by Sara Grant
“Ethan, we promised we wouldn’t.” I’m suddenly cold. I tug my dress closed. “Please go,” I say, and pull my arms and legs in.
“But, Neva…” He reaches up to touch me and I flinch.
I stare at his silhouette and try to remember what loving him felt like.
“Neva, let’s tell our parents; let’s set a date.”
I shake my head.
“Okay, that’s fine. Whatever you want. I can wait.” He scoots closer for a kiss, but I move away.
“No, Ethan, I can’t marry you.” It hurts to say it, but I can’t keep lying to him.
“Okay, we don’t have to get married. You’re right. Why let the government think they’ve won? We’ll abstain for a while longer. We can live together…” He keeps stringing sentences together, not taking a breath.
“Ethan.” I place my hand on his. He stops talking. “I care about you, but I can’t be with you anymore.” Saying it gives me a moment of relief, but then sadness rushes over me. We’ve been together so long. I can’t imagine life without Ethan as my safety net. I have to remind myself that he’s not that Ethan anymore and hasn’t been for months.
He pats my hand. “You’ve been through a lot recently. I understand. You don’t mean it. It’s okay. We don’t need to decide anything now.”
Maybe I should leave it, but I can’t. If I stop now, I may never have the courage again. “Ethan,” I turn his face toward me. “I want you to find someone and get married and have children. You deserve to have the life you want.”
Even in the half light I can see the tears in his eyes. I wipe one away and kiss his cheek. Why can’t I pretend to love Ethan? It hurts me to see the pain in his eyes. I almost take it all back.
“Neva, please…” His voice cracks and he can’t finish his sentence.
“I’m sorry, Ethan.” I kiss his cheek and taste the salty sweetness of his tears.
He stands and tucks in his shirt. He bends over and kisses the top of my head. “You’re tired. This is all too much. I shouldn’t push you. Take your time. It’s okay.”
It’s as if he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said, but he’s gone before I can work up the courage to break up with him all over again.
Later I dig out my journal. I sit on my bed and print Effie’s name after Nicoline’s at the bottom of my quickly growing List of The Missing. It feels as if everyone has surrendered and I’m the only one still fighting. Our secret rebellion was the only thing that gave me hope. I let their words of discouragement fuel my resolve. I won’t let Sanna give up on us either. I read each name on my list. Ruth Laverne Adams. I say her name out loud. She is the first on my list and the reason I’m still fighting. I promise Grandma that I won’t give up.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
I’m tired of being pulled in so many directions. What Sanna needs. What Braydon wants. What Ethan asks. I decide to take a hiatus from all of them. I stop answering their calls and, because Mom tells them I am grounded, they stop calling.
Now I’m thankful for my job. Even without GovNet, I’m in the perfect position to find out why more and more people are disappearing. But I’ve got to be patient and smart. This is not the time for a sledgehammer. To open the Protectosphere, I need a pin. My new strategy is to poke a million tiny holes. The first thing I need to do is earn my dad’s trust. I need him to believe I’m the best, most efficient government employee ever. In other words, I mimic Effie.
“Neva!” Dad bellows from his office. I don’t have Effie’s sixth sense for when Dad needs something, and it annoys him. Everything seems to annoy him these days.
I spring to my feet and am standing at attention in front of his desk before he can yell for me a second time. “Yes?” I have to soothe my urge to rebel at being treated like a servant. Now Dad has to do most of Effie’s job. All I can do are the menial, unimportant tasks, but I see every job as an opportunity. Getting his third cup of coffee from the cafeteria is an opportunity to explore another corridor of this massive catacomb. Delivering Dad’s stack of mail is a chance to figure out who does what around here. I read every memo and every file I can get my hands on. I can’t be too eager, or Dad will get suspicious.
“This damn thing.” He whacks his InfoScreen on the top of his desk.
“Dad, you’ll break it.” I swoop in and take the handheld device from him. It’s his most prized possession. He salvaged it from his dad’s belongings.
