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Cos free is how I feel..."
The boys all clapped, while Octavia fought not to laugh at how awful it was. These boys didn't know the first thing about Peel. The old racist would roll over in his grave if he heard anyone rapping about him. He'd been one of the shooters in the Pinjarra Massacre, for fuck's sake.
"You do know Thomas Peel was a racist rich guy, don't you?" she blurted out.
As one, they turned to glare at her.
One boy drew himself up. "I'm doing my PhD on Peel's life. I think I know him better than you could."
Before Octavia could respond, another kid piped up, "And I'm doing mine on a musical production of the colony's early history. My dad's friends with the Packers, so Crown are already interested in hosting the performance when it's ready."
"We've already applied for a grant from the Bicentennial Council for it, and my dad's on the Council, and he says we're guaranteed approval, especially with all the support we already have," sneered the awful rapper.
Heaven help the little shits. If they ever made it to the stage, the arts community would rip them to shreds.
"Good luck with it, then," she said, logging out of the computer so she could get the fuck out of there.
As if reading her mind, her phone rang and she answered without even looking.
"Is this Otto?"
She hesitated.
The guy on the other end didn't. "Look, the security system you installed isn't working. You better get down here quick, because no one can get into the clubhouse and the president's getting really pissed."
He hung up.
Octavia blew out a breath. Back to the motorcycle club it was, then. Was it wrong that she found the bikies better company than the wannabe boy band in the media lab?
Still, she wasn't stupid. A bunch of angry men was still dangerous, even if she knew she wasn't responsible for whatever was wrong with their system. It had worked fine when she'd left, so they must have done something.
She sent out a prayer to the universe, to help her fix whatever they'd done without anything else going wrong.
THIRTEEN
The sun had barely set when Harlow heard Octavia's call. He was in the air at the speed of thought, heading inland.
He found her car parked outside a building surrounded by high walls, with bars on all the windows. Like a prison or a military fort. Lined up outside it were a number of two-wheeled conveyances that bore a passing resemblance to the swiftwalker he'd seen someone riding in Glasgow, but if the swiftwalker was a deer after a long, hard winter, these things were fatted hogs, ready for slaughter. Did these perhaps possess an engine, like Octavia's car?
The garrison of this fortress – for the men outside looked like fighters – stood with their arms folded beside the conveyances, with the exception of one man who stood over Octavia, shouting at her.
How dare he try to intimidate a lady like that?
Harlow dropped to the road, folding his wings behind him, and marched into the fray. He strode past the garrison to stand at Octavia's shoulder, where he could meet the surprised gaze of the bully.
"Who are you?" the man demanded.
Octavia glanced back. Her eyes widened slightly at his appearance, but she recovered quickly. "This is Harlow. He's my assistant." She shrugged. "Now, do you want me to get to work on fixing your problem, or do you want to shout some more? I do charge by the hour, you know."
The man's face turned red. "This is your fault, so you'll be fixing it for free, or my boys will – "
Harlow stepped forward, so he stood toe to toe with the man. "I'd let the lady work, if I were you."
The man stepped back, then jerked his head at Octavia. "You, fix things. And you...do you know who I am?"
Harlow shrugged.
The man snapped his fingers. "Boys, show him."
