Page 129 of The Atom Between Us

I raise an eyebrow. “For what? We just got here.”

“Exactly.” Maven grins, exposing a flash of metal from an old incisor crown. “Fresh blood means fresh ideas.” They glance at Kang. “And Authority knows the other side’s playbook.”

Kang’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t bite.

“Is this about the node?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

Maven shrugs. “What isn’t? Rumour is Petrov’s running hot. If we move now, we can catch them with their pants down.”

My shoulder aches, right on cue. “Fine,” I say. “We’ll be there.”

“Eighteen hundred, mess hall. Don’t be late.” Maven pivots and melts into the flow of bodies, already barking at some poor soul about the colour-coded bins.

Kang watches them go. “They always like this?”

“Only when they’re sober,” I say. “When they’re drunk, they hug.”

He makes a face. “Noted.”

We keep moving, weaving through knots of workers until the job board by the old hydroponics lab lists us for “debris control” and “reclamation,” which translates to trash duty. Rosie meets us at the service hatch, handing each of us a pair of gloves and a grainy plastic face shield.

“Don’t let Maven get to you,” she says, voice pitched low. “They like making people jump.”

I nod, but my mind is already on the work. I remember the old Authority doctrine: stay busy, stay sane.

We spend the next hour hauling bags of wet garbage down to the sub-basement, where the composters convert it into a thick, stinking slurry. The smell is indescribable—something between dead rats and a field hospital during a blackout. The gloves do nothing.

Kang doesn’t complain, but his eyes narrow with every trip. By the fifth run, he’s stopped scanning for threats and started scanning for shortcuts.

“You think they give all the newbies the shit jobs?” he asks, wiping a streak of grime from his forehead.

I flex my hand, feeling the ache in my fingers. “No, just the ones who look like they might kill someone if they stay idle too long.”

He grunts, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

On the way back from the last load, I catch a glimpse of the kids again—same cluster as last night, now dragging a busted water heater down the hall. They see Kang and fall into line behind him, mimicking his stride, faces set in exaggerated Authority scowls.

Kang ignores them at first, but one of the braver girls peels off and plants herself in front of him.

“You’re supposed to salute,” she says, chin lifted.

Kang stares down, deadpan. “Says who?”

“Manual says so,” she retorts, then mimes a stiff, two-fingered salute. The other kids giggle.

Kang hesitates, then gives her the sloppiest, laziest version of the gesture I’ve ever seen. The girl beams, then runs back to her squad, already plotting her next attack.

I watch the scene, something tight and old tugging at my chest. The world may be ending, but here, the game is still alive.

We finish the haul and check in with Rosie, who sends us to the old rec room to clear out debris from last week’s ceiling collapse. The place is a disaster: broken stools, shattered crates, a sea of empty beer bottles and twisted bits of metal. The light is bad, filtered through a haze of old cigarette smoke and the orange sputter of a single oil lamp.

We start by shoving the big stuff to one side. Kang uses a broken broom handle as a lever, prying loose slabs of ceiling with surgical precision. I sweep glass and dust into makeshift piles, careful to keep pressure off my left arm. The work is monotonous, but it clears my head — and makes me almost forget about tonight’s meeting.

We’re halfway through the room when I notice something off about the wall behind the bar. The concrete is newer here, patched with a different colour mortar. There’s a seam running down the middle, just wide enough to catch a fingernail.

I rap it with my knuckle. Hollow.

“Kang,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You see this?”