Spellhacke- M. K. England Page 0,62

my mind. “Remi, imagine if our last job had been real. If some rando really had discovered maz-15 and hired us to get some, then used it to make people ill?” My stomach lurches at the awful possibility of what could have been. “After two years of tapping pipes all over the city, we only found it in one place. At least while MMC controls the knowledge of it, they can keep it contained. Killing to protect the secret still seems too extreme, but . . . I don’t know.”

There’s a long pause filled with the rustling of pages as Remi flips to the back of the thesis document.

“There’s a handwritten list of names in the back here, too, but I don’t recognize any of them. Maybe one of them would know more?”

I glance at the list, then make a few queries to my deck via subvocal command. Nothing useful, though. Except . . .

“They’re all ex-MMC scientists, and they all disappeared around the time the professor did. I mean, officially they resigned and moved away, but that’s kind of suspicious.”

Remi, who’s been taking a series of photos of the thesis with their smart lenses, closes the folio and goes behind the service desk to put it back. “Definitely suspicious. MMC probably killed them all, you know? They probably killed Professor Silva and every one of his colleagues, then covered it up. At this point I wouldn’t even be surprised.”

I raise an eyebrow and waggle the papers in my hand. Finally, something good to focus on. I seize the chance like a life preserver. “Actually . . .”

Remi pops up from behind the counter and plants their palms on the desk. “What is it?”

“Letters,” I say, sliding them onto the desk in front of Remi. “The archivist, Professor Kayma, has been writing back and forth with someone about maz-15. Someone named Aric. The most recent letter is only two weeks old. I found it locked in a vault in her office.”

Remi lets out a startled laugh. “And you think it’s Professor Silva?”

“One way to find out. This archive is full of stuff with his handwriting, yeah?”

Remi holds up a finger and whirls around, then comes up with one of the boxes they’d pulled from the stacks. It’s labeled A.S. LAB NOTES—FRAGILE in giant bold letters.

“One of the benefits of being in an archive,” Remi says. “They keep everything.”

They lift the lid carefully, pull out a single sheet of paper, and lay it out on the desk for comparison. The resemblance is obvious. Identical.

“He’s alive,” they say. “And I can still meet him. Professor Silva really is alive!”

Remi’s head whips up, their eyes shining. “He could tell us everything.”

“And he escaped when MMC wanted him quiet. We could probably use his expertise about that too.”

Then Remi wilts, their forehead hitting the desk with a thunk. “But how are we going to find someone who even MMC can’t find?”

I grin and shuffle through the papers, producing a plain envelope. “There’s a return address. It’s just a P.O. box at the university in Jattapore, and the name on it isn’t his, but it’s a place to start.”

I swallow hard, low-level panic filling my veins at the thought of our next step. I swore I would never do this, but the universe has left me no choice.

“Looks like you’re going to Jattapore after all. But this time, I’m coming with you.”

Their excited smile flickers, then fades at that last bit, and I can practically see them remembering they’re supposed to be mad at me. Ugh. Always one sentence too many. I glance at the time—how have we been here all night?—then open our group chat with a sigh and change the name.

Epic Group Chat: We are GOING TO JATTAPORE BITCHES Edition

You: Ania, buy us four tix for the 7 a.m. train to Jattapore

Jaesin: What, did you have a change of heart or something?

We running?

Ania: What did you find?

Remi: a lot

like, both literally and spiritually A LOT

You: Grab our bags and meet us at the old elementary school near the station

I’ll send over the photos of what we found so you can recover from having your minds blown by the time we get there.

I look up to share the last bit with Remi out of habit, but as soon as our eyes meet, they look away.

Damn it.

Twenty-four hours ago, I walked out. Just said “Bye forever,” and left.

Things will probably never be the same.

How do you come back from something like that?

Can you?

Sixteen

THE OTHERS LAUGHED