The End of Ordinary
Page 8
He looked like he was thinking. With Micah, that was never a good sign.
“Yes?”
“You remember what I said to Hannah, about the shit hitting the fan again?”
I nodded.
“Well . . . when that happens, what are you gonna do?”
I sighed, sat down on the couch, and patted the cushion next to me. Micah left his garbage bag on the table and flopped down beside me.
“Tell me,” I said. “What’s troubling you, my friend?”
He shot me a quick sideways glance, and folded his arms across his chest.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a five-year-old, Jordan. You know I don’t like that.”
“Sorry,” I said, slung my arm around his shoulder and leaned my head against his. “Seriously, though—what’s the problem?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . .” he slouched down until he could rest his head against the back of the couch. “This place, Jordan—it really does look like something out of an UnAltered propaganda vid about how the Engineered parasites are sucking the lifeblood out of the country. Aren’t you even a little bit worried about what’ll happen when things start up again?”
I pulled my arm back, and slouched down beside him.
“Well,” I said. “First of all, what makes you think things are going to start up again? Open hostilities didn’t exactly turn out well for the UnAltered last time. They call it the Stupid War for a reason, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. But still . . .”
I rested my hand on his leg.
“But still what?”
He sighed.
“There’s also a reason that most people like us either keep it on the down-low, like Hannah, or live in a fortress, like Marta Longstreth.” He closed his eyes and sighed again. “I really like you, Jordan. I worry about you.”
I smiled and gave his leg a squeeze.
“I really like you too, Micah, and I appreciate the concern—but aren’t you forgetting something?”
He turned to look at me.
“What?”
“Unlike Hannah, or Marta Longstreth, or even you, my friend—I’m not Engineered. As far as the UnAltered are concerned, I’m just one of the guys.”
I laughed. Micah did not.
“I don’t know,” he said. “When shit gets real, I’m not sure they’re gonna take the time to make those kinds of distinctions. Between the car, and the house, and . . .” He put his hand to my cheek. “. . . that face, you sure as hell come off like one of us.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but for some reason Dani Longstreth popped into my head. I gave Micah’s leg another squeeze.
“Tell you what?” I said. “When shit starts getting real, I’ll come hide out in your basement. Fair enough?”
That got a smile from him.
“Sure,” he said. “Fair enough.”
I was up early the next morning. Micah was fantastic in every way, but good Lord, did he take up space in the bed. I was just thinking about pulling together something for breakfast when my phone pinged.
I stared at the screen for a solid ten seconds. It wasn’t supposed to be possible to spoof a system ID. That was one of the things NatSec supposedly cleaned up in the aftermath of the Stupid War, after Andersen rammed the National Salvation Act through congress and they basically got the right to do any goddamned thing they wanted to do.
Jordasaurus: Uh . . . who dis?
Jordasaurus: Okay. Care to explain how/why your ID shows up as
Jordasaurus: It does.
Jordasaurus: This is new, right? Weren’t you MSpooky1 last time we chatted?
Jordasaurus: Weird.
Jordasaurus: . . .
Jordasaurus: You have snipers?
Jordasaurus: Okaaaaaaay . . .
Jordasaurus: . . .
Jordasaurus: We did.
Jordasaurus: Well, I have to admit to a little concern about helping you sneak away from a man who has snipers.
Jordasaurus: Okay. Who, exactly, are they there for?
Jordasaurus: Proles?
Jordasaurus: Okay. Tell you what. Let me know when you’ve picked a day, and I’ll check my social calendar.
Jordasaurus: That’s what I like to hear.
I dropped my phone onto the marble island in the middle of the kitchen and pulled a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. It was starting to look like being Marta’s fake boyfriend was going to be more work than I’d planned. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this jailbreak thing, but it sounded like I’d wind up having to ditch a day of school at a minimum—not that I minded that all that much, of course, but I was going to have to make sure she understood that either whatever we did was going to need to wrap up in time for me to get to practice, or I was going to need enough advance notice to get a certified death certificate. Missing calculus was one thing. Missing one of Doyle’s workouts was something else entirely.
I had a pan warming on the stove and was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl when my phone pinged again.
Jordasaurus: Marta?
Jordasaurus: I’m making breakfast, Marta. What do you need?
Jordasaurus: Okay, this is getting weird, and I’ve got to get these eggs on the stove, so . . .
