Her eyes pleaded with him before again flicking away to search about his room. Had she lost something in here?
He covered his exposed left arm where she’d squeezed him and rubbed at the aching muscles. Beneath his hand, Winston noticed that his skin showed a faint blue bruising. For many years, Winston had been prone to such discolorations. Injuries on other kids turned red or purple. With him, they seemed more indigo or sometimes a steel blue, but they passed quickly. Usually, his mom would put on a bandage, and by the next day he’d be back to normal. Someday when they could afford insurance, she’d say, they would get it checked out.
For now, though, he didn’t want her thinking she’d hurt him. That would only worsen her odd mood.
“Please,” she continued, tone strained and muted. “Let’s get you some breakfast and figure this out tonight, OK?”
She knew, Winston suddenly realized. His mom wasn’t baffled like he was. She was worried.
No. He looked again at her expression and read the truth of it. She’s scared. Why?
“Can we go?” she asked. “Are you ready?”
He nodded, knowing he wouldn’t get any information from her now. This was her hedgehog state, when she curled into a prickly ball, kept her head down, and waited for the current problem to blow away.
Winston resisted the urge to mentally command the Stadlerator to turn off and instead reached down to press the power button. With two descending beeps, its indicators went dark. He followed his mom up the single concrete stair and closed the door behind them.
There wasn’t much to their house. The narrow hallway that ended in the former garage also led to his mom’s “master bedroom,” which measured about one-third the size of his own. She turned off to finish getting ready for work. Five more steps took Winston through the hall and into their small kitchen. Beyond this was the living room, which contained little more than a couch and a still-functioning 1998 television with a remote control the size of a tennis shoe. Despite the spindly furniture and worn, nearly bare carpet, Winston’s mom kept the home immaculate. She was a nut about keeping everything sterile, but it still felt gray and tired.
They had few non-essential things. As Winston’s mom often reminded him, things only broke over time, and college was coming up someday. When he was home, Winston essentially lived in his room. Most days, he would shuffle out for dinner or to share a movie with his mom, but his life, and most of his heart, was with his robots.
He grabbed some orange juice and two breakfast bars, then set about downing his meager meal while pacing the living room. In record time, his mom tromped down the hallway, hair still damp but now more thoroughly brushed. As he downed his last swig of juice and set the cup in the sink, his mother emerged from the refrigerator holding two stuffed brown bags, both crinkled from several days of reuse. She handed one of these to Winston, and he noticed that her eyes were wet with tears.
“Ham sandwich, salad on the side,” she said.
He stuck the bag in his backpack, wondering if he should try to say anything to make her feel better. “Thanks.”
His mom snatched her purse from the counter and said, “OK, let’s go.”
She wiped at her eyes and tried to smile.
“Mom, you’re kind of—” he started.
“Running late,” she cut in. “Come on, honey.”
No discussion. Fine.
She cracked the front door open and waited. As he passed her, she gave him a little hug in the doorway and kissed his cheek. Again, strange. She normally never kissed him except right before bed.
Then he felt her free hand press a slip of paper into his own and close his fingers over it. She held his hand closed to emphasize that he shouldn’t read it yet.
Winston’s mom met his eyes and gave him a meaningful nod. He nodded back, unsure if she had mentally snapped.
She locked the door behind them and got into her ancient Honda Civic, a ‘94 model she had bought used even before he was born — with cash, she loved to remind him. “Credit is for people who don’t understand math,” she would say. “In my day, if you didn’t have cash, you could afford to wait.”
The car engine turned over with a wheezing heave. His mom rolled down the window halfway, her shoulder weaving back and forth as she turned the handle. They were the only family Winston knew of that had a car with manual windows. For a second, she appeared about to call him over to her, then she thought better of it.
“Have a good day, honey,” she said. “Learn lots.”
“Uh huh,” he replied. “You, too.”
It was his customary comeback to her customary morning goodbye.