“It’s not working again.” His face is glowing red. He rummages through the files on his desk as if he’s looking for something. His phone rings. I go to answer it. He snatches the phone from its cradle. “What?” He takes a breath and starts again. “Dr. Adams.” He pauses. “I’m sorry I can’t hear you… I’m losing you… I can’t…” He throws the phone across the room. “How am I supposed to work if everything keeps breaking?” he huffs.
“Dad, are you okay?” I retrieve the phone and put it back, careful not to get too close to him.
“Sorry, Neva.” He rakes his hand through his horseshoe of hair, and it’s as if I’m watching an actor switch into character. He sniffs and straightens. “I need you take my InfoScreen to Allan in the annex and see if he can fix it,” he says calmly, back in control.
I turn the device over in my hands. It fits neatly in my palm. I’ve never held it before. Its screen is normally illuminated with words or images or both. He keeps a library full of documents in this tiny thing. It really is quite amazing. Most people have never seen one of these. “Okay.” I turn to go. He forgets I have no idea who Allan is or where the annex is. I could ask, but I don’t want to agitate him further. It also gives me a chance to ask someone else questions and explore the building.
“Thanks, Neva,” he calls as I exit. That’s a first. Another tiny success and another pinprick in the Protectosphere.
I leave the Information Service wing and look for a friendly face. Most people keep their heads down and don’t make eye contact. I head toward the cafeteria. I’ve learned that I have more success getting answers outside of the Information Services wing. Everyone knows I am Dr. Adams’s daughter there and seems a bit wary of me. I’ve also discovered that people are more open to my inquiries when they are away from their desks, and the lower their rank the more likely it is that they will chat with me instead of just answering one question. I spot a lanky, gray-headed man in greenish gray coveralls, Tim, according to his name badge. Perfect.
“Ya want the tech graveyard,” he says when I tell him I’m looking for Allan in the annex. “Follow me. You’ll never find it on your own.”
I have to skip a few steps to keep up with him. He maneuvers the complex like a mouse in pursuit of cheese. “What ya need the annex for?” Tim asks, still snaking through the complex.
“My da—Dr. Adams needs Allan to fix his InfoScreen.” I show him the device cupped in my palm.
He stops and takes it from me. “I ain’t seen one of these thingy whatsits.” He flips it over and taps on the screen. “My grandpa had one of them. He said everyone used to have’ em. I thought he was fibbing, but he swore it was a phone and ya could listen to music, watch movies, and play games on it.”
Everyone of my grandma’s generation likes to reminisce about the good old days when life was simpler. They had gadgets and technology to do everything. She would tell me stories of machines that looked almost human and were like a secretary, chauffeur, and maid all wrapped into one. She said her grandparents could take trips without ever leaving their house; she called it a virtual something. My grandma even swore that people before The Terror could fly in big metal birds. I didn’t think she was lying exactly, but it’s hard to believe.
“This baby’s dead as a doorknob.” Tim shakes the InfoScreen next to his ear as if he’s listening for loose parts.
I take it back from him. “I hope not. Dr. Adams won’t be happy about that.”
He starts walking. “Yeah, from what I hear Dr. Adams ain’t happy about much these days.”
I
catch up to him. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, that pinched-faced assistant of his got the ax. She’d bless him before he even thought to sneeze.”
I laugh. It’s true.
“I heard he lost his temper over something at the Council meeting the other day.” We take a sharp left and then another right.
“Really?”
“Yeah, he’s not one for yelling, but I guess he nearly blew a gasket.” We cut through a conference room. “Almost there.” We take a sky bridge to another building.
“What was he so mad about?” That’s not like my dad at all. He prides himself on being calm, cool, and collected.
“You think they tell people like me something like that, little lady?”
“You seem to know an awful lot.”
“That’s what you get when you keep your ears open and your mouth shut. Ya got two of these”—he points to his ears—“and one of these”—he smiles, and I notice he’s missing a tooth—“for a reason. And, I think I’ve said too much.”
