by Anthea Sharp
The two of them scrambled across the room. When they reached the windows, Aran stood. Spark took a few copper-flavored breaths, feeling dizzy. The smoke was starting to get to her.
He dropped back down, eyes bleak.
“Jammed,” he said.
“Break it?”
There was a chair pushed into the corner by the window. Aran grabbed it by the legs and swung it hard against the glass. The chair bounced off, and he cursed.
“Legs first,” she croaked.
He pointed the chair legs at the window and rammed it, his body shielded by the seat. The glass shivered, but held. The alarm shrilled out its useless cry.
“Damn reinforced glass.” Aran dropped the chair, coughing.
“Get down here.” She beckoned him to the floor.
Face taut, he went to his hands and knees.
“Any other ideas?” he asked.
Spark shook her head. She didn’t even have her messager on her—it was on the nightstand upstairs.
“Hey.” She covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry none of this worked out for us.”
“Don’t give up yet.”
“Lie down, anyway. Better air.”
He dropped to his stomach, looking like a bandit with the blood-smeared cloth over half his face.
They lay there quietly, and Spark concentrated on breathing.
“There has to be another way out,” she said.
Aran went up on his elbows. “We should check the whole room. I’ll go right.”
She nodded, saving her breath, then began crawling over the scratchy brown carpet. Smoke stung her eyes, and she was starting to feel lightheaded, but they couldn’t give up.
Halfway down the wall, she found the air vent. She didn’t have the breath to yell for Aran, so instead she kicked a table over. The clatter brought him running, though he was smart enough to stay doubled over.
“Vent,” she gasped. They had nothing to pry it open with. Except…
Leaving Aran at the vent, she scrambled over to her sim system and grabbed the helmet. VirtuMax wouldn’t like this, but it was a small price to pay. She set the helmet by Aran.
“Break,” she said.
He understood right away, and gave the helmet a couple heavy stomps. They took turns yanking at the visor, until the plas-glass was loose on one side. Hands shaking, she tried to slip the edge behind the metal grill of the vent.
“Let me,” Aran said. “Lie down.”
She didn’t argue, just concentrated on not coughing while he worked on loosening the grill edge.
A sharp whistle made her sit up. She glanced wildly around.
“What?” Was she having an auditory hallucination.
“Scoot back,” Aran said, taking her arm and pulling her away from the vent.
The grill flew off. A moment later, Niteesh stuck his head out
“Nit!”
“Sparky! And random guy. Into the vent, quick.” Niteesh held out his hand.
Spark took it and forced herself into the small space, grateful for Aran’s boost. She crawled up behind Niteesh, and he moved forward.
The metal was cool under her hands, and the air was several degrees fresher. Still, they couldn’t just stay there. The smoke would fill the vents soon enough.
“Aran?” she called, though it came out more like a croak.
“Here.” He tapped her ankle.
She started crawling, following the waving beam of Niteesh’s flashlight, and trying not to imagine the metal walls closing in on her.
“Okay, slow down,” Niteesh said. “Tricky turn here. But we’re almost out.”
The vent got darker as he slid around the corner. Spark crawled forward on her elbows. She could feel perspiration, damp on her forehead. The vent made a left turn and she tried to fold herself into its sharp angle. She wiggled a few more painful inches, then twisted. Dammit, she was not getting stuck in here!
Her hips cleared the turn and she slithered through with a gasp. She had no idea how Aran was going to manage. Although he was lean, his shoulders were broad. She didn’t voice any doubt, though, just went forward to give him room to get through.
“Hey!” She squinted and turned her face away as Niteesh shone the flashlight directly in her face.
“Sorry.”
He tilted it up, then gave her a grin. He’d managed to pretzel his wiry little body around to face her.
“Nice rescue, huh?” he asked.
“Ask me again, once we’re out. Aran, you all right back there?”
He grunted. The vent creaked with the sound of buckling metal, and he swore.
“Aran?” She hated not being able to see what he was doing.
“Yeah. Just… a sec.”
She lay her head down, the vent cold against her cheek. Sweet air filled her lungs.
“Nit—how’d you know to come find us?”
“The Terabins were acting sorely suspicious this morning, so I followed them. They were collecting stuff—a big trash can from out back of the hotel. Armfuls of towels. When I saw the can of gas, though, I knew it was bad.”
“Why didn’t you tell Vonda?”
“I did—but not soon enough. The twins had already set the fire and locked you in. So I figured it was up to me to get you out.”
“Doesn’t the hotel have a door override?”
He scowled. “The Terribles jammed it. C’mon, Spark, you know how simple most of the tech is in these places. Easy to hack.”
Something about his words pinged her memory. She frowned, trying to chase it down, but the thought was gone.
“Thanks for coming to get us.”
“Oh, sure. Anyway, Vonda’s waiting at the end of this vent. If we can get there.” Niteesh pointed his flashlight back at Aran. “Coming?”
“Okay.” Aran sounded exhausted.
The metal screeched again, and he groaned in counterpoint. Then she heard him scramble up behind her, his breaths loud in the enclosed space.
