of bolt after bolt after bolt, and the motorized buzz of a yawning hinge. It hums through me like a signal, a hundred-decibel warning that my future’s about to be irrevocably altered. I take a deep breath.
    The vault opens.

    Sindal and the security guard lead us inside the vault. Each part of the room seems to tell a different story. According to a large panel of gray-faced, closed safety-deposit drawers, this is just another part of the bank. But the luxe rugs on the floor, the table and chairs—they whisper comfortand living space. Through an open doorway, I see a bedroom, and I’m pretty sure we’ve stumbled into the planet’s swankiest subterranean apartment.
    But it’s the desk that draws my eye. I have seen this flex-topped monster of a table before, or at least one like it, in another place, on another planet, not more than four months ago. The high-backed chair behind it swivels our way.
    For a second, I’m not sure if my legs are going to give out. But the panic attack doesn’t come. Instead, a different shot of jarring anxiety hits. Relief. Rage. Joy. Grief. It’s as if all my emotions have been dumped into one combustible fuel cell, then locked, loaded, and fired.
    My uncle James stands up.
    â€œIt’s good to see you too, Phee.” He doesn’t smile. No, he doesn’t dare. But he’d like to, I can rusting well tell. Which makes me want to crack his skull. I thought he was dead. They said he was . . .
    â€œSon of a . . .” I say, my voice already tightening into a croak. “You mother-rusting son of a bitch.”
    I lunge toward the table, but Sindal drops our bundle of robes and reaches out to stop me. Lucky for him, the security guard catches me first. The guy gets an arm around my waist, and I can’t quite slip out of his hold. I’m about two seconds from elbowing him exactly where it hurts when James starts in.
    â€œPhee, calm down,” he says, inching closer. He approaches like a wild-animal handler.
    â€œThey said you were dead.” I’m losing it, squeaking out the words.
    â€œBefore you climb over the desk and punch me in the face . . . you need to understand that everything I’ve done has been for your own good.”
    â€œI didn’t know where you were, or if you were alive . . . and I thought . . . You should’ve . . .” I say, half breathless. Then I twist and growl at the guard. “Get off of me!”
    â€œLet her go,” James orders. “For sun’s sake, just let her go and be done with it.”
    When the bodyguard complies, I nearly tumble to the floor. Miyu reaches out just in time, and I cling to her arm, catching my