Time Snatchers (33 page)

As we reach the corner of Lafayette and Franklin, doubts start flooding my brain. I begin to wonder if I’m making a huge mistake coming to Headquarters. I mean, if a spider’s chasing you, is it really wise to go visiting its lair? And in my case, I’ve got two spiders to worry about. But according to Abbie, Uncle and Frank are staying at the Compound tonight so there’s no way I’ll run into them.

We walk in silence. I’m a jangle of nerves and getting jumpier with each step closer to Headquarters. I feel a wave of panic rising up, threatening to crush me.

Breathe, I tell myself, and I take three deep breaths. On the last exhale, we arrive.

We enter the building, and the elevator is there waiting for us. I press the button for the fifth floor.

Nothing happens.

Abbie and I reach for the button at the same time to press it again. As we do, her hand brushes against mine. It feels warm and soft. I wonder if it was totally an accident or whether she’d meant to touch my hand. She quickly brings her hand up to her head and runs
it through her hair as if to say,
My hand was on its way somewhere when your hand got in its way, so don’t read anything into it!
But it’s too late. I’m already reading whole novels into a second of physical contact.

“All right. All right. I’m coming. You don’t have to keep pressing it,” grumbles Phoebe. If it was anyone else, I would have guessed that she’d just been torn away from sleep. In fact, the screen shows an empty bed with rumpled sheets and I can hear the sound of a toilet flushing,

“Hello, Phoebe,” says Abbie, going for cheery, even though Phoebe still hasn’t appeared on the screen.

“It’s two in the morning, for God’s sake. What do you want?” says Phoebe.

“I’d like to go up to five, please,” says Abbie.

A minute passes without a response or any change to the screen. Just as I begin to think Phoebe might actually refuse us, the elevator door slides closed and, with a jerky motion, starts heading up. Phoebe’s persona finally appears dressed in a fuzzy pink bathrobe and purple donkey slippers. Her hair is all frizzy, and there are large circles under her eyes.

We arrive at the fifth floor and walk down the main corridor. As we approach Abbie’s workstation, her screen comes on.

“Hello, Phoebe,” says Abbie.

“You already said that,” snaps Phoebe. “Of course, maybe the second time is for your silent partner. Is that right, Caleb, O Prince of the Barrens? What? You didn’t think I could see you? Well, peek-a-boo! Or are you just being polite and letting Abbie do all the talking? How egalitarian. How’d you get out so soon, anyway? Presidential pardon?”

“Phoebe, we need your help,” I say, settling into the chair opposite the screen. Abbie takes the other chair and does a slow spin.

Phoebe morphs into her business tycoon persona: smart suit, designer eyeglasses, long hair tied up in a bun and expensive Italian loafers. The only thing that she hasn’t changed is the sour expression on her face.

Then I hear a noise that sounds like grinding gears and screeching cats. Phoebe’s laughing. After a while, she stops and says, “I’d like to help. But I have a hair appointment. And I’m already late.” That last remark sends her into another gale of laughter.

I nod to Abbie. She stops her spin and wheels close to the screen.

Her fingers hover for a moment and then attack the keyboard rapid-fire. Arrays of mathematical equations and symbols appear momentarily on the screen, vanish and then are instantaneously replaced by new equations and symbols.

“What are you up to?” asks Phoebe, and I can hear a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“Nothing,” Abbie lies. On the way over here, she told me all about how she was going to do it. “It’s a piece of cake,” she had said. “All I have to do is use the pseudocode algorithm that Frank developed and run a program called P-hyp. P-hyp induces Phoebe to simulate the same ultradium rhythms as humans under hypnosis and also gets her to copy the same neuroelectrical signaling that leads to a dissociative state.”

If that’s what Abbie calls a piece of cake it must be one really thick slice. She lost me after the first four-syllable word. But I think I understand the basics. What she’s doing is fooling Phoebe into thinking that she’s hypnotized by using a computer program that mimics how a person acts in a trance.

The only tricky part, Abbie explained, is that Phoebe’s own defenses will try to attack P-hyp and destroy it. Luckily, Frank built an override into the program to repel attacks initially. But after two minutes, Phoebe’s systems will regroup and find a way to destroy P-hyp. When that happens, she will wake up from her trance and go back to being her usual grouchy self.

In other words, we have two minutes to get all the information we need out of Phoebe.

Abbie’s fingers are a blur on the keyboard. I’m impressed. You can’t teach that kind of speed.

“Just … about …,” she says over my mindpatch.

“You’d better not even …,” Phoebe begins to say, but her words die mid-sentence.

“Done!” says Abbie, letting out a long breath. “Go ahead now, Cale.”

She rolls her chair back, and I roll mine forward.

“Phoebe, I’m going to ask you some questions. I’d like you to answer completely and honestly, do you understand?”

“Yes. I understand,” says Phoebe. Her voice is flat, without a trace of emotion.

“And after we finish our conversation and you return to your normal state, you will have no memory of this conversation having occurred. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” I say. “Now, there’s a boy who was recently snatched. His family name is Rushton. First initial
Z
, and he was born July 8, 1962. Please tell me when he was snatched.”

A moment’s silence.

“Nine eighteen
P.M.
on July 8, 1967,” she answers in the same matter-of-fact tone.

Just as I thought. Not long after I left him.

“Where was he snatched from?”

“Rushton, initial
Z
, was fifty-three meters above the ground, on a ride at La Ronde called La Pitoune,” Phoebe answers.

