Omega City

by Diana Peterfreund

  “No,” said Fiona. “I’m sure there’s—”

  I pointed as the shadow shifted. “Look!”

  Dad banged on the door for probably ten seconds until a squat man came out from the kitchen. His dingy apron was streaked with grease and his eyes were wide and suspicious. He ran his hand through what little white hair remained on his broad scalp.

  “Maurice?” Dad asked through the window. “Maurice Pappas? I’m Sam Seagret. We spoke on the phone.”

  The man shook his head through the window. “Sorry. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “We just talked!” Dad insisted. “I wanted to ask you a few more questions about that dinner you witnessed in June of ’84.”

  Maurice Pappas examined me and Eric, and then finally Fiona. “Who are they?”

  Dad gave him an open smile. “Oh, these are my kids and this is my research assistant, Fiona.”

  “Fiona Smythe,” she added, giving the man on the other side of the glass a smooth, even look. “Like smite, but with an aitch.”

  That was weird. I glanced at Eric, who made a face. Research assistant? I mouthed to him. He shrugged.

  The restaurant manager stared at us for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, “I don’t think I remember anything after all.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated firmly, meeting Dad’s and Fiona’s eyes. “I think you’re mistaken.”

  “But—”

  “Look, I’ve got a family, too, man,” he said, and pulled the shade on the door.

  Dad’s face fell. Fiona patted his shoulder in sympathy.

  “I can’t believe it,” Dad said. He banged on the door again, but we all knew Maurice wasn’t coming back. Dad had been down this road before. None of his sources would help him these days. “It’s only been an hour since we spoke and someone got to him already.”

  “Yes.” Fiona nodded. “It was rather speedy of them, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m so sorry, Dad,” I said. We stood there for a minute, not saying anything.

  After a moment, Eric cleared his throat. “You know what might help right now? Fro-yo.”

  I glared at him.

  “What?” my brother whispered. “It’s true.”

  I HATE TO say it, but fro-yo did seem to make Dad feel marginally better. Well, fro-yo and the fact that we ate it in Solar Park.

  Solar Park is big and round and in the middle of the Reistertown town center. It was donated to the city by Aloysius Underberg, who was born and raised here. When Dad was working on the book, we spent a lot of time in this park, climbing on the jungle gyms in the playground and Rollerblading over the walkways while Dad sat on a park bench and typed, soaking up all the good Underberg vibes. Though Dr. Underberg might not be getting any love at the Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC, or on TV specials about the moon landing, he was still a presence in his hometown.

  Well, as long as you brushed the fall leaves off the dedication plaque. Which was what Dad and Fiona were doing now, while Eric licked sprinkles out of the inside of his cup and I tried to make sure every bite of my frozen yogurt had the same proportion of kiwi fruit.

  “See,” Dad was explaining to Fiona, pointing at the plaque, which was set into a big block of granite on the side of the walkway, “he had the town motto engraved right here: Where history meets tomorrow.”

  “Fascinating,” said Fiona. She circled the sign, rapping lightly on the granite with her knuckles. “This is the only place in the park with his name on it, is that right?”

  Dad nodded, smiling down at the bronze plaque. I joined him. It was your basic dedication plaque. Dates, a snippet of the speech, a cool, scientific-looking engraving of nine concentric circles like an atom or something.

  Fiona circled the plaque again, running her fingers up and down the seams of the granite.

  “Today, my dream for a better future has become a reality,” Dad read. “Isn’t it funny, Gillian, that a guy who dedicated his life to preparing for the very worst was always so hopeful that it was never going to come to pass?”

  I slipped my hand into his. “But he was right. We’re here and we’re fine.” Dad might be having career trouble, but it wasn’t actually the end of the world.

  I looked up and caught Fiona frowning at the plaque. “This isn’t working,” she muttered.

  “Pardon me?” I asked.

  “This whole evening. It’s been a bust from the research angle.” She turned to Dad. “I can’t believe Mr. Pappas wouldn’t talk to you, Sam.”

  Dad shrugged. “Let’s not dwell on it. It’s a nice night.”

