Rift (Rift Walkers #1) Read online

  I stride through the mudroom without acknowledging the two security guards standing watch at the entrance to Dad’s compound, noting that Monroe is not one of them. The stillness of the guards unnerves me almost as much as my dad.

  Despite the motorcycle ride, I arrive seven minutes late to outdoor practice. He’d dropped me off with, “We need to talk when I get home.”

  I’d wanted to roll my eyes and walk away without answering. Instead, I’d said, “Sure. Good luck with that vid,” and stormed into the practice facility. Because of my tardiness, I earn a glare from the instructor and fourteen extra minutes on the track. I spend an hour in the pool, and then suit up for the walking track that loops through the middle of the Winston Heights, the neighborhood north of mine. I hope to see Cascade, though I never have before.

  I cue up the music on the Circuit, activate the speaker in my ear, and listen to my favorite channel while I alternate between walking and running. During the workout, I can’t stop thinking about the warped-glass girl.

  Science doesn’t lie. She was in my room, in my bed. I’d watched the flick so many times, I can match the rhythm of my feet to hers as she strides across my bedroom and slams my window.

  Finally, I email Newt. Please tell me you found the source. He won’t need specifics. Surely he didn’t see any other ghosts last night.

  She’s not a ghost, I tell myself. Science doesn’t lie. She was there.

  I don’t hear back from Newt. I guess he does sleep sometimes.

  That afternoon, after showering, reading my geography digi-file, and completing my thermal physics homework, I lean against the kitchen island and look down the hall toward Dad’s offices. The flick will take him at least a day of in-person work to sort out. He’s always complaining about bureaucracy and meetings, especially when he has to do them face-to-face. The house feels different without Dad in it, and I take a daring step toward his offices.

  Since half a dozen guards started hanging around the house, I’ve been dying to know what Dad’s doing down that hall, behind his closed doors. His security bots rival any decoding software I’ve been able to find—legally or illegally.

  Technology development doesn’t require armed guards, even if you are the dean of the department. Dad’s not telling me something, but I don’t know what. I’m certain his office will reveal some of his secrets.

  My gut is almost always right, and at this moment, it’s telling me now is a great opportunity to get inside and see what’s there. I feel unsettled, and the only thing that calms the squirmy feeling in my stomach is jamming. That’s something I can see and feel and hear. Something concrete and grounding.

  Inhaling deeply, I cross the kitchen, pass through the foyer, and stride into the family room. I pause at the mouth of the hall, Dad’s office only a few strides away. A faint waver in the air tells me the surveillance bots have woven their web. If I try to step through that, alarms will sound. I glance over my shoulder to the security hub mounted on the wall in the mudroom. I can erase that feed with a few keystrokes. But I can’t disable the alarm system without notifying Dad.

  I close my eyes and inhale the acrid scent of too much electricity. I’ve tried combative bots against this shield. It held, and destroyed my programming. I’ve tried a disabling loop. The pattern fizzled out after only two cycles, leaving me four feet down the hall without a way out. Monroe had saved me in that instance.

  I’ve researched how to overcome such sensitive and aggressive motion bots, but the vidlogs and picboards haven’t been helpful. I have a couple of options left to try, but I don’t have time right now to figure them out—and Monroe isn’t here to chase after me if I get caught.

  “A chaser,” I murmur to myself, remembering Newt’s chatter from last night. I activate my flatpanel, and quickly set my status to “nap.” I’ve napped in the afternoon before, so this shouldn’t raise any flags. I logout of my Price identity, and quickly navigate to the interface between my nerves and my Receiver.

  From here, I can reset the schematics to calibrate for the Black Hat. The whole process takes less than ten seconds. By the time my cybernetics activate, I’m into the forum where I’ve seen a download for the chaser.