“Go,” he said, something ragged in his tone.
Niteesh turned, nimble as a ferret, and led the way. Ahead of them, she could see a square of light, coming closer. Closer.
Niteesh slid out, and then Spark wriggled free, falling into the waiting hands of the med techs.
“One more,” Niteesh said. “Move back.”
A moment later Aran tumbled onto the beige carpet of the hall. Spark sucked in her breath when she saw the fresh blood coating his naked back, then bent over, coughing hard. Her lungs felt like they’d been scraped with sandpaper.
The closest med tech whipped off Spark’s makeshift mask and stuck an oxygen supplier up to her face.
“Easy there,” the med said. “Slow, even breaths. There you go.”
She wasn’t the type to faint, but the blurriness at the edges of her vision spread, until the whole scene looked like one of those old-fashioned paintings made of nothing but smears of color. Someplace warm and full of light, with plenty of air, and no blood. Sighing, she tipped forward into that dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Spark rang the doorbell of the basic, middle-class house. Rain spattered the pavement and pattered softly on the porch roof. She glanced over her shoulder at the security guy behind her.
“Burt, I asked you to wait at the car.”
“Just doing my job,” he said, calm in the face of her irritation.
She turned her attention back to the door, willing someone to answer. A moment later it opened, and a sweet-faced woman blinked at her.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked. Clearly she didn’t recognize who Spark was.
“Mrs. Chowney?” When the woman nodded confirmation, Spark continued. “Is your son, Bix, at home?”
Mrs. Chowney’s eyes widened slightly. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“Not at all, ma’am,” Burt said. “He’s the lucky winner of an at-home visit from Spark Jaxley. Part of last month’s gaming convention package.”
“Oh!” She looked more
closely at Spark. “You’re the girl who plays those sim games. Please, come in, sit down.”
Mrs. Chowney settled them in a beige living room with a surprisingly colorful carpet, then hurried off to fetch her son.
A minute later he hurried into the room, as gangly as Spark recalled, from her glimpse of him at the VirtuMax party.
“No way!” He halted, staring at Spark. “I thought somebody was playing a joke on me. Are you really Spark Jaxley? Your hair’s a lot shorter.”
“It’s a new look.” She stood. “Sorry to bother you like this, but I’m trying to find someone. Your friend, Aran.”
Burt had his home address, but when he’d called, Aran’s family said he’d officially moved out two weeks earlier.
After their multiple ordeals, Spark had woken up in the hospital. Not alone—her mom and dad had been flown in, special-delivery, but Aran had disappeared. No messager number, no note of farewell. Just out of her life like nothing had ever happened.
Except that too much had, and she refused to let him run away from any it. At least, not without saying goodbye to her in person.
She had more than one reason to track him down, too. Not the least of which was the fact she owed him her life. And vice-versa.
Bix’s expression went wary and he slowly took a seat on one of the overstuffed chairs.
“What about Aran?”
Burt cleared his throat. “It’s nice of you to protect your friend, but we’re not here to cause trouble.”
“Burt, be quiet.” Spark frowned at him. His tough security-guy manner was far from reassuring. “Bix, I met Aran at SimCon, and I’d like to get back in touch.”
“Oh, damn.” Bix slapped himself on the forehead. “It really was you, at that party. I’m such an idiot.”
“No worries. But… is he all right? Do you know where I can find him?”
Bix glanced at the doorway, then leaned forward. “He crashes in our old garage—but right now he’s working.”
“Working?” Burt’s voice was laced with disbelief.
“Yeah, he’s on night shift at the local Fry King. I think he’s done at five in the morning, or something tweaked like that. Before the sun comes up, anyway.”
Sunrise. Spark smiled.
“I know exactly where to find him,” she said. “Thank you, Bix.”
“No problem. Wait, before you go, could I get a picture with you?”
“Sure.”
She let Bix droop one of his long arms around her, and smiled on cue when he pulled out his messager and snapped a selfie of them. He looked at it and pumped his fist.
“Sweet! And, uh, come by again, anytime.”
“Thanks.”
At the doorstep, Burt shook his hand, and when they got to the curb she waved, trying not to laugh at the moony expression on Bix’s face. Another one down. Why was it the one guy she wanted to spend time with kept running away from her?
***
Aran scrambled down the path, letting the fresh sea wind blow the smell of fry grease off his clothes. At least his night-shift hours allowed him to come watch the sunrise most mornings, on his way back to the Chowney’s garage. Spring was finally coming, the air not so biting, the green edges of new leaves showing.
The sky was already getting lighter over the water, a line of white on the horizon preceding the sunrise. He never wanted to take the sun rising for granted, ever again.
Beach stones shifting under his feet, he was halfway to his usual log when he halted. Someone else perched there, huddled in a thick coat and looking out at the ocean.
For a moment he thought about turning around, leaving the beach to whoever had claimed it first. The figure shifted, and he caught his breath at the familiar curve of her cheek. His pulse gave a huge thump, then settled into a faster rhythm.