  “It’s getting dark,” Fiona said. “Why don’t we all go back to your place? You promised to show me some of those pages from your new book.”

  I nearly dropped my yogurt cup. What? No, he most definitely had not. Dad never showed his works in progress to anyone. That was one of the ways they nailed him on the Underberg thing. He didn’t have any colleagues who’d read his research and could back up his claims. He never even showed things to Mom, and she was both a fellow history professor and his wife.

  But Dad’s eyes lit up like they do whenever he gets going on one of his projects, and he said the impossible: “Right. I did.” He gestured to Eric and me. “Come on, kids. Let’s head home. We can pick up burgers from a drive-through on the way.”

  Eric was practically skipping. Fro-yo and fast food. I trudged behind. Fiona, Dad’s new girlfriend, was one thing. And I guess I could even accept Fiona, Dad’s new research assistant. But Fiona, Dad’s trusted confidante? Who was this lady?

  FIONA FOLLOWED US in her car as we stopped at the last fast-food place on the highway, and then down the unlit, country roads that led to the cottage. Inside, the stench of smoke still lingered in the air, but Fiona was polite enough not to mention it.

  “I’ll get some coffee started,” Dad suggested, and headed off to the kitchen.

  “Be afraid,” Eric said to Fiona. “Be very afraid.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened and she gave Dad a weak smile. “Actually, do you have tea?”

  Eric shook his head. “Like that’ll be better?”

  “So, Fiona,” I asked her as we headed for the living room. “What do you do when you aren’t going to Dad’s lectures?” What made her good enough to get a peek at Dad’s stuff?

  “Nothing too interesting,” she replied, running a hand through her dark hair. “Resource management for a small development firm.”

  “Oh,” I replied. I knew what each of those words meant on their own, but I had no idea what they added up to. And what in the world would her firm develop out here in the sticks, anyway? Farm equipment?

  Dad returned with the tea, and as she held out her hand to take the mug, I noticed a mark on the inside of her wrist. A bit like a scar, maybe, but too regular and precise. Did they make flesh-colored tattoos? It looked like the outline of a letter J, but with a tiny little tail on the end of it.

  “What does the J stand for?” I asked, pointing at her arm. “Do you have a kid? An ex-husband?”

  “No,” she said, and tugged her sleeve down. “I’ve never been married. Never found the right guy, I guess.” She made googly eyes at Dad. Gross.

  Dad, unfortunately, was making googly eyes back. Come on, Dad. Just because Mom dumped you doesn’t mean you have to get all serious with Miss Smite-with-an-Aitch.

  “How did you do in Dad’s Roswell class anyway?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “She aced it.” My father raised his teacup in acknowledgment.

  So what? I’d had that lecture memorized since first grade. You didn’t see me getting to be Dad’s research assistant. “What’s the name of the secret government project they claim resulted in the incident?”

  “Project Mogul, involving spy microphones mounted to high-altitude balloons.”

  Spitballs. “And what was the name of the man who initially found the crash debris?”

  “William Brazel, a manager
at the Foster farm.” She took a sip of tea.

  “Gillian,” Dad warned me. “This is not quiz night. Fiona’s interested in more high-level info.”

  I frowned. That’s what I was afraid of. It had been a while since we’d been hounded by reporters, but that didn’t mean we could let our guard down.

  “Your father is one of the most accomplished scholars of his generation, children,” Fiona cooed.

  I hate it when grown-ups say “children” like that, probably because it’s usually substitute teachers trying to silence a classroom or shopkeepers kicking us out of their store. Mom used it once, too. “Children, your father and I are taking some time apart.”

  Children! Mom of all people should remember our names. She gave them to us.

  “So, Sam,” Fiona prompted. “You were showing me your notes?”

  “Right!” Dad said. And just like that, they were gone. Eric flipped on the TV. I crossed my arms and slumped in my seat.

  “What’s with the face, Gills?” Eric asked, powering up his video game.

  I softened. Eric’s the only one who can get away with calling me that, ever since he stood up for me in third grade when the teacher told the whole class my name should properly be spelled with a J. It might have been the last time I appreciated having my kid brother in the same grade.

