Elusion

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  Josh takes my helmet, setting it down alongside his on a bare laminate booth tucked into a tiny corner of the room. I run my fingers through a few knotted strands of hair and look around. It’s a typical trailer layout, with a living-and-dining room suite that could practically fit inside my bedroom. A worn brown fake-leather couch is under a soot-streaked window with two mismatched nesting chairs facing it, so close they’re almost touching. A small InstaComm screen hangs in the opposite corner of the booth.

  I can’t imagine what it must be like to live like this, displaced in what used to be a real neighborhood. Then again, I can’t quite imagine going back home to the Historic Sector either, especially since my world seems to be slowly unraveling.

  “Flynn won’t be back for a while; he’s pulling doubles at Lymestone,” Josh says.

  “Lymestone. That’s one of the refineries, right?”

  Josh nods and then hesitates, looking away. “You sure you’re okay . . . hanging out here, I mean? You know, Flynn took me in because he had to, so . . . it’s not exactly cozy. . . .”

  “I’m fine,” I assure him, trying to ease his discomfort a little. If I had to interpret the sudden halting of his speech, I’d guess there are more family secrets in Josh’s past than just Nora.

  There’s an awkward beat of silence as he leans up against the front door, his hands in his pockets. I find myself wondering what to say—we only spoke a few words to each other before we hopped on his motorcycle and came here. I think he’s waiting for me to tell him what happened with Mom, and I know I have some explaining to do. But right now all I want is to focus on him, especially since we’re on his turf.

  “So how long have you been staying here?” I ask.

  “Just a couple weeks. My parents sold their house, and Nora and I needed a place to crash.”

  Josh rubs the back of his head with his hand—a gesture he performs whenever he seems a little uncomfortable. Maybe I’ll see less and less of it the more we get to know each other.

  “Sounds like pretty close quarters.”

  “You have no idea,” he replies, his shoulders rolling back a little. “Nora was living by herself in our old place while it was on the market. She only moved her stuff here when it sold, but she was hardly ever around. Preferred to stay with friends and all.” Josh pushes himself away from the door and turns toward the window. “When my parents split up—well, Nora took it harder than my other two sisters.”

  “Wow, three sisters, huh?”

  A smirk catches on his lips. “Yeah, and I’m the youngest, too.”

  I almost tell Josh how jealous I am. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother is Patrick. Being here with Josh and listening to him talk about his family—it just gets me thinking about how important blood ties are. Even when relationships become fractured, or someone dies, the connections you have to your family are never lost.

  When it came to Patrick, I always believed our friendship somehow mirrored that, but now I don’t know what to think.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice there’s a photocube sitting on a side table, and just as I reach for it, I feel Josh’s steady gaze on me.

  I glance in his direction and hold it up. “Do you mind?”

  I hope he doesn’t think I’m being nosy, even though I am.

  Josh answers with a noncommittal shrug, so I give it a shake. Oddly enough, there’s only one digital photo flickering inside. It’s a family photo, but it seems to be a couple of years old—Josh’s clothes hang off his body a bit and he’s a few inches shorter, his smiling face framed by a mop of copper-brown hair. He is standing outside a historic-looking brick colonial, with two of his three sisters posed next to an attractive woman with short golden hair and Josh’s distinct amber eyes. Josh and another sister—more petite and wiry than the others—are positioned on the other side of a burly man with bushy russet hair and a thick handlebar mustache.

  “That was two years ago, the summer before my sophomore year.” Suddenly Josh is standing right next to me, his arm slightly brushing up against mine. “Nora was a senior,” he says, pointing to the girl next to him. “It was the day Sally and Paige were going back to college.”

  I bring the photocube closer to my face so I can get a better look at Nora. Her lips are pulled into a tight smile, and her pixie cut really shows off her strong cheekbones. It’s weird—I have this odd feeling like I’ve seen her before, but I’m not sure where. Then again, her expression is so warm; maybe I just want to believe that I know her. All my friends have pretty much fallen away since my father died—it’s like they think losing a parent is contagious or something—but from the looks of Nora, I’d like to believe that she’d be the one person who’d stick by you through the hard stuff.

  Then again, maybe I’m just projecting what I’m starting to feel about Josh.

  “So where are Sally and Paige now?”

  “Sally’s in Australia. She’s married and has a kid. Paige is in California, teaching.”

  “And your parents?”

  Josh sits down on the couch, stretching his legs out. “Mom is spending time with Paige. And my dad just got a job in Alaska.”

  “Do any of them know about Nora?”

  “No, I don’t want them to worry. Not yet, anyway.” He sighs. “This isn’t the first time she’s gone MIA. Unfortunately, they’re kind of used to it.”

  “But you’re not?”

  “She’s my sister,” he says. “I’m always going to care what happens to her. No matter how stupid and irresponsible she acts.”

  That’s another thing about family—I don’t know what it is that compels us to give them more second chances than we give our friends, but maybe it’s not something we’re supposed to understand.

  Just as I finish that thought in my head, I sit down next to Josh, leaving only a small space between us. Then I feel my father’s passcard digging into my rear end from my back pocket.

