Dark Parties (14 page)

Everyone of my grandma’s generation likes to reminisce about the good old days when life was simpler. They had gadgets and
technology to do everything. She would tell me stories of machines that looked almost human and were like a secretary, chauffeur,
and maid all wrapped into one. She said her grandparents could take trips without ever leaving their house; she called it
a virtual something. My grandma even swore that people before The Terror could fly in big metal birds. I didn’t think she
was lying exactly, but it’s hard to believe.

“This baby’s dead as a doorknob.” Tim shakes the InfoScreen next to his ear as if he’s listening for loose parts.

I take it back from him. “I hope not. Dr. Adams won’t be happy about that.”

He starts walking. “Yeah, from what I hear Dr. Adams ain’t happy about much these days.”

I catch up to him. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, that pinched-faced assistant of his got the ax. She’d bless him before he even thought to sneeze.”

I laugh. It’s true.

“I heard he lost his temper over something at the Council meeting the other day.” We take a sharp left and then another right.

“Really?”

“Yeah, he’s not one for yelling, but I guess he nearly blew a gasket.” We cut through a conference room. “Almost there.” We
take a sky bridge to another building.

“What was he so mad about?” That’s not like my dad at all. He prides himself on being calm, cool, and collected.

“You think they tell people like me something like that, little lady?”

“You seem to know an awful lot.”

“That’s what you get when you keep your ears open and your mouth shut. Ya got two of these”—he points to his ears—“and one
of these”—he smiles, and I notice he’s missing a tooth—“for a reason. And, I think I’ve said too much.”

We take stairs all the way to the basement, and finally Tim stops. He nods toward the sign on the door:
TECHNOLOGY RECYCLING CENTER
. “Yeah, I know what it says, but, trust me, it’s where gadgets go to die. I’ll wait for you here,” he says, resting his back
against the wall. “Big Al don’t like me much.”

I open the door, and a buzzer sounds.

“Can I help you?” a squeaky voice calls from some unknown place.

I’m too busy taking it all in to answer. The room spans two stories and is about the size of football field. A counter stretches
from one wall to the other and serves as a barricade, only letting people walk a few feet into the space.

“Can I help you?” The voice is closer this time.

“Um, yes,” I say and then speak louder. “Dr. Adams sent me. He needs his InfoScreen fixed.”

Floor-to-ceiling cages are packed with large, flat, black screens. Bins the size of dumpsters are littered with tiny capsules.
There are piles of computers and cables coiled into mountains. The room is lit up like Christmas with tiny lights flickering
and screens flashing with a strobe effect. The room hums, buzzes, and beeps. It’s stimulation overload.

A man a foot shorter than I am seems to materialize in front of me. “Can I help you?” His voice sounds like a hinge in need
of oil.

“Are you Allan?”

He nods. He has thick-rimmed glasses. One half is a black rectangle and the other is a red oval. The two halves are taped
together at the bridge of his nose. He’s got some sort of electronic band that circles his head. He’s so thin his
translucent skin seems alive with blue veins and knobby bones.

I hand him the InfoScreen.

“You work for Dr. Adams.” He sizes up me and then the device. He presses a panel on the counter and a screen pops up. “Your
name?”

“Neva Adams.”

He waves his hand over the counter and the image of a keyboard appears. He types my name on the flat surface.

“That’s pretty cool,” I say.

“What seems to be the problem?” He lays the InfoScreen on the counter and keeps typing.

“Um, I don’t know. It doesn’t work.”

“Helpful.” The word is dripping with sarcasm. He pushes more buttons. A thin white line moves across Dad’s InfoScreen. I can’t
tell where the light is coming from. It could even be projected from Allan’s headband for all I know.

“What is all this stuff?” I ask, and nod to the warehouse behind him.

“Parts, basically,” he mumbles, paying more attention to the InfoScreen than me.

I notice a cage full of surveillance cameras. My blood runs cold. There are enough cameras in there to cover every square
inch of the capital. “Are you fixing those?” I point.

