Focus. I had to focus. First, I had to make it out the talkative front door. There was a sensor in the doorframe that kept track of our comings and goings. Otherwise, the smart house wouldn’t know to greet us when we came in or say goodbye when we left. It had to be programmed to somehow recognize us when it was activated.
But I was smarter than the “smart” house. I’d found the sensor in the top hinge. When the door opened, a connection broke and the sensor activated. I didn’t know if there was a Supe or Admin in some office somewhere who monitored these sensors, but I did know that I didn’t want my idiot house to announce when I was leaving.
Luckily, whoever designed the sensor thought everyone was an idiot. Or it wasn’t meant to be security tek. Fooling the thing involved sliding a thin piece of self-adhering metal into the hinge so that when you opened the door, it didn’t fall out. That way, the connection never broke. The only problem was that my magnetic strip didn’t keep its magnetic properties very long.
I reached into my zip pocket, finding the thin strip. I held it to a lower hinge. Bug it; it didn’t stay on its own. I crept to the kitchen. I had to hurry; my friends would be waiting.
In the kitchen, I tiptoed to the Food-Jeni and held the metal strip against the side of its steel door, right next to the powered actuator. I felt the actuator’s gentle vibration in my fingers. I carefully slid the strip down, lifting it from the door and then sliding it down again. It made a soft rasping sound and I repeated the action several more times, hoping to speed up the work of the magnetic coil in the actuator.
After a couple of minutes, the strip stuck to the metal door on its own. A moment later, I slipped my sliver of magnetized metal into place in the top hinge of my house’s front door, making a mental note to grab it when I came back. I closed the door behind me and glanced around, seeking any sign of movement on the street or behind any windows. Pale blue streetlights lit the long street, making the leaves on the two trees in each yard look almost white and casting shadows everywhere. Every light in every identical house was out. I looked up but only saw a few stars.
I had to get to Hope Park. I glanced at the metal cup covering my Papa face. This would work.
Heading to my cycle, I felt like a faker. In my head, I knew the Bug was gone. I preached that to my Pusher friends, but what did brave old Nik Granjer do? I still used the knockout as insurance. Sure, I hadn’t needed it in months, but I had never deliberately blocked the knockout until my heart rate was down to 120. I’d never pushed my heart rate anywhere near 140 with the glue blocking the knockout. This would be the first time my safety net would be gone.
I swallowed hard and told myself to quit stalling. My cycle leaned in its slot to the right of the door, metal spokes on the wheels gleaming in the spill of light from the streetlamps. The cycle stand was on a concrete pad surrounded by the oxi-grass that covered the space in front of our house. I held my Papa close to the sensor on my cycle’s handlebars. A click sounded softly, unlocking the cycle. Good, the metal interference cup still let me use my Papa close up. Hopefully it blocked the signal from the trackers that we were sure the Papas had.
I spun the cycle around and pedaled down the road, headed east. I rode past several streets that branched off from mine. “Fox-ten. Fox-nine,” I whispered, naming the side streets as I zipped past them. My heart picked up the pace as I increased my speed. I was definitely in the mid-nineties now. Nerves made my stomach clench. I forced myself to relax. This would work. I wished I could chat with Bren through the EarCom.
Without looking at the Papa, I whispered, “Now.” The three-toned warning sounded muffled under the metal cup. It wanted me to spend more time warming up; my heart rate was rising too fast. I didn’t care. Besides, if I pushed the cycle a little harder, it would scream at me and the speed suppressor would automatically engage, keeping me to a “calmer” speed.
“Frag it.” I kept my voice down. “I should have done this before.” I stopped the cycle with a few thumb taps on the brake button. In one movement, I kicked the stand lever with my heel and jumped off. The pneumatic feet deployed swiftly and quietly. By the time they held the cycle up, I had nearly removed the external casing of the tiny box attached to the main stem of the cycle. Using my pinky nail, I poked around for a minute and then, finding the tiny chip, slid it slightly out of its slot with a well-practiced movement.