  I take the precious time to read the Dark Panther’s post about using the code.I’m impressed by his detailed instructions, his intelligent explanations of the complicated program. It’s just as aggressive as the codes it’s seeking, and it’s relentless. Chaser code reformats data, turning it into nothing more than garbage. Nothing beats a chaser except another chaser, and I know Dad won’t have one of those calibrated for his security. They’re illegal, for one, and Dad does everything by the book.

  I don’t want to activate the chaser from the Black Hat identity. The Dark Panther says my signature could get woven into the code when I send it, and then Dad will discover that the Black Hat was here. No one can enter our house without the proper eyeprint, so it won’t take him long to put the pieces together.

  I download the chaser as the Black Hat, but I’ll use it after logging back in as myself. That way, when the security system goes down, it’ll be traced to me—if it’s traced at all. Chasers obliterate all strings of code, basically infecting the system so that nothing can be recovered.

  I check my surroundings. There’s no one, no sound. I’m leaning against the wall in the living room, nothing out of the ordinary.

  I take a deep breath and download the chaser program to my Receiver. It will take several minutes, which is actually okay. I need to be “asleep” for at least a half hour to keep my nap from looking suspicious.

  Still, each second that passes feels like a minute, and the eight minutes it takes to get the chaser program feels like a lifetime. Even though I know Dad’s not here, I keep expecting a guard to exit his office, or for someone to stride through the front door. Finally, an icon of a slithering bug with hundreds of legs wiggles across my vision, painting my cybernetics with the word, Chase?

  I check the time. I’ve been logged in as the Black Hat for twenty minutes. I’m not sure that will be enough to keep my nap unnoticed, but I can’t stand waiting any longer. I sign off as the Black Hat, feeling a whoosh of air enter my lungs as I do. As much as I love playing the Black Hat, the pressure and fear of getting caught is ever-present and heavy. And since the authorities have a heightened awareness of everything Black Hat, every moment I’m operating inside the identity is a second too long.

  I breathe deep as I sign back into myself and activate my status to “awake.” An ad pops up in my feed; the government feels I need to be reminded of the comforts of the two-sided temperature pillow immediately after napping.

  “One side kept cold, the other hot!” the ad proclaims. I’m required to watch the whole thing—the government’s screwed up way of expressing its displeasure about seemingly healthy, young, and well-rested guys sleeping in the middle of the day.

  I wait for the two-minute ad to finish before I sync my flatpanel to my Receiver. Since the chaser package is already downloaded, it only takes a few seconds to transfer to my panel. I look down the hall, my chest constricting and my stomach churning.

  Am I really going to do this? I have what I need to do it. Now I just need to position my flatpanel and release the code. I slowly twist my wrist, lining up the sensor with Dad’s secure hallway.

  I don’t know what to point it at. There’s nothing in the hall running the security software. I spin toward the mudroom, where the blue light from the hub stares steadily back at me. I’m striding toward it when I get a chat from Heath.

  “Blood,” he says. “How was your nap?”

  I know what he’s really asking: Where’s my brother? He thinks I logged out to find Cooper—which is what I should’ve done. I close my eyes, trying to think of an excuse. Then I’m ashamed I need an excuse for my best friend.

  “Sorry, bro,” I chat to him, opening my eyes to study the security hub. “Just running a bit behind on things, you know? Maybe I’ll be able to get caught up now
that I’ve had some rest.”

  I’m sure he can decipher the double-talk. When he says, “Too bad you’re not feeling well. I’ll let you get back to your nap,” I know he does. His message isn’t so subtle either. Keep working on it, man.

  I wish I could, and I will, but not right now. Thinking of Cooper locked up somewhere gives me the courage I need. I position my flatpanel sensor so it’s aiming at the security hub indicator.

  “Chase,” I say, activating the code. A slight whine echoes in the kitchen as my program goes after Dad’s. A few seconds and a loud pop! later and his code is lunchmeat. No wonder chaser bots are tightly regulated. Whole systems—the Enforcement Squad, Bureau security, regulatory councils!—could be taken out.

  The security hub smokes, and I know my dad will be alerted to its demise. I wonder how much time I have before guards show up.

