Quicksilver

by R. J. Anderson

  He was obviously eager to see the transceiver working, and I felt bad for not giving him the chance. But I suspected that when the time came to use it, Sebastian wasn’t going to want a lot of spectators.

  “Not today,” I said. “I’m not exactly sure when it’s going to work out.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Barry, sounding disappointed but not angry, and I thought I was off the hook. But when I pushed the transceiver back against the wall and started draping the dust cover over it, he spoke again. “But, uh, let’s be honest here. This isn’t really for your dad’s birthday, is it?”

  Immediately my brain started shuffling through a pack of semi-plausible lies. But when I looked into Barry’s earnest brown eyes, I couldn’t do it. He loved electronics, and he knew radio, and even if I hadn’t really needed his technical advice, he’d been a big help in other ways.

  So I looked straight at him and said, “No. It’s meant to beam a quantum-encoded data signal over a distance of 68.4 million kilometers, ordering a certain piece of scientific equipment to turn itself off. And if it doesn’t work, I’m in big trouble.”

  Barry regarded me for a few seconds without expression. Then he said, “Thought it was something like that,” and went back to his work.

  I was staring at the back of his head, unable to believe it could be that easy, when Milo nudged me.

  “Hey, Girl Genius,” he said. “You’ve done an awesome job. Let’s go celebrate.”

  1 0 1 0 1 0

  I’d thought Milo was joking about the celebration. But when we got outside and he started marching toward downtown, I realized that he meant it. “Wait,” I said. “I can’t. I need to text Sebastian—”

  “You can do that when we get there,” he said. “The Cakery’s only a couple blocks away, and there’s a slice of chocolate banana pecan calling my name.”

  So I gave in. Because, well, it was cake. While we waited for the waitress to bring our order, I wrote Sebastian to tell him the transceiver was finished. I expected he’d get back to me as promptly as he had last night, but by the time I cleaned my plate and drank two cups of coffee, he still hadn’t answered.

  “He’s probably just busy,” said Milo. “Didn’t you say you’d asked him to lead Deckard on some kind of virtual wild-goose chase?”

  “Yeah, but that shouldn’t stop him from answering a text. Especially from me.”

  “So you think something happened to him?”

  I considered the infinite set of possibilities, most of them unpleasant. He’d lost his phone or had it stolen. He’d been arrested; he’d been in an accident; he’d blown himself to atoms tinkering with the relay…

  Or, more likely, he’d just pulled an all-nighter and fallen asleep on the keyboard. I forced a smile. “It’s probably nothing. I’m just impatient, I guess.”

  Milo gave me a level look that reminded me of his grandfather. “No, you’re not. You’re worried about him, and you’re stressed out about Deckard, and you look like you’re about to fall over. I’m taking you home.”

  Normally I would have resented being told how I felt and what I should do. But the exultation of finishing the transceiver had faded, and I didn’t have the energy to fight. “Fine, but which ‘home’ are we talking about? Because your grandparents seem to think I’m staying at their place until my parents get back. No arguments allowed.”

  “Arguments are never allowed,” said Milo. “Not if you’re under the age of seventy, anyway. The last time I talked back to my halmunee, she made me stand in the corner and hold my arms above my head for twenty minutes.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t get supper, either.” He pulled a doleful face, then grinned at my expression. “Don’t worry, non-Koreans get a free pass. But if you really want to get on her good side, keep your eyes down, speak softly, and eat lots of kimchi.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

  1 0 1 0 1 1

  Milo was on evening shift that night, so he rode the bus with me as far as his grandparents’ neighborhood and jogged off to Value Foods from there. Once he was out of sight I checked my phone again, but there was still no word from Sebastian.

  When I reached the Parks’ house, a car I didn’t recognize was sitting in the driveway. My heart skipped a beat—but then I noticed the Korean flag pasted into its back window. Not Deckard, then. I rang the doorbell and Mrs. Park answered, looking harried but relieved to see me. She scolded me for not calling for a ride, shepherded me into the living room, and hurried back to her kitchen, where something red and sweet-smelling was cooking.

  Pastor Park was nowhere in sight. But muffled voices came from the study, a woman’s voice rising in impassioned Korean and a male voice barking out denials. Milo’s grandmother made a disapproving noise and went on stirring her pot.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “These young people,” she said. “So many of them come to us for advice, saying they want to save their marriage. But the women only want to hear that they are right and their husband is wrong, and the man is just the same. They don’t want to work or make sacrifices. They fight all the time, and soon they want a divorce.”

  “Oh,” I said blankly. That was more information than I’d really wanted to know. “So … can I help you with anything?”

  I ended up setting the table, while Mrs. Park prepared fried chicken with sauce, rice, and about five other side dishes without consulting a recipe book even once. After quizzing me about my parents’ marriage, my religious background, and my academic goals, she inquired with disarming sweetness whether I thought it was a good idea for young people to date before they finished university. But thanks to Milo I knew the right answer and could even tell her honestly that I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, which appeared to settle any doubts she’d had about me. By the time Pastor Park came out to show the sulky-looking couple to the door, she’d relaxed enough to tell me about her daughter’s early, failed marriage and how hard Milo’s mother had worked to finish her education and raise two fine, handsome, brilliant sons.

