I check the invisi-chat channel on my own phone. Still no word from her hot jacker girlfriend. There’s been only radio silence since I scrit her to Run. I’m not even certain she got the message. I had to tell Juliette—and she was pissed—but worse than her curses is the way her shoulders are constantly hunched up now. Guilt is still worming through my stomach.
The sim-cast music swells up. On screen, the two sides—the terrorists and the tormented family—are creeping into thought-range of each other. Their transcribed thoughts whip past at the bottom of the screen. The lines are for mindreading audiences, who use synchrony to create a chorus of thought-waves—no one speaks in a sim-cast just as no one speaks in Tiller’s estate. I’ve gotten so used to the world of jackers—where everyone speaks out loud—that the last two days feel muffled and two-dimensional like we’re trapped in a sim-cast of our own. We get the tru-casts, but those are no more true than this sim-cast we’re pretending to watch—just anti-jacker propaganda and purity killings. Even those have been flattened into caricature with the tru-cast reporters earnestly relaying the danger of the dead jacker, threatening her family with her new-found jacking powers… right until she was slaughtered in the streets. Then they’re on to the next story. Even the bruises Juliette and I had when we first arrived are now gone—as if the real world outside Tiller’s opulent estate is slowly fading away.
I wish for the hundredth time that I’d set up an invisi-chat channel with Tessa before I left. It all just happened so fast.
Juliette groans and swipes furiously at her phone.
You okay? I link into her mind.
No, I am not okay! She brushes the face of her phone clean. There’s apparently an infinite number of military guys visiting the estate, my dad’s supplying them with weapons of mass mental destruction, and I don’t even have a prototype to work with. Her pale cheeks are blotched with red. She ducks her head and drags the back of her hand across her cheek.
Hey, it will be okay. Seems the right thing to say.
She twists in her seat and throws the phone in my lap. No, it’s not!
I scramble to snag the phone before it bounces into the next row of seats. Okay, maybe not, but we’re going to need this. My irritation dissolves when I see her head drooped down, chin nearly touching her chest. Her eyes are closed, but that doesn’t stop the tears from leaking out. Hey, come on. I grab her knee and give it a shake. You can’t give up—we’re just getting started.
I suck as a spy. She shakes her head but doesn’t lift it.
Technically, I’m the spy. You’re the hot scientist who’s going to solve everything with your vast tech skills.
Short quips of mental laughter chuff through her head. Okay, you suck as a spy. But she lifts her head to give me a pinched look.
No, I suck as a friend. But I’m a kick-ass spy.
Her shoulders drop. You do not suck as a friend.
Pretty sure Sammi would disagree. We need to clear the air about this. In fact, when she finds out what went down—and she will—then she will kill me. Like literally. Or at least leave a few burn marks on my brain as souvenirs.
Juliette shakes her head then gets distracted by the sim-cast. Somehow, it has moved from the thought-wave showdown to a touching reunion of the family members. The mom is hugging the kids. The dad has his arms around everyone. Their thoughts tumble over each other as they scroll across the bottom, just like real life. I went to a large sim-cast theater once—this is the part where everyone mind-echoes their favorite character. The synchrony breaks, and emotional chaos pulses through the crowd. Trying to keep up felt like drowning, but the readers seemed to love it—as if the story had moved beyond the screen, fully alive in their minds. Juliette and I haven’t even been watching, and she’s caught up in a bittersweet tangle of thoughts about this heroic father on the screen—the one who loves his family like a real parent, not whatever Tiller is.
Juliette tears her gaze from the screen. Why hasn’t Sammi messaged back? She could at least have said something. Just let us know she’s okay.
Guilt churns through my gut. Sammi’s smart. She doesn’t want to give us away. I pray that’s what it is.
That’s what the invisi-chat channel is for!
