PART TWO: Amplification
(The act of increasing the intensity or range of a communications signal by means of a device constructed for the purpose)
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When I came upstairs, the house was dark and the only sound was the tick-tick-tick of Crackers trotting across the kitchen floor to greet me. I scratched behind his ears until he collapsed in a ginger-colored puddle of bliss. Then I opened the fridge, looking for the dessert I hadn’t eaten earlier. After moving some jars aside, I spotted a storage container that looked promising, but it was in the back, so I had to stretch…
“Hey, pumpkin.”
I snapped upright, cracking my head on the roof of the fridge. The container flew out of my hand, hit the floor corner-first, and burst open. Cherry cheesecake splattered onto the tile.
“Crap! Dad, don’t do that!” I snatched up the container, but it was empty. Crackers was nose-deep in graham cracker crumbs and creamy white filling, and the floor looked like an accident scene.
“Sorry,” Dad said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
But he didn’t sound that sorry, and he didn’t offer to help clean up the mess. Wincing at my sore head, I grabbed a dishrag and went to work on my ex-dessert. “What are you doing up?” I asked. “It’s after midnight.”
Most people would have asked me the same question, but Dad knew better. I hadn’t slept more than five hours a night since I hit puberty, and my parents had long ago learned not to get agitated about it. I could function perfectly well on minimal sleep—another of the many weird things about my biology. I wondered if Dr. Gervais and her GeneSystem flunkies had seen that in my DNA.
“Well,” Dad said, scratching his beard, “I was kind of hungry myself, but since you’re here and the cheesecake obviously isn’t…” He pulled a bag of potato chips out of the cupboard. “Why don’t we share this instead?”
“Why don’t we get to the point instead?” I asked, wiping up the last of the cheesecake and throwing the dishrag into the sink. “You might as well say it, Dad. We both know what this is about.”
“That obvious, eh?” He gave a little sigh. “Well in that case, why don’t you start? Tell me what’s been going on. You’ve never treated your mother like that before.”
“I slammed my door,” I said with an effort at patience, “because she wouldn’t leave me alone. I know I’ve always talked to you guys about everything, but I’m seventeen now. There’s stuff going on in my life that has nothing to do with you.” Or at least it didn’t yet, and I hoped I could keep it that way. “Is it wrong to want a little time and space for myself?”
Dad reached out and rubbed a big, calloused thumb along my cheek. “Nope,” he said. “But we care about you, sweetie, and it’s pretty hard for us not to notice when you’re feeling down. Hard not to worry about it too. You haven’t been yourself lately.”
Back in my old life, a lot of people—Lara and Brendan for a start, not to mention half the girls on my hockey team—had told me they’d give anything to have parents like mine. I knew what they meant, and I didn’t disagree. They really were just as loving and generous as they seemed.
But what they didn’t realize was that my mom and dad divided everyone they met into two categories: Our Kind of People and Those People. The ones who were enough like them to earn the jokes and the invitations and the we-mustdo-this-again-sometimes, and the ones they kept at a polite distance because they were just too different. And even if you looked like them and spoke their language, one careless word could transform you from an Us to a Them forever. Maybe even if you were their daughter.
So I’d put a lot of effort into making it easy for my parents to love me. To be the kind of daughter they’d always wanted, so they wouldn’t regret the sacrifices they’d made for my sake. And right now it was taking everything I had not to burst into tears of frustration, because when had I ever been truly myself, even with them?
“It’s nothing, Dad,” I said. “I’m just a bit moody. You know, it’s around that time.”
Which wasn’t remotely true, because I’d never had PMS in my life. But I knew it would make him back off, and it did.
“Oh,” he said, flustered. “Right. Well, remember that if you need to talk about anything, we’re here for you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said, bracing myself for the inevitable bear hug—and sure enough, Dad wrapped his arms around me and lifted me right off the floor. Then he ruffled my hair affectionately and plodded off to bed.
When he was gone, I slumped into a chair, staring at the thin slice of moonlight bisecting the table. I felt tired, more tired than I ought to be at this hour of the night. And the knot in my chest, the hard little cyst of anger that had been growing there since last summer, had grown three sizes today: once when Sebastian disappeared, again when he texted Milo, and last when I saw that stupid website.
Milo still wanted to e-mail the writer. I told him to go ahead, but not to expect any miracles. If he got a reply at all, it’d probably be a rant about how Meridian was just a front for the activities of evil aliens from another galaxy…
There was a salt shaker in my hand, and I couldn’t even remember how it got there. But if I thought about Meridian one second longer, I was going to fastball it through the kitchen window. And I doubted even Dad would be naive enough to chalk that up to Girl Hormones.
With deliberate care I put the salt shaker back down, then got up stiffly and went to bed.
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The last thing I did before I went to sleep that night was open a new e-mail account and write to Alison. I’d thought about contacting her once or twice before but decided it was too risky. Besides, she needed to heal and move on just as much as I did, and I’d only remind her of things she’d be better off trying to forget.
But if Milo was right about my past coming back to haunt me, then Alison might be in danger too. I was pretty sure Sebastian was keeping tabs on her somehow—probably electronically, knowing his talent for hacking. But if he was hiding from her, for whatever reason, she’d need somebody she could talk to if things got bad.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hey Ali
I know you don’t check e-mail that often, so you probably won’t see this for a while. But I wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about you. I hope everything’s OK.
No need to write back. Just saying hi.
I didn’t sign the note. Alison was the one who’d told me that my old name tasted like cough medicine, so as soon as she saw my e-mail address she’d understand.
I was pretty sure she’d also understand that no need meant don’t unless it’s an emergency. I hadn’t told her about GeneSystem or my run-in with Deckard, but she knew I was trying to get away from my past and that I didn’t want anybody finding me.
Still, it made me feel better to have given her my address. Even though I hoped she’d never need to use it.
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For the next few days I went through the motions of my daily life—walk the dog, do some schoolwork, put in my shift at Value Foods, tinker in the basement, and fall into bed when I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. I felt edgy and short-tempered, and it was getting harder all the time to keep it in. But I did my best to pretend that nothing was wrong, and though Mom still gave me the occasional troubled look, my parents seemed willing to buy it.
Meanwhile, the danger Sebastian had warned about showed no signs of materializing, even figuratively. And by the time a week had passed, I was starting to wonder if all those trips through the relay had activated some kind of latent paranoia. Maybe that was why he’d ditched us back at the café, and it didn’t have anything to do with logic or evidence—or me, for that matter—at all.
But deep down I knew better. Sebastian might be cryptic and high-handed at times; he could even be manipulative. But he wasn’t the type to fall apart in the face of danger. He and I were more alike than most people would ever guess, and I had a gut feeling that whatever he was up to, it was part of some greater plan.
On Monday night I was walking home from the bus stop, absently counting my steps as I went, when my phone clanked.
–Are you all right?
I almost typed, Seriously? Because I’d seen Milo twenty minutes ago, so he ought to know better. But then I checked the screen again, and my blood went hot as I realized that the text hadn’t come from Milo after all. It was from an unknown number, which could mean only one thing.
–Sebastian you enormous jerk. Yes, I’m fine, no thanks to you.
–Charming as always. I apologize for disappearing so abruptly, but something came up and there was no time to explain. But now, if you’re willing, I could use your help.
–With what? And why should I?
–I think you’ll be able to figure that out once you know the details. May I e-mail you?
–You don’t know my address already? You’re losing your touch.
But he didn’t rise to the bait. He remained silent, waiting me out with that maddening patience of his, until I sighed and typed in my e-mail address.
–Thank you. You won’t regret it.
–Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Oh, never mind—too late!
He didn’t respond to that dig, either. So I added:
–Have you talked to Alison yet?
Still no answer. I rolled my eyes and started walking again. Eighty-two steps, eighty-three, eighty-four—
–No. Have you?
If he didn’t know, I wasn’t about to tell him. But he had a lot of nerve trying to make me feel guilty, when he should know I couldn’t afford to get close to Alison anyway. Not without running the risk that someone like Deckard would notice and use her to get to me.
On the other hand, the police were looking for Sebastian too. And unlike me, he was a wanted suspect, so it wasn’t only Deckard he had to worry about…
Oh.
My self-righteousness deflated like a punctured tire. I shoved the phone into my pocket and broke into a run, heading for home.
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When I opened my laptop, Sebastian’s message was waiting. No explanations, no apologies, no time wasted on coaxing or flattery. It said, simply:
–Specifications attached.
