difference,” she replied, more than a little relieved. It would kill her to have Dr. Parr’s scientific reputation tarnished after his death.
“Not exactly. They sent the probe here.” Calvin touched the planet overlaid by the dog’s ear, more than fifty lightyears from 196. They were investigating the wrong planet.
MABLE
COLLECTOR PRECINCT 914, CHICAGO, NORTH AMERICA
AUGUST 8, 2232
Caught.
It wasn’t a word Mable had much experience with. Then again, she had become a friend to betrayal long ago.
No matter. She was a decent enough actress. She would be in and out with Hadley in a few hours. As long as they didn’t figure out who she was, she’d be free to return to the Root and get on with her life.
Then she would have to work through the resulting paranoia from Arturo’s deceit. How could she ever trust anyone?
A room too small to house cleaning supplies. An uncomfortable metal chair. A boring metal table. Even a pair of metal shackles to tie her to it. They’d really gone all out to keep her put.
A middle-aged Collector pushed open the door. His eyes never strayed from his tablet as he read aloud, “Margaret Elaine Wilkinson. Age 19. Undeclared. You’re a little old to be undeclared, aren’t you?”
At last, he looked up, though it wasn’t because he expected a real answer. To him, a law enforcement Craftsman, a Collector, she was lower than a germ. She was less than human. Mable was reminded why she hated society.
“I go by Mable,” she explained instead.
As the Collector sat, he rearranged his bulky belt decorated with a comms device, nerve-deadening spray and a dozen other tools. Mable caught sight of the name embroidered along his collar: Teveren. She smiled at the irony. Oh how Rowen would laugh when she told him.
“You’re unregistered, undeclared. What exactly are you doing in Chicago, Margaret?”
“Just passing through.” She hadn’t broken any laws. She hadn’t stolen anything—yet. They had nothing on her, and as long as she played nice, they’d let her go before they realized anything else.
“We have a nice city here, you know. This isn’t some Mecca for flea-ridden trash. I trust you’ll be on your way.”
Mable bit back her tongue. “We’ll be gone before daybreak.”
Collector Teveren stared at her features, evaluating her words before he stood and made a few motions on his tablet. “Very well. I’ll get your release squared away.” He was gone a moment later.
When the door opened again an hour later, Mable thought it would be to release her. She never expected the man that came instead.
Mable’s jaw fell as her eyes locked on the mid-forties man who entered her narrow holding cell. The thick metal shackles that encircled her wrists kept her pinned in place, unable to run from the man who had taken so much from her.
Silas Arrenstein. A silver-tongued fox with a penchant for lying smiles and sugar-sweet promises he didn’t intend to keep. Mable had never hated anyone the way she hated him.
“Well if it isn’t little Maggie. You’ve, uh, grown?” He cocked an eyebrow at the piercings in her cheeks, the tattoos that crawled up her neck, and the too-dark shade of her once blonde hair.
She curled her lips in disgust at him. “Fuck you. Get away from me.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve given it much more thought since our last conversation?” He smiled through his teeth as he closed the door behind him. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought him genuinely nice, a handsome, older man who wanted the best for her. His permanent day-old shave, sharp tan suit, and kind blue eyes were almost convincing.
Almost.
Mable tried to lean back in her chair and look as disinterested as possible. She didn’t want him to know he got under her skin so easily. Instead, she opted for an offensive approach. “In fact, I think about you a lot. I think about the day you came and ruined my family, and the smug look on your face that never
“Not exactly. They sent the probe here.” Calvin touched the planet overlaid by the dog’s ear, more than fifty lightyears from 196. They were investigating the wrong planet.
MABLE
COLLECTOR PRECINCT 914, CHICAGO, NORTH AMERICA
AUGUST 8, 2232
Caught.
It wasn’t a word Mable had much experience with. Then again, she had become a friend to betrayal long ago.
No matter. She was a decent enough actress. She would be in and out with Hadley in a few hours. As long as they didn’t figure out who she was, she’d be free to return to the Root and get on with her life.
Then she would have to work through the resulting paranoia from Arturo’s deceit. How could she ever trust anyone?
A room too small to house cleaning supplies. An uncomfortable metal chair. A boring metal table. Even a pair of metal shackles to tie her to it. They’d really gone all out to keep her put.
A middle-aged Collector pushed open the door. His eyes never strayed from his tablet as he read aloud, “Margaret Elaine Wilkinson. Age 19. Undeclared. You’re a little old to be undeclared, aren’t you?”
At last, he looked up, though it wasn’t because he expected a real answer. To him, a law enforcement Craftsman, a Collector, she was lower than a germ. She was less than human. Mable was reminded why she hated society.
“I go by Mable,” she explained instead.
As the Collector sat, he rearranged his bulky belt decorated with a comms device, nerve-deadening spray and a dozen other tools. Mable caught sight of the name embroidered along his collar: Teveren. She smiled at the irony. Oh how Rowen would laugh when she told him.
“You’re unregistered, undeclared. What exactly are you doing in Chicago, Margaret?”
“Just passing through.” She hadn’t broken any laws. She hadn’t stolen anything—yet. They had nothing on her, and as long as she played nice, they’d let her go before they realized anything else.
“We have a nice city here, you know. This isn’t some Mecca for flea-ridden trash. I trust you’ll be on your way.”
Mable bit back her tongue. “We’ll be gone before daybreak.”
Collector Teveren stared at her features, evaluating her words before he stood and made a few motions on his tablet. “Very well. I’ll get your release squared away.” He was gone a moment later.
When the door opened again an hour later, Mable thought it would be to release her. She never expected the man that came instead.
Mable’s jaw fell as her eyes locked on the mid-forties man who entered her narrow holding cell. The thick metal shackles that encircled her wrists kept her pinned in place, unable to run from the man who had taken so much from her.
Silas Arrenstein. A silver-tongued fox with a penchant for lying smiles and sugar-sweet promises he didn’t intend to keep. Mable had never hated anyone the way she hated him.
“Well if it isn’t little Maggie. You’ve, uh, grown?” He cocked an eyebrow at the piercings in her cheeks, the tattoos that crawled up her neck, and the too-dark shade of her once blonde hair.
She curled her lips in disgust at him. “Fuck you. Get away from me.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve given it much more thought since our last conversation?” He smiled through his teeth as he closed the door behind him. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought him genuinely nice, a handsome, older man who wanted the best for her. His permanent day-old shave, sharp tan suit, and kind blue eyes were almost convincing.
Almost.
Mable tried to lean back in her chair and look as disinterested as possible. She didn’t want him to know he got under her skin so easily. Instead, she opted for an offensive approach. “In fact, I think about you a lot. I think about the day you came and ruined my family, and the smug look on your face that never
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