“ESCU is Eastern Seaboard City University,” Sliv said, bathed in the pale blue glow. “And this thing’s an old course-work database. Research junk and homework assignments and stuff like that. It’s a few years old—they stopped using ’em when most of their students got hardcoded.”

Mistletoe scanned the page. There was a heading at the top:

COURSE # E-56.8

NAVIGATING THE UNISON FREELANCE MARKETPLACE

PROFESSOR DEIRDRE O’HANLON

Deirdre. The second D Jiri mentioned in his notes?

Mistletoe knew exactly one thing about Eastern Seaboard City University: it was located above the canopy.

“I need to get topside,” she said.

The course data vanished. Sliv pulled a long strand of hair from behind his ear and began to roll it idly between his thumb and forefinger. “We got foraging planned for tomorrow night. You’re welcome to come.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and my gang.”

“You’re not in a gang.”

“Yeah, I am. We’re called the”—he glanced at Nelson, then Mistletoe, then the ESCU course database—“Watchmakers.”

“Great name.”

“Thanks. It’s new. Like yours.”

“I need to go up now, though.”

He fiddled with another strand of hair and eyed her curiously. “Okay, Anna Mistletoe.”

“It’s just Mistletoe.”

“Two conditions. One: you tell me why you’re in such a hurry to get topside. Two: whatever you have to do up there, you take me with you.”

“One: I can’t. Two: I also can’t.”

“Thought you’d say that. It’s a guy, then?”

This caught her off guard. “What? No, it’s not—ma buh, Sliv, this has nothing to do with…” She sighed. “It’s not about a guy.” She thought for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. “Do you know where you come from?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. The gear hand rested comfortably in the crook of his elbow. His sleeveless black shirt exposed the tattoo of a melting clock on his right shoulder.

“Same place as you,” he said. “Little Saigon.”

“Uh-huh. And you know who your parents are?”

“Sort of.”

She stared at him. He looked away.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re tracking down your people.”

I’m tracking down myself, she thought—but said, “That good enough for you?”

“Yeah,” he said, after a while. “That’s good enough for me.”

* * *

The entrance to the airlock at the edge of Rio II was strewn with crumpled cans, greasy blankets, and soiled clothes. No wonder this place had a gnat problem. Mistletoe rested a hand on Nelson’s handlebar and listened to the familiar subcanopy sounds, isolating each specific curse, laugh, and engine roar in case it was the last time she ever heard it. She didn’t know what scared her the most: flash-coolant or the chance that she’d never see these streets again. She thought of Ambrose, in the same situation, swapping his topside life for a subcanopy one.

“The scoot stays,” Sliv said.

“I figured.”

“Won’t fit,” he explained.

“I said I figured.”

She let go of the handlebar, thinking of all the afternoons she’d spent tipping Nelson through the trapdoor of her balcony, tearing down the stack, bouncing into the streets. The day Jiri had brought him home, he’d been gleaming, despite the missing chunks of paint and tarnished chrome. She felt like she was ditching her best friend.