Chapter Nineteen
September 20X6, Stanford
I can’t shake my reaction to Dr. Nasif. Somehow meeting her has opened a hole in me that I thought I’d filled. I haven’t felt this hollow since I was an Influencer, since I cried myself to sleep every night, certain I was unwanted and alone in the world. Once Keystone became my home, once my friends became my family, the nights got easier. The persistent lump in my throat dissolved. But right now, the lump is back. It must be because Dr. Nasif reminds me of my mom. Maybe there’s still some buried emotions I haven’t dealt with yet. It’s the only reason I can think of for the crappy haze hanging over me.
All I want to do is curl up and go to bed but it’s still early by student standards—around 8:30. Bix/Sophia and I are back in our dorm room after the welcome reception and I’ve already changed into an oversized Stanford sweatshirt that’s long enough to conceal the tool-garter I wear over my red plaid leggings. As far as our Network feeds and Stanford surveillance is concerned, Cara/Chloe is out “getting some air,” while I help Bix/Sophia unpack.
The truth is Cara/Chloe is in the South Stacks of the Green Library. It’s the only library with actual books on campus and the basement stacks are long forgotten and rarely visited. They’re perfect for exchanging messages with Stewart. She’s writing a message asking him to find a way to fake our brain scans inside the pages of The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind by Julian Jaynes, which we discovered hasn’t been checked out since the year 2016. She’ll make a show of finding the book to alert Stewart—who is watching her Network feed—to pose as a student and check the book out. When the book is returned, we’ll have our response. And hopefully a plan.
The message transmission through the books was Chloe’s idea and I have to give her credit. She’s pretty ingenious.
“I can’t believe they’re going to run tests on us,” Bix/Sophia says, tucking sheets under the foot of her bed before tossing a blanket over it.
I catch the edge of the blanket and drape it over the top of the bed. The impending scan only adds to my gloomy mood and it takes me a moment to answer her. “Me neither. It’s a bit unexpected,” I finally say, making sure to maintain my Irish accent.
The dorm room is old and cramped, with funky gray carpet and dingy cream walls. Bunk beds and a desk for Cara/Chloe and me line one side of the room, and there is a single bed for Bix/Sophia on the other side, with barely enough room for two of us to stand shoulder to shoulder in between. The windows let in nice natural light, though, keeping it from being too claustrophobic. The furnishings may be stuck in the twentieth century, but the walls are equipped with the latest in Life Stream technology to allow us to keep our meager followers updated on glamorous “college life,” so we always have to remain in character. Even though we’re supposed to be Laborers—on the bottom of the Network hierarchy—someone is always watching.
“I wonder why nobody warned us.” Sophia smooths the blanket, and I get her veiled meaning. Why didn’t Allard tell us? My insides retract.
“Maybe they were afraid we’d change our minds if we knew. Sometimes it’s better not to know everything— It might make you chicken out.” With a shrug, I give the explanation Allard has given me so many times. “I’m sure we’ll find out more soon.” Like when it’s too late. I make the statement in a soothing voice, but I’m anything but calm. I’m like a shaken soda.
“You don’t think they want to, like, upload our minds to a simulation or something?” Bix/Sophia keeps her eyes on her pillow as she fluffs it. “I kind of got that feeling when we were talking to Beau tonight.”
I shake my head, playing dumb, even though we both know the danger of being gobbled up by the Super Brain is real. “No, I don’t think that’s what this is about. Like they said, they just want to know our biases. I trust them,” I lie.
We dare a glance at each other, the same hope that Stewart can help us mirrored on our faces, and finish making the bed in silence.
Just then, something skitters under the door and slides across carpet before coming to a stop in the middle of the room.
Neither of us look at it but a flash of adrenaline surges in my veins, brightening my mood.
Bix/Sophia rolls her suitcase toward the closet to unpack. Pretending to bend down to check why the wheel is stuck, she picks up what I’m guessing is a note. Out of the corner of my eye, I determine it’s real paper, folded in a tiny square. But I only briefly glimpse it as Sophia seamlessly slides it into the pocket of the slinky black pajamas that are clinging to her thin frame.
“I’m going to run to the restroom before I unpack.” She smooths her teal bob. “Be right back.”
I nod, knowing the restroom is the only place she can go and not be recorded.
She leaves and I fling myself on the bottom bunk and stare up at Cara/Chloe’s bed overhead. I press my palms to my stomach to quell the hopeful quivering that the note is from Garrett. Because it could also be from Nash. The hope turns to dread.
Three minutes later, Bix/Sophia is back. She heads straight to her suitcase like nothing is afoot. “You don’t have to help me unpack, you know. If you want to go hang out in the lounge and meet some cute undergrads, I totally understand.”
“Oh, I’m pretty shy.” I sit up and hug my pillow to my chest. “I couldn’t go alone. Any chance you would you want to come with me?”
She glances at her suitcase and shrugs. “Sure. Unpacking can wait. Let’s go.”
After I slip on a pair of tennis shoes, she links arms with me. As we head out the door, she slips the note into my hand.
“You know, I might run to the restroom first,” I say once we’re in the hall, subtly pushing the note up my sleeve. “Meet you at in the lounge?”
“You bet.” With a smile she saunters off down the hall.
I head in the other direction toward the bathroom. Once I’m inside, I briefly smile at a girl, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe and drying her hair while watching someone’s Network feed in the Smart Mirror, before I slip into a stall.
After locking the door, I lean against it and pull the white paper square out of my sleeve. The four corners meet in the middle, forming a little envelope. Untucking one of the triangles, I unfold the page. Sure enough, inside it’s blank. I don’t know who it’s from, but I’m guessing it’s Nash. It reminds me of the notes we used to pass each other at Intersection, and I sag against the door, disappointed it’s not from Garrett.
Invisible ink.
The answer inserts itself in my brain and I smell the paper. The scent is bright and citrusy. Lemons. I dig the Echo 8 lighter camera I still have from my heist with Garrett out of my tool garter, flip it open, and light a flame. As I waft it under the paper, handwritten symbols materialize.
I recognize them immediately as Garrett’s Voynich language and a giddy giggle rises in my throat.
Chill out, self. He’s not asking you to a secret make-out session. He’s not who you thought he was. Get over him. But my excitement over the note pushes away the last of the depressed fog that was plaguing me. I’m wide awake now and ready for anything.
After deciphering the code he sent me over the summer, I committed his language to memory, and I easily decode the message:
A date. My insides leap, but I immediately repress the burst of excitement. Ugh. Get a hold of yourself. Do not let him get to you.
Flipping my wrist over, I note the time on my wrist screen. 9:50. Thanks for the advance notice. I roll my eyes.
I check my tool garter for a flashlight then head out of the restroom. With liquid energy whizzing through my veins, I walk down the hall and out into the night to find the cellar door.
Whatever that is.