Well, at least he wasn’t underestimating my abilities. Fifteen pages of technical requirements, describing a piece of highly sophisticated equipment that would have emptied my savings account if I hadn’t been capable of building most of it from scratch. Even so I was wondering how I was supposed to pay for all of this, let alone why I would want to, when I got to the second-last page. He’d given me the username and password for his PayPal account.
And the final page, carefully unfolded and scanned to crisp perfection, was the brochure for the local makerspace.
Great idea, Sebastian, I thought sourly as I paged back to the beginning and began skimming over the specs again. Wish I’d thought of that myself. Sure, the electronics project he’d given me looked like an interesting challenge, but I’d need a better reason than that to—
A thousand watts of realization lit up the back of my brain. I scanned the pages again, mentally assembling the list of components into a single device. A high-power, long-range multi-band transmitter and receiver unit, to be exact. All that was missing was the antenna, but presumably Sebastian had his own ideas about that…
And now I knew why he’d been so certain I’d help him, once I’d read his message. From the minute Sebastian beamed into my bedroom the threat had been staring me in the face, but I’d been too busy sniping at him and resenting his interference in my life to notice. After all, he’d seemed so casual about the outcome of his confrontation with Mathis, so confident that the relay could be destroyed. Even when he’d sent that warning to Milo, part of me had wondered if he was just being extra cautious.
But I saw my danger clearly now, and there was no doubt in my mind what I had to do. No matter what my parents thought about me joining the makerspace, no matter how hard it might be to tackle such an ambitious project without getting noticed, I needed to start building this transceiver right away.
I closed my eyes and counted silently, giving my racing heart time to calm. Then I picked up my phone and texted Milo.
0 1 1 0 1 0
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Milo muttered as we got off the bus. It was seven o’clock on Tuesday, and the down town was a wasteland of closed shops, bored teenagers, and the occasional homeless wanderer. We’d left the worst behind by the time we got to our stop, but being surrounded by auto body shops and decaying factories wasn’t much of an improvement.
“You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to,” I said.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I mean Sebastian and that list he gave you. If he needs some fancy high-tech communication device, why get you to build it for him? Wouldn’t it be faster to just order the stuff or rent it from somewhere?”
“Not with these specifications,” I said. “Among other things, he needs the transceiver to hook up with the relay, and I’m the only one who knows enough about the relay to make that happen.”
“I thought he was going to destroy the relay.”
“That was Plan A,” I said. “But apparently that didn’t work out, or he wouldn’t have gone to Plan B. Which is to send a signal to the computer that controls the relay and force it to shut down.” Which was oversimplified at best, and at worst downright misleading. But it was the safest way I could think of to describe it.
“What good’s that going to do?” Milo asked. “All the people at Meridian have to do is turn it on again.”
“It’s not that easy,” I said. “There’s a complicated process in getting the two devices to talk to each other, and once the uplink’s broken, it’ll be next to impossible to reestablish it. It has to do with the data encryption and decryption algorithm,” I added, in case he thought I was patronizing him. “It uses quantum entanglement.”
“Oh, of course it does,” said Milo, poker-faced. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself.”
I punched him in the arm, hoping to catch him off-balance. But his bicep had about as much give as rubber-covered concrete, and he didn’t budge a millimeter. “The point is,” I told him, “we can’t get rid of the relay until we’ve made sure it won’t activate again. We can’t risk some random person coming across it and beaming themselves who-knows-where.”
Milo looked unconvinced, but he didn’t argue. He matched my brisk pace as we turned onto a side street, the sounds of traffic receding as we walked along. We passed a long row of barn-shaped wartime houses and finally stopped in front of an old factory with rust-colored brick and metalwork, its closed doors offering no hint of what lies inside. Only the faded number painted over the entrance reassured me I’d found the right place.
“Wow,” Milo said. “Check out the picturesque old-world charm. What’s that sign on the door say? ABANDON … HOPE…”
“Very funny,” I said, walking up the steps and hauling the door open. “Actually, it says there’s a Tae Kwon Do studio upstairs. Are you coming or not?”
“Remind me to tell you about the year I spent taking Tae Kwon Do sometime,” said Milo, following me in. “Between that and the violin disaster, I could write a book on How to Fail at Being Korean—wow, those stairs are really steep.”
“Good thing we don’t have to go up them, then,” I said. There was no visible sign for the makerspace on this level, but I’d read the directions on the brochure and knew where to go. “This way.”
We headed through a fire door into a narrow hallway with grey-white walls and no windows to be seen. Most of the doors we passed were shut, but the open ones gave glimpses of sagging ceilings, exposed wiring, and debris-littered cement. From somewhere upstairs came a steady pounding, and the whole place smelled like wood shavings mingled with incense or possibly marijuana smoke.
“This is fantastically squalid,” said Milo. “We may never get out of here alive.”
“You have no sense of adventure,” I told him sternly, but deep down I was glad he was with me. All these empty hallways and closed doors reminded me uncomfortably of what it was like to be Mathis’s prisoner, and it would have been hard to get through this place on my own.
We turned the corner and there was the sign for the makerspace, with a large friendly arrow pointing to the right. My pulse quickened with anticipation—but at the same instant my feet came to a stumbling halt.
“Niki?” asked Milo. “What’s the matter?”
I’d stopped three meters from the junction, staring into the middle distance. My throat had closed up, and my lips were dry. I couldn’t move.
“Hey.” He stepped in front of me, waving a hand through my line of sight. “Earth to Niki.”
Weak as the joke was, it snapped me out of my paralysis. I focused with an effort and said, “Milo, I asked my parents if I could come here weeks ago, and they said no. If they find out…”
“They’ll do what? Hello, you’re a teenager. This can’t be the first time you’ve gone against—” He broke off as he saw the look on my face. “You’re not serious.”
“I couldn’t. I mean, I didn’t want to. Not really.” I’d argued Mom and Dad into changing their minds sometimes, and now and then I got around them on a technicality. But I’d never disobeyed a direct order from either of them, for reasons I couldn’t explain even to myself. “And now … I don’t know if I can.”
Milo frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Why did they tell you not to? Don’t they want you to go into engineering?”
“That’s not the problem,” I said. “They just think it’s too much, too soon. And maybe they’re right, but—”
“The alternative’s worse. Yeah. I get it.”
“So do I. I just can’t get my body to cooperate.” I leaned forward, trying to force myself to take the next step. But my feet stayed rooted to the floor.
Milo frowned at me, his head tilted to one side. Then he broke into a slow, wicked grin. I didn’t even have time to brace myself before he ducked down and swept me, literally, off my feet.
I spluttered a curse and tried to wriggle free, but Milo didn’t falter. He marched down the hallway, executed a military turn, and carried me over the threshold of the makerspace.
“Oh no,” he said in mock dismay. “Look where you are. How did that happen? Clearly, it was all my fault.”
I wanted to be irritated with him, and part of me was. I didn’t like being touched without permission. But he hadn’t put his hands anywhere he shouldn’t—in fact, he’d been a positive gentleman about it. It was hard not to be impressed by how easily he’d picked me up too. So I collected what was left of my dignity, and said, “You can put me down now.”
“Uh, hi,” said the young man at the desk as Milo lowered me to my feet. “Can I help you with anything?”
Milo made an over-to-you gesture, and I realized to my relief that his ridiculous strategy had worked. The panic that had gripped me in the hallway was gone, and I could move again.
“We’re here for the Open House,” I said, giving the man my most winning smile. “Is it okay if we come in and look around?”
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Not only was Front Desk Guy happy to see us, he even gave us a tour. The makerspace wasn’t that big, just two modest rooms with a small lounge area between them. But it had plenty of equipment. First, we wriggled through a curtain of clear vinyl strips to visit the woodshop and heavy tool room. They had lathes, sanders, a miter saw, and a couple of drill presses—most of them old and battered but still in good working condition. A scarred wooden worktop ran along the far wall, and in the middle of the room two men were arranging bits of scrap metal on a table, chortling and elbowing each other like old friends as they worked.
After that we came back out into the lounge, a rough square of old sofas and armchairs with a coffee table between them and a wall of bookshelves behind. Among the books on programming and electronics I glimpsed a complete set of Monty Python DVDs, a Yoda-shaped coffee mug, and a stuffed bison with six legs that caused Milo to break into a grin. Up a slight ramp we found the clean room, which had a soldering station even better than the one I had at home, four computers in various stages of disassembly, a plotter, a laser cutter, three different kinds of printers … and, to my immediate interest, an oscilloscope.
