A Memory Merchant Is Given an Impossible Mission In This Excerpt From The Dividing Sky

 “I know it doesn’t seem like much,” she says, chewing the inside of her cheek. “But the specs are good. These drones used to carry nets full of fish, and those are heavy! You’ll be fine, Liv. I’m pretty sure, anyway.” She mumbles to herself as she does some math on her fingers. My nerves flicker. Celeste’s inventions can border on genius—for anyone, let alone a nine-year-old—but this wouldn’t be the first time her enthusiasm outpaced her calculations. 

I eye the flaking LifeCorp logo on the drone’s hull. “Surer than the compost incident?” 

Her face twists in disgust at the memory before she switches topics. “Check out this harness! Kez helped me make it from old fishing nets.”She slips one strap over my shoulder.

“He did? Doesn’t really sound like his—ugh!” 

The stench of fish guts overpowers me. I hold on to a tiny sliver of hope that the scent won’t set into the fabric of my EmoProxy uniform: a thin amber jumpsuit with a wide hood and long sleeves that end in fingerless gloves. I sniff the front of the jumpsuit, right above the stenciled LifeCorp logo, and grimace. Celeste’s flying machine better work, or my client Mr. Preston won’t pay, and I’ll end up smelling like a cannery droid for nothing. 

Celeste takes a step back from her handiwork and nods, satisfied. She’s wearing a jumpsuit like mine—except hers is dark gray—under a worn fuchsia puffy jacket two sizes too small. She reaches into the jacket’s pocket and pulls out something that looks like two cans of jellied VitaBar soldered together. 

“And here’s the remote,” she says proudly. I bite my tongue as I eye the crude contraption, but sure enough, when she switches it on, the drone comes to life, humming against my back. 

“Can I please ride along? I’m small; you won’t even notice!” She peers up at me with round dark brown eyes, the wind gently blowing the tops of her Afro puffs. 

I shake my head firmly. “No way. For one, Thea would kill me. Two, this isn’t a joyride, it’s my job. Mr. Preston says he wants his Scraps ‘pure.’ I can’t have you wriggling and screeching when I’m trying to channel my emotions. And thirdly, after Thea kills me, she’ll have a droid replica made, Liv two point oh, so she can kill me all over again.”

Celeste pouts. I do feel the teeniest bit of guilt; she did all this for me. If this works and Mr. Preston likes the Scrap, I’ll get her something nice with my earnings. After LifeCorp takes its requisite cut, of course—forty percent off the top. 

In the meantime, the least I can do is give her a good show.

“Fire it up, Celeste!” 

She beams as she mashes the remote’s buttons, and I’m airborne. One foot, then three, then five, hovering above the western tower’s rooftop junk pile. Celeste squeals with delight, her jacket a bright spot surrounded by the dingy gray remains of decades’ worth of furniture, clothing, and other forgotten LifeCorp purchases. At fifteen feet above the roof, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. 

I shake out my hands and lift my wrist screen to my mouth. “Nero, begin Scrap,” I tell the screen’s AI software. The device chirps a confirmation that my EmoProxy neurochip is now making a Scrap: a recording of everything I see, smell, taste, touch, hear, and feel, and all the emotions that go along with those sensations.

I push past the fish smell and center myself on the thrill of weightlessness, the excitement of flight. The wind whooshes in my ears as Celeste zips me from one edge of the Fenway Towers to the other, and I marvel at the labyrinth of winding walkways and bridges that connects the cluster of buildings. A self-made community, built by the Lowers—the people who carry the Metro on their backs but enjoy almost none of its progress. My people. My home. 

