by Gwenda Bond
I reached out to turn off the receiver, considering how to answer. I’d wanted this to make everything clear. But there was no way they’d interpret what we witnessed—strange though it might be—as something more-than-strange. Strange Skies’ brand of strange. This wasn’t like what I had seen in Kansas. If I was in their place, I’d cling to the most normal explanation available.
And so I still couldn’t reveal my suspicions without them deciding that I was crazy. But I did know what I had to do next. I had to scheme my way inside the shiny headquarters of Advanced Research Labs.
SmallvilleGuy could have snooped out more details about the nature of the experiment over the weekend. I should get him the recording from the bug too.
Plus, I missed him. This was the longest we’d gone without chatting since we met.
“Almost,” I said. “I just need to talk to Perry later. Get him to give us a little more time.”
“Well, that’s no big deal then,” James said, not going light on the sarcasm.
Devin was staring where the receiver’s projection had been. I nudged his shoulder again as I stowed it, “Wake up, sleepy king. Time to go to class.”
“Oh, right.” He shot me a weak grin.
I wasn’t nearly far enough ahead of my bad luck. I was going to have to run faster, or I was afraid it would catch up with me.
With all of us.
*
When we left the library, I waved and hurried away . . . and then found a spot to lurk across from the entrance to the principal’s office. There was a bare blue patch of wall between a classroom door and a line of lockers that proved the perfect vantage point for my purposes. Principal Butler had a rep for not hanging around in his lair much in the afternoon, preferring to run his charm offensive in the halls.
I knew it was risky to keep skipping so much class. But, hey, I would go to this one, just a little late. If things worked out the way I wanted, I’d even have a note to cover it.
There were a lot of things I was worried about. Another call to my dad about problems at school was on the list, but not high enough to trump what had happened to Anavi and the experiment. Definitely not high enough to trump the possibility of me and my friends—yes, I was thinking of them that way, even James, whether they thought of me as theirs or not—losing the Scoop. Or Devin being targeted by the Warheads.
I waited a long, tense ten minutes, but finally Butler emerged. My bad luck kept a low profile, and he went in the opposite direction. I hadn’t made a contingency plan in case he had walked toward me, and, wow, that was sloppy amateur hour, wasn’t it?
Maybe I was more worried than I’d realized. Scattered.
This part I had to do exactly right. It started with nice blonde Ronda, who I turned a smile on for as I swept through the door to the reception area. I’d discovered that the other administrative staff were housed in a less centrally located office suite. Butler didn’t like anyone getting too close to his laurels.
“Is the principal around?” I asked, as if I didn’t have a clue.
Ronda was a smiler by nature, and returned mine automatically. But hers faltered at the question. “You set him off the other day.”
Poor Ronda had been the one who called me to the office, and the one who’d had to summon the Warheads after.
I took a few more steps toward her desk, leaned in and spoke softer, conspiratorial. “He’s kind of a bully, isn’t he?”
Ronda’s smile departed completely.
“Look, I just want to leave an apology note in his office.” I flipped open the top of my messenger bag and pulled out the pink envelope I had prepared over the weekend.
“You can leave it with me,” Ronda said.
“If you, say, stepped out to use the ladies’ room, he’d never know you even saw me. I’ll be quick. I just want to leave this. It’ll put him in a good mood. I swear.”
For a moment I was sure Ronda’s Stockholm syndrome was about to kick in and she’d say no. But she shrugged, gathered her purse and said, “I like you, so fine. I take a break every day about now. Need a little afternoon sugar fix. Powdered white donuts are my favorite, if you ever need to know.”
She crooked her head as she passed me on her way to the door. I didn’t disrupt her momentum with a thanks. I sailed up the hall to Butler’s office with my envelope.
The apology inside was a cover—and more. I hoped it’d do its job and I could do mine in the time it bought and paid for. Even if I was also worried about pulling off the rest of my plan. It was risky to take on Advanced Research Laboratories on my own. Dangerous even to contemplate it. That didn’t change the fact it was my logical next step.
Butler’s office was still stuffy and over-decorated. I hoped his password was the same too.
Of course I could always flip to the page in his leather notebook to get the new one, if he’d changed it. I pushed his chair back, not willing to grace the same seat as him, and bent to the keyboard. I typed in the word Macho (seriously) and the numerals 1 and 2. And I was in.
His inbox was open, and I searched through his contacts for ARLabs.com, the company’s domain. I recognized the CEO’s name.
“Why, I think I will create a new message to my good friend, Mr. Steve Dirtbag Jenkins, aka the boss,” I murmured as I pulled up a blank email and started typing.
The subject line read: Interview with Student (puff piece).
The email itself was a thing of beauty. I figured Butler would have done his due diligence to make sure his pals at ARL weren’t surprised by the story about Anavi and the Warheads in the Scoop. And so I informed Mr. Jenkins, CEO, that troublesome new student reporter Lois Lane had seen the light—as had her extremely powerful father—and that she’d agreed to make it up to the Principal by doing a story that very week on the charitable relationship the company had with the school, their largesse in mentoring students with new computers, nauseatingly kiss-up-y etc. I provided my own email address and said the student would be in contact directly that afternoon to confirm the appointment tomorrow at 12:45. I added a grace note about racquetball, because it seemed like the kind of non-sport Principal Butler would think rich people were into.