There were a few other people scattered around—a grey-haired woman frowning over her laptop, a pair of gangly college students poking at an old PC tower, and a little boy playing with a flight simulator. In the back corner a young man with a ponytail and a skull earring was building a sculpture from laser-cut plastic, while an older man tinkered with a 3-D printer. None of them spoke: most barely glanced up as we walked through. But I wasn’t offended—I knew the feeling of being so absorbed in a project that nothing else existed, and I was happy to leave them to it.
“So,” said Front Desk Guy, when we returned to the lounge. “Any questions?”
I glanced at Milo, but he only shrugged. It was up to me, then—but I hadn’t really expected anything else. “I’m working on a surprise for my dad,” I said, with a hint of bashfulness. “He’s into amateur radio, and he’s always wanted to do a moon bounce. So I … I’m hoping to build him a transceiver for his birthday.”
“Wow,” said FDG—I had to call him that because he wasn’t wearing a name tag, and despite his enthusiasm, he’d forgotten to introduce himself. “That’s awesome, good for you. So were you looking for some help with that? You should talk to Barry. He’s our radio expert.”
“That’d be great,” I said, keeping my expression humble and a little nervous. Just an ordinary teenaged girl with an interest in electronics and a few modest projects under her belt, nothing extraordinary here. “But I was wondering, could I maybe bring the kit here to work on it? Because our house is pretty small, and I don’t want my dad to see it until it’s ready.”
FDG blinked. “Uh, well, we only have Open House twice a month. You have to be a member to get in any time you want, and that takes—”
“I know,” I said. “I’m new, and you’d want to get to know me better before you could vote me in. But I only found out about this place a few days ago, and Dad’s birthday is coming up fast. I’d be glad to pay a month’s membership up front, if that would help. And I’ll bring my own supplies, and only work when the regular members are here. I mean, it’s not like I can get in the door otherwise, right?” I gave him a hopeful smile.
“Hmm,” said Front Desk Guy, sizing me up. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Give me a sec, okay? I need to talk to somebody.” He galloped up the ramp to the clean room.
Milo flopped onto the sectional sofa, and after a minute I sat down in the armchair on the other side. A set of interlocking wooden hexagons sat on the table next to a sign reading PLAY WITH ME, but I wasn’t in the mood. I was trying to make out the conversation from the next room, as the Desk Guy’s chirpy tenor alternated with a deeper rumble that sounded ominous.
What would I do if they decided not to let me in? I needed that oscilloscope, for one thing, and I could hardly build the whole transceiver in my basement. I’d be ordering all kinds of new parts and supplies, and there was no way I could expect my parents not to notice…
“Hey,” said Milo, nudging my foot under the table. “It’s going to be fine. They’ll love you. This is what they’re here for, and besides, you offered them money.”
I leaned forward, breathing into my hands, then bolted to my feet. FDG had reappeared at the top of the ramp, with 3-D Printer Guy beside him.
“Hi there,” said the older man, walking to meet me. “I’m Len.” He gave me a brisk handshake and said, “I hear you’re building a transceiver for your dad. And you’re on a tight deadline.”
“Yeah,” I said, reminding myself to bring out the shy smile again. “His birthday’s in a couple of weeks, so I’d really like to get it ready as soon as I can.”
“Understandably. And we’d like to help you. But we have a strict Health and Safety policy for insurance reasons, and we can’t allow anyone under eighteen to work here without direct supervision. If you had someone older with you, like a parent or guardian—”
“What about me?” interrupted Milo. “I’m eighteen.”
It took all my concentration to keep smiling, and not whip around and stare. Keeping me company on my first visit was one thing, but to come back here day after day? I’d never expected Milo to make such an offer.
And yet if he was serious, how could I refuse?
The two makers exchanged glances. “Well,” said Len. “We can’t guarantee anything. But we’ll discuss it with the board at our next meeting.”
“When will that be?” I asked.
“Monday night.”
Nearly a week away. I’d hoped it would be sooner. But I still had a lot of parts to order, and they’d take a few days to arrive in any case. In the meantime, I could get started on designing the circuit board and trying to track down a vector network analyzer, which was the one piece of equipment even Sebastian couldn’t afford.
I only wished I knew how much time I had left to do it. But when I’d asked Sebastian, he didn’t seem to know any more than I did. Too many variables, he’d written. Just work as fast as you can.
“Okay,” I said, trying not to let my worry show. “Thanks.”
FDG rummaged underneath his desk and popped up with a duct-tape covered clipboard and a pen that looked as though it had been chewed by a Rottweiler. “We’ll need your names, addresses, and a phone number or e-mail.” He thrust the clipboard at me. “After the meeting, we’ll give you and your boyfriend a call.”
I started to protest that Milo wasn’t my boyfriend, but then I realized that would just complicate the issue. It wasn’t like I could pass him off as my brother or cousin, not without fabricating an adoption story at any rate. And if there wasn’t some obvious reason for him to want to hang around and watch me solder components for hours on end, the board might decide he wasn’t dependable enough to take the responsibility.
So I slid closer to Milo as I scribbled down my contact information and touched his arm lightly when I passed the clipboard on. Not enough to startle him, just to show we were comfortable with each other.
We could work out the details later.
0 1 1 1 0 0
When Milo and I left the makerspace, the sun had dipped below the rooftops. We walked the two blocks to the bus shelter without speaking and stood there watching the traffic for a while. Finally, I cleared my throat and said, “That was … what you said back there … thanks a lot. I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”
Milo squinted out the doorway, shifting his weight from one running shoe to the other. “Yeah, well,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting them to mistake me for your boyfriend either. And I definitely wasn’t expecting you to go along with it. So I guess it’s been a night of surprises all around.”
There were forty-three centimeters between my elbow and Milo’s, and every picometer of it was charged with Awkward. I steeled myself and plunged in. “Sorry if I embarrassed you. I didn’t know what to say, and—”
“You think I was embarrassed?” He gave me an incredulous look. “Why would I be? I scored about a billion Dude Points just walking in the door with you. Believe me, you don’t have to apologize.”
I didn’t blush often, let alone for long. But right now I felt like I’d stuck my face in an oven. “Milo…”
“I know. I’m just a friend, and you want to make sure I’m okay with that, because you’re a nice person. I get it, Niki. It’s fine.”
Somewhere along the line I’d got out of the habit of reading Milo—stopped running my usual diagnostic on his expression, stance, and tone of voice. In other words, I’d started trusting him.
But now I saw the tremor in his jaw, and I knew he was lying. It wasn’t fine at all.
“That’s not what I mean,” I said, fighting to keep the anger out of my voice. Because it wasn’t Milo I was angry at, it was the whole stupid world. A world where relationships like the one I’d had with Brendan were normal, and the one I had with Milo was not. “There’s no such thing as just a friend, Milo. Friendship is one of the most important things there is.”
Milo stuffed his hands into his pockets and glanced up the road, as though hoping the bus would come and rescue him. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“I’m serious,” I insisted, stepping in front of him so he’d have to look me in the eye. “I hate it when people talk like friendship is less than other kinds of—as though it’s some sort of runner-up prize for people who can’t have sex. I had a boyfriend once, but I never liked being with him the way I like being with you.” I held his gaze, refusing to falter or look away. “You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, Milo. And that is everything to me.”
Milo was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You mean that, don’t you. You’re not just trying to make me feel better.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m really, really not.”
His eyes lowered, and his expression turned pensive. Then he looked up again and said, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I mean, that’s good by me.” He gave a slight, tentative smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I let my breath out in relief. Finding out Milo legitimately cared about me and wanted to be around me, even if there was no chance of the two of us hooking up, was enormous. I wanted to show him how glad I was for his friendship, how warm and bubbly it made me feel to have him by my side. I wanted to take his hand, lean my head on his shoulder, maybe even hug him.
Only knowing he liked me as something other than a friend—not more than, I’d never say that—held me back. I didn’t want to be unfair to Milo. But I didn’t want him to think I was repulsed by him, either. I wanted to give him something personal and precious, so he’d know how much his friendship meant to me.
“Milo,” I said, “I’m going to tell you something I’ve only ever told one other person. And when I do, I … I hope you’ll understand.” Passionately hoped, in fact. Because if he said any of the things Lara had said to me when I told her, it would be hard to forgive him for it.