  “Jeremy is in his second year of business school,” Mrs. Park announced with pride. “And Milo is going to be a doctor.”

  “Oh?” I said faintly. If Milo still hadn’t worked up the courage to tell his family what he really wanted, I wasn’t going to do it for him. But the reverent way his grandmother said the word doctor, as though it were the embodiment of everything that made Milo great, made me feel sorry for both of them.

  Meanwhile, Pastor Park came back and sat down in the living room with the Korean newspaper, but his eyes were weary and the lines around his mouth deeper than before. Being a minister seemed to take up a lot more time and energy than I’d realized. And judging by the Parks’ modest home, it didn’t pay all that well, either.

  So maybe Milo’s family wasn’t quite as unanimous about wanting him to be wealthy and successful as he’d thought. Maybe his grandfather, at least, would understand. “What did your husband’s family think about him becoming a pastor?” I asked.

  “They were not happy,” Mrs. Park said. “They told him he was throwing his life away. But he knew that what he was doing was right in God’s eyes.”

  Which wasn’t going to help Milo much, as far as I could see. Not unless he could convince his family that God had enough pastors now and was looking for a few good gym teachers.

  “So you think it’s important to do something you really believe in,” I said, “not just what your family expects?”

  Mrs. Park gave me a narrow look, and I could see she suspected I was up to something. “I am saying,” she replied with dignity, “that if a person has to choose between God and family, then God must come first. But family is very important. Children should respect their parents and their elders, and listen to their advice. Because that is how God gives young people wisdom.” She picked up the platter of chicken, glistening in its red sauce. “We will eat now.”

  I knew when I was beaten. I lowered my eyes meekly
, took the bowl of rice off the countertop, and followed her.

  1 0 1 1 0 0

  After dinner I checked my e-mail, but it was empty. I sent off another text to Sebastian, and a couple to my parents to reassure them that I was okay. Then I watched TV with Pastor Park, while Mrs. Park sewed more of her silk flowers. After all the frenzied effort I’d put into finishing the transceiver that morning, plus the suspense of wondering what Deckard was up to, whether Alison had got my letter, and why Sebastian hadn’t got back to me yet, the quietness felt so anticlimactic I wanted to scream.

  Milo texted me that night after the Parks had gone to bed, but he hadn’t heard from Sebastian any more than I had. Though on a positive note, he’d seen no sign of Deckard either.

  –I biked past your house on my way home, and there was nobody parked on the street. If Deckard’s staking out the place, I’d like to know how he’s doing it.

  I could think of a few ways, but I doubted Deckard was that talented with electronics. I was about to reply when Milo continued:

  –So how are you doing? Everything OK?

  There was no easy answer to that question. What could I tell Milo that he didn’t already know, without getting into all the things I wasn’t ready to tell him? I shifted into a cross-legged position on the bed and picked the safest answer I could think of.

  –I’m worried about Alison. She’s been going through a hard time lately. Especially since she found out Sebastian was back.

  –Why? What’s the deal with her and Sebastian?

  I’d forgotten. He didn’t know.

  –She was in love with him.

  –Ouch. So did he brush her off or let her down easy?

  I couldn’t blame Milo for assuming it had been one-sided. Whatever Sebastian’s faults, he didn’t come across as the type who would take advantage of a seventeen-year-old girl, especially one who was going through a massive emotional and psychological crisis. He didn’t even seem like the kind of guy who’d be tempted. But somehow it had happened anyway, and it had taken him a surprisingly long time to clue in and do the right thing.

  –Neither at first. But when he helped her and me escape from—

  My stomach clenched. Not only could I not say the word Meridian, I couldn’t even bring myself to type it. Instead, I wrote:

  –From the lab. He said he’d made a mistake. That she was too young, and it should never have happened. But he did it in this noble, sacrificial kind of way, so it wasn’t a breakup so much as a big romantic Hollywood moment.

  –Seriously? Sebastian did that?

  Yeah. I don’t know why. Maybe he thought it would make it easier on her, or— I stopped mid-sentence, a tiny spark of suspicion flaring to life. I cast my thoughts back over the past three weeks, finding nodes of memory and drawing connections between them. The dismay in Sebastian’s voice as he asked, Six months? Is that all? His reluctance to answer my questions, using Milo to keep me at arm’s length and then running off before I could pin him down. How he’d admitted to loving Alison once, but acted as though he had no intention of seeing her ever again…

  And the one piece of information that made sense of everything.

  Alison could taste when people were lying.

  Sebastian had told her she needed time to decide who she was and what she wanted, and that if he came back to Sudbury with her, he’d only get in the way. Apparently he’d meant it. But how could he expect Alison to let go and move on unless she believed she’d never see him again? Or since that plan had gone down in Deckard-shaped flames, unless he could make her believe that he was no longer interested?

  No wonder he’d been avoiding her. Not because he’d stopped caring, but because he hadn’t. And the moment he spoke to her—maybe even the moment he wrote to her—she’d know it.

