In-season runners’ parties don’t tend to be all-night affairs. Tara and her crew departed en masse around eleven, and everyone was gone by midnight.
Everyone but Micah, I mean. My parents were out of the country. Micah was staying the night.
We were doing a little desultory cleaning—throwing away half-eaten food, emptying bottles, that sort of thing—when Micah stopped in the middle of clearing the coffee table in the sitting room and said, “Hey, Jordan?”
He looked like he was thinking. With Micah, that was never a good sign.
“Yes?”
“You remember what I said to Hannah, about the shit hitting the fan again?”
I nodded.
“Well . . . when that happens, what are you gonna do?”
I sighed, sat down on the couch, and patted the cushion next to me. Micah left his garbage bag on the table and flopped down beside me.
“Tell me,” I said. “What’s troubling you, my friend?”
He shot me a quick sideways glance, and folded his arms across his chest.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a five-year-old, Jordan. You know I don’t like that.”
“Sorry,” I said, slung my arm around his shoulder and leaned my head against his. “Seriously, though—what’s the problem?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . .” he slouched down until he could rest his head against the back of the couch. “This place, Jordan—it really does look like something out of an UnAltered propaganda vid about how the Engineered parasites are sucking the lifeblood out of the country. Aren’t you even a little bit worried about what’ll happen when things start up again?”
I pulled my arm back, and slouched down beside him.
“Well,” I said. “First of all, what makes you think things are going to start up again? Open hostilities didn’t exactly turn out well for the UnAltered last time. They call it the Stupid War for a reason, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. But still . . .”
I rested my hand on his leg.
“But still what?”
He sighed.
“There’s also a reason that most people like us either keep it on the down-low, like Hannah, or live in a fortress, like Marta Longstreth.” He closed his eyes and sighed again. “I really like you, Jordan. I worry about you.”
I smiled and gave his leg a squeeze.
“I really like you too, Micah, and I appreciate the concern—but aren’t you forgetting something?”
He turned to look at me.
“What?”
“Unlike Hannah, or Marta Longstreth, or even you, my friend—I’m not Engineered. As far as the UnAltered are concerned, I’m just one of the guys.”
I laughed. Micah did not.
“I don’t know,” he said. “When shit gets real, I’m not sure they’re gonna take the time to make those kinds of distinctions. Between the car, and the house, and . . .” He put his hand to my cheek. “. . . that face, you sure as hell come off like one of us.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but for some reason Dani Longstreth popped into my head. I gave Micah’s leg another squeeze.
“Tell you what?” I said. “When shit starts getting real, I’ll come hide out in your basement. Fair enough?”
That got a smile from him.
“Sure,” he said. “Fair enough.”
I was up early the next morning. Micah was fantastic in every way, but good Lord, did he take up space in the bed. I was just thinking about pulling together something for breakfast when my phone pinged.
<UNK01>: Hey Jordan. You up?
I stared at the screen for a solid ten seconds. It wasn’t supposed to be possible to spoof a system ID. That was one of the things NatSec supposedly cleaned up in the aftermath of the Stupid War, after Andersen rammed the National Salvation Act through congress and they basically got the right to do any goddamned thing they wanted to do.
Jordasaurus: Uh . . . who dis?
<UNK01>: Marta? Obviously?
Jordasaurus: Okay. Care to explain how/why your ID shows up as <UNK01>?
<UNK01>: Oh shit. Does it?
Jordasaurus: It does.
<UNK01>: That’s Daddy, I guess. He’s so freaking paranoid.
Jordasaurus: This is new, right? Weren’t you MSpooky1 last time we chatted?
<UNK01>: That’s my ID. That’s what shows on my screen too. I have no clue how he’s blanking it on yours.
Jordasaurus: Weird.
<UNK01>: Yeah, that’s the word. Things are definitely getting weird around here. Between this, and the closed-door meetings, and the snipers . . . Anyway, that’s why I pinged you. I’m thinking about a jailbreak one day next week. Wanna come?
Jordasaurus: . . .
<UNK01>: I mean, if you’re busy . . .
Jordasaurus: You have snipers?
<UNK01>: Yes?
<UNK01>: Not a lot of them. It’s not like we have a battalion of snipers marching around the compound or anything. Just a few.
Jordasaurus: Okaaaaaaay . . .
<UNK01>: So, are you in?
Jordasaurus: . . .
<UNK01>: Come on—we had fun the other night, right?
Jordasaurus: We did.