In the distance, the sun begins to rise over the Bay, transforming the glittering black water into a fiery orange. The whole of Sector Ten is ablaze. My neighborhood glows as molten gold spills onto the harbor, making the LifeCorp oil rigs off the coast look like gilded monuments. Celeste spins me south. From here, I can see all the way downtown. Sunlight bounces off Boston’s chrome skyscrapers. The Citadel—home to LifeCorp’s police force, the Forcemen–towers over the rest. I have to shield my eyes from the glare, but even I can’t deny the beauty of the polished high-rises that house some of the Metro’s most wealthy—the Uppers. An ache blooms in my chest. Someday we’ll be there, or in a lavish apartment in New York, Philadelphia, or any of the Metro’s other four boroughs, once cities in their own right. I’ve got six thousand credits saved up for proof of income already. Only nine thousand to go. 

“Let’s have some fun, Liv!” Celeste shouts. Before I can respond, I’m hurtling out over the Perimeter, the wide pedestrian avenue that encircles the Towers. The empty road hugs the wall that LifeCorp built around the Towers to contain our sprawl, forcing us to grow in on ourselves—tighter, closer—instead of outward. Celeste whoops as she enters some elaborate combination on the remote, and I do a full flip in the air. We both yelp with glee. My heart hammers against my chest as she flips me over and over. I can hardly breathe, I’m laughing so hard. Mr. Preston’s going to love this. I can already picture his face as he experiences my exhilaration, feels his stomach do somersaults as if he himself were soaring over the Towers. Beats being stuck at a computer sixteen hours a day, that’s for damn sure. 

Over my shoulder, the drone’s exhaust sputters.

 “Uh, Celeste . . . ?”

I dip precipitously to the right. Below me, Celeste’s eyes become saucers.

“Do something!” I shout. 

“I’m trying!” She fumbles frantically with the remote, but it’s not responding anymore. The Towers blur as I tumble toward what I think is the Perimeter. My eyes sting so much from the speeding air I can barely open them. I can’t find the breath to scream as the ground lurches closer. I’m only eighteen. My life can’t end like this. Can it? 

Honestly, what a stupid fritzing way to die.

I’m not sure if Celeste figures something out, or maybe it’s dumb luck, but the right-hand stabilizer suddenly fires just enough for me to reorient myself. I’m still falling, but now I can see my surroundings. Story after story of the Towers whizzes by, each fireescape platform another number in the countdown to oblivion. 

Or maybe a lifeline.

I unclip one strap of the harness, against every survival instinct. Clutching the drone with one arm, I sling the loose strap and pray to whoever’s listening that its clip will catch onto something. 

It works. 

With a thunk, the clip hooks around a railing, jerking me upward, before it slips loose again. My dismount onto the landing below is not gentle, and a protruding rusty bar rips a wide gash in the sleeve of my uniform. But it’s better than splattering onto the sidewalk. 

Dozens of feet above, Celeste peers over a roof ledge at me, panting with relief. I wave to show her I’m alright, then bring my wrist to my mouth. 

“Nero, end Scrap.” 

Reality sets in. I almost died just now. . . . 

If that doesn’t sell, I don’t know what will. 

• • • 

The clothing stall in the Towers is out of EmoProxy uniforms, so I have to settle for a plain gray Lower jumpsuit to replace the amber EmoProxy one I tore on my fall. It might have been faster to patch the hole, but making modifications of any kind to LifeCorp uniforms is strictly prohibited. Even an alteration that small would defeat the purpose of a uniform, I guess. 

Now I’m half an hour behind schedule for my appointment with Mr. Preston, but even that can’t stop me from humming with excitement. The wonder of taking flight, the death-defying plummet —there’s no way my Scrap’s not exactly what Preston’s into. Last time we met, he told me he wanted something “pure.” I can’t think of anything purer than abject terror. Around me, Lowers of all kinds head to their first shift, wearing gray jumpsuits like the one I’ve got on. Most are on their way to LifeCorp’s warehouses and factories, to create and package everything from toothbrushes to televisions—the goods that keep the entire Metro going. Among the sea of gray are a few pops of color: other Proxies like me, members of the lower class who have been mechanically modified to make the Uppers’ lives more convenient so they can squeeze every last drop of productivity from their workday. Each Proxy wears a colored jumpsuit based on their specialty. Unless, of course, you rip a giant hole in one trying to impress a client. 

