Rift (Rift Walkers #1)

  I collect the rift journal from its place under my pillow, taking a moment to study the cover again. I flip a few of the front pages, but the equations don’t mean much to me and I’ve already seen the laser drawing. I see the word “overflow” on another page, and I stop. There’s a diagram that looks like a giant barrel, with a long tube flowing out of it.

  “Hydrogen offshoot,” is labeled in the corner, with an arrow to the tube. There’s a bunch of letters and numbers in an equation, and then the words, “Doesn’t work. Round 6: failed.”

  I flip the page, but it’s not labeled with anything to indicate if this begins Round 7 of their time travel experiments. I wonder how much information I can find on the Circuit about rift manufacturing, but I worry about who will be monitoring those sites and if they’ll think my sudden interest is suspicious.

  I think everything pertaining to time rifts will be watched at this point, and I don’t dare do a search. Instead, I return my attention to the book. The author seems to be rambling to themselves about the failed rounds at containing the “spillover energy.” Since I don’t know what the experiments are exactly, I have a hard time making sense of it. I see another drawing of a laser machine with the word “exploded” and “can’t contain the energy” scrawled across it.

  I do note that there have been over two dozen rounds of tests, and the final line in the last entry chills me: I’ve concluded that attempts to stabilize this rift are dangerous. Multiple subjects display cognitive dissociation upon returning. Subjects 9 and 10 complained of walking endlessly through nothing before being able to return, and Subjects 11 – 15 never emerged from the rift.

  I glance up to my ceiling and at my locked doors, then back to the lasers that exploded. “Dangerous,” I murmur to my empty bedroom. Rift-walking was hella scary and definitely unsettling, but dangerous? I stepped from my bedroom to Saige’s. The return trip was equally simple.

  I turn to the back of the notebook where the scientist left her unanswered question. I have to admit that I’m also having a hard time answering if time travel should be legal. There are powerful arguments on both sides, and one that resonates strongly with me. I’m afraid that something done in the past could completely disrupt my present. Like what if someone “fixes” something and then I’m never born? Or what if Cascade never was?

  Or what if someone stole Dad’s specs for one of his inventions? What if that family was living in this house instead of me? The ripples time travel causes are simply too scary, which is why it’s illegal.

  I’m about to close the journal when I get a chat from Dad. “Are you up yet, son? We need to talk.”

  I sigh, my heart pounding in my throat in all the wrong ways. “Yeah, okay, Dad. I’m coming down.” I pull out a backpack, place the notebook inside, and zip it closed. Cascade is super-smart. Maybe she can make sense of these failed experiments. Plus, time travel is one of the most advanced technologies that has emerged in the past century, and this notebook could be a literal gold mine for Cas’s senior project. I can’t help imagining what she might do when I show it to her. In my head, kissing is definitely involved.

  “Price?” Dad’s voice puts a damper on my fantasies.

  “Yeah, coming,” I say. The walk to his office feels like a death march, especially when I have to face two of his beefiest guards at the door to his office. They glare at me like I’m doing something wrong by talking with my own father.

  After one of the guards knocks twice and swipes open the door, Dad glances up quickly. “Price, come in,” he says, his tone pleasant. He slides something into a drawer on his side of the desk and gestures to one of the chairs before him.

  His office is decorated with top-of-the-line wallpaper, paint, and fabrics. It feels tranquil, despite the imposing desk and stiff chairs. Tall plants stand sentinel behind him, and the only light comes from the recessed bulbs overhead. The entire wall to my right is made of flatpanel screens, and I’m suddenly regretting that I didn’t break into them when I had the chance.

  I slouch to the chair Dad indicated and sit down, trying not to look at him and failing. He’s changed into his business suit, his light brown hair quaffed just-so.

  His expression sobers; a muscle in his jaw jumps. “Price, I’m worried about you.” He leans back in his chair. “I know that holoswitch isn’t the only thing you’re hiding from me.”

