Rift (Rift Walkers #1) Page 4

  “Do I need an illegal identity to participate in your activity?”

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you think I have one? I mean, they’re illegal.”

  “So were f-pats, once,” I counter, shrugging.

  She almost laughs. “Okay, fine. Let’s say just for the sake of argument that I have an identity I could use. I’m not saying I do—” She holds up her hands as if innocent. “But let’s say I do. What would I be doing with it?”

  A jogger passes us on the right, and I wait until he’s out of earshot. “I’m sure you’ve seen the flick documenting a time rift at the Bureau. We’re going to take that vid and implant it into the required ads for every single person in the state of Oregon.”

  I’m not sure if I’ve stunned Cascade, if she thinks the plan is idiotic, or if she thinks it’s amazing. She doesn’t speak for half a lap, and I don’t really have anything else to say until she’s on-board with the core idea.

  “If it’s a mandatory message, everyone will be required to watch it,” she says.

  “Which means anyone who doesn’t keep up with the news feeds will see it, and know that our government has been hiding a time rift right under our noses.”

  “It’s genius.”

  I can’t stop the smile as it spreads across my face. “Well, Heath and I came up with it together. And I didn’t know what we’d be implanting until I saw the flick this morning. Then I knew. Everyone needs to see that feed.”

  “I’m sure you can’t access the Ad Agency from your bedroom.”

  “No one can,” I agree.

  “So this is an on-site job?”

  “Definitely, but we can’t go straight into the Agency. We’ll be nearby, using a system that’s linked. That helps keep our tracks covered for longer, and it ensures that we can get out before authorities show up.”

  Cascade glances over her shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps. She moves closer to me as she does, and I think I could probably fake a trip and grab onto her. Then would I have to let go?

  We watch a couple pass us, their fingers intertwined, their heads bent together in whispered conversation.

  “Define nearby,” she murmurs once the other couple is far enough away.

  “Nearby?” My voice scratches. My pulse ripples, and I fist my fingers to keep them from pulling Cascade toward me.

  “You said we’d be completing the jam nearby, using a system that’s linked to the Agency’s.”

  “The Time Bureau,” I say.

  She stops walking to gape at me. “You’re planning to break into the Time Bureau?” Her eyes are full of shock, her hands hang limp at her side. “You’re insane.”

  “We can do it,” I assure her, though I do feel sort of crazy for even thinking we can. “We’ve got all the bases for entry and exit covered.”

  “What do you need me for, then?” She’s still staring at me, incredulous, and other people on the track are forced to go around us.

  “Computational forensic science,” I say. “You’re better than anyone at discovering the history of any electronic piece. Flatpanel, Receiver, security hub, everything.” I slide her what I hope is a flirtatious look. “We took Forensic Science and Identity Prints together last semester. I’ve seen what you can do.”

  “Hmm,” she says, suddenly moving again. She won’t look at me after I catch her.

  “Hmm?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

  “I can’t—”

  “Don’t tell me you can’t do this, Cas,” I interrupt. “I know you can. You took Crime Scenes last semester too. I tried to get in the class with you, but it was full. I know you can do this jam. I might need a fingerprint to make it through a security checkpoint, and you can do that. We might need to make sure there’s not a canceling bot running on the panels we want to use, or we might need to access the history of a device to make sure it’s not recording. You can do all of that, no problem.”

  “That’s all great and fine, Price,” she hisses. “But you’re forgetting that I’ll have to do all those ‘easy’ things after I’ve illegally switched identities and illegally broken into the most secure building in the state!” She stops and takes a deep breath while I eye the man drawing closer to us.

  He stares right back, and I can tell he’s trying to decide if we’re fighting and he should intervene, or simply continue his workout. He slows, but doesn’t stop.

  “I need a minute,” Cascade says and she strides away from me. I watch her go, feeling bad that I’ve upset her, but still smiling. She only needs a minute to figure out how to tell me she’s in. I’m sure of it. If she didn’t have an illegal identity, that would’ve ended the conversation. She has one. I know she has one.