I jumped back on and got going, wanting to hit the hill and get up it without the cycle’s kinetic motor kicking in and helping me out. I urged my legs to move faster, enjoying the sensation of my ankle joints smoothly swiveling with each revolution of the pedals. I felt like a machine, unstoppable and tireless. I guessed I was going at least 20 kilometers per hour by the time I started up the low hill that marked the northeast end of Green Rez, the residential sector I lived in.
My Papa beeped again. One long beep and two short ones. This one meant my pulse had just hit 100. I ignored it, knowing I could make it up the small hill without pushing my heartbeat much faster than 120.
The alert came one more time before I crested the hill. That meant I’d hit 115 and was, according to my wrist-dad, approaching the danger zone. “Shut up,” I whispered, tapping the cycle to a halt at the top of the hill. I didn’t need a computer to tell me how to live. I didn’t even need it to tell me my pulse. Nobody I knew needed their Papas for that anymore. We had grown up with these things constantly alerting us, so we just had to stop and pay attention for a half-second and we could tell our pulse. It was—well—in our blood.
I scanned Purple Rez, which was laid out right in front of me. Hope Park lined the east edge of Purple Rez.
Nothing moved. No, wait. A few streets down, I saw what looked like someone on a cycle. Purple Rez was the residence sector just north of Green Rez and was where Bren lived. I pedaled hard, wanting to catch up to him. I zipped down the hill, crouching low over my handlebars.
I imagined the day that the Bug had hit, the day of the Infektion. Thousands of joggers and weight-lifters and others had fallen down dead in gyms and on roads all over the world, their healthy hearts passing the dreaded 140 beats per minute barrier, allowing the Bug to infiltrate their cardiovascular systems and kill them almost instantly. Teachers had been telling us for years that we had never really been sure of what it was about the higher heart rate. There were theories that some kind of protein or other chemical was released when the heart hit a certain speed, which, of course, depended on each person, but the fact was that nobody had ever really been sure.
I had trouble believing that, but Bren always called me paranoid and delusional. Maybe he was right, but it was hard to believe we hadn’t figured out everything related to the Bug. It had killed billions of people. Cities all around the world had been devastated. The only cure had been to keep everybody calm and impose 140 beats per minute as the maximum safe threshold for everyone. Of course, everyone was a little different, but the scientists had estimated that everyone’s vulnerable range began at 140 and ended at 150 at the most. The idea was that nobody would get the Bug if their heart rate stayed lower than 140. So everyone had to stay calm.
I savored the wind in my face, the air whistling through my ears. I loved the sensation that I could almost feel my blood pumping faster through my veins. This was going to be a very uncalm night.
Calm.
Sure, they had had to keep people calm in order to keep them safe from the Infektion, and doctors had only figured that out after millions—billions—of people had died, buried in shallow graves all around the planet or burned in massive bonfires. Maybe there were still big piles of human ashes in addition to piles of old burned books and magazines. An image of countless pillars of smoke billowing into an atmosphere infested by the Bug flashed behind my eyes.
I shook the image away. Ninety percent of humanity had died. But that was old news. Those people were long gone. And so was the Bug. It had to be gone.
Questions and doubts surged. I forced them down.
Time to prov
e it.
CHAPTER 5
I only caught up to Bren when he was a street away from Hope Park.
“Off the cycle!” I pitched my voice low.
I burst out laughing at Bren’s head whipping around, the fear on his face. I pulled alongside him.
“Bug-eater.” Bren swung at me and I swerved. “You just about killed me.”
“Baby,” I said.
He slowed as we got closer to Hope Park. We both looked around, listening for the sound of Enforser pods. At the same moment, we glanced at our covered Papas.
“These better work.” Bren lifted his left wrist, indicating the metal cup.
“They’ll work.” I tapped my brake sensor; we were almost there. “And you’re a bug-eater.”
“Shut up.” He grinned at me, waiting.
I jumped off my cycle at the edge of Hope Park’s oxi-grass. I straightened and acted like I was looking down my nose at him. “You’re a spammer. Besides, if the interference cups weren’t working, we’d be in big trouble already.”
“All right, all right.” Bren pushed off his cycle. He looked at me through the dim light. “Seriously, though—are you sure about this? What if it’s still here?”
