GLAZE (23 page)

One of the officers examines the bodies of the twins, while the rest fan out into the room. After a moment, they seem to relax. Guns are dropped, fingers rise to throat mics.
 

I hear the repeated word, played over the speakers in the panic room. ‘Clear.’
 

A man enters the room. I press my hand against the screen as I recognise his face. Detective Lee.

What is he doing here? Was the eCrime Unit on Logan’s trail too? Or are WhiteShield and the Met working together after all?
 

I follow Lee’s image from screen to screen as he makes his way across the room. Mila’s computer monitor is still on the desk. The huge hard drive that was sat next to it, however, is gone. WhiteShield have taken it with them, for processing no doubt.

Lee picks up the monitor cable and gazes at the unconnected wires. Whatever he was looking for, he’s too late. A woman approaches and the mics in the room pick up what they’re saying.
 

‘You sure this was WhiteShield?’

Lee picks up a bullet casing on the floor and holds it up to the light. ‘This was them.’

‘What do we do about it?’

‘Nothing without evidence. But he is up to something. I just don’t know what yet.’

Lee pockets the bullet then waves a finger in a circling motion. He and his team head back out of the room. I say a silent prayer to whoever invented camocloth that they didn’t find me.

Ten minutes pass before a second team in white hazard clothes come in. They move around the bodies, examining them, photographing the crime scene. Can it really be called a crime scene when it was WhiteShield who did the killing—a sanctioned, corporate police force? How far does Max’s immunity go?

On the news stations, questions are being asked about how long Glaze will remain down. I should have expected it, but it’s still a shock when Max’s face fills the screens. He’s smiling, cool and relaxed as always. Each face seems to stare out at me.
You can’t hide,
his expression says.
No one can hide from me.

As he talks, words scroll by under his name.
 

WhiteInc CEO appeals for calm. “Glaze will be back up in a matter of moments.”

He laughs, as if something the reporter has said is funny. Then holds up his five fingers. He tucks his thumb away, followed by his first finger. It’s a countdown. Only seconds remain till Glaze returns.
 

When Max folds away his little finger, I feel a rushing in my head. The flood of information brings me to my knees. I close my eyes to block it out. And now I’m back to that choice: darkness or madness.
 

I curl up on the floor, hugging my knees, squeezing my eyes closed. But with my eyes closed I picture haunting images of the twins and Logan. Their dead bodies reach out to me like I can help them. I can’t even help myself.
 

When I risk glancing at the screens, I catch fragments of other lives: the face of a woman being hugged; a stereo still in its box; the ceiling of someone’s room. I also get snapshots of the forensic team moving around the lab, as if caught in a strobe light. Blink: they gather up equipment. Blink: they heft the bodies of the twins into body bags. Blink: they leave. Blink: nothing. Blink: nothing. The images remain unchanging. Just the rooms in the old house, empty again.
 

I dare to keep my eyes open for longer and the onslaught of images come again. But beneath it all, I start sense a pattern; interlinking bubbles of people, touching but never joining. The same as the cliques at school. I don’t know what it means, but it feels like I should be able to work it out. Like an algebra equation. All the information is there I just don’t know what to do with it.
 

The countdown flicks to 00:00. I don’t know if it’s safe to go, but I know I can’t stay in here any longer.
 

I push on the door. It doesn’t budge. There’s no handle. No palm reader. How the hell do I get out? I look down at Logan but he’s not telling.
 

There’s a number pad next to the door. Nine digits. I calculate 387,420,489 possible number combinations.
 

I try to focus on the numbers, to block out the flood of images, but it’s no good. Each number I focus on comes with a wave of new information.
 

// O
NE
. T
WO
. B
UCKLE
MY
SHOE
. //

The data overload is even worse than before. It’s all I can do to see the numbers on the pad. I close my eyes and start pressing buttons at random. I have as much hope of stumbling on the code as I do guessing it. If only I had something to start with. Logan’s birthday or something.
 

I kneel next to Logan and reach inside his jacket, feeling for a wallet or an ID card. It’s empty. I roll him over and check his back pocket. Again, there’s nothing. I’m finding it hard to breathe. How airtight is it really in here?
 

