Harmonic Read Free Page B

probably different than mine, but the result is the same—a dead end.
    She came here from Baltimore two years ago for her apprenticeship. I did plenty of data runs my first year, but once we met, they didn’t feel like a chore. Apprentices have no time to themselves, especially Cleavers, because there’s no end to entropy. Still, we found time, stealing away from the rest of the world whenever we could. I had my work, and we had each other, and we were happy.
    For a while.
    You don’t get to be the best by doing the minimum. And when my ranking slipped six months ago—from first position to third—I had to choose: Laurel or the job.
    Two choices, one future.
    I couldn’t see a way to fit them both in, and I chose the one I’d been raised to do. I was a Walker first and a girlfriend second.
    I ended us, as sharp and final as a cleaving. If you’re going to cut off a limb, the cleaner it is, the faster it heals.
    So I’ve heard, anyway.
    But that’s all interpretation. The facts are simple: I loved Laurel and she loved me, but I loved work more and she didn’t love being second. Since then, I’ve avoided the Archives, mutual friends, or anything that might tempt me to reconsider. The choice is made, the past is locked in place.
    I’m the top Walker in my cohort, and that’s enough. It has to be.
    And I can handle seeing her again. To prove it, I stop at her desk before I leave.
    â€œHow are you doing?”
    â€œFine,” she says, the word clipped and flat.
    â€œGood,” I say, but she’s not fine, and it’s not good, and I know that we are one more thing I can’t fix. I shift the books, trying to relieve the strain on my arms. “I should get these back to Lockport. He’s going to wonder what’s taking so long.”
    Her eyes narrow. “Yeah. We wouldn’t want to disappoint.”
    I’ve disappointed enough people to last a lifetime, but I say, “That’s not fair.”
    â€œNo,” she agrees. “But what is?”

CHAPTER THREE
    L ockport is gone when I get back to the office. Apparently the data run is less urgent than he suggested, which confirms my belief something is up.
    I set the reports and maps outside his door. I’m only halfway through the list, but I can’t make myself go back to the Archives. Taking the easy way out is a luxury, and today I allow it. Wrinkling my nose at the half-eaten doughnut Bryn left behind, I sit down and begin paging through the reports I’ve brought from home.
    Break analysis can’t hold my attention, which has scattered in a million glittering directions, like a child’s sparkler. Laurel’s had that effect on me since the first time we met, a crackling, brilliant, breathtaking light in the darkness.
    The problem is that sparklers don’t last long. They burn out, and you’ve got nothing to show for it.
    The Consort doesn’t have a problem with me, or any other Walker, being gay. They care about choices, and liking girls is a characteristic, not a choice. It’s my talent that matters, not who I kiss.
    That’s the official line, at least.
    Unofficially, it’s a different story. The sacred duty of a Walker is to protect the Key World. It’s a task that grows more difficult each day, as the population grows and the Echoes increase exponentially. There are more than six billion people in the world and only sixty thousand Walkers. We can’t keep up.
    Which is why the second sacred duty of a Walker is to reproduce. Technically, I can do this. But there are . . . logistical issues, and everyone knows it.
    It shouldn’t matter, but sometimes I can’t help feeling less. As if who I love, and my willingness to pass along the Walker gene, matters more than my Walking. I don’t know if Walkers who can’t have kids—or who don’t want them—feel this way. I’ve never met one, and I haven’t