“Totally impossible.” I felt the truth of those two words. The fear in my gut eased. I knew I was right.
“But why do they say it is?” Bren snorted. “Shut up, I know. Control. But why?”
I thought about his question. We’d been over this a lot, but I didn’t mind thinking it through again. “It’s just a guess, but maybe someone just likes power. Or they think this is better for humanity. Either way, they’re wrong.”
“But people are fine and we’re alive.”
I caught sight of the others, standing in a cluster under some trees. We pushed our cycles through the thick, uniform oxi-grass. “True, unless you define alive as actually having a life.” We kept walking. “Nobody heard you go out, right?”
Bren laughed. “Dok, I almost woke Jan up as I was leaving.”
I peered at him through the darkness. “Not good, Bren.”
“I said ‘almost,’” Bren said.
“Does she know about tonight?” Jan was Melisa’s friend, and Melisa was a Pusher.
“Pretty sure Melisa didn’t say anything.”
I nodded. “Good.” But the image of Jan watching me make history tonight felt kind of cool. How would she react? The next image in my head made my face heat up. I tried to shake it away. She’d hear soon enough. But she still might not see me as anything more than just her brother’s best friend.
Pushing that thought away, I headed toward the group of Pushers with Bren. Everybody turned to watch us as we approached. They stood half-hidden in the shadows of the trees. I glanced at Melisa, who stood on the right of the group. I could tell her face was set in an expression of challenge. She had never believed that I was going to do this, had been “calling my bluff” for the entire week. She’d find out that I wasn’t bluffing soon enough.
“Hey guys,” Bren said. “Everyone put the metal cup on, right?” He raised his wrist.
Everyone else did the same. “Of course,” Melisa said.
“You really doing this?” David needed to be slapped. I sometimes wondered if he was here basically to be a bug-eater. He almost never Pushed, but he knew Bren from Human Studies. David and Pol, his younger brother, had showed up at the last after-school meet-up and sometimes chatted with Bren and me when we got together during lunch between classes. David struck me as a coward, so I was surprised he had the guts to game the knockout tonight and come out here.
Koner and his friends, Jak and Greg, had shown up to our after-school Pushing maybe two months ago with Melisa and two of her friends, Nataly and Dona. Thankfully, Jan had never come. Dona stood next to Melisa now. No Nataly. Fine.
“What are you looking at?” I asked. Everybody was just staring at me.
“You, Bugface.” Melisa scowled at me. “If you’re going to do it, let’s go.” She checked her Papa. “These cups might work, but somebody’s going to wonder where our signals went.”
I shrugged. If my stomach got any tighter, I was going to puke. “Fine.”
“Nik,” Pol said. “You sure about this? If you stop the knockout and push past 140—what if the Bug’s still here?”
“It’s not. Everyone knows that,” Koner said.
“But what if it is?” Greg said. “The Speekers report at least one death every month or so . . . “
“Shut up,” Pol grunted, elbowing Greg. “It doesn’t matter. Chiphead here doesn’t have the guts to do it.”
Irritation flared, loosening my stomach. “Spam! Just watch.” I traded a glance with Bren, nodded confidently to him, and pushed my cycle away from the group. The path that wound through the park was a slightly lighter strip of flat, tough rubber that disappeared off to the right and left. Reaching the path, I got on my cycle.
“Hey Bugface,” Melisa said. She had followed me, and the others had followed her. “Forgetting something?” She held up her left wrist.
“No,” I said. I had been, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. I reached in the pocket of my zip and pulled out the fresh wad of glue that I had made that day. This new wad was still somewhat malleable, so it was a little harder to slide between my skin and the Papa on my wrist, but after a few tries I got it. My breath caught in my throat, but I forced myself to stare everyone down. There went my safety net.
I lifted my wrist, turning it and showing it off. “Approved?”
Jak, always the guy who had to make sure rules were followed, despite the fact that he was at this very moment breaking curfew in a big way, stepped closer. He grabbed my hand and wrist and pulled them close to his face. He wiggled the pad of glue. “It’s good,” he said. His officious announcement bothered me, but I ignored that.
