Zaharah cruised down the central pathway of the Westside arboretum—a half mile of ponciana and lignum vitae stretched from the labs to the administrative complex. She took the meandering path lined with hibiscus and ponciana flowers, past empty benches and lampposts. A ceiling of HID lights glared from three stories up in a mimicry of sunshine, while the vents in the walls popped open and shut to keep the air quality optimal.

The Southshore arboretum was nicer, Zaharah thought, with its grove of pine trees and man-made pond. Though its name was stupid. Southshore sounded like one of those upscale, beach front developments of yesteryear—a place for millionaires to indulge in life's finest luxuries while their employees made them richer.

The Southshore of Denden was no such place. Just one of the two residential districts on this giant metal boat. A millionaire might pop their pearls at the thought of vacationing there. But for her it was home. Sure, being stuck indoors all the time could be maddening, but at least there weren't any pebbles on the pathways.

Zaharah ollied over the manhole at the end of the path and skidded to a stop in front of the administrative complex. The building stretched the height of all three platforms—the only place in Denden with an excuse to do so. The bank, the Director's office, the University's office, and a bunch of other bureaucratic spaces she, thankfully, didn't have to deal with.

Elliot, the Director's assistant, sat on the front steps, twirling a hibiscus flower between his thumb and forefinger. He gazed at her over the top of the red petals and gave a nod. "Good day, Zaharah."

She cringed at the way he said her name, in the staccato way that new androids spoke. The Director had asked her to be patient with him since he was "an imported model not programmed with the Bahamian vernacular and mannerisms."

"I like the hair," he said, as he always did when she changed her style.

She tossed a braid over her shoulder and jogged past him to the open doors of the complex. "Thanks, I grew it myself."

Elliot fell into step with her as she crossed the reception to the stairs. Their shoes squeaked against the floor, the scent of pine polish mixing with cheap air freshener. Two androids sat behind the front desk, while a young girl and her caretaker sat on a couch watching TV.

"I thought everyone rode hoverboards these days," Elliot said as they mounted the steps.

Zaharah wrinkled her nose. "Don't insult me, Elliot. Only talentless hacks hover."

"My apologies. I'm still learning. Your country is very..." He scratched his mop of black hair, as though trying to work the right word from his brain. Or whatever androids had instead of brains. "...different."

"Why doesn't the Director just update your programming?"

"They're testing something new with me. A system that's supposed to pick on cultural norms and mannerisms, and integrate them into my programming. Yesterday I—" He paused at the entrance to the second floor and frowned.

Zaharah looked up and down the hall, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, just the same bland painting of sailboats and seascapes. "What?"

"It's nothing. I hope."

She followed him down the hall, and the moment they banked the corner to the Director's office, the shouting reached her. The door with Director Aleesha Sanders emblazoned on it was shut—a gag muffling the argument.

Zaharah frowned, shifted from one foot to the other, toyed with the trucks on her board. She'd never heard the Director yell at anyone, even when there was an excuse to. Had it not been for the clipped intonation of her voice, Zaharah would've thought it someone else.

The opposing voice, Doctor Cyan's, was a rapid falsetto, the words crashing and piling up on top of one another—hard to separate for an untrained ear.

Elliot raised his hand to knock, then lowered it, then raised it again, looked down at Zaharah as though she was supposed to know what to do. He rapped on the door so politely, she expected him to yell "room service."

The shouting stopped, and silence reigned for a moment before the Director called for her to come in. Zaharah took slow, measured steps into the room, walking as though the floor was ice. While the argument had ended, a buzz lingered in the air, like the static left behind after a lightning bolt touched down.

She couldn't bear to look at the Director, or Dr. Cyan, lest the remnants of their fight lingered on their faces. So she set her eyes on the painting she'd done for the Director. It hung proudly above the desk, too proudly. The top half featured the skyline of the 700, sitting atop the black waters of the Atlantic. And reflected in those waters was the skyline of New Providence before the rise, the once sharp lines of the buildings distorted into wavy forms.

Zaharah remembered how impressed the Director had been with it. Meanwhile, she wanted to rip it from the frame and burn it. Outside of class assignments, she wasn't comfortable sharing her work, but had made an exception, because she needed the money.

"Zaharah," The Director greeted, the warmth in her voice, a far cry from the shouting from a moment ago. She sat with Dr. Cyan near the windows overlooking the arboretum, a steaming pot of coffee and several mugs on the table between them. "Please, sit." Director Sanders gestured to the vacant chair. "How do you like your coffee?"