  “Dad, it’s nothing,” I say, anxious to get this conversation over with so I don’t echo the words back to him. He’s definitely hiding something from me. “Honest, I just like to see the people I’m chatting with.”

  Dad nods, like he completely understands. “The permission process creates a lot of headaches,” he says. Maybe he won’t be as anal about my switch as I was expecting. “But it’s necessary.” Maybe not.

  He glances at his inlaid flatpanel. “So…Cascade Kaufman chats you a lot.”

  I don’t want to talk about girls with my dad. “Yeah,” I say, hoping he’ll drop it. “She’s in my social group. She likes gadgets and technology. In fact, we’re getting together later today to outline her senior project.”

  He meets my eyes. “So it’s a friendship. School partners.”

  I almost laugh out loud. I thought he was going to fire questions about hacking, the drawer full of contraband tech in my bathroom, or you know, the unregistered time rift in my bedroom. Instead, he’s trying to find out if Cas is my girlfriend.

  “School partners,” I confirm. “We might come back here later to look through some stuff for her project. Is that cool?”

  “What’s her topic?” Dad asks.

  “The rise of technology,” I say.

  “Clear it with Mom. I have to go back into the Bureau to deal with this Black Hat/Privatize mess.” He looks at me like he knows I’m the one responsible for the situation at his precious Bureau.

  I wonder if he has new intel on the Black Hat, and how close they’re getting to discovering who I am. I can’t ask—my voice is unreliable. So I swallow hard, simply nodding to acknowledge that I’ll clear everything with Mom.

  “Chat me if she has any questions, and you can look through any of my public files.”

  I clear my throat, pushing away the nerves. “Great. Thanks, Dad. I have a bunch of research to do for my senior project, so….” I start to stand, knowing Dad likes it when I dedicate my daylight hours to studying.

  Dad holds out his hand, an indication that he has more to say. I settle back into the chair. “Register the holoswitch,” he says in a tired voice. “I don’t want you getting caught with it. I’ll code the permission form. I know you like your gadgets.”

  I watch him, trying to decide if he means more than what he’s said. “What if I have…other gadgets that need to be registered? You’ll code permissions for them too?”

  Dad sighs and runs his hand along his two-day-old stubble. I realize that he hasn’t had time to shave since he left for the city. His hair has more gray in it too, something I’ve never noticed before.

  “What kind of ‘other gadgets’?” he asks.

  I’m still having a hard time breathing when I show up at Sunnyside Up!. Cascade is already there, because I’m twenty minutes late.

  “Sorry.” I slide into the booth across from her. “I was chatting with my mom, and finalizing my permission codes, and lost track of time.”

  “Oh, what new gadgetry did you get?” Cascade taps the table in front of her, and then in front of me. A menu appears on the inset flatpanels. “I waited to order.”

  “Thanks.” I clear my throat again and tell myself to stop doing it. I don’t want her to think I’m nervous around her. I remind myself that I’m the Black Hat. That I’m sneaking around right under my dad’s nose. That I hacked into the Time Bureau’s internal Circuit system and navigated into the Advertising Agency and planted the flick everyone is talking about.

  She waves her hand, which bears a clunky ring on every finger, even her thumb. The facial pattern she installed only a couple of days ago is go
ne, replaced by a new f-pat. This one is fancier, with running white lights that cycle through the two rows of dashed lines above her eyes, and the two below. They even cross the bridge of her nose. I wonder how long an f-pat takes to implant, and if I could get one and then remove it before Dad gets home from the city.

  “Sorry again,” I say, tearing my eyes from the moving lights riding her eyebrows.

  “No big deal,” she says, smiling. “I only just got here myself.”

  I know she’s lying. She’s not out of breath or sweating like I am. Though the sweating isn’t all from my dead sprint here.

  I’m fidgety, like I have spiders crawling all over my skin. Cascade and I have so much to talk about, and none of it can really be said out in the open. I tap through the menu and order a bacon cheeseburger before setting the backpack on the table. “I have something for your senior project.”

