Honor Among Thieves (The Honors #1)(12)

Clarice had an A at the start of the string of numbers that IDed her, too. We gave each other smiles that meant nothing, and she asked me about my book. We talked about how sick we were of seeing the Honors countdown, which was now winding down to the big week of announcements.

“It’s bullshit,” Clarice said. “I think it’s all rigged anyway. Who gets picked? Rich folks, that’s who. You ever see somebody from the Lower Eight in there?”

“Never. So you’re probably right.”

“Besides, who’d want to go live on some ship and give all this up?” she deadpanned. “Three hots a day, fancy clothes . . .”

“Education,” I put in.

“And learning a trade? We don’t call this side of Detroit Paradise for nothing. So . . . you want to play a game?”

“Want to read my book,” I said, though truthfully, I was skimming it because the Leviathan were pretty fascinating. “Are we done making friends now?”

Friendship by appointment, for mutual benefit; the docs watched for loners and signed them up for special programs. Socialization. Neither of us needed that noise. Might have been screwed up, being fake friends, but at least it kept us in the middle of the road, rehab-wise.

“Guess so,” she said. “Same time tomorrow?”

“It’s a date.”

I was really unlucky because my assigned mandatory therapist hadn’t burned out yet. I was used to overworked drones, but instead, when I stepped into the warm, friendly office he kept on the nicer side of Camp Kuna, I knew I was in for it. My therapist—Dr. Yu—was a youngish man who dressed casual without making it look like he was trying too hard, and he didn’t look up as I walked in. He was too busy scanning records.

“Yeah, no hurry, I’ll wait.” I kicked back with a thump on the soft cushions of his sofa. It smelled of something floral, probably aromatherapy. Not relaxers, I was interested to notice. Most therapists I’d seen sprayed that stuff like it was oxygen. “Word of advice, it took the last guy a couple of months to get through all that. Want me to come back?”

Silence. I shifted on the couch. I wished I had a headband for my curls, but they’d turned me down, figuring I might try to choke somebody with it. They’d trimmed the knots at least, and my spirals looked better since I’d sweet-talked the provisions officer into slipping me some products on credit. I had plenty of time in here, enough to develop a good wash-and-go style.

“I’ve got the gist,” Yu said, and put the H2 down. He sat back in his chair and gave me the standard assessing look. His was a little sharper than I was used to. “Good morning, Zara. I’m not going to insult you by asking if you know why you’re here.”

“Nice,” I said. “Ten points. I’m here to tell you my trauma so I can become a useful member of society. Bring up the music, credits roll, we both feel good about ourselves.”

“You use sarcasm as a shield,” he said. “That’s fine. We all need armor. The world wounds people. My job is to help them get better.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

“You choose to voluntarily live in dangerous conditions in the Lower Eight, where there’s no reliable enforcement, next to no medical care, and among criminals. Why do you think that is?”

“Because at least they’re not lying assholes who glide along in life never doing anything! They’re real. The world’s real out there, doc. You should try it.”

“I have,” he said. “I helped build Benny’s. I was on staff there for four years. I just rotated out six months ago.”

I went still. I think I actually sat up, in fact. Benny’s—St. Benedict’s Medical Facility—was the shining light of the Lower Eight. It had been built by hand, by charity workers, from the ruins of an old hospital; it charged nobody, ever, and it ran on donations from Paradise. I’d gotten fixed up at Benny’s more than once. So had Derry.

If he’d worked at Benny’s, he’d been out in the real world. Well, shit. That made it harder to ignore him.

“So,” I said. “Go on, then. Psych me.”

Yu laughed and sat back. Crossed his legs. I closed my eyes. The sofa was damn comfy; I could wait him out.

He let me get good and cozy before he said, “Your mother sent a message from Mars on your behalf. Do you want me to tell you what it said?”

Mom. I kept my eyes closed and said nothing. I tried to feel nothing, but there it was, that eager little bump. “Nope,” I said. “No point. I know what she told you.”

“I don’t think you do. She explained about your headaches. How difficult they were for you to handle at such a young age. How the pain caused you to act out, and how nothing seemed to help. True?”

I’d started getting the headaches around age five, though my memory was fuzzy on details. I just remembered the pain, the screaming, lashing out because nobody, nothing could help. Including all of the Paradise docs, for all their skill. I’d spent the better part of a year feeling like I was dying. Not something you handle well as a little kid.

“Yeah,” I finally said. “That’s true. But they fixed me.”

Thanks to the Leviathan, their tech, and eventually, a little dose of their DNA. Being a lab rat was not my favorite thing to remember, either.