It seemed like such a simple word for something that was supposed to be utterly terrifying, painful, horrific. Michael had never been through it, of course, but the stories out there were awful, and even if only half of them were true—and those exaggerated—Squeezing was not a pleasant experience.
The process itself was just like it sounded. Your Aura, wrapped tightly in Hider codes, would be jammed through a space the width of one line of programming. Even knowing all he did, he didn’t quite understand how the process worked, but in many ways it was a literal thing. To avoid the massively complex firewalls protecting Lifeblood Deep from outsiders, and to avoid detection, you had to squeeze yourself through a virtual crack in the wall. Most people described it as trying to walk through a wall by stretching yourself out so much that you fit between the atoms. It sounded impossible, but in the world of code, you could do just about anything.
As long as you were willing to suffer the consequences.
And evidently, Agent Weber had decided that Michael and his friends were willing.
The bathroom door creaked open, then thumped shut.
“Michael?”
It was Bryson.
“Yeah?” Michael mumbled. Did they really have to go? Now? Couldn’t they get one more night’s sleep? He laid his head in his hands.
“We need to get some more fiber in that diet of yours,” Bryson said, standing right outside Michael’s stall door. “You’ve been in there for twenty minutes, dude. Sometimes it just doesn’t flow, my friend.”
Michael snickered, bursting into a laugh before he knew it.
“At least you’re still alive!” Bryson responded.
Michael stood up, sighed, then walked out of the stall. “Uh, sir?” Bryson asked. “Aren’t you going to flush?”
“No need. I was just sitting there, planning how to add more fiber to my diet.”
Bryson gave him a good, hard look. “Hey, man, you okay? If it helps, I’m more scared than either of you two. I just hide it well by being obnoxious.”
Michael took a deep breath and exhaled. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just seems crazy that they’re asking us to do this. With all those fancy agents at their disposal. Sarah’s mom and dad—their lives are on the line, here.”
“But we’ve proven ourselves,” Bryson said with a shrug. “Honestly, would you really trust someone else to do this? It’s us, man. The Burn-and-Pillage-y Trilogy. If anyone can pull this off, it’s me, you, and Sarah. Slip in, do our business, save the world from a psycho, slip out. Weber’s agents find Sarah’s parents. Boom. We can retire.”
Michael had the sudden, embarrassing urge to hug his friend. He’d needed a pep talk, and he’d gotten it. Bryson punched him in the arm, and Michael guessed that would have to do.
They walked out of the bathroom together, ready to destroy Kaine.
No one spoke much as they prepared for the Coffins. A few bites of protein-rich granola bars, a full-sized bottle of nutrient-saturated liquids, stripping down to their underwear. Handshakes and hugs—Michael hated that part. Without meaning to, they were acting as if this would be the last time they ever saw each other.
If anyone was bothered by Agent Weber’s being in the room while they stood there almost naked, no one showed it.
“I’ll be in my own private NerveBox,” Weber said, “just upstairs in my office. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous spot in fifteen minutes. I’ll give you the Lance device, and you can be on your way.”
That was it. No more explanations, no more time for questions.
Weber left. Michael stepped into his Coffin, closed the lid.
The NerveWires snaked their way across his already moist skin and he closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he stood in a large white marble room. The veins in the stone pulsed, as if some kind of toxic liquid were pumping through them. Sarah was there; Bryson, too. And Agent Weber—all three of them dressed just like they’d been in the Wake before stripping down.
“So we meet again,” Weber said with a stiff nod. She turned away from them and walked to one of the bright walls, where she reached out and tapped a pattern on its surface. After a moment something hissed and snapped; then a drawer slid open.
“Here we are,” she said as she pulled out a black bag with a strap, handling it carefully. Inside was something boxy, making it obvious what the bag contained.
The Lance.
Weber turned to face them, taking a long look at Michael and his friends, as if assessing whom she trusted most to carry the precious device. The device she’d spent years programming.
“Take this, Michael,” she said finally, handing him the bag.
He accepted it after the slightest hesitation, wondering why she chose him, then slipped the strap over his shoulder. With the bag resting against his hip, he unzipped it and peeked inside, to see exactly what he’d expected: gleaming metal and colorful wires. Weber leaned over, her hair brushing his face. She reached in and pointed to a small keypad on the side of the device, then flipped up its protective case.
“You see that?” she said. “Once you have this open, it’s eight numbers. I trust you have the password memorized by now.”