  The thought skips through my mind that maybe my alternate identity knows hers, has read her posts on the forums, maybe even engaged in conversation. The Black Hat is known by everyone, and while I usually complete jams alone, from time to time I’ve had help. Chameleon and I are friendly with dozens of identities, from someone named Dark Panther to another called Ninja by Night.

  I pull my thoughts from my virtual reality, realizing Cascade has reached the curve in the track. I take off running after her. I’m panting by the time I catch her, so I don’t say anything. We walk a lap in silence, moving at a much faster pace now.

  “Cas—” I say, but pause as she suddenly links her arm through mine. I almost stop walking, but she drags me along.

  She giggles and skates her free fingertips up my bicep. It’s hard not to shiver, to hide how she affects me. But she’s not watching me, though her face is only inches from mine now. Her eyes cut over my shoulder, and then in front of us.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says in a sugar-sweet voice. “Of course I’d love to go with you.”

  “Excuse me,” a loud, male voice says. “Is everything okay here?”

  We stop and I turn to face an Enforcement Squad agent. “Sure, no problems,” I say.

  He appraises me for a few seconds before peering around me to Cascade. “Is everything okay here, Miss?”

  Cascade snuggles closer to my side, her breath floating down my arm. I actually shiver this time, unable to stop the reaction. Taking full advantage, I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her into me.

  “Totally fine, officer,” she chirps. He nods, casts us one final glance, and heads off down the track. We watch him go, our bodies still meshed together. Only when she clears her throat do I jump away from her.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “But good save.”

  “Okay, Price,” she says, the steel back in her voice, her eyes, her soul. “I’m in.”

  A loud noise jolts me out of sleep and into a sitting position, my blankets knotted around my legs. The fan in the bathroom whirs and whirs, leaving me to wonder if I heard anything at all. My heart pounds like I did. But my bedroom is empty, the window shut, the hallway dark.

  I get up and switch on the light in the bathroom. Fluorescents spill into the unused bedroom on the other side, not quite reaching the corners where Dad stores piles of outdated equipment.

  When I was younger, he’d catch me combing through the half-empty shells of computers, pocketing motherboards, hard drives, anything I thought I could use. I built the Link station in my room from his junk—and the newest fiber optic technology he’d invented.

  The result sits in my bedroom, on the desk across from my bed. After getting a drink, that’s where I go.

  To the Link. Always the Link. It’s the middle of the night, but I’m too keyed up from the maybe-noise, and besides, I promised Heath I’d find out what I could about Cooper. Newt can keep me company. He’s always linked-in. I swear the guy never sleeps.

  I allow the Link to scan my retina, which serves as my login when I don’t want to voice activate, and I plug in the holoswitch. I slip into my forums, and a grin pulls against my mouth at how active the boards are.

  I don’t see Chameleon online, but Heath’s probably watching his back extra careful right n
ow. I notice several familiar names, including the Dark Panther and Newt, who are both viewing the “Maintaining Privacy” board. In fact, nearly everyone on the forum right now is viewing that board.

  I navigate to it, thinking there must be something new available to ensure our alternate identities remain secret, safe. My pulse picks up—I’m constantly on the watch for more shields against being discovered, especially now that the Hoods have pinpointed my location to Castle Pines.

  But there’s nothing new. Someone has posted a question about when it’s appropriate to reveal your virtual identity to someone you know in real life . Others have posed follow-up questions: Have you actually met this person? Do they have an alternate identity too? How can you be sure you can trust them? What if they’re lying to get you to confess?

  My head hurts by the sixth post. I don’t have time for a debate on revealing identities. Two people know who the Black Hat really is—me and Heath—but by tomorrow night, that number will double. In order to complete the jam at the Time Bureau, both Soda and Cascade will have to login to my stream. They’ll know.

  A shiver coasts across my shoulders, because while I think Cascade is the most beautiful creature on the earth, I don’t really know if I can trust her. I exit the boards, and seconds later, Newt appears in my bedroom, his holographic image three-dimensional and rotating.

