Chapter Seven

August 20X6, Pittsburgh

We climb down the fire escape and tiptoe across the street to TJ’s.

“You got this one?” Garrett gestures at the lock on the weathered front door when we reach it.

“Yup.” I grin, happy for a chance to show off my skills. After taking my lock-picking kit out of its compartment in my catsuit, I kneel in front of the deadbolt and get to work. With confident fingers I wiggle my wrench inside the keyhole and twist it like a handle, feeling for which direction the lock turns most easily, before inserting my rake into the top of the lock. I scrape the rake back and forth, nudging the pins up and into place, feeling the barrel rotate slightly with each one, until I reach one that’s hard to budge. When I’m certain all pins but the last are set, I use my pick to nudge the final pin into position. It clicks into place and I turn the handle of the wrench until the deadbolt retreats.

I peek up at Garrett from under my glasses as I smugly slip my lock-picking kit back into the pocket on my thigh.

“I see I’ve trained you well.” He pretends to blow on his fingernails and casually rubs them across his t-shirt.

“Whatever.” I rise to my feet. “You wish.” Turning the doorknob, I slowly push the creaky door open.

We wait for an alarm to sound, but the night remains silent, and we inch inside the store, letting the door click shut behind us. Dusty light filters through the cluttered display window, highlighting bins filled with silver disks packaged in clear plastic cases, cartridges, and cassettes that look like the tape strapped to my thigh from a forgotten era. Unsure of exactly what we’re looking for, I shuffle across the grimy floor and wander past shelves packed with clunky electronic contraptions covered in knobs, buttons, and antennas I’ve never seen before.

“Here we go,” Garrett whispers, appearing at the end of my aisle. He holds up a palm-sized yellow plastic square with a window on one side and buttons across the top. It has a pair of tiny headphones dangling from it. “This should play it.”

“What is it?” I take a closer look at the machine and read the label. “A Walkman? How does it work?”

“We’re about to find out.” He presses the eject button and the side with the window pops open, revealing a compartment. “Let me see the tape.”

I unzip a pocket on my catsuit’s thigh, pull out the tape, and hand it to him.

He inserts it into the compartment, clicking it into place and snapping the Walkman shut before slipping the thin plastic that connects the foam headphones over his head.

Half expecting him to press play and listen without me, I clear my throat.

“Don’t worry, Ellie. I’m not forgetting you.” Examining the side of the Walkman, he heads to the end of the aisle and disappears for a moment before returning with another set of headphones. He inserts the jack at the end of the headphone wire into a second hole on the Walkman and hands the tiny headset to me. I place the foam rounds over my ears.

“Ready?” he asks, his finger poised over the play button.

To my surprise, his voice sounds in my ears, through the headphones. “Ready.” My heart thunders.

“Mystery solved.” He compresses the button and the tape whirs to life.

A sweet, breathy female voice emerges from the static. “Mr. Warhol. It’s so nice of you to take my call.”

I try to place her accent. Having studied dialects vicariously through my mother while she rehearsed various acting roles, I consider myself something of an expert. New York? Boston?

I strain to hear over the background noise as a long-forgotten, pinched, male voice that must be Andy Warhol’s crackles in my ears.

“Um. I’m not sure what to call you. Madame President? Mrs. K?” He speaks slowly, in fits and starts. “I like Mrs. K. It sort of sounds like a spy.”

Garrett and I raise our eyebrows at each other.

She laughs a short, musical laugh. “I’m certainly not a spy. Jackie. You can call me Jackie.” Her words are carefully chosen, deliberate, and I’m still not positive of her accent—it’s a mash-up—but she sounds elegant. Rich.

“Okay. Jackie. I’m Andy.”

There is a pause before Jackie begins talking again.

“I wanted to thank you, Andy, for the painting you sent me.”

“Oh. Um. Glad you like it.” Andy stumbles over the words like he’s uncomfortable with praise.

“After everything the press has been saying, I feel seen. Truly. Thank you.”

“I’m glad. You’re a saint, Jackie.” His words come more easily as he seems to relax. “And I loved your husband. He was so handsome, so charismatic. But, honestly, I might love you more. The woman behind the man. Full of glamour and intrigue and quiet suffering.”

The tape briefly cuts out, jumping and garbling her response before cutting back in.

“And this might sound terrible, I hope you don’t take it the wrong way, but I think the tragedy bigger than your husband’s death is the way the media is telling the people how to feel,” Andy continues. “It’s almost like the news is brainwashing people, conditioning them to feel sad. His death is everywhere you look. You can’t escape it. It’s a mind game. I wish everyone could see that.”