Unless my phone is compromised. Unless your dad is watching when the message comes in. I give an elaborate shrug—there are a hundred reasons Sammi wouldn’t respond… including that Tiller’s already caught her. Which I know is what Juliette’s thinking, even if she’s trying hard not to. And I get it—Tessa’s off doing chat-casts with Kira-the-Jacker-Revolutionary, which is crazy dangerous. And we can’t do anything to help either of the people we love while we’re in Tiller’s cage. Sammi’s playing this cool. Which is exactly the right thing to do. We need to keep it cool, too, and do our part—right? This all gets better if we can get what we need and get out.
Juliette pulls in a breath and lets out a long sigh. It’s the only sound in the suddenly dead-quiet theater. Yeah, okay.
I hand back her phone. What’s the status on your father?
She grimaces and taps it quickly. I’ve set up an alert for when he comes or goes from the north wing. Right now, he’s in there with some senior-looking military types and a couple mooks that are probably military tech guys.
Okay, good. I glance up at the silent screen—the sim-cast is rolling credits. Which means our cover here is up. Your father has to leave the estate at some point. We should be prepared to execute a break in right away. Who knows when we’ll get another chance. Plus this military cavalcade makes me nervous—feels like something’s in motion. We need to get ahead of that, whatever it is.
Juliette nods. All right, let’s head to the lab. She pockets her phone as the theater lights come on. We wind through the seats placed in pods of four. The place holds at least a couple hundred people, which I suppose comes in handy when Tiller hosts parties for the rich-and-not-jacker people of Chicago New Metro. Juliette is giving up all this—living in a palace, having the kind of money that buys people as well as things—just to be free of her father’s dictates. But I can see why: she’s been a prisoner her whole life.
And Sammi has the key.
Juliette’s lab is in the northeast wing, at the corner closest to the north wing where Tiller and his military suitors are holding court. Juliette and I trot up a spiral staircase to the second floor then cross over. An elevated glass tunnel connects the southeast and northeast buildings, giving a glimpse of the giant pool in back. It glitters with the morning sun, looking innocent of the violence that took place on the lawn. The trammeled grass has been restored, and the blood has long since seeped into the ground. Not the president’s blood—he was attacked here, but just mentally. Only jackers died that day—and more jacker blood will spill if we don’t stop Tiller.
The northeast wing is less opulent, more corporate—offices, concrete floors, and the server room for the estate. Juliette has her own computing resources in her lab, which is a featureless white door at the end of a hall on the first floor. The north wing, with its granite walls and loading dock, looms just outside the window—I check with my mental reach, but it’s shielded, per usual. I’ve been sweeping the building on our way, but there’s just two of the staff cleaning up a spill in an office. Juliette punches in the code, and we slip inside her lab.
The giant screen that takes up one side of the room is displaying all her surveillance, the software auto-detecting faces and tracking movements. The stainless benchtops are bare, and the small machinist shop at the end is covered in dust wraps, but a small nest of wires and electrical equipment is isolated on a pushcart with wheels. It looks like the remains of her experiments on the orb before we lost the prototype to Tiller.
Juliette gestures me over to a bank of cabinets against the far wall. Then she digs through the drawers, placing odd electronic bits and devices on the counter. I want to develop a scrambler that can block the mind-blaster, she thinks, still rummaging.
Sammi’s doing that too, I li
nk. She calls it anti-Tiller tech.
Juliette jolts and freezes in her search. She gives me a glare then keeps going.
I grimace. She doesn’t mean you.
I know what she means. Juliette stands up, back still to me, and focuses on a couple wireless earbuds she’s scavenged out of the drawer. I’m not sure if she’s forgiven me until she turns around with a small silver box in one hand and the earbuds in the other. But her thoughts are still on the tech her father is building, not the tech in her hands. Neither Sammi or I will get far without a sample. We just don’t have enough information—frequencies, ranges, shielding, feedback. I need another prototype, Zeph, or a working model. You need to get me one.
I frown. Okay. But how?