  I knew, then, that I’d misjudged Sebastian. Worse, I’d handled the situation so clumsily and made myself so obnoxious that I’d practically forced him into avoiding me. I might be able to fix things if I could get in touch with him again—but I had an unhappy feeling that I’d already blown my chance.

  –Niki? You still there?

  I’d just started to apologize and explain when the phone chimed. Sebastian! Maybe it wasn’t too late after all. Abandoning Milo mid-sentence, I picked it up and blurted “Hello?”

  There was a two-second pause. Then a soft tenor voice said, “Hello, Tori.”

  It wasn’t Sebastian. It was Deckard.

  “Why did you run away? No one wants to hurt you, Tori. I only want to talk to you.”

  He spoke gently, with a faint undertone of reproach. As though I should be ashamed of myself for making him go to the trouble of stalking me.

  And that was his mistake. Because unlike Alison, I knew when I was being played. “Excuse me?” I said, blandly and a little more quietly than usual—I didn’t want to wake the Parks. “I think you have the wrong number.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Deckard, unfazed. “I’m very thorough about these things. But a lot of good people are worried about you, Tori. You’re a sick girl, or you soon will be. Why don’t we meet for coffee somewhere—wherever you feel most comfortable—and talk about it?”

  Tori. Tori. Tori. The sound of my old name was like a slow drip on the top of my skull. “I’m not sick,” I said tightly. “And I have nothing to say to you, or the people you work for.”

  “There’s no need to be hostile,” Deckard replied. “I’m only trying to help. I’d hate to see you throw your life away over a misunderstanding.”

  If this had been an old-fashioned landline, I’d have hung up before he could trace the call. But cell phones worked differently, and I’d taken every precaution to make mine secure. Now that he had my number, he might be able to check my recent phone records to see who I’d been talking to and what towers the calls were coming from, but not without a warrant and definitely not on a weekend. Besides, if he knew where to find me, he wouldn’t have bothered calling.

  “You don’t care about me,” I told him. “All you want is to know what really happened to me last summer. And all GeneSystem wants is to put me under a microscope and figure out what’s wrong with my DNA. Well, I guess you’re both going to be disappointed. Because I’ve left town, and I’m not coming back until you’re gone. Maybe not even then.”

  For two seconds Deckard was silent, and I thought I’d beaten him. But then he said, “So how are your parents doing, Tori? Are they having a good weekend in Toronto?”

  He knew. He knew where they were. Fear knifed into me, and my blood went cold.

  “You know,” Deckard went on, “I have to wonder what the police would think of some of the people your father dealt with when he set up your new identities. I also wonder what would happen if your dad’s employers knew he was living under an assumed name.”

  If I’d ever been tempted to doubt that Deckard was dangerous, that ended it. My first impulse was to shout at him and tell him to leave my dad alone—but then the analytical part of me kicked in. Some of the people, he’d said. His employers. No names, no specifics. And even if he’d tricked the neighbor into telling him where my parents had gone, Toronto was a big city. Big enough to disappear in, if it came to that.

  “Good questions,” I told him, forcing myself to sound calm and even slightly amused. As though he hadn’t shaken me at all. “But if you’re so sure you know where my parents are, why don’t you go and ask them? Maybe if you buy them a few drinks, they’ll tell you where to find me.”

  “I doubt that,” said Deckard. “But I suppose I could always try Alison again. I’ll probably get more out of her this time, now that it’s obvious that the two of you are back in touch.”

  Which made me wonder how it was obvious, but I doubted he’d been reading her e-mail. Because if he had, he’d already know everything she could tell him about last summer—and everything I had to say about it too.

  Still, I couldn’t bear the thought of him harassing her again. Especially now.

  “Alison Jef
fries is mentally ill,” I snapped, though it sickened me to say it. “She’s got a head full of psych meds and sci-fi novels, and she can barely keep her feet on the ground. You know what she’ll say, if you push her hard enough? She’ll tell you we were abducted by aliens. Is that the kind of answer you want?”

  Deckard let out a short laugh. “I really don’t think—”

  “Fine. Try it, then. But when she ends up back in the hospital and her family sues you for mental cruelty, how about you give me another call? Just so I can say I told you so.”

  “There’s always Sebastian Faraday,” said Deckard, recovering quickly. “Now that he’s back in the country.”

  I couldn’t see any point in pretending I didn’t know. Especially since the ATM where he’d been spotted was only a few blocks from my place. “Sure,” I said. “If you can find him. But I don’t think you will, because right now I can’t even find him myself.”

  The pause that followed told me that I’d surprised Deckard, but it didn’t keep him from trying again. “Look,” he said. “There’s no reason this has to be so complicated. What do you want? I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement.”

  Until now I’d been holding myself together by acting like my mother—not imitating her voice this time but imagining how she’d behave if she were in my place. Pretending to be someone older, someone who was Deckard’s equal, so I wouldn’t have to think about how much he scared me. But I couldn’t do it anymore.

  “I want you to stop chasing me,” I said thickly. “I want you to stop threatening the people I love. I want to live my life in peace, without always having to fight and hide and run away. I’m not hurting anybody. Why can’t you leave me alone?”