She gave him a tight-lipped grin, rolled up the window, and backed out of the driveway. As she passed, he gave her a small wave, noticing once again that there were tears in her eyes.
She drove off, a little slower than usual, leaving Winston alone in the driveway. Theirs was by far the smallest home on their cul-de-sac, one of the poorer and more run-down pockets in this area of Beaverton. The morning air was clear and warm for October. Sunlight filtered through the trees. Winston knew that other homes had gardens in their last bloom, stained glass knickknacks in the windows, and other signs of suburban decoration. Meanwhile, their house had a couple blotches of grass and a white picket fence in dire need of braces. Mustard-colored siding paint flaked like a week-old sunburn. They didn’t bother with window decorations because his mom almost always kept the curtains drawn. The screen door had a rip in the bottom where Winston had tried to drive a toy tractor through it many years ago. One corner of the gutter sagged lower than the others.
He’d seen more luxurious accommodations in trailer parks. Still, this was Winston’s home, and he was used to it. They didn’t make much, but the house was paid for, and even in eighth grade Winston was able to help pay for some of the bills.
With a sigh, he started down the street, but he couldn’t shake the image of his mom shushing him and searching around his room. Then he realized that the slip of paper his mom had given him still waited in his palm. He opened it and recognized her handwriting, hastily scrawled in felt pen.
Assume you are being watched. Do not show what you can do to ANYONE. Discuss tonight.
Winston read the note over and over. Perhaps she really had gone off the deep end…but he doubted it. Her bizarre behavior, while frantic and disturbing, fit too closely with what he’d seen long ago in the nurse’s office. She didn’t seem crazy. If anything, she seemed like someone suddenly realizing that last night’s nightmare hadn’t entirely been a dream.
Assume you are being watched.
As Winston pondered her words, he found himself glancing around at the neighborhood’s power lines and scattered ash and elm trees — for what? Snipers? Evil spy birds?
“Get a grip,” he murmured as he shoved the sticky note into his jeans pocket and started down the street. “She’s just stressed with work or something. And the robot…”
Yes, the robot. Neither development offered any rational explanation yet, but Winston felt sure that both were related.
Assume you are being watched.
If his mom wasn’t crazy, why would she say this? There must be some basis for it. And if her paranoia had been triggered by watching him mentally command the Stadlerator, then that meant…she wasn’t surprised. She was afraid, but not surprised. She knew something about Winston that he didn’t.
Do not show what you can do to ANYONE.
A speed tracker stood at the cul-de-sac’s entrance, one of those mobile units with solar panels on top and a big readout showing an approaching car’s speed. One block off the main street bordering their neighborhood, Winston had thought it was a stupid place for a speed sensor ever since it had shown up there a couple of years ago. Now he found himself studying it as he walked past. Tucked underneath the solar panels, a dark plastic block was mounted to the central post. Presumably, infrared or laser sensors hid within the block. Winston knew that the sensors had to face toward Denne
y Road to detect drivers’ speeds. Could there also be a camera pointed toward his house?
He shook his head. No, the idea was both ridiculous and irrational, just the sort of fantasy any ordinary, bored fourteen-year-old would cook up to have some excitement in his life. He kept walking.
Still…what had his mom been looking for in his room?
Winston swallowed hard and glanced back at the speed readout sign. Was someone watching him? Could his home, even his bedroom, be under surveillance? The thought that someone might have cameras or microphones in his private space made his heart skip with sudden embarrassment. Then he realized that any cameras would have also seen what he could do with the Stadlerator 7000.
His mother worried about him telling anyone, but what if the secret was already out?
2
Shade's Shack
Winston walked the few blocks to the Tagaloas’ place. Whereas his small house was a dingy yellow, the Tagaloas’ split-level home was a blazing canary, freshly painted, and cooled by inviting oak trees. A double garage with white doors stood atop the sloping driveway. Wide windows on the ground floor showed a collection of toy horses, dreamcatchers, Barbie dolls, and potted plants. Three girls ruled the basement. Unable to stand the explosions of pink, posters, and floral perfumes, Winston’s best friend Shade all but lived in the back yard.
