Read Divided for Free Online Page B

slip my shoulder bag onto the ground at my feet, and look around.
    It’s just a meeting room, but it tells me a lot. A large window, as wide and tall as the room, originally made in Jethro Ward—only the best grade of bulletproof gas for Leyton, every square inch without flaw. The large table in the center of the room is a rectangular slab of metal and would have come from Jethro, too, fired smooth and carefully welded together before being trucked in. The two glasses sitting on its surface are filled with water dispensed from the tall column of a purifier located in one corner of the room, set to release fresh, bubbling water piped in from Gaslight. And the smell of leather is in the air; my hand runs along the couch I’m sitting on, feeling the rough yet perfectly serviceable hide delivered from Camden’s farms.
    Nothing here comes from Leyton itself. Of Kersh’s four wards, its main good is less tangible, but far more important: power.
    Too restless to stay seated, I get to my feet and sling my bag back over my shoulder. The strangeness of the situation, of actually being where I am, is like liquid adrenaline working through my veins, making my mind whir into action, making my limbs want to do something.
    I cross the room to stand at the window, looking outside. The lines of the buildings across the street are steady and unwavering, as perfect as if nothing stood between us. I lean closer, puff out a breath to fog up the glass. The misshapen blur that forms is the truth: I really am trapped in here. A bug caught in a web, just like the small husk of the fly I see, its body lying on the sill, easy to miss by even the best of cleaning bots.
    With one slow swipe of my arm, the blur on the window is gone, and I turn around.
    I should leave. Just walk out. I’ve done everything a Kersh Alt is expected to do, barring full-fledged war with the Surround. I fought my Alt and I won. I will be doing a tour soon enough, and now Chord is out there, waiting for me—
    There are voices coming from outside the door, muffled and indecipherable. One must be the Operator, and the other … the other would be the one who matters.
    It’s ingrained instinct that renews a beat of panic I haven’t experienced since seeing my Alt in my nightmare, since the last time I had to kill. My eyes scan the room in a rush, looking for something that can be used as a weapon if necessary. A drinking glass from the little collection next to the water purifier—I can shatter off the edge. The thin bamboo chopsticks the restaurant should’ve tossed in with the noodles—
    Oh, stop it. This is no drugged-out criminal in a seedy back lot in the Grid with a knife to your throat. This is a high-Level Operator from the city’s most respected establishment. A different kind of danger, maybe, but the potential for witnesses is probably too much, even for the Board.
    The door slides open and I stare at the Operator who enters.
    He wears the same gray suit as all the ranking members of the Board. Same pants, same shoes, same shoulder epaulets. Same, same, same. Perfected to the most exacting degree, a single, unified front representing a streamlined system to keep the city safe. Except the handkerchief tucked into his chest pocket isn’t the red of poppies, the color of blood that marks Level 3 Operators, or even the black assigned to Level 2. Instead it’s the color of things that hurt, of blades and bullets. Silver, the signature color worn by Level 1 Operators.
    And his eyes aren’t blank, or even angry, so much as they’re nearly … friendly. I say nearly because I know better than to be fooled so easily by the Board. I know what it’s like to have to hide a secret. Beneath that thin veneer of warmth, it’s still there, no matter how cleverly masked and disguised—infinite emptiness. It’s what all Operators need to be in order to do what they do. Otherwise they could be us, or we could be them … and I’ve already done something too close to