After that, what remained was a satisfying click on Send and then quickly setting a new rule that instructed the principal’s inbox to forward any replies—or emails at all, actually—from Mr. Jenkins, CEO, or anyone else at the ARLabs.com domain straight to me and delete the originals unread.
“Now, that is a job well done,” I said, signing out and propping the envelope on his keyboard.
I helped myself to an excused tardy slip off Ronda’s desk on my way out. That would buy me the extra time to duck back into the library and send SmallvilleGuy an update on what we’d seen and heard, along with a file of the bug’s recording in case he wanted to check it out. My parents had given my computer back that morning as I had left for school, but they still had my phone.
Other than that, making my appointment with the CEO was all I had to deal with.
Well, and Perry.
CHAPTER 21
I shouldn’t have been so cavalier about Perry. When I arrived in the Morgue, he was waiting in that coffin cave of an office at the back of the room.
I didn’t bother stopping to chat, because I had no idea how I should answer the questions my Scoop colleagues were bound to ask about the things we’d seen and heard from the lab and what our next move should be. I didn’t want them making any move that put them in danger or would get them in trouble again. And I didn’t want them deciding I was too nuts to be friends with.
My reckoning with Perry gave me a brief stay on talking to them. As I entered the cave, the first thing he said was, “I haven’t gotten a withdrawal of the retraction request.”
Not wanting to spill everything in a heartbeat, I shut the door behind me so the others couldn’t eavesdrop. I made my way over
to the dusty chair and sat.
Remember how he treated you like an equal? Act like one, Lane. Don’t wuss out.
“I need more time,” I said. “Not much, but a little. A day?”
“What can you do in a day that you haven’t in the last few?” Perry sat back in his chair, skeptical. “Legal will have my head if her parents sue. Or if Butler makes too much noise about the story being inaccurate. Or if your dad registers a complaint. In fact, tell me a way this doesn’t go wrong.”
“I will. There’s more going on here, Perry,” I said, noting how his eyebrows ticked up at my use of his name. He’d told me to use it. “I have—well, we have, all of us—uncovered evidence that Butler is in bed—figuratively, not literally, because I do not want that image in my brain—with a company called Advanced Research Laboratories. And that Anavi is only asking for the retraction because she’s been added to an experiment they’re doing with the students who were bullying her. It’s why Butler lets the Warheads get away with . . . murder.”
“What kind of experiment?” he asked. “It better not be another charity thing the company is doing if you’re asking for more time.”
“Did I say experiment with? I meant experiment on.”
His eyebrows rose. “Keep talking.”
“I don’t have all the details yet, but I can tell you that I’m sure it’s not harmless. And it’s not the kind of thing that should be happening, with or without the principal’s support. Give me one more day.”
“Listen,” Perry said, “my dad wasn’t a fan of my decision to become a journalist either. But this is a calling.”
“I know. I hear it. Loud and clear.”
“One more day?”
I nodded.
“I’ll smooth it over with Legal. But at the end of tomorrow—no, by this time tomorrow—we’d better have something to cover us. The retraction must be gone or we have to present proof that the request came in on illegitimate grounds. A new related story like the one you’re working on would do it.”
I was smart enough to get out while I was ahead. I stood. “Thank you, Perry.”
“Good luck, Lane.”
The one thing I could never count on. Oh well.
“How’d it go?” Maddy asked in a loud whisper when I neared the desks. Her space-age quality headphones hung around her neck, faint music audible from them. James was waiting for my answer too.
“He’s giving us a little more time. A day.”
Devin said nothing, staring at his monitor. I wanted to believe there was something on it. I was afraid if I checked and there wasn’t, I’d lose my nerve. That would mean they had Devin too. Or that they were close to it.
All the more important for me to finish this.
So I went to my desk and pulled out my laptop instead of logging onto the Scoop’s.
“What’s the plan?” Maddy asked.
James was watching me, his eyes narrowed speculatively, like he wondered what I was up to. He might be a decent reporter after all.
“Wait and see what they do tomorrow at school,” I said, knowing it was weak. “What else can we do?”
Neither of them looked convinced. I needed to change the subject and go back on distraction detail. “I forgot to tell you that I really liked your playlist, Maddy. But how come the bands on it weren’t the ones whose shirts you wear? Were the bands on the playlist your favorites or are those different and you didn’t think I’d like them?”
Maddy said, “Oh yeah, they’re different,” and mumbled something that might have been “you’re welcome,” then slipped her headphones back on. She went back to typing away.
I had meant to distract Maddy, maybe get her talking about bands. I hadn’t thought that she’d be that thrown off by the question. It worked out, though.
