by Tracy Deebs
“Hey.” She too does a quick sweep of the room, then smiles at us. That it’s a genuine smile doesn’t surprise me. That it’s meant for both of us does. Then again, Snow White has no reason to fear the competition. Her designer clothes make it obvious she doesn’t need this job the way I do.
“Three down, two to go, huh?” She plops into the chair across from mine.
“Four down.” I nod toward the door just as Issa walks in. I don’t have a nickname for her yet, but I’m thinking of going with Buffy. With her affinity for nineties fashion, she’s certainly got the look of the vampire slayer from the old TV show. And the attitude.
She doesn’t bother to check out the room, just heads straight for us. She takes the seat one over from me, flannel-clad arms folded over her chest and legs stretched out in front of her. She’s got a pretty impressive resting bitch face and more holes in her jeans than I have encryptions on my phone. I like her more than I should.
The same can’t be said for Silver Spoon.
“Don’t feel bad about coming in fourth, Issa,” he tells her in a tone that says pretty much the opposite. “At least you aren’t last.”
“Nothing to feel bad about. After all, genius takes time.” She shoots him a look that would have made a less arrogant guy crumble on the spot. “Then again, so do a lot of things. You sure you want to keep bragging about how fast you are?”
“Hey, I’ve got no shame about coming in second out of five.” But his cheeks flush just a little.
“Haven’t you heard?” she shoots back. And yep, I’m definitely going with Buffy. At the moment she looks like she would love nothing more than to drive a stake straight through Silver Spoon’s Armani-loving heart. “There are no points for second place.”
He just laughs, though. “That’s the worst Top Gun impression I’ve ever heard.”
She looks at him, baffled, and I’m about to explain the scene—Silver Spoon isn’t the only one here who loves old movies—when the door crashes open.
It’s the first time I’ve been caught unawares since we got here, and the fact that Mad Max—who looks like a character from the movie, with his flaming red Mohawk and bright green skinny jeans—is the one to do it blows me away. I can’t help but watch in astonishment as he skitters across the room, all nervous energy and abundant enthusiasm.
“You’re last, Seth.” Silver Spoon’s look is pure superiority.
But Mad Max isn’t biting. “Nothing wrong with saving the best for last, baby.” Buffy reaches over and fist-bumps him. I’m definitely not the only one Silver Spoon irritates.
“What’s with you and the superiority complex?” she asks. “You came in second. That means Harper or Alika beat you.”
I suck in a breath so fast that I nearly choke. And when Buffy holds up a fist for me to bump, I freeze. I’m not used to people knowing my name, let alone talking about me. It’s how I like it—easier to fly under the radar if no one knows you exist. But I can’t just leave her hanging either. Not when she’s standing up to Silver Spoon, something I’ve been wanting to do since I got here.
Long seconds pass before I drop my phone into my lap and awkwardly press my knuckles against hers.
“How do we even know it was a race?” Mad Max asks, eyes trying to conceal either laughter or indignation. Or both. It’s hard to tell because, for all his easygoing attitude, his eyes are as shuttered as mine. “Maybe I just got the hardest task.”
“Yeah, right,” Silver Spoon replies with an eye roll. “Because the CIA is going to give the hardest job to a guy who looks like a matchstick.”
“You never know. I had to crack through triple encryption and design a kick-ass sniffer to hit the payload. Not to mention duplicate a double hash—that’s one hundred and twenty-eight characters, for those of you used to playing in the kiddie pool.”
Buffy fakes a yawn. “Is that all? I had to brute-force my way into—”
“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this.” Snow White speaks up for the first time.
“What do you mean?” Mad Max’s brows hit his hairline.
I get his incredulity. I mean, this is what hackers do when we get together. We brag about what we cracked and how we cracked it. We can’t tell anyone else—at least not if we don’t want to end up in prison—so the whole tale-swapping thing is a time-honored tradition.