I’m beginning to like the new Phoebe: pleasant and no lip. Then I remind myself that this isn’t the real her.

“Now, I’ve got just a couple of more requests,” I say. “First, can you kindly purge all records for Rushton, Z. and for any timeleaps I made or Abbie will make to Boston, Massachusetts. And while you’re at it, please purge all records you have of any timeleaps that Frank made to Expo 67.”

“I cannot purge files or records of timeleaps,” she says.

Could it be that the hypnosis isn’t deep enough?

I exchange looks with Abbie. Her mouth is set in a thin line.

“What authorizations do you need to carry out the purge requests?” I ask, my eyes back on the screen.

“The chief executive officer of Timeless Treasures alone can authorize purge requests,” says Phoebe.

“What is the procedure to be followed when the chief executive officer is not available?” I ask.

“There is no procedure for that contingency,” she replies.

I look over at Abbie. There’s one other way to do this. But if we get caught …

I take a deep breath. “Phoebe, connect me to Uncle’s personal system, please.”

A moment’s silence.

“I can give you access to his screen, but entry to Uncle’s system is password protected,” she says.

“Do you know the password? And if not, can you access his system another way?” I say.

“No and no,” Phoebe answers.

Her answer isn’t surprising although secretly I was hoping Phoebe could override Uncle’s system’s security.

Abbie and I glance at each other. Her eyes are saying
you can do it, Cale.

My heart begins to race.

When I look back at the screen, I see a snake entwined around an hourglass. As I watch, the snake, gatekeeper to Uncle’s system, slithers off the hourglass and repositions itself so that it gives the impression of staring right at me.

“User name?” it prompts me.

“Uncle,” I say.

“Password?”

Sweat breaks out on my forehead. This is the tricky part. But I spent a lot of my downtime in the Barrens thinking about this, and I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities.

“Qín Sh
Huáng,” I say, reciting the name of the first emperor of China.

“Access denied,” says the snake pleasantly.

I can’t believe it. Uncle idolized that guy.

No reason to panic yet, though. I still have my best shot left: Uncle’s favorite emperor of all time and the one whose sword he copied.

“Zhu Yuanzhang,” I say and hold my breath.

“Access denied,” repeats the snake.

“No!” I shout.

Beads of sweat roll down my face. I was sure that the password had to be one of those two. This is bad. I’ve only got one try left before I’m locked out.

“Cale,” says Abbie, “I hear the elevator. Someone’s coming up!”

I hear the whirring noise too. Please don’t stop on this floor! I’ve got to have more time.

The password … what is it?

It must have something to do with the Great Friendship. It just has to.

“Abbie,” I mindspeak, “ask Phoebe to run a search on two emperors: Zhu Yuanzhang and Qín Sh
Huáng—I need to know any commonalities.”

“There’s no time,” she says. “And besides, our two minutes are up. She’s not hypnotized anymore, and she won’t do it for free.”

“Offer her two pleasure packs.” There’s no way Phoebe will be able to resist even one pleasure pack—a program that simulates a wide range of human emotions. Right now Phoebe’s repertoire is mostly limited to snarky and rude.

“Cale, the elevator door is opening … he’s getting off! Get down!”

We drop to the floor. Abbie’s screen is on, but there’s nothing I can do about that right now. I lie as still as I can. This is hardly a hiding spot. Anyone casually glancing over the divider will see us lying here.

Footsteps approaching. Who is it? Uncle? Frank? But it can’t be. They’re both supposed to be at the Compound. Is it Nassim then? My heart’s pounding big-time.

“And get off Uncle’s screen!” Abbie yells over my mindpatch.

Love to. But can’t. I’m going down with the ship. Unless of course I luck out and manage to solve it. A second goes by. Two. It’s eerily quiet.

“She’s run the search,” Abbie mindspeaks, “and they’re both in the list of the top one hundred generals in history.”

“No, that’s not it,” I say. “There’s got to be something else!” The footsteps are getting louder now.

“They were both emperors of China,” Abbie continues, “and in the tradition of the Chinese emperors, each called himself the Son of Hea—”

Son of Heaven
. That’s it!

I’m about to say the words but stop at the last instant. “Abbie, I need it in Mandarin!”

The footsteps are at the next workstation. I hold my breath.

And don’t hear anything.

The footsteps have stopped.

Game over. We’ve been discovered.

“Tiāan gúo zhi zi!”
she shouts over my mindpatch, relaying it from Phoebe.

I lean up, whisper,
“Tiāan gúo zhi zi!”
and then duck back down, praying I’ve pronounced the words properly.

Just then the footsteps resume again. Continuing by us. The only things in that direction are an empty workstation and then Uncle’s office.

I scramble to my knees and glance at the screen.

The snake stares at me, expressionless.

My heart sinks. There’s no time for another try.

But then the snake smiles and the screen changes. Purple and orange swirls coalesce into images of misty mountain passes and Chinese temples. And interposed on all of this are the two sweetest words in the world:
WELCOME UNCLE.

Yessss! I’m in!

“Cale!”

Only part of my brain registers Abbie’s warning. I’m hissing purge commands now. First, Zach’s complete file, then my visits to
Boston, then Frank’s visits to Expo 67 and finally, any future visits by Abbie to Boston.

“Purges completed,” reads the screen.

I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
Don’t think. Just do!

One last thing. I need to find where he’s stashed the pleasure packs. If I don’t deliver, I have no doubt Phoebe will rat me out to Uncle at the earliest possible opportunity.