“I know,” he said. “You’re gay, right?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not sexually attracted to anyone. At all. Ever.”
Silence. I could see Milo blinking behind his glasses, his brain struggling to process this new information, and I prepared myself for the inevitable barrage of questions. Have you seen a doctor? A psychiatrist? Were you abused? Are you scared? What if you haven’t just met the right person yet?
But when Milo spoke it was cautiously, his brow furrowed in thought. “What do you mean by that, exactly? You said you had a boyfriend once…”
Brendan Stewart, long gone and unlamented. Great hair. Great body. Great kisser, according to other girls he’d dated. But if so, his talents had been wasted on me. “I went out with Brendan because it was what he wanted,” I said. “I thought if I tried to act like a real girlfriend, maybe I’d start to feel like one. That I’d want him to kiss me and put his hands on me, instead of counting the seconds until it was over. But … I never did.”
“Oh,” said Milo.
“I mean, it didn’t help that he was a selfish pig who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I would have broken up with him anyway, even if I’d liked the physical stuff. But going out with him made me realize that I wasn’t shy or uptight about sex. I simply wasn’t interested.”
What I didn’t say was that by that time, I’d also found out I wasn’t alone. I’d discovered a forum on the Internet that was full of people—many of them young, healthy, social, even attractive—who felt the same way. They weren’t against sex or trying to keep other people from having it. They just didn’t feel the need. And once I’d seen that, it had given me the courage to stop trying to change myself.
“So you’re never going out with anyone again?” Milo asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe, if I met somebody who accepted me the way I am and didn’t feel cheated that I didn’t want to make out all the time. But how likely is that? Most people our age are crazy about sex. And don’t tell me you’re different, because I won’t believe you.”
Milo made a face. “I’m not. I wish I was sometimes, because my mom doesn’t want me seeing anybody until I’m done with university. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t think about it. A lot.”
“How do you get anything done?” I asked, and Milo laughed. Only a short laugh, but the smile that went with it was real, and it dissolved all the tension between us.
“Cold showers,” he said. “And lots of running. My thighs are steel. My abs are bronze. My biceps—”
“They are excellent biceps,” I said. “I’ve noticed.”
That got me a double take. “You have?”
“I’m in your bus shelter, messing with your worldview,” I said, elbowing him. “Yes, I’ve noticed. I’m asexual, not blind.”
Milo scratched the back of his neck, clearly at a loss. “So … what exactly are you noticing, again?”
I wanted to laugh. “Stop fishing for compliments,” I said. “Yes, I like the way you look. I’d even say you’re attractive. Just because I don’t have the urge to tackle you and rip your clothes off—”
“Please don’t say things like that,” Milo moaned, and now I did laugh.
“Sorry. What I mean is, there’s nothing wrong with you as far as I’m concerned. I wish…” No, I wasn’t going to finish that sentence. I’d been honest enough for one night. “Anyway, if you don’t mind the people at the makerspace thinking you’re my boyfriend, I’m not going to argue with them. In fact—” My gaze turned inward, a new thought sparking alight. “It might help if one or two other people made the same mistake.”
“Oh, no,” said Milo. “I know that look. That’s your I-havean-idea look, and it means bad things.”
“Not necessarily,” I told him. “But if my parents thought I had a boyfriend, a mature, responsible, strong boyfriend…”
“Then you’d have the perfect excuse to go out every night and work on the transceiver. I get it. But remember what I told you about my mother? If she thought I was seeing anybody, she would flay me alive. With her teeth.”
“You’re already lying to her about the phys ed thing,” I pointed out. “This wouldn’t even be a lie. We aren’t going out. We’re just going to let a few people think we are.”
“What about everybody at work?” asked Milo. “What do we tell them?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s none of their business.”
The bus squeaked to a stop outside the shelter, blue and white paint glowing in the fading light. I climbed on, flashed my pass at the driver, and swung myself into a seat.
“So let me get this straight,” Milo said as he joined me. “To the people at the makerspace and to your parents, we’re going out. To my mother and between ourselves we’re not. Everybody else gets to make up their own minds, because we aren’t saying one way or the other. We’re like the Schrodinger’s Cat of relationships.”
“Exactly.”
“And if somebody asks if we’re together? Like Jon, for instance.”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “We have to play it cool because our parents don’t approve. Like Romeo and Juliet.”
“Who ended up dead, if you remember,” said Milo.
“Only because they were stupid. You and I are not stupid.”
“Thank you,” said Milo dryly. “But there’s another problem. You never asked me to pretend-go out with you.”
“Should I pretend to get down on one knee?” I asked.
“I’m not sure I’m ready,” he said. “It’s a big commitment.”
For three seconds I couldn’t tell whether or not he was serious. I was beginning to worry that I’d assumed too much when he went on in the same grave tone, “Maybe we should pretend see other people for a while.”
I punched him in the arm. “Stop messing with me. Are you okay with this or not? Because if you’re not, we need to come up with a better idea fast. My mom’s seen us together a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure she thinks we’re going out already.”
“This has been the second weirdest evening of my life,” said Milo, resigned. “But why not? Let’s pretend-do it.”
I was tempted to make that into a joke—On the first date? What kind of pretend girlfriend do you think I am?—but it would only embarrass him, and I was getting tired of bantering anyway. “Thanks,” I said softly.
We rode a while in silence. The bus paused to let off a young woman in a hijab, then stopped again to pick up an old man, who tottered down the aisle and collapsed into the seat across from us, wheezing and mopping his nose. Two more blocks, and it would be my turn.
“So,” said Milo. “We get off the bus together. Right?”
“Right,” I said, reaching up to signal for our stop.
“And then what?”
“You walk me home.” I got up, stumbling a little before I caught my balance, and headed for the exit. “We say good night. I go inside and start working on the transceiver.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for anyone to sound relieved and disappointed at the same time, especially in three syllables. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
Liar, I thought. But I didn’t call him on it, not until we’d got off the bus and crossed the four lanes of traffic to my street. Then I turned to him, held out my hand, and said, “Showtime.”
“Really?” he asked. “You’re okay with that?”
“I am totally okay with that,” I said firmly and laced my fingers into his.
0 1 1 1 0 1
“How was the movie?” Dad asked when I came in. He was kneeling on the kitchen tile with a pile of newspapers under him and a paint can in one hand, touching up the baseboards.
“Pretty stupid, actually,” I replied. “I’d skip that one if I were you. Where’s Mom?”
“Having a bath, probably,” he said. “She’s been painting all evening, so I told her to go relax.”
“Oh,” I said. I’d hoped at least one of my parents had seen Milo and I standing close together on the sidewalk, still holding hands, as I gazed dreamily up at him and told him that I was going to ship all the bigger transceiver parts to his house. He’d told me okay, but not to overdo it and could I please get that dopey look off my face before he threw up? So it had been a very special moment, and I was sorry to think it had been wasted on just the two of us.
“So who’d you go with?” Dad asked, painting a slow line across the top of the trim and dipping his brush again.
“A friend,” I said.
He sat back on his haunches and gave me a quizzical look. “Just a friend?”
The next time I heard somebody use that phrase, I was going to hit them. “A good friend,” I said shortly and turned to leave.
“Because,” Dad continued, “your mother thought it might be a date.”
I stopped.
The newspapers rustled as my father got to his feet. “Look, pumpkin,” he said, “All I want is for you to be safe and happy. So you don’t have to hide anything from me.”
He had no idea how much I wished I could believe that. “I know,” I said. “It’s just … we’ve only gone out a couple of times, and I didn’t want Mom to get worked up over it.”
“Don’t worry about her,” he said, putting a burly arm around my shoulder and giving me a squeeze. “She’ll be fine. So who’s the lucky boy?”
Hello, Dad Cliché 32. Nice to know this conversation was still on a predictable course. “Milo Hwang,” I said.
There was a fractional silence. Then Dad said, a little too heartily, “Well, good for you. That’s … um, great. Hope it works out.”
And there it was. Liberal on the outside, redneck conservative deep down. He wouldn’t forbid me to see Milo because that would be narrow-minded, but that didn’t mean he was ready to invite him over for hockey and popcorn.
“Why shouldn’t it work?” I asked. “He’s a nice guy.”
