EXCERPT
I had 22,280 days to live. That was all the time I would get, whether I liked it or not. The clock never lied. The brass and steel of my lifeclock embedded in my wrist ticked on despite my mental whirring and purring, and I yanked my blue coverall sleeve down to mask the annoying tick tock of my heartbeat.
Returning my attention to the engine in front of me, I asked, “What’ve you got today for me, then?” I popped the hood of the steamer open and watched the faulty lines cross where they shouldn’t and meet where they should, with nothing transferring. “Hmmm . . .” I rubbed sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Seems you’ve got yourself all twisted, little buddy. Don’t worry, we’ll have you fixed up in no time.” As if in answer, the steamer chugged and whined, puffing a dirty cloud of old, used air in my face—clearly on its last legs. But I couldn’t return it to Old Mags like this; it was the only way she could see her grandchildren over in Prago City.
I spent all afternoon untangling the steam lines, trying to put them back together in a way that resembled the older models, but this thing was built before I was born and I couldn’t figure out how to line everything up to the radiator.
“Liquid toffee, El,” a synthetic voice croaked out from my desk.
“Ah, sweet toffee.” The bitter and sweet mixture always got my heart pumping.
IoN’s rusted, bronze body no larger than my head whizzed through the air with his new thrusters, his arms dangling behind as he raced back to the kitchen.
“Careful, IoN! You’ll knock something off the shelves if you don’t watch those arms.”
“Well,” he said as he whizzed back out with a can of compressed air, “if you did not pack them full with so many”—he paused and pulled an old project I’d been trying to work on last month from the shelf—“doodads, then I would not have a problem.”
He was always like this, moaning and complaining about the state of the garage these days. But with Dad gone, I had to step up and take over the business—my stepmother wouldn’t want to ruin her perfect new manicure my earnings paid for—and that meant there was no one to help clean up. The shelves on the metal and wood walls had stopped floating some time ago. I had since given up fixing their thrusters and nailed them to the walls the old-fashioned way.
“Just be careful,” I chuckled.
His small, hemispherical body whizzed around the garage, picking up all the tools I’d left lying about this morning after fixing my neighbor’s Instacaff mug. Business had been a bit slow recently—or, as my stepmother liked to remind me, nonexistent. The garage used to shine in the middle of downtown’s business park on level zero; even some of the rich would come to use Dad’s services. “He’s the best in the business,” they’d say, and I’d coo and wonder at his magnificence. Now, it was nothing but a scrappy old building with a broken sign the sun didn’t even reach since they’d built the city’s new level twenty-one a couple of years ago. We’d barely had any sunlight reaching us before, but twenty-one’s entertainment center blocked out the meager shaft of light that used to flicker our way from 11:00 a.m. until 1:00 p.m. every day. Besides, its white marble and old cog design was an eyesore I could do without. I hated the damn sight of it every time I stepped outside.
“Mom to Cinderella,” the radio echoed across the garage, dispelling my thoughts.
I cringed. I hated that name and she knew it, but I was reminded of the warning my stepmother gave me this morning before leaving our apartment: “Cinderella, darling, don’t forget to make some actual money today, or I’ll be forced to resort to grounding you.” She booped my nose, smiled that cruel, frustrating smile at me, and walked to the local spa for her morning massage.
As if grounding me would help pay the bills. I was the only one working!
“Cinderella!”
I snapped out of the daymare that was her plastered-on face and ran to the radio receiver. “Yes, Phyllis?”
“Cinderella!” the radio crackled again, forcing her voice into octaves even higher than her fake personality would usually reach. “How many times must I tell you to call me ‘Mom’ or ‘Mother.’” She sighed over the receiver. “Really, Cinderella, I simply cannot keep telling you.”
“Sorry, Mother.” My voice retained its usual nondescript tone, hiding anything and everything she might use as leverage over my life. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, now that you’ve actually asked.” She coughed to clear her throat. “I may have a job for you. Someone sent us a letter requesting your assistance at the Dome on level eighteen.”
About the Author—
great giveaway!
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