Keystone

by Katie Delahanty

  A guy sweeps me into his arms, leading me in a swinging circle. I’m so busy concentrating on not getting my feet tangled with his, I immediately lose sight of Garrett. The dancer twirls me around and transfers me to another partner. We keep circling, switching partners and hands in an elaborate do-si-do, until Chloe and I cross paths. When our hands connect, she slips something small and round into mine. Without making eye contact, I pass it from my right hand to my left and slip it into my skirt pocket. In that same moment, someone grabs me by the waist.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  “Dance with me,” Nash says, spinning me to face him. He leads us to the edge of the crowd. “You’re leaving? Did you get what you came for?”

  The ring is heavy in my pocket, and I feign innocence, my guard up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re very mysterious,” he says, holding me close. “We don’t have much time, so I’m going to come right out and say what I’m thinking. Run away with me.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” I sputter.

  “You have a cache, right? I know you do,” he says without pause. “Believe me, whatever you’re up to is going to go wrong. He’s no good.”

  I find Garrett in the crowd, dancing with the ghost girl.

  “We could make our old dreams come true,” he says.

  “Except I don’t know who you are,” I say, my eyes still on Garrett. In my heart I know I can’t leave him. I want to see the heist through. I pretend that’s the only reason.

  “You don’t know who he is, either.”

  His hands are hot on my back.

  “I’m Nash Harrison,” he says. “I know that doesn’t mean anything, but I want to tell you everything.”

  He played me just like he’s playing Nicki. His journal that first day in Self-Awareness, touch being his favorite sense—it was all so he could make me feel connected to him. Social engineering. I get it now. I have no reason to believe anything he says. Trust no one.

  I push him away. “My old dreams are dead. I’m happy. Safe.”

  “You aren’t safe anywhere. Whitney and Jeff—they don’t want to rule just Keystone. They want to rule the world. The time will come when you’ll have to decide whose side you’re on.” He pulls me to his chest and whispers in my ear, “Ella. I never stopped thinking about you. The circumstances we met under were out of my control. There are bigger things at play than you and me. I don’t expect you to believe me, and you don’t have to decide now, but if you ever need me, I’ll make sure you can find me.”

  Just then, I’m whisked away by another dancer. For a moment Nash’s pleading eyes hold mine, and I stare back over the dancer’s shoulder. Fearing his speech was a ploy to pickpocket me, I feel for the ring. It’s still nestled in my dress’s hot pink skirt, and I exhale relief, but then my hand connects with something else. I pull out a folded paper note and immediately shove it back in my pocket.

  When I look up again, Nash is gone.

  “It’s good to see you, Scarlet Spy,” the guy I’m dancing with says, and I realize it’s Stewart.

  Grinning, I hug him. He hugs me back, quickly guiding me to a different Bubble Car than the one I arrived in. Whispering “never say live,” he gestures me inside to where Garrett is waiting.

  “Always say die,” I quietly reply, the knowledge that there’s been a change of plan inserting itself in my brain.

  As I get in, I see Nicki duck into a car with Eric/Nash. Behind me, the actors start screaming “Earthquake!” and through the Bubble Car windows, the street trembles. The string lights flicker, and the girl in the red hat falls to the ground. A trombone player throws down his instrument and shields her as the houses crumble around them.

  Stewart closes the car door, and Garrett raises his finger to his lips, gesturing me silent.

  “I hate to miss the rest, but Betsy looks terrible. Like, worse than usual,” he says, his focus on the virtual world only his AMPs can see.

  I roll my eyes.

  “The sickness came on really fast,” he continues. “I think I’d better take her home. But you and Eric should stay. Enjoy the rest of the show…” He falls silent, listening. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll make it to the party. I should stay with her. But I’ll make it up to you. Maybe we can have breakfast tomorrow before I go? Just the two of us?” Again, he pauses before saying, “Great. I’ll pick you up at eight.” As soon as he’s done talking, he takes the AMPs out of his eyes and chucks them out the window. “Success?” he asks, finally looking at me.

