Well, so are Adam and Leo.
John crept with agonizing caution around the high eastern walkway, all the way back down the length of the atrium. His feet silent on the blue glowing glass, he darted from shadow to shadow until he was almost above the three murmuring figures. A few more feet, and he’d be close enough to make out their words. It’s probably about their test scores, John reminded himself sharply. Roy’s taken them aside to give them a talking to. That’s all.
But why now, when the school was in quarantine and practically a state of emergency? It was beyond bizarre.
Almost breaking into a run, John darted the last few steps to another recess and shrank inside it, breathing hard. The murmuring echo below resolved into actual words.
“It wasn’t good enough.” That was Roy’s voice, acerbic and disapproving. “Do you know how close he came? That’s what triggered this shutdown.”
“Sorry, Roy,” whispered Adam.
That’s what triggered this shutdown. What had those two idiots been up to? John wouldn’t have thought they had the imagination to cause this disaster. No wonder Roy Lykos was furious.
“ . . . stupid and reckless,” spouted Roy’s voice again. “Now get out of my sight. I’m disappointed in you both.”
So this mysterious meeting was just a tongue-lashing for two fools from a senior tutor. Almost disappointed, John grinned ruefully at his own sense of drama.
But it was good news, he realized with a rush of relief: if Roy now knew what had caused the mass infection, he could fix it. Maybe the quarantine wouldn’t last too long after all.
Adam and Leo scuttled off in the direction of the gym wing, their shoulders hunched. John clenched his teeth. Now he could follow them back and confront them. If he’d been a bit afraid of them before, with their slick designer clothes and their arrogant sneers, he certainly wasn’t now: they looked thoroughly chastened. He couldn’t wait to tell them what he thought of them—
John hesitated and glanced down. Roy Lykos had stepped out of the passageway; his cropped head was directly below. Nervously, John peered over the railings. I can’t go while he’s there.
Would Roy head for the basketball court with the others? Maybe not. More than likely he was going to work on the bug. So once Roy headed for the mainframe computer in the east wing, John could sprint down the walkway and get to the basketball court before the teachers noticed—
John froze. Roy wasn’t going to the east wing. He was walking purposefully toward the stairs that led to the basement.
That did not compute. There was nothing down there but the abandoned storeroom where Hack Club met.
At the back of his brain, John felt a tingle of urgent curiosity. When the basement door closed softly behind Roy, he burst from where he was hiding and ran down the walkway after him.
Breathing hard, he eased the basement door open and slipped inside. The lights on the stairwell burned lower than usual, maybe because the power was being diverted. But in the shadows far below, he could see the foreshortened figure of Roy Lykos as he turned into the farthest passageway. The man didn’t even pause at the Hack Club door; he walked on toward the end, to that plain, lever-barred cleaning cupboard door.
Roy shoved down the bar, pushed the heavy door open, and slammed it behind him.
John’s blood pulsed in his ears as he hurried down the stairs. It wasn’t so easy to be quiet on the metal steps, and he was afraid of any faint ringing echo. I’m like Theseus in the Labyrinth, he thought with nervous amusement; maybe I should leave a trail of thread to guide me back out.
What on earth was he thinking? He should be back with the others by now, having his name on the register ticked off and waiting dutifully for the all clear to be given. What made him think he should be tracking a software superstar into the bowels of a secret cyber-complex?
His brain did, that was what. It was like a command being typed repeatedly inside his head, and there was no resisting a logical urge.
It’s not logical.
Yes, it is.
You’re just being nosy.
Parallel John flicked away the nagging voice of sense and conscience, and Real John, grinning in approval, jogged lightly down the remaining steps.
He crept quietly along the passageway and paused at the end, his heart throbbing. Doors like this, with a clanking bar lock, were horribly noisy to open. Cautiously, and with infinite slowness, John pressed the bar down. His fingers trembled, and when the lock gave its last loud jolt, he almost jumped out of his skin. For an instant he froze, terrified he’d been heard.