My wrist screen buzzes. Kez’s smartass grin appears on the screen before I accept the call. He’s handsome, I suppose, but I’ve spent way too much time with him over the past ten years to ever see him as anything but an older brother. 

“Hey,” he yawns as he zips up his reflector-silver SprinterProxy jumpsuit. “Did you take my last VitaBar?” 

I freeze mid-chew. “. . . mo.” Crumbs fly from my mouth. 

“Come on, Liv! My shift starts in twenty. Now I’m gonna be hungry all day. I bet you’ve got more stashed around here somewhere. Somewhere private . . .” He scans the small apartment we share with Celeste, eyes settling on my corner of the single room. 

“David Marquez, so help me, if you go anywhere near my library —” 

“Relax!” He laughs. “I know better than to touch your precious books. Damn, busting out my government name and everything . . .”

“If you’re really out of VitaBars, I’m sure one of your little girlfriends will spot you.” I smile and take another exaggerated bite of the chicken-flavored kelp. “Mmm, tasty.” 

Kez responds with a taunting sneer. “Cute. We heard about your little stunt this morning, by the way. You should’ve seen Thea. I had no idea she knew so many curse words.” 

Whoops. “Damn, those CareProxy instincts are strong. She needs to find a new client, and a new gaggle of Upper kids to watch so she can stop mothering me.” 

We laugh. In the crowd, another CareProxy—judging from his navy blue jumpsuit and kind, tired face—scowls at me. 

I shrink. “I mean, uh—CareProxies are a vital part of our society.” Which is true. I would love to have been raised by someone like Thea, instead of LifeCorp’s Employee Care team, who took custody once my parents’ work leave ran out at the six-month mark. After that trial period, parents decide if they can balance the two—work and childcare. Like most, mine apparently weren’t up to the job.

“Glad you’re okay,” Kez says from the screen. 

“Me too. And I’m sorry about your VitaBar.” I frown. “But it wasn’t your last. When I took it, there was still one left.” 

Confusion contorts the golden skin of his face, blossoming into frustration. “Celeste!” he shouts over his shoulder. The call ends. 

Thirty minutes later I’m on the T’s Green Line as the train glides toward the wealthy Sector One, commonly known as the Estates. After I left the Towers, most of the other Lowers trickled off, either going on the Red Line train to the canneries or to the factories via a fleet of LifeCorp shuttles. While other Lowers work double-shifts for LifeCorp, Proxies scatter throughout the Metro to run someone else’s errands, stand in for someone else’s appointments, or enjoy someone else’s tee time. 

I grab a window seat on the right side of the car so I can take a Scrap of the glimmering Boston skyline as we pass downtown. Decades ago, the subway lines of the T switched to elevated tracks, after sea levels rose too high to maintain the underground lines. 

“Nero, end Scrap,” I say. 

The skyline is a view Mr. Preston has probably seen thousands of times. But other clients of mine—clients I prefer to keep off the official record—aren’t so privileged and might appreciate the scene. Sometimes I feel strange calling these memories Scraps—“for the scrapbook of your life,” the old LifeCorp benefit ads used to say— when the simplest image can hold so much meaning. 

We pull into the Estates station. “Have your wrist screens ready,” the Forceman at the checkpoint grumbles to the handful of nondroid passengers. The lanes at the checkpoint are color coded for each type of Proxy entering the Estates:

Lane 1 in the SprinterProxies’ reflector-silver. 

Lane 2 in the oil-slick black of the RepairProxies. 

Pale pink Lane 3 for the RelaProxies. A couple of them canoodle as they wait in line, clearly on a date for their respective clients. 

Lane 4 is marked by the CareProxies’ soothing deep blue. 

And an amber-colored Lane 5, for the EmoProxies like me. My lane’s the only empty one. EmoProxies are fairly rare, a perk reserved only for LifeCorp’s most senior executives. 

Proxies are the only Lowers permitted in the luxurious Estates— one of the perks tied to our higher productivity scores, along with better pay. The benefits aren’t too bad, if you can get over these corporate thugs—the Forcemen—checking your status at every turn. 

