Earlier at the VA hospital, it had been the same between Mom and Dad—and even Uncle Doc. He wasn’t really my uncle but we called him that anyway. Dad said anyone who saves your life should be treated like family. Anyway, there had been a whole lot going on beneath the surface of their words this morning, and they weren’t just trying to hide something from me, even though that’s what they tried to make one another think with their fake nods and expressions. They were hiding stuff from each other.
A person’s eyes hold more truth than a thousand words.
At least that’s the way I see it.
Of course there was also Mississippi Mike. Now that had been a conversation. When I took his hands, I felt his pain. It wasn’t physical. It was a sense of hopelessness that seemed to crowd out everything else in his consciousness.
Mike was more interested in dying than living.
I’d felt his surprise when I connected with his thoughts. His eyes had bugged out and his grip had tightened to the point it had begun to hurt. But he’d realized it right away because of our bond so he’d eased off. From there it had been easy to change his focus to what he could do rather than what he couldn’t. When he’d stood up and taken his first step, I knew he’d be okay. I can’t explain how I did it. My dad called it letting my brain go on autopilot, same as what he did. Beyond that, all I’d done was imagine myself inside Mike’s brain and body, connecting his desire to walk with the electrodes that linked spare nerves in his chest to his new robotic legs. He’d done the rest.
Mom kept the motor running after she pulled the Fiat into the driveway. “I’m going to run to the store,” she said. “I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes. Tell Sara and Ahmed to stick around. I want to speak to all three of you when I return.”
I didn’t ask what it was about. Why bother? I grabbed my backpack, jumped out of the car, and walked up the steps to the porch. The front door swung open before I could grab the handle, and Ahmed stepped out and nearly speared me with the end of his short board.
“Whoa!” he said, twisting to one side. “Sorry about that. Hey, I’m headed to the beach. Would you like to go?”
“Mom says we have to stay here.”
“Huh?” Ahmed leaped down the steps as the Fiat backed down the drive. “Mom, wait!”
It was no use. She waved a finger to indicate she was in a hurry and then drove away. Ahmed’s mouth stayed open longer than necessary, the palm of his free hand jutted into the air as if to ask what had just happened.
Beyond him, a car with blacked-out windows pulled away from the curb and followed Mom around the corner.
Veterans Administration Medical Center
Jake and Doc had found a quiet booth in the hospital cafeteria. Jake waited for the other shoe to drop.
“Late last night two more servers got involved in the chatter,” Doc said. “Timmy tracked them to San Francisco and San Diego.” Timmy was Doc’s lead science engineer at Area 52. The young whiz kid had saved Jake’s life by hiding him in Italy after Jake had awakened from his six-year coma.
“Crap,” Jake muttered, his nerves bristling.
“That’s not the worst of it. Timmy’s pretty sure one of the sources is a Chinese triad.”
“No way.”
Doc nodded. “These guys are bad news, one of the oldest criminal organizations ever known, with connections everywhere.” He hesitated before adding, “They’re known for being among the top black-market arms dealers in the world, specializing in advanced weaponry. Unearthing the Grid tech would be a dream come true for them.”
Jake stood abruptly and exited the booth.
“Don’t panic,” Doc said, rushing to catch up. “Timmy’s team has fended off hundreds of similar searches since the Grid. Dead ends and phony death certificates—that’s all anyone’s ever uncovered.”
Jake stopped to face him. “Then why are you here in person? Why not just call?”
“Because yesterday Timmy discovered a tap in our phone system at Area 52. We’re not even using our cell phones for sensitive information.”
“Jeez, Doc,” Jake said, double-timing it toward the lobby. “You couldn’t have led with that info?”
Doc kept pace. “But that part of it probably has nothing to do with you!”
“Probably?” Jake said, pulling his smartphone from his pocket. “Probably isn’t good enough when we’re talking about my family’s safety.” He speed-dialed Francesca’s number.
