Quicksilver

by R. J. Anderson

  He wasn’t lying, either. What he was saying made no sense to me, but there was no flavor of deception to his words at all.

  Deckard must have realized my shock was genuine, because he gave me that pitying look again, and then he took out his phone and showed me the security tape. He hadn’t been mistaken. It was Faraday, looking exactly as I’d last seen him. The hair, the way he moved, even the clothes he was wearing—he hadn’t changed at all.

  Things got a little fuzzy at that point, but Deckard said something about Faraday still being wanted for questioning and for several outstanding charges, and how if he tried to contact me again I should call him—Deckard, I mean—immediately. Then he handed me his card and drove away.

  Once I calmed down, I tried to tell myself I should be happy. After all, hadn’t I been waiting for Faraday to come back? Hadn’t part of me always believed that he would? Every time I closed my eyes I could see his face so clearly. I could feel the warmth of his eyes on me and taste the last words I’d heard him say, “I don’t love you.”

  I’d laughed through my tears then, because I’d known he was lying. But now that I’d found out he’d been back for days—maybe even weeks—and hadn’t tried to contact me, I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

  Then I realized I hadn’t checked my e-mail in a couple of days. Maybe Faraday had written to me, and I just hadn’t seen it yet. So I logged on and found a message waiting, but it wasn’t from him. It was from Sanjay, a boy I’d met at Pine Hills. He’d sent me a link to an article about a top secret experimental laboratory called Meridian…

  I broke off, sick at heart, and pushed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Oh, Alison, I thought. I’m sorry. So sorry.

  I’m shaking as I type now, irrationally terrified that writing down the way I feel will make it true. But if I know the fear is irrational, that means I can’t be too far gone yet, right? So I’m just going to say it. Okay. Here it is.

  I think I’m losing my mind.

  No, worse than that. I’m afraid I lost it a long time ago.

  How else can I make sense of what I saw on that website? How could a made-up story, or some paranoid schizophrenic’s delusion, be so close to what I experienced—or thought I experienced—when Faraday and I went through the relay and found you?

  I thought we’d beamed ourselves through a wormhole to the other side of the universe and ended up on a space station. But now I feel embarrassed even typing that, because where’s the proof? There were no windows anywhere in that place, only screens that could show whatever the controller wanted. I believed I was in space because I saw so many stars, but I could have been underground the whole time and never guessed it.

  And the drugs, the hallucinations, the men in grey uniforms—all of it fits roughly with what I remember, because I’d been on psych meds for weeks at that point, and everything felt strange and unreal to me, and both Faraday and Mathis were wearing grey. The part about people having chips implanted in their arms was familiar too, because you had one.

  But the worst part of that article for me was reading about the helmet. Because I remember what it felt like to put it on, and that eerie feeling of floating in space. I thought I was doing it because I had to, because Mathis had closed the wormhole that led to Earth and my synesthesia was our only chance of finding it again. But what if all that was a hallucination or a simulation? What if it was simply part of some elaborate neuropsychological test?

  I know Mathis was a real person, as real as you and Faraday. But was he actually an alien from another planet? Were you and Faraday aliens too? Or was that all in my messed-up head?

  And now I’ve asked myself those questions, I keep thinking of more reasons I should have doubted myself all along. Like the way you acted after we got home, for instance. Because when you came to Pine Hills to try and convince Dr. Minta to release me, the story you told him was completely different from what I remembered. And when I teased you afterward about how your evil scientists driving black vans and helicopters weren’t much more believable than my aliens and wormholes, you looked uncomfortable and said I shouldn’t talk about “that alien stuff” anymore, even to you. Why would you say that, unless you knew I was wrong?

  I thought I had the truth and that no one could take it away from me. But now I don’t know what to believe. I need someone sane to talk to, someone who can tell me what’s real. And since Faraday won’t talk to me, you’re my only hope.

  Please, if you’re reading this, help me.

  Once I could have sworn Sebastian would do anything for Alison, no matter what the cost to himself. But he’d resisted every attempt I’d made to push him in her direction, and now he’d done this. Had I misread his character so badly? Or had something happened since I’d last seen him that had turned him into a different person?

  I couldn’t bear it anymore. I snatched up my phone and texted him.

  –You unspeakable bastard. You should be on your knees right now in front of Alison, begging her forgiveness. And if she has any self-respect left, she’ll never speak to you again.

  I waited, but he didn’t reply. Of course. So I texted again:

  –Why did you make me read this? Just to spread the guilt around?

  He knew I didn’t dare write back to Alison, not with Deckard watching her every move. I knew manipulation when I saw it, and it was obvious that everything Deckard had told her had been calculated to make her panic and go running straight to Faraday—or to me.

  Which, I realized as my anger subsided, was exactly why Sebastian had wanted me to read her letter. Not because he expected me to do anything but so I’d know to keep an eye out for Deckard. The struggles Alison was going through, her desperate pleas for help and reassurance, were incidental. She wasn’t in danger of being caught and imprisoned, like Sebastian and I were; her freedom wasn’t at stake right now, just her sanity.