She holds up the silver box, which is only a couple inches long and less than an inch wide. When you break into my father’s office, place this in the center of the room. It’s got a ten-foot reach—any data warehousing he’s got air-gapped in the office will be accessible. Then she holds up the palm with the earbuds. I’ll tune these to a closed channel with your phone. We’ll communicate on an invisi-chat which will speak to you using the earbuds. You jack into your phone to reply.
Like when we coordinated with Jiaying to break out my mom and sister.
Exactly. She gives me the buds and the box, and I hand over my phone. She scowls as she taps, configuring it to work with the buds. I’ll be talking you through this. Just get the data probe into my dad’s office. I’ll do the rest from here. But if I can’t activate it through the shielding, I’ll talk you through how to run the holo controls. She taps the box—the data probe—in my hand, and holo controls spring up above it. I jack into it—works just like a regular mindware interface.
Sounds like a plan.
She hands back my phone and peers up at me. What about a weapon?
I am a weapon. I shouldn’t have to remind her of this. I’ll be jacking my way into her father’s office, after all.
Not when my father’s goons come after you with helmets and bullets.
Are you saying you have a gun? I shove the data probe in one pocket and my earbuds and phone in another. If it comes to fighting with guns, I’m probably dead anyway.
She purses her lips. I might know where you can get one.
I raise one eyebrow. I’m not involving you in this. If I get caught, I’m saying I jacked you the whole way. Got it? No heroics.
I won’t let him… That red-blotched fury is back on her cheeks. I know what he’s capable of, Zeph. What he does to jackers. I won’t let you just disappear.
I take her by the shoulders and give her my best I-am-damn-serious-about-this look. If I disappear, you get out. You run. Understand? Go back to Aaliyah’s and find Tessa—between her and my mom, they’ll help you get away from him. You deserve better than whatever your father has planned, Juliette. Tell me you understand this.
I understand. She’s blinking way too much.
And promise me you’ll find Sammi. Work it out, okay? Or if you get bored with the hot redhead, find another jacker to love. Just don’t… don’t give up. Okay? Even if I’m not here. I’m making a mess of this. And it’s good we’re not speaking because my throat is closing.
I promise. Tears are sliding down her face now.
I bring her in for a hug. You got this, badass.
Shut up. I suck at this.
I’m about to refute that—we’re only here because she’s willing to take on her billionaire-bigot father and apparently half the military—but something’s pinging the screens.
I release her. What’s that?
She hurries over and swipes through her many feeds, pulling up one. It’s from outside the main building, where a line of autolimos awaits a parade of guys in olive drab and chest candy… and Tiller. We both hold absolutely still, watching the officious scurry of men getting in cars. Either Tiller’s just seeing them off or…
He steps into one of the autolimos.
I’m still frozen as the slow caravan departs from the estate.
Juliette lets out a breath, all in a rush. He’s leaving.
Time to go.
I frantically scan the feeds on Juliette’s wall.
Where’s Richards? Tiller’s head of security is the only one I know with access to his office—but I don’t see him on the screen.
Juliette flicks through feeds so fast I can’t tell what’s on them. But she must know because she whizzes through… then stops. Richards is clustered with his men at the front door. He’s giving them some directions—just hand signals and nods. They’re not wearing helmets.
Now, Zeph! Go, go, go!
But I don’t need her to tell me—I’m already halfway to the door of the lab. Wait. My sneakers screech against the concrete floor. We need a secure channel.
She lets loose some colorful curses in her mind then nearly assaults me trying to get the phone out of my pocket. I bat her hands away, dig it out, then hand it over. Her thin fingers fly over the face, then she shoves it back in my hand. Go! I’ll check it out on the way. Put in your earbuds!
I stumble into the hall, flinging out my reach but Richards must still be outside because I can’t sense him—the estate is shielded, a hard barrier to my jack-reach along the exterior walls. I book it a short way down the hall and through a door to the outside, the electric static of the shield charging my scalp as I hustle through. A couple workers at the loading dock startle when they see me—I jack them to look the other way. I can sense Richards and his men still lingering outside the front door, but he’s beyond my jacking range.