We take stairs all the way to the basement, and finally Tim stops. He nods toward the sign on the door: TECHNOLOGY RECYCLING CENTER. “Yeah, I know what it says, but, trust me, it’s where gadgets go to die. I’ll wait for you here,” he says, resting his back against the wall. “Big Al don’t like me much.”
I open the door, and a buzzer sounds.
“Can I help you?” a squeaky voice calls from some unknown place.
I’m too busy taking it all in to answer. The room spans two stories and is about the size of football field. A counter stretches from one wall to the other and serves as a barricade, only letting people walk a few feet into the space.
“Can I help you?” The voice is closer this time.
“Um, yes,” I say and then speak louder. “Dr. Adams sent me. He needs his InfoScreen fixed.”
Floor-to-ceiling cages are packed with large, flat, black screens. Bins the size of dumpsters are littered with tiny capsules. There are piles of computers and cables coiled into mountains. The room is lit up like Christmas with tiny lights flickering and screens flashing with a strobe effect. The room hums, buzzes, and beeps. It’s stimulation overload.
A man a foot shorter than I am seems to materialize in front of me. “Can I help you?” His voice sounds like a hinge in need of oil.
“Are you Allan?”
He nods. He has thick-rimmed glasses. One half is a black rectangle and the other is a red oval. The two halves are taped together at the bridge of his nose. He’s got some sort of electronic band that circles his head. He’s so thin his translucent skin seems alive with blue veins and knobby bones.
I hand him the InfoScreen.
“You work for Dr. Adams.” He sizes up me and then the device. He presses a panel on the counter and a screen pops up. “Your name?”
“Neva Adams.”
He waves his hand over the counter and the image of a keyboard appears. He types my name on the flat surface.
“That’s pretty cool,” I say.
“What seems to be the problem?” He lays the InfoScreen on the counter and keeps typing.
“Um, I don’t know. It doesn’t work.”
“Helpful.” The word is dripping with sarcasm. He pushes more buttons. A thin white line moves across Dad’s InfoScreen. I can’t tell where the light is coming from. It could even be projected from Allan’s headband for all I know.
“What is all this stuff?” I ask, and nod to the warehouse behind him.
“Parts, basically,” he mumbles, paying more attention to the InfoScreen than me.
I notice a cage full of surveillance cameras. My blood runs cold. There are enough cameras in there to cover every square inch of the capital. “Are you fixing those?” I point.
He doesn’t look up. “No more parts.”
“Really?”
“Not a priority.”
I wonder what is a priority. Tracking devices?
“Tell Dr. Adams I’ll have this back to him in a few days. He needs to back up everything on here. I’m not going to be able to patch this up for him much longer.”
“Okay.”
The InfoScreen flickers on. Allan’s bony fingers tap feverishly on the screen. “Anything else?” he asks when he realizes I’m still there.
“No, thanks.” I slip out the door. Tim is still waiting. His eyes are closed and I think he’s snoring. When the door to the tech graveyard clicks shut, Tim’s eyes flutter open, as if he’s a machine flickering to life.
“Pretty amazing, huh?” Tim says, stifling a yawn.
“I don’t know what half of that stuff was.”
“Progress.” He laughs. We start back the way we came. “They want you to believe that the less technology we use the better off we all are,” he whispers. “Poppycock. I used to love all my thingy whatsits.”
“But aren’t they using more technology to watch us?” I ask, feeling like I can trust him.
“Nah. That’s what they want you to believe. Half those fancy cameras they have looking down at us don’t work.”
“What about tracking devices?” As soon as I ask it, I wish I hadn’t.
He stops dead in his tracks. He looks around, swiveling as if he’s a surveillance camera. “Why’d ya ask something like that?”
I shrug.
“They got the technology, but they don’t always use it, if you know what I mean.”
I don’t.
Reading the confusion in my face, he continues, “They implant devices, but they don’t always track people.”
