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13: Deva
13: Deva Deva Deva strode across the landing pad, the soft buzz of adrenaline boosting her confidence. It was already too hot, and she knew she’d made the right decision in not bothering with a pack. Why bother, when her light jacket—more protection from the sun’s rays than a thermal layer—had large pockets. She had a small water canteen, a food-bar, a flimsy with a map of the city, and, secured in an inside pocket, she had her screwdriver. And in another pocket, Deva had the little gift from Piran. It was small, about finger-length, with a bonding-strip underneath. He’d given it some fancy-sounding name, but Deva thought of it as the bug. He’d said it would latch on to the museum’s system, so long as she placed it close to a terminal. Then it would pull as much data as it could. H
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