"Light on the sugar, with non-dairy creamer." Her voice came out a shy whisper. This wasn't her first time meeting with the Director, yet at each one, she got a funny feeling in her gut, as through she'd swallowed a frozen brick. Every conversation they'd had, from the moment Zaharah began physical therapy up until a month ago, was nothing but pleasant, regardless of her body's virulent reaction.

Zaharah passed off the cold feeling as intimidation. The Director was a giant of a woman, not in size but in presence. Her eloquence made the stuffy, pampered royals of times gone sound like a back-alley vagabond raised in the Pigeon Run, and every word she spoke held so much weight, Zaharah thought they might crush her.

Giants care nothing for the ants they step on. She couldn't remember who'd told her that. On occasion, it would pop up in her head like an old dream, but it didn't apply here. The Director was there through her recovery, the physical therapy, acclimating to her new home. She'd even looked after Jade while Zaharah was laid up in the infirmary with a network of tubes stuck to her body.

No, this giant didn't step on ant hills. She made them.

Zaharah accepted the coffee with a smile and a thanks.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice." The Director settled back in her seat, legs crossed, a queen in repose. "I hope I didn't pull you away from anything important."

"N-no. I was helping Juni beta test a new program, and I didn't have anything to do for the rest of the day. I mean, even if I did, it wouldn't be a problem. My schedule is usually flexible." She took a sip of coffee to stop herself from babbling further.

Director Sanders smiled at her as though she was a tiny animal who'd face-planted in the most adorable way. "Briland, hm? I saw it when I came in last night. It's bittersweet to see what we lost to the arrogance and ego of a few weak men. But we'll do what we can to honour what we lost."

Zaharah only nodded, her default response to most of what the Director said. If the Director's words held the weight of a boulder, then hers were a feather, so useless they'd float away—forgotten by the end of the day.

"If I remember correctly, you're graduating next year. Do you have any plans after?" She leaned forward in her seat. "I know of a very prestigious art Academy in the UEC. Their graduates go on to contribute—"

"Or you could let Zaharah decide for herself what she wants to do with her life," Doctor Cyan cut in, a scowl curling her mouth.

Zaharah opened her mouth, but nothing came out. If the Atlantic was merciful, it would burst through Denden's metal walls and sweep her away. Drowning in those black waters would be better than getting caught in the middle of an argument with these two.

If Director was at all offended by the comment, it didn't show. She shrugged a shoulder and sipped her coffee.

"I'm sorry about that, sweety." Doctor Cyan smiled at Zaharah over her cup. "How have you been feeling? Are you keeping up with your diet? I sent Demarkus—"

"She's a year out from therapy, Kass. You don't have to keep doting over her." The Director delivered her interjection with a sugary smile instead of a scowl.

Zaharah cleared her throat. "I'm fine, Doctor, thank you. As for my plans after graduation." She shrugged a shoulder. "I've been saving up my stipends. I'll find a job and move to mainland with Jade, get us our own place."

"Ah, how... audacious. Are you not happy here in Denden?" The Director's tone remained neutral, with no notes of accusation.

"Of course I am," she said, too quick, too loud. "I just... I never planned to stay here forever. It's always been my goal to make a life for myself and my sister."

Doctor Cyan smiled at her, but something flickered over the otherwise innocent expression, too fast for Zaharah to pick up on. "That's very admirable, Zaharah. You'll do well on The 700."

"Now for the real reason I asked you here," Director Sanders said. "How would you like a new arm? One with increased functionality perhaps?"

Zaharah blinked. A new arm. She looked down at her old one with its useless buttons and screen that refused to turn on. It did everything an arm should and hadn't failed her once. Hell, it even survived the accident. A new arm sounded good, but this one was reliable.

"You don't have to decide now," the Director continued. "I'll ask my cybernetics team on the mainland to start working on designs for you to look at. And we'll go from there. No commitment. All right?"

"All right. Thank you, Director." She bit the inside of her cheek. No commitment, yet she'd still feel bad if someone went through all the trouble of designing a new arm just for her to say no.

"My pleasure. I won't keep you or the good Doctor much longer. Say hello to Jade for me."

"I will." Zaharah stood, smiled at the Doctor and Director in turn, and resisted the urge to sprint from the room.