Elusion

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

Approved.

  As the doors close, I move toward the back of the elevator, mentally repeating the master plan Josh and I cobbled together.

  Get inside Patrick’s office.

  Text Josh on my tab and have him coach me through using the QuTap.

  Find any and all codes containing 5020.

  “Smells good,” a woman says with a friendly wink as the elevator rockets upwards. She’s dressed in a conservative black suit, with an Orexis pin attached to the lapel of her jacket. “Surprise birthday?” she asks.

  “More like an olive branch.”

  Or a decoy, if I want to get technical.

  When the elevator stops and she pushes her way to the front, she cheerfully says, “I’d forgive you, honey!” I giggle a little as the doors close and step farther into the back. I’m still worried that I will recognize someone—or worse, that someone will recognize me. But as the scene in the lobby proved, faces and names are almost indistinguishable during rush hour.

  Sixty-eight, sixty-nine . . .

  I can do this. I have to do this.

  Seventy-three.

  The door opens on a hallway flooded with brightness. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s actual sunlight. The air meter at the Inner Sector station was at negative one this morning, meaning that wind currents are minimal and air quality is good enough that O2 shields aren’t required. On “nice” days like this, I guess there’s no need to run Elusion ads on the glass windows, so they’re crystal clear, exposing a scenic view of the thick, black water of the Detroit River and, beyond it, the towering high-rises on the shore of Windsor, Canada.

  As I wander into the waiting area, I’m met with an enthusiastic squeal. It’s coming from Estelle, a receptionist who has worked on this floor for as long as I can remember.

  “Regan! What a surprise!” She jumps up from her swivel stool to greet me and brings me in for a big hug, her lilac-scented perfume almost overpowering me. The other receptionist, a young man with a crew cut, keeps his eyes on the InstaComm wall as he barks commands at someone in the office-services department.

  “How are you, dear? And how in the world did you get up here? No one called!” Estelle says.

  “Oh, I have a VIP passcard,” I say with a shrug.

  Not a complete lie, but still, my tongue burns a little when the half-truth slips off it.

  “Courtesy of Mr. Simmons, I presume?” she says, with a knowing smile.

  I feel a burst of warmth tingeing the apples of my cheeks. My dad’s entire staff, most of whom now report to Patrick, have long suspected a romance between me and my best friend—which is something I must take advantage of if I want to get into his office alone.

  “He’s been really stressed lately, so I brought him breakfast,” I say, holding up the insulated bag from the Inner Sector’s best bakery. “I was hoping to surprise him.”

  My palms are starting to sweat, and for a second I wonder if I’m really capable of doing this. It’s one thing to think about breaking into an Orexis quantum computer, and another entirely to actually go through with it. I remind myself to act casual. Not that Estelle would ever suspect me of being a corporate spy.

  “You’re in luck,” she says with a smile. “His briefing was canceled this morning.”

  My heart plummets. Canceled?

  Estelle pauses and then sniffs the air. “Did you bring him cinnamon buns? From Mo’s?”

  I force a grin and nod, opening the bag, my whole plan unraveling. “Want one?”

  “No, save them for Patrick. He’s going to love them!” She peers at the screen on her digital data planner wristband and scrolls through the information, shaking her head in dismay when she’s through. “Good Lord, he got roped into a conference call instead. But that shouldn’t take too long; I could even buzz him in there and let him know you’re—”

  “That’s okay, I can wait,” I blurt with excitement. “Would it be all right if I hung out in his office?”

  When Estelle’s lips twitch, I fear she’s going to tell me to take a seat in the lounge area. Instead she leans in a little and whispers, gesturing in the other assistant’s direction. “Just don’t let Andrew see you. He’s so anal when it comes to rules.”

  I smirk as she pulls out her passcard and waves it in front of a lockpad near a set of glass doors. “I have been rooting for you two since you were kids. You are the perfect couple!”

  “Thanks,” I say, without looking her in the eyes.

  There’s less guilt that way.