“I’m sure he is,” said Dad. “But when people from different cultures get together, it can be an adjustment—”
“He’s not from a different culture,” I interrupted. “Milo was born and raised here. He’s just as Canadian as I am.” More so, in fact, but that was the last thing I wanted to tell my parents. Because if I did, they’d react like this. “Anyway, like I said, we only just got together. It’s not like we’re planning the wedding.”
“I’ll say you aren’t,” Dad said with mock gruffness and made his Big Bad Giant face until I gave a reluctant smile. Then he continued, “All right, point taken. We’ll stay out of it and let the two of you sort things out.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And … Dad?”
He’d stooped and picked up the brush again, but he looked back over his shoulder.
“Could you and Mom keep this to yourselves? Because Milo’s mom thinks having a girlfriend is going to interfere with his studies, and he needs some time to prove to her that it won’t before he breaks the news.”
“Sure thing,” he replied and went back to painting.
Relieved, I made myself a plate of cheese and crackers and headed for the basement. I had some schematics to draw up, and a whole lot of parts and components to order.
0 1 1 1 1 0
Sebastian texted me two days later.
–How’s the transceiver coming?
–Fine so far. Though I can’t do much more until I hear from the makerspace. And I’ll need to borrow a vector network analyzer from somebody, unless you have $10K sitting around. Also, you forgot the antenna.
–I didn’t forget. It’ll be ready when you are. Just keep working.
I hesitated, fingers hovering above the keys. Then I wrote:
–How much danger am I in right now? Could the relay find me and beam me back to Mathis even without the chip? Or is there something else I should be afraid of?
But the phone was silent.
The weekend was largely uneventful, although Jon frowned when he saw me talking to Milo on Friday night, and I had a sinking suspicion he was going to ask if we were together. Not that I would have minded saying yes if I thought it would get Jon off my case, but Milo’s grandparents came through Jon’s register nearly every time they shopped, and if he said anything to them, it would be a disaster. So I kept my distance from Milo for the rest of the weekend, and for good measure—though I hated myself for doing it—I flirted with Jon a little. He perked up at once, and when he told me he was helping out at his aunt’s bakery the following Saturday and that if I came in he’d give me a free cupcake, I knew I was off the hook.
All in all, if I hadn’t been worried about what might happen if I didn’t get this transceiver built in time, I might have been tempted to believe my troubles were over. Apart from her discomfort with me seeing Milo, my mother was happier than I’d seen her in months: she’d been having so much fun redecorating the house that she’d started talking about taking some night courses and becoming an interior decorator. Meanwhile, Dad was selling farm insurance policies as fast as people could sign them, so his boss had given him and Mom a gift card for a hotel and theater getaway in Toronto. Everything seemed to be going our way—or my parents’ way, at least—and I was glad of it.
But late Sunday night, I got another message from Faraday.
–Check your e-mail. Now.
He wasn’t usually so curt, even in text form. I put down my soldering iron, pushed my safety glasses up onto my forehead, and flipped my laptop open.
There were four new messages in my inbox, including one from Milo. But it took me less than a second to find the one Sebastian wanted me to see.
From: [email protected]
Subject: URGENT — PLEASE READ THIS
It looked like spam from the subject line, but the address told me everything I needed to know. It was from Alison.
I braced myself and opened the message.
0 1 1 1 1 1
I’m sorry if this letter doesn’t make much sense. I’m pretty shaken up right now, and my synesthesia’s more intense than it’s been for a while. But I had to write to you and tell you what’s been happening.
I’m not sure if you ever met Constable Deckard, but he was part of the police investigation when you disappeared. He drove the van that took me to Pine Hills, and he questioned me a couple of times while I was in the hospital, trying to find out if I’d killed you. Even once it was obvious that I hadn’t, he still didn’t seem satisfied. He kept giving me these ice-dagger looks, like he knew I was hiding something. So I tried to keep out of his way.
But about a month after you left, he came to the house and asked me if I’d talked to you lately. He wanted to know if I had your address or phone number or an e-mail where he could reach you. I said no, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. He told me it was a very serious thing to give false information to the police and that it was vital that he get in touch with you immediately. His voice was so vinegar-sharp it scared me, but I kept repeating that I didn’t know where you were or how to reach you, and finally he changed the subject. If I hadn’t heard from you, then what about Faraday? Had he tried to contact me since he left Sudbury? Did I have any idea where he was now?
That was when I couldn’t take any more. I told him to leave me alone and shut the door in his face. Then I went to my room and cried until I felt grey all over. I knew Deckard would never find Faraday no matter what I told him, and I doubted he’d find you either. But he’d made me feel like a criminal for not helping him, and I was afraid he’d find an excuse to charge me for it.
I clenched my jaw and flexed my fingers against my knee, wishing I could strangle Deckard. Yet this was only the beginning of the story. There was more, and probably worse, to come.
For weeks after that, I felt sick and shaky every time I saw a police cruiser. But it was never Deckard behind the wheel. And once I’d got through the whole winter without seeing or hearing from him, I convinced myself he’d given up. So when a car pulled into our driveway yesterday and a man got out, I didn’t think twice about answering the door. I figured it was one of my mom’s real estate clients come to drop off some paperwork.
It wasn’t, though. It was Deckard.
He was out of uniform this time, but the way he carried himself was as intimidating as ever. He told me he was working on a special investigation and had some questions to ask me. I started to tell him no, but he said I’d be welcome to ask one of my parents to join us if it made me feel more comfortable. So, stupidly, I let him in.
Deckard asked me if anything had changed since the last time we’d talked and whether I’d found any way to contact you. I thought about the e-mail you’d sent me, and I tried not to hesitate or grimace at the taste when I said no. He gave me one of his steely looks, and I was afraid he’d threaten me again, but then he got very quiet and sober. He said that what he was about to tell me was confidential, but it was important for me to know. Then he told me that your doctor was trying to contact you with the results of some medical tests you’d done before you left. He said you’d been diagnosed with a very serious condition, and if you didn’t get it treated right away, you could die.
“Oh, crap,” I whispered, staring at the screen. “Crap, crap, crap.”
I should have seen it coming, even before I left Sudbury. Deckard’s single-minded obsession with my case had been suspicious enough, but his parting shot about summoning me back from Vancouver if I didn’t return Dr. Gervais’s call had practically clinched it. Then to show up at Alison’s house wearing plain clothes and driving an unmarked car and using the same line on her that Dr. Gervais had tried to use on me … there was only one explanation that fit the facts.
Deckard had left the police force and become a private investigator. And GeneSystem was paying him to hunt me down.
He held my gaze steadily as he spoke those words, and his voice didn’t waver. But his words tasted funny, so I knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. I stammered something about being sorry and wishing I could help, but I really didn’t know where to find you. He nodded and turned to leave, and I thought the interrogation was over. But halfway down the steps he turned back, and said he had one more question.
I knew he was going to ask me about Faraday, and I thought I was prepared. But when he asked which one of us had broken off our relationship, I was so flabbergasted I didn’t know what to say. I’d never told anyone how close I was to Faraday, not even Dr. Minta. How did Deckard know?
But then I remembered that Faraday had taken me back to Champlain Secondary one night, so I could show him the spot where you’d disappeared. We’d hugged, we’d nearly kissed—in full view of the school’s security cameras. And of course Deckard would have seen the tape. So I resisted the temptation to tell him it was none of his business, and I said, “He ended it.”
For the first time, I saw pity in Deckard’s eyes. He thanked me for my time and turned to leave. And I should have let him go, but I couldn’t stop myself. I called out to him and asked why he’d wanted to know. That was when he told me that Sebastian Faraday had been spotted in southern Ontario ten days ago, accessing one of his old bank accounts from an ATM.
He wasn’t lying, either. What he was saying made no sense to me, but there was no flavor of deception to his words at all.
Deckard must have realized my shock was genuine, because he gave me that pitying look again, and then he took out his phone and showed me the security tape. He hadn’t been mistaken. It was Faraday, looking exactly as I’d last seen him. The hair, the way he moved, even the clothes he was wearing—he hadn’t changed at all.
Things got a little fuzzy at that point, but Deckard said something about Faraday still being wanted for questioning and for several outstanding charges, and how if he tried to contact me again I should call him—Deckard, I mean—immediately. Then he handed me his card and drove away.
Once I calmed down, I tried to tell myself I should be happy. After all, hadn’t I been waiting for Faraday to come back? Hadn’t part of me always believed that he would? Every time I closed my eyes I could see his face so clearly. I could feel the warmth of his eyes on me and taste the last words I’d heard him say, “I don’t love you.”
