He got up and went to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, hot and hotter. He cranked on the air-conditioning and closed the fan vent. Steam.
Lots of steam, that was the trick. Wet heat would confuse the sensors, the steam would cloud the tiny lens.
He let the steam build up, and, very self-consciously, took off his clothes. He was going to take a shower. A perfectly normal thing to do.
When the steam was dense enough he slipped back into his clammy clothing, opened the bathroom window, slid out, hung by his fingers, sucked it up, and dropped the eight feet to the ground.
He rolled, stood up, looked around the dark backyard. In a crouch he ran for the back fence. A jump, a grab, a painful roll across the top.
Ouch. Ow. How does Mo do this kind of stuff?
He was in the Ludmillas yard. They didnt own a dog, fortunately.
He ran across their yard, cut left, and climbed their shorter fence, landing in the alleyway. It was just a block to MoSteels house. Mo would probably be in the backyard: His family had a pool, and it was a warm night.
Jobs ran full speed. Theyd know he was gone by now.
He reached the fence around MoSteels backyard and saw his friend fly through the air, soar above the fence into view, then fall with a huge splash.
He jumped, used the fence to do a pull-up, stuck his head over, and saw MoSteel spitting water. He was trying to drag a stainless steel mountain bike up out of the shallow end. Mo had rigged a ramp to drop from the backyard swing set, onto the diving board. He was convinced that he could get his bike to jump the pool lengthwise, if only he could build a high-enough ramp.
Mo!
Tsup, Duck?
You up for something stupid and dangerous?
MoSteel grinned like a four-year-old offered a lollipop. Who, me?
CHAPTER FIVE
WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO THE DINOSAURS, RIGHT?
In his dream Billy Weir flew across a great emptiness. An emptiness so vast, so hollow, so ringingly empty, so utterly without form or characteristic, there seemed no possibility of an ending. It was emptiness, blankness, a hole not in the ground but in the fabric of time and space itself.
He flew, immobile. He flew and his body was changed, somehow.
At times as he flew through the void he recalled the orphanage in Chernokozovo, Chechnya. He tasted the mold on the bread. He smelled the urine reek from the latrine, the reek that permeated the whole room. The cold, always cold, paint peeling from damp stone walls.
Other times he was in his room, in the house in Austin, Texas, the shockingly large, impossibly clean, opulent house where they fed him barbecue and corn and green salad.
Billy Weir. Not a taken name, a given name. He had been born Ruslan. That was his first name. No one ever told him his last name; it wouldnt have been safe: His father was a guerrilla fighter and the Russians were not above using him to hurt his father.
When the Weirs adopted him at age three he became William Weir III. At school, Billy Weird.
His dream drifted to school. He was teased but not harshly. Liked but not much. Accepted without enthusiasm. He wasnt even weird, except for the dreams, and no one knew about them. No one knew that in his dreams he remembered everything, everything, things he couldnt possibly remember: being a newborn baby, being three months old, and the murder of his mother by scared-drunk Russian troops. Things no one remembered but Billy.
And then there were the dreams, just as real, but that seemed to be about events that had not yet unfolded. Those dreams, those places all lay across that great, horrible void.
He saw a world of brilliant copper-colored ocean and pale pink skies and a ragged group hoisting sails on tall masts to catch the wind. A wild kid was hanging from the ropes yelling.
He saw mountains like knife edges. He saw great, buoyant beasts as big as blimps that bounded across a landscape of waving yellow grass.
He saw other creatures, creatures without faces, without arms or legs. Was he, himself, one of them?
But all that was far, far away. And what he saw most was the Rock. He dreamed of it, spinning, silent, no rush of air, no swoosh, no sense of its enormous speed. Just a monstrous rock, as big as a whole mountain chain, hills and pockmark craters and strange, fanciful extrusions.
He saw the Rock. He saw that his father, his adopted father, knew it was coming. The Rock would chase Billy Weir away to yet another home, another country. The Rock would make him an orphan again.