He doesn’t look up. “No more parts.”

“Really?”

“Not a priority.”

I wonder what is a priority. Tracking devices?

“Tell Dr. Adams I’ll have this back to him in a few days.
He needs to back up everything on here. I’m not going to be able to patch this up for him much longer.”

“Okay.”

The InfoScreen flickers on. Allan’s bony fingers tap feverishly on the screen. “Anything else?” he asks when he realizes I’m
still there.

“No, thanks.” I slip out the door. Tim is still waiting. His eyes are closed and I think he’s snoring. When the door to the
tech graveyard clicks shut, Tim’s eyes flutter open, as if he’s a machine flickering to life.

“Pretty amazing, huh?” Tim says, stifling a yawn.

“I don’t know what half of that stuff was.”

“Progress.” He laughs. We start back the way we came. “They want you to believe that the less technology we use the better
off we all are,” he whispers. “Poppycock. I used to love all my thingy whatsits.”

“But aren’t they using more technology to watch us?” I ask, feeling like I can trust him.

“Nah. That’s what they want you to believe. Half those fancy cameras they have looking down at us don’t work.”

“What about tracking devices?” As soon as I ask it, I wish I hadn’t.

He stops dead in his tracks. He looks around, swiveling as if he’s a surveillance camera. “Why’d ya ask something like that?”

I shrug.

“They got the technology, but they don’t always use it, if you know what I mean.”

I don’t.

Reading the confusion in my face, he continues, “They implant devices, but they don’t always track people.”

“Really?” His words drill tiny holes into the government’s cool facade.

“They pick and choose.”

I give him a big hug.

“What’s that for?” he asks when I’ve set him free.

“Nothing.” I smile. “Just thanks. I’ll find my way back from here.”

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Suit yourself. I’ve known lesser mortals than you to get lost for days in this place.”

“I’m not feeling very mortal at the moment,” I call as I race down the hall. The iron grip I thought the government had on
me, on all of us, has loosened just a little.

Dad’s been giving me more and more responsibility and more space. The last few weeks, since Effie disappeared, have been torture.
I only speak when spoken to. I do what I’m told when I’m told as efficiently as I possibly can. Without Sanna, Braydon, and
Ethan in my life, all I have is my job—and my secret mission. I decide to take my spy efforts up a notch. I sit at Effie’s
desk with Dad’s office door open a crack. He doesn’t seem to notice. I watch him as he sits at his desk reading or staring
off into space. He seems more and more distracted. He will ask for things and forget that
he asked when I show up with the requested item. He starts sentences that he can’t finish. Human Resources sends over replacements
for Effie, but between my sabotage and Dad’s demands, they don’t last for more than a few days.

I come to work with him every morning and leave with him every evening. I time how long it takes him to use the bathroom—one
five-minute break in the morning and one in the afternoon, like clockwork. Every time I’m in his office my eyes are drawn
to the back corner where I saw him walk through the wall. Nothing looks suspicious, but I know what I saw. Today he’s given
me a stack of books to reshelve in his office. I wait until it’s nearly time for his morning bathroom break. I put on the
lab coat and white gloves I’m supposed to wear when I’m in his office. I go about my work quietly. He checks the clock. He
glances at me as if he might ask me to leave, but I pretend to be hard at work. He slips out of his office. I think he’s hoping
I don’t notice.

I don’t take time to lay down my armload of books. I charge to the back corner of his office. I don’t know how much time I
have. I start pushing and prying each panel, glancing at the open office door every few seconds. I press the wooden trim at
hand height and feel it give. I push it. Nothing. I slip a fingernail in the crack between the trim and the wood paneling
and it slides. I can hardly breathe. I bend down and see a tiny keyhole. I quickly slide the panel back in place and am shelving
the last book when Dad returns a minute later.

I finally know how to get into his secret space. I thought there might be a computer code or a magic word, but even
Dad’s security is ancient. Now all I’ve got to do is find the key. I keep my eyes open. I watch his every move.

