“Here we go,” she says, pulling open the trapdoor.
I peer over her shoulder down mossy stone steps into a dark tunnel.
“And don’t forget to breathe. There’s plenty of space down here. I promise.” She starts down, and, swallowing the perma-lump in my throat, I follow close behind, focusing on filling my lungs as we descend past mud walls teeming with ferns.
“Pull the door down behind you, please,” she says as our heads disappear below the earth.
Panic knotting my shoulders, I tug on the lid, blotting out daylight above us. To my relief, lanterns lining the walls at the bottom of the steps illuminate as soon as the door clicks shut. When we reach the base of the stairs, three identical stone tunnels, all with domed ceilings and lined with flickering lanterns, jut in different directions. She’s right. It’s much bigger down here than I could have imagined, and I exhale relief.
“What is this place?” I ask, my vision slowly adjusting to the dim light.
Allard heads down the tunnel to our right.
“A treasure chest of sorts.” Her voice floats back to me, and I scramble to keep up. “This is where we keep our loot.” She laughs. “And it’s where we study. Disconnects have been adding on to it for over a century. It’s like a secret passageway to every city in the world. Behind each door is a replica of a museum containing both authentic and fake works—including 3-D printed forgeries that have rewritten history. It was never meant to be a maze, but as tunnels have been added, it’s turned into a labyrinth of twists and turns. The true number of galleries and treasures hidden down here is one of Keystone’s most guarded secrets.”
She stops and takes a small vial out of her pocket. “If you ever get lost, remember: water flows downhill.” Opening the vial, she pours the liquid it contains onto the ground. It rolls in a small trickle to the right. “You can follow it to the Vault’s other entrance.”
“It’s all downhill from here,” I say. “Got it.”
“Exactly.” She winks. “This way.”
We make two more lefts, then a sharp right, and I’m already lost. The corridors are all practically identical.
“Here we are,” Allard finally says.
She stops abruptly, and I almost bump into her.
“Where is here?” I ask.
“This is the Crypt. Our library.” She pulls open a rusted metal door and ushers me inside. “It’s modeled after the International Spy Museum in Washington, D.C., and contains hundreds of code-breaking machines and all sorts of gadgets. Are you ready for your first lesson?”
Inside, the space is shockingly modern, with polished cement floors and lit-up display cases containing briefcases, old-fashioned cameras, and antique computer keyboards.
“I guess so…”
She closes the door and leads me past a fingerprinting display. “It’s imperative you learn to transmit messages that won’t be intercepted. You’ll need to learn to code and decode. This place is an amazing resource—you can check anything out. We have Enigma machines and ciphers dating back to medieval times. Those are located back here.” She pushes open another door, and the air sucks in around us, becomes colder. “These are the archives, modeled after Yale University’s Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library.”
Dozens of individually lit bookshelves rise in front of us, forming a massive cube encased in glass. The surrounding walls are made of paneled marble, and brown leather couches are scattered at the base of the cube, arranged next to gold-framed rectangular tables.
As we enter, a boy about my age looks up from a massive book he’s studying on one of the tables.
Having expected to be alone, I almost jump out of my skin.
He slams the book shut and leaps to his feet.
“Garrett,” Allard exhales. “It’s good to see you.”
I’m instantly self-conscious. Terrified he’ll recognize me as Ella, I get busy studying my toes. Even though my hair now finishes in a jagged crop above my shoulders, and beneath my angled bangs, a row of white stars explodes over my black eye. I feel his stare and I imagine he sees right through me. He’s a thief, after all; they’re perceptive.
“You, too,” he says.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Allard says.
“It’s fine. I was on my way out.”
“You don’t have to leave.”
I venture a peek at him. Dark, messy hair falls across his forehead, and three smeared black bars are painted under one eye. He’s wearing a jumpsuit like mine, but his stretches across wide shoulders, his sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. His smoldering green eyes pop, amplified by exhausted red rims, and his full lips purse in a frown. If I were remotely able to find anyone attractive at this moment, I would surrender at his feet. Something about him has me buzzing like there’s static electricity in the air, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my hair was standing on end.
