Brin’s last morning at the Gate began with someone else’s mistake.
A message case for the eastern road had been put beneath a southbound load. The seal was right, the address legible, and the wrong route mark copied neatly onto the outside cover. It was the sort of error he had learned to distrust because everyone could point to something they had done correctly.
He lifted the case out and put it on the dispatch table.
Sivi looked at the mark, then shut her eyes.
“I copied the old turn.”
“You copied what was there,” Brin said. “The turn changed. We didn’t move the old board.”
They moved it together.
Harl, who would take the evening shift, made a new cover while Sivi struck through the obsolete route. Brin watched them check the destination against the day’s actual carrier, then left the case in their hands.