For almost a month he’d tried to convince himself it was for the best that he never see Spark Jaxley again. Clearly his heart didn’t agree. He kept walking.
“Hi,” he said, when he got to the bleached log.
He didn’t ask how she’d found his secret cove. The head of her security team was a pro.
Spark tilted her head and looked at him. “For a second there, I thought you were going to run away again.”
“Hey,” the truth of her words stung. “I had some things to do.”
After the med techs had treated his scraped back and his smoke inhalation, he’d talked them out of admitting him to the hospital. He’d waited around long enough to make sure Spark was okay, and then ridden Bix’s bike back to the city. The distance had seemed twice as far, every mile spooling out, cold and empty.
“You could have left a note,” she said. “Or your number.”
“Look.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then leaned against the side of the log. “I don’t belong in your world.”
He still had no idea what world he actually fit in.
Knowing where he didn’t was a start, though. And accepting that his family would never knit back together, that his old life was gone forever. Things would never revert back to normal in that house. Setch would always be the firstborn, the golden boy, perfect in his parent’s eyes, no matter how many dirty deals he did. Aran hanging on, hoping things would change, only prolonged the pain. For everyone.
He’d given up hacking, too. It felt right, but the grind of regular work was gruesome—especially the kind of job he could get with no references and a minimal background check. It was either midnight fast-food peon, or, even worse, waste disposal worker.
Spark looked at him a long moment. The breeze riffled the ends of her hair, which had been trimmed into an even line below her ears. It looked cute.
“Did you really think you could just walk away?” she asked. “After what we went through together?”
“I thought…” The words dried in his throat, and he swallowed. “It was the best thing, for everybody.”
A weak part of him had wanted to stay, to whine and beg around Spark like a stray dog hoping for scraps. But he had too much pride for that, so he’d left. Better to try and make something out of the cloth of his own life, no matter how ragged.
“You thought wrong,” she said. “You entered the realm, and battled the Dark Queen. That changes you. Don’t deny it.”
He dropped his gaze to the tide-slick stones at the water’s edge. She was right. Strange things moved through his dreams, fears and visions he couldn’t share with anyone. Unless they’d experienced the same thing.
“The queen said something, during that battle,” Spark said. “It took me a few days to figure it out. You’re BlackWing, the hacker.”
“Not any more.” He hunched his shoulders, waiting for her scorn.
Instead she scooted over and put a hand on his arm.
“Nobody else could have done that—cracked the wall between the realms, then shut it again.”
“I was stupid. Do you hate me for it?”
“Well, I don’t admire some of your choices. But you fixed everything, in the end—and you know your way around sim code.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope. “This is for you, from Vonda.”
“Your manager?” He took it and turned it back and forth in his hands.
“Open it.”
He glanced over at her. Her eyes were lit with suppressed emotion.
“Do you know what it says?” he asked.
“I have an idea—but believe me, I had nothing to do with this. Other than telling Vonda you were BlackWing.”
Aran pulled in a breath, tangy with salt, and opened the envelope. Inside was a letter typed on official VirtuMax letterhead. Sometimes going old-school with real paper was far more impressive than a digital message. More weighty and real.
He scanned the words, then backed up and read the whole thing slowly. Heart pumping with crazy hope, he looked at her.
“Is this serious?” he asked.
“Let me see.”
He tilted the letter for her to read, then watched the smile blos
som across her face.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “VirtuMax needs to hire the best threat testers they can find. They need you, Aran.”
“But my background—”
“The company wouldn’t have allowed Vonda to make you that offer unless they’d checked you out thoroughly. The fact that your brother set you up is pretty clear, despite the crappy public defender that let the charges stick. And I think Burt might have given you a character reference.”
Aran stared at her. “Your security guy? He hates me.”
“No, he’s just cautious and good at his job. Notice I’m alone out here?”
He glanced about the beach. No sign of a security team watching.
“I hope he’s nearby,” Aran said. “You’re a little too valuable to be completely unguarded.”
Spark rolled her eyes and shook her head at him. The pink in her hair was echoed by the wash of clouds overhead.
He refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, his insides churning with choices. Of course, he knew that companies hired former hackers to help ensure that their programs and games were as impenetrable as possible. But he never thought he’d get an offer to trade his black hat in for a white one. Well, maybe gray.
Speaking of villains…
“I have a few questions,” he said. “What about those two gamers, the Terabin twins?”
“Gone,” Spark said. “All their daddy’s money couldn’t help them weasel out of the fact they deliberately set that fire. Not with Niteesh as an eyewitness. They might be able to hire good lawyers, but they’re never working for VirtuMax again.”
“They tried to kill you. And me.” He curled his fingers into fists.
Her expression hardened, and she stared out over the water. Aran wanted to touch her face, stroke that grimness away.
“They’ll pay for it,” she said. “The trial’s later this year. But I don’t want to talk about them. I want to talk about you. About us.”
She looked back at him, her eyes serious. Above them, the sky lightened to pale blue, and the sea shone like a broken mirror, bright copper at its edge.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Could you stand seeing me around?”