There was no resisting the dreams. When the dreams came they spoke the truth as it had been, as it would be.
He woke. Hed fallen asleep on the couch watching football. It was only about nine oclock.
Sadness washed over him. Sadness had always been with him. Always from the start, from birth in a hollowed-out stone house, roof blasted away. He had come into the world without a cry, they thought he was dead, they almost hoped he was dead because what life could he ever have?
His mother, his true mother, had cried as she nursed him for the first time. And many, many times more as she carried him from place to place, always harried by the distant and not-so-distant sounds of artillery, the sharp crack of rifle fire.
He woke and the sadness was all over him, all through him, the dream still fresh in his mind. His father and mother were coming.
They were in the kitchen doorway. Son, did you wake up?
His mom and dad, Jessica and Big Bill Weir, as he was known, all went into the kitchen. Big Bill was just home late from work: a suit, a tie, polished alligator cowboy boots. His mom was in her robe.
Sorry to make you miss the game, son, Big Bill said. But we got the okay, so, anyway, I had to talk to you.
Its fine, Billy said.
His dad looked at him, lips pursed, thoughtful, perplexed. Billy knew his dad had always done his best to treat Billy like a natural son. But despite those best efforts there seemed to be immutable differences between them. They didnt fight. They didnt argue. Billy was a good kid, respectful, proper, rarely headstrong. And, he knew, that was part of the problem, because Big Bill was known as a Holy Terror, a wild man of the high-technology world. He had loved it when Business Week called him a maverick.
Billy was not a maverick. Not a Texas-style maverick, anyway. He was small, for one thing. He had pale skin that never seemed to tan. He had deep, deep black eyes and unruly black hair. He was a good-looking kid in his own way, but he wasnt Big Bill.
And yet, Billy knew, his dad admired him. When he was twelve Billy had been in a very one-sided fight: An older kid, twice Billys size, had beat him up in retaliation for Big Bills firing his father. The older kid had broken his nose, kicked him so severely he peed blood for a day. Billy refused to take off from school. He refused to be driven to school to avoid walking by the bullys house. And when the bullys father brought his son over to make a contrite and frightened apology, Billy just listened, said nothing, showed neither fear nor resentment.
Big Bill didnt say much at the time. But the next day, for the first time, he brought Billy to work, to the company he owned. Figure its time for you to start finding out what our family does for a living. Meet some of our people, see our company.
The our was subtly underlined.
Now Big Bill was watching his son closely as he delivered the news. Son, I have something to tell you. In the morning some men are coming. FBI agents, to tell it true. Theyre going to pack us up and take us away.
Why?
Something terrible is about to happen. You know how you used to like to play with dinosaurs when you were little? You could name them all, I think. Brachiosaurus, all those. Well, you know what happened to the dinosaurs, right?
Yes, sir.
A couple weeks ago they found a big old asteroid and its coming this way. And theres no way to stop it. So, well, were going to try hard not to be here when it hits. Theres a mission. Theyre going to use the solar sails weve been developing, what do you think of that, eh? Of course, I have to tell it true: Its all one he
ck of a long shot.
It will work, Billy said.
Big Bill smiled. To his wife he said, The kid can take it.
Billy did not return the smile. He could feel himself rising up, floating, hanging now very, very near the edge of the endless void.
So close now, that nothingness. Normal time, this whole world already seemed shriveled and insignificant beside so much emptiness.
Can we bring anything with us?
His mother spoke for the first time. Not very much, sweetheart. One or two small things, maybe, they said. Its all . . . She looked around at the gleaming kitchen. There were tears in her eyes.
Ill go pack, Billy said.
CHAPTER SIX
ITS JUST NOT HERO TIME.
How are you going to get them to let Cordelia come along? MoSteel asked.
Blackmail, Jobs said.
Cool.
They were trotting along the alley, Jobs dressed in still-damp clothes, Mo in a bathing suit, barefoot.
Im going to threaten to go straight to the media, Jobs panted.
