Scan

by Walter Jury

  She nods. “I knew you wouldn’t want to leave it behind. Your dad didn’t want them to have it.” She raises her eyes to mine and sticks her chin out, and I can almost read her thoughts: I’m not one of them.

  So badly, I want to drop the backpack and hash this out with her. I need to know if she’s really on my side or if she wants to bail right now. If she does, I’ll let her. At the same time, I don’t want to ask, because I’m not ready to let her go, for a thousand reasons. And . . . we don’t have time for that now, because it’s after three, and we need to get to the stadium before Brayton does.

  Just in case.

  AS CHRISTINA JAMS OUR PURCHASES INTO HER BACKpack, I take one of the Gatorade bottles and chug it. But instead of tossing it into the recycling bin, I slide it into the pack. “You should have something to drink,” I say.

  She gives me an odd look, then drinks about a quarter of one of the bottles and hands it back to me. I dump the rest of it out into the grass, then do the same with the third bottle. I cram the empty bottles into the pack and put my arms through the straps. “The stadium is a three-mile hike from here. Are you up to it?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Don’t treat me like a girl, Tate Archer.”

  We start off down the road, past the congested tangle of Princeton Junction to the wooded road that leads to Princeton proper. As we walk along the shoulder, passed by joggers and bikers, the wind cooling our brows and blowing Christina’s hair around her face, she takes my hand. I force myself not to squeeze her fingers too hard, not to hold on as tightly as I want to right now.

  “So,” she says, “I know we’re going to meet someone who knows your father. I assume they know about the scanner?”

  “His name’s Brayton. My dad worked with him. And actually, I’m not sure if he knows about the scanner. Not exactly.” This has been chewing away at the back of my mind since my brief conversation with him. He didn’t ask about the scanner. He asked about the invention. I pull my dad’s cell out of my pocket and scroll through his contacts again. No Josephus. Not even a Joseph. But there is one that might be able to give me answers. I can’t believe I didn’t try him before, but I was so messed up, I wasn’t thinking straight.

  George’s number goes straight to voicemail. I wonder if he knows my dad is dead, if Brayton told him. I wonder if he’s going to be at the stadium, too. That would make things so much better. I send him a text:

  It’s Tate. Call me when you get this?

  As soon as I hit SEND, the phone beeps.

  When are you getting in?

  It’s not George—it’s my mom. I picture her, black hair pulled away from her face in the ever-present ponytail, her amber-brown eyes sharp and intense as she taps away at the screen of the phone. She feels so close, just on the other side of this electronic thread of connection, but I don’t know how to reach out to her. Because as soon as I do, I’m going to have to tell her my dad’s dead. And I don’t want to, because that will make it real, will make it impossible to deny or forget. I can’t bear to deal with her grief on top of my own right now, so I text back:

  Meeting associates at stadium at 4. Will contact you after.

  I silence the phone and stuff it into my pocket.

  I glance over at Christina to see her watching me. “My mom,” I explain.

  “Does she know . . . about all of this?” Christina makes this circling gesture with her hand, encompassing the whole world, the craziness of everything.

  I shrug. “We’ll find out later. I’m going to have to talk to her soon, but I want to get this over with first. I need to know what Brayton wants, and if he can really keep us safe.”

  Not for the first time today, I wonder if it was the smartest thing to bring Christina along. Obviously, it’s better for me, because if it weren’t for her, I’d probably be on a morgue slab right now. But she . . . she’d be finished with her school day, and the biggest thing she’d have to worry about would be understanding exothermic reactions in time for the chemistry final on Friday.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she says, looking out on the river as we hike over the bridge. The sun is slanting along the water, yellow beams on navy blue, glinting off the crew boats skimming along the surface of the river. And for a second, I pretend. I imagine we’re hiking through Central Park on a Saturday afternoon, walking over the Bow Bridge, headed into the rolling side trails near Belvedere Tower, paths that offer many a spot to sneak off and get close. In this moment, I forget that my girlfriend’s a member of an alien race that’s infiltrated all the governments in the world. She’s just Christina, and being with her makes everything all right. But my little fantasy lasts only until the first university buildings come into sight, and it evaporates in the heat of my tension.

