was still absorbed in his screens. The data projected around Jad’s desk was displayed here, too. “My project is almost finished.”
“I’ve met that banana box before,” Scheme said. “I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.”
Sebdex sighed and bowed his head a little. “Jennifer Halais was, obviously, not supposed to have it. She stole it, Bel, and I should have said this already. But. Thank you for finding it.”
I had a closer view of Sebdex’s profile now. Some features I recognized from pictures: Bright green eyes. Cheekbones that jutted out, sharp-edged, from his face. He could have been handsome. But he wasn’t bald in pictures. And the rest of him was— wrong . He sat in his chair at a strange angle, and his neck seemed squashed, as if he was missing vertebrae. Some of his joints didn’t line up exactly right—shoulders and wrists. Maybe he had a disease. (The magazine profiles didn’t say anything about a disease.)
“And Fadi,” Scheme said. She was unfazed by his appearance, and her arms were crossed tight. “What about him?”
Sebdex said nothing. A rattling sound came from his chest.
“You’re a nano-manager, Sebastian, and it means you get all the credit,” Scheme said, picking up steam, “but it also means you get all the blame. If a man named Fadi Azer came into this building and never walked out”—she was almost shouting now, stabbing a finger at him—“you know exactly what happened to him.”
“People go pop in the fog all the time,” Sebdex said evenly. “Anything could have happened to your friend. Anything or nothing. Trust me.” He turned to face us.
He was missing an eye.
Scheme’s hand went up in front of her mouth. “Sebastian,” she breathed. “You didn’t.”
I couldn’t look away. It was a gaping dark pit. My video software was screaming ANOMALY! ANOMALY! because it was so weird, and so asymmetrical, and so black.
“I figured it out, Bel. I have a plan.”
“You promised you’d stop,” Scheme said.
“But I figured it out.”
“You lied.” Her voice was hard. “What are you doing? What are you doing here?”
Sebdex shook his head, and it turned on a crazy angle, more up-and-down than side-to-side. “It’s going to make everything worth it.” He looked at her evenly with his one bright green eye. “Everything, I promise.”
Scheme stepped quickly through the ground-floor lobby, but not too quickly for me to see one wall lit up with all the questions I’d just been flinging at Grail:
SEBDEX DISEASE NEWS
EYE (CANCER OR FUNGUS)
ANNABEL SCHEME GRAIL
ANNABEL SCHEME SEBASTIAN DEXTER
Note to self: use a different search engine. In another millisecond, the questions scrolled out of sight. There were no answers. Not yet.
“Fadi’s dead,” Scheme said, jogging back to where we’d parked, “and Sebastian did it. I can’t believe it—but he did. Sebastian. Sebastian!” A little growl rose in her throat, and she banged a parking meter with her palm as we passed it.
What are we doing now?
”You need to double-check, triple-check, every firewall you’ve got. Get more. Get something good from one of those gangsters.”
She found the car. I checked the time. Outside Fog City, the sun was on its way down.
Where are we going, Scheme?
“We’re going back to school.”
SUTRO'S SCEPTER
We came tearing up Market Street, buzzing and whining on the steep incline. I couldn’t pull myself away from the view out of Scheme’s left earring: all of San Francisco was laid out and lit up, sharp and vivid and three-dimensional. Fog City rose near the bay and the bridge, a big fuzzy bar of negative space.
Based on our vector up the hill, along with Scheme’s cryptic directive, I’d guessed where we were going:
Cal Sutro.
Satellite snapshots showed the University of California at Sutro’s Scepter as a cluster of concrete buildings clinging to the upper slope of the Hill of the Holy Spirit, the third-tallest peak in San
“I’ve met that banana box before,” Scheme said. “I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.”
Sebdex sighed and bowed his head a little. “Jennifer Halais was, obviously, not supposed to have it. She stole it, Bel, and I should have said this already. But. Thank you for finding it.”
I had a closer view of Sebdex’s profile now. Some features I recognized from pictures: Bright green eyes. Cheekbones that jutted out, sharp-edged, from his face. He could have been handsome. But he wasn’t bald in pictures. And the rest of him was— wrong . He sat in his chair at a strange angle, and his neck seemed squashed, as if he was missing vertebrae. Some of his joints didn’t line up exactly right—shoulders and wrists. Maybe he had a disease. (The magazine profiles didn’t say anything about a disease.)
“And Fadi,” Scheme said. She was unfazed by his appearance, and her arms were crossed tight. “What about him?”
Sebdex said nothing. A rattling sound came from his chest.
“You’re a nano-manager, Sebastian, and it means you get all the credit,” Scheme said, picking up steam, “but it also means you get all the blame. If a man named Fadi Azer came into this building and never walked out”—she was almost shouting now, stabbing a finger at him—“you know exactly what happened to him.”
“People go pop in the fog all the time,” Sebdex said evenly. “Anything could have happened to your friend. Anything or nothing. Trust me.” He turned to face us.
He was missing an eye.
Scheme’s hand went up in front of her mouth. “Sebastian,” she breathed. “You didn’t.”
I couldn’t look away. It was a gaping dark pit. My video software was screaming ANOMALY! ANOMALY! because it was so weird, and so asymmetrical, and so black.
“I figured it out, Bel. I have a plan.”
“You promised you’d stop,” Scheme said.
“But I figured it out.”
“You lied.” Her voice was hard. “What are you doing? What are you doing here?”
Sebdex shook his head, and it turned on a crazy angle, more up-and-down than side-to-side. “It’s going to make everything worth it.” He looked at her evenly with his one bright green eye. “Everything, I promise.”
Scheme stepped quickly through the ground-floor lobby, but not too quickly for me to see one wall lit up with all the questions I’d just been flinging at Grail:
SEBDEX DISEASE NEWS
EYE (CANCER OR FUNGUS)
ANNABEL SCHEME GRAIL
ANNABEL SCHEME SEBASTIAN DEXTER
Note to self: use a different search engine. In another millisecond, the questions scrolled out of sight. There were no answers. Not yet.
“Fadi’s dead,” Scheme said, jogging back to where we’d parked, “and Sebastian did it. I can’t believe it—but he did. Sebastian. Sebastian!” A little growl rose in her throat, and she banged a parking meter with her palm as we passed it.
What are we doing now?
”You need to double-check, triple-check, every firewall you’ve got. Get more. Get something good from one of those gangsters.”
She found the car. I checked the time. Outside Fog City, the sun was on its way down.
Where are we going, Scheme?
“We’re going back to school.”
SUTRO'S SCEPTER
We came tearing up Market Street, buzzing and whining on the steep incline. I couldn’t pull myself away from the view out of Scheme’s left earring: all of San Francisco was laid out and lit up, sharp and vivid and three-dimensional. Fog City rose near the bay and the bridge, a big fuzzy bar of negative space.
Based on our vector up the hill, along with Scheme’s cryptic directive, I’d guessed where we were going:
Cal Sutro.
Satellite snapshots showed the University of California at Sutro’s Scepter as a cluster of concrete buildings clinging to the upper slope of the Hill of the Holy Spirit, the third-tallest peak in San
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