But the door gave way. It wasn’t a cleaning cupboard. It opened into a sleek, brightly lit corridor.
Roy was already out of sight, but there was only one way he could have gone. The far door, across the corridor, wasn’t old style or lever barred; it was smooth and plain, with a small plaque and a glowing security pad.
John hesitated, one hand still clutching the door. He wasn’t Theseus in search of a minotaur. He was Lucy in the Wardrobe of Narnia, he thought with a sudden, nervous grin. And what had Lucy always been told?
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, ignoring the glowing bug on its screen, and crouched to wedge it between the door and the wall. Always leave the Wardrobe door open.
Straightening, he stared at the door ahead of him. Its brushed-chromed plaque told John nothing. In embossed sans-serif digits, it simply said 31.
There were no other rooms. There wasn’t a 30 or a 32.
31. The number tingled in his brain. From the files running in his brain’s background, one popped out, and he remembered.
Project 31. The one Irma Reiffelt would rather see destroyed than meddled with by Roy Lykos. 31. Flies and honey. Six weeks and five days.
The buzzing in his brain was almost a roaring alarm now. Clenching his jaw, John pressed his right palm to the security pad. He didn’t really expect his nano implant to work, and sure enough, the glowing rejection appeared immediately: ACCESS DENIED.
He frowned. What about the iris recognition software that controlled his own dormitory door? It was worth a try. John peered into the screen, and it brightened.
DEVICE NOT COMPATIBLE.
ACCESS DENIED.
That was that, then. He was hardly going to knock and call Roy’s name. In that instant, the burning curiosity faded and blinked out, like a window on a screen being closed. Simultaneously John thought: I’m in trouble if I don’t get back NOW.
He ran for the emergency door, snatching up his phone and slipping back through before it clanked shut. He hurried along the passageway past Hack Club and onto the stairs—he took them two at a time, his breath coming hard and fast. I should’ve spent more time on that cross-trainer . . .
He reached the top of the stairs and flung open the basement door.
And almost collided with Irma Reiffelt.
<<>>
For a moment Ms. Reiffelt simply stood there, so rigid she almost quivered. Her eyes behind her slanted glasses were bright with shock, but as John watched, they turned cold and hard as granite.
“What do you think you are doing?” Her voice shattered the silence like an ice pick.
“I . . . ” John swallowed past an obstruction in his throat. Ms. Reiffelt was shorter than him, almost as small as Eva Vygotsky. But he’d never been so petrified in his life. “I was looking for . . . Eva,” he gasped at last, with a flash of inspiration. “I didn’t see her in the line, and I thought . . . ”
“Eva Vygotsky,” said Ms. Reiffelt, her tone clipped and cold, “is in the basketball court with the rest of the school. Where you should be. Right now.”
He really was in Narnia; he felt as if he’d been turned to stone. John would have sworn he could feel ice crystals forming on his eyelashes. “I . . . uh . . . oh.”
“Go there. Immediately.”
John dart
ed past Ms. Reiffelt, mumbling apologies, but was brought up short by her voice once more.
“Your phone.”
“What?”
“Your phone.” She extended a hand, palm upward. Her fingernails were clipped short, John noticed, but painted a gleaming silvery gray. “All devices are to be temporarily surrendered.”
Honestly, she was like a public service announcement, probably in some bleak authoritarian state. But she was hardly likely to frisk him. Was she?
“I . . . I gave it to Mr. McAuliffe. Howard, I gave it to him already.”
Ms. Reiffelt stared at him for a long moment, her eyes as metallic and cold as her nail polish.
Why did I just lie? Why did I do that? He had no idea whether she believed him, and his heart was about to slam its way through his ribcage.
“Very well.” Ms. Reiffelt jerked her head. “Go.”
Faster than he’d even thought possible, John went.
“This is such a lovely surprise. John’s online friend! I can’t tell you how happy I am that you came to visit.” Tina Laine smiled at Akane. “I wish John had told me more about you, but it’s so good to meet you! I’m just sorry he isn’t here right now.”
