Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I finish up my meal and head back to the office. I suppose I should check out the dorm, but I don’t really want to go back into any shared spaces. I want to get my own apartment. Or a room somewhere. That will have to wait some weeks, probably. A few people have given me tips on delivery, though. Maybe, if I do enough deliveries, there’ll be enough to rent a place just on tips alone.
I come back to the office with a chocolate sundae in a plastic cup, which I slide across to Clint. I get the feeling he’s the sort of guy who appreciates random acts of dessert.
His look of unexpected surprise and sunshine smile proves me right.
“Thanks,” he says. “That’s real nice of you. Keep this up and I might learn your name.”
I laugh, though I know he’s not actually joking. I don’t think Clint can risk getting too attached to most riders.
“Delivery just came in,” Clint says. “Rest of these layabouts won’t work after midnight at the moment, but it’s marked urgent. They’ve paid the rush fee. You’ll get that bike much sooner if you pick up jobs like this. Check your wrist.”
I turn my arm over to look at the interface that links in with the D2G computer. The address comes up on it, along with a line map guiding me as to the best way to reach it.
The delivery is going to one of the richest areas in Eclipse City, not all that far from the palace. It’s a big house that looks out over the river. Places like that are worth millions. They usually have private couriers.
“Is this legit?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because…” I stop myself from finishing the sentence as it formed itself in my brain. Because there’s no way anybody with money would want some ratty-looking courier driving up on a garish yellow bike and yelling about their delivery being ready.
“Just do it,” he says. “We don’t ask questions. We take the ticket and the delivery box and we take the box to the place on the ticket. Don’t start overthinking this.”
“Alright.” I turn to walk away. “Clint?”
“Yeah?”
“When do you go off shift?”
“I don’t,” he says.
“When do you sleep?”
“Whenever I want,” he says. “I sleep in the chair. I stop breathing if I lie down in bed.”
I nod. “That’s kind of beautiful. Always on the job, not needing anything but…”
“That delivery is going to be late, and your main rating is going to drop,” he says.
“My main rating?”
“Clients can rate. That’s what you see on your app. The system also rates by quickness of pick up, delivery efficiency, and some other metrics that are unique to Delivery 2 Go.”
“Really? What’s my rating right now?”
“Thirty-two point four,” he says.
“Is that good?”
“It’s now thirty-one point two,” he says. “You want to stand around asking more questions, or do you want to raise that rating?”
I scoot out the door pretty damn quick. The idea of a rating system is pretty good incentive to a brain like mine. I like immediate feedback, and the system does it.
I check my arm band as I get on my bike. There’s a little number there that’s starting to go down pretty quick. If it goes all the way to zero, I lose rating. If I deliver before the timer runs out, I get a bonus.
I kick the bike into life and I hurtle across the city, thinking of absolutely nothing besides getting this delivery where it’s supposed to go.
The house I’m delivering to turns out to be more of an estate. There are big gates that open for me as I approach, and a long driveway that goes up a sweeping curve and has fancy bushes and lights lining the way.
The house itself is massive. I knock on the door, because this package is signature required. The delivery won’t actually count until someone puts their name down for it. That sucks, because time is running out.
The door opens painfully slowly. I find myself looking at the lanky figure of an old-fashioned butler in a suit. That’s wild, for him to be dressed so formally so late at night. I’m quite curious as to what’s in the package, but it has already been impressed on me that you never, ever try to find out what is in the box.
“Come in,” the butler says.
“I’m supposed to leave the package with the signer and go.”
He nods, understanding. “Cook has an overflow of cupcakes,” he says. “And Master will sign for the package.”
My stomach is growling again. I must be growing. Or maybe working really does work up an appetite.
“Alright,” I say. “Just as long as I get that signature.”
I let the butler lead me into the house, which I feel very out of place in. This is how really rich people live. The academy is fancy, but it is bare bones in the interior, except for a few places. This place is what I’d call fully and excessively furnished.