Redondo Beach
Francesca knew Jake and Alex had sensed something was wrong. She’d been hiding it pretty well until today. But after the meeting she’d had with Alex’s doctor this morning, the situation had gotten the better of her.
“We’re not sure what’s going on,” the doctor had said, “but the activity in his brain is all over the map. I’m afraid it’s affecting his entire system.”
When he’d explained what that meant, the news had shattered her.
She pulled into the Walgreens parking lot and made her way to the counter. The doctor said the pills would help get her through the day. She hoped so.
“Name?” the pharmacist asked.
“Francesca Bronson.” Saying her married name out loud usually brought a smile to her face. Not today.
The pharmacist checked the computer. “Your doctor phoned in the prescription and we’re preparing it now. It’ll be ready in just a few minutes.”
She sighed and took a seat in the small waiting area, dreading the thought of telling Jake. He’d blame himself, even though it wasn’t his fault. That’s the way he was—he shouldered responsibility and guilt for any repercussions that occurred in the wake of the accident that had enhanced his brain, saved his life, and ultimately changed the world. They’d argued about it more than once, and while he agreed with her intellectually, she knew he harbored a deep-seated belief that everyone would have been better off if he’d simply died eight years ago from his brain tumor.
Now, Alex’s health issues would reopen old wounds, since their root cause had likely been his contact with the alien Grid. But she had to tell Jake. Keeping secrets in their family wasn’t easy, not with her empathic abilities and his uncanny brain. She’d let her guard down this morning when she saw him with Doc at the VA hospital. Doc’s unexpected visit couldn’t have come at a worse time.
They’d have much to discuss this evening.
Her phone sounded. The ringtone was Andrea Bocelli singing “Vivo per Lei”—“I Live for Her.” Jake had installed the song as his ringtone. Her husband was an unabashed romantic and she loved him for it. Nevertheless she let the call drift to voice mail.
She needed to steel herself before they next spoke.
Chapter 3
Redondo Beach
I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE some sort of genius, but I got confused just as easily as the next kid. Even more so, since my brain never seemed to slow down. It gobbled up information day in and day out—cataloguing, memorizing, analyzing. A part of me realized it came naturally to me, but another part wondered how long I’d be able to keep it up. What happens when my brain gets overstuffed?
My dad had the same gift, if you want to call it that, though he wasn’t nearly as good with computers as I was, and Dad’s abilities seemed to be coming and going lately, like something was changing in him. I catalogued that in the Worried About Dad drawer.
I’d have to start a drawer on Mom, too, after the way she was acting this morning.
The drawer system worked pretty well for me. I kept the bad drawers closed so that the uncomfortable feelings they gave me didn’t distract me from the important stuff, like online gaming. There’s nothing like diving into a role-playing game, where you control the character’s choices and actions, or a first-person shooter where quick reflexes mean the difference between life and death. Living inside a good game pushed away the constant flow of data that bombarded me all the time in real life. In a game, the world is…finite. I liked that word, even though most seven-year-olds would screw up their face if I
used it. But my vocabulary was pretty much only limited by whether or not I’d been exposed to a word. Between books, TV, and the Internet—not to mention my brother’s occasional bouts of jabbering—I’d learned lots of words. And I never forgot them. My brain stuffed them into drawers and I could recall them whenever I wanted. It’s the same with videos, pictures, people, and places. You name it, I remember it. And math and numbers? Don’t even get me started on that.
I had lots of drawers.
It’s pretty cool, I guess, but when most everyone around me had trouble even remembering what they ate for breakfast that morning, it kind of made me stand out. People look at you funny when you’re different. That’s why I didn’t play with kids my age.
They didn’t get me.
But my family did, and like my dad said, In the end, family is all that matters.