“Hood down,” the Forceman commands as I reach the front of my line. I do as he says, lowering the hood of my jumpsuit and letting my thick black curls fully expand. The guard’s eyes narrow as my ID pops up on his holographic display. His gaze darts from my face to the hovering image as he makes sure I check out: Liv Newman, eighteen, five foot five, brown-black eyes, deep brown skin. He pauses when he gets to my hair, and the part of me that everyone’s curious about, whether they have the gears to ask or not. 

I quirk an eyebrow. “Yes, Officer?” 

He clears his throat gruffly. “You’re out of uniform. That’ll be a penalty of two hundred credits.” 

“It’s not my fault; I was on a job for a client—” 

Before I can finish explaining, he swipes the display, and my wrist screen confirms the fine’s been paid. Make that nine thousand two hundred credits to go until we can afford a home outside the Towers.

“Never seen a Feele—er, an EmoProxy—in person before. How do you sleep with that thing?” He nods to my chip. 

If only I had a credit for every time someone asked me this question. For a second, I regret not following Thea’s advice to wear a twist-out whenever I go through the checkpoints, but that would be an invitation for Forcemen to put their fingers in my hair under the guise of a security screening. No thanks. 

Everyone in the Metro’s got some sort of chip, but most are embedded under the skin. Mine’s a larger unit, a silver disc about an inch and a half in diameter that protrudes from the skin at the base of my skull. Three silver wires connect it to an additional sensor over my left temporal lobe, on the bone behind my ear. It’s an upgraded model, designed to enhance my emotional responses, then capture and transmit those larger data packets. Feelings are more complicated than facts. 

Same way you sleep with that LifeCorp leash around your neck would be my preferred response to the Forceman. But I don’t like to keep clients waiting. 

“You get used to it.” I pull my hood up, tight, and move along. 

The Preston estate is massive—eight townhouses face one another in two neat rows, the wall around them creating a courtyard in the center. In school, they taught us that before LifeCorp formed the Metro by merging every major city from Atlanta up to Boston, multiple families used to live in each of these buildings, in condos barely bigger than the one-room apartment I share with Kez and Celeste. But that hardly seems like enough space for the Uppers, knowing how they like to live: an in-home movie theater, multiple kitchens, a guest home for entertaining—not that anyone ever comes to visit. 

“You’re late,” Sophie, Mr. Preston’s RelaProxy, taunts in a singsong voice as I sprint over the square’s moss-resistant artificial cobblestones. Her pale pink jumpsuit brings out the natural blush on her light brown cheeks. I assume she’s on her way to Mrs. Preston’s house across the courtyard, for a date with Mrs. Preston’s RelaProxy, Marco. RelaProxies stand in for their clients when it comes to maintaining their personal relationships—everything from cuddles to coffee chats. So Sophie meets up with Mr. Preston’s friends and family—or rather, with their Proxies—and transfers her experience to Preston when she’s done. In some ways, it’s a lot like what I do, transferring emotional memories for pay. But the Prestons have such a busy social calendar, I doubt Sophie has any of her own personal relationships to maintain. 

“Still got thirty seconds,” I pant. “Catch you after!” 

“Good luck!” she says. RelaProxies are trained in advanced interpersonal dynamics, and their brains are modified to maximize their empathy response. Who knows if Sophie would actually care if I’m late without her mods, but I’ll take all the support I can get. I sprint past her and into the house, up the grand staircase to Preston’s office. 

“There you are,” he says from his desk in the corner. His light brown skin is tinged with blue from the computer holoscreen’s glow. The dark hollows under his eyes aren’t hidden at all by the patchy concealer he’s applied, which typically matches his skin tone perfectly but today seems too yellow. His hair, as always, is meticulously combed into shiny gray waves. 

“Sorry, I’m late—” I begin, but he shushes me with a hand. He sets a small contraption on top of his desk. It almost looks like a pair of droid hands, except the endoskeleton’s exposed; only the ten finger pads have texture. He activates the device, and it begins moving across the keyscreen, typing words, causing spreadsheets to open and close. 