In the yard’s far corner, Shade’s “Shack” stood ten feet off the ground, balanced on six 4x4 timbers sunk into poured concrete blocks. Shade had removed the original stairway his father installed and used the boards to create a storage shelf under the main floor. A wraparound patio and waist-high railing surrounded the structure. The only way into the tree house was through a trap door in the patio from which dangled a rope ladder. The building measured only 8 x 10 feet, but it featured insulated walls, tinted sliding windows, a sleeping loft topped by additional storage, three electrical outlets, a miniature refrigerator, and the automated, remote-controlled security system Winston had installed two summers ago.
The Shack only lacked plumbing. Shade’s dad had drawn the line at installing a porta-potty in the back yard. As a result, a visit to the Shack’s back side often found two or three water bottles filled with urine. Sometimes Shade used these for science experiments, knowing that he would need a complete understanding of biological waste if he was ever to fulfill his dream of being an astrobiologist. Convenience and education aside, Winston still found this repulsive.
While Shade essentially lived in the Shack, he was still obliged to “come home” at least once per day — more if his mother could talk him into sitting down with the family at dinner or doing his laundry.
Winston walked around the side of the house and approached the Shack, careful to stop before the red string marking the “security zone” boundary. With three sisters and a keen sense of personal space, Shade had turned the perimeter around the Shack into a minefield of booby traps. The willow trees in the yard, the ground, the Shack’s shadows and crannies — all were potential hiding spots for his latest “counter-intrusion” measures. The traps had grown so intricate over the years, and Shade had to change them so often, that he now logged their positions and trajectories with a mapping program on his tablet.
“Hey!” called Winston.
Shade slid a window open and poked his head out. He was nearly a head shorter than Winston but at least twenty pounds heavier, with shaggy dark-brown hair that fell around his ears and a burnished complexion that was oddly flawless for an eighth grader. He sported a black T-shirt showing a winged gargoyle — the same shirt he’d worn yesterday. Unless he had football practice and needed to change, Shade would go two or three days in the same outfit, always claiming that he had more important things to think about than fashion.
“You’re early,” said Shade.
Winston thought about his mom’s note, now crumpled in his pocket. He shouldn’t say anything. But this was Shade, the one person in the world he told everything. He had to tell Shade or else his head would explode.
Still… On the outside chance that his mom was right, it would make sense that Shade and his Shack would also be under surveillance since he spent a large part of his time here.
That thought sent a shiver down his back.
“Yeah,” Winston said. “It’s been a weird morning. OK to come up?”
“Sure. Hold on.”
Shade’s head disappeared into the Shack, and Winston knew that he was calling up his security app. He surveyed the yard, admiring how well manicured Mr. Tagaloa kept it. The grass was an even, dark green, devoid of the brown patches of crane fly damage that mottled Winston’s yard. Roses and chrysanthemums lined the house’s back wall, filling the air with a deep, fresh sweetness. The patio, still arrayed with its collection of outdoor dining furniture, boasted a stainless steel barbecue the size of a Smart car, and Winston knew that Mr. Tagaloa cared for it with more love and attention than typically shown to his children.
“All right,” Shade said, stepping out onto the balcony, tablet cradled in one hand. He wore khaki cargo shorts and no shoes or socks. Shade hadn’t been to his South Pacific homeland since the age of two and had no memory of it, but island habits were clearly wired into his DNA.
Shade checked the back of the house for any sign of sisters who might be snooping on his security secrets. “I changed a couple things last night. Come six paces forward.”
Winston slumped with exasperation and held up his hands. “Dude. Can’t you just drop the—”
“Testing and calibrating, man. You’ll be fine!”
“That’s what you said when you almost electrocuted me.”