  “Hey, Ryerson.” He swipes his dark hair out of his eyes, which are more bloodshot than anything else.

  “Don’t call me that,” I reply, following our usual two a.m. banter. He knows my first name, he just thinks using my last makes him cool, or younger. It does neither.

  I lean back in my chair as he starts yapping about the latest in holographic weaponry. Newt’s hella interested in inventing, governmental weapons, and gadgetry. He claims he works for a private organization, but I’m not sure I believe him. Anyone with the knowledge he spews has to be government. No matter who he works for, if anyone knew about our late-night chats, Newt would have some serious music to face. He’s here almost every night because I’m the best jammer on the outside, and he’d rather have me in his pocket than trying to pick it.

  He caught me once, completing a hack he’d bid on too. He’d nearly blown my cover, as well as exposing the hacker I’d been tracking. As fellow jammers, Newt and I came to an arrangement. He doesn’t nark on my jamming efforts, and I tell him my anti-government invention ideas. Newt has connections in all walks of life, because Privatize America Again has picked up a couple of my designs and integrated them into mainstream society. So far, my arrangement with Newt is working out nicely for both of us.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say after five minutes of mind-numbing chatter about the effectiveness of chasers in breaking down technological security. Chaser programs are illegal, though I—or rather the Black Hat—know where to find a download on the Circuit.

  “Listen, can you scan my room? I thought I heard a noise a few minutes ago.”

  Newt’s gray eyes light up. “How long ago?”

  “Maybe ten minutes.” I’ve got him. Newt loves using his toys, even through the hologram.

  “Sure thing. Let me see what I’ve got.” He bends over, and I lose sight of him as he searches for the right gadget. A few seconds later, his image returns, and he straightens his arm. He’s holding a long device no thicker than my pointer finger. The end pulses with hot, white light.

  “Stay still,” he commands, and then he rotates ever so slowly. He keeps his arm out until he completes the scan of my bedroom. “Data coming on-deck…now.”

  Behind Newt’s holographic image, my flatpanel dings. I unfold the pliable device and flick the screen on with the swipe of my finger. Flatpanels come in all sizes, and the smaller models like mine are about eight inches square. Only as thick as a sheet of plastic, I can roll it into my pocket or suction it to other surfaces.

  There’s a bright flash of light as the flick starts. I’m sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. The image grays, then the banging noise sounds. So I hadn’t imagined it. But there’s no source. No knocked over chair, no mysteriously dropped object.

  On the flick, I’m sitting straight up in bed; I walk into the bathroom. The stream darkens.

  “What was it?” I ask myself, just as much as Newt.

  “Dunno, fella. I captured everything.”

  I watch again, noting the gray splotch that appears just before the noise. “What’s with the image quality at 8:15:17?”

  A mixture of annoyance and excitement crosses Newt’s face. He loves a challenge, but hates to be challenged.

  “Let me check.”

  I wait while he fiddles with something off-screen. While he rescans the room, this time with a skinnier, longer piece of equipment. While he analyzes and decodes the data.

  “Wait a minute….” His voice holds equal parts fear and surprise.

  “What?” I ask, leaning forward. I reach through his holographic image and pull my flatpanel closer. “What?” I ask again when he still hasn’t answered.

  “Price, you’re gonna wanna see this.” He drops his chin just as my panel dings. The flick begins with me sleeping, just like last time.

  Then, out of my body rises a girl. She seems to be made of aged glass, transparent yet warped. Her features are distorted. She could be short, tall, fat, thin, beautiful, ugly. All I see is her hair, tangled and streaming behind her. Yet she moves with surprising speed as she bolts across my bedroom and slams the window shut.

  Bang!

  I’m still sitting in bed when she yanks an unfamiliar blanket from around my body and disappears into the bathroom.

  I follow a few seconds later.

  “Holy exorcism,” I say, looking over my shoulder toward the bathroom. I don’t know what I expect to see. The faceless girl standing there? Wearing her pajamas and holding that ridiculous blanket?