“Can’t let my score drop. I’m on a tight deadline for this deliverable,” he says. I nod, hoping he won’t go into more detail about his workload. Mr. Preston tried to explain exactly what he does for LifeCorp once—logistics optimization something-or-other . . . I don’t remember—but my eyes glazed over and I started thinking about how many credits I could get for pawning one of his paperweights. 

I sit and wait on the pale mauve couch opposite his armchair. Everything in Mr. Preston’s office has the suggestion of color—the faint lilac walls, the ivory of his shirt and pants—without coming too close to the real thing. Mr. Preston looks away from his screen and rubs his hands together, dark eyes shining bright. “Okay. What do you have for me?” 

My nerves swarm like a cloud of nanobots. When I first started working for Mr. Preston three months ago, he had one request: books. Not the leadership drivel or pop psychology crap that clients have asked me to read in the past. Real books—classics like Brontë and Jemisin. Stuff I never even would’ve heard of, if my crew leader Silas hadn’t smuggled me copies over the years. I could hardly believe my luck. But then, suddenly, Mr. Preston’s taste changed. Instead of books, he wanted experiences. The pure stuff of life, he said. So I began with the usual fare: the latest explosion-riddled action movies, trending articles with lofty new philosophies. Things he’d be able to brag to his friends about. But he refused to pay for any of it. Proxies aren’t technically bound to clients; I would’ve dropped him after the first week for an easier, lower fare, if it hadn’t meant my productivity score taking a hit for turning down a job. Besides, even with LifeCorp’s 40 percent cut, a single sale from him would set my crew up for weeks. All I have to do is crack this latest assignment. But if he doesn’t like the Scraps I’ve brought, he won’t pay today either. And if he doesn’t pay— 

From the corner of the room, an air regulator chimes and puffs a pleasing scent into the air—lavender, maybe? I feel calmer, even though I know it’s not the TranquiliMist’s floral aroma, but the scentless negative ions underneath that relax me. 

Mr. Preston frowns. “You’re nervous?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. The regulator is on sensor mode, triggered by the pheromones our bodies release. In this case, my body. The perfume in the air is all the confirmation he needs to know that I am, in fact, stressed. 

“Just . . . eager to see what you think.” 

The corners of his mouth lift in a tired smile. “Let’s begin, then.” He drags his finger across his temple in a slow semicircle, then taps twice. Words appear before me. 

ARTHUR PRESTON WOULD LIKE TO PAIR. ACCEPT? 

Two taps of my temple, and we’re synced. 

I pull up the Scrap of the drone flight, knowing he sees the same thing. At first, he’s confused by the angle, but I stay quiet and let the Scrap do the talking. The whoosh of the wind as I hover over the Towers. The sensation of floating above the horizon, racing toward the clouds. I wait. When the sun rises and Preston’s breath hitches, I know it’s hit him. The rush. The thrill. The feeling is his as much as it’s mine now. And it’s some of my best work. 

As the Scrap shifts from wonder to danger, he grips the arms of his chair, panic etching his face. I relive every emotion through his eyes; every bolt of terror reverberates in me as he experiences it for the first time. Finally, the Scrap ends, and he opens his eyes. 

“How was it?” 

“That was lovely.” He removes his glasses and cleans them on his shirt. “You love your home—the Towers—very much.” 

It takes every ounce of restraint to control my face. A veritable blockbuster action sequence, and that’s what he got from the Scrap? A trickle of affection as I glanced at the Towers for less than a minute, before plummeting to my death? 

Preston notices my face fall. “You’re upset?” 

I sigh. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m trying, really.” 

“I think that might be the problem,” he says, leaning forward. “Will you do me a favor next time? Keep it simple. Hmm?” A sympathetic pat of my hands punctuates his words. 