<UNK01>: But?
Jordasaurus: Well, I have to admit to a little concern about helping you sneak away from a man who has snipers.
<UNK01>: Oh please, Jordan. Those snipers are not there for you.
Jordasaurus: Okay. Who, exactly, are they there for?
<UNK01>: I don’t know. The unwashed masses, I guess.
Jordasaurus: Proles?
<UNK01>: Them too.
Jordasaurus: Okay. Tell you what. Let me know when you’ve picked a day, and I’ll check my social calendar.
<UNK01>: Great! Don’t worry. This will be a fun-filled and 100% sniper-free day.
Jordasaurus: That’s what I like to hear.
I dropped my phone onto the marble island in the middle of the kitchen and pulled a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. It was starting to look like being Marta’s fake boyfriend was going to be more work than I’d planned. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this jailbreak thing, but it sounded like I’d wind up having to ditch a day of school at a minimum—not that I minded that all that much, of course, but I was going to have to make sure she understood that either whatever we did was going to need to wrap up in time for me to get to practice, or I was going to need enough advance notice to get a certified death certificate. Missing calculus was one thing. Missing one of Doyle’s workouts was something else entirely.
I had a pan warming on the stove and was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl when my phone pinged again.
<UNK02>: Jordan. How goes it, friend?
Jordasaurus: Marta?
<UNK02>: Sure. Let’s go with that.
Jordasaurus: I’m making breakfast, Marta. What do you need?
<UNK02>: Oh, nothing much. Just wanted to say hello. You know, because we’re such good pals.
Jordasaurus: Okay, this is getting weird, and I’ve got to get these eggs on the stove, so . . .
<UNK02>: Oh, sure. Don’t want to hold up your eggs. One thing, though. You’re tight with Hannah Bergen, right?
Jordasaurus: You know Hannah?
<UNK02>: Oh, sure. We’re very close. So are the two of you, huh?
Jordasaurus: Where are you going with this?
<UNK02>: Nowhere for the moment. Just making social connections. So, you spend much time with her dad? Watching the game, shooting the shit, talking shop? That sort of thing?
Jordasaurus: Pan’s hot. Good-bye, Marta.
The phone pinged twice more while I was pouring the eggs into the pan, but I didn’t pick it up. I dropped four slices of bread into the toaster, stirred the eggs around until they firmed up, and then dumped them out onto a platter. I was just bringing them into the breakfast nook when Micah came down the stairs.
“Hey,” he said. “You made breakfast?”
“I did,” I said. “Grab yourself a plate and a fork.”
He followed me to the table, sat down, and took two-thirds of the eggs and three slices of toast.
“Hungry?”
He shrugged. I took what was left. Micah held his fork in his fist and shoveled eggs into his mouth like a caveman.
“So,” I said. “You remember my little pseudo-date with Marta Longstreth?”
He looked up, then back down at his plate.
“Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”
“You know anything about her?”
He finished his eggs, and started in on the toast.
“I know her dad’s the richest man on the planet.”
“Right. Everybody knows that.”
He got up, went out to the kitchen, and came back with a glass of juice.
“Also,” he said, “he’s nuts. So, there’s that.”
I leaned forward, and took a forkful of eggs.
“Nuts how? He’s the CEO of Bioteka, right? How nuts could he be?”
“You know what happened to his wife?”
I nodded.
“Burned alive,” he said. “That shit leaves a mark.”
I took another bite, but suddenly my eggs seemed much less appetizing. Micah finished his toast, then reached across the table and took mine.
“Sure,” I said. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Consider this down payment on your room in my basement.”
“Yeah,” I said. “About that—you really think something bad’s coming?”
He took a long time chewing and swallowing.
“Look,” he said finally. “You know I’m not exactly a political junkie, right?”
I laughed.
“Yeah, Micah. I get that.”
“Right. So all I know is what I hear from my dad, basically.”
“Okay,” I said. “So what does your dad think?”
He finished his juice, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well,” he said. “For one thing, he thinks I should learn to handle a rifle.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that.
Micah was gone by the time I picked up my phone again. I thumbed the screen on. Two messages were waiting for me.
<UNK02>: Okay, Jordan. Enjoy your eggs. And don’t forget—you should definitely hang out more with Hannah’s dad. Also with me, your pal Marta Longstreth, and my dad. That would totally be a fun thing to do.
<UNK02>: Oh, and when you do—make sure to bring your phone with you. :)