Rift (Rift Walkers #1)

by Elana Johnson

  “Yes. Eat up,” Mom says, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “We can watch a flick in a little bit.”

  “Can’t.” I shove the disgusting spaghetti into my mouth, thinking that if I eat faster, it’ll taste better. It doesn’t. “I have social time.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” Mom asks, not that she cares. I’m actually surprised she’s asked, but I’m keen to keep the conversation at a minimum.

  “Watching a soccer tournament.” I push my half-eaten bowl of spaghetti away and stand up. “I’m late. I better go.”

  I roll my flatpanel into my pocket and leave the house through the front door. A summer wind blows in my face as I walk. In only minutes, I arrive at Heath’s.

  “Hey, Price,” he says, coming down his front steps and handing me a backpack.

  “Hey.” I shoulder the pack as he moves through the gate. His house isn’t quite as big as mine—no one’s is. Ten years ago, Dad finished the renovations, and then moved us from our cramped city apartment into this huge mansion that’s the oldest building in Castle Pines. When I looked up the blueprints, I remember being surprised by its age—and that the previous owner had been eighty-seven years old and still living alone. Everyone over the age of seventy-five usually moves to the elderly care facilities.

  The house had been left to the city as a historical landmark, but after only five years, the great government of Castle Pines needed money more than it needed a house. They put the property up for auction, and Dad bought it.

  I’ve made sure that Heath and I have been in the same social group for the last three years. He lives two blocks from me, is the same age as I am, and has shown similar interests in TV shows and outdoor activities, so everything aligns on the Circuit.

  What the Circuit doesn’t know is that he and I can’t be beat when it comes to jamming.

  “You ready?” he asks, nodding to my backpack.

  “Ready.” I notice he’s got his featherweight’s on. “Nice shoes.”

  “Only the best when jamming,” he says.

  “Have you seen the new Privatize flick?” Heath asks as we turn the corner into Garfield Heights, Soda’s subdivision.

  “Not yet,” I respond. “I’ve been busy.” I don’t tell him that I’m running my own anti-privacy campaign at home. No need to alert him to certain facts. He’d simply glare my face off and say, “Don’t go getting caught. That won’t be good for business.”

  I wouldn’t be able to argue, because he’d be right. But there’s something not quite right at my house, and I’m determined to figure out what.

  “I’ll forward you the link to the flick,” Heath says, thankfully breaking up the argument I’m about to have with myself about leaving things alone at home. “They’ve set up a preliminary ad-out system,” he continues. “Can you imagine? Just opting out? It’s genius!”

  “Whoa,” I say, realizing I’ve missed a lot while I was crunching my dad’s security systems and then embracing my paranoia about my unregistered tech. “The government is allowing it?”

  “Gustav said in the vid that they’re allowing a trial period for a certain number of citizens to remove the ads from their accounts. I’ve already put in my petition to ad-out. You should too.”

  “And then what?” I pull the straps on my backpack tighter. “They’ll just remove the ads from our feeds? They’ll still be collecting our data.”

  “Small victories,” Heath says, a slogan we use all the time.

  “Small victories,” I echo back to him. “Speaking of which, I talked to Cascade, and she’s all-in.”

  “I figured,” Heath says. “Or you would’ve called off the jam.” He gives me a sideways look. “So you took her out?”

  “I explained the jam,” I say. “It wasn’t a date.” My tone effectively ends the conversation, leaving me alone to bask in my own small victory. I’m the one who suggested the ad-out prospect to Newt last fall. I can’t believe he actually pushed it through whatever political barricades exist to make it possible.

  But hey, get it in the hands of Privatize, and who knows? That’s what I’d told Newt in October. The man is unbelievable, and now I have two things to thank him for next time we late-night chat. Even as I think it, I realize that my list of people to chat while I’m off the network is growing. Monroe, Newt, and then the business of locating Cooper.

  I can probably find him under my own personality, and I decide as we turn onto Soda’s street to do just that. I shouldn’t need the Black Hat to find Cooper. And if I do, it’ll become a jam Heath will need to help with anyway.