“I’m sorry too,” said Akane. “But it’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Laine.”
There was no need to tell Tina that she’d known all along that John wouldn’t be home. With a bit of luck I’ll see him soon anyway. If I can work out some way to do it . . .
She and Obaasan sat side by side in Tina’s spacious living room, a glass of Coke in Akane’s hands and a cup of coffee in her grandmother’s. John’s home was bigger than Akane had expected, a sprawling modern ranch house, and—fortunately for Obaasan—it was toasty-warm inside. The old woman had at last discarded her puffy winter jacket, and her face was pink with excitement as she enthused about her unexpected holiday.
“I never thought I would see the northern lights,” she told Tina. “So beautiful! And we went to the Ice Museum, didn’t we, Akane? And Pioneer Park and the botanical garden . . . ”
There was no need to make stilted conversation while Obaasan was here, thought Akane affectionately. Her grandmother had never gone to an expensive international school like Akane, but thanks to her travel bug in her younger days, Obaasan’s English was almost as good as her own. And though Obaasan had been a little bemused at the “multitude of attractions” Akane had eagerly advertised, she would never be anything but polite to her Alaskan host.
Letting her grandmother chatter, Akane studied the room. The prints on the walls were impressionistic landscapes, all bleak, snowy mountains and wild swirls of aurora. Statuettes of caribou and calves stood on the mantelpiece, as well as carved ornamental horns; of course, thought Akane, John’s grandfather was a caribou herder. It must have been quite a change of lifestyle for the family when they’d moved north from Vancouver to live with him.
Framed photos stood on the corner table beside her. There was John, with his father on a trip to the United States, the distinctive Seattle skyline clear in the background. Akane squinted at the picture. She recognized Mikael more easily than John himself, who was a serious, chubby-faced child of about six or seven. Mikael wore a white T-shirt and a flannel shirt, and his smile was broad. Otherwise, he looked no different from the profile photos on his Wolf’s Den dossier.
A lot happier, maybe . . .
“That’s John’s father.” Tina’s voice broke into her thoughts, and Akane realized she’d been staring too intently. Tina was smiling, though. “His name was Mikael.”
“Was?” said Obaasan, blinking. “Oh, I am so sorry.”
Tina nodded. “Thank you. It was very hard for John. He and Mikael were so close when he was little.” Looking wistful, she pushed back her dark hair. “Mikael was much too busy with work for a few years before he died, but John still pretty much hero-worshipped him.”
“It is so sad for a boy to lose his father. What was his work?” asked Obaasan.
“He was a neurosurgeon,” said Tina with pride. “A pioneering one.”
Akane was starting to feel guilty and more than a little nervous about where the conversation was going. Obaasan hadn’t known the name of the surgeon who saved her granddaughter; when Akane had asked her whether they could visit her friend John’s family, she very deliberately hadn’t mentioned that connection. And Akane certainly hadn’t let on to Tina Laine that she herself had been one of her husband’s patients.
“John’s a brilliant computer student,” she interrupted brightly.
“He really is,” laughed Tina. “He got his scientific brain from his father, I think. My specialty’s English literature.”
“Oh, I do love William Shakespeare!” exclaimed Obaasan, and she was off again.
Akane breathed a silent sigh of relief. Her Coke trembled in her hand, and she set it down. “May I use the bathroom, Mrs. Laine?” she asked as her grandmother paused for breath.
“Of course, Akane!” Tina turned her head and yelled from the living room. “Oh, good, Leona’s home. She’ll show you where it is. Leona! Come and meet our guests!”
The girl who entered the room was only three years older than she was, Akane knew, but she looked a lot more sophisticated. Her hair was glossy, beautifully styled, and the same almost-black as John’s and Tina’s. She wore lipstick and eyeliner that were expertly applied, and her clothes were boho-chic. As introductions were made, Akane felt downright intimidated. It wasn’t a feeling she was used to.
