Ten Thousand Skies Above You Read Free Page B

answer questions from the physics faculty for almost three hours. The president of theuniversity has pleaded with Mom and Dad not to issue any public statements about the Firebird project for the time being. So far they’ve agreed, even though reporters have kept calling, and their questions have become more pointed, suggesting the public mood has shifted from breathless anticipation to doubt. Wyatt Conley hasn’t made any public statements either. As far as anyone in the general public knows, he’s still going about his usual routine, a thirty-year-old CEO who wears jeans instead of stuffy suits. His boyish face grins from beneath his curly auburn hair on the covers of business magazines. He even agreed to continue providing funding for my parents’ research going forward—or so he told the dean, who passed this info along to us probably hoping we’d decide we were just being paranoid jerks about the guy.
    The other side of Conley lies just beneath that glossy surface.
    Not long after that meeting with the physics department, we got our first visit from the general counsel of Triad Corporation.
    Her name was Sumiko Takahara. If Wyatt Conley ran a global business while wearing blue jeans, it was because he had people like this behind him—armored with business suits and legalese. Ms. Takahara stood in our house as if she couldn’t believe she’d been sent on an errand this pedestrian; no doubt she spent more time suing megacorporations than talking to academics seated around a table that had been painted in rainbow swirls by me and Josie when we werelittle kids. Despite this, her professional demeanor never faltered.
    â€œThe folders before you represent Mr. Conley’s best offer,” she said. Her gray business suit had a slight glimmer to it, like the skin of a shark. “You’ll find paperwork regarding several Swiss bank accounts, one for each of you. The amounts of money within—”
    â€œWould stun a maharaja,” Theo finished for her, then whistled, like, wow . Paul shot him a look, and Theo shrugged. “It’s true.”
    Ms. Takahara seemed encouraged. “If Miss Caine will accept Triad’s offer of employment, I’m instructed to turn these accounts over to you, effective immediately.”
    My mother handed her folder back unopened. “In other words, this is the price Wyatt Conley has set on our daughter,” she said. “His offer is declined.”
    The chill in Mom’s voice would’ve cooled Siberia in winter. To Ms. Takahara’s credit, she wasn’t fazed. Instead, she looked at me. “The offer is Miss Caine’s to accept or refuse.”
    I slid my folder across the table, back to the lawyer. “Then tell Mr. Conley that Miss Caine refuses.”
    Finally Ms. Takahara hesitated. She couldn’t have seen many people turn down that kind of money. “Is that all you have to say in reply?”
    I thought it over. “You can also tell Conley to bite me.”
    So that’s how that conference ended.
    Ms. Takahara brought the next offer directly to my parents at the university, supposedly for them to pass along tome. But Conley was trying to bribe them with something they’d value far more than money—this time, he promised information.
    â€œAll the research from the Triadverse’s Firebird project,” my mother said that night as we stood in line for pizza at the Cheese Board Collective. “He promised he would share everything they’d learned so far. Experimental data, theoretical work, every bit of it.”
    That research had won the Triadverse version of my mother a Nobel Prize. “What did you guys say?
    â€œHonestly, the nerve of the man. The Triadverse is only a few years ahead of us. We’ll catch up.” In her calm, precise voice, my mother added, “Therefore we told Conley to stuff it.”
    I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t help thinking that