Only one problem: I can’t afford to wait for “next time.” I want a better life for our whole crew—Celeste, Kez, Thea, even Silas if he’ll leave—now. I love the Towers deeply, but I know there’s more to life than its messiness and stench and struggle. There must be. Maybe that’s why I do something so ridiculous next. 

“Wait,” I say as he lifts his hand to unpair. “I’ve got one more you might like.” I pull up the new Scrap, the one of the regular ol’ Boston skyline. I’d meant it for . . . less sophisticated clientele. But it’s worth a shot. 

The Scrap’s not even fifteen seconds long, but by the end, Preston’s in tears. I’d be lying if I said I understood why. 

“Excellent. This . . . this is what I want.” 

I eye the regulator to make sure it’s not pumping out goofy gas. “It is?” 

He nods. “Simplicity. A memory without all the . . . artifice. How does five hundred sound?” 

“Five . . . hundred credits? For one Scrap?” It’s double his maximum rate, more than I usually make in three months, even after LifeCorp’s cut. My heart pounds. Mr. Preston stares at me, waiting. 

I clear my throat. “Five hundred sounds fair.” 

“Wonderful.” Casually, he transfers the credits as I try not to float up to the ceiling. 

The regulator chimes and sends out a plume of ions so strong, the citrusy smell of glee is almost palpable. 

Is Preston “eccentric” enough for you now, Kez?

 I think of all the things this money can do for us: for Celeste, a jacket that actually fits; for Kez, some cream for that road rash he swears will heal on its own. And half will be left over for my Liv and Crew Get the Hell Out of Here fund. Nine thousand and fifty credits to go now. 

Mr. Preston checks the time. “I haven’t taken my Mean break for the day yet. Care for a buzz?” 

I pause. “With me?” 

“Why not? We’ve got plenty to spare.” 

This is what Kez means when he says Preston’s “a little off,” I guess. Mean is a productivity drug, a stimulant that makes life shine brighter. Uppers and Lowers don’t take it together. Ever. As far as I can tell, LifeCorp wants us to believe that Uppers don’t take Mean at all. That the lives they’ve carved out for themselves in the Estates— lives full of meetings and promotions and someone else’s thoughts in their heads all day—are enough to sustain them. But I’m not stupid. Anyone who’s felt the rush of Mean for themselves could never turn it down. 

Mr. Preston waits patiently for my answer. I could refuse, but I can tell he’s already noticed the way my grip’s tightened on the chair, the shallowness of my breathing. My body betraying etiquette, betraying me. 

I nod. 

He leads me into a small den next to his office. The sunken floor forms a square pit, filled with large plush cushions, all various hues of pale teal. As soon as we’re seated, a small bot rolls in, a tray on its square back. The injectable triangular vials on the tray are still cold, which means Preston must have a stash somewhere in the house. I can already hear Silas’s voice in my head, planning a raid he swears will change our futures. But I ignore it as Mr. Preston hands me my dose. I won’t tell Silas. Let the Prestons have their stash. Not everything plentiful needs to be plundered.

I tug the patch on the upper arm of my uniform to open it, exposing my bare shoulder. The vial of crystal-clear liquid hisses softly as I click the injector into my soft flesh. It’s a sound I’ve grown to associate with euphoria, the intoxicating buoyancy of this chemical that governs my life. Seconds later, I feel thrilled, hopeful, ecstatic. About everything. About nothing in particular. It’s a good hit. Not the watered-down stuff you get in the Towers. 

Mr. Preston exhales and lowers his own injector, grinning a hair too wide to be natural. “That’s better, isn’t it?” 

“Definitely not worse.” I lean against the cushions and let my eyes drift to the coffered ceiling. Things are working out. Things will work out. 

We both let the Mean lead our thoughts for a few minutes. I plan out my Scraps for my off-the-books client this afternoon, bolstered by the fuzzy, assured feeling the drug provides. Mr. Preston absentmindedly taps his fingernail against the glass vial in his hand. He’s contemplating something, but he won’t say what. At last, he speaks.

“I have an offer for you. A new assignment.” 

