Scan

by Walter Jury

  I HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I’M IN THE SHOWER, BUT the water’s turned cold by the time I drag myself out. The clock on the wall tells me it’s nearly ten. When I finally trudge into the hall, now wearing a snazzy pair of striped boxers and a Virginia Cavaliers T-shirt, I can hear the muffled voices of my mom and Charles from the sitting room, debating about something. It sounds like they could go on for hours, so I beeline for the guest room, thinking maybe Christina—

  She’s sitting on the bed. She’s still wearing the dress from the Bishops’ party, but the curled ends of her hair are wet, and the room is filled with the scent of soap. I guess she got herself a shower in one of the other bathrooms.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey.” I sit down on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m not really tired.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and scoots until her back is against the headboard. She pulls her knees to her chest and tugs the skirt of the dress over them so only the tips of her painted toenails are sticking out from under it.

  She hasn’t looked me in the eye since I walked in.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  In my head, I’m begging her. Please be all right. Please. Because I’m not all right, and I need her to help me. I want her to tell me we’ll do this together. And that’s not what’s happening now, and it’s making me want to smash something, or maybe to run, as fast and far as I can, until my lungs give out and I’ve put a few hundred miles between me and this wall of tension that’s risen between us.

  “I’m fine,” she says, gazing at her knees. “No worries.”

  She’s definitely not all right.

  I crawl along the edge of the bed and lean back against the headboard, too, so now we’re both looking across the room at this old-fashioned tapestry hanging on the wall. It’s a battle scene. Dressed in a red tunic and wearing armor over his chest and shoulders, one Roman soldier stands in front, his sword raised over his opponent, who lies in the dirt with a dagger in his hand. The blue-clad enemy stares up at the Roman, defiant and determined. He may be on the ground, but he hasn’t given up yet. All around them, there are men on horses, men on foot, all paired off and doing their best to kill, but these two—their world is only the size of the patch of dirt around them. Nothing matters more than getting through the battle, through the next minute.

  And right now, for me, the world is the size of this bed, and there’s only me and Christina here, even though it feels like she’s a universe away. Nothing matters more than getting through this, whatever this is.

  I don’t know which one of us reaches for the other first, because it seems like we have the same thought at the same time. Want. Need. I don’t know which, but her lips are on mine and her hands are on my body and everything else disconnects. My heart slams against my ribs as she straddles me, and through the thin fabric of her dress I can feel the heat pouring from her. It coils around me, cutting off my awareness of anything but her. She curls her fingers into my hair and kisses me hard-edged and desperate, cranking me so tight, it’s all I can do to control myself.

  But she doesn’t seem to want me to. Not this time, not tonight. She takes my hand, sliding it down her hip, pressing my fingers into her skin, inching the skirt up her legs. She bows her head and her tongue is on my neck and her teeth are on my skin and it’s all over. No contest. I have no idea what she wants, but I’ll give her anything.

  I gather the fabric of the skirt that’s bunching around her knees. When my fingers finally skim the soft skin of her thigh, it’s like something I’ve needed for a thousand years. I know she has to feel it, how much I want her, but she isn’t pulling back like she always does when we reach this point.

  In fact, she seems intent on pushing things even further.

  Somewhere in the back of my hormone-soaked brain, that last thought sinks its fangs deep. She seems . . . intent. This is how she is with things that challenge her, that frustrate her. She tackles them head-on; she fights until she wins. And that’s how this feels as she tugs my shirt up, as her fingernails scrape along my stomach and ribs. As amazing as that sensation is, it’s like she’s fighting me rather than something we’re doing together, and I don’t know—

  A tear slides off her face and hits my cheek, and we both freeze. She recovers first and makes it halfway off the bed before I hook my arm around her waist.

  “Don’t,” I say, sounding like I’ve run a few miles.

  “Don’t what?” she replies, her voice raspy.

  I tighten my grip on her, because, perched on the edge of this bed, every muscle taut, she’s poised for flight. And in my current condition, I have little chance of catching her. “Just . . . don’t. Don’t go. Don’t run. Don’t . . . I don’t know.”

  I rest my forehead between her shoulder blades. This dress smells like her now, the heady almond scent of her skin, the faint honey-sweet tang of her sweat, and I breathe it in like I’m drowning. “You’re about five steps ahead of me here,” I say in a ragged voice. “You’re going to have to circle back and pick me up.”

  She sags against my arm like all the fight’s been punched out of her, and I pull her back against me. I’m trembling with the excess adrenaline of the last few minutes, but she’s outright shaking. Her entire body shudders with the sobs that come tearing out of her. I’ve never seen her lose it like this. I want to figure it out, fix it however I can, but as the minutes pass and her tears show no sign of drying up, I feel powerless to do anything but wait it out.

  Slowly, gently, afraid she’s going to bolt if I make the wrong move, I lie down on my side and bring her with me. I curl myself around her, bowing my head over hers. “Please talk to me,” I finally say.

  “I heard what your mother said. I was awake.”

  I rack my brain, rewinding through the day and trying to figure out what the hell she’s talking about, because whatever it is, it’s—

  “When she said it was best that I was going away for college. That we would be far apart. When she was talking about your responsibility,” she clarifies.