  Estelle glances at Andrew to see if he’s paying attention, and then she turns back to me, mouthing the words “Go ahead.”

  I walk down a long, narrow hallway lined with what appear to be floor-to-ceiling windows, but which I know are just display walls presenting gigantic panoramic images that are geometrically and photometrically correct. On one side I’m overlooking the green-colored sand dunes of the Majestic Desert Escape, and on the other I’m standing at the base of the bright orange, snow-covered mountains of the Alp Retreat Escape.

  I clench the bag in my hand and forge ahead until I reach the corner office—the one Patrick moved into after my dad died. I wave my dad’s passcard in front of the lockpad and the door opens. I haven’t stepped foot in this room in months, and I’m stunned by how different it looks. The furniture is very trendy and modular. There’s a glass conference table with built-in monitor capabilities, and three InstaComm walls, each of them lit up with holographic screen savers displaying natural landscape scenes.

  The floor-to-ceiling window screen in the far corner of the room pictures a wooden cabin set in the middle of a dense forest of evergreens and bare trees, covered in pure, lily-white snow. I recognize it immediately—it’s the cabin described in Walden. I can’t help but think that Patrick must have kept this image as a tribute to my father.

  Suddenly I feel like a cold, dead hand is squeezing my heart, and I quickly turn on my heel. It’s almost as if my legs have decided to run out of here as fast as they can, regardless of what my mind has to say about it. But I plant my feet firmly on the floor, refusing to give in to these feelings of doubt. While the seriousness of what I’m about to do is pressing down on my shoulders like a backpack filled with granite, as much as I care about Patrick I simply don’t think I can trust him to tell me what’s going on.

  I keep telling myself that over and over again, and thankfully, when I pull the QuTap Josh gave me out of my pocket, I’m able to ignore everything else except for my mission. I place the cinnamon rolls on the conference table and finger the button-size piece of magnetic alloy in my hand. It’s hard to believe that something this tiny can do as much as Josh claims, but as I take a seat behind my father’s quantum computer, I’m about to put all my faith into it—and the person who managed to get it for me.

  I set the QuTap in my lap and pull out my tab from my inside jacket pocket. I wake it from sleep mode and see that Josh’s avatar is blinking available on my contacts list. I tap on the touch screen, typing him a message.

  I’m inside. What now?

  I barely have to wait a millisecond for a reply.

  Put on latex gloves, then place QuTap on panel B2.

  I do exactly as he instructs, taking the gloves out of my other jacket pocket and slowly pulling them over my hands. I need to be prepared in case the keyboard is wired for fingertip recognition and make sure I don’t leave any prints.

  Then I pick up the QuTap and look for the panel marked B2. It takes me a minute to find the labeling, but once I do, I aim the device at it, the magnetic pull practically yanking it out from between my rubbery fingers. As soon as I hear it latch on to the panel, there’s a slight clicking sound. I type on my tab again.

  QuTap is on. Next step?

  Wait for the lights, then tell me when you see icon

  As if the computer can read Josh’s texts, all the panels are alive with lines and squares of digitized white light. A virtual keyboard appears at the bottom of the screen as images flash across, the fi
ngertip analysis seemingly circumvented. I wait until the icon from the QuTap blinks on screen, a simple and neat red ball.

  Icon is up.

  Type in //reboot// then press //Alt+Command//

  As my pulse beats triple time, I follow Josh’s advice, gently tapping in the word “reboot” and hitting Alt+Command. The lighting on the panel dims a little, then flickers on and off, creating a strobe effect. I cringe, thinking I’ve screwed something up. Just as I’m about to tell Josh that, the lights return to normal, and at the top of the screen a message appears.

  Reboot successful.

  Good morning, Mr. Simmons.

  Time: 7:12 a.m.

  My fingers furiously dance across the screen of my tab, my left knee bouncing up and down.

  It worked.

  A few seconds tick by; then Josh responds.

  Do generalized programming search, using this code //1r3c70rY5020//

  I take a cleansing breath and stretch my fingers, biting my lower lip as I begin to type. Once I’m through, I receive a message from the computer.