  “It’s right here.” Lightly tapping my pocket, I follow his lead, wiping the AMPs out of my eyes and throwing them outside, too.

  “Good.”

  “Where do we drop it? I’m exhausted.” I blink my tired eyes, blissfully happy to be AMP-free.

  “We don’t.” He grins and pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “You’d better wake up because our night is just beginning. We have an algorithm to steal.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  March 20X6, San Francisco

  My jaw drops. “We have to steal the algorithm?” I ask, heart thudding. “We got the ring. We’re not done?”

  “Nope. Word came down from our undercover contacts that Simon plans to launch his Quinn update tomorrow—two weeks earlier than planned—so we need to get the algorithm tonight. If we pull this off, it’ll be the biggest Initiation Heist in history. We’ll win the first battle in the war over the Super Brain by shutting down Quinn and keeping people from uploading their minds into the Simulation. We’ll be legends.” He unfolds the paper into a large rectangle, studying it.

  “Legends? What happened to ‘if we know, it’s enough’?” My eyes are saucers. “I don’t need to be a legend.”

  “You may not have a choice if you don’t get rid of those nails.” He glances at my hands before returning his concentration to the paper. “You’re going to leave a trail right to us, and then you’ll be remembered for botching the heist that almost saved history. If we fail, if we get caught, we’ll end up in jail, but worse, Simon and Madden will succeed in uploading minds into their database, and humanity may not be able to come back from that.”

  My nerves stretch taut at the thought that I could be our undoing, and, scowling at him, I chew on my thumbnail, trying to loosen the glue, which would be much easier to do if my hands weren’t shaking so much. “You mean I’ll end up in jail. The Disconnects will rescue you—their ‘best and brightest’—I’ll probably be left to rot or get sucked up by the Super Brain.” My thumbnail lifts. Positive it’s ripping my real nail off with it, I grit my teeth and toss it out the window.

  “I wouldn’t go without you, Ellie. Promise. We’re a team. We’re in this together.”

  “If we’re a team, why don’t you try doing something helpful, then, like choking on your tongue?” I mutter. “Or helping me?” Stealing myself against more finger-torture, I get to work prying off my index fingernail.

  “Glad you asked. Already done. I had Stewart hack your manicure and deactivate it as soon as we left the salon,” he says, biting back a smile. “Less risk that way.”

  Dropping my hands to my sides, I slump against the seat. “And you’re just sitting there watching me rip my nails off? Do you know how much this hurts?” I raise all ten fingers to him in defiance.

  “I was testing your dedication. You passed.”

  “I hate you.”

  His lips twitch. “That’s probably not the last time I’ll hear that tonight.” He shows me the paper he’s been analyzing. “This is the floor plan to Simon’s Menlo Park house. It maps the obstacles we have to pass to get to the medieval jewelry box Simon keeps the algorithm in.”

  “Where did you get this?” As I study the illustrations, adrenaline courses through me, clearing my sinuses.

  “Harbor was one of the dancers. She slipped it i
nto my pocket.”

  “A shotgun-shell wall? A fog blaster? Footstep detector? How are we supposed to get past those?” Exhaling slowly, I try to keep from hyperventilating.

  “Everyone else already has the answers—don’t you see? We have to work as a team.”

  “As a class?” My eyebrows shoot up. “What happened to ‘trust no one’? We’re relying on Liam? On Harbor?”

  “Yep.” He shrugs.

  Lips parted, I shake my head. “We’re doomed.”

  …

  The car drops us off behind a café in the Mission District. Garrett goes straight to a pale-yellow BMW with blank black license plates parked in the alley. He circles the car, searching for a key.

  “Would you hurry up?” I whisper, my insides quaking, certain someone is going to come around the corner any second and arrest us.

  Kneeling in front of the passenger door, he takes out his half-diamond pick and makes quick work of the lock. The door swings open with a creak, and I jump.