  As though there was anything just about it. I gritted my teeth and jabbed out one more message.

  –Did you ever love her at all?

  Not that he’d respond to that either, the coward. But it gave me a grim satisfaction to imagine his face when he read it. I put away my soldering iron, grabbed my laptop, and headed upstairs. Twelve minutes later, I’d changed into pajama pants and was climbing into bed when the phone clanked.

  Probably Milo. Or with my luck, Jon. I picked the phone up and looked at the message. It said, simply:

  –Yes.

  1 0 0 0 0 0

  “Hey,” said Milo when I came out of the house the next morning. He took my hand, and I let him; it felt almost natural now. “What’s the matter?”

  He was dressed for running, just a T-shirt and track pants, same as me. It was still too cool for shorts, even this late in the spring. “Nothing,” I said, stretching out one leg and then the other. “Just thought it was time to get back in shape. I’ve been sitting around way too much lately.”

  “Right,” said Milo. “So you decided to go running with me at six thirty n.M., even though you don’t have to get up for school. Seriously, what is it?”

  “I’m here to run, not talk,” I said and jogged away. With an exasperated noise, Milo shoved his earbuds into the pocket of his running belt and followed.

  We kept a steady pace to the end of the block, then crossed the road and angled into the cemetery, where the pavement was smoother. Budding trees lined the path on both sides, breaking the sunlight into dazzling fragments, and the tombstones were glossy with dew. It was quiet here, open and private at once, and the only other person in sight was a grey-haired woman walking a pair of dogs nearly as large as she was. I breathed out and quickened my pace.

  How fit was Deckard? Not that I was expecting to have to outrun him, or at least I hoped not. But as I recalled, he’d been in pretty good shape for a guy in his mid to late forties. The kind of guy who was seriously invested in taking down criminals, on foot and with his bare hands if necessary. So why would he retire from the force and go into private investigation? It mig
ht have been the money, but I suspected Deckard’s loyalties weren’t so easily bought. And it was a pretty huge step to take for a single case.

  So now I had a tough, determined, and well-connected ex-cop searching for me full-time, not only because GeneSystem had hired him but because he was personally invested. And judging by how he’d treated Alison, he’d do whatever it took to—

  “Whoa,” said Milo. “Slow down, will you? We’re not doing the hundred meters.”

  “Can’t keep up?” I panted. My mouth was parched, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades, but I couldn’t stop. I needed to test my limits, find out how hard and how fast I could run. “I’ll see you at the top of the hill.”

  “Quit it, Niki.” He stepped in front of me, arms outstretched to block my path. “You’re going to injure yourself.”

  He was probably right, but I didn’t like being told what to do. I set my jaw, dodged under his arm, and kept going.

  “Tori!”

  My old name echoed through the air like a thunderclap, freezing me in place. I stumbled and almost did a header before Milo caught me and set me back on my feet. “Sorry,” he began, “I didn’t mean—”

  I wrenched away and rounded on him. “Don’t you ever call me that again!”

  “There are plenty of girls named Tori,” he said. “I know a couple just in my high school. You really think Meridian’s got a satellite listening in on every conversation in Ontario?”

  “That’s not the point! If I can’t trust you to keep a secret—”

  “Oh, come on. That’s not what this is about.”

  “What is it about, then? Reminding me you’ve got something on me, so I’d better do whatever you say?”

  Milo’s dark eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Because that’s the kind of guy I am. Good thing you spotted it before I could screw you over and sell you out, eh?”

  Then he turned his back on me and walked away.

  I gazed after him, anger fading to confusion. That wasn’t how I’d expected the conversation to go at all. Milo had always been so easygoing, so willing to do whatever I asked. Every other time I’d lost my temper, he’d backed down. What had gone wrong this time?

  “Wait,” I called. “Please.”

  He stopped.

  “I know you’re not like that,” I said. “It’s just … you scared me. I don’t like being scared.”

  Milo turned slowly. “I’ve noticed,” he said. “When you get scared, you start picking fights with people. Or you run.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” he said, walking back to me. “So what are you scared of?”

  A wrought-iron bench sat by the edge of the path, three and a half meters away. I limped over and lowered myself onto it, grimacing at the burn in my calf muscles. “Somebody from my old life has been searching for me,” I said. “And I think he’s getting close.”

  “Who is it?” asked Milo.

  “An ex-cop named Deckard. I think—” No, I couldn’t explain about Dr. Gervais. That would be far too complicated. Especially since I hadn’t told Milo about my weird biology yet. “He knows there’s a connection between me and Sebastian, and he knows Sebastian used an ATM here in town a few days ago. So I think he’ll be coming here soon.”