Jordasaurus: You know Hannah?
Jordasaurus: Where are you going with this?
Jordasaurus: Pan’s hot. Good-bye, Marta.
The phone pinged twice more while I was pouring the eggs into the pan, but I didn’t pick it up. I dropped four slices of bread into the toaster, stirred the eggs around until they firmed up, and then dumped them out onto a platter. I was just bringing them into the breakfast nook when Micah came down the stairs.
“Hey,” he said. “You made breakfast?”
“I did,” I said. “Grab yourself a plate and a fork.”
He followed me to the table, sat down, and took two-thirds of the eggs and three slices of toast.
“Hungry?”
He shrugged. I took what was left. Micah held his fork in his fist and shoveled eggs into his mouth like a caveman.
“So,” I said. “You remember my little pseudo-date with Marta Longstreth?”
He looked up, then back down at his plate.
“Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”<
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“You know anything about her?”
He finished his eggs, and started in on the toast.
“I know her dad’s the richest man on the planet.”
“Right. Everybody knows that.”
He got up, went out to the kitchen, and came back with a glass of juice.
“Also,” he said, “he’s nuts. So, there’s that.”
I leaned forward, and took a forkful of eggs.
“Nuts how? He’s the CEO of Bioteka, right? How nuts could he be?”
“You know what happened to his wife?”
I nodded.
“Burned alive,” he said. “That shit leaves a mark.”
I took another bite, but suddenly my eggs seemed much less appetizing. Micah finished his toast, then reached across the table and took mine.
“Sure,” I said. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Consider this down payment on your room in my basement.”
“Yeah,” I said. “About that—you really think something bad’s coming?”
He took a long time chewing and swallowing.
“Look,” he said finally. “You know I’m not exactly a political junkie, right?”
I laughed.
“Yeah, Micah. I get that.”
“Right. So all I know is what I hear from my dad, basically.”
“Okay,” I said. “So what does your dad think?”
He finished his juice, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well,” he said. “For one thing, he thinks I should learn to handle a rifle.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that.
Micah was gone by the time I picked up my phone again. I thumbed the screen on. Two messages were waiting for me.
12. In which Drew has management issues.
Just for the record, I did call Meghan Cardiff when I saw her message. She didn’t pick up. I left her a message. I called her a half dozen times during the course of that afternoon, and left her a bunch of texts as well. No response. I followed up again the next morning, and at least once a day for the rest of the week. It was like she’d dropped off the face of the Earth.
On the first Monday in October, I had a status meeting with the entire DragonCorn development team. I really didn’t appreciate being blown off after getting a red alert, particularly when it was related to the Singapore dev work, which was simultaneously the most critical part of the project and the part I had the least direct control over. I was hoping to use the morning’s updates as an opportunity for a dressing-down.
Needless to say, Meghan didn’t show for the meeting.
Everybody else was there—even Marcus Becker, who was the lead for our Singapore group, and therefore sitting in front of his wallscreen at a time when he’d ordinarily be either drunk or asleep. We waited for ten minutes in silence. I’d banned multitasking during project meetings, so everyone pretty much just sat there staring at their screens for the entire time. Marcus looked especially pissed, which probably meant that the evening had been scheduled for drunk rather than sleepy. Finally, Alistair Burke rolled his eyes, leaned in toward his screen and said, “She’s not coming, Drew. Nobody’s heard from her in a week or more. What are you going to do about this?”
I sighed.
“Fine. Let’s swing it around the horn and see where everyone is today. Maybe Meghan will show by the time we’re through. Marcus?”
Marcus folded his arms across his chest and glared out of my wallscreen.
“Awaiting report from synthesis and testing.”
I sighed again, and rubbed my face with both hands.
“Alistair?”
“Awaiting report from synthesis and testing.”
“Mara?”
“Awaiting report from synthesis and testing.”
I looked around at the rest of the team. Nobody was smiling.
“Okay,” I said. “Is there anyone who Meghan’s not blocking at the moment?”
Therese Michaels raised her hand. Therese was from finance. Her only job was making sure we didn’t run over budget.
“Look,” Marcus said. “You know what this project means to the company, Drew.”
Mara snickered.
“You know what the project means to our asses.”
