Quicksilver (13 page)

Not that it mattered. If there was a bridge over that particular chasm, I wasn’t looking for it at the moment. All I cared about was getting through this door and finding whoever was behind it.

(2.4)

Sebastian found us in the hallway a short time later, and with his help, it wasn’t long before I got what I wanted. But once I met Mathis, I wished I hadn’t.

Not that there was anything especially intimidating about him at first glance. In fact, it surprised me that he was so young. Still, I’d read in a magazine once that the German language had a word meaning “a face that cries out to be punched,” and if so, it was the perfect description of Mathis. Every time he smiled, I wanted to hit him.

Not that he cared what I thought. He spoke warmly to Sebastian, welcoming him back like a long-lost brother, and he seemed intrigued by Alison. But when he glanced at me, I understood why he’d kept me locked up in isolation for so long. There was no sympathy in his eyes, no shame or guilt, not even an acknowledgment that we were the same species. My anger meant nothing to him: I might as well have been a mouse squeaking as the needle went in.

But that wasn’t the worst of it, not yet. The worst was when Mathis told me, in his heavy Dutch-sounding accent, that he couldn’t send me home now even if he wanted to. I didn’t believe him at first, but Alison could taste the truth, and she said he wasn’t lying. And as my eyes stung and blurred, I saw Mathis’s mouth curl at one corner, and I realized he was enjoying himself. He liked the power he had over me.

I knew then, even before Alison or Sebastian did, that Mathis wasn’t merely ignorant or misguided. Every move he’d made had been calculated and carried out in cold blood. He’d selected me for this experiment as a baby. He’d put the chip in my arm, and programmed the relay to stalk me wherever I went. And though he’d beamed me here the moment I was injured, it wasn’t out of compassion. He simply didn’t want to risk losing a valuable specimen he hadn’t finished studying yet.

I knew then that I had to get away from this man, whatever the cost. Because if I didn’t, one of us was going to end up dead.

PART TWO: Amplification

(The act of increasing the intensity or range of a communications signal by means of a device constructed for the purpose)

0 1 0 1 1 0

When I came upstairs, the house was dark and the only sound was the tick-tick-tick of Crackers trotting across the kitchen floor to greet me. I scratched behind his ears until he collapsed in a ginger-colored puddle of bliss. Then I opened the fridge, looking for the dessert I hadn’t eaten earlier. After moving some jars aside, I spotted a storage container that looked promising, but it was in the back, so I had to stretch…

“Hey, pumpkin.”

I snapped upright, cracking my head on the roof of the fridge. The container flew out of my hand, hit the floor corner-first, and burst open. Cherry cheesecake splattered onto the tile.

“Crap! Dad, don’t
do
that!” I snatched up the container, but it was empty. Crackers was nose-deep in graham cracker crumbs and creamy white filling, and the floor looked like an accident scene.

“Sorry,” Dad said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

But he didn’t sound that sorry, and he didn’t offer to help clean up the mess. Wincing at my sore head, I grabbed a dishrag and went to work on my ex-dessert. “What are you doing up?” I asked. “It’s after midnight.”

Most people would have asked me the same question, but Dad knew better. I hadn’t slept more than five hours a night since I hit puberty, and my parents had long ago learned not to get agitated about it. I could function perfectly well on minimal sleep—another of the many weird things about my biology. I wondered if Dr. Gervais and her GeneSystem flunkies had seen
that
in my DNA.

“Well,” Dad said, scratching his beard, “I was kind of hungry myself, but since you’re here and the cheesecake obviously isn’t…” He pulled a bag of potato chips out of the cupboard. “Why don’t we share this instead?”

“Why don’t we get to the point instead?” I asked, wiping up the last of the cheesecake and throwing the dishrag into the sink. “You might as well say it, Dad. We both know what this is about.”

“That obvious, eh?” He gave a little sigh. “Well in that case, why don’t
you
start? Tell me what’s been going on. You’ve never treated your mother like that before.”

“I slammed my door,” I said with an effort at patience, “because she wouldn’t leave me alone. I know I’ve always talked to you guys about everything, but I’m seventeen now. There’s stuff going on in my life that has nothing to do with you.” Or at least it didn’t yet, and I hoped I could keep it that way. “Is it wrong to want a little time and space for myself?”

Dad reached out and rubbed a big, calloused thumb along my cheek. “Nope,” he said. “But we care about you, sweetie, and it’s pretty hard for us not to notice when you’re feeling down. Hard not to worry about it too. You haven’t been yourself lately.”

Back in my old life, a lot of people—Lara and Brendan for a start, not to mention half the girls on my hockey team—had told me they’d give anything to have parents like mine. I knew what they meant, and I didn’t disagree. They really were just as loving and generous as they seemed.

But what they didn’t realize was that my mom and dad divided everyone they met into two categories: Our Kind of People and Those People. The ones who were enough like them to earn the jokes and the invitations and the we-mustdo-this-again-sometimes, and the ones they kept at a polite distance because they were just too different
.
And even if you looked like them and spoke their language, one careless word could transform you from an Us to a Them forever. Maybe even if you were their daughter.

So I’d put a lot of effort into making it easy for my parents to love me. To be the kind of daughter they’d always wanted, so they wouldn’t regret the sacrifices they’d made for my sake. And right now it was taking everything I had not to burst into tears of frustration, because when had I
ever
been truly myself, even with them?

“It’s nothing, Dad,” I said. “I’m just a bit moody. You know, it’s around
that
time.”