  Shit. “I’m not even sure what that means.”

  She sniffles. “It means all I’ve been hearing over the past two days is that whatever I am, I’m not good enough for you.”

  All these words tumble around in my head, but I can’t catch hold of any of them, and even when I do, I can’t put them in the right order. Not good enough for me? It’s. Just. It’s hilarious, actually, but I don’t think laughing is going to keep her on this bed.

  “Christina, you’re . . . you’re more than good enough,” I say, and God, it sounds so stupid, I almost do start to laugh.

  “You practically said it yourself about an hour ago,” she whispers. “As if we need more of you guys here. You sounded like those Bishop people.”

  I scrub a hand over my face. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to be shot at anymore. But I shouldn’t have said it like that. Please . . .”

  She turns to me, and I only catch a glimpse of her tear-stained face before she buries it in my shoulder. “The sad thing is, I actually know that. And I feel the same way you do—do you think I want this planet to be invaded? It’s—I don’t know what I am,” she chokes out. “I have no idea what I am.”

  Her sobs are quieter this time, but no less painful to listen to. She doesn’t stop me when I pull her close, when I kiss the top of her head. I hold her until her sobs become little hiccuppy shudders, until she finally relaxes against me. And as I do, I think about it, what she is, what I am. Until a few days ago, I was just a guy who had hit the lottery in the girlfriend department, and she was the girl who was insane yet patient enough to want to be around me. What’s different now? What’s changed?

  At exactly 12:47 a.m., I figure out the answer.

  Nothing.

  Nothing’s changed at all.

  “I know what you are,” I whisper into her hair. “You’re Ch
ristina Scolina. You’re a kickass left winger. You have the most awesome laugh I’ve ever heard. You are so beautiful, it makes me crazy. You’re my best friend. And . . . I love you.”

  I brace myself, because I’ve just said it out loud, something that feels too huge to let loose but too important not to. But Christina . . . is completely silent. With my heart pounding, I lean back and look down at her.

  She’s asleep.

  Completely passed out. Done in by exhaustion. And a concussion. I’m surprised she had the energy to cry for as long as she did.

  This time I do laugh, quietly, here in the dark. It doesn’t matter if she heard me; it’s still there, still real. This time, it’s my turn to say to her: I’m all right, and she’s all right, and we’ll do this together. I’ll do my part, whatever it is. I silently promise her I’ll be strong enough, and I’ll be smart enough. I’ll fix this. I’ll figure it out.

  I’m still not my father, not even close. And right now, I’d give a lot to have him here. I want him to tell me what he was thinking, what exactly he wants me to do when I finally get back into his lab, how all the pieces of this puzzle fit together—Josephus, the hidden H2 artifacts, the scanner, the population counter and its anomalies, the plans that screensaver concealed. But it’s not just that.

  I never thought I would feel this way, but . . . I miss him. Now that he’s gone, I realize what else I’ve lost. He loved me. He never said it, but I know he did. He showed it every time he drilled me, every time he forced me to run an extra mile or do an extra set of weights, every time he tucked those horrible protein gel packs into my bag and onto my plate. He wanted me to be strong, to stay alive, to protect my family. I want him to be here and put his hand on my shoulder one more time. This time, I wouldn’t shake it off or turn away. This time, I would let him.

  And though it’s too late for that, I’m left with everything he’s given me, and I’m not going to shake that off either. I carefully untangle myself from Christina and slide off the bed, then head down the hall. Mom and Charles are riveted by whatever’s on the computer screen and don’t even look up until I say, “So what’s the plan?”

  My mother startles, but Charles turns to me slowly, his gaze sliding from my bare feet to my boxers to my T-shirt to my hair, which is probably standing on end. “What can we do for you, Tate?”

  “I asked what the plan was, Professor. So I can help you.”

  My mother rubs at her eyes and speaks in a weary voice. “We didn’t find much in my old files. Nothing about some of the external features of the scanner, like that row of ports on the side. So we’re trying to access some of the files on your father’s server. It’s taking a while.”

  I glance at Charles. “Why do you need Dad’s files, exactly?”

  “Because,” says Charles, “on the off chance we lose control of this technology—and we’re doing our best not to—we want to understand it inside and out, so that the person with the device is not the only one with the power.”

  “You think it can be replicated?” I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but Charles looks kind of excited by the prospect.

  My mother frowns at Charles before answering the question. “We won’t know what’s possible until we know how he put it together, and whether he used one-of-a-kind H2 artifacts or replicas. At this point, the more we know, the more leverage we have with both sides, so I’m not going to waste a minute of this time.”

  Leverage. That sounds good. “Why didn’t you ask me to help?”

  Charles lets out a choked laugh. “Your mother has a doctorate in biochemistry, and she can’t figure it out, so I don’t know why you—”

  “No, Charles,” she says to him before her gaze rests on me again. “Do you think you could figure it out? It’s fairly complicated.”