“Right,” Marcus said. “That too. You’re not a ballbuster, Drew. We all get that, and mostly we appreciate it.” He glanced around. Most of the others were nodding. “But sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes, balls just need to be busted. This is one of those times, Drew. I’m glad Meghan’s getting laid or taking a walkabout or whatever the hell she’s doing, but I’m not willing to lose my job over it. Fix this, Drew. Get her ass moving, or get her replaced.”
“Hear, hear,” Alistair said, and Mara went into a slow clap. I took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly.
“Fine,” I said after Mara wound down. “Message received. I’ll deal with Meghan. One way or the other, we’ll have a functional tester by the end of the week.”
“That’s what we like to hear,” Marcus said. “Are we done here?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re done.”
Their windows blinked out one by one, until finally only Mara was left.
“You know, Drew, you’re a great engineer,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re uncommonly kind.”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t let me finish. You’re a great engineer . . . but you are a really, really shitty manager.”
So, I had a problem, and I had to deal with it. Naturally, I went for a run.
I was just getting out of the shower when the wallscreen pinged to let me know that someone had come through the front door. I shut off the water. Kara came into the bathroom, closed the door behind her and leaned against the sink.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re home.”
She tossed me a towel.
“Mom’s doing better,” she said. “Dad said I should put in some time here. He’ll give me a call if anything changes.”
I rubbed myself down, took a swipe through my hair, and then wrapped the towel around my waist.
“How better is better?” I asked. “I mean, do they think . . .”
Kara shook her head.
“They can’t stop what’s happening. They can barely slow it down. She’s just on a kind of . . . plateau, I think. Better just means that for the moment, she’s not getting worse. I didn’t want to leave, but . . . I can’t just hang around there forever, waiting for her to die.”
That’s when I realized she was crying, tears seeping silently from the corners of her eyes, running down along the sides of her nose, and disappearing into the fine hair on her upper lip.
“Kara,” I said. She looked up, shook her head again, and looked away.
“No, Drew,” she said. “This isn’t something you can fix.”
She walked past me then, out the door and down the stairs.
When I came downstairs, Kara was cleaning the kitchen.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I was just about to make something for lunch.”
She shrugged without looking at me.
“Don’t you think somebody should clean up from breakfast first?”
“I can do it all at once,” I said. “Just go sit down. I’ll be done here in a few minutes.”
She shook her head, and started scrubbing at the stovetop as if it had herpes.
“You always want the shortcut, Drew. When it comes to this house, when it comes to this family . . . if I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done. I’ve been gone for a week, and this place looks like a garbage pit.”
I sighed, and leaned back against the wall.
; “It doesn’t,” I said. “Hannah and I cleaned the whole house twice while you were gone.”
Kara laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“Right,” she said. “I’m sure. You and Hannah. I don’t doubt you went running together, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you spent some time talking about how great it was to have me off your backs for a while, but I can look around and see exactly how much goddamned cleaning got done.”
She loaded the dishwasher with the two plates and two glasses I’d left on the breakfast table. I thought about helping, but when Kara got in one of these moods, my experience was that it was best to remain as still and silent as possible, and wait for it to pass. I watched her wipe down the table, and then take another swipe at the stove. She looked around.
“That’s it,” I said. “Everything looks great. Take a break now, okay?”
She turned to look at me, her face as blank as a wooden mask.
“Yeah,” she said. “Make yourself a sandwich, Drew.”
She walked past me, down the hallway and into the living room. I heard the couch sag as she dropped onto it. I should have followed her. I get that now. At the time, though? I was hungry, and I was angry, and I was resentful. I didn’t think I’d deserved the ration of shit she’d just given me. I didn’t stop to think about what she’d been going through, or why she was acting the way she was. That’s one of the traps you can fall into when you’ve been married for as long as we had. You start to see your partner as this sort of weird extension of yourself, and you forget that she has an inner life of her own. I hadn’t quite figured that out at the time, though. I let Kara walk away, and I made myself a sandwich.
I should note here that I take sandwiches very seriously. I don’t do peanut butter and jelly, and I don’t do BLTs. I’ve always felt that a sandwich is like a sonnet. Sure, you’re forced into a framework, but that’s what allows you to really express your creativity. I bet Shakespeare made a crazy good grilled cheese. That day, my sandwich involved turkey, salami, pickled sweet peppers, pesto, tomatoes, two kinds of cheese, and a panini press. I was just sitting down to eat it when the front door opened, then slammed closed again.