“Really?” His words drill tiny holes into the government’s cool facade.
“They pick and choose.”
I give him a big hug.
“What’s that for?” he asks when I’ve set him free.
“Nothing.” I smile. “Just thanks. I’ll find my way back from here.”
He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Suit yourself. I’ve known lesser mortals than you to get lost for days in this place.”
“I’m not feeling very mortal at the moment,” I call as I race down the hall. The iron grip I thought the government had on me, on all of us, has loosened just a little.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Dad’s been giving me more and more responsibility and more space. The last few weeks, since Effie disappeared, have been torture. I only speak when spoken to. I do what I’m told when I’m told as efficiently as I possibly can. Without Sanna, Braydon, and Ethan in my life, all I have is my job—and my secret mission. I decide to take my spy efforts up a notch. I sit at Effie’s desk with Dad’s office door open a crack. He doesn’t seem to notice. I watch him as he sits at his desk reading or staring off into space. He seems more and more distracted. He will ask for things and forget that he asked when I show up with the requested item. He starts sentences that he can’t finish. Human Resources sends over replacements for Effie, but between my sabotage and Dad’s demands, they don’t last for more than a few days.
I come to work with him every morning and leave with him every evening. I time how long it takes him to use the bathroom—one five-minute break in the morning and one in the afternoon, like clockwork. Every time I’m in his office my eyes are drawn to the back corner where I saw him walk through the wall. Nothing looks suspicious, but I know what I saw. Today he’s given me a stack of books to reshelve in his office. I wait until it’s nearly time for his morning bathroom break. I put on the lab coat and white gloves I’m supposed to wear when I’m in his office. I go about my work quietly. He checks the clock. He glances at me as if he might ask me to leave, but I pretend to be hard at work. He slips out of his office. I think he’s hoping I don’t notice.
I don’t take time to lay down my armload of books. I charge to the back corner of his office. I don’t know how much time I have. I start pushing and prying each panel, glancing at the open office door every few seconds. I press the wooden trim at hand height and feel it give. I push it. Nothing. I slip a fingernail in the crack
between the trim and the wood paneling and it slides. I can hardly breathe. I bend down and see a tiny keyhole. I quickly slide the panel back in place and am shelving the last book when Dad returns a minute later.
I finally know how to get into his secret space. I thought there might be a computer code or a magic word, but even Dad’s security is ancient. Now all I’ve got to do is find the key. I keep my eyes open. I watch his every move.
One night when he’s packing up to go home, I study him. I’ve learned most of his rituals. He straightens the file folders on his desk and thumbs through the title tabs. He stows a few files in his top right office drawer. That’s when I know he’s ready to go, so I usually start packing up too. But this afternoon, I watch him. He takes off his lab coat. He doesn’t like to wear it outside of the office. Might bring unwanted toxins back in. He takes something from his lab coat pocket, something he pinches between his thumb and finger. If I wasn’t watching so closely, I might have missed it. He tucks whatever it is in his vest pocket. The pocket is the perfect size for a tiny key that fits a tiny lock. That must be it. It takes every ounce of strength to keep from leaping out of my chair and punching the air. Inside my head a symphony swells to crescendo.
I want to tell Sanna everything I’ve discovered, to share my little victory with her, but I decide to wait until I have something more concrete. Every thought of Sanna leads to thoughts of Braydon. No matter how hard I try, how I throw myself into work, he always lingers in my mind.
I’m beginning to think I’m never going to get my chance to test my theory about the key and Dad’s secret room. Then today I hear Dad talking to a colleague about some big emergency meeting scheduled for this afternoon. His InfoScreen is still on the fritz, so I collect the books he needs for his meeting. He is flustered. He keeps getting phone calls, which is unusual. About ten minutes before the meeting, I stack the books in front of him. I’ve got to orchestrate this just right. My goal is to hurry him out of the office so he forgets to lock it.
“Shouldn’t you be going?” I ask.