  “How about you relax?” he says. “Get in.”

  Unable to move my quivering legs, I ignore him, my mind swirling down a rabbit hole of possible disaster scenarios. We’re going to get arrested…or shot…they’ll find out I’m really Ella… Is that what my instincts are telling me? I’m too freaked out to trust myself. “Will this thing even run?” I finally ask. “It looks like it belongs in a museum.”

  “It was probably stolen from one. Check the tire.” He points to a key drawn in chalk on the rubber wheel. “Now would you get in?” Gripping my arm, he drags me to the car and deposits me inside.

  “Aren’t you nervous?” I ask, slamming the heavy door with a loud bang.

  “Of course I am,” he says, getting into the driver’s seat. “But I’m using my nerves to keep me moving.” Grabbing a tool bag from the backseat, he hammers a screwdriver into the ignition and turns it like a key. “You’re not into inconspicuous, are you?” he continues, not looking at me.

  “Sorry, the door weighs, like, a million pounds. It’s impossible to close gently.” Folding my arms over my chest, I hug myself, attempting to pull it together.

  “That’s not what I meant.” He unscrews the panels above and below the steering column, and removes them, before using the screwdriver to point at my puffy pink skirt.

  “It was a special occasion. I had to dress the part,” I say, smoothing the shimmery fabric over my thighs. “I didn’t know we were going to end up breaking and entering. Can’t you hot-wire any faster?”

  “I’m going as fast as I can.” Sucking in his cheeks, he locates two red wires, cuts both, and strips the ends. “And your dress should be a lesson. Always be prepared.” He shoves the tool bag toward me. “Luckily, whoever planted the car for us thought ahead for you.”

  Of course he had the foresight to wear all black. I frown and dig through the bag, finding my catsuit and mask. My eyes widen. “Where did they get this? Did they go through my stuff?”

  “Is it yours?” He twists the wires together.

  “Yes.”

  “Then yes. They went through your stuff.” Pulling up two brown wires, he cuts them and strips the ends. “And you better hurry up and change.” He touches the two wires together, and the car rumbles to life.

  I scramble into the backseat, crouching low as he drives out of the alley. Wiggling out of my dress, I stuff it into the bag, trying to cover myself with it as I stretch on the tight suit.

  “No peeking. Nothing to see here.” I catch his eye in the rearview mirror as I zip up the suit as quickly as my jittery hands will let me.

  “Tell me about it.” He arches an eyebrow.

  I elbow the back of his seat, hard.

  He laughs.

  Merging onto the freeway, he cuts into the line of driverless cars headed toward Menlo Park as I climb into the front seat.

  With a nod of approval, he tosses me a black kohl pencil to start disguising my face, but I don’t need it. I slip on my mask. Its pressure across my forehead helps to center me, and I close my eyes, wrapping my head around what we’re about to do. “How long until we get there?” I ask.

  “About half an hour, but I’m aiming for twenty minutes.”

  Okay. That gives us time. I’ll feel better if we have a plan. Breathing deep, I slow my racing heart.

  The car skids left, and my eyes fly open. “Talk about inconspicuous,” I say as he speeds along, weaving in and out of cars. “You don’t think we stand out in this car? We’re the only ones manually driving.”

  “Nobody is paying attention. Trust me.”

  “Trust no one,” I retort. On alert for anything that could get us arrested, I peer at the rows of Bubble Cars on either side of us and check the side mirror for flashing lights. The people in the other cars stare with glazed eyes at whatever reality their windows are displaying. They could care less about us.

  “Why don’t you get busy studying that floorplan?” he says. “Unless you want to drive?” Taking his hands off the wheel, he gestures for me to take over.

  “Would you watch the road?” I screech. The car veers over a rumble strip, sending my heart into my throat. “I don’t know how to drive.”

  He retakes the wheel. “Really? Not even a tractor? They didn’t teach you that on the farm?”

