Etherworld (11 page)

“I'm begging you, too. I'm begging you to hear me out. There's no such thing as Etherworld. And if there were, all the people you saw there would've needed to invite you into their Escape in order for you to make contact.”

“No, this kid Zared used an algorithm to break into my dad's domain,” I say, trying not to sound like a maniac.

“Look, you tried to tell me what was going on, but I didn't want to listen,” he says. “When we were in the Prairie Escape, I saw it all coming apart too, just like you said. I felt this weird, overpowering rage. That's not supposed to happen. I know there's something wrong with Elusion, okay? And . . . you're sick because of it. I'm going to make this right.”

“Good! That's what I want you to do. But you're not going to be able to make it right if you stick me in the hospital.”

Instead of answering, he stares straight ahead. I know this stonewalling move of his—he's trying not to lose his resolve. I think about what could happen to Josh, my father, and everyone else if Patrick is successful in having me admitted.

I have to get out of here. Now.

My hand creeps up to the door handle as I try to hatch an escape strategy. The car's moving too fast for me to open the door and jump out. I'd break my neck. But if I wait for Patrick to stop, there's no way I'll be able to make a run for it. He'll come after me.

I put my hand in my pocket, feeling the slick screen of my tab. I could call the police right now, tell them I'm being abducted and give them Patrick's plate number, but who would believe Patrick Simmons was capable of kidnapping? And they're certainly not going to believe me when I tell them that my dad is still alive.

I'm better off taking my chances with a broken neck. I eject my seat belt and pull the door handle as hard as I can, but it doesn't budge. The car is fully passcard operated, and there's no way for me to open the door without one.

“Let me out. I mean it, Pat.”

No response. Nothing.

I scan the inside of the car for any weaknesses, and the gearshift comes into focus. Most hybrids have automatic transmissions that adjust on their own, but when it comes to his precious automobile collection, Patrick likes things “antique.”

I lunge to my left and grab the gearshift. Patrick slams on the brakes and the car spins out of control, veering dangerously close to the guardrail before stopping.

Patrick grabs my hand, wrestling it off the gearshift. I'm out of my seat, clawing at his arm, trying to reach the lever again. He knocks me away and my head snaps backward, hitting the window of the door. I sit there limp and out of breath as Patrick runs a trembling hand through his hair.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly, as the car roars to life. “I know you might never forgive me for this, but I don't have any choice.”

Within a second, we're speeding past a sign that reads
Inner Sector Medical—1 Mile
.

“Shit,” Patrick says under his breath as we pull up in the front of the main medical pavilion, a pentagon-shaped structure that stretches up into the sky for what seems like miles.

The entrance is an atrium made out of tinted glass panels, and surrounding it is a horde of reporters, all wearing their O2 shields. When Patrick stops the car, they swarm the vehicle.

“Assholes. They must have found a way to hack into my AutoComm.” Patrick blares his horn to make them move, but only a few of them flinch.

I hated it when the reporters blockaded Orexis and Patrick's apartment, but this time I'm happy to see them. Maybe we won't be able to get out of the car, and Patrick will have to take me away from here.

He presses a button on the driver's console, and his window slides down just a crack. Flakes of Florapetro residue float into the car, causing us both to cough.

“Back up! I have a patient here who needs to get inside!” Patrick shouts.

But the reporters don't move, and instead begin to inundate him with questions. Dark red blotches begin to form on his neck, and his jaw becomes rigid with anger. I'm actually a little afraid he's going to step on the gas and plow through the mob, but before he does, we hear the high-pitched squeal of a siren. A hospital security cruiser pulls up behind us and a burly man and woman exit the vehicle, herding the reporters away from the car.

“I'm going to come around to your side and walk you in, okay?”

He reaches into a compartment in between our seats and grabs a pair of O2 shields. He waves his passcard in front of the lockpad and leaps out of the car. A few reporters try to corner him, but Patrick shoves them away as the hospital security staff holler into their tabs, probably calling for reinforcements.