Richards is giving his flunkies instructions for his absence—he’s leaving the estate.
I dash along the outside wall of the north wing. There’s a small blind spot in Tiller’s security in the narrow, windowless gap between Juliette’s lab and the dock, but I’ve got to hug the walls to stay inside it. And I’ve got to get close enough to jack Richards. Something in my pocket is squawking—Juliette yelling at me over the earbuds—but nothing she’s saying will matter if I don’t catch Richards before he gets in the autolimo, and I lose all chance of jacking him. I run up and flatten my face against the wall for the main building—Richards is just barely in my jack range now. I plunge into his mind and command him to freeze—his hand is on the door of the autolimo.
Sweet mercy. I command him to step back, keeping my head mashed against the chilled brick wall. The other security goons have gone inside.
I fumble the earbuds into my ears.
Zeph. Zeph answer me. Zeph what is happening. Goddammit it, Zeph—
I’m here. My scrit cuts off the monotone panic in my ears, the earbuds’ rendition of Juliette’s invisi-chat messages. I’ve got Richards, but I’m outside. Working on backtracking without losing my jack hold. What a mess. The original plan—such as we had—was to work everything from inside the estate. I jack Richards to move closer so I can at least peel my face off the wall.
Can you go in through the loading dock?
What’s our situation with cameras there? I jack Richards to head around the north wing, toward the docks at the east end. As he moves closer to me, I edge toward the docks. Jacking people is fine and well until Tiller looks at his security feeds and sees me cruising into his office. Juliette has hacked the system inside the compound, but we never planned for the outside cameras.
I can’t access the dock cameras from here. Juliette’s response is flat. But once you’ve got the data probe inside my father’s office, I should be able to.
And if you can’t?
Then you bring me in.
I’m not involving you in this, remember?
Dammit, Zeph, hurry. And don’t argue.
I don’t like it, but she’s right—and I hope it won’t come to that. Fine. Standby, I’m about to step out of the blind spot. Let me know if anyone flips out.
Richards and I are dancing a duet where he skirts the perimeter of the north wing opposite me—we’re both zeroing in on the docks. Once I round the
corner, Richards is more comfortably inside my jack reach—but the two dock workers are still unloading crates from the truck. I jack them to set down their load and scan open the building door for me. I’ve got to time this just right—Richards and I can go through the door, and the shield, together, but once we’re inside, I’m cut off from jacking the dockworkers. Which means they wake up—if they see me escorting Richards inside, they’ll realize something has gone horribly wrong.
Richards strides mechanically around the corner of the building. He joins the dock workers and me by the door. It’s a big roll-up kind of garage door, great for bringing in large shipment crates and jack-spies. Richards has the slack look of a jacked mind. I relieve him of the gun strapped to his side anyway. The grip is cold against my sweaty palms. I send the dock workers back inside the truck and jack them to load up another crate on the dolly—once my jack-hold breaks, it should take them a few seconds to look up.
Richards and I need to be through the door and around a corner by then.
Okay, I’m going in, I scrit to Juliette then jack Richards hard to lurch inside—and across the shield—with me.
The electric skitter runs across my scalp.
I lose contact with the dock workers.
I jack Richards into a run and haul it with him down the corridor.
We make it around the corner, then slow to a jog down the maze of hallways in the north wing. We’re in, but I don’t know if the dock workers spotted us. To Juliette, I scrit, I’m in. Heading to your father’s office.
There’s no response.
Juliette!
Nothing.
Crap. I pick up the pace, my sneakers squeaking the tile floor as I round another corner and finally come to the elaborately-carved wooden door outside Tiller’s office.
Zeph. Juliette’s voice blurts in my ear and spasms my heart.
Broken Wide Page 7