I’d laughed through my tears then, because I’d known he was lying. But now that I’d found out he’d been back for days—maybe even weeks—and hadn’t tried to contact me, I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.
Then I realized I hadn’t checked my e-mail in a couple of days. Maybe Faraday had written to me, and I just hadn’t seen it yet. So I logged on and found a message waiting, but it wasn’t from him. It was from Sanjay, a boy I’d met at Pine Hills. He’d sent me a link to an article about a top secret experimental laboratory called Meridian…
I broke off, sick at heart, and pushed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Oh, Alison, I thought. I’m sorry. So sorry.
I’m shaking as I type now, irrationally terrified that writing down the way I feel will make it true. But if I know the fear is irrational, that means I can’t be too far gone yet, right? So I’m just going to say it. Okay. Here it is.
I think I’m losing my mind.
No, worse than that. I’m afraid I lost it a long time ago.
How else can I make sense of what I saw on that website? How could a made-up story, or some paranoid schizophrenic’s delusion, be so close to what I experienced—or thought I experienced—when Faraday and I went through the relay and found you?
I thought we’d beamed ourselves through a wormhole to the other side of the universe and ended up on a space station. But now I feel embarrassed even typing that, because where’s the proof? There were no windows anywhere in that place, only screens that could show whatever the controller wanted. I believed I was in space because I saw so many stars, but I could have been underground the whole time and never guessed it.
And the drugs, the hallucinations, the men in grey uniforms—all of it fits roughly with what I remember, because I’d been on psych meds for weeks at that point, and everything felt strange and unreal to me, and both Faraday and Mathis were wearing grey. The part about people having chips implanted in their arms was familiar too, because you had one.
But the worst part of that article for me was reading about the helmet. Because I remember what it felt like to put it on, and that eerie feeling of floating in space. I thought I was doing it because I had to, because Mathis had closed the wormhole that led to Earth and my synesthesia was our only chance of finding it again. But what if all that was a hallucination or a simulation? What if it was simply part of some elaborate neuropsychological test?
I know Mathis was a real person, as real as you and Faraday. But was he actually an alien from another planet? Were you and Faraday aliens too? Or was that all in my messed-up head?
And now I’ve asked myself those questions, I keep thinking of more reasons I should have doubted myself all along. Like the way you acted after we got home, for instance. Because when you came to Pine Hills to try and convince Dr. Minta to release me, the story you told him was completely different from what I remembered. And when I teased you afterward about how your evil scientists driving black vans and helicopters weren’t much more believable than my aliens and wormholes, you looked uncomfortable and said I shouldn’t talk about “that alien stuff” anymore, even to you. Why would you say that, unless you knew I was wrong?
I thought I had the truth and that no one could take it away from me. But now I don’t know what to believe. I need someone sane to talk to, someone who can tell me what’s real. And since Faraday won’t talk to me, you’re my only hope.
Please, if you’re reading this, help me.
Once I could have sworn Sebastian would do anything for Alison, no matter what the cost to himself. But he’d resisted every attempt I’d made to push him in her direction, and now he’d done this. Had I misread his character so badly? Or had something happened since I’d last seen him that had turned him into a different person?
I couldn’t bear it anymore. I snatched up my phone and texted him.
–You unspeakable bastard. You should be on your knees right now in front of Alison, begging her forgiveness. And if she has any self-respect left, she’ll never speak to you again.
I waited, but he didn’t reply. Of course. So I texted again:
–Why did you make me read this? Just to spread the guilt around?
He knew I didn’t dare write back to Alison, not with Deckard watching her every move. I knew manipulation when I saw it, and it was obvious that everything Deckard had told her had been calculated to make her panic and go running straight to Faraday—or to me.
Which, I realized as my anger subsided, was exactly why Sebastian had wanted me to read her letter. Not because he expected me to do anything but so I’d know to keep an eye out for Deckard. The struggles Alison was going through, her desperate pleas for help and reassurance, were incidental. She wasn’t in danger of being caught and imprisoned, like Sebastian and I were; her freedom wasn’t at stake right now, just her sanity.
As though there was anything just about it. I gritted my teeth and jabbed out one more message.
–Did you ever love her at all?
Not that he’d respond to that either, the coward. But it gave me a grim satisfaction to imagine his face when he read it. I put away my soldering iron, grabbed my laptop, and headed upstairs. Twelve minutes later, I’d changed into pajama pants and was climbing into bed when the phone clanked.
Probably Milo. Or with my luck, Jon. I picked the phone up and looked at the message. It said, simply:
–Yes.
1 0 0 0 0 0
“Hey,” said Milo when I came out of the house the next morning. He took my hand, and I let him; it felt almost natural now. “What’s the matter?”
He was dressed for running, just a T-shirt and track pants, same as me. It was still too cool for shorts, even this late in the spring. “Nothing,” I said, stretching out one leg and then the other. “Just thought it was time to get back in shape. I’ve been sitting around way too much lately.”
“Right,” said Milo. “So you decided to go running with me at six thirty n.M., even though you don’t have to get up for school. Seriously, what is it?”
“I’m here to run, not talk,” I said and jogged away. With an exasperated noise, Milo shoved his earbuds into the pocket of his running belt and followed.
We kept a steady pace to the end of the block, then crossed the road and angled into the cemetery, where the pavement was smoother. Budding trees lined the path on both sides, breaking the sunlight into dazzling fragments, and the tombstones were glossy with dew. It was quiet here, open and private at once, and the only other person in sight was a grey-haired woman walking a pair of dogs nearly as large as she was. I breathed out and quickened my pace.
How fit was Deckard? Not that I was expecting to have to outrun him, or at least I hoped not. But as I recalled, he’d been in pretty good shape for a guy in his mid to late forties. The kind of guy who was seriously invested in taking down criminals, on foot and with his bare hands if necessary. So why would he retire from the force and go into private investigation? It might have been the money, but I suspected Deckard’s loyalties weren’t so easily bought. And it was a pretty huge step to take for a single case.
So now I had a tough, determined, and well-connected ex-cop searching for me full-time, not only because GeneSystem had hired him but because he was personally invested. And judging by how he’d treated Alison, he’d do whatever it took to—
“Whoa,” said Milo. “Slow down, will you? We’re not doing the hundred meters.”
“Can’t keep up?” I panted. My mouth was parched, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades, but I couldn’t stop. I needed to test my limits, find out how hard and how fast I could run. “I’ll see you at the top of the hill.”
“Quit it, Niki.” He stepped in front of me, arms outstretched to block my path. “You’re going to injure yourself.”
He was probably right, but I didn’t like being told what to do. I set my jaw, dodged under his arm, and kept going.
“Tori!”
My old name echoed through the air like a thunderclap, freezing me in place. I stumbled and almost did a header before Milo caught me and set me back on my feet. “Sorry,” he began, “I didn’t mean—”
I wrenched away and rounded on him. “Don’t you ever call me that again!”
“There are plenty of girls named Tori,” he said. “I know a couple just in my high school. You really think Meridian’s got a satellite listening in on every conversation in Ontario?”
“That’s not the point! If I can’t trust you to keep a secret—”
“Oh, come on. That’s not what this is about.”
“What is it about, then? Reminding me you’ve got something on me, so I’d better do whatever you say?”
Milo’s dark eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Because that’s the kind of guy I am. Good thing you spotted it before I could screw you over and sell you out, eh?”
Then he turned his back on me and walked away.
I gazed after him, anger fading to confusion. That wasn’t how I’d expected the conversation to go at all. Milo had always been so easygoing, so willing to do whatever I asked. Every other time I’d lost my temper, he’d backed down. What had gone wrong this time?
“Wait,” I called. “Please.”
He stopped.
“I know you’re not like that,” I said. “It’s just … you scared me. I don’t like being scared.”
Milo turned slowly. “I’ve noticed,” he said. “When you get scared, you start picking fights with people. Or you run.”
I sighed. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” he said, walking back to me. “So what are you scared of?”
A wrought-iron bench sat by the edge of the path, three and a half meters away. I limped over and lowered myself onto it, grimacing at the burn in my calf muscles. “Somebody from my old life has been searching for me,” I said. “And I think he’s getting close.”
“Who is it?” asked Milo.
“An ex-cop named Deckard. I think—” No, I couldn’t explain about Dr. Gervais. That would be far too complicated. Especially since I hadn’t told Milo about my weird biology yet. “He knows there’s a connection between me and Sebastian, and he knows Sebastian used an ATM here in town a few days ago. So I think he’ll be coming here soon.”