  Cascade leans closer, my co-conspirator. Her breath smells like coffee and cream, and I want to taste it so badly. I make a conscious effort not to clear my throat, and instead, lean in toward her.

  “What is it?” she asks, her voice hushed. The silver hoops in her ears sway with her words. Even with her Mohawked hair, she looks decisively feminine because of the earrings—and the slenderness of her lips, the length in her neck.

  Whatever game this is we’re playing, I like it. It almost makes the regret I’d been feeling about giving her the notebook disappear. Almost. I’m not done reading it yet, and I want to finish.

  “It’s a notebook. It’s filled with equations and stuff. Time travel stuff.” I start to unzip the pack.

  She stops me by putting her hand on mine. The smile has slipped from her face. “Time travel?” She leans away, causing my stomach to lurch. I’d been hoping I could confide in Cascade at some point. Not right this second or anything, but over the course of the next couple of weeks as we worked together on her senior project and she could see how smart I am, how good I’d treat her.

  “Looked like it,” I say carefully, unsure about how to make that edge of panic vanish from her eyes. “Definitely an advanced technology from the past century, right?” I forge on, not wanting to give her a chance to protest. “I haven’t finished it yet, but its really interesting stuff about the technology behind time travel. I think it will totally help you with your project.”

  “Like rifts and stuff?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I start to unzip the pack again, encouraged when she doesn’t stop me.

  “Does it have silver writing on the cover?”

  That stops me completely. The diner background noise fades into silence. Only Cascade and I exist inside this bubble.

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “We need to leave.” She stands and shrugs into her black leather jacket. Even her curves can’t distract me from the panic welling in my throat. She reaches for my hand as I stand to leave the diner. “Bring the backpack.”

  “Cas,” I whisper, thankful I’m not wearing gloves but barely noticing the feel of her skin against mine. “What’s going on?” I scan the diner and find I don’t need an answer. I see the two security guards sitting in the booth by the door. One touches his ear while the other slips on a pair of sunglasses.

  “Your house,” Cascade says as soon as we push through the door. “We’ll have to run.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m out of breath and the fun of this date has worn way the hella off. Cascade sprints through my backyard and into the garage, as if she knows exactly where to go. Inside, she heads straight through the mudroom and the kitchen, and takes the stairs two at a time.

  Dad appears in the mouth of the hallway as I start up the steps behind Cascade. “Price?” he calls, but I ignore him.

  I press my thumb to the electronic lock on my door as Cascade says, “Can I control your Circuit?”

  “Allow all system access to Cascade Kaufman,” I instruct my Link, and a beep sounds. “There you go.” I race into the spare bedroom and lock that door. Both bathroom doors get secured too.

  I return to find Cascade poking furiously at my Link screen. Her ferocity reminds me of the Dark Panther I saw two nights ago. “They’ll be here any minute,” she says.

  “What can I do to help?” I look around like I can make something happen by doing nothing.

  “Give me just a second,” she says at the same time loud knocking lands on my bedroom door. I’m ashamed to admit that I jump. Cascade swears, jabs in another sequence of code, and turns toward me just as a section of my ceiling peels back to reveal an intricate network of ducts. A deafening whoosh of cold air starts up, causing a chill to slide down the back of my neck. The air conditioning drowns out the cursing and jingling of keys coming from the hall. Whoever is out there isn’t Dad, because all he needs to open the door is his fingerprint.

  I glance at Cascade, unable to organize my racing thoughts into a coherent statement.

  “Hold my hand,” she yells over the blowing air unit and frantic pounding on my door. “Come on, come on.” She’s watching my Link screen. The numbers click down from 66 to 65 to 64….

  “What are we doing?” I ask her as she tugs me closer to my bed. “Why does it need to be cooler? Why are we running, exactly?” What I don’t ask, but want to: Who are we running from?

  She doesn’t answer. The rift roars to life at the same time a guard kicks open my bedroom door. Four security guards flank him—including Monroe and the two from the diner. Dad strides through the middle of them, his gaze on me, and his mouth set with determination.