  Heath knocks on Soda’s door while I watch the Privatize ad-out option announcement with increasing pride. I can’t believe another one of my underground suggestions has become a reality.

  After the flick ends, I wait under the aspen in Soda’s front yard. I always let Heath have his moment alone with her. I think she likes him too, but I’m not sure since girls are impossible for me to read.

  Soda’s cute, that’s for sure, with her between-red-and-brown hair, her barely-there freckles, and her bright green eyes. She spends all her money on jewelry; I know because she always has a new ring or a shiny necklace I’ve never seen.

  Tonight is no different. A large pink butterfly rides on her middle and ring fingers, and she shows it to me with a squeal and a smile.

  I grin back at her, genuinely happy to see her. Soda is the kind of person who can find the silver lining in everything, who always has a laugh and a hug for everyone. The only time I’ve seen her anything but bubbly is when I asked about her dad. I learned real quick that she lives with her mom, and the subject of her father is off-limits.

  She hugs me hello, and we start talking about the senior project. She’s going to do hers on influential music of the twenty-first century, of course. Soda wiggles her fingers in front of her as if playing the piano, as she talks about people I’ve never heard of. Composers, she calls them.

  “Like a band,” I say, remembering how Soda is always humming a tune. Whenever I ask her about the songs she’s got in her head, she says, “Just some band you don’t know.”

  “No,” Soda corrects. “Like the person who writes the music the band plays. Like when I played that concert last year? Someone wrote that music. For every instrument.”

  I’ve seen her play the piano. The way she moves her fingers is mesmerizing. I can almost see why Heath has fallen for her.

  Soda plays the violin too; one of our social time sessions consisted of a two-hour symphony where Soda wore a black dress and sat right on the edge of the first row. Heath brought her flowers, and I imprinted the e-card Cascade had the foresight to customize.

  “What are you going to do for your senior project?” she asks now, and I attempt to focus. It’s hard, though, because an email from Newt has just come in.

  “I think,” I pause like I’m thinking about it. I’m really reading the email.

  Haven’t found anything yet. The image isn’t exactly clear, and the method in which I retrieved it doesn’t allow me to check with anyone. I’ll set up a wavelength scan tonight.

  “Price?” Soda asks.

  “Oh, yeah, I think I’m going to do mine on something historic,” I say, just now deciding.

  Heath snorts. “Historic? Since when do you care about history?”

  “Since last night,” I say. “I’m thinking something with the landmark buildings in Castle Pines.”

  “Isn’t your house a landmark building?” Soda asks.

  “Yes.” I stretch the word out, realizing I should’ve started searching the city’s history for information about my house. “Yes, it is.”

  Cascade leaps up from her front steps before I can separate myself from Heath and Soda. She calls into her house, “Going now, Grandpa,” and joins us on the sidewalk. “Hey guys,” she says, that light on her facial pat blinking into orange.

  Soda immediately delves into something girl-related I don’t understand. Frustration at not being able to talk to Cas al
one builds inside, but I shake it away. I shouldn’t be focusing on girls right now anyway.

  I can’t help checking out Cascade’s knee-high boots, laden with silver buckles and leather laces. Or her sticky-spiked Mohawk, which today she’s tipped with turquoise. The sides of her head are shaved in shaggy layers, tapering into a sexy point at the back of her slender neck. And I’d be a liar if I say I don’t notice the way her hips swing from side to side.

  Heath elbows me, and I jerk my eyes away from Cascade’s body.

  “Obvious,” he hisses out of the corner of his mouth. My face heats up. He’s the rational part of myself that vanishes whenever I get stressed. His calmness is what steadies me during our jams.

  I nod, trying to gather my wits. Cascade turns and looks at me, flashing a brilliant smile that brightens the twilight. “So, soccer tonight, boys?”

  “Something like that,” Heath says. “Right, Price?”

  “Right,” I say. “I just love soccer.”