  We walk through town, looking like a pair of Princeton students with really weird taste in clothing. Christina’s hand is sweating in mine, and I squeeze it tight. “We’re going to approach from the side, all right?”

  She gives me a look. “You don’t trust this guy.”

  “No, I don’t know if I can trust him. Yet. And until I know I can, you’re staying out of sight.”

  She pulls up short. “Okay, and while I’m hiding out, you’re going to . . . ?”

  “Talk.”

  She tugs her hand away from mine. “Is it that you don’t want me to hear your conversation?” she says, all choked off.

  She wouldn’t even be asking me this if I hadn’t basically accused her of being a traitor. “No. That’s not it at all. It’s just . . . I don’t know him that well.”

  She stays quiet as we cross to the athletic fields, but it’s a loaded silence, one that weighs heavy on me. I can’t deal with it right now, because I need to stay focused. Brayton could be my greatest ally, the guy who saves the day, the guy who explains everything. I hope he is. But in case he’s not . . .

  We cross the Streicker Bridge leading to Powers Field, home of the Princeton Tigers. There’s a meet going on at the adjoining track field, the one at the south end of the empty stadium. I’m guessing Brayton, when he gets here, will be at the north entrance, because he’s arriving by car and because it’s deserted right now. We’re coming from the west, and the sun is warm on my back as we near the massive concrete structure with big rectangular openings every fifteen feet or so, allowing access to the shaded area beneath the stadium.

  When we’re close to the north entrance, maybe a dozen yards away, I pull Christina between two enormous columns and tug the backpack off my shoulders. I lean around and peer up a wide set of concrete steps to where the two metal Princeton tiger sculptures stand looking out on the road. No one there. Not yet.

  I kneel and pull the aluminum foil from the backpack, along with the empty Gatorade bottles. Christina squats next to me while I start tearing strips off the foil and wadding them into balls the size of large marbles. I drop about a dozen into one of the bottles, then set it aside and do it again with another bottle. Christina does the same with the third bottle. “I know you have something planned, but I’m scared to ask what.”

  “Remember how I said I’d help you study for chemistry?”

  She stares at the bottles, the blue and red dregs of Gatorade, and the little foil balls, and then she glances back at me. “Yeah?”

  “Well, think of this as a real-world demonstration of exothermic reactions.”

  She gives me a blank look. I pull the toilet bowl cleaner out of the pack. “Listen, I’m just going to talk to these guys. But in case everything heads south, I need you to do exactly as I say.”

  She bites her lip, and a thrill of fear shimmies up my spine. I’m absolutely counting on her to have my back, but if she doesn’t . . . My eyes linger on her face, and when she notices my scrutiny, her expression goes smooth again. “I’ll try,” she says.

  I spend a few minutes explaining my plan to her, making sure she knows how to do everything wit
hout getting hurt. As I finish, I glance at the time. Brayton should be arriving soon. I stand up and tug her to her feet, then make the most of my leverage and pull her into my arms.

  “I trust you,” I say quietly, and then I lower my head and kiss her. At first, I’m not sure I mean it—I just need her to be on my side right now. But the moment I taste her, I know it will never be enough for me, will never last as long as I want it to. Christina locks her arms around my neck and gives me the feel of her lips, her tongue, her body. With every shared breath, I try to tell her I’m sorry for all my cruel words, for everything that’s happened. I have no idea how to read the warmth of her hands or the soft, vulnerable sound that comes from her throat. I hope it means she hears me. Whatever the translation, it makes me desperate for her, desperate to take anything she’ll offer me right now, because I have no idea what’s about to happen next.

  When I finally tear myself away, we’re both flushed. “I trust you,” I say again, and I hand her the backpack—and the scanner. She takes it from me and nods, her breaths still ragged.