When we get to Cordelias house Ill use her link to creep my moms computer at work. They wont be monitoring Cordelias link. Ill creep my moms files I know her codes. Ill upload them into half a dozen time-release files spread all over the Web. If they dont give me what I want, my moms files on the Rock will be everywhere in a hurry.
MoSteel nodded. As usual, Jobs had a plan. Jobs always had a plan. But discussions of computers tended to cause MoSteels mind to wander, and after ascertaining that Jobs had some kind of plan, he lost interest in the details.
He did not lose interest in what was happening around him. Specifically the two dark sedans that roared down the street, crossing the alleyway. There was a screech of brakes and the whirring sound of a car thrown into reverse.
Are we being chased? MoSteel asked.
Yeah. Maybe.
Woolly. Come on, Duck. Follow me.
MoSteel leaped onto a trash bin, balanced precariously, stepped onto the top rail of a high fence, balanced there for a split second and jumped onto the sloped roof of a garage.
Jobs did his best to follow. Fortunately MoSteel had a pretty good idea of his friends physical coordination and he had a strong hand ready to grab Jobss flailing arm and pull him up.
A sedan came down the alley. Someone inside was shining a powerful flashlight into dark corners. The light swept just beneath Jobss dangling legs.
On the garage roof Jobs gasped, Thanks, Mo. I would have made it, you know.
Sure you would, Duck. No question, MoSteel answered. Come on.
Lets get down.
Down? Why would we get down? Look: Theres a tree.
He led the way across the garage roof, into the low-drooping branches of an ancient elm. They threaded through the branches, up, down, squeeze. Across the fence to drop into the next yard.
Then it was across the yard, climb the rose trellis to the roof of the house, over to the far side, out onto that attached garage, a jump onto an RV parked in the driveway, and a heart-stopping leap that took them over a picket fence.
Jobs landed and plowed forward. MoSteel grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Careful of the roses, compadre. Thorns and all. Besides, the old lady who lives here is nice.
A quick look left and right and they bolted across the street. Then through a gate and smack into a very large dog.
Rrrrr.
Mo!
Hes on a chain!
Its a long chain!
With a guttural roar the dog charged.
Jump him! MoSteel yelled and leaped straight up as the dog passed beneath him. The animal hit Jobs head-on, bowling-balled him down and stood snarling on his chest.
Aaahhh! Jobs yelled.
MoSteel grabbed the chain, yanked the animal off Jobs, dragged the chain fast, and looped it around a cast-iron lawn chair.
Come on, Duck, what are you waiting for?
Jobs jumped up, cursing under his breath, and ran past the frantic, air-snapping beast.
Two more fences, one more roof, and a lung-crushing trip over a swing set and they were in Cordelias backyard.
Yesterday I do The Pipe. Now Im Spider-Man, MoSteel exulted. Its been a sweet couple of days.
Jobs gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. Yeah, its been a party, Mo. You are deeply disturbed.
MoSteel nodded in agreement. He was aware that he was different. He liked the difference.
They stood gazing up at Cordelias window. No light showed.
How do you know thats her room? MoSteel asked.
I know where her room is.
You been up there? MoSteel shot Jobs an incredulous look. Then he laughed. Just in your head, right? L-o-o-o-ve. Makes a boy go crazy.
How do I get up there? Jobs wondered aloud.
MoSteel frowned. Go around to the front door and knock. You cant be climbing in some girls window.
What? Hey, those guys could be waiting for me around front.
Yeah, and your babe could be changing clothes or picking her nose or whatever, Duck. You have to treat fems with respect, you cant just be sticking your head in her window. Who raised you? Monkeys?
Mo, its kind of an emergency. Now, how do I get up there?
MoSteel looked around. He spied a picnic table. Come on.
They manhandled the heavy table into place and leaned it up against the siding. Then MoSteel piled a wooden chair atop the upturned table.
Climb on up: easy as a ladder.
Jobs began the ascent. Not as easy as a ladder, Jobs thought, but not impossible, either. But now he had some time to consider the next step: actually confronting Cordelia.