All the time, I get flashes of images from random lives, messages never meant for me. I look up at the screens, hoping that something, anything can give me a clue for how to escape.
 

Under the layers of life, one of the screens shows two figures stepping through the plastic curtains. Corina and Ethan.
 

‘Ethan!’ I shout his name. He can’t hear me.
 

Corina chews her lip, all her usual bravado missing. Ethan’s eyes are wide and scared. I wave my arms around, hoping to set off a sensor somewhere in the room, pummel my fists against the door, screaming for Ethan. But nothing. The room is soundproof as well as airtight.
 

Ethan’s image repeats across every screen, and it’s like I’m looking at him through a fly’s eye. Corina tugs on his sleeve and shakes her head.
 

‘No!’ I scream, tearing at my already raw voice box. ‘You can’t leave me here.’

Ethan stops in the doorway and turns around.
 

‘Yes!’ I shout. ‘Yes, the panic room. I’m in the panic room.’

The cameras track his progress as he walks across the lab, past the trailing cables, past the red stain on the floor.
 

‘We have to get out of here,’ Corina’s strained voice plays over the speakers.
 

Ethan refuses to listen. He tears the camocloth down, revealing the doors to the panic room, and presses his hand against the metal. I press mine against the door in the same spot. We’re separated by a foot of steel and an eternity.
 

He’s looking around, trying to find the switch.
 

‘Come on, Ethan,’ I say.
 

Corina’s the one to work it out. She punches a button and the bolts clunk. There’s a hiss of air entering the room as the door swings open. I collapse into Ethan’s arms, burying my face into his chest and I won’t let go.
 

He seems content to hold me. ‘Petri,’ he says, finally.
 

In that single word is held a lifetime of feeling. The relief and loss and anger and everything that I know he’s feeling because I’m feeling them too. I push myself deeper into him, not wanting to face anything yet. Not wanting to open my eyes.
 

Eventually he pulls me free and steadies me on my feet. ‘Petri, look at me.’
 

I open one eyelid and then the other. He holds my face in his hands and looks into my eyes. ‘Glaze is back on?’

I nod.
 

He sighs and drops his hands. Then looks behind me.
 

He’s turning, spreading his arms out, trying to stop Corina from seeing. But he’s too late.
 

She screams, pushes me and Ethan out of the way, and falls to her knees by Logan’s still body. ‘No!’ she says, wrapping her arms around him, pressing his head against her chest. ‘No, no, no!’ Her pain is crushing.
 

I want to do something to help, but all I can do is watch as she rocks him back and forth. Her screams turn to sobs and then to silence. Finally, she lets him go and drags herself to her feet, leaving a bloody hand-print on a screen. ‘Who?’ she says, clenching her teeth, rage overtaking her anguish.
   

‘It was WhiteShield,’ I say. ‘Max said he’d tracked down the source of the virus. The police came after and cleared up the bodies.’

‘Bodies? Who else?’ Corina says.
 

‘The twins. Proxy.’ Remembering her crushed body is too much and I start to gasp, unable to get my breath. ‘She was just a stupid dog...’
 

‘It’s OK, Petri,’ Ethan says, taking me in his arms again.

Corina runs her fingers through her hair, clutching handfuls. ‘Get her out of here,’ she says.
 

‘I don’t have anywhere to go,’ I say. ‘Zizi’s gone.’
 

Ethan looks down at me.
 

‘Like that man in the street. The virus Logan released, it did something to their brains and she won’t wake up. Kiara too. My only friend in the world… gone. Logan tried to tell me but I didn’t understand, and then it was too late. And now they’re all dead. And it’s all my fault.’ My words come out in ragged gasps.
 

Ethan shakes me, so hard my teeth clamp together. ‘This is not your fault.’

‘But I gave them access to the network.’

‘You didn’t know what they were going to do with it.’

‘Since when has stupidity been an excuse?’

He pauses, looking at me. I try to read his expression. I’ve never been good at reading emotions, and the layers of other images that are playing out like ghosts around me aren’t making it any easier. Pity? Fear? Disgust? I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
 

‘Just… just go,’ Corina says. ‘I’ll deal with Logan.’ She can’t bear to look at me. I don’t blame her.
 