  I leave her there with our pathetic arsenal and head to the front of the stadium to stand at the top of the steps, between the two enormous tiger sculptures. In front of me is Ivy Lane, where I expect Brayton to arrive. Behind me, at the base of these steps, is a smaller access road that rings the stadium, and beyond that is the building itself, where Christina hides in the shadows below the sight line of the street.

  The sun is still high over me, warming my face and neck, drying the cold sweat that’s beading on my skin. My heart is thumping away, rattling against my rib cage. I feel so exposed, naked almost, like I’m asking to be a target. Every time someone walks by, my muscles wind up tight until they pass. I wait and wait, my thoughts crawling like hard-shelled beetles along the inside of my skull, tap-tapping me from sane to wildly anxious in a matter of minutes. I am so tempted to look over my shoulder, to see if Christina’s still there, if she’s watching me, or if she’s run off. Standing here with only these tigers to keep me company, it’s nearly impossible to keep my mind steady.

  Two gray sedans roll slowly along Ivy Lane and pull into spots on the street. I squint at them as the sunlight bounces off the windows. But as soon as Brayton’s white-blond head appears, everything in me coils tight again. He’s here, and it’s time. He and four other guys, all wearing casual clothes, golf shirts, blazers, and khakis, climb out of the cars and come toward me. I can tell by the bulges at their waists and ankles that they’re armed, but that’s not necessarily cause for alarm. My father never left the house without a few concealed weapons. What bothers me more than the weapons are their sunglasses, preventing me from seeing their eyes, but Brayton takes his shades off as he approaches me. His ice-blue eyes are watery, shiny. He holds out his arms. “Tate,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

  I cross mine over my chest. “Thanks, Mr. Alexander.”

  His arms fall to his sides when he sees I’m not going to engage in a session of man-hugging. “Call me Brayton. Your dad and I were good friends, and I hope you and I are going to be friends, too.” He ducks his head, trying to see under the lowered bill of my hat. “Jesus, Tate. What the hell happened to you? Are you all right?” He steps forward, the rounded, softish contours of his face folding in on themselves as his expression creases with concern.

  I shove my hands into my pockets. “We had an accident in Secaucus. It’s just a bloody nose, really. But there were . . . Someone was chasing us.”

  All the golf-shirt guys tense up, as does Brayton. “Race Lavin,” he growls.

  “He’s the one who killed my dad,” I say. I actually have no idea who fired the shots that hit Dad. I can’t even remember if Race had a gun in his hands, but he’s the one I hold responsible for my father’s death.

  Brayton’s nostrils flare as he sucks a slow breath. I think he’s clenching his teeth, but it’s hard to tell because the flesh on his face is so thick. “He must have known how important your father’s invention is since he came to get it himself. But how did he know where it was?”

  “I think my Game Theory teacher is working for him.”

  He draws back. “What? They had an agent at your school?”

  “They have agents everywhere, don’t they? How do I know you’re not one of them?” Is that why my dad didn’t trust him?

  Brayton’s eyes widen for a moment, and then he laughs. “Your father didn’t tell you anything about our families, did he?”

  No, but my father didn’t tell me anything about anything, so this does not surprise me. “Enlighten me,” I say.

  Brayton runs his hand over the top of his hair, then carefully smooths and tucks the stray sprigs back into place. It’s a fastidious, precise little movement, and I’ll bet he does it about a hundred times a day, one of those personal tics that gets programmed straight into our cerebellums. “We’re related, Tate. Third cousins, I believe, on your dad’s side. Most members of The Fifty are, however distantly.”

  “The Fifty?” Oh . . . But you also have to be careful with the fifty . . .

  Brayton smiles. “I guess he hadn’t told you yet. The Archers are one of the few families on the planet with a purely human line that can be traced back to before the H2 invasion. The Alexanders, too. We take care of each other, help each other. I’m going to look out for you like I would my own son. The first thing we need to do is get your dad’s invention back underground. It’s obvious Race wants it—which means it must be strategically important to the H2 somehow.”

  “I figured that out when he shot up my school.”