“It’s not you,” he says. Peeling off a pair of white gloves, he discards them next to the book. “I leave for Atlanta in a few hours.”
“Ah.” Allard smiles. “Good luck.”
“Hopefully I don’t need it.” He brushes past us without so much as a glance at me, but his nearness sends a rush of heat up my spine all the same. He’s much taller than I am. But then, most people are.
The door sucks closed behind him, and the buzz fizzles.
“I thought you said the campus was deserted?” I ask, staring after him, the air stagnant without his energy filling it.
“It is. Garrett’s parents—Whitney and Jeff—live here year-round. They’re the heads of the training program and the only people beyond me who know your identity. I’ll introduce you to them when they return from their summer heist.”
“Does he know—”
“You can trust your secret is safe.” She cuts me off before I finish my question. “Garrett doesn’t get special treatment. He’ll be leading his Initiation Heist this year and is headed out for some extracurricular practice. If all goes well, we’ll be adding the secret recipe for Coca-Cola to our archives soon. He was studying…let’s see…” Heading to the desk, she puts on his white gloves, studying the cover of some ancient text. “Interesting…”
“What is it?” Joining her, I study the cracked brown cover. “It looks really old.”
“The Voynich manuscript… It’s a legendary book dating from around the fifteenth century written in a secret language and filled with illustrations of zodiac symbols, naked people, and plants that don’t exist.” She opens the book, revealing colorful flowers painted over illustrated symbols that look like they were written with a quill.
“So cool. What does it say?”
“Nobody knows. Some people think it’s a medieval alchemic Kama Sutra, others think it’s an anatomy and biology book, while still others think it’s a hoax—gibberish. It was stolen from the Beinecke by yours truly, as a matter of fact.” She smiles, and her eyes take on the hazy glow of memory. “We thought we’d try our hand at deciphering it before anyone else could make up their own version of what these codes mean. Many have tried, and personally I think it might be unsolvable, but at any rate, it’s safe here.”
“What does it have to do with the recipe for Coke?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Maybe Garrett was deciphering it for practice.” She shrugs. “It’s good to train your brain how to think when faced with code. Maybe he was getting in the right mindset.”
“Maybe…” Peering at the strange illustrated plants and random symbols, I feel my stomach knot. I can’t imagine making sense of it.
Seeming to read my thoughts, Allard says, “Let’s start with something easy.” Closing the Voynich, she heads to the glass tower, and I expect her to wave a hand so the doors will slide open, but instead, she punches in a code on a keypad and pushes the door open manually. She disappears inside, returning a couple minutes later with another b
ook, this one with an eight-point cross on the cover.
“Pigpen ciphers,” she says, setting the book on the table, “are a series of grids and dots based on the ciphers used by the Knights Templar in the twelfth century…”
She shows me the Templar cipher system of shapes arranged around the Maltese Cross and what letter each shape corresponds to. “Commit this to memory, and you’ll have the basis for breaking many substitution ciphers.”
“There’s no letter J,” I notice.
“Very observant.” Pressing her lips together, she nods. “The letter J didn’t exist when this was created—it came later, in the sixteenth century. One of the ways you can recognize a Templar cipher is that it only has twenty-five symbols.”
“It’s going to be impossible to learn all of this.” I sigh.
“You’ll get it.” Allard pats my shoulder. “We’ll take it a little piece at a time. All I ask is that you try.”
Sitting at the table, I start memorizing the ancient symbols. I’m grateful for a focus for my thoughts, but I can’t shake my weird reaction to Garrett-the-Energy-Boy that had me tingling a few minutes ago. Maybe it was fear of being recognized. It’s probably best to keep my distance. From everyone.