  There’s no time to think, or speak, or check Monroe’s facial clues. My eyes don’t leave my father’s as Cascade pulls me into the time rift and we leave everyone in the future.

  Saige

  I STAND THERE STARING AT the computer screen, feeling sick to my stomach and one hundred percent afraid. I hate feeling this way. That this fear has such a strong hold over me. I want to shrug it off the way I would a coat, but as the chat continues, I only grow more terrified. I don’t know which unsettles me more: Price chatting with my brother like they’re old pals, or the fact that the chat is coming from the future.

  My head spins with the idea of Shep talking to a person who hasn’t even been born yet. This can’t be possible. Maybe Price is still here, in my time. Maybe he didn’t go back to the future at all.

  I glance over my shoulder, like I’ll find Price standing there. Of course he’s not. Still, I feel hollow inside, with fissures running through my bones, almost like I did the morning I woke up and Chloe’s bed was empty. I remember the endless questioning I endured. I hadn’t heard anything. Seen anything.

  Not that night, but many afterward. Every noise woke me. Every shadow sent me scampering down the hall into my mom’s room, where she’d try to soothe me by tucking me back into bed with a whispered, “It’ll be okay, Saige.” In the years since Chloe’s disappearance, I’ve learned to determine fact from fiction.

  In my world, Price can’t be a fact. He’s a teenager in the year 2073—he doesn’t exist here in 2013. I press my hands against my thighs in an attempt to stop the shaking. Shep chats with Price, talking sports and computers at the same time.

  After a few minutes, Shep turns to me. “Did you want to talk to him?”

  I nod, though I have no idea how this is considered talking. “Yeah, I need to tell him something.”

  Shep heads downstairs for breakfast, calling, “I need a ride and I can’t be late. So hurry, okay?”

  I sit tentatively at my computer, the chat transcript still on the screen. I rest my fingers on the keyboard, but I don’t type anything.

  I search through the chat and see no mention of a note or the future or anything. Price is tight-lipped, which makes me trust him a little bit more.

  Hello? I type. Did you get my note?

  I jerk my fingers away from the keyboard when a message appears at the bottom of the chat window. Price Ryerson is typing.

  I hope my lack of instant messaging isn’t obvious. I tell
myself it’s just typing while I wait for his answer to appear.

  Yeah, I got it. I don’t know if we’ll be able to chat again. My network is high today, but if you ever need to tell me something, you can leave me another note in the same spot.

  Okay. I type, wondering if he’ll check the drawer every night, or every hour, or what.

  I’ll have Price check the drawer each day.

  I almost type Sounds good, when I realize the person typing isn’t Price. They know about the note. They know about the drawer in the bathroom. They know about me.

  My body feels too light to be tethered to the earth. The ding of the chat echoes in my head. I see the words Are you there? but my hands lie limp on the keyboard.

  My pulse feels thready, and my blood suddenly races hot. Sharp anger spikes through me. This person will have Price check the freaking drawer? Who is this? I type into the chat box.

  The status bar at the bottom remains blank. “Price Ryerson” is not typing. I sit at my desk, waiting, for fifteen minutes, each one only fueling the anger spreading through my chest. I make an excuse to my mom that I’m not hungry, even though my stomach is beyond empty, just in case the freaking person who is not Price chats while I’m downstairs. I ignore Shep’s repeated yells that we’ll be late for school, claiming I need to check one more thing.

  S/he never chats back. So I do the only thing I can think of: I write Price a note. This mystery chatter made it sound like he would be the one to check the drawer, and I can only hope that’s true.

  Who did you tell about me? I write. I don’t bother signing or dating it. If he doesn’t know who it’s from, that’s his problem. I shove the note in the opposite corner from the first one, hoping Price will find them at the same time in the future—and then keep his big mouth shut.

  I race downstairs and start throwing things into my backpack, maybe a little too hard. I’m trying to get the frustration out of my bloodstream before I get behind the wheel of a car. I ignore Mom’s raised eyebrows and rip the zipper closed.