‘Let’s get you home,’ Ethan says.
 

He wraps an arm around me and leads me out of the room.

21

I CAN BLOCK OUT
the noise as long as I have something to focus on. At the moment that’s the sharp pain of Ethan’s watch digging into my ribs. I concentrate on that. He wears it face down for some reason, so he has to turn his wrist up to read it. The fact that he wears it at all is odd. No one wears watches any more. Not when you have Glaze to tell you the time. It’s precisely 22:14. 23:14 in Paris. 17:14 in New York. I sense every second ticking away. I can even sense the leap seconds they add to account for the change in the earth’s rotation speed.
 

It’s not only time zones I can sense. It’s people. Billions of people on every continent who are all recovering from the attack. I struggle to hold them off and focus on Ethan’s watch again. I push myself closer to him so that it digs in even more.
 

But I can’t fight it. So many faces, words, ideas, swarming around my mind. They’re crowding me out, crushing me. There’s not enough space for all of them and me. I struggle to hold on to myself in the storm.
 

I am Petri Quinn. I am fifteen years old. I go to City High School. My mother is Zizi Quinn and my best friend is Kiara Roufail.
 

I am Petri Quinn.
 

The images fade and all I can see is myself through someone else’s eyes. I’m being watched, as if from on high. My face is turned down and half-hidden by my hair, but I can tell it’s me. I’m leaning over something, but I can’t tell what. Or where the source of the feed is coming from.
 

Everything is out of place. The me being watched is alone: there’s no Ethan holding me up; no street or buildings. I’m in a room and I’m crouching down over something.
 

‘A replay,’ I say, realising it’s someone watching footage of me captured earlier.

 
The replay me moves forward, revealing Logan, covered in blood and already fading.
 

‘What’s happening,’ Ethan says, struggling to keep me on my feet. ‘Petri. Speak to me.’

‘Footage from the lab. Me and Logan.’

I see myself from outside as Logan grabs hold of me. It’s like I’m there again, watching him die.
 

‘You said WhiteShield took the computer equipment?’
 

‘They took everything.’

‘Then they know you were at the lab. They know you knew Logan.’
 

The footage is replayed. This time zoomed in on Logan’s face. He whispers into my ear and the auto captioning kicks in.

‘It’s the secret,’ the titles say. ‘The one they’ve been hiding from us. The truth, Petri. The truth.’

‘They think I know.’
 

‘Know what?’ Ethan says, pulling my limp arm around his neck, trying to keep me on my feet.
 

‘What they killed Logan for knowing.’
 

Ethan chews on his bottom lip. ‘It’s not safe for you to go home.’
 

I lose the link to my footage as another image barges it out of the way.
 

‘I’m not sure it’s safe for me to go anywhere,’ I say.
 

Ethan spins us around and we start walking in the opposite direction. People are looking at us weirdly, perhaps wondering if he’s abducting me. Or if I’m drunk. I struggle to stand up right and walk for myself. But the weight of all the information is threatening to bring me to my knees.
 

I fight back, throwing up mental walls against the onslaught. I feel it working. Instead of a barrage of random images, now all I’m seeing is one. Me.
 

What was it Logan had said?
You gaze into Glaze and it gazes into you
.
 

Glaze is looking into me now. Or looking for me. My file is being slid across Glaze time and time again. Every WhiteShield member now has a copy of my photo and has been tagged with an order to bring me in. The order includes a ‘no harm’ condition, straight from Max himself. It’s only a matter of time before they find me.
 

We’re coming up to the high street, which is teeming with people. Three teenage girls, arms linked, walk past staring at Ethan. Whether it’s because they fancy him or because they can’t match his face, I don’t know. I’m just grateful they don’t even glance my way. Because I realise, now, the hidden truth. Every pair of eyes is feeding information direct to their systems. Everyone on Glaze is a walking CCTV, and they don’t even know it. I sense WhiteShield staff, back at base, running facial matches, looking for me. Even if a stranger sees me now, Max will know.