Loneliness descends, but I bury it, concentrating on the codes that are probably destined to be my only friends.
Chapter Four
September 20X5, Keystone
Three Months Later…
The pain is an ever-present ache that pricks the corners of my mind, but these days the debilitating waves of grief knock me off my feet less often. Routine has become my lifeline. I’ve been focusing hard, waking at dawn to study decoding, ciphers, Morse code, lock picking, escape, and evasion. Breaking only for meals, I’ve collapsed in bed exhausted every night. The distraction, along with Allard’s kindness, has made life bearable. Keystone has become familiar, if not yet home, and today I nervously greet the returning Disconnects, uncertain if I’m prepared to enter their ranks, dreading the inevitable disruption to my new life.
After entering the Lodge through a trapdoor in the forest floor, I walk through a tunnel until I emerge in the pine-scented room through the back of a rock fireplace. I’m the first to arrive, and I cross the stone floor, taking a seat in the last row of cane-back chairs that face a small stage. Slouching, I pray I go unrecognized as my fellow trainees file in. They appear, clustered in twos and threes, wearing boxy green jumpsuits like mine, chattering about their summers. I examine them from under my bangs. How am I ever going to fit in? As a homeschooled only child, it’s always been hard for me to act like kids my own age. Deena was my only friend until I was sixteen, and even with her guidance I felt like a misfit. But at least I knew how to talk like an Influencer. Disconnect kids are a total mystery. And clearly they all know one another. I must stick out. My cheeks burn like I’m lit by a spotlight, though nobody acknowledges me.
“Welcome back, everyone.” Whitney’s voice rings out from the stage. A chestnut-haired beauty, she stands next to her equally appealing husband, Jeff. I met them—Garrett-the-Energy-Boy’s parents, who run Keystone—yesterday. They were super nice, giving no indication I was different than any other trainee. It was weird to be treated like I was normal when all my life I’ve been told I was special, but I liked it.
“I’ll keep this short. We have a few announcements to make and then we’ll get you to your rooms,” Whitney says, slowly crossing the stage as the room quiets. Behind her, the rock fireplaces blaze, having been lit after everyone entered. Even though it’s warm outside, the Lodge’s stone walls and ivy-covered windows manage to keep the grand room cool. “First, a reminder that data devices are banned outside the Crypt. You may practice wearing AMPs there so you are familiar with augmented reality, but the Crypt is the only place we can one hundred percent guarantee you can’t be tracked. We live in an age of transparency, but never forget—at Keystone, we have everything to hide.”
Including me. A shiver runs down my spine. Above my head, a deer-antler chandelier twinkles against the wood-paneled ceiling, and a little brown bird hops from antler to antler.
“And please remember you’re required to use analog data and, on top of that, original data,” Jeff says, his eyes glinting. “If you can get your hands on it.”
Energy reverberates through the room. The kids lean forward in anticipation I don’t get. They’re excited about a challenge. Weird.
Trained to seek beauty, I spot a familiar face in the front row, and my pulse quickens. Garrett. Legs extended and arms crossed, he’s the only one who looks like he couldn’t care less what his mom is saying. Maybe he doesn’t need to listen—he’s probably been stealing since birth. I admire his chiseled jaw and dark hair mussed to obscure one eye, his puffy—if I’m honest, totally kissable—lips. He’s so perfect he can’t be real. My heart swells, and the chandeliers glow brighter, as if ignited by his presence. The air hums, atoms vibrating. He turns, his eyes connecting with mine, and sweat erupts on my forehead. I blink, finding fascination with the deer-antler chandelier overhead before he thinks I’m staring.
Again, this reaction. Maybe it’s because he’s the only person I recognize…
The little brown bird takes flight and heads straight for the closed window to my left. My body reacts before I think, and I hurl myself in front of it, my shoulder slamming against the window with a loud thud.
The bird changes trajectory and disappears into the rafters as everyone turns to stare at me.
Oh. My. God.