What on Earth was he going to say? Hi, its me, Jobs, I wanted to stop by and let you know the world is coming to an end but I think I can use blackmail to get you a berth on a probably doomed shuttle to nowhere?
He looked down at MoSteel. Too late to back out now. Not after all theyd gone through. Besides, maybe, maybe shed believe him, and maybe shed go along with his plan.
Im an idiot, Jobs muttered as he stood up to his full height and stretched to slide the window upward. A breeze carried delicate white curtains out, along with the scent of perfume: Bulgari Pink. Hed made it his business to find out.
Cordelia, he whispered. Dont be afraid. Its . . . its Jobs.
He pulled himself up as well as he could. No answer. He sensed the emptiness of the room.
He climbed in, feeling that he was very definitely doing something wrong. But he had to do it anyway.
It was a girls room, definitely a girls room. There were stuffed animals, that was a dead giveaway. But she wasnt a Jane at least. No frills, no retro-Vic tea set or gold-framed pic of Jane Austen, the patron saint of the Jane clique, or the Skirts as they were sometimes called. Hed worried about that, early on, what with her name being Cordelia. No way a Jane and a Techie ever got together. But it had turned out Cordelia was her given name, so blame her parents.
Anyway, this room was a girls room, but a cool girl. She had a pair of screens doing slow-dissolves of pix. Pix she must have taken herself, of places Jobs recognized, hangouts, parts of the school, people he knew. Also landscapes, sunsets ( kind of a cliché choice, he thought), and seascapes.
He stood watching the dissolves, turning his gaze from screen to screen as each new pic came into focus. And he was starting to see something more there than just so many giga-pixels. She had an eye. Nothing posed or forced or overly cute. But there was affection in some shots, and distaste in others. The emotion bled through into the shot somehow.
Its an emotional progression, he said, surprised at both the fact and at his ability to see it. The shots were arranged without seeming regard to subject category, but rather according to the mood expressed by the photographers choices. The screens were moving from affection, to indifference, to active distaste or even contempt, to lust.
What does that say? he wondered aloud. Contempt leads to lust? That cant be right.
But now th
e alternating shots were progressing to humor, to admiration, to a shot of him.
Huh? Jobs said, blinking fast and reaching unconsciously for some sort of freeze-frame. But then the shot of him was gone.
That was off a pinhole camera, he muttered. The shot had come from a concealed camera, and he had a sinking feeling he knew when and where the shot had been taken. Hed had a look in his eyes: scared, hungry, hopeful, and scared some more.
He walked over to her computer and tapped at the keyboard. It asked for a code word. It took him twenty seconds to break the security and another twenty to run a word search for his own name. He popped a blank disc he hoped it was blank, anyway into the drive and copied the files.
This was highly immoral. But then, so was using a pinhole camera. Her wrong had necessitated his wrong. That wasnt a morally defensible position, but hey, this was love and wasnt all fair in love and war?
There was a noise from the hallway. Footsteps. Heavy ones. Jobs stifled a desperate yelp and dove for the window. He was halfway out, with his legs kicking to find a support when the light in the room snapped on.
Who are you and what are you doing here?
A man. Almost certainly Cordelias father. With a stun gun. Not deadly but very painful.
Um . . .
I would answer if I were you, the man said.
My name is Jobs. Im a friend of Cordelias. From school. I was . . . See, she asked me to drop by and study with her.
A click. The man lowered his weapon. I see. And she asked you to come in through the back window?
Of course. In this position it looked like hed been caught crawling in. That was something, at least. Cordelias father didnt know hed already been inside.
I wasnt totally clear on where exactly she wanted me to come in.
Uh-huh. Well, that makes perfect sense, son. Yes, I can see why youd be confused: door, window, hard to keep them straight. Anyway, Cordys not here. Shes up in San Francisco for a couple days for her cousins wedding.
Ah.
You can go now. And put the lawn furniture back where it belongs, hear me?
The Mayflower Project Page 3
