Security was always worse on Mondays, and today the checkpoints seemed doubled, as if the threat level had been bumped up in the night. A woman in a crisp uniform scanned my badge, looked at my face, then at my badge again. Her eyes lingered on the bruising at my wrist—artifact of last night’s adventure, or maybe just a byproduct of poor circulation. She cleared me without comment.
Inside, the corridors were colder than usual, and the fluorescent lights buzzed with a white noise that crawled undermy skull. The floor was polished to a point of self-parody. My boots left prints that vanished in my wake, as if the building itself resented human contact.
I swiped my badge at three more stations, each time catching a whiff of industrial disinfectant and the faint tang of the server banks upstairs. By the time I reached the elevators, I’d rehearsed at least a dozen plausible explanations for the bruising, the sleeplessness, the fact that my fingers kept trembling whenever I tried to grip my access card.
My office was in a sub-basement. Section G, Adaptive Systems. The hallway leading there was empty, save for the pale rectangle of the emergency exit sign and the hunched figure of my assistant, crouched like a pale shrimp beside my door.
He straightened when he saw me. His name was Dev. His talent was making bad news sound like a clerical error.
“Dr. Dalton.” His eyes were wide, rimmed red. He held a stack of printouts with the posture of a man delivering a subpoena. “Dr. Holloway wants you. Immediately.”
I nodded. “Did he say why?”
Dev’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “He just said—urgent. And confidential. I’ll… I’ll cover the morning briefing?”
I nodded, trying to keep my hands from shaking as I accepted the printouts. I scanned the top sheet, but the letters swam; I registered only the words “Blue Spirit” and “incident response.” I tucked the stack under my arm and started back toward the elevator, my pulse spiking in ways that had nothing to do with the caffeine.
Holloway’s office was in the main admin wing, a climate-controlled box done up in the style of a Cold War penitentiary. I passed through a waiting room with all the warmth of an airport lounge, and was buzzed in without so much as a glance from the admin assistant. The air inside was fifteen degrees warmer, and the walls were lined with degrees, security clearances, andwhat looked like a framed commendation from the Department of Energy. His door was the only real wood in the building—oak, heavy enough to block gunfire.
He was waiting for me, standing behind his desk as if prepared to launch a preemptive strike. He wore a suit, not a lab coat, and the tie was a red so aggressive it could have been a warning label. He gestured to the chair across from him, then sat, folding his hands on a blotter arranged at exact right angles to the desk.
“Seraphina,” he said. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
I sat. The chair was designed for discomfort—too low, too narrow, upholstered in a material that pretended to be leather. “I understand it’s urgent.”
He studied me for a moment, and I had the distinct sense that he was parsing through a mental checklist. “I’ll get right to it.” He pulled a folder from a stack, thumbed it open, and laid it flat in the space between us. “This morning, I received a call from Security.”
He let the word hang, as if it were a force of nature and not a department staffed by ex-cops and failed spies.
“They’ve been monitoring certain… communications. As you know, we have an obligation to maintain the integrity of Blue Spirit, and by extension, national security. This obligation extends to every member of the project.”
I nodded, eyes on the folder. The tab was labeled “DALTON, S: INCIDENTS.” My name, in bold, all-caps, bureaucratic font.
Holloway slid a sheet toward me. It was a printout of a security bulletin—one I’d written last week, on protocol for external threats. The irony was not lost on me.
“There’s been some… disturbing rumors,” he continued, voice calibrated for maximum deniability. “About your recent associations outside of work. Specifically, contact with an individual affiliated with a local outlaw motorcycle club.”
My stomach went cold, then hot, then nothing. “I wasn’t aware that private associations fell under incident reporting.”
Holloway’s eyes narrowed. “Ordinarily, they don’t. But when the club in question is under federal investigation for narcotics, extortion, and potentially international arms smuggling? And when that club is linked to a violent incident involving a member of this laboratory? Then yes, it becomes our business.”
He tapped the folder. “Your security clearance is up for annual review next week. If there’s anything you want to disclose, now would be an opportune time. Having a boyfriend associated with an outlaw biker club is not good for your career.”
I’d not consider the boyfriend angle with Nitro, though the thought…the thought made me wet. Wet. I started to giggle but buried the urge.
I considered lying, but the exhaustion won out. “I was attacked last night. In the parking lot of the liquor store on Trinity. Two men, possibly Eastern European, tried to force me into a van. I was rescued by—” I hesitated, not wanting to give the name, not wanting to give him anything— “by the individual you’re referencing.”
Holloway’s fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm on the folder’s edge. “That is not the version of events I received from the police report.”
I stared at him. “You have the report?”
He nodded. “And the footage. Security pulled the tapes before local law enforcement could misplace them. The situation is… complex. Two suspects dead, one missing, and a civilian—your ‘rescuer’—leaving the scene with you, against protocol.”
The overhead lights flickered, casting his face in alternating stripes of shadow and glare. “If you’re in danger, I need to know. If you’re compromised, I need to know even more. I can’t keep making things disappear.”
I fought to keep my voice steady. “I’m not compromised. I’m not in danger, except from the people already trying to kidnap me.”
He leaned back, folding his arms. “Seraphina. I don’t want to see your work jeopardized. You’re the best we have. But you need to understand—optics matter. The committee reviews matter. Any hint of divided loyalty, of conflict of interest—”