But at the same time, I’m totally aware of the three bugs in the room and what they mean. I’m trying to think of a way to tell the rest of them without giving anything away to the CIA when I catch sight of Agent Donovan through the window. He’s practically sprinting down the hallway toward us, and I can’t help wondering if his sudden appearance is because he doesn’t like that we’re showing and telling.
“I just think the CIA probably expects discretion from us,” Snow White continues. “Maybe the next step is—”
Agent Donovan pushes open the door. “Hey, hey, the gang’s all here,” he jokes as he heads our way.
Silver Spoon fakes a little laugh—of course he does—but the rest of us just kind of stare at Agent Donovan, waiting to see what he’ll say. He’s got our futures in his hands, and suddenly the butterflies in my stomach feel an awful lot like pterodactyls.
“First of all, I’d like to thank all of you for coming today. We’re just getting started going over your work, but I can tell you we like what we see so far. Do any of you guys have questions for me?”
I wait for the others to speak up, but no one does. Which means—no matter how much I hate it—I’m going to have to. Because I really, really want to know. “How long before we’ll know if we’re accepted into the program?”
“Three or four weeks, probably.”
Four weeks feels like forever when my whole future hangs in the balance. I’m trying not to show my disappointment, but I must not be doing a very good job because Mad Max bumps his knee against mine in an unmistakable gesture of comfort. It doesn’t lessen my disappointment, but it does comfort me more than I expect. He may look like a human matchstick, but he seems like a really good guy.
“Any other questions?” Agent Donovan asks. When no one else says anything, he continues, “Okay, then. You’ve all got your plane tickets. There’s a car downstairs that will take you back to the airport. Feel free to help yourselves to the food we’ve stocked in the back for you.” He starts ushering us toward the door.
“That’s it?” Buffy asks, a little incredulously.
“That’s it,” he answers crisply. “Except, of course, I’m sure you all understand that we expect you to keep what you did here today completely confidential. Even from each other. You may have only been running simulations, but the work we do here is serious. We need to keep it under wraps. Understand?”
We all nod like good little girls and boys, but I can’t help glancing at Snow White. And I realize the others are looking at her too. Does she know about the bugs too? Is she just better at this than the rest of us? Or is she just a really good guesser?
I’m still pondering the answers to my questions when we climb into the back of the limo. Seems like a huge waste of taxpayer dollars, shuttling us back and forth from the airport in a limo, but then, they did pay to fly us all here. Renting a limo for a day is probably nothing.
For a second, just a second, I think of the guy who walked out—Owen, I think his name tag said. He warned us about things being too good to be true, and as I settle into the luxurious interior of the limo, I can’t help wondering if he was right. Is this all just a little too much?
I don’t want him to be right, though, so I shove the thought out of my mind and concentrate on what’s going on around me instead.
There’s a stack of boxed lunches—or dinners, considering the time—next to the mini bar and Mad Max whoops when he sees them. He passes one to everybody, then digs in to his before the limo is even moving. Silver Spoon and Buffy do the same.
Snow White and I exchange a look, and though we both open our boxes, neither of us makes a move to eat anything. I’m too n
ervous about the three to four weeks we’ve got to wait to even attempt eating, and I wonder if that’s her problem too. She may not need to make this program the way I do, but she obviously wants it.
Suddenly, Silver Spoon asks, “Anybody else think it strange that Agent Donovan warned us not to talk about anything, then put us all in the back of a limo together? I mean, it’s the CIA. They could have arranged for us all to go separately.”
“Maybe this is still part of the test,” Mad Max tells him. “Maybe the limo’s bugged, and they’re waiting to see what we do.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s…” He looks like he’s trying to find the right words.
“The Usual Suspects,” I contribute, figuring that since he likes old movies, he’ll get it even if no one else does.
I’m right. “You think?” he says, his eyes suddenly locked on mine.