I snap back to attention, the need for more credits stirring within. He continues. “There is something I’ve been meaning to go see at least once more before . . .” He frowns at his wrinkled hands. “Well, I suppose discretion is foolish at this point. Liv, I got some bad news from Employee Care today. I’m very, very sick. LifeCorp insists I’m fit enough to work, but I’m under no illusions that the next chapter of my life will be a long one. You’d think LifeCorp would grant an old man a little time off. Time I’ve earned . . .” 

Careful, I lean toward him. “Sir?” 

He’s a million miles away. 

“ ‘. . . and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.’ ” He shakes his head slightly and comes back to the room. “You can return tomorrow with more of what you brought today, and I’ll pay what’s fair. But if you’re interested . . . here are some coordinates.” He swipes his wrist and a map floats in front of me, in my augmented vision. I furrow my brow, working hard to make sense of the image. There are no markers I recognize, no street names. There are barely any streets at all. 

“I don’t understand. Where is this?” I look past the augment, at his face.

“My old lake house. I used to spend every summer there, before the Merger. Out in Sunapee.” He says the last part like it’s supposed to mean something, but it’s a word I’ve never heard before. 

I frown. “Is that a southern borough?” I’ve always wanted to see DC. 

He wavers for a moment. “No. It’s . . . north.” 

“North?” I almost laugh. “There’s nothing north of— Wait.” I do my best to blink away the Mean’s rosy fog as the information begins to weave together. I zoom out on the map. Sunapee—the word even sounds strange in my mind—is a tiny lake town an hour or two’s drive north of the Metro’s northern boundary, which is an hour or two north of where anyone I know has ever been. Beyond LifeCorp’s jurisdiction, beyond the “protection” of the Forcemen. 

Going there would be a death sentence. 

“No one leaves the Metro and lives to tell about it,” I say. 

He grimaces. “That’s not entirely true—” 

“So the stories of feral raiders in the Outerlands are what? Fairy tales?” I’ve heard about the people who resisted LifeCorp’s rule since I was a kid—how they rejected Metro citizenship after the Merger. Turned droids that ventured into their wild woods into mutilated bits of scrap metal with obscenities painted on the side for good measure, and did worse to any human foolish enough to try the same. 

“No. No, the stories are real. But they aren’t . . .” There’s a flash of sadness in his eyes that makes my heart lurch. I make a mental note to review the sensation later, to see if it has any value as a Scrap. What’s the going rate for sympathy these days? 

I stand to leave. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not—” 

“I’ll pay you one hundred thousand credits.” 

Those words, in that order, make no sense. So I walk on. 

“Liv. Stop.” He’s still seated on the cushions. “Listen to what I’m saying. One hundred thousand credits could change your life.” 

It takes my brain a second to catch up, and even then, I know I’m not fully grasping what his offer could mean. Used properly, a hundred thousand credits is enough to hang up being an EmoProxy forever, not to mention move into a nicer place. I wouldn’t qualify as an Upper, but I could leave Boston and settle in a quieter town in the Metro. I picture myself running a cozy little antique bookshop with one of those adorable cat-bots snoozing in a bay window. 

“That’s a lot of cred. To see what?” I ask. 

The stars.”

 Risk my life for more credits than I’ve ever even thought about, to look at the stars? Could he be any stranger? 

“The . . . Okay. And what would you like me to feel when I see the stars?” He shrugs, a twinkle in his eye. “Just . . . be open. To the awe of it all.” Apparently, he can be. 

A part of me says I should refuse this suicide mission. But if I make it back, I’ll have a chance at something much, much more than survival. I could have a life. 

“I can’t leave—” 

His shoulders sag. “Of course. I under—” 

“—today,” I finish. “I have another client this afternoon. Would tomorrow work?” 

Mr. Preston’s eyes light up, from somewhere deeper than the Mean can reach. “Tomorrow’s perfectly fine.”

The Dividing Sky will be released on October 8, but you can pre-order it right now. 

Lacy Baugher Milas is the Books Editor at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter @LacyMB