James glanced from me over to where Devin remained lost in his own little world. “Lois,” James said, pitching his voice low, and looking back at me, “I’m not here because of my dad. At least, not because he wants me to be. I’m here because the journalists who took him down were the heroes of the piece. And I need the paycheck. There was a reason he was embezzling. He made a lot of bad investments, and it didn’t leave much left for Mom and me. I need this to last, so you need to keep your promises.”
I blinked at him. James was here because he wanted to be here? He needed the money?
(We were getting paid?)
My mind was officially blown.
He didn’t say anything more and didn’t seem to expect me to answer. He returned to working at his computer, typing away. Leaving me free to write Dirtbag Jenkins, CEO, a lovely email and send it, telling him that I’d be at his offices at 12:45 the next day as promised by Principal Butler, and I looked forward to meeting him.
I required a slight lead on the Warheads for what I had in mind—at a minimum, getting proof of what was going on in that lab. Whatever it turned out to be.
Then I turned on my email auto-reply to be safe. If he couldn’t reach me or Butler, I’d be able to play dumbbell if anyone at the offices said the appointment had been canceled when I showed up. Not that I expected he would cancel. He’d been assured it was a puff piece and that I had an important father.
Next I signed in to chat to see if SmallvilleGuy had listened to the recording yet. I couldn’t wait until later.
I only had one day. Desperate times called for chatting in front of the others and trying not to make any goofy faces.
SkepticGirl1: You around? Get my message?
The little italicized script popped up that indicated SmallvilleGuy was there and typing.
SmallvilleGuy: Missed you too.
I smiled.
SkepticGirl1: I didn’t say I missed you.
SkepticGirl1: But I did.
SmallvilleGuy: Good, because I was about to feel dumb.
SkepticGirl1: Why?
SmallvilleGuy: For staging a picture of Shelby and Nellie Bly in jail—like you were all weekend.
He sent across the photo and I cracked up. He’d staged it in a barn, through a gate so that metal bars were like a jail cell (sort of), and the black and white baby calf was standing on the other side, a cranky-looking giant cow behind her (Bess, no doubt), and Shelby gazing up at her adoringly with a big dog grin.
I shouldn’t be laughing. A glance around told me the others thought I’d lost it. There was nothing to laugh about. We were down to the wire.
My heart beat quicker.
Because SmallvilleGuy was trying to lighten things for me. He’d thought of this over the weekend, assuming I’d be driven mad by being stuck in lockup, knowing that Monday would bring its own drama after what had happened in the game.
It was the sweetest thing. I tried to come up with a clever way to say that, but I couldn’t, so I stuck with the truth.
SkepticGirl1: That might be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.
SmallvilleGuy: I figured you’d need something to smile about. And you’re a sucker for cute animals. (Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. You’re still the toughest person I know.)
Before I could answer that . . .
SmallvilleGuy: Anavi hasn’t withdrawn her request?
SkepticGirl1: No, not yet. You have any bright ideas about what they’re up to at the lab?
SmallvilleGuy: Did you tell the others everything? About how they can mess with other people’s heads?
I sighed. If only.
SkepticGirl1: I couldn’t. There was nothing that tipped over the line that would make them believe in mad science.
SmallvilleGuy: Lois . . .
He was typing, and then typing, and then typing some more. But when he posted his message, it was short. More deleted things I’d never see.
SmallvilleGuy: I hate the idea of you going up against these guys alone.
I gnawed my l
ip, tapping a finger on the edge of the keyboard.
I hated it too.
But I would do it anyway. The next day, in fact.
SkepticGirl1: I need to get in there.
SmallvilleGuy: If they’re willing to experiment on human beings . . .
SkepticGirl1: This could be dangerous? I know, which is why I’m not taking anyone else along. I can handle it.
SkepticGirl1: You and me, remember? We protect people. We do what we have to do.
SkepticGirl1: At least, that’s what I think. You going to tell me it’s not true? That you’d do anything different in my place?
SmallvilleGuy: I don’t like it. Just wait. Give it time.
I shook my head before I remembered he couldn’t actually see me.
SkepticGirl1: Time’s up. They said they’re getting stronger and the lab guy seemed to agree.
SmallvilleGuy: Right, about that. What you sent helped. I did some more article searches. I’m willing to bet that Project Hydra is a new application of the real-sim tech. The original creator of Worlds had all these theories that were considered “out there” around group gaming and remapping neural pathways. He believed that the right auditory stimulus paired with the right real-sim imagery could do it. He gave a speech once saying he believed people’s brains could be rewired to work together and create a whole new, smarter consciousness during the game. And then disconnected just as easily with a different set of audiovisual cues.
SkepticGirl1: Those tones we heard. They leaned forward during them both times. They weren’t just listening, it was like they were looking at something too.
SmallvilleGuy: Exactly. We can’t see what they were seeing, but I think it’s probably a special sandbox real-sim environment not all that different than the game, and there’s a visual cue in there that goes with those tones. But the tones were the same both times. I checked. If he was right, every time they see and hear the cue, it’s making the connection stronger. From what I can tell, the lab guys don’t even realize they aren’t disconnecting the link. They have no idea they’re connecting it more strongly at the end of the session.