“Again with the electrocution thing!” Shade smacked the windowsill in exasperation. “It wasn’t my fault! The store mislabeled the part!”
“Right.”
“I am all about caution and safety. Do you know anyone safer than me?”
“My mom.”
“Well…fair point.”
With a deep breath, Winston stepped over the red string and took six slow paces. He’d learned the hard way not to rush through this.
“Now three to the left.”
Winston turned to the left and started to take a step.
“Stop!” cried Shade. “Sorry. My left. Your right.”
“Shade…”
“Sorry!”
Winston turned around and took three even paces.
“Now take four steps straight toward me.”
“You couldn’t just use a deadbolt like the rest of us?”
Shade crossed his arms, holding the tablet to his chest like a teddy bear. “You know why. It’s the point. I’m outnumbered here, three to one. It’s like the Spartans when they were up against that Persian nutjob.”
“That was more like twenty to one.”
“Whatever. OK, you’re clear. Go straight to the ladder.”
Winston climbed the rope ladder, the coppery threads woven through the rough fibers glinting in the sunlight. As always, Winston found it difficult to keep his spindly legs straight and the ladder from swinging wildly. Coordination had never been his specialty.
Shade had put a lot of thought into the Shack. The sleeping loft accessible via a square cut into the ceiling’s corner had been almost entirely converted into storage. In the main room, a 30-inch flat-screen TV hung on the wall and doubled as a second display for his laptop. Shade didn’t bother with decorations. Most of the bottom level was occupied by one red beanbag and two walls of benches and racks filled with science equipment and various experiments.
Shade plopped down on his beanbag, tapping at his tablet. Winston pulled the lone stool out from under a bench and sat. He couldn’t help but look around the Shack, especially in the corners, wondering if the place was bugged. Then he realized that it wouldn’t have to be bugged. Shade had four mics and surveillance cameras scattered around this place, all of which were online so he could monitor them from anywhere. “They,” whoever they were, wouldn’t have to plant anything. They only
needed to hack his systems.
Winston smiled at the thought of the government taking on his own security deployment. He had no illusions of withstanding hacks from a group like the FBI, but it would be fun to know how long it took them to break through.
“Something funny?” Shade asked.
“No, just thinking.”
“Alyssa again?” His tone was so flat that Winston wondered if Shade was either sick of hearing about the girl or just a pinch jealous, although that would be unlike him. Plus, Alyssa really wasn’t his type.
Winston puffed out his cheeks and sighed. “No, not this time.”
Alyssa Bauman. Five foot three. Auburn hair like hot coals, with an attitude to match. Pale, freckled skin. Wit sharp enough to slice through a can. She had been in his classes for five of the last six years and hardly seemed to have given Winston a thought. He wished the feeling was reciprocal. Unfortunately, when he didn’t have his brain dialed in to electronics, he thought about little besides her.
Winston tried not to take her lack of interest personally. He had a big head on a skinny body, with a bunch of premature gray hair that looked like two faint white stripes. The Internet said it might be vitiligo or Waardenburg syndrome or any of a dozen other things that could mess up his life, and his mom still hadn’t taken him in to see a doctor about it. Winston was smart, but showed it too often. Between his studies and his work, he had little interest in the YouTube shows and music streams that his classmates loved.
As a result, Winston knew he wasn’t terribly popular, and that was probably an understatement.
“OK,” said Shade. “Spill.”
Winston blinked at him, uncomprehending. “Huh?”
“Your text? This morning?” Shade arched his eyebrows and gave Winston a look that asked Did you eat your brain for breakfast? “You texted me at—” He flicked his own phone to life and tapped a few times. “7:14 AM. ‘Unbelievable! You won’t believe this!’”
His text…of course. Just before his mom had come in. How had it slipped his mind?
Winston thought again of the note in his pocket. He should tell Shade everything. That was how their friendship worked. But would doing so put him in danger? Without any answers, Winston needed to stall for time and think.
Winston Chase and the Alpha Machine Page 2