  “We had self-driving tractors. Nobody knows how to drive except for old people and Disconnects.”

  “Well, I’ll have to teach you someday.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Seriously. You need to know how to drive. Old cars don’t have computers—they can’t be tracked—they’re your secret weapon. When we get back to Keystone, we’re having a driving date.”

  Butterflies flutter to life in my stomach, but I tell myself it’s because we’re about to break into Simon’s house. Concentrating on the map, I pretend I didn’t hear him. “According to this, the house is programmed to recognize Simon. The alarms only all turn off when he’s present, but each security feature can be deactivated remotely in case of an emergency. Our classmates’ heists were to figure out how to disarm each alarm. Stewart and Liam will be in a van in the woods. They’ll decode the transmissions from our classmates when each security feature is disabled.” I put the map down, trying to comprehend the scope of the plans already in place. “How are they transmitting?”

  “Probably through ham radio walkie-talkies. They’ll use radio frequencies and keystone code. Even if someone intercepts the code, we should have the algorithm before they decipher it. Timing is everything. Only one security feature can be down at a time, and only for long enough to get past it. The systems will think it’s a test if they reactivate before the next one turns off. Nicki said if they all go down at once, Simon gets notified.”

  “When did she tell you that?”

  “After the Stern Grove Festival. She took me to her parents’ penthouse in the city. That’s how the systems worked there, so it’s probably the same for his Menlo Park house, too.”

  My heart stalls, and I bite my cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me you went home with her?”

  “I didn’t think it was important. It was a way for her to get comfortable with me and to get some intel. We hung out. It was no big deal.”

  Hung out or made out? I frown.

  “Don’t worry, Ellie. Nothing happened.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, smoothing over my features, fearing he can read my mind. “It’s none of my business.”

  “Sure it is.” He changes lanes, his eyes glued to the road. “If I was hooking up with Nicki, that would mean I was emotionally involved with her, and that could mess up our heist. It would absolutely be your business, so please believe me when I say nothing happened.”

  My heart ticks back to life. “Just like partners aren’t allowed to hook up, no falling for the targets, either.”

&
nbsp; “Exactly.”

  “I believe you.” I keep my eyes on the map, unable to hide the relief in my voice.

  Punching the gas, he swerves around a bubble car. “Not that it’s always easy,” he mutters.

  He peeks at me out of the corner of his eye, and a charge runs down my spine.

  “Kyran and Rayelle will be outside signaling us,” I say, focusing on the plan to slow the blood rushing to my head. “Two lights mean go. One light means stay put. The good thing is the house doesn’t have any cameras or Life Stream technology… That’s weird. It’s kind of off the grid.”

  “Simon probably hides who comes and goes. This is his weekend house. He’s not here all the time, and who knows who his secret guests are. Maybe he doesn’t want to risk the existence of recorded evidence. That works in our favor, but it’s also why he has so many alarms. The first obstacle is the front door,” he says. “Can you memorize the alarm code?” Pulling off the freeway, he stops on the side of a heavily wooded road.

  “S-I-M-O-N-S-A-Y-S-S-T-O-P-!” I exhale. “Easy enough.”

  “Good.” Separating the two red wires on the dashboard, he turns off the car, then pulls his own mask over his eyes. It’s black leather like mine, but his is solid, cutting a diagonal lightning bolt across his face. “From here, we walk.”

  I nod. My insides are shaking more than the top of Lombard Street, but I fold the map and tuck it into a pocket on my thigh.

  Before we leave, he pulls a portable telegraph out of the tool bag and taps out a Morse code message to let Stewart know we’re on the move. When he’s done, he puts the bag on like a backpack.

  Stepping lightly to muffle our footsteps, we stick to the trees, hurrying through the woods in silence. My muscles ache from the strain to remain invisible, but before I beg for a break, Simon’s fortress emerges from the shadows. The exterior is made entirely of glass bricks, with concentric rectangles that get increasingly smaller framing the entryway to the red front door.