  “What for?” Milo sat down beside me, offering me his water bottle. I took it gratefully and drank. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  I waited for the question mark at the end of the sentence, the implicit have you?. But it never came. I handed Milo back the bottle. “Thank you,” I said. “No, I haven’t, but Sebastian has. When he visited Alison in the psych hospital, he impersonated a graduate student doing a study, with a faked-up website and credentials. Then he skipped town without paying his rent. And the police still think he kidnapped Alison and probably me as well.”

  “Wow,” said Milo wryly. “And he seemed like such a nice guy. ”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s good at that.”

  Milo must have caught the bitterness in my tone, because he stretched out his arm in a slow, deliberate movement and laid it along the back of the bench. Not touching me, just leaving it there for my consideration. “You don’t like him much, do you?” he asked. “So why are you building this transceiver for him? Why not let him deal with the relay on his own?”

  “It’s not that simple,” I said. None of it was, not even the way I felt about Sebastian. In some ways he was like the older brother I’d never had. On the other hand, I’d never actually wanted an older brother. And whatever was going on between him and Alison was like looking into this weird alternate universe of emotions and passions that I’d never understand. “I have to do this, no matter what. I’m just afraid I’m not going to get it finished before Deckard finds me. Or Mathis does.”

  “Mathis?” asked Milo.

  “One of the scientists Sebastian used to work with,” I said, mentally kicking myself for the slip. “The guy who abducted me. I didn’t think he could find me anymore, but if the relay’s still working and the computer that controls it is still online … maybe he can.”

  “Yeah, but in that case, shouldn’t he have found you a long time ago?”

  A mournful whistle sounded in the near distance—a freight train chugging along the tracks at the north side of the graveyard, pulling its chain of boxcars toward the downtown core. Like Mathis, it was moving so slowly that I could almost outrun it. But that didn’t make it safe to be in its way.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he got distracted or interrupted. Or it could be a timing malfunction—the relay system’s a bit temperamental that way. But I can’t assume anything.” I slumped back, into the crook of Milo’s arm. “All I know is that I have to get this transceiver built, and soon. Because Sebastian wouldn’t have asked me for help unless he was desperate.”

  Milo sat still a moment. Then he slid closer and let his hand drop onto my shoulder. “You’ll get it done,” he said. “How’s it going so far?”

  “I’ve done pretty much everything I can at home,” I said and sat up again. His arm was warm and solid and comforting, and I liked having it around me. But I didn’t want him to forget what I’d told him back in the bus shelter—or make him think I was in danger of forgetting it myself. “Any more and my parents are going to start wondering what I’m up to.”

  Milo made a show of adjusting his glasses, then stood up and stretched in all directions. It was like watching a cat wash itself after failing to land on its feet. “Well, we’re supposed to hear back from the makerspace today, right?”

  “Right.” I got up. “And if we sit around anymore, you’re going to be late for school. So let’s run.”

  “Fine, but I’ll set the pace,” said Milo. “I’m the expert, remember?”

  I had a traitorous impulse to blow a raspberry and take off at top speed. But my muscles were sore enough already, and besides, Milo was right. “Yes, Mr. Hwang,” I said in a childish lisp and matched my stride to his.

  1 0 0 0 0 1

  I spent the rest of that morning failing to concentrate on schoolwork, which was unfortunate because it was English literature and I needed all the marks I could get. But I still hadn’t figured out how to get hold of a vector network analyzer for less than ten grand or whether the makerspace would let me tinker with their oscilloscope—if they let me work in their space at all. And when I wasn’t obsessing over the transceiver, I was feeling guilty about not writing back to Alison and frustrated with Sebastian for ignoring my questions about e-mail security and worried that Deckard might show up at any moment. So it was even harder to care about Shakespeare’s sonnets than usual.

  The afternoon passed more quickly, because Mom put me to work stripping wallpaper in the spare bedroom. I could tell she was surprised by how eager I was to help, but at least she didn’t quiz me about it—or ask if I was still going out with Milo either, though I knew she wanted to. Instead, she tried to come at the subject sideways, askin
g me how “everyone” at work was doing and if I had any “special plans” for this weekend. I was tempted to ask if she’d been taking subtlety lessons from Jon, but that would open up a whole new can of awkward. So I just shrugged and kept working.

  The evening, on the other hand, was torture. Two hours into my shift at Value Foods, I somehow misplaced a twenty and ended up having to pay for it out of pocket. At break I rushed to check my phone in case there was any news from the makerspace, but the only text was from my mother, reminding me we were out of milk.

  I spent the bus ride home glaring at the screen, trying to compel the makerspace to call me by sheer force of will. There were no new e-mails in my inbox either, and by the time eleven o’clock came around, it was obvious I wasn’t going to hear from them tonight. Sure, I wasn’t as high on their priority list as they were on mine, but I thought I’d made it clear that this was urgent. Now I was beginning to wonder if they’d forgotten all about me.

  Maybe it was time to start looking for alternatives—but the problem was, I didn’t know any. Where else would I get the space and the tools I needed on such short notice? Sebastian had obviously come to the same conclusion, or he wouldn’t have sent me the brochure. But maybe I should have asked him to fake some references for me as well.