She flushed. "I can't burn through that many calories in one day," she said, even as her stomach growled.
"You will today," he said cryptically, and then, as if unable to contain himself any longer, he blurted, "Grace, Zach is the oldest unregistered throw found since you were collected at seventeen. We know throws who mature naturally like you and Zach are substantially stronger, but their control usually sucks and we have to deadhead them to remove their abilities. Zach is the exception, like you, and if you can successfully bring him in and convince him to work within the Strand's framework, I think you might get that promotion to the elite you've been looking for."
She turned, her heart pounding. The elite? It was what she wanted. What she had aimed for since entering the Strand, welcoming the peace and order it represented.
Seeing her understanding, he nodded, beaming as he put an extra large orange juice on her tray. "Move down, will you? I can't reach those meat tarts. It's high time you joined the elite. Overdue if you ask me. Your skills are top-notch, and control unquestioned. If you wouldn't do stupid stunts like almost killing yourself to save a dog, you'd probably be my superior by now."
Grace stopped, her feet becoming one with the floor. Stupid stunts? Saving my dog is a stupid stunt?
"We've got a busy day, you and me," he was saying as he filled his own tray. "I've already been over Zach's paperwork, but I think it would be prudent to do a few team-building exercises to be sure we can modulate easily before we go out. Since you've been in contact with him before, I might be the better choice for going in vanguard, but it's your call."
Her call? Her eyes narrowed. "Saving my dog was not a stupid stunt," she said, conscious that the conversations at the nearby tables had gone silent. "Hoc is my partner as much as Boyd was. Is."
The lights over the food flickered. Jason noted it, frowning. "This is your last chance at getting into the elite, Grace. I'm doing you a favor."
Ticked, she shoved the tray at him, and he took it, stumbling. "I don't need your favors. See you around."
There was a clatter as he put her tray next to his on the counter. "I don't understand you," he said loudly. "I'm giving you a chance to prove yourself. You're not young anymore, Grace. No one over twenty-five has ever been admitted to the elite. Don't you want to do something important with your life?"
Grace stopped. Hoc stood at her heel, the dog cowering as if she'd yelled him. She wanted a chance to prove herself so bad that she could taste it, but she wanted to earn it on her own merits, not buy it with a lie. Part of her job as a collector was evaluating a throw's moral makeup, her words counting heavily on the question of whether an older, unregistered throw should be trained or have his or her abilities burned out of him or her for the safety of society. Zach was powerful, yes, and control could be learned, but she feared he had no sense of duty to himself or those he loved, that he would take what they taught him and use it for his own gain.
If she collected Zach and passed him into the Strand at the will of the elite, it would assure her place among them. If she decided he was unrecoverable and advised him to be deadheaded, she would lose her last chance to become what she most wanted.
"I am doing something important," she said, every eye in the room on her. "Working with Boyd was not a mistake. Saving Hoc was not a mistake. That dog is my partner, more than you'll ever be."
The lights flickered overhead. Still standing where she'd left him, he crossed his arms over his chest. People were fidgeting, their own balances being pulled out of whack. "Your emotions are betraying you."
Not even looking at her monitor, she stomped back over to him. His face lost all expression and he loosened his arms, but all she did was push her sleeve up and shove her wrist under his nose. "My balance is perfect," she said softly. "Maybe you should try wearing one of these yourself."
Her tone was bitter, and his face softened, even as he glanced at it. "Don't walk away from me. If you don't do this, you'll be bringing in unregistered throws the rest of your life."
"It's what I'm good at," she said bitterly, seeing the awful choice he had given her. "You can take your elitist job and shove it," she said, trembling. "I'd rather work alone with dogs than with your pack of overgrown boys who think the rules don't apply to them."
He reached for her, and she backed away at the anger in his expression. Spinning on a heel, she walked out, pace fast and Hoc at her side.
"Grace!" he shouted as she pulled the door open, feeling the weight of it all the way to her bones.
She let the door slam, reaching out and snapping the electricity flow like a rubber band. A startled cry rose up from a handful of people, and the lights went out.
She'd done it intentionally, and her balance, she noted bitterly, was perfect-even if her insides were churning like storm waters.
She could lie and be rewarded, or be truthful and remain where she was, and it pissed her off that she was even tempted.
THREE
Grace found herself listening for Boyd's footsteps as she reluctantly walked up the cobbled walk to the peaceful slice of suburbia hiding its shame and misery behind lush green lawns and environmentally friendly recycle bins. Behind her, Hoc whined through the open window, the obedient dog staying where she told him. He was not coming in until she knew Zach wasn't there. It felt odd without her partner, and her arms swung stiffly. She wished that Boyd would be coming back from the Island, but once you started to boost, you came to depend on it-making it a hundred times harder to maintain your balance. That Zach wasn't an addict already was a miracle. But then again, if he had been, they would have found him a lot sooner.
Grace pushed the doorbell, hearing it ring. She was angry at Boyd for being weak, angry at Jason for his choice that wasn't one, but most of all she was disillusioned by the Strand's policies. If by some miracle Zach was morally suited for great power, her choice would be easy, but after nearly half a decade of bringing in older unregistered throws, she knew the chances were almost nil. There was a reason the Strand worked hard to find throws in kindergarten. Morality was best taught early.
Brainwashed? she wondered as she listened to the footsteps approach. Perhaps, but the alternative was allowing a small but powerful demographic of people to abuse the rest until the majority rebelled, killing them all, the good along with the bad.
Hearing the steps behind the door falter, Grace rang the bell again, tired.
"I told you he's not here. Go away!" Mrs. Thomson shouted through the door, and Grace pulled herself straight.