Which wasn’t remotely true, because I’d never had PMS in my life. But I knew it would make him back off, and it did.

“Oh,” he said, flustered. “Right. Well, remember that if you need to talk about anything, we’re here for you. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, bracing myself for the inevitable bear hug—and sure enough, Dad wrapped his arms around me and lifted me right off the floor. Then he ruffled my hair affectionately and plodded off to bed.

When he was gone, I slumped into a chair, staring at the thin slice of moonlight bisecting the table. I felt tired, more tired than I ought to be at this hour of the night. And the knot in my chest, the hard little cyst of anger that had been growing there since last summer, had grown three sizes today: once when Sebastian disappeared, again when he texted Milo, and last when I saw that stupid website.

Milo still wanted to e-mail the writer. I told him to go ahead, but not to expect any miracles. If he got a reply at all, it’d probably be a rant about how Meridian was just a front for the activities of evil aliens from another galaxy…

There was a salt shaker in my hand, and I couldn’t even remember how it got there. But if I thought about Meridian one second longer, I was going to fastball it through the kitchen window. And I doubted even Dad would be naive enough to chalk that up to Girl Hormones.

With deliberate care I put the salt shaker back down, then got up stiffly and went to bed.

0 1 0 1 1 1

The last thing I did before I went to sleep that night was open a new e-mail account and write to Alison. I’d thought about contacting her once or twice before but decided it was too risky. Besides, she needed to heal and move on just as much as I did, and I’d only remind her of things she’d be better off trying to forget.

But if Milo was right about my past coming back to haunt me, then Alison might be in danger too. I was pretty sure Sebastian was keeping tabs on her somehow—probably electronically, knowing his talent for hacking. But if he was hiding from her, for whatever reason, she’d need somebody she could talk to if things got bad.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Hey Ali

I know you don’t check e-mail that often, so you probably won’t see this for a while. But I wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about you. I hope everything’s OK.

No need to write back. Just saying hi.

I didn’t sign the note. Alison was the one who’d told me that my old name tasted like cough medicine, so as soon as she saw my e-mail address she’d understand.

I was pretty sure she’d also understand that
no need
meant
don’t unless it’s an emergency
. I hadn’t told her about GeneSystem or my run-in with Deckard, but she knew I was trying to get away from my past and that I didn’t want anybody finding me.

Still, it made me feel better to have given her my address. Even though I hoped she’d never need to use it.

0 1 1 0 0 0

For the next few days I went through the motions of my daily life—walk the dog, do some schoolwork, put in my shift at Value Foods, tinker in the basement, and fall into bed when I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. I felt edgy and short-tempered, and it was getting harder all the time to keep it in. But I did my best to pretend that nothing was wrong, and though Mom still gave me the occasional troubled look, my parents seemed willing to buy it.

Meanwhile, the danger Sebastian had warned about showed no signs of materializing, even figuratively. And by the time a week had passed, I was starting to wonder if all those trips through the relay had activated some kind of latent paranoia. Maybe that was why he’d ditched us back at the café, and it didn’t have anything to do with logic or evidence—or me, for that matter—at all.

But deep down I knew better. Sebastian might be cryptic and high-handed at times; he could even be manipulative. But he wasn’t the type to fall apart in the face of danger. He and I were more alike than most people would ever guess, and I had a gut feeling that whatever he was up to, it was part of some greater plan.

On Monday night I was walking home from the bus stop, absently counting my steps as I went, when my phone clanked.

–Are you all right?

I almost typed,
Seriously?
Because I’d seen Milo twenty minutes ago, so he ought to know better. But then I checked the screen again, and my blood went hot as I realized that the text hadn’t come from Milo after all. It was from an unknown number, which could mean only one thing.

–Sebastian you enormous jerk. Yes, I’m fine, no thanks to you.

–Charming as always. I apologize for disappearing so abruptly, but something came up and there was no time to explain. But now, if you’re willing, I could use your help.

–With what? And why should I?

–I think you’ll be able to figure that out once you know the details. May I e-mail you?

–You don’t know my address already? You’re losing your touch.

But he didn’t rise to the bait. He remained silent, waiting me out with that maddening patience of his, until I sighed and typed in my e-mail address.

–Thank you. You won’t regret it.

–Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Oh, never mind—too late!

He didn’t respond to that dig, either. So I added:

–Have you talked to Alison yet?

Still no answer. I rolled my eyes and started walking again. Eighty-two steps, eighty-three, eighty-four—

–No. Have you?

If he didn’t know, I wasn’t about to tell him. But he had a lot of nerve trying to make me feel guilty, when he should know I couldn’t afford to get close to Alison anyway. Not without running the risk that someone like Deckard would notice and use her to get to me.

On the other hand, the police were looking for Sebastian too. And unlike me, he was a wanted suspect, so it wasn’t only Deckard he had to worry about…

Oh.

My self-righteousness deflated like a punctured tire. I shoved the phone into my pocket and broke into a run, heading for home.

0 1 1 0 0 1

When I opened my laptop, Sebastian’s message was waiting. No explanations, no apologies, no time wasted on coaxing or flattery. It said, simply:

–Specifications attached.

Well, at least he wasn’t underestimating my abilities. Fifteen pages of technical requirements, describing a piece of highly sophisticated equipment that would have emptied my savings account if I hadn’t been capable of building most of it from scratch. Even so I was wondering how I was supposed to pay for all of this, let alone why I would want to, when I got to the second-last page. He’d given me the username and password for his PayPal account.