Page 24 of Duty Compromised
“Third grade. Teacher asked what my dad did for work. I said he was a garbageman because I’d seen him take out the trash that morning. He was actually a history professor. The entire class laughed for five minutes straight.”
The corner of her mouth twitched upward. “That’s not the same.”
“Seventh grade. First dance. Asked Susie Morrison to dance by telling her she looked like my mom. Turns out that’s not the compliment I thought it was.”
The twitch became a genuine curve. “Okay, that’s pretty bad.”
“High school. Gave a presentation on the American Revolution. Called it the American Revelation the entire time. Fifteen minutes of talking about how George Washington received divine visions. Nobody corrected me.”
Real laughter escaped her then, soft but authentic. “You’re making these up.”
“Scout’s honor. I’ve got a greatest hits collection of social disasters. Want to hear about the time I showed up to a black-tie event in a tuxedo T-shirt because I thought my brother was joking about the dress code?”
“He wasn’t?”
“He was not.”
Her head shook, but the smile stayed. Panic had faded from her expression, replaced by something calmer. Still exhausted, but calmer.
“Thanks. For… In there. Getting everyone to stop staring.”
“Anytime. I live to make an ass of myself in public.”
We sat in companionable silence a bit longer, city noise drifting up from the street. For the first time all day, she actually breathed like oxygen was working for her. Then came the sigh. The heavy, end-of-the-world kind.
“I think the file corruption was deliberate. The stabilizer code. Too neat. Too complete. It doesn’t look like an accident.”
My shoulders straightened. “So who could’ve pulled it off?”
“Honestly? Messing up code isn’t difficult. This level of damage takes more effort, but not genius-level effort. Anyone with clearance could’ve done it.”
“Anyone inside Vertex.”
“Yes. We’re a closed system. If it was deliberate, it had to come from someone here.”
I tilted my head. “They couldn’t just, you know, dial in through a phone line? Like The Matrix?”
Her brow furrowed. “How would a person move through a phone line? Wait—you mean physical teleportation? That violates several fundamental laws of physics unless?—”
I held up a hand. “Stop. Before you crush my childhood and make me regret my movie favorites. I meant hacking remotely.”
“Oh. No. Internet access is blocked on our internal systems. It would need to be someone physically in the lab.”
I crossed my arms. “That narrows the suspect pool. Not exactly a comforting thought.”
“Or,” she added, “it could be sabotage of a different kind. A mistake someone made and tried to cover up. Destroy the evidence before anyone notices.”
That tracked too. “So no way to know which?”
“Not with this level of corruption. And right now, it doesn’t matter. We’re set back a full week. I have to rebuild.” Her voice carried all the frustration she was trying to bottle.
I pushed off the railing and held out a hand. “Then let’s get moving. You need food. I need to rattle cages.”
She eyed my hand like it was some unsolvable equation before finally slipping hers into mine. Cold. Fragile. Human. “I should get back to work.”
“After food. Nonnegotiable.”
“That’s not how I operate.”