  His passcard. My mind is flooded with all the questions and crazy theories that overwhelmed me back at my house, and a fierce migraine starts to form behind my eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Josh says, placing a warm hand on my lower back.

  The breath in my lungs tightens as my heart begins to bang against my chest. “Any word from Patrick?”

  I hope to God that the answer is yes. Maybe he messaged Josh and gave him a good reason for why he didn’t show up at the factory. I need my image of him to remain untarnished, even if it’s only for a moment.

  Josh’s hand stiffens at the mention of Patrick’s name, and he pulls away. “No, sorry.”

  I lean forward and pull my dad’s passcard out of my back pocket, setting it on the table in front of us. After staring for a moment, I’m finally able to put my confounded thoughts into words.

  “I think my father . . . might be alive.”

  His eyebrows creep up into two steep arches. “What?”

  “I know it’s a leap,” I say, rubbing my palms against my knees. “But there’s proof.”

  “Like the passcard?”

  “He would’ve needed it to fly the plane, right?”

  “Maybe not,” Josh says. “HyperSoars were tested by remote at first. The CIT was worried about what would happen to them after a change in atmosphere.”

  “So it’s possible that my dad wasn’t in that plane when it disintegrated?”

  “Regan, I . . . ,” he begins, as if about to correct me.

  “Wait, there’s more. The Zolpidem we found in his stuff. The prescription was written for my dad—by my mother. And it was granulated, which means it’s easier to administer to an unconscious patient.” I look at Josh to see his reaction, but from the blank expression on his face, I can tell he’s not following my logic. “What if my dad became addicted to Elusion, and my mom helped him fake his death? What if he’s alive and somehow found me in my Escape to warn me?”

  “That’s a pretty big conspiracy theory you have there.” Josh scratches his neck, his eyes clouding over with
confusion. “You really think they’d be able to pull that off? Faking a plane crash, keeping your dad hidden somewhere?”

  His skepticism is obvious. I stand up and walk to the other side of the room in a huff, but since that only takes a few steps, it’s a lot less dramatic than I intended it to be.

  “Why are you being so dismissive? I thought you’d be more understanding. Especially since Patrick didn’t believe you when you told him what was going on at the factory.”

  Josh leans back on the couch and crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s a different situation.”

  “Oh, really? How so?”

  “Well . . . you’re jumping to conclusions, and I saw what I saw.”

  I open my mouth to counter him and then realize he has a good point. Josh was actually a witness—he saw his sister and his friends inside the factory, hijacking Elusion. But all I have are these strange fragments of my father’s life, and a vision of him in a make-believe world.

  “I know what it’s like,” Josh says, snapping my attention back to him. “There have been times when I thought I had all the facts, but they were really just assumptions. Anyway, when you lose someone, you try to make sense of it however you can.”

  My hands begin to tremble when I admit to myself that my dad’s passcard and the drugs could probably be explained away, but I’m not ready to accept that reality is entirely black-and-white like Josh is suggesting.

  Especially since it seems Patrick wants to keep us from thinking anything is really wrong with Elusion.

  “Don’t you see? This isn’t just wishful thinking on my part,” I plead. “I’ve wanted my dad alive since the day I came home and found out about the accident. But if I’m right, and my father didn’t die on that plane, and my mother helped him fool everyone somehow,” I say, swallowing hard, “that means my dad abandoned me and my mom’s a liar. Why would I choose to believe that?”

  “Because this way, there’s hope,” Josh says, getting up from the couch and walking toward me. “Hope that you might see your dad again. Wouldn’t blame you for wanting that to be true.”

  “But this isn’t just about my dad anymore,” I say, hands tightening into fists, standing my ground. “Fifty-twenty. That’s something we both saw, Josh. Isn’t that reason enough to believe?”

  “Believe what?”

  “Whether he’s dead or alive, somehow my dad is connected to Nora and her friends.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” he says, a wary smile forming on his lips. “But the real question is, do we believe in Patrick?”

  The muscles in my legs start to give when I begin to contemplate that question for the hundredth time. What my heart wants to believe and what my instincts are telling me have been at war for the past twenty-four hours, and the fighting only became worse after Josh told me he reached out to Patrick for help and was refused. Unfortunately, my instincts are close to victory and my heart is about to be crushed in defeat.

  “When he was at my house, he said the problems I experienced with Elusion, and the number fifty-twenty, could be related to a downloading issue with the upgraded app, but—”

  “Okay, that’s a lie,” Josh says, cutting me off. “If there was any kind of downloading error with the new app, you wouldn’t have been able to open the program and get to Elusion in the first place.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Josh cocks his head to the side and grimaces.

  “Sorry. I forgot about the computer mastery thing.”

  “Listen, I know Patrick’s your friend. He used to be mine, too. But if there’s something wrong with Elusion, who knows how many people might get caught in the crossfire?”

  “Then we need to find out what fifty-twenty means,” I say. “It’s the only clue we have that links our stories together.”