“What for?” Milo sat down beside me, offering me his water bottle. I took it gratefully and drank. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
I waited for the question mark at the end of the sentence, the implicit have you?. But it never came. I handed Milo back the bottle. “Thank you,” I said. “No, I haven’t, but Sebastian has. When he visited Alison in the psych hospital, he impersonated a graduate student doing a study, with a faked-up website and credentials. Then he skipped town without paying his rent. And the police still think he kidnapped Alison and probably me as well.”
“Wow,” said Milo wryly. “And he seemed like such a nice guy. ”
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s good at that.”
Milo must have caught the bitterness in my tone, because he stretched out his arm in a slow, deliberate movement and laid it along the back of the bench. Not touching me, just leaving it there for my consideration. “You don’t like him much, do you?” he asked. “So why are you building this transceiver for him? Why not let him deal with the relay on his own?”
“It’s not that simple,” I said. None of it was, not even the way I felt about Sebastian. In some ways he was like the older brother I’d never had. On the other hand, I’d never actually wanted an older brother. And whatever was going on between him and Alison was like looking into this weird alternate universe of emotions and passions that I’d never understand. “I have to do this, no matter what. I’m just afraid I’m not going to get it finished before Deckard finds me. Or Mathis does.”
“Mathis?” asked Milo.
“One of the scientists Sebastian used to work with,” I said, mentally kicking myself for the slip. “The guy who abducted me. I didn’t think he could find me anymore, but if the relay’s still working and the computer that controls it is still online … maybe he can.”
“Yeah, but in that case, shouldn’t he have found you a long time ago?”
A mournful whistle sounded in the near distance—a freight train chugging along the tracks at the north side of the graveyard, pulling its chain of boxcars toward the downtown core. Like Mathis, it was moving so slowly that I could almost outrun it. But that didn’t make it safe to be in its way.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he got distracted or interrupted. Or it could be a timing malfunction—the relay system’s a bit temperamental that way. But I can’t assume anything.” I slumped back, into the crook of Milo’s arm. “All I know is that I have to get this transceiver built, and soon. Because Sebastian wouldn’t have asked me for help unless he was desperate.”
Milo sat still a moment. Then he slid closer and let his hand drop onto my shoulder. “You’ll get it done,” he said. “How’s it going so far?”
“I’ve done pretty much everything I can at home,” I said and sat up again. His arm was warm and solid and comforting, and I liked having it around me. But I didn’t want him to forget what I’d told him back in the bus shelter—or make him think I was in danger of forgetting it myself. “Any more and my parents are going to start wondering what I’m up to.”
Milo made a show of adjusting his glasses, then stood up and stretched in all directions. It was like watching a cat wash itself after failing to land on its feet. “Well, we’re supposed to hear back from the makerspace today, right?”
“Right.” I got up. “And if we sit around anymore, you’re going to be late for school. So let’s run.”
“Fine, but I’ll set the pace,” said Milo. “I’m the expert, remember?”
I had a traitorous impulse to blow a raspberry and take off at top speed. But my muscles were sore enough already, and besides, Milo was right. “Yes, Mr. Hwang,” I said in a childish lisp and matched my stride to his.
1 0 0 0 0 1
I spent the rest of that morning failing to concentrate on schoolwork, which was unfortunate because it was English literature and I needed all the marks I could get. But I still hadn’t figured out how to get hold of a vector network analyzer for less than ten grand or whether the makerspace would let me tinker with their oscilloscope—if they let me work in their space at all. And when I wasn’t obsessing over the transceiver, I was feeling guilty about not writing back to Alison and frustrated with Sebastian for ignoring my questions about e-mail security and worried that Deckard might show up at any moment. So it was even harder to care about Shakespeare’s sonnets than usual.
The afternoon passed more quickly, because Mom put me to work stripping wallpaper in the spare bedroom. I could tell she was surprised by how eager I was to help, but at least she didn’t quiz me about it—or ask if I was still going out with Milo either, though I knew she wanted to. Instead, she tried to come at the subject sideways, asking me how “everyone” at work was doing and if I had any “special plans” for this weekend. I was tempted to ask if she’d been taking subtlety lessons from Jon, but that would open up a whole new can of awkward. So I just shrugged and kept working.
The evening, on the other hand, was torture. Two hours into my shift at Value Foods, I somehow misplaced a twenty and ended up having to pay for it out of pocket. At break I rushed to check my phone in case there was any news from the makerspace, but the only text was from my mother, reminding me we were out of milk.
I spent the bus ride home glaring at the screen, trying to compel the makerspace to call me by sheer force of will. There were no new e-mails in my inbox either, and by the time eleven o’clock came around, it was obvious I wasn’t going to hear from them tonight. Sure, I wasn’t as high on their priority list as they were on mine, but I thought I’d made it clear that this was urgent. Now I was beginning to wonder if they’d forgotten all about me.
Maybe it was time to start looking for alternatives—but the problem was, I didn’t know any. Where else would I get the space and the tools I needed on such short notice? Sebastian had obviously come to the same conclusion, or he wouldn’t have sent me the brochure. But maybe I should have asked him to fake some references for me as well.
Listlessly I packed up the few bits of the transceiver I’d assembled so far and shoved the box into a corner. I still needed to get it out of the house before Mom or Dad got curious, but there was no point until I knew where I was going.
And right now, it looked like I wasn’t going anywhere.
I was in bed and three-quarters asleep when my phone buzzed. I fumbled for it, thinking sourly that if it was Sebastian he was about to get an eyeful.
–Just got e-mail from the makerspace. Went to spam so I didn’t see it right away, sorry.
Well, of course they’d sent the message to Milo. He was the one who looked like a budding engineer. I was just the Manic Pixie Dream Girl in his personal life story, sent to wave her soldering iron around in a semi-competent fashion and awaken Milo to his true calling. The unfairness of it made me grind my teeth, but I reminded myself for the twenty-sixth time that I didn’t want anyone to notice me anyway.
–So what did they say?
–Good news. We’re in.
I collapsed onto the pillows, limp with relief.
–But we can’t use the space unless there’s a member present. And we’ll need to fill out a couple of forms.
–Least of my worries. Thanks.
–No prob. Sweet dreams. See you tomorrow.
1 0 0 0 1 0
I smuggled my box of parts out of the basement late that night and stashed it behind the garden shed, wrapped up in a garbage bag in case of rain. It stayed there until dinner on Tuesday, when Milo sneaked into the backyard and took it away. When I got off the bus by the makerspace an hour later, he was standing there with the box under his arm, waiting for me.
“We’re still going to have to get all the other stuff from your neighbor’s,” I said as we walked. Milo’s next-door neighbor was an elderly widow, and Milo had been mowing her lawn and shoveling her driveway for years. So when he’d told her that he’d ordered a bunch of parts for a school project and didn’t want the couriers to wake up his mother during the day, she’d been happy to sign for everything.
“Not a problem,” said Milo. “But let’s get this stuff dealt with first.”
So we went inside and knocked at the makerspace, and when the door opened, it was Front Desk Guy, beaming at us. “Hey!” he said. “Come on through. I told Barry about your project, and he’s pretty amped about helping you out. So between him and Len and me, you should be able to get in any night of the week.”
“Thanks so much,” I said. “I really appreciate this.”
“It’s what we’re here for,” he said cheerfully and led us up the ramp to the clean room. “Hey Barry! They’re here. Wanna help them set up?”
We turned the corner and there was Barry, aka Radio Guy, short and stocky and goatee-wearing, elbow-deep in a large cardboard box. His eyebrows went up as he saw us, as did mine, and for the same reason.
“Hi,” I said. “How’s the quadrotor?”
“Uh, hi,” he replied. He glanced at Milo as though for reassurance, then stepped back from the carton. “You want to do this?”
He was looking at me, holding out the battered utility knife he’d used to cut the box open. For a moment I was puzzled—until I saw the label on the box’s side. Not to mention the other boxes and packages stacked up at the other end of the table, all of them bearing the same address.
“Milo, you didn’t!” I exclaimed, and he grinned.
“My neighbor let me borrow her car,” he said. “I brought it all down here after school. Surprise?”