  I roll my eyes. “Complicated? Mom, you you have no idea what I’m capable of. And Dad didn’t either, which should tell you something. He taught me so well that even he didn’t know I’d hacked his system six ways from Sunday. I may not have found everything, but I didn’t know what I was looking for, either.”

  Charles looks intrigued. “Do you think you can get past this firewall?”

  I smile. “Is it Triple DES?”

  My mom turns back to the computer screen. “I . . . think so,” she mutters. “Your father’s security is a lot more sophisticated than it used to be.”

  “Allow me.” They let me at the keyboard, and I tunnel into the system using the backup universal datagram protocol port to obtain the certificate key. “I can get you in.”

  With the key, I access my dad’s system and let my mom hunt for the files she wants using relevant search terms. After a few minutes, she points to the screen. “I think these might be helpful, but I can’t open them. They’re encrypted.” Charles, who has been silent for the last few minutes, looks at me hopefully.

  I shrug. “I can decrypt them, but it’ll take a while.”

  “A while?” He lets his head hang, his fingers curling over the armrests of his wheelchair.

  My mother puts her hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s been a long night already. Do you want to go to bed and let me and Tate handle this?”

  Charles raises his head. “No. Like your mother said. We can’t waste a minute.”

  He gives me a hard look, and I stare right back. My mom’s known and trusted him for years, but I have no intention of sitting back and letting him explore my Dad’s stuff without me. Especially because there’s the slightest bit of tension in Mom’s face as she looks at him.

  “Decryption will take a few hours. It’ll be done by breakfast time.” I access my own server and start the decryption program download. Once I’ve got it going, I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. “Which gives you time to fill me in on your plan.”

  They explain that between now and the time George arrives, we’ll use the decrypted files to figure out as much about the scanner as we can. Once George gets here, he’ll transport the scanner to a safe, neutral location unknown to both the Core and The Fifty. If it were anyone but George, I’d call bullshit in a second, but he was the one guy my dad seemed to trust at the end. Once the scanner is secured, Charles will act as an emissary to the Core and my mom and George will reach out to The Fifty. It won’t be until both sides come to some agreement that the scanner will be retrieved.

  I don’t mention that I have my own plan. Those files my mom dug up don’t even scratch the surface of what my dad has on his server. The bulk of his work—including the population counter and the blueprints and plans it concealed—isn’t remotely accessible. There’s a host of intrusion detection systems that I didn’t get near while Charles was looking over my shoulder. But when I get into my dad’s lab, I’m going to find everything. Dad left me with what I need, I’m sure of it. I just have to think like he did. He said, “When the time comes, it’s Josephus . . . ” And now that I’ve been interfacing with Dad’s system, I’m more convinced than ever that “Josephus” isn’t a person after all—maybe it’s a password.

  I can’t wait until George arrives. He might know something about what my dad wanted to do with the scanner, and maybe we can go back to his lab and figure it all out while the scanner is in a secure place. We should have enough to puzzle out the basic mechanics of the scanner—or we will, once the decryption program does its thing. As a headache gnaws at the space behind my eyes, I say good night to Mom and Charles and trudge back to the guest room to take full advantage of the time between now and then.

  Christina slides her arm around my waist and nuzzles into my neck as I crawl in next to her. She makes the sweetest sound, this vulnerable noise my body responds to automatically, and I draw my arms tighter around her. I breathe with her, deep and slow, and let that rhythm give me what I’ve needed for hours: the chance to escape for a while. Now that I’ve got a plan, now that I’m doing the best I know, as my dad would have said, I’ve
earned this rest. I close my eyes, pretend it’s Monday again, and let it carry me away.

  THE FIRST THING I’M AWARE OF IS THE FAINT, FLUTTERing tickle against my throat. I lie in the dark, absorbing the sensation.

  Christina’s eyelashes.

  “Are you awake?” I whisper, quietly enough so that if she’s not, I won’t actually pull her from sleep.

  “Yeah. I slept nearly the whole day in the car yesterday.”

  “How long have you been up?”

  “Long enough to know that you snore.”

  “I do not!” Do I?

  She laughs. “No, you don’t. You just make this funny snuffling noise sometimes.”

  I rub my eyes. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  Her hand skims along my waist and up to my chest, over my heart. I put my hand over hers. “I’m sorry about all of this,” I say.

  “I know you are. And I know you’ve been beating yourself up over it.”

  “I want to fix it. But it’s . . .” I stare at the ceiling. Encrypted files? Easy. My relationship with Christina? Still trying to fumble my way through it.

  Her breath skates across the hollow at the base of my neck. “It’s not something for you to fix. It’s something we figure out together.” She kisses my jaw. “And we will.” Her voice is so hushed, and in it I read how unsure she really is, and how much terrain I’m going to have to cover to win back her trust. To convince her—despite all the craziness, the differences between us, the family legacy I don’t understand—that I’m still Tate, and she’s still Christina, and we’re friends. And a lot more than that. I want to tell her that I love her again, that I’d do anything to make sure she’s safe, but I understand that, right now, words don’t count for a whole lot. So I hold her tight and pray she feels it in the beat of my heart. She shifts so her head is on my chest, and I close my eyes and let it do my talking for me.