  “A chaser.” I shake my head as I move into the hall. I’ll have to remember to post on the Dark Panther’s thread—and thank Newt—later.

  I make my footsteps as light as possible. I pass the first closed door on my right, where soft music reverberates. Dad’s primary office. I’ve been inside before, and I picture the polished hardwood floors, the black leather chair, and the imposing desk. I wonder if it’s as sterile and impersonal as it was three years ago. If Dad were here, watching me sneak into his private rooms…. A cold thrill slinks down my spine, easing my jittery nerves.

  The next door is open, but it’s dark within, the blinds clenched closed over the simulated window. A hulking shape fills the room—a table. Conference room. Nothing exciting in there, only chairs and walls made of flatpanels. Past that, on the left, darkness drenches the bathroom too.

  I turn right down the hall, and according to the blueprints, there’s a large room situated at the back of the house. I come to the door and reach for the knob, surprised this door hasn’t been updated to Dad’s high-security fingerprint model. The metal of the doorknob feels colder than I expect, sucking my breath away.

  I slip inside and click the door closed behind me as quietly as possible. Darkness fills this room too, with a single blinded window in the corner as the only source of light. I don’t dare flip the switch for fear a blaring siren will sound.

  The air smells musty, like someone left something wet in here and it dried into dust. This room is colder than the rest of the house, and I instinctively shove my hands into my pockets.

  By now, my eyes have adjusted to the dim light, and I can make out waist-high columns close to me. Farther away, they become less rigid and more rounded, and in the back, boxes line the wall.

  I take one step and examine the first column. It’s a tower of paper. I brave touching it, and the resulting crackle sounds as loud as an electroray discharge. I yank my hand back as the page settles into silence.

  I sidestep through the towers of paper to the heaps loitering in the middle of the room. One is a pile of clothing—men’s jeans and t-shirts and turtlenecks. Some of it looks new, some ages old. Another heap consists of foil jackets, some with the electronics frayed and some as fancy as the ones the Hoods wear. Next to that is a mound of boots and shoes, haphazardly thrown together without care for matching pairs.

  Beyond the clothes, the stacks turn to computer parts. The junk I have stashed in my bathroom would fit right in here. Miscellaneous parts, and broken cables, and fiber optic failures, and things I don’t even recognize.

  I don’t touch anything. I move toward the back of the room, noticing a soft pink light filtering up from behind a box. The glow catches something silver, drawing my attention to a stack of notebooks. I pick up the top one, feeling the roughness of the paper, the sharpness of the cardboard cover. Because it makes no noise, and because paper is so foreign, I can’t help taking a few seconds to feel it, smell it.

  The notebook weighs three times as much as my flatpanel, but it certainly can’t hold as much information. The cover is decorated with silver writing. I flip open the notebook and find equations and scientific notations sprawling from corner to corner.

  I jerk my attention from the notebook at the sound of a soft hiss. I spin, looking for the source. Nothing. No one. I move in a slow circle, searching every corner, fully expecting to see a pair of shining eyes staring back.

  My pulse settles as I accept that I’m alone. Still holding the notebook, I peer over the box and find a button laid into the wall.

  Without thinking, I push it. I don’t know what I expect, but it’s not for the floor to shudder and groan. I stumble back as the corner drops into darkness and steps carve themselves into the previously flat carpet. Pale light reaches upward from the room at the bottom of the stairs.

  I stare for a few seconds, the metal coil of the notebook digging into my palm. The blueprints I studied did not show a basement. The muscles in my neck feel too tight, making it hard to swallow. Before I can move closer to see what’s down those steps, my gut flips.

  I duck behind a pile of computer parts at the same time the door opens. Nobody speaks, but their breathing floats through the room. I fist my right hand so the light from my Receiver won’t give away my position, and grip the notebook with my left hand.

  Footsteps enter the room. One pair, and then another. I realize how stupid it was to come back here. This old house holds me hostage with no chance of escape.