Jackie exhales a deep sigh. “So did my husband. He had a real fear that media would be used as a weapon someday. In fact—and please never tell anyone this—he was building a secret weapon of his own that could be used to reset the media—to reset everything in the case of mass mind control.”

“Oooh. Top secret.” Andy practically squeals. “Maybe you are a spy. How did he plan to do that?”

“I don’t totally understand it.” Jackie’s voice is warbled, sounding faraway. “But during Operation Fishbowl he ran secret tests on something called an EMP that can knock out a power grid. On a mass scale, it could end all technology. He had already started building systems that could launch these EMPs en masse overseas, and the hope was to continue the process throughout the world. LBJ—and hopefully future presidents—will continue his work so we can reset the world with the push of a button. He called his ultimate plan Operation Disconnect.”

Chills rush down my arms and my eyes snap to Garrett’s. Our mutual shock reverberates between us.

“So, there’s literally an ‘Oh Shit’ button?” Andy laughs. “Does he keep it next to your bed?”

“I can’t tell you where he keeps it. I’ve said too much already. I really don’t know where my head is these days. But if we meet in person someday, I’ll draw you a map.” She pauses. “Or you can draw one. It might be inspiration for your next piece.”

The tape clicks to a halt. Garrett pops open the Walkman, turns the tape over, and reinserts it in the compartment. He presses play again, and the wheels spin, producing crackling static, but no more voices emerge.

Listening to the whir, I filter through everything I just heard, trying to make sense of it. An ‘oh shit’ button…

“What does it mean?” I finally ask, my voice amplified in my ears through the headphones.

Garrett presses the stop button, plunging us back into silence. He removes his headphones. “I think it means there’s a network of EMPs positioned around the world that can all launch at the same time and knock out the power grids of every nation on earth.” He rubs his temples like he’s trying to make sense of it, too.

I don’t understand the magnitude of the revelation. “What does that mean? The power would go out. It doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.”

“It’s a really big deal. Without electricity everything that connects people would stop working. This entire city would shut down.” He paces the length of the aisle, seemingly talking to himself. “Cars wouldn’t work, there wouldn’t be internet, refrigeration, AMPs, the Network, phones, computers— It would all be useless. Without transportation, supply chains would break down. There wouldn’t be enough food or medicine coming into the cities. People would starve or freeze to death without heat. If they relied on insulin or inhalers they’d die without access to drugs. If they’re rich and can afford nanobots to filter their blood, those would stop working without a computer network to program them. It would affect everyone. From Corporates to Unrankables. There would be looting and violence and families separated without a way to find each other. It would be anarchy.”

As he talks, time seemingly speeds up. The possible consequences rush at me, jumbling in my head, and I can’t make sense of them. “But what about all the rooftop greenhouses? Almost all the buildings in major cities have them, right? Couldn’t that feed people?”

He comes to a stop in front of me. “They’re all run by computers—the lights, the climate control—it’s all AI. It would stop working. Renewable energy was politicized for so long almost nothing on earth relies solely on the sun or wind to power it. You saw that city up there.” Pointing at the ceiling, he reminds me of the plant-covered skyscrapers overhead. “It’s only beginning to change. Mostly it’s just augmented so people will forget about the past. And that augmentation relies on electricity.”

Refusing to believe his doomsday theories, I clench my stomach muscles to still my roiling belly. “But don’t we have backup systems? Couldn’t we rebuild the grid?”

“Some rich people probably have batteries or solar generators that could sustain their lives for a few days, but they still need electricity to recharge them.” He shakes his head. “Nobody is prepared for something like this. Not on this scale. The grid would take too long to rebuild. Months. Years. People don’t know how to survive. Probably two-thirds of the world’s population would die before we got back online.” He pauses, his forehead creasing with worry. “You said Allard sent you?”

I nod. The mention of her name reminds me to check my watch. 5:33. “I have to go.”

“I’ll walk with you to the cable car.” He hands me the Walkman and the tape.

I shove them in my backpack and follow him to the door.

“The tape proves the existence of this EMP missile network, but it doesn’t tell us where the launch buttons or the map—if there is one—are.” Garrett opens the door and we exit onto the street, not bothering to lock up. “It makes sense that Disconnects want to own this information to keep it out of the wrong hands.”

“Stealing the tape must be to keep the information safe, then.” I want to believe my theory, but I can’t ignore my sinking suspicion that something bigger is going on.

“Yeah. Probably.” He rubs the back of his neck and I get the feeling he doesn’t buy my hypothesis, either.

“I wonder why the information on the tape was never made public,” I say as we retrace our steps across the street. “Someone kept it a secret. Tyson told me the tapes were sealed until fifty years after Warhol’s death. Warhol had a tape recorder he called his ‘wife.’ He took it everywhere and recorded every conversation he had—which is why there are so many tapes in the Time Capsules—but he didn’t get anyone’s permission before he recorded them, so everything was kept private until it could legally become public record. But they’ve been public for decades now.”