  Josh paces back and forth, his strides small and clipped because of how tiny the room is. “What if fifty-twenty is part of some numeric source code?”

  “I don’t know. Programming code is really intricate stuff. Especially the kind Patrick and my dad were doing for Elusion.”

  “It’s still worth looking into,” he says. “Did your dad leave his tab behind?”

  “No, but it wouldn’t matter. He kept all his files on his work computer, for security reasons. That’s why he spent so much time at Orexis; everything he needed was in his lab or at his office.” I clap my hands together once all my synapses start firing in unison. “The office. Patrick moved into my dad’s office, which means—”

  “He’s using your father’s computer.” Josh finishes my sentence, his eyes brightening. “A three-panel quantum with touch recognition. Am I right?”

  I recoil from him a little bit, mostly because I’m freaked out by how precise his guess was. “How’d you know that?”

  “Patrick likes to brag. Told me all about it at the party,” he explains. “Five feet long with a multitouch surface desk and four-foot screens. Not bad.”

  “I know. Pretty sophisticated.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and try to listen to the ideas bubbling inside my mind. “Do you think we could hack into it? Get the data that way?”

  “No, the security on their servers is really tough to break through,” he says after a pause. “And I bet they have other secure servers contracted, just to be used in an emergency, in case the main server at Orexis goes down for any reason.”

  Even though I’m a little discouraged by Josh’s response, I press on, determined to find a way into the dark recesses of my dad’s computer banks.

  “Okay, what if the computer was broken into by hand?” I suggest. “The files could be sent to a remote cloud where we could access them and—”

  “Hold on—all of those files are going to be encrypted and too large to send,” he interjects. “And there’s the touch recognition, too. The only way around that is to use a QuTap.”

  My heart sinks as a sigh of frustration escapes my lips. Magnetic-surge devices like QuTaps were taken off the market almost two years ago. I remember it being all over the Net. QuTaps are the only thing capable of disabling elaborate computer security systems.

  “So it’s impossible, then,” I say, hating the defeated tone of my voice.

  “I didn’t say that,” Josh replies.

  I look at him, surprised. “Are you saying you can get one?”

  “The one perk of being an academy boy is the military contacts,” he says with a shy grin.

  “How long would it take?” I know I sound impatient, but that’s because we have no time to waste.

  Josh reaches into his pocket and pulls out his tab, holding it firmly in his hand and gazing at me as if he’s standing by for an order. “I think I could track one down in a few hours.”

  Without even thinking—about betraying Patrick, or breaking the law—I say, “Do it.”

  The next morning, I stand shoulder to shoulder with at least a hundred Orexis employees hurrying to get to their desks for the start of the Standard 7 shift.

  It’s a madhouse—exactly as I’d hoped.

  Dressed in a long raincoat to hide my school uniform, I clutch my father’s passcard in one hand and a bag of cinnamon buns in the other. I push my way through the crowd outside the elevator bank located in the lobby of the former Renaissance Center Hotel, where Patrick works in my dad’s old office. Although it’s not as tall as the rest of the buildings in the complex, it is one of the oldest commercial structures in Detroit. It serves as the office building for only the top-level executives at Orexis and the lobby has all the ornate, old-school decorative touches of the era it was built: vaulted ceilings, marble floors, and potted palm trees. I kind of like the fact that it hasn’t been modernized in any way.

  As men and women in business attire chatter on about Elusion stock prices going up again and how sales projections are beating their expectations, I train my eyes on the closest of the three security gates, each of them manned by a Taser-wielding guard. Thankfully, none of them look familiar to me; however, all of them appear as if
they’re trained to attack at the slightest provocation. Except the skinny red-haired one on the left, who is distracted and checking his tab.

  Looks like I’ll be entering through his lane.

  When I slowly reach the entrance to the gate, I pray that the State Department hasn’t deactivated my dad’s passcard. Although we had a funeral for my father, he hasn’t been declared legally dead yet. There was no HyperSoar wreckage or actual physical evidence that proved he died, nor was there a mayday call or any radio correspondence with him before he was lost on radar. If there’s only a presumption of death, the government can’t disable someone’s account until a year has passed.

  So I should be safe.

  My eyes rest on the yellow blinking light on the turnstile as I swipe the passcard, practically holding my breath. Suddenly, there’s a shrill beeping noise and I almost lose my grip on the bag of cinnamon buns. Lucky for me, the sound is coming from the middle gate—a woman with an outstanding-ticket tag on her card. In my lane, a green light flashes and the waist-high plastic doors slide open. I exhale a sigh of relief, one step away from a heart attack.

  Get through the crowd at the executive elevator.

  The first leg of the mission accomplished. Had I gone through the regular elevators, the guards might have recognized me, and I would have had to check in. Then they would’ve called upstairs for visitor approval. I couldn’t risk that. The staff might have made me wait downstairs until Patrick was out of his early-morning investors briefing.

  I step into the elevator and swipe my card before pressing the button for the seventy-third floor, where Patrick and a handful of other top-level employees have their illustrious offices. The green light flashes again.