“You’re John’s online buddy?” asked Leona, tilting her head. “From Japan? Wow. Anyway, come on and I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”
Ugh, this was frustrating. All the same, Akane smiled. It’s not like I should be snooping anyway. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. “Thank you, Leona.”
As they passed through the doorway and Leona led her along the hall, Akane noticed that the girl was giving her a hard sidelong examination.
“You do this hacking stuff with John?” asked Leona at last. “That’s what got him into trouble, you know.”
“I know,” Akane sighed. “But that wasn’t with me. I think he was led astray by that friend of his. They got up to some bad stuff together.”
“Oh, Jake Hook.” Leona rolled her eyes. “He’s even more annoying than my little brother.”
“John’s not annoying,” protested Akane.
“You don’t have to live with him.” Leona gave a dramatic sigh. “But, yeah, OK. Actually, he’s mostly in his room with that wretched laptop, doing stupid stuff.”
Akane bit her tongue.
“Anyway,” said Leona, rounding a corner and pointing to a door, “there’s the bathroom.”
“Thank you.”
Leona didn’t leave, though. She propped herself against the wall and twisted a strand of hair between her fingers. “I’m glad you’re here,” she blurted.
“Really?” Akane blinked. “I mean, uh . . . thanks . . . ”
“Yeah.” Leona glanced furtively back toward the living room and lowered her voice. “You’re staying here tonight, right? That’s good, ’cause I need to ask you something. I’m worried.”
Akane opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Huh?”
Leona leaned closer. “Later, OK? When Mom and your grandma have gone to bed.”
“Sure, I—”
“We need to talk,” the older girl said. Suddenly, she sounded a lot more serious. “We need to talk about John.”
If Leona had some weird idea that she was romancing her younger brother, thought Akane, she did not want to talk about it. Whether it was going to be cozy big-sister advice or stern older-teenager warnings, she was so not interested. So she felt a lot less guilty about leaving Leona in the lurch than she did about the rest of this plan.
The house was silent and pretty much full of darkness. She’d waited lon
g enough to be sure of that. Swinging her legs out of bed, holding her breath, Akane strained her ears again. Even when a floorboard creaked loudly beneath her, there was no sound in response. Her heart thumping, Akane pulled on her boots and jacket and lifted her backpack. No need to get changed; never intending to stay asleep all night, she’d gone to bed fully dressed.
That thing some women had, about showing you around their whole house, was a useful tradition, Akane thought mischievously. She knew exactly where she was going. The utility room was in a small built-on extension at the back of the house, and when Tina had proudly shown her the dryer and the new washing machine (mothers, honestly), Akane had taken note of the open window. The gap had been filled with cobwebs; it must have been wedged open permanently to let the steam out. Akane grinned to herself. Easy.
Laying her note neatly on the pillow, then closing the bedroom door, she felt a twinge of guilt. Obaasan would be so worried. But there was no way her grandmother would agree to a detour all the way to the Seward Peninsula, hundreds of miles to the west. Akane’s trip would take a few days, that was all: she could only hope that, though Obaasan would undoubtedly call her parents, they wouldn’t alert the Alaskan police quite yet. They were more than used to their daughter’s reckless sense of adventure, after all.
She’d never hitchhiked before, but there’d been a time—longer ago than she’d realized, to be fair—when she’d never jumped off a building, either. All she had to do was get to Anchorage, then catch the park service bus—
Oh, who was she kidding? Akane swallowed hard. Breaking the journey down in her head, she wasn’t sure she was going to get away with any of this. Of course Obaasan would call her parents, and of course they’d alert the police. It was a five-hundred-mile trip, at least, and Akane would be lucky to get ten miles before she heard the wail of a siren.
But what choice did she have? Sunglasses and Cellphone were out there somewhere, hunting for her, and they probably weren’t the only ones. John had been out of contact now for more than twenty-four hours, and her hack of his phone had been disabled. She had to try.
The Ghost Network (book 1) Page 11