“What’s that?” Buffy asks, her fingers already flying over her screen. “A 1995 movie—seriously, you two need to update your viewing choices—where a group of criminals are all left together in one jail cell in the hope that they’ll take the bait and bond together to carry out a crime.” She looks up, incredulous. “You really think that’s what this is about? They want us to talk about what we did?”
“I don’t know what I think,” Silver Spoon answers. “I’m just throwing ideas out there.”
“Well, stop.” Snow White closes her box and drops it on the floor.
“Stop?” He looks at her like he can’t believe she just said that.
“Yes, stop. Agent Donovan told us not to talk about anything we did, and I’m going to take him at his word. I want to get into this program, and I’m not going to blow it just because the rest of you can’t follow directions.”
“Hey! What did I do?” Mad Max squawks. “I’m just sitting here eating my sandwich. It’s those three that are going all conspiracy theory over there.”
“Way to sell us out, matchstick boy,” Buffy tells him with a roll of her eyes.
“I just call ’em like I see ’em.”
“Yeah, well, so do I. And—as much as it pains me—I agree with Ezra on this. Why put us together if they don’t want us to talk?” Buffy asks.
“But what’s there to talk about?” Snow White suddenly looks agitated as she runs her hands through her long dark hair. “We ran a bunch of simulations for them. So what?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Silver Spoon replies.
“Yeah, well, do us all a favor, Ezra, and figure it out yourself.” She opens her purse and pulls out a pair of pristine white earbuds. “I’ve got better things to do.”
After putting in the earbuds and swiping her fingers across her phone a few times, she leans her head back against the seat. Closes her eyes.
And leaves the rest of us staring uneasily at one another as we try to figure out just what—if anything—we’ve suddenly become a part of.
3
Issa
(Pr1m4 D0nn4)
“It’s kind of weird that we’re on the same flight home, isn’t it?” Seth asks as he shoves half a Snickers bar down his throat. “I mean, we couldn’t have been on the same flight in, because you said your flight was late and mine was definitely on time. Weird we’d end up on the same flight home after being on different flights here.…”
I swear, there hasn’t been more than ten minutes all day when he wasn’t eating something. I’m pretty sure Freud would have a field day with his oral fixation.
“I don’t see what’s so weird about it,” I tell him as I step into an empty row and prepare to take the window seat. This morning was the first time I’d ever been on an airplane, and I was too scared to take the window then. Now, I can’t wait to watch as we barrel down the runway before gradually pulling up through the clouds. If this flight goes as smoothly as my first, I’m pretty sure flying might unseat hacking as my second favorite activity in the world. Cuddling Chloe is still first, but then, she’s pretty much the cutest baby on the planet.
As I shove my backpack under the seat, I realize Seth is still talking, babbling on about fate versus coincidence. I want to tell him it’s neither—that we’re on the same plane bound for Southwest’s Houston hub because he lives in Austin and I live in San Antonio—but lashing out at him would feel an awful lot like kicking a puppy, so I just nod along and pray he decides to keep moving.
I know it’s a pipe dream even as the thought crosses my mind, and sure enough, Seth joins me in the row before I can so much as fumble my seat belt on. He even goes so far as to plant himself in the middle seat, in an obvious commitment to our newfound friendship.
Lucky, lucky me.
Something tells me Seth isn’t the type to let three hours pass in silence. I barely resist the urge to snicker. Who am I kidding? He’s not the type to let three minutes pass in silence. I can feel my plans to sleep once the plane is in the air slipping away.
Sure enough, once he’s settled, he pulls out a pack of M&M’s and offers me some—seriously, it’s like he’s got Willy Wonka’s entire factory in his ridiculous backpack.
I just shake my head, bemused, but he grins. “Oh, come on. I saw you earlier—I know you’re a blue M&M girl. I won’t even say anything if you want to dig through and pick out only the blue ones.”
“Wow, you’re observant,” I answer, taking the pack because it feels like I’d be rejecting him if I didn’t. And while normally I’m okay with that, he’s trying so hard that I just can’t. Instead, I comb through the pack until I pick out seven blues.
