I widened my eyes. “Dad…bought a beer?”
“For me, yeah. He drank juice. We spent an hour talking about metallurgy! Awesome guy.”
I tried to imagine Dad and Svoboda hanging out. I failed.
“Awesome guy,” Svoboda repeated, a little quieter this time. His smile faded.
“Svobo?” I said.
He looked down. “Are you…leaving, Jazz? Are they going to deport you? I’d hate that.”
I put my mittened hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be all right. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I have a plan.”
“A plan?” He looked concerned. “Your plans are…uh…should I hide somewhere?”
I laughed. “Not this time.”
“Okay…” He was clearly not convinced. “But how are you going to get out of this one? Like…you knocked out the whole town.”
I smiled at him. “Don’t worry. I got this.”
“Okay, good.” He leaned down and kissed my cheek, almost as an afterthought. I had no idea what possessed him to do that—honestly I didn’t think he had it in him. His bravery didn’t last long, though. Once he realized what he’d done, his face became a mask of terror. “Oh shit! I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking—”
I laughed. The look in the poor guy’s eyes…I couldn’t help it. “Relax, Svobo. It’s just a peck on the cheek. It’s nothing to get worked up about.”
“R-Right. Yeah.”
I put my hand on the nape of his neck, pulled his head to mine, and kissed him full on the lips. A good, long kiss with no ambiguity. When we disengaged, he looked hopelessly confused.
“Now, that,” I said. “That you can get worked up about.”
—
I waited in a blank, gray hallway next to a door labeled CD2-5186. Conrad Down 2 was a little classier than the usual Conrad Down fare, but not much. Strictly blue-collar, but without that smell of desperation the lower levels had.
I opened and closed my hands a few times. The bandages were off, but both hands were littered with red blisters. I looked like a leper. Or a hooker who gave handjobs exclusively to lepers.
Dad rounded the corner, following his Gizmo’s directions. He finally noticed me. “Ah. There you are.”
“Thanks for meeting me, Dad,” I said.
He took my right hand and inspected it. He winced at the damage. “How are you feeling? Does it hurt? If it hurts, you should go to Dr. Roussel.”
“It’s okay. Looks worse than it feels.” There I was, lying to Dad again.
“So I’m here.” He pointed to the door. “CD2-5186. What is it?”
I waved my Gizmo across the panel and opened the door. “Come in.”
The large, mostly bare workshop had stark metal walls. Our footsteps echoed as we wa
lked. A worktable stood in the center covered with industrial equipment. Farther back, gas cylinders mounted along the wall fed pipes leading throughout the room. A standard air shelter stood in the corner.
“One hundred forty-one square meters,” I said. “Used to be a bakery. Fully fireproof and certified by the city for high-temperature use. Self-contained air-filtration system, and the air shelter seats four people.”