Patrick opens my door, expecting me to get out, but I don't move. I just sit there, staring at the windshield and listening to him plead with me. This is one of the most childish things I've ever done, but it's the only option I have left. I can't be admitted to the hospital—I have to find my dad; I have to be with Josh.

Finally, Patrick grabs my arm and yanks me out of my seat. I don't fight him, but I make sure that I'm dead weight, forcing him to drag me toward the hospital atrium. The security guards do their best to keep the reporters at bay, but the sight of us has thrown them into a frenzy.

“Regan Welch! Do you have the E-fiend disease?” a reporter shouts through his O2, jumping in front of us and shoving his tab in my face.

“Ms. Welch!” another reporter says, breaking through security. “What would your father think of the Elusion scandal? What would he think of his invention making his only daughter sick?”

“Leave her alone!” Patrick barks, elbowing them away from me.

“Step aside; they need to go in!” shouts a security guard, pushing them back.

Patrick grips me tighter, his fingers digging into my arm as he picks up his pace, practically carrying me toward the automatic doors. They slide open and I see my mom standing in front of the patient registration desk. Her eyes are red and swollen, as if she's been crying. Her brown hair is pulled back and she's wearing her nurse's uniform of blue scrubs and clogs. Standing next to her are two strong men wearing the same uniform, with an empty wheelchair in reach.

When Patrick sees her, he finally lets me go. “Your mom found a specialist in brain disorders. We're going to get you well, I swear.”

I'm too furious to speak. He knows how emotionally fragile my mom is and how hard I've worked to take care of her and protect her since my dad's “death” was announced. And now Patrick has dragged her into this.

“Regan? Are you okay?” my mom says, walking toward me. “The press just showed up out of nowhere.”

“Hi, Mom,” I say softly.

She gives me a little smile and wraps her arms around me, hugging me gently. Despite this insane situation, it feels so good to be with her, like I'm safe and no one can hurt me. But then her body starts to shake a little, like she's crying, and the comforting feeling disappears. The last few months my mom has barely been holding it together, ready to dissolve into tears any second. A few days ago, she seemed better, but who knows how far this incident has set her back.

“I'm fine.” I pull away and try to reassure her with a soft smile. It was only hours ago that she left me at home, peacefully asleep, after giving me a little medication to counter a sudden bout of insomnia—something my dad struggled with when he worked at Orexis. She must be so confused and upset, with the frenzy of reporters outside and people telling her that I'm sick.

“But Patrick said . . .” She hesitates, glancing toward him.

“Mom,” I say, taking her trembling hands in mine. “There's nothing wrong with me. I promise.”

The men who were standing next to her begin to walk toward me, the sensor-activated wheelchair rolling alongside them. Big and goony, they look more like bouncers than hospital employees. My throat tightens when I realize how close I am to being stuck here. I have no choice but to tell my mom the truth and hope that she'll believe me.

“Josh and I were trapped in Elusion,” I say.

“She thinks she saw David,” Patrick interjects.

“She told me that yesterday,” my mom says to him. “Maybe I should have had her checked out then, but—”

“Stop talking about me like I'm not here,” I snap. My mom flinches a little, her hands slipping away from mine, and I remind myself that I need to stay calm. I can't give either of them any more signs that I'm unstable, even though that's how I feel with these two goons standing next to my mother staring at me.

“I know this sounds crazy,” I say. “But Dad really is alive. We need to go to Orexis. That's where he's being held prisoner.”

She looks toward one of the goons, her lips tightening at the corners.

She doesn't believe me.

“Take me to Orexis,” I plead. “Please. He doesn't have much time.”

Her gaze shifts back to me, her features so heavy with doubt and guilt, I'm afraid I won't be able to get through to her.

“I just . . . I need you to believe me,” I say firmly, with all the strength I can muster.

“I'm sorry, sweetie. I . . . I have to protect you,” she says, finally.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Patrick wince, as if he can't bear to watch. I turn around and one of the goony staffers is suddenly holding a syringe in his hand. I run toward the atrium doors, but I'm not fast enough. A meaty hand grabs my shoulder and I feel a sharp prick above my elbow. I make it a couple more steps before my knees grow weak. As I lose control of my lower legs, the automated wheelchair swiftly moves behind me, catching me as I collapse. Restraints clamp over my forearms.