We reach the stone corridor that brought us down here and duck inside, winding our way up the sloping path to street level.

“We’re lucky they’ve been kept in a climate-controlled room and the tape is so well preserved,” he says. “Something like this could easily have disintegrated—or been destroyed.”

I frown. “Maybe that would have been better.”

We exit the tunnel into the city. The sky has shifted to dusty pink, hinting at the first shades of morning light, and the shop windows are blinking to life. I reach into my backpack, pull out the scrambrella, and raise it over our heads. The city is waking, and I don’t want to be traced should any cameras record us exiting the Unrankable underground.

“Maybe.” Garrett huddles next to me under the umbrella.

We head toward the river where I’ll hop on a cable car that will take me to the Hyperloop launch station. It’s only a couple blocks away.

“Somebody out there knows about Operation Disconnect,” Garrett mumbles, his voice low in my ear. “If this information has been passed down from president to president, then President Madden knows. We might have more to deal with than we thought.”

“What do we do now?” I hurry to match his brisk pace.

“Deliver it to Allard. Stick to the plan.” He huffs.

“Should I tell her I listened to it?”

“Honestly? My instinct is no.” The river appears before us. Cast in a rosy glow, its rippling waters glisten under the crisscrossed rainbow-colored cable cars bobbing between the bridges above it. “Listening to the tape wasn’t part of your mission. I wouldn’t tell her you did. But while you’re at Keystone keep your eyes and ears open. Try to figure out what’s going on. We should do our part to figure out where the detonator is before someone else does.”

The sky overhead brightens to periwinkle, signaling the rapidly approaching end to our stolen night as we climb the stairs to the cable car platform. When we reach the top, Garrett grabs my shoulder and pulls me to a stop before turning me to face him. Still shielded by the scrambrella, he towers above me, and I can just make out his eyes boring into mine through his goggles’ sunset-colored lenses. Aware this might be the last time I see him, my chest tightens.

“I guess this is it.” I squint to see through his disguise. At least that’s what I tell myself. It’s not because my traitor eyes are stinging.

“It’s not over, Ellie.” Once again, he seems to read my mind. “We’ll see each other again. Partners have an unbreakable bond, remember?”

The beads on my mask clink as I shake my head, chiding myself for the lump forming in my throat. A million possibilities buzz between us. Part of me wants to go to him, to press my head to his chest, to feel his arms around me, but some creeping worry that I can’t place renders my limbs immobile and I do nothing.

“Besides. I owe you a second date.” He removes the bandana from his goggles before pushing them onto his head, exposing his mischievous grin. At the sight of the stubble forming along his strong jaw, my lips part in terror that he’s going to kiss me until I remember I’m still wearing my mask.

He arches an eyebrow as a cable car arrives and stops in front of us. “Relax. Not on the first date, remember, Ellie?”

I square my shoulders, annoyed he thinks he can get to me so easily. “Who says I agree to a second date?” The door to the sparkly green compartment automatically opens.

“If you don’t, don’t tell me. Give me something to look forward to.” His eyes are practically glowing, and I clench my fists to keep my wits about me.

“Now get inside. You’ll be safe from here.” He nudges me toward the car. “Take the escalators from the cable car platform straight down to the Hyperloop station.”

I move to get in, but before I go, he again stops me. Wrapping me up in his arms, he lowers his lips to my ear and whispers, “Remember: every hug is an opportunity to plant something.” Tingles shiver down my neck and I can’t help melting against him. But the hug is brief. “You can keep your tiger’s eye on it, so it won’t give you away.”

“What do you mean—”

He doesn’t let me finish the question.

Releasing me, he keeps me under the umbrella as he guides me into the car and shuts me inside. The moment the door closes, the car swings forward. “Always say die,” he calls, rapping on the outside of the window as I’m launched skyward on wire cables. Flustered by the quick goodbye, by the roller coaster of emotions he inspires in me, I rapidly blink, trying to make sense of it all as I watch his figure get smaller and smaller in the cool morning light.

He stands on the platform, still holding my scrambrella and with his hand pressed to his chest, until I can’t see him anymore.

Knowing I can’t dwell on whatever just happened between us—I have to complete the final leg of my mission—I force him out of my head and open my backpack to switch into my new disguise. And there, resting on the top of the pale pink wig I’m about to change into, is a parting gift from Garrett. A small gold pin that has been reshaped into a pretty filigree, so the clasp closes and forms the shape of a keystone.

But the Walkman and tape are gone.