I could feel FDG and Barry watching us, waiting for my reaction. I knew what they expected, and I knew better than to hesitate. But even as I threw my arms around Milo, I wished I could have thanked him without having to put on a performance. And when I felt his fingers tighten against my back, the way his breath caught when my lips brushed his cheek, my delight vanished beneath a rumbling landslide of guilt. He deserved better than this charade. I wished I had something better to give him.
“You’re the best!” I enthused, breaking off the embrace and bouncing over to take the knife from Barry. “Let’s get started.”
In spite of our rocky start, I had to give Barry credit. It only took him a few minutes of watching me lay out the various parts and components to realize he’d misjudged where the enthusiasm for this project was coming from, and after that he started addressing all his comments to me. Soon Milo drifted off to a nearby table with his laptop and left us to it.
“What kind of antenna are you using?” Barry asked, following me as I carried my circuit board to the soldering station. “Dish or Yagi?”
Playing slightly dumb was a lot harder than playing completely dumb. I wasn’t used to working in front of people who understood what I was doing, and I had to remind myself to act uncertain. “I haven’t decided yet,” I said. “What do you think?”
“Well, I know a guy who used to work at the cable company, and now he sells surplus electronics,” he said. “He’s got a couple dishes sitting around, if you need one.”
According to Sebastian, I didn’t have to worry about finding an antenna. But I didn’t have to fake my interest either, because Barry had just given me an idea. “Do you think he might have a vector network analyzer?” I asked.
“Dunno,” said Barry, looking surprised. “Maybe. I’ll give him a call.”
He wandered off to the lounge, while I laid out the remaining packages of capacitors and chips I needed to complete the microcontroller circuit I’d started at home. Most of the components had been simple to solder, but these last twenty-two were all surface-mounted, and some were so tiny that a single careless breath could send them flying in all directions. I swung the lighted magnifying glass over the board, picked up my tweezers, and went to work.
I’d been soldering for what seemed like only a few minutes, absorbed in the pleasure of concentration, when I became aware of fragmented whispers coming from behind me.
“… should see how fast … barely used the magnifier…”
“… no way can anybody solder that many SMDs in ten minutes…”
“… look closer—oh man, she just picked up that SOIC.”
I had too. The tiny square was at the end of my tweezers. Which meant Barry wasn’t telling the others about some instructional video he’d watched online, as I’d vaguely supposed.
He was talking about me.
My tweezers shook, and the chip dropped onto the board a full centimeter out of place. My greatest worry until now had been that Barry would notice the modifications I’d made to my transceiver or ask me why it needed so much power. I never imagined I’d get busted for something as simple and basic as my soldering technique.
But I couldn’t let that stop me. I had to keep working as long as I still had the chance. So I willed my hand steady and nudged the wayward chip back into position. I’d applied a thin line of flux and was drag-soldering the pins into place when Barry leaned over my shoulder. “D’you mind … uh, I mean, when you’re done with that chip, could we take a look at your PCB?”
My instincts told me to play innocent. “Oh, sure!” I said, with an internal wince at how perky I sounded. “Hang on, I’m almost finished … okay, there.”
I put down my soldering iron and slid out of the chair. Barry and the other two members crowded forward to inspect the circuit board, sweeping the magnifier across its surface. The tallest one frowned, and I held my breath—but then he leaned back and let out a sigh.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Not a bridge in sight, and look at the size of that tip she’s using.” He turned his quizzical brown eyes on me. “Where’d you learn to drag solder like that, at your age?”
“She’s homeschooled,” Milo spoke up before I could answer and strolled over to join us. “Hey, baby,” he said, in an exaggerated drawl that even a stranger couldn’t have mistaken for anything but a joke. “Are these guys bothering you?” He pretended to crack his knuckles.
Barry and the others flicked me wary glances, and I laughed, as much with nerves as relief. “Oh no,” I said. “It’s fine.”
The three men relaxed, and the stocky one gave a sly smile. “Mohan here was just about to ask you to marry him and bear him many beautiful geeky children,” he said, elbowing the tall one in the side. “But since you’re taken—”
“Excuse me, Jake,” said the other with dignity, “You’re forgetting I’m taken.”
“Oh, right. Guess it’s just me then.” Jake flashed me a grin. “Seriously, nice work. I’ll have to get you to give me a lesson sometime.” Then he strolled off back to his own project, and after a slight hesitation, Mohan followed him.
“So,” Barry said, when the others had gone, “let me tell you what I found out about your VNA. Surplus Steve doesn’t have one, but he knows a guy who does and is willing to do you a loaner if you give him fifty bucks deposit. Sound okay?”
“Sounds great,” I said. “Where can I pick it up?”
“Oh, I can do that for you.” Barry waved my surprise aside. “I’m off work right now—wrecked my back doing long-haul trucking for sixteen years and can’t start retraining until June. So it’s no big deal to run an errand or two.” He paused, his gaze sliding back to the circuit board at my elbow. “I’ve never seen a layout quite like that before. Who did the design?”
My pulse quickened, but I didn’t let myself falter. “Oh,” I said, “just a guy I know.”
“Huh.” He blinked and scratched the side of his nose. “Well, I’d like to meet that guy.” He gave me a last, unreadable look and wandered back to his table.
“Everything okay?” asked Milo, when he was gone. “They weren’t criticizing you or anything, were they?”
“No,” I said, feeling the tension in my stomach beginning to unwind. “They were just looking.”
And it was true, because nobody interrupted me for the rest of the evening. By nine o’clock I’d finished the microcontroller, made a good start on the oscillator, and was feeling good about my progress. At this rate, I might have the transceiver ready by the end of the week.
“Thanks for your help,” I said to Barry, with a nod to Front Desk Guy—whose name, I’d finally found out, was Shawn. “So it’s okay for me to leave my stuff here?”
“Sure thing,” said Shawn. “But we’ve got a bunch of homeschoolers building robots in the morning, so if there’s anything you’re worried about, you might want to stash it in one of the lockers. And tomorrow night we’ve got the crafters coming in, so it might be a little crowded…”
“I just got called into work for tomorrow,” said Milo, making a face at his phone. “Can Niki get in with one of you guys?”
“Uh,” said Shawn. “Well, I’m teaching a night course—”
“I’ll keep an eye on her,” said Barry. “Is seven o’clock okay?”
Under other circumstances I might have hesitated before accepting that offer. But even if Barry turned out to be a creeper, he’d have to be pretty stupid to harass me in a room full of women armed with sharp objects. And besides, he was clearly a lot more interested in my transceiver than he was in me.
“That would be great,” I said.
1 0 0 0 1 1
Barry brought in the VNA the following night as promised, and it didn’t take us long to convert the makerspace’s old oscilloscope into a spectrum analyzer, so I finally had all the equipment I needed. And by the time I went home that night, I was starting to feel hopeful that I’d be allowed to finish the transceiver without interference.
Thursday went even better. Mohan watched me at the drill press, and Len helped me laser-cut the enclosure. When he saw me working on the bandpass filters, Jake hailed me as “Goddess of Solder” and pretended to worship me, and later that night a girl named Mandy told me she was a third-year engineering student and joked that we geek girls should stick together. But none of them questioned what I was doing at all.
Unfortunately, the transceiver still wasn’t finished, so I had to beg off my usual Friday night shift at Value Foods. But I’d asked Kayleigh to cover for me, so I wasn’t worried about getting in trouble. At least not until halfway through the evening, when Barry pulled out a chair and sat down next to me.
“You know,” he said seriously, “this transceiver you’re building is pretty hard-core, if all your dad wants is to bounce a radio signal off the moon. Not that moon bounces aren’t a challenge, but…”
“You don’t think it’s going to work?” I asked, making an effort to sound anxious. Not that I wasn’t concerned about getting it wrong, but so far everything I’d built had performed exactly as it should. I was more worried about whether Sebastian had given me the right specifications in the first place.
“I, uh, wouldn’t say that,” Barry replied with a sideways glance at the 3-D printer, where Len was working. “You seem to have a really good handle on what you’re doing. I’m just not sure I understand what you’re doing.”
“Well,” I said slowly as my brain scrambled for a plausible answer, “I kind of wanted something more versatile…”
My phone rang, sparing me the rest of the sentence. “Excuse me,” I said to Barry and hurried off to the lounge. “Hello?”
“It’s me.” Milo sounded tense. I could hear rumbling in the background and the slow beep of a truck backing up for a late delivery. “You know that ex-cop you said was looking for you? Becker?”
Cold crept up my spine. “Deckard. What about him?”
“He’s here in the store. Right now.”