  Soda casts a nervous glance over her shoulder to Heath, who gives her the faintest nod. I’ve seen him do that so many times, usually for me. It’s his way of saying everything will work out fine.

  The girls talk while Heath and I follow like puppies. I mentally run through the sequence of events for the jam, and I barely notice when Heath touches my elbow to get me to turn or when I board the el-rail.

  We leave behind the suburbs, bypass the factories, and enter downtown Castle Pines. The sun kisses the sky goodnight by the time we get off the train. I move with more purpose, and Heath takes the lead, maneuvering us through the darkening streets and around to the back of our destination. I stop in the shadows.

  “You never did say how we’re getting out of here,” Cascade whispers, pressing in close behind me as I watch the back door of the building from twenty feet away. She’s so close, her breath tickles my neck.

  “The roof,” I say without turning. This entrance to the Time Bureau is down three narrow steps, which means only one person can get in—or out—at a time. This alley will be swarming with authorities before the jam is complete, so exiting through that door isn’t a possibility.

  “The roof? You should’ve explained in more detail,” Cascade says in a voice I’ve never heard before, though I recognize the undertones of rage. I do live with my dad, after all. “What if I’m afraid of heights?”

  “Are you afraid of heights?” I twist slightly and reach for her hand. I squeeze it real quick and let go. “Don’t be mad. It’ll be fun.”

  Her stormy eyes search mine. “Fun?”

  I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “I think it’s fun.”

  I may not understand girls, but I see the shimmer of amusement in Cascade’s eyes. I can only hope that’s a good thing.

  “We should probably all shut up.” Soda holds one hand to her right ear. “I’m picking up chatter on the security feed. The night guards are passing through sector F.”

  Each floor of the Time Bureau is labeled with a letter, starting at A and running all the way to X, where the politicians have offices. Sector S houses Security, and we’re headed to Sector H, which is Interdepartmental Missions. There we’ll find the biggest and brightest flatpanels, as well as a direct link from the Bureau into the Ad Agency.

  When the patrols reach Sector H, we’ll make our entrance. That will give us the time it takes them to do the whole sweep of the building, about thirty minutes, to get the flick implanted in the mandatory message system for tomorrow.

  Heath darts across the alley and down the steps. He presses his palm flat against the door, and a red glow seeps between his fingers.

  “He’s already switched identities,” I whisper. “I’ll wait until we’re inside to do that, but if you want to change over, go ahead.” I know Soda’s already in her alternate identity, or she wouldn’t have an ear on the security feed. “Heath will add my identity handle to the stream so we can chat.” My heartbeat bounces to the top of my head at the thought of revealing who I really am to Cascade. Will she even know who the Black Hat is? Will she be impressed? And who is she?

  I banish the worries, the nerves, the questions and focus on Heath and the pulsing red glow. He’s hacking into the system to get the combination to the door—something I couldn’t get because it changes every twenty-four hours—and the faster the light flashes the closer he’s getting.

  “Static on the line, but I think they just swept Sector G,” Soda whispers. “When will he be done?”

  Anxiety skips through my system. “Heath has never let me down in a jam.”

  “That’s not what she asked,” Cascade says.

  “He’ll get it open in time,” I hiss, harsher than I mean to. I’ve never done a jam with anyone but Heath, and never with girls, and everything feels off.

  Time seems to slow into strands I can see and hear. Particles of dust hover before me; Cascade’s breathing behind me sounds bright and long; Soda lifts her hand to her ear in slow motion.

  Red light blinks so fast now, it hurts my eyes. I close them, but the glare vibrates against my eyelids.

  “Sector H,” Soda says, an urgent undercurrent to her tone. “We go in when they’re at H.”

  I open my eyes and the red light from Heath’s Receiver flashes so fast it’s almost constant.

  “What—?”

  I hold up my hand to silence Cascade. Come on, Chameleon, I think. Come on.