One night when he’s packing up to go home, I study him. I’ve learned most of his rituals. He straightens the file folders
on his desk and thumbs through the title tabs. He stows a few files in his top right office drawer. That’s when I know he’s
ready to go, so I usually start packing up too. But this afternoon, I watch him. He takes off his lab coat. He doesn’t like
to wear it outside of the office. Might bring unwanted toxins back in. He takes something from his lab coat pocket, something
he pinches between his thumb and finger. If I wasn’t watching so closely, I might have missed it. He tucks whatever it is
in his vest pocket. The pocket is the perfect size for a tiny key that fits a tiny lock. That must be it. It takes every ounce
of strength to keep from leaping out of my chair and punching the air. Inside my head a symphony swells to crescendo.

I want to tell Sanna everything I’ve discovered, to share my little victory with her, but I decide to wait until I have something
more concrete. Every thought of Sanna leads to thoughts of Braydon. No matter how hard I try, how I throw myself into work,
he always lingers in my mind.

I’m beginning to think I’m never going to get my chance to test my theory about the key and Dad’s secret room. Then today
I hear Dad talking to a colleague about some big emergency meeting scheduled for this afternoon. His InfoScreen is still on
the fritz, so I collect the books he needs for his meeting. He is flustered. He keeps getting phone
calls, which is unusual. About ten minutes before the meeting, I stack the books in front of him. I’ve got to orchestrate
this just right. My goal is to hurry him out of the office so he forgets to lock it.

“Shouldn’t you be going?” I ask.

He checks the brass clock on his desk, the one with the funny mix of letters instead of numbers, lots of X’s and I’s. “You’re
right, Neva,” he says, organizing the papers in front of him and tucking them in a leather portfolio.

As he stands, I gesture to his lab coat and then help him slip out of it. Before he can remember to transfer the key to his
vest pocket, I hang his lab coat on the coat rack. “Have a good meeting,” I say as he hustles out the door, his arms laden
with books and papers. I watch him scurry down the hall. Then I slip back into his office and lock the door behind me. I take
the tiny key from his lab coat pocket.

I stand in front of the secret panel. I can’t get the key into the lock. The tapping of the key aiming and missing and sliding
seems to echo in my dad’s wood-paneled office. I wipe the sweat from my forehead on the sleeve of my white lab coat. We have
been getting along, which makes me feel majorly guilty about what I’m about to do.

The key slips from my fingers. The white gloves don’t help much. I should take them off, but I can’t risk fingerprints. I
must calm down. I pick up the key and squeeze it in my fist, letting the ridges dig into my palm. Dad said earlier he’d be
in the meeting all afternoon. No one comes in here. No one dares to disturb Dr. George Adams. I walk across the room to check
the office door. It is locked. I wedge a
chair under the doorknob. I can’t be too careful. Dad will flip if he returns and can’t get the door open, but it’s better
than finding me in his secret room.

I concentrate, slip the key into the lock, and turn. The wooden panel clicks open. Warm musty air sneaks through the crack.
With one finger I push the panel open farther. The space is only big enough for one person to slip through sideways. I sidestep
through the opening. A dim overhead light flickers on. I whip around, but the door must have triggered the lights, if you
want to call them that. The room is barely illuminated. It’s about the same size as Dad’s office but much more sparse. One
wall is covered with metal filing cabinets. Another wall has a glass display case; the final two walls are bookshelves. A
large metal table is centered in the room.

I hear a faint click and air begins to circulate. My presence in the room has altered the balance of this space. To my right
I see a control panel with tiny green and red lights. Everything about the room is monitored: light, temperature, humidity,
and sound. As I move closer, my steps and breath seem to make the green and red lights twinkle. Sweat is dripping down my
back. I don’t want to set off any alarms. I study the control panel—nothing to indicate a security system. This is an archive.
These monitors are to maintain old documents, not guard the room’s contents. I take a tentative step forward and then another.