“Well, we now know some other psychic engineers also created some weapons,” Sierra said

“Griffin Chastain and Crocker Rancourt, working in their lab at the Fogg Lake facility.”

Sierra nodded and ate another chunk of the baguette. “I keep wondering where those weapons have been all this time.”

“I’m guessing they were found quite recently. If the Rancourts had been hiding a cache of weapons all these years, I think Victor and Lucas would have figured it out.”

They finished the meal in silence. When they were done, Sierra packed up the picnic things, secured them in a baggie and stowed them in her pack.

“I don’t suppose you brought breakfast, too?” North asked.

“Sorry. I was assuming that the cheese and bread would last a couple of days if necessary.”

“Instead you ended up sharing them with me.” North smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be happy to give you a couple of nutrition bars and an energy drink in the morning.”

“Yay.” Sierra fastened the pack. “Got any idea what you’ll do when this situation is finished?”

“Now that I’ve got my talent back, I’ll probably continue working with my cleaner team.”

Sierra gave him a shrewd look. “But that’s not really what you want to do with the rest of your life, is it?”

“It’s a job,” North said. “You?”

“Working as a Vault agent is a job, but no, I don’t want to do it much longer. I really want to find my calling, North. I feel I was meant to do something more meaningful than delivering hot artifacts.”

“Maybe some of us don’t have a calling.”

“My dad says if you want a calling it means you have one.”

“I thought I had one once,” North said.

“Being a badass Foundation cleaner?” Sierra asked. “What made you think that was your calling?”

“I saw it as a way to clear the family name. There are a lot of people in the Foundation who believe my grandfather was a traitor. I thought working as a cleaner and taking down the bad guys might wipe away the stain on my family’s name.” North shrugged. “But it doesn’t work that way, not when it comes to reputations. Nothing I’ve accomplished has changed the legend of my grandfather.”

Sierra smiled and quoted softly.

“As if my sense of self,” you claim,

“Has drifted into air,

And nothing that I try to do

Brings credit to my name.”

North looked at her. “That pretty well says it all. What’s it from?”

“‘Hope and Love,’ a poem my dad sent to me just before I met you.”

“What’s the rest of the poem?”

“There’s some advice about attending and listening so that you can hear the voice calling to you. The poem is on my phone, but phones don’t work in this atmosphere. I’ll read the whole thing to you when we get a connection.”

“Okay.” North tried to figure out how to ease into the conversation he needed to have. “There’s something else we should talk about,” he said.