  “There’s nobody here,” someone says, and I almost laugh with relief at the sound of Monroe’s voice. There’s no possible way he can know I’m back here, because all our communication is done under the safety of sleep mode, as much for his protection as mine.

  Monroe says, “Seriously, no one’s here,” much closer than he was before. Somehow I don’t think our facial signals will get me out of this mess. I roll the notebook and slide it into my back pocket so I’ll have my hands free should I need them.

  “Guy said the door had been opened,” the other guard says, referring to my father. I barely had five minutes alone, which is comforting should a real intruder try to break in. “Where’s the blasted light switch?”

  Frantic, I glance around for a better place to hide. A counter flanks the wall to my right, running almost all the way to the window near the door. There’s a tiny space between a heaping pile of clothing and the counter.

  I have no idea which way either guard is looking, but when I hear Monroe’s ridiculously fake cough I move.

  Crouching, I slide toward the counter. Monroe yells something to the other guard, obviously trying to give me some cover noise. I use it to leap behind the pile of shirts and squeeze myself into the narrow space between the mound and the wall. The coil on the notebook cuts into my back, but I don’t care. I burrow under the clothing at the same time the light blazes to life.

  I take a deep breath and hold it.

  Price

  WHEN MY MOM CALLS ME down to dinner, I’m still jumpy. I’d waited, concealed by old shirts, for what felt like an hour. Monroe complained loudly about the smell in the room and had opened the window. He’d kicked more clothes on top of me while the other guard searched the opposite side of the room and closed the stairs to the basement.

  Neither one of them said anything about what all that stuff was, but even if they had, I’d been buried under clothing. In the end, they declared the room clean and left. Finally, when I thought it was safe, I’d unearthed myself and used the window as my exit.

  I’d scaled the rain gutter to get back into my room, and I’d spent the afternoon deleting the chaser microbe from both my flatpanel and my Receiver. I thought about digging for info on Cooper, but I couldn’t risk going back in as the Black Hat. Heath would understand.

  I moved my contraband gear from old hiding places into new. I doctored up the scratches from the metal coil of the notebook and stashed the journal in an old bookcase full of Dad’s long-forgotten items in the spare bedroom. I couldn’t study it, not yet. I need some distance from the stupid things I’d done, and paper obviously keeps for long periods of time. I’ll come back to it anoth
er day.

  I eye my holoswitch lying in the middle of my desk. Just lying there. It feels more threatening than if Dad had confronted me about it outright. My thoughts circle around warped-glass girls and the jam tonight, and then Dad and the piles of clothing in that room. Somehow, my feet carry me to the dinner table.

  “Shut down,” Mom says as soon as I arrive in the kitchen. A few minutes later, I catch sight of Monroe as he slumps through the family room, across the foyer, and out the front door. I need to talk to him, but I can’t flag him down. He doesn’t look at me, and I have to settle for the only thing I can do. Chatline him later when we’re both “asleep.”

  “I thought Dad was in the city,” I say. “Why are his guards here?”

  Mom glances over her shoulder as the door closes. “The security hub had some issues this afternoon,” she says. “It malfunctioned, and he sent someone to fix it.” She makes his guards sound like repairmen. Monroe won’t like that, but I nod anyway.

  “No chatting during dinner,” Mom says as she tongs spaghetti into bowls.

  “I know, Mom,” I snap, even though she usually does need to remind me—and Dad—about this particular rule every night. I usually complain. Not tonight. I’ve had enough of the fantastic Circuit, with its millions of gigabytes of chaser programs that help me get into trouble.

  “Price,” she warns, shooting me the watch-your-tone-with-me look.

  “Sorry,” I mumble into my whole-wheat spaghetti. I find it hella ironic that she’s lecturing me about the overuse of networking. She’s the one linked-in eighteen hours a day. In fact, she’s still wearing her office clothes, though she links-in from the house for her job. Her honey-colored hair is curled and dark makeup lines her hazel eyes, as if someone can see the real her. “Is Dad still in the city?”