  “Don’t you think it’s weird that Dad is showing his research to some lady from his beginner classes?” I asked him now.

  “Some lady? You mean his girlfriend?” Eric corrected.

  “Whatever. We barely know her. What if she’s another one of those reporters, looking to do a story on crazy Dr. Seagret and his conspiracy theories?”

  Eric looked up from the screen. “She’d better not be. I’m not going off the grid again. It took me three months to get my rankings back on this game after last time.”

  When the book scandal first broke and Dad was put on leave, we were hounded by journalists, got mysterious hang-up phone calls in the middle of the night, and some other scary stuff Dad wouldn’t even tell us about. So he packed tents and supplies in the car and drove us out to the wilderness until, as he put it, “things cooled down.”

  A month later, Mom walked off our campsite and filed for divorce. We came home all right, but it’s never been the same. Dad said it was Dr. Underberg’s enemies, out to ruin him, too. And if that’s true, then it worked. Because here we were, totally ruined.

  “On the plus side,” he added, “she keeps paying for his classes.”

  “I don’t like her.”

  “Why? Afraid she’s going to be competition for president of Dad’s fan club?” Eric put down his controller. “You’re the one always saying people should believe Dad. You should be glad someone finally does.”

  “Fiona isn’t the someone I meant.”

  He just returned to his game. I knew that pose: mainstream phase activated, conversation over. Eric was not going to be any help. Again. Biting back a sigh, I headed into the kitchen. Time for Paper Clip’s dinner. I grabbed a can of cat food, then rooted around in the drawer for a can opener.

  Some resource manager—whatever that meant—Dad met in a beginner class at the Learning Annex was in no position to help him. Nobody could, except maybe if Aloysius Underberg himself rose from the grave and proved all Dad’s theories were true.

  The way things were going, that would probably be Dad’s next talk. “The Government’s Secret Zombie Program for Dead Geniuses: From Einstein to Steve Jobs.”

  I popped open the can, but weirdly enough, Paper Clip didn’t appear. She usually had a sixth sense about food. I wondered where she’d gone.

  Dad and Fiona were holed up in the study, and knowing how Dad felt about Paper Clip, I doubted I’d find her in there. In the living room, Eric was engrossed in his game. I headed for the mudroom. The second I opened the door, a yellow furball darted past me and into the house, like she already knew she was in trouble. As soon as I flipped on the light, I saw why.

  “Paper Clip,” I groaned. “What did you do?”

  Paper Clip is generally a pretty good cat. She has just one tiny vice: she loves mint. Like, loves. It’s insane. Dad says if she ruins anything else trying to get to her favorite treat she’s out on her furry little ear. So Eric and I know enough not to keep gum or candy anywhere Paper Clip can get at it. She’d tear through pockets and chew open backpacks and scratch apart pantry doors. But I guess Dad never informed Fiona about the mint thief in the house. From the tiny green speckles all over the floor of the mudroom, I guessed Tic Tacs, a Paper Clip delicacy.

  The black zippered laptop case still hung on its peg, gaping wide open. Paper Clip is oddly skilled at zippers. She just hooks a little claw in the hole and lets her body weight do the rest. Papers were strewn all over the floor, along with file folders, a whole mess of business cards, an assortment of chargers and, worst of all, a laptop.

  Yet another reason Fiona was trouble. Now Dad would make us get rid of the cat because she killed his stupid new girlfriend’s laptop. That was, unless I could fix it. As quickly as possible, I gathered up Fiona’s stuff. She probably wouldn’t miss the mints. The big issue was going to be the computer. If it was broken, we were done for. Holding my breath, I booted it up.

  It made exactly the kind of grinding sound you’d expect an expensive laptop to make after being violently attacked by a mint-crazed cat. But then I heard fans start to whir. The screen flickered to life, and all kinds of windows popped up with “(Recovered)” in the file name. Maybe Fiona would think she’d just bumped it a little and forced a restart?

  As long as it worked, right?