  “Replay,” I command, and the stream starts over. I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in science. The flick will show me the facts.

  I learn nothing new the second time. Or the third. Or the tenth.

  Maybe I do believe in ghosts. I rub my eyes and command the flatpanel to restart the flick again.

  In the morning, Dad shakes me awake. I’ve slept at my desk; my Link station still hums, the livestream still loops, the girl still rises from my body.

  Saige

  WHEN I LOOK BACK TO my desk, the see-through tablet and floating screen are gone. Instead of making my tears dry up, the normalcy of my desktop computer makes me sob harder. The tears turn angry. I’d seen some freaking advanced technology—and if the disbelief on Mom’s face was any indication, she had too. But she’d acted like she hadn’t.

  Mom presses her hand into my shoulder. “Shep!” she yells, her voice much too shrill. I wince away from her as she calls for my brother again. I don’t know what she expects him to do.

  “I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out breathy, and Mom makes me lie down in bed.

  My bed.

  The bed.

  I don’t want to be in this bed, not while it’s in the same place as last night. I can’t tell my mom, who is hovering around me, asking if my head hurts.

  “I didn’t hit my head,” I say, but I’m not sure if that’s true or not. Sometimes my own eyes lie to me. My ears hear things that aren’t there.

  “She didn’t even know it was Sunday.” Mom talks to herself like someone else is in the room. She turns back to me. “What did you ask me? Could I hear something?”

  I ignore that question. I’d asked her if she heard the voice that came from my desk, but I don’t want to admit it, because everything is normal now. “I was just disoriented.”

  Shep loiters in the bathroom doorway, a frown etched into his eyebrows. He’s managed to pull on a pair of gym shorts. I can’t explain anything to him right now. I don’t know how to start a conversation about seeing our long-missing sister.

  “Disoriented?” Mom gestures toward me. “Now she’s disoriented. Maybe I should take her to the hospital?”
She looks at Shep as if he has any say.

  “I am not going to the hospital!”

  “You asked me if I heard something!” Mom puts one hand to her forehead, like she’s the one who has the right to faint. I’m the one who sees my sister lurking around every corner.

  “I’m sure it was nothing,” I say in an attempt to appease her.

  It’s insane to think I heard a voice from out of nowhere. I don’t even know if it was male or female. I cast my desk a nasty glare simply because I can.

  I’m a normal seventeen-year-old girl. I don’t do drugs, and I’ve never had a sip of alcohol. I go to school, and I take pictures for the yearbook, and I used to play the piano. I don’t hear voices, and I certainly don’t hear ghosts breathing in the night.

  At least, no one thinks I do. Once I learned that what people wanted was for me to say I didn’t see Chloe, I started saying exactly that. Didn’t make it true, but it got me out of the hospital and helped me avoid a lot of conversations with my mom.

  Shep throws me an unreadable look before disappearing into his room, and I take his departure as my cue to leave too. I get out of bed amidst Mom’s muttering about my mental and physical health. I’ve got my shoes on before she realizes I’m not lounging in bed with a cold cloth covering my eyes.

  “Where are you going?” Mom parks herself in the doorway, blocking my escape.

  “Sarah Jane’s,” I say, perpetuating the lie. “We’re studying for the chem final this morning.”

  “In your pajamas?”

  “They’re workout pants.” I tie my shoe, not caring about going out in yesterday’s yoga attire.

  “Honey, I don’t think you’re well enough to study,” Mom says.

  I don’t think so either, but I can’t stay in this house. I’d live in a tent if it meant I could get away from everything Chloe. “If Dad were here, he’d tell you I was fine.” I don’t know why I said it. We don’t talk about Dad, ever. I wish Mom would talk about him, but I haven’t heard her say anything about him in years.

  She studies me. “Saige, Dad died a long time ago.” She sounds more sad than worried now, but I see the glint of finality in her eyes. I decide to ignore it. She treats me like she’s afraid I’m going to disappear the way my sister did, but I don’t buy that. She just wants to contain me, box me up, so I can’t disobey her.