  I’m sorry, Mr. Simmons. We are unable to locate your information at this time.

  Nothing. But then again, we didn’t expect this to be easy.

  No luck.

  Try this advanced search //4DV4NC3D 534RC|-|5020//

  Again, I attempt to seek the information Josh and I desperately need, but the advanced search leads us right back to the same message.

  I’m sorry, Mr. Simmons. We are unable to locate your information at this time.

  I hear a noise and freeze in place, but when I realize it’s the whoosh of an automatic door opening a few offices down the hall, I type on my tab at lightning speed.

  I don’t know how much time we have left, but it can’t be a lot. Estelle said Patrick’s call wouldn’t run long.

  That didn’t work either. Abort?

  No. This should do it //EyE Am ph33|1n6 |u(ky5020//

  I stop to yank off my coat—it feels like a million degrees in here—and then I type in the last command Josh sent me. After I hit Enter, I say a silent prayer to the computer gods that this will turn up something. When a message rejecting my request doesn’t appear right away, a surge of hope rips through me, and suddenly rows and rows of file names start piling up on the screen. There’s hundreds of them, all containing the number 5020 in the programming code.

  I text Josh right away.

  Pay dirt.

  Shit yeah!

  My lips twist into a goofy, satisfied smile, but it only lasts for a brief moment.

  Patrick’s ever-so-charming voice is carrying through the hall. He’s making his way toward his office. A shot of sheer panic jolts me out of the chair. I open both my hands, using all my fingers to copy and drag as many files as possible, dumping them into the QuTap icon. My hair falls in front of my eyes and I don’t even bother to wipe it away; my heart is rattling against my ribs so loudly I’m half certain Patrick can hear.

  “Wait, you’re saying it’s being outsourced?” he says, from behind the door. “When the hell did this happen?”

  “I’m not sure. I just found out myself,” says another, much deeper voice.

  “Why weren’t we notified?”

  “Maybe it was some kind of oversight.”

  A bead of sweat trickles down the side of my face as I exit out of the program and give the screen a quick wipe with my elbow. Then I lunge for the magnet and pluck it off the panel. I have just enough time to stick it in my pocket and step away from the computer before Patrick enters the room.

  The only thing I forget to do is take off these damn gloves.

  At first Patrick doesn’t even notice me, his attention directed toward the middle-aged man with glasses who is following close behind him. He’s tall and handsome, wearing an expensive suit like Patrick’s, with black hair and a dark ebony complexion. I recognize him immediately. Bryce Williams. He was on my dad’s original Elusion design team.

  With my hands behind my back, I pull the gloves off finger by finger, hoping that I’ll have time to dispose of them before they realize I’m here.

  “I want to know exactly when we switched over,” Patrick says to him. “Find me whatever documentation you can . . .” He pauses and sniffs the air. “Wait, does it smell like cinnamon buns in here?”

  Bryce spots me over Patrick’s shoulder and gives him a sharp nudge in the arm—just as I snap off the last glove and curl both gloves into a little ball.

  “Regan?” Patrick’s voice lilts. Obviously he’s surprised to see me.

  “Hey,” I say, tucking the gloves in the back pocket of my cargo skirt.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I brought you breakfast. Estelle let me in.” I worry that this might get her in trouble, but it’s either her or me, and any other excuse might raise suspicion.

  Patrick squints his eyes. He looks absolutely bewildered right now. Can’t say that I blame him.

  “Don’t you have school?” he asks, loosening his red tie a little.

  I give him an indifferent shrug. “I’ll get there eventually.”

  “How’ve you been, Regan?” Bryce pipes up, extending a hand in my direction.

  “Good, thanks,” I say during our polite handshake. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “Bryce, let’s catch up later, okay?” Patrick says, patting him on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, sure.” Bryce walks toward the door, but just before he exits, he stops and turns around to smile at me. “We really miss your father around here, Regan.”

  I smile back, even though I’m not sure if he’s being sincere. “Thanks.”