  I was about to close the cover and slip it back in the bag when one of the files caught my eye. It was a scan of a diary page of some sort, and the file name read “Omega-AU-pg126 (Recovered).” You could see the edges of the book and the shadow of the spine from where it had been pressed against the scanner plate. Most of the page seemed to be a doodle of concentric circles, like a bull’s-eye. But there was a single line of handwriting on the bottom of the page.

  “X marks the spot” has been done. I far prefer IX.

  I knew that handwriting. I’d seen it a lot in the months and months I’d spent helping Dad in his office.

  It was Aloysius Underberg’s.

  3

  A SCAN, A PLAN, A PIZZA MAN

  “EXACTLY HOW MANY FILES DID YOU STEAL OFF YOUR DAD’S GIRLFRIEND’S computer?” Savannah asked me, her blue eyes looking even bigger and rounder than usual.

  “Would you all please stop calling her that?” I said, exasperated.

  Eric smirked and knocked off three or four zombies with his grenade launcher on the TV screen. “Could be worse, Gills,” he said, his fingers moving fast over the game controller. “Could be ‘stepmom.’”

  “That doesn’t sound half bad,” Savannah said, sweeping her blond hair behind her shoulders. “You say she’s really pretty and knows how to dress.”

  “You’re missing the point, Sav,” I said.

  “Right.” She nodded. “Stolen files.”

  Savannah always comes to dinner on Thursdays, because Dad teaches his night class and leaves money for Eric and me to buy pizza. She loves ordering pizza, especially on Thursdays.

  Savannah’s been my best friend since we were both six years old. Well, kind of. Until recently, we were only summer best friends. She lived in one of the mobile homes in the park on the other side of the creek, and we’d spent every summer for as long as I could remember splashing back and forth across the water, splitting Popsicles and trading books. In the winters, when I lived in the city, we sent emails. I told her about all the cool city stuff—like first-run movies and music festivals and ice-skating rinks in the park. She told me about how she was the most popular girl at school. Sav was the only one happy we were moving into the summer cottage for good, and even I had to admit that I liked the idea of starting at my new school with a ready-made best friend.

  And it has been great. Mostly. Savannah’s
different in the fall. Like how she spends more energy deciding where to sit at lunch than she does on the average quiz, and last week, she pretended not to know the answer to a problem in math class, even though she was the one who showed me how to solve it when we were doing our homework the night before. School Savannah introduced me to all the cool kids and made sure we were in the same homeroom, despite the fact that her last name starts with an F and mine starts with an S. But I still miss summer Savannah.

  I spread out my evidence on the coffee table: four printouts and my pink jelly USB bracelet, the one I’d used to copy Fiona’s files off her laptop before I’d stuffed it back in her bag, zipped it up, and pushed it far out of Paper Clip’s reach. “They’re stolen files all right. Only I don’t think I was the first person to steal them.”

  Eric snorted from in front of his video game. “You think Fiona stole the stuff you found on her computer?”

  I waved one of the scanned diary pages in the air. “Yep. From Dad.”

  Aside from the sheet marked “pg126,” there were two others that also looked like they were from the same diary and then one that made even less sense to me, since it was just a spreadsheet of really big numbers with words like “steel” and “pipe” and “lead sheeting” next to every row. I only took that one because it was also marked “Omega” in the file name.

  Only problem was, I wasn’t sure what “Omega” meant.

  “AU,” however, I felt much more confident about. “All these diary pages were saved under the heading ‘Omega-AU.’ I think that last part—‘AU’—stands for Aloysius Underberg.”

  “Or maybe gold,” said Savannah. “‘Au’ is the chemical symbol for gold.”

  I shot her a look. This was exactly the kind of thing she acted like she didn’t know at school.

  “And astronomical unit,” Eric prompted without looking up from the screen. “And alternate universe.”

  “Dude, get off the internet,” said Savannah.

  “Dude, get out of the jewelry aisle,” he replied as he made his character duck and cover behind an overturned car. Savannah thought Eric was a huge dork. Eric thought Savannah was a huge airhead. It had been this way for as long as I could remember.