“I know, but, like, before that. The way you taunted him? It’s like you were trying to pick a fight.”
“I wasn’t trying to. They were being jerks. They got what they deserved.”
Petey shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s your birthday, or if it was just having a couple of pretty girls around.”
“My birthday doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Diego said. “Come on, what’s so wrong with giving punks like Fish a bit of their own medicine?”
“You sound like Paige,” Petey said.
“Well, she knows how to stick up for herself.”
“Yeah, well, I just don’t want to spend the rest of the year having to watch my back. You know Fish won’t let it go.”
“Let him try,” Diego said.
“Great,” Petey muttered.
They were silent for the rest of the ride.
Diego hopped up onto the dock. A steady breeze whipped at his hair. Gulls circled overhead, making shrill calls. Diego looked out over the harbor and saw dark clouds on the horizon.
“Get her home safe, okay?” Diego said, slapping the side of the Goldfish. “Stay ahead of that storm.” He was second-guessing the idea of leaving such a prized invention, not to mention the pair of gravity boards in the trunk, in Petey’s not-always-sure hands, but he didn’t have time to get the Goldfish home and still make the ferry.
“Sure thing,” Petey said. “I got it. See ya tomorrow.”
As the Goldfish puttered off, Diego made his way through the crowds of people and cargo. Different languages tumbled over one another, and Diego caught a hundred smells: the sour sweat of livestock, the sweet burn of frying food, a burst of exotic spice, a flash of citrus.
He made his way between piles of crates and around break-dancers and a brigade of Napoleonic soldiers playing cards, carts heaped with furs. A band of Algonquin warriors inspected a caged beast: something like a rhinoceros but with three horns.
He boarded the hulking ferry as its horn sounded across the harbor.
“Diego!”
Diego was surprised to see a young man standing on the dock, waving in his direction. As he stepped down, he tentatively waved back.
The man smiled and put out his hand. “I’m George Emerson Jr., but you can call me Georgie. It’s great to finally meet you!”
Diego shook his hand, wondering if Georgie was going to be anything like his sister. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“Splendid that our fathers get to join forces, wouldn’t you agree?” Georgie said as they crossed the busy platform.
“Pretty cool,” Diego said.
“I’m looking forward to seeing this retrofit completed,” Georgie said. “It’s been painstaking work out here, that’s for sure. But more interesting than hitting the books back in London. I hear they brought you in to drive the bot. You must be an ace operator.”
“I’m okay,” Diego said. This Georgie wasn’t half bad.
“I appreciate your modesty,” Georgie said. He lowered his voice. “But if you want my advice, don’t sell yourself short to my father. He can be tough to take, especially when he smells uncertainty.”
“Thanks,” Diego said. “Actually, I’m really good.”
Georgie patted him on the back. “That’s the spirit.”
They reached the center of the open area, where George Emerson Sr. stood beside Santiago near a neat stack of eight large mechanical steam converters. Diego recognized his father’s work, now being replaced with the single Goliath converter that Emerson had designed.
“Careful with those pressure regulators,” George said curtly to two of Santiago’s workers. “And you there,” he barked, pointing at another man who was preparing the housing. “Do you even speak English? I said to scour that piping, not give it a massage.”
Diego was surprised to hear Emerson speaking to his father’s men that way. He watched Dad for a reaction, but Santiago only glanced up, then back at his clipboard.
“Hi, Dad,” Diego said.
“Oh hey, son.” Santiago rubbed his head. “George, this is Diego, our driver for today.”
George glanced over. “The prodigy, huh?” He gave Diego only a passing glance before returning to the clipboard. “You sure he’s up to this? It’s not a toy we’re installing.” His eyes flashed to the massive orange steam locomotive retrofitted with pistons and gears. “I would have preferred someone a bit more . . . qualified.”
Diego was about to stick up for himself when Santiago’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“Diego can handle it.”
Emerson lowered the clipboard, still frowning. “Only my top drivers in the Royal Engineering Corps are rated for a class-three loader. Has your boy completed any formal training?”
Diego glanced at his dad. Santiago’s lips pursed, but he breathed deep and spoke diplomatically. “I can assure you that your steam converter is in the best of hands.”
Come on, Dad, Diego thought. He wished Santiago would give this arrogant man a piece of his mind.
“Well . . . ,” George scoffed. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Your drivers wouldn’t have the first clue how to pilot that Centauri loader bot,” Diego blurted. “My father designed it specifically for this station. You have to know what you’re doing, handle it right. Tear the wrong thing out and you could blast us all to pieces.”
“How dare you speak to me like that, you insolent whelp!” George bellowed. “Mr. Ribera, if you can’t control your crew, I can pull my team and take my converter back home with me.”
Santiago’s hand closed around Diego’s arm. “My apologies, Mr. Emerson.” Santiago yanked Diego away, guiding him across the platform toward the foreman’s office.
Once the door had closed, Santiago threw up his hands. “Diego! What has gotten into you? Do you realize who you were talking to?”
“Yeah,” Diego said, “a real blowhard.”
“George Emerson is the chief technical officer of the—”
“I know who he is, Dad! But that doesn’t mean he can talk to you like he did! Why are you defending him? You’ve done more for New Chicago than he’s ever done for his home. Why do you let someone like him push you around? Why do we even have to use someone else’s stupid converter when yours are twice as good?”
“That may or may not be true,” Santiago said. “There is always something to be learned from cooperation and sharing ideas.”
“Not