The band transitions into another classical waltz, and Kearns holds his arms out, a skeptical look on his face. I step close, right hand high, and bend my left arm over his elbow, careful not to get too close or comfortable. I don’t want this bland rich boy getting the wrong idea. But then again, I tell myself, what does it matter, really? With any luck he’ll prove useful, and then I’ll never talk to him again.
He leads in a simple, stiff three-step, and I follow, thinking back to the dance lessons I took when I was a little girl. My parents burned all their money coming to this planet and starting a hydroponic farm, but they didn’t abandon their upper-middle-class/lower-upper-class aspirations, and of course they put their only daughter through several years of dance lessons. I didn’t enjoy them, and after we got too poor for me to go anymore, I hated myself for having not enjoyed them. I know it would not have prevented what happened later, but I wish my folks had been smarter and saved that money. I would rather not have those benign childhood memories only to have them stained by such guilt. But I still haven’t forgotten what I learned.
“You dance pretty well,” I tell Kearns, trying to break the awkward silence between us, “for a government yes-man cube.”
“You dance pretty badly for a woman who’s on her feet all day,” he shoots back.
“Tough to move fluidly with someone you don’t quite trust.”
“You don’t trust me yet?” He doesn’t sound altogether surprised.
“Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you?” he scoffs, smiling. “Our motives are nearly identical. You want to find rogue currency to take your cut, and I want to find it so I get promoted.”
“We’ll see.”
He turns, and I follow. “So. Farm girl, huh?”
“Soy. Hydroponic. I sold the place when my parents died.”
“Were you a Collections Agent already?”
I nod. “They were proud of me.”
My mom was, anyway. My dad was long gone by then. Their dream was to grow a business and set roots here, and they put everything they had into it. They stretched themselves too far, and times got too tough, and my dad ended up dying for that stupid little aluminum hotbox when I was just ten. We recovered, and my mother and I ended up carving out a decent life for ourselves, but in spite of all that happened, she never learned to accept that I wanted to leave this world after they worked so hard and sacrificed so much to get here. Even though my mom knew what my goals were, my swearing in as an Agent seemed to fuel her optimism that I would become ingrained in Brink’s society somehow, that I might some day meet someone and decide to live the rest of my life here. She never gave up on that hope. It was one of the last things she mentioned to me before she passed on.
These thoughts take me back to the same place memories of my childhood always lead. A plain cardboard box just inside the front door with a folded paper letter on top.
Stop it, Taryn. This is not the time or place.
Focusing on my dance steps, I can’t help but glance down every now and then at the billowing, translucent creatures bobbing and drifting below us, seemingly without any sense of purpose or direction. I flinch slightly as Kearns reaches forward and brushes back a strand of hair from my face. “You know,” he says, “you look really nice.”
“Don’t get romantic on me, Kearns. This is not that type of dance.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, defensive. “It’s surprising, is all.”
I smile ironically. “Ahh, there it is.”
“No, no,” he backpedals. “I just didn’t expect to see an ass kicker in a dress like that.”
I flash a more genuine smile, slightly flattered in spite of myself. “Thanks, Kearns.”
“Call me Brady.”
As we dance through the soft blue light, I take notice of the few other guests on the dance floor, all of them wealthy, arrogant, comfortable. There aren’t many young men, but the only women anywhere close to my age must be either trophy wives or high-priced prostitutes. People must be assuming that of me, but it doesn’t seem like Kearns is aware of it.
He stands upright suddenly, looking over my head. “I see Greenman.”
Alert, I turn quickly, ready to pursue. “Let’s go.”
But Kearns keeps hold of my hands and yanks me to a stop. “Easy,” he says. “We don’t want to look too eager, right? Finish the dance.”
Did the paper-pushing economist just set me straight on detective technique? He’s right, and I know it, so I just nod and keep dancing, over the field of jellyfish, toward the far side of the ballroom. When the band finishes the song and transitions to another, we take the opportunity to stop and walk off. As we step back onto the pink carpet, leaving the glowing floor, Kearns gives me a little bow, a clever little smirk on his face. I just shake my head.
I still don’t see Greenman. Maybe I’m too short. Kearns leads the way, waving hello to a couple of people who don’t seem to know him. As we near the filigreed stone wall, I finally see the Chairman approaching, greeting guests with a warm smile, as a tall, beefy bodyguard in a black suit and dark tactical glasses follows him.
“Looks like this is a good place to stop,” I whisper. “Let him come to us.”
“Agreed.”
We stand there for a minute or so, awkward. “Don’t look so stiff, Kearns,” I tell him, aware that I’m not following my own advice.
“Brady. Call me Brady.”
“Brady. Relax.”
“You relax,” he shoots back. After a pause, he asks, “So how long have you been a Collections Agent?”
My entire adult life, basically. “Five years now.”
“And already with a solo field assignment. Impressive.”
“I work hard, and I’m good at it,” I admit.
“You like it?”
“It’s work.” The truth is that I do enjoy the chase, the game of it, but some of the things I see get to me sometimes. I guess I appreciate those parts too for reminding me of why I want to leave.
“Why did you join?” he asks, starting to loosen up again. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I joined because I want to leave Brink, and Collections was one of the few jobs I could step into right out of school and start earning. And the training is generalizable to law enforcement work, which will hopefully help me get into a career on whatever world I end up on.”
“Hmm,” he says, frowning with a bit of surprise. “Pragmatic. I’d have figured you for a hardcore law and order type, as passionate about the job as you are.”
“I couldn’t give half a damn for rogue currency, honestly,” I reply, a bit annoyed. I’ve never thought of myself as “passionate” about my work. “You know, you haven’t even told me what you used to do for SCAPE.”
“I was Junior Vice President of Pricing and Market Adjustment.”
“What is that?”
“Basically an economist, advising the SCAPE board in methods for maximizing profit resulting from supply-side differentials in commodity availability and currency value.”
“I still don’t know what that means,” I reply, a little annoyed. “Why did you leave?”
“I saw a problem here on Brink,” he says, unemotional but earnest, “one that I thought could be fixed, with some time and hard work.”
“So you were born on another planet.”
“Darien,” he says. “You’ve heard of it?”