“We're going to get you help,” my mom says.

“I'd like to stay until we talk to the doctor,” Patrick says to my mom.

She turns back toward Patrick, her eyes watering again. “I think you've done enough.” My mom doesn't raise her voice, but her words are sharp. She believes I have nanopsychosis, and that this is partly Patrick's fault.

“I swear to God, I'll fix this,” he says.

My mom presses a few buttons on the wheelchair and it begins to move, circling around Patrick and heading toward the elevator bank.

“Please, Mom,” I say. “Dad needs us. We have to rescue him.”

“Try and relax.” My mom follows the wheelchair and waves off the men who just drugged me. “We have a doctor from California. She's an expert on delirium. She's been treating some of the other Elusion patients out west, trying to stabilize them.” Her words may be upbeat, but the tremor in her voice is unmistakable.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. The wheelchair carries me inside, and my mom presses the button for the 205th floor. The steel elevator darkens as the lights flash above us, a soothing, mechanical voice announcing the floors as we ascend. She leans forward and impatiently presses the elevator button again, as if that might speed things up.

“Patrick thinks Josh and I were stuck in Elusion because we overrode our system,” I say. “But it's not true. Do you really think I would do something that stupid?”

All I can hear is my mother's labored breathing behind me, but I keep going anyway. If I tell her every single thing I can think of, maybe she will come around.

“Dad left us those Thoreau books in case anything happened to him. He was hoping I could figure out the password.”

“What?”

“The password to get into Etherworld, where Dad is hiding. It's an anagram, made up of the title and author. If you press
HATE OUR NEW LAND
into the firewall, you can get inside.”

I'm trying to stay composed, but everything is tumbling out of my mouth in a panic. The thought of being detained here at the hospital is making me so anxious I feel like I'm hyperventilating.

“Floor Two Hundred Five,” the voice says as the door slides open. “Frontal lobe critical care.”

Otherwise known as the psych ward. My mom has been doing rotations so long I've gotten to know the lingo.

My mom waves her passcard in front of a sensor, her hand shaking. A face appears on the oversize InstaComm above the empty nurses' desk: a woman who's at least sixty. My mom mentioned that the hospital was eliminating some full-time administrative personnel, replacing them with freelancers and bringing them in when necessary through InstaComm.

“Welcome, Regan,” she says. Her eyes flick up toward my mom. “Please proceed to room A-Twenty-Four.”

My mom gives the image a quick nod before it disappears. The hall is deserted, just a series of closed doors. I wonder what's behind them. Other patients, just like me? Locked inside, with no way out?

“I found his passcard,” I say. “And it hadn't been deactivated. Why would he leave it behind? How could he have started that plane without it?”

My mom stops cold. She has to know how suspicious that is. Actually, her stunned reaction makes me wish I'd thought to tell Patrick. If my brain hadn't been in such a fog after coming out of Elusion, maybe I would have. No one goes anywhere without their passcard. It not only contains their identification, but it accesses all their bank accounts, works as the key to all locks—everything.

“If that's true, why didn't you show it to me as soon as you found it?” my mom asks. “Or afterward, when you confessed to breaking into Patrick's office?”

“Because . . .” I'd made a promise to Josh. That we would keep the card a secret so we could have some leverage in case we ever needed it. Even now, I can't betray his trust. “I should have. I'm sorry.”

The wheelchair moves forward again, taking me farther and farther away from the exit. The only noise is the sound of the wheels rolling along the floor. God, I can't get stuck in here.

“Go home and check. His passcard is in the top drawer of my dresser.”

The wheelchair comes to a stop. My mom presses her passcard against the lockpad for room A24, and the door slides open. The room is empty, and the walls are made of reflective glass, mirroring our image. It's the first time I've seen myself since I returned from Elusion, and my appearance is alarming. My eyes are completely bloodshot. I'm wearing the same jeans and T-shirt I wore to search the abandoned house in the Quartz Sector, so my clothes are dirty and covered in soot. All in all, my looks aren't helping things.