  Brayton purses his lips and nods. “Very few people know the truth, Tate. Most H2 think they’re human. They have no idea they’re part of a hybrid species. No idea they’re contributing to the slow extinction of the human race, gradually breeding us out of existence.” His eyes meet mine. “And every time someone’s tried to go public to explain it, the H2 in power manage to silence them. This invention has the potential to blow the secret wide open in a way that even Race Lavin can’t control. That’s why it’s so dangerous. Where is it now?”

  There is something about the way he’s looking at me, something glacial and calculating, and it runs down my back like a trickle of icy water. “I don’t have it here.”

  He takes a quick step toward me, and I descend one of the steps to maintain the distance between us. The golf-shirt gang’s hands all jerk toward their waistlines.

  “Wait,” Brayton says. “Tate, think about this. It’s critical that this thing doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. And I have the resources to keep it safe. If you just give it to me, I—”

  “You don’t care about my dad at all,” I say quietly.

  “What? Son, we’re—”

  “Don’t call me that. You haven’t once asked where he is, what happened to his body.”

  Brayton’s fingers are twitching. “Maybe because I knew Fred, and I know what he cared about. He cared about his work. And he cared about you. That’s what he’d want me to take care of right now.”

  I relax a little. He’s right, and I’m a mess, and really, I want to hand everything over to a grown-up right now because I can’t manage it anyway. “Look, I put it in a safe place. Once we’re at the safe house, I’ll get it for you.”

  Brayton’s cheeks tremble, like a little earthquake is going on inside of him. “It’s portable, isn’t it? Does your friend have it? Is he here?”

  “My dad didn’t even tell you whether it’s portable or not? Are you sure he wanted you to have it?”

  He comes down one of the steps, and I backtrack again toward the stadium. He frowns. “We were going to negotiate this afternoon. Why don’t you give it to me now? You don’t even know the kind of danger you’re in, do you?”

  The laughter razors out of me, cutting me up on the inside. “Are you serious? Did you really just ask me that?” After I held my father’s hand whi
le he died? My fists clench.

  “You’re a kid. You have no idea how much of his life your father invested in this technology. He told me all about it, Tate.” Right as I’m about to call bullshit, he continues: “The Archers discovered pieces of wreckage after witnessing an H2 ship crash into the Irish Sea four hundred years ago. They had no idea what it was, but they knew it was proof that the H2 weren’t from this planet. They kept it secret for generations—most members of The Fifty still don’t know of its existence. Your father only told a few of us after he figured out what the H2 technology could do.” His mouth twitches. “Or, at least, what this part could do and how to use it.”

  “And how would you use it?” Brayton’s part of The Fifty, and my dad told me to be careful with them. But if Brayton’s telling the truth, my dad was part of it, too. I have no idea who to trust, but Brayton isn’t winning my confidence. He obviously knows a lot about my dad’s work, but he’s not exactly acting like my friend. While we’ve been talking, he’s been herding me down the steps, below the sight line of Ivy Lane. The golf-shirt gang has spread out in a line in front of me. I back off the steps entirely, onto the narrow access road and into the shadow of the enormous building.

  Brayton shakes his head, and there’s a weird kind of grin on his face. No humor in it at all. “You are so very much like your father, you know that?”

  “Thank you.” I almost give in to the urge to look behind me, but I don’t.

  “Your bloodline has extended for centuries. Don’t do anything to jeopardize that, Tate. Your father wouldn’t want you to endanger yourself.”

  “My father wanted me to keep his work out of the hands of people who would use it the wrong way.” I’m not convinced this thing doesn’t do more than differentiate H2 from human. Dad was trying to tell me as much in those final few moments. But also: I can’t help but think of those numbers in his lab. The ones that indicated each group’s population count with the exception, apparently, of fourteen anomalies that my father was working on resolving. Even if telling H2 from human was all the technology did . . . if someone had the power to differentiate the species on a worldwide scale, they could selectively target one or the other. Maybe even develop weaponry that affects only one group—that’s the kind of thing the CEO of Black Box might be interested in.