I was hungry but I figured I could wait a while. Mom should be home soon, and I was hoping she’d bring something good for lunch. I climbed up on the bar stool and scooched it up to the kitchen counter. I liked to sit on the end that butted up against the wall. My dad’s Snoopy helmet hung there on a peg. He liked to wear it when he flew acrobatics in one of the old planes at his work. Sometimes he put it on my head when he told me stories about his Air Force days. It smelled like old leather…and Dad.
Sarafina and Ahmed were at the kitchen table. She wore shorts and a cut-off tee shirt that Dad would say showed too much for a thirteen-year-old, and if Mom noticed the touch of makeup my sister had on, she’d be in trouble. I don’t know why she bothered with face paint, especially around her eyes. They were her best feature, big and friendly. As usual, she was texting someone on her iPhone. That’s what she did if she wasn’t playing music on her keyboard.
Ahmed was still in his board shorts and tank top. His right knee bounced up and down so I could tell he was anxious to go to the beach like he planned. He didn’t have many friends but he loved surfing at the beach down the street from our home. He said his Afghan skin was built for the sun, and oceans were among Allah’s greatest gifts. Right now, he was focused on his laptop, which was connected to two external speakers. He tapped a key and a loud karate kiai made me flinch.
Sarafina looked up and crinkled her brow. “You’re kidding, right?” she said. “Pleeease use your headset. Those screeches are enough to give a person a headache.” She should know since she had perfect pitch, and the ability to compose amazing songs in her head and play them with her eyes closed on a piano or keyboard. I loved listening to her play. We all had coping mechanisms. Hers was music.
“Uh-huh,” Ahmed said, without looking up from the screen—or putting on his headset.
He was studying a recording of his last sparring event, playing it over and over. When he focused on something, it could be hard to break him loose. I’d learned it was best to let him be when he got into that mode. Even though the brain implant he received years ago had done wonders to eliminate most of the adverse affects of his autism, he still suffered from bouts of paranoia. When that happened, he couldn’t stop talking. It could be annoying and he knew it. So over the last year or so, he’d been trying to channel that energy toward karate classes.
The video ended, and I cringed when he tapped the screen to start it all over again. Another loud kiai sounded. Sharper this time. I flinched again.
“Really?” my sister said, glaring at him. Ahmed didn’t notice, so she huffed and plugged in her own earphones, turning her back on him as she texted.
I pulled my tablet from my backpack and propped it up on the counter. Then I donned my neuro-headset, which was about the coolest thing ever invented. The wireless device was a human-to-computer interface that allowed me to control online games using nothing but my thoughts. Talk about hands-free! The game developer named it the Spider because of the way its eight legs draped around your scalp and forehead. If it had been up to me, I would’ve named it the Octopus, since each of the legs was embedded with rows of circular probes that reminded me of tiny suction cups. Either way, it was the latest device of its kind, way better than anything else out there. The headset was still in beta testing, but a bunch of them had been distributed to select gamers around the world—the best of the best—each user getting a unit registered exclusively for his or her use, no exceptions. It was no surprise that Uncle Marshall—who wasn’t my real uncle, either—was invited to join the beta testing group. He’d been a gamer elite for ages, same as many of his friends, and was probably on top of the distribution list.
But he’d been swamped lately with government contracts for his cyber-security consulting business, and right now he was in Rome visiting his wife, Lacey. She was an actress and she was on location for a film. So he’d let me test it out for him on the sly. I was supposed to pretend I was him whenever I used it online. He’d even added his own twist to the software so that when the server at game headquarters pinged for a location address, it was rerouted to wherever Uncle Marshall’s laptop was.
I slipped the Spider onto my head, activating the noise-canceling feature to tune out the world. It felt like home. The instant I switched it on, the application on my tablet responded with an audible cue. “Good morning, Marshall. Are you ready to play?”
Oh, yeah! I thought, and the screen automatically drew me into the online game in progress.