I nodded and got on my cycle.
“Wait,” Koner said. “How do we know you’re not going to take the glue out when we can’t see?”
“Dok.” Greg slapped the back of the guy’s head. “The glue makes the Papa totally useless. It can’t even read his pulse when the glue’s in there. No beeping.”
“No pulse, no knockout.” David said.
“How do we know your heart rate’s high enough?” Koner asked.
“Simple,” I said. “I’ll burn back here fast after getting it up high. You guys can take my pulse by hand.” We’d already talked about this; they were just stalling, which I kind of didn’t mind. Quit it. I’m right about this.
The Bug was gone. The Papas weren’t keeping us safe anymore; they were controlling us.
But it was fun to think that maybe these guys were worried that they were about to watch me die right before their eyes in a few minutes. I turned right and started pedaling. “The Bug is no more! I, Nik Granjer, shall prove it!” Pushing hard, I followed the path’s twists up a small hill. The kinetic motor kicked on to help me get up the hill. The chip must’ve fallen back into the slot. I felt the electric motor ease the amount of pressure I had to use to move the pedals and scowled inwardly. I needed to get my heart rate up, not have help going up hills. I forced myself not to look back at the group of Pushers; I was sure some of them thought I was going to die.
The hill sloped downward into a popular recreation area that had a bunch of trees all around. I pedaled quickly, pushing my heart rate quickly past 100. No warning beeps. The glue was working so far. And if it didn’t stop the knockout—well, it would. It had to.
Not about to die. I repeated that phrase in my head a few times, pedaling steadily, the wind cooling my face.
I had to change this. Either way, I wasn’t going to live a lifeless life. One of infinite boredom.
I slowed to turn around. I took a deep breath and adjusted the wad of glue. Releasing my breath, I counted down from five. On “one,” I shot off, gulping air and trying to swallow it past the knot in my chest. “The Bug’s gone,” I whispered, the wind sweeping my words behind me.
I hit the bottom of the hill, pumping the pedals hard and gripping the handlebars tightly, and sped up the slope. My feet moved faster as the stupid kinetic motor kicked on again. The Bug’s gone. I was at 120, easy. No beeping. I hit the hill’s crest, pulled up on the handlebars of the cycle and got some air, and then dropped fast. “The Bug’s gone!” I shouted, exhilaration making my voice louder than I’d expected.
I pedaled harder, my legs beginning to burn. My hands felt completely stuck to the grips of the handlebars. I had to be at 130 or more. “It’s gone. It’s gone,” I sang under my breath between gasps. This had to be the fastest I’d ever gone—I guessed I was going 40 kilometers per hour, at least.
Swerving around a curve, I blasted past the gathered Pushers right when I was certain I’d hit 140. Might as well make sure of it. My breath caught painfully in my throat and chest.
Digging deeper, I pushed my cycle faster, up another hill, this one bigger. I had to have broken 140. Had to. The charge in the kinetic motor must have been at max after all this pedaling. This time I appreciated the help getting up the hill. I hit the top of the rise, shot down, and then tapped the cycle into a near stop as I pulled it hard to the left. The back wheel screeched and fishtailed around. I was already pedaling again, back up the hill. My thighs ached, wanting to quit. The motor made things a little easier. I pushed harder. My heart pounded hard, like the beat of the hammer machines in the Enjineering Dome. It felt like my heart wanted to rip open my chest. Coming down the hill, I kept pedaling even though it hurt, wanting to maintain my pulse. I felt like I must have been hitting 150 or more. My stomach was tight; I felt almost sick. Was the Bug about to attack me? Everyone knew 140 was just the minimum safe threshold and that each person had their own vulnerable range.
What was my range?
I pushed the question away. No way. I knew I was right.
I brought the cycle to a shuddering halt with a bunch of fast taps on the brake sensor, sliding to a stop right in front of the others. Gasping for breath, I shot my hands into the air. “Bug’s gone!” My entire body shook from exertion. I was right! Elation filled me with energy; I wanted to shout loud enough to wake up the entire city.
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