  Once the door slides closed behind him, Patrick strolls over toward the conference table, where the goodies I brought him are probably starting to get cold. Oh well. He opens the bag and breaks into a grin when he inhales. “Mo’s Bakery?”

  A twinge of sentimentality tugs at my heart, and all of a sudden, I feel my eyes glistening. When Patrick and I were in elementary school, my father used to spoil us with treats from Mo’s every Friday. After our hands became sticky with frosting or glaze, Patrick would chase me around my house, trying to tickle me. We were so innocent then. Everything between us was easy.

  “I thought you could use a pick-me-up,” I say, my words sounding a bit garbled. “Besides, I owe you a thank-you for the other night.”

  “No thanks necessary.” Patrick pulls out a black leather bucket chair from the conference table and nods at it. “Can we talk for a second?”

  I nervously shift my weight from one leg to the other. If I engage in some kind of deep, emotional conversation with Patrick right now, I might lose my cool, or do something worse, like throw the QuTap down the Orexis trash chute in a fit of unyielding guilt. He has this uncanny way of making me forgive him for every little indiscretion of his.

  Which is why I need to get out of here.

  “Sorry, Pat. I should probably head to school.”

  Patrick unbuttons his jacket and places his hands on his hips. “You weren’t in such a rush a minute ago.”

  “I just remembered—I have a chem quiz,” I lie.

  But when he smirks, I know that he’s on to me.

  “So you’re still mad at me, huh?”

  “Mad? Why would I be mad?”

  When he flops down into the chair, he seems more like his true eighteen-year-old self than a corporate figurehead. “Because I was kind of a jerk before I left your house.”

  “No you weren’t,” I lie again. “I mean, you were just concerned about me, right?”

  “Yeah, right,” he says, leaning over so his elbows rest on his knees. “That’s what I wanted to discuss.”

  When I detect the disbelief that’s coating his voice, I decide to make a bold move. “Have you gotten other complaints about Elusion?”

  Given what I know about Josh’s call to Patrick yesterday, if he denies that there are more flaws in the system, I’ll know he has no problem with lying right to my face.

&n
bsp; “There’s a good chance the bad download is affecting your other software too. I really want you to get a new tab. You can pick it out and I’ll pay for it,” he says.

  Wow. He’s ignoring the question altogether and continuing to use this downloading error excuse, which Josh said wasn’t possible. He’s lying to me.

  I shake my head, my blood pressure rising. “Forget it. I can get one myself.”

  He sighs. “I’m just trying to help, Ree. Why is that making you so angry?”

  The longer I stand here talking to him, the chances of me slipping up and getting caught with the QuTap continue to skyrocket.

  So I deny the obvious.

  “I’m not angry,” I say. “I just have to go.”

  As I put my hands in my coat pocket and bolt for the door, Patrick springs up from his chair and blocks my path. Now that he’s only inches away from me, I can see how red and irritated his eyes are, like he’s been up for days. And his cheeks are a bit sunken, too, like he hasn’t been eating. My mind jumps to a conclusion—one that paints Patrick as an addict to the invention he so desperately loves. Anything to explain why he’s not the trusting person I thought him to be.

  “You know I’d do anything for you, right?” he says, running a jittery hand down my arm. “You’re the most important person in the world to me, and I’ll never let anything bad happen to you, I swear.”

  I nod and do my best to give him a reassuring smile as I slowly pull away.

  Even though I can’t help but doubt his every word, this is still something I really want to believe.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  TEN

  “WORK, GODDAMN IT!” JOSH SHOUTS AT his quantum laptop, pounding on the touch screen with two open palms.

  I’m watching him as I pace inside one of the insulated glass capsules the city built along the boardwalk of the Inner Sector waterfront a few years ago. After school and my second stint in detention, Josh and I decided to take a ride so we could have a secluded spot to analyze the information on the QuTap, and this was the first place that came to mind. Despite the “comfort” of these antitoxic fume capsules, hardly anyone comes down here to check out the view of the Detroit River—it’s so polluted it could be mistaken for a sewage system.