  Just when I think we’re not going in tonight, the light disappears. I reach back and grab Cascade’s hand in my left hand and Soda’s in my right. I pull them into the alley, and we race toward the door.

  Saige

  I STUMBLE BACKWARD AND INTO the Pac Man console, my breath catching in my throat. The water droplet leaves the bottle and pools on the counter in the game room, adding to the accumulating ring.

  A breeze tickles the back of my neck, almost like someone exhaling. I yelp and spin around, expecting to see an other-worldly being hovering there, one hand outstretched.

  A girl with her hair pulled into a ponytail stares back at me, one hand clutched to her chest. I open my mouth,

  she opens hers.

  The black screen of the game console reflects my image back to me. Somehow, this realization doesn’t comfort me. My legs wobble, and I reach toward the pool table for support. The solidity of it under my fingertips helps orient me. I take a cleansing breath, but I don’t turn around to face that bottle again.

  No one ever comes in here. The stillness of the room speaks to that. It feels abandoned, forgotten. As my heartbeat and breathing quiet further, I swear the very walls themselves buzz with secrets.

  My house is probably two hundred years old. Mom has a scrapbook in the Italian bookshelf in the foyer she lets junior high kids look through when they come to do their school projects on our house. The rooms have been updated with modern flooring; the walls have seen more than one coat of paint; the wiring was redone after Grandma died and before we moved in.

  It’s an old house, with a lot of history—and a lot of previous occupants. If I believed in ghosts, I might think someone was trying to communicate with me.

  I turn toward the door and find Chloe standing there, staring straight at me. Perpetually a head taller, her shoulders narrow and her kind-hearted nature something I always envied. Thirteen months older, she was everything I wished I could be.

  “Chloe?” I reach for her, but she slides her gaze over my face and toward the water bottle on the counter. She has a blue outline surrounding her body as she glides to the counter without a sound, drains the rest of the water, and replaces the bottle on the counter.

  “Chloe.” Desperation clouds my voice.

  Without so much as a glance at me, she walks to the corner of the room where she sinks into the floor.

  This sighting of my sister is identical to previous encounters. She’s a whisper of reality, there but not there, real but not real. Moving without sound. Then gone.

  Maybe I’ve never really seen her.
Maybe I shouldn’t have lied to my therapist or my mother.

  I hurry across the room to the cupboard where I stored the missing person’s file. I collect it and avert my eyes so I don’t have to see the empty water bottle as I stride out of the game room.

  Upstairs, I sweep my fingers across the top of my computer, which I’ve moved across the room closer to my bed. The piano will take the desk’s old spot. I’ve abandoned my packing for now, though part of me is still anxious to move, leave everything behind, start over.

  I take in my room, the enormity of it, the empty spaces where I can still see and smell Chloe. Mom doesn’t get it. She never allowed us in her office, so there’d be no reminders of Chloe there. She stopped going to the game room just like I did. She took down the report cards and the science fair trophies, anything that indicated there should be another daughter living here.

  She won’t give up this house,

  but she’ll give up a child.

  “You need help?” Shep leans against the bathroom doorway, his arms folded.

  I don’t detect any sarcasm in his tone. “Yeah, sure.” A strange understanding passes between us. I want to explain why I was sleeping in his bed, but that would require admitting I’d heard a strange noise, and I’m not ready to do that. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m cracking and that’s why he hasn’t brought it up either.

  “You want the piano over here now?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I wait for him to move it, which is actually quite easy since it’s on coasters. I spread out the rug between my bed and the piano, and sit down on the bench. “Thanks, Shep.”

  He waves away my gratitude and leaves through the bathroom. A few seconds later, heavy metal blasts from his bedroom. I get up and close both doors to my room, then I sit down at the piano and rest my fingers on the keys. This simple action calms me, and I do something I haven’t done in a very long time.

  I breathe,

  I play.

  Fully soothed, I sit at my desk with the file of missing persons in front of me. I’d followed Mom’s scientific method. I asked a question: Who else went missing the same way Chloe did? Do they have anything in common?