“There was a bird,” I whisper, my face burning so hot as I slink back to my seat it’s probably fluorescent.
Whitney smiles. “I trust you will introduce yourselves to our newest Disconnect, Elisha Dewitt, at an appropriate time. Now, where was I?”
“What’s the point of succeeding if nobody knows you did?” Jeff interjects, his bold voice making everyone jump.
The heads all turn to face the stage. Except for one. His stare warms me, sending a burst of heat to my belly.
Daring a glance up, I lock gazes with his piercing green eyes. He raises an eyebrow, and my stomach contracts. There’s something about him—I can’t help it—I slowly smile back. After relying on my looks to gain popularity and win influence, some old part of me can’t resist the game. My instinct is to walk past him, hips swaying like I’m on a runway, to wet my lips, to dazzle him—to wrap him in my web until he’s mine. He’d be great for my numbers. Stupid. This is why I can’t trust my instincts. This isn’t who I am anymore.
But I can’t look away.
And neither can he.
My heart thumps.
“Do you live for praise? If only you know, is it enough? Disconnecting is a constant struggle with pride. Remember your self-worth must come from within.” Jeff pounds his fist on his chest, and I finally break the stare. Pretending I’m captivated by what’s happening onstage, I hope Garrett forgets the girl he just glimpsed.
“An excellent reminder,” Whitney says. “Now, I know you’re all dying to hear about the Initiation Heist.” She grins. “It will be our biggest—and most dangerous—heist to date.”
The kids around me perk up even more.
“In a few months, we’ll be hosting a challenge,” Jeff says. “It will be an obstacle course of sorts, designed to measure your preparedness for the Initiation Heist.”
“We take the heist very seriously. As those of you who participated in last year’s heist as assistants—and will be leading your own heists this year—know, the stakes are real. You could get caught, and we can’t risk involving anyone who isn’t ready,” Whitney says. “For that reason, anyone who fails to complete the obstacle course or the person with the slowest time will be discharged to Keystone Farms to help grow food for Unrankables in need. Life at the Farm is simple, though without the use of technology, the work is hard. But ending up there isn’t a life sentence. If you’re able
to get past Farm security and survive the wilderness to make your way back to Keystone, we’ll happily continue your training.”
Survive the wilderness? Nope. Guess I better find a way to own that obstacle course…
“On the other hand, the four of you with the best times will be chosen to compete against one another in the Keystone Quest,” Jeff continues. “The Quest champion will be awarded three things. First, the ability to choose their partner for the Initiation Heist, rather than being assigned one.” He ticks the items off his fingers as he speaks. “Second, the locations of every top-secret Keystone hideout around the world—which is information that is usually earned well after you’re initiated—and finally, one get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“Normally, if you’re caught during a heist, we do our best to set you up as a Maker or Laborer once you serve your sentence,” Whitney explains. “But as a Quest winner, you are considered to be amongst our best and brightest, and we would do everything in our power to rescue you and keep you among our ranks.”
I can’t imagine what would happen to me if I got caught… Unrankable much? I just got here… I don’t want to start over somewhere else… Hugging myself, I slump in my seat, as if that could root me in Keystone. It would be worth winning the Quest just so I’d know no matter what I could come back here… Not that I have a shot at competing in the first place.
“You’ll be given details specific to your part of the Heist after the Quest, when partners are announced,” Jeff says.
An excited ripple runs through the room. Peeking at the front row, I’m relieved to see Garrett has lost interest in me. He again faces the stage, arms folded across his chest, but the left corner of his mouth is curled up in a nonchalant half smile. Even he seems to be buying into the hype. A shot of adrenaline jackknifes my heart, sharpening my vision, and I’m breathing cool, menthol air.
But then, winning might be fun…
“Room assignments and schedules are on the table at the back of the hall. Lessons begin tomorrow, and you’re expected to take them seriously,” Jeff says. “After all, the future of humanity is at stake.”
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