As usual, while I played, I blocked out the endless stream of underlying images, words, and numbers that accompanied the data stream, figuring it was some sort of subliminal advertising gimmick the game makers were testing out. As I dodged explosions and returned fire with all sorts of cool weapons, my mind drifted on autopilot, exploring the network of other players, connecting to their emotions and thoughts in a way that didn’t allow them to notice the intrusion. I could tell the exact moment when each of them recognized Uncle Marshall’s TurboHacker call sign—by their emotional groans. That’s because I didn’t lose very often, and when I did it was usually because Mom interrupted my play. But none of the other players ever gave up. In fact, they seemed more determined than ever to beat me.
My favorite weapon was the robotic swarm. It became available after you used conventional weapons to kill twelve players without dying yourself. The swarm consisted of twenty-four dart-sized drones that hovered and zipped around like hummingbirds. The player could switch his screen view to any one of them, and a single strike from a drone’s needle-tipped nose spelled instant death. The key to my success with them was multitasking. Players tended to maneuver a swarm as a single unit. A few of the better players had learned to split their drones into two groups and they had a far higher kill rate than everyone else—other than me, of course. I used an entirely different strategy, my brain separating the drones into twenty individual units so they could either move with the swarm or operate independently. It came naturally to me, so I guess it wasn’t very fair to the other players, but heck, war isn’t fair, right? Besides, the better I got, the more the other players teamed up against me to even the odds.
I loved it!
Chapter 4
Hong Kong
4:00 a.m.
JIAOLONG MOVED WITH purpose but he wasn’t rushed.
Everything is in place.
Lin glided beside him, a hint of her jasmine perfume spurring a familiar yearning.
Heads turned as the couple made their way between rows of computer stations that filled the vast space on the twenty-fourth floor of a converted high-rise factory in Kowloon. Though many bowed their heads in deference to Jiaolong’s position, and his mixed heritage elicited admiring glances, he knew most eyes were on Lin. Her beauty was mesmerizing. She had dark almond eyes, porcelain skin, and cherry-blossom lips. Her jet-black hair was pulled back from her face, the bulk held in a bun by elastic rows of baby pearls while the remainder flowed over her Western-style dress to the middle of her back.
There were nearly one hundred and fifty employees on the floor and they operated with unparalleled efficiency. Each had been handpicked, plucked from the scores of s
tate-sponsored cyber training schools scattered throughout China’s interior, where most of the employees had begun their indoctrination before their fifth birthday. The average age of the men and women on the floor was nineteen. In America they’d be called “geeks.”
In China they were workers.
They lived in lavish dormitories on two of the lower floors, where they enjoyed professionally prepared food, a fully stocked gymnasium, an evening lounge that featured live entertainment, and a computer-game room that Jiaolong suspected rivaled any other in the world. There was even a plush movie theater. Jiaolong’s employees wanted for nothing—except the freedom to leave the building.
“He’s on,” the lead engineer reported as Jiaolong and Lin arrived at a row of padded reclining chairs facing a series of large wall-mounted LED displays. Four techs sat back in the chairs, immersed in the action on their respective screens, their Spider headsets in place as they guided their avatars through intense first-person battles. Other techs sat at consoles behind them, recording and analyzing the data streams generated within the game. One of the players cursed softly as his avatar went down. Another squeezed his fists in frustration when the same happened to him.
Jiaolong shook his head as he watched the action on the screens. The player doing all the killing was known as TurboHacker, and the speed with which he moved through the game was far superior to that of the other players. Even on occasions when Jiaolong participated, he’d been unable to keep up with the man, a fact that he—creator of the game—still had trouble accepting. Even more disconcerting was the fact that TurboHacker was the only player impervious to the Spider’s subliminal programs. The techs had had zero success bleeding information from him. Worse yet, there had been subtle hints that TurboHacker had penetrated their firewalls, though Jiaolong’s best programmers couldn’t figure out how or prove it had happened at all. It was something that had to be fully investigated before the system could be launched.
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