So sue me; I have siblings who take their M&M’s very seriously. I’m usually lucky if I get the last one in the pack—and it’s almost never blue.
I hold up my palm, which is full of the small chocolate candies. “This is some serious friendship right here.”
“No doubt,” he agrees, and damn if there isn’t something completely endearing in the look he gives me. I find myself responding despite my best intentions. I mean, I don’t have a lot of time for friends—what with school and hacking and taking care of four kids under the age of ten, plus Lettie—but if I did, I think I’d like to have Seth as a friend. He’s sweet and good, and I’m pretty sure that with him what you see is what you get. He’s not boyfriend material, but that’s a good thing considering I swore off boys eleven months ago.
“So, what do you think of this whole CIA program thing?” he stage-whispers after ingesting two handfuls of candy.
I kind of want to ask if he’s planning on telling the entire plane what we spent the day doing—his whispers are like normal people’s shouts—but he’s holding out three more blue M&M’s, and I just don’t have it in me.
We talk for a few more minutes as the rest of the plane gets settled—mostly about the many, many ways that Austin is cooler than San Antonio—and then we’re barreling down the runway before I can even prepare for it.
Within seconds we’re airborne, and less than a minute after that we’re pulling through the lower levels of clouds. I watch, fascinated, wishing Chloe was here—she’s got a fluffy white cat Lettie and I bought her right after she was born, and she loves the thing so much. She’d squeal the second she saw the clouds, then try to pat them the way she does her cat. It would be so adorable.
But we’ve barely made it through the clouds—Seth babbling on about some music festival he went to a few weeks ago in Austin—when the plane drops several feet.
A few gasps echo through the cabin, mine included, as we start bumping up and down. I remind myself that air travel is completely safe, that the plane we’re in is an Airbus, which means they’re probably running an Integrity OS on the in-flight comps. And since Integrity is one of the best and most secure systems, running an encryption system so good it’s pretty much unhackable—I should know, I tried before I ever agreed to get on a plane to L.A.—we’re good to go. Especially since the military runs it in a lot of their planes because it more than meets the standards set forth in the DO-178B.
The plane drops
again—even a sweet OS like Integrity can’t control turbulence, I guess—and seconds later, the captain’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like we’re going to be in for some turbulence for the next several minutes. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened and that you remain in your seats. Sorry for the inconvenience, and I’ll do what I can to steer us out of it as soon as possible.”
The plane drops one more time, and suddenly the second flight of my life doesn’t seem like such fun. State-of-the-art in-flight computers or not, I’m in what amounts to a tin can in the sky. The precariousness of our position hits home as the plane starts to buck and rock.
My hands grab on to the armrests of their own volition, my fingernails digging in as I try to keep the plane in the air through sheer will alone.
“You know, the chance of turbulence bringing down an airplane is really slim,” Seth says, and this time when he speaks, his voice is low and soothing.
“I know,” I answer him. But that knowledge doesn’t have me relaxing my grip on our shared armrest one little bit.
Slowly, he pries my fingers away. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says, and I realize I’ve actually broken a nail on the stupid thing. Not that I have long nails—because hacker, please—but still… my hands actually hurt from how tight I was squeezing.
Seth pats my hand. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells me, and he sounds confident even though the plane’s bouncing around like a basketball at the NBA championship.
I’m too busy trying not to freak out to answer him.
The turbulence continues, and we sit like that for a couple of minutes, with him patting my hand and me pretending I’m anywhere but in a really big tin can that could crash at any second.
“So,” he finally asks, “have you heard the Harry Styles album?”
“Excuse me?” Not even fear of imminent death can keep the horror out of my voice.
“Harry Styles? ‘Sign of the Times’? ‘Two Ghosts’?”
“Do I look like a One Direction fan to you?” I demand, a little breathless and even more outraged.
