“You’re suggesting we send someone to New Orleans, have them attend HBI, and report back on what MagTech’s progress is compared to ours?”
“No.” Boris smiles for the first time since stepping inside the room. “I’m ordering the two of you to do that.”
•••
“I JUST DON’T think that driving to New Orleans to play Inspector Gadget is the best use of our time,” I tell Levi as he walks me home like he insisted on (“Houston is dangerous at night,” “You never know who’s lurking around,” “Either you let me walk you home, or I follow ten feet behind you. Your choice”). He’s pushing his bike, which he apparently rides to work most days. Hmph. Overachiever. His helmet, strapped to his belt, bounces against his thigh every few steps. The soothing rhythm provides a solid backdrop to my bitching.
“We’re at least Inspector Columbo.”
“Gadget outranks Columbo,” I point out. “Don’t get me wrong, I see the value of keeping tabs on the competition, but wouldn’t it be better to send someone else?”
“No one else is as familiar with BLINK as we are, and you’re the only person who knows the neuroscience.”
“Fred did take that class in undergrad.”
Levi smiles. “At least it’s over the weekend. We won’t miss workdays.”
I lift one eyebrow. We’ve both worked every single weekend. “Why are you taking this so well?”
He shrugs. “I pick my battles with Boris carefully.”
“Isn’t this worth fighting for? We’re talking about two days in close quarters with the person you most despise in history.”
“Elon Musk is coming, too?”
“No—me.”
He sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead. “We’ve been over this, Bee. Besides, the team keeps screwing up basic stuff like file backup,” he adds wryly. “I wouldn’t trust them with... espionage.” He smiles when he says the last word, and my heart jumps. I’m inexplicably getting Cute Guy™ vibes from him—maybe because when he’s amused he looks damn cute.
“I still think it’s not human error,” I say, trying not to think about things like cuteness.
“Either way, I’ll call a meeting with the engineers and scare them into being more careful.”
“Wait.” I stop under my building. “You can’t do that if you’re not sure that it’s someone on the team.”
“I’m sure.”
“But you have no proof.” He looks at me with a puzzled expression. “You don’t want to accuse them of something they might not have even done, do you?”
“They did.”
I huff, frustrated. “What if it’s a weird fluke?”
“It’s not.”
“But you—” I press my lips together. “Listen, we’re co-leaders. We should make disciplinary decisions together, which means that you can’t accuse anyone of anything until I’m on board, too. And that’s not going to happen until I see actual proof that someone on the team is doing this.” He’s looking down at me with a soft, amused expression, as if he finds my irritation particularly endearing. What a sadist. “Okay?” I prompt him.
He nods. “Okay.” He unlocks his helmet and ties it under his chin. I most definitely do not notice the flex of his biceps. “And, Bee?”
“Yeah?”
He mounts the bike and starts riding away. “I’ll let you know which 5K I settle on.”
He’s giving me his back, but I flip him off anyway.
12
VENTRAL STRIATUM: YEARNING