Simulated, p.2
Simulated, page 2
But a voice stops me.
“Jo. Calm down.” It’s a robotic voice, distorted but clear.
“I can’t calm down! I can’t get to the surface. I can’t count the fish. I can’t measure the distance. I can’t make this stupid equipment work. Get me out!”
“Jo. I can help you get your gift back. Breathe.”
The voice is calm and confident. It’s a male voice, robotic, like a computer program. Thank God. PSS didn’t leave me here to die. I breathe as instructed, surprised to find air.
“Look at the coral,” the voice instructs softly.
“No. I just need to get out.”
“You need to look at the coral. What do you see?” The voice is stern, but so confident that I make one last effort to do what it says.
In the gray water, I bend toward the coral, the edges of each pink branch and arm travel up and down the jagged shore.
“I see nothing. Just bumps, dents and holes. Fish swimming in and out.”
“Get closer. Follow the edges, slowly. Take off your glove. Touch it.”
I lean in close, take off my glove. It floats away. My fingers rub over the curves and edges of the coral, like braille, they’re rough and bumpy. I take another look. Like a snowflake under a microscope, the edges sharpen into view. I squint and see it now. The coral has distinct angles, repetitions, patterns. In every edge it becomes more evident, more beautiful.
Calculations erupt out of me. Instantly I count miles of coral, every divot of their shapes. My numbers reach the coastlines—dimensions, predictions are everywhere.
I can breathe.
It’s clear now why I’m trapped. I turn my foot to a different angle in the crevice where my fin is wedged. It instantly comes free. The equipment is an easy fix too. One switch of a dial and my breathing is calm and regular. I know exactly how long it will take me to swim to the top.
The layout of numbers in and around me are like seeing a loved one come back from the dead. If I could cry under water, I would.
In five seconds, I reach the surface. The distance to shore is 62 feet and it’ll take thirteen strokes to get there. I am myself again. My heart beats 480 times victoriously in my chest.
I emerge from the push and pull of the breaking waves and finally stand on my own two feet, fins off. The millions of granules of sand have never felt so soft against my bare feet. Then, ever so slowly, the numbers fade. I’m tempted to despair until I realize that this is the longest my gift has returned since I lost it in China.
Finally, a breakthrough.
My gift has never tasted so sweet. Without a doubt, it’s still there inside me. It’s trapped, but I have hope now that it can be freed.
My helmet shuts off and the lights in the room come on.
I spring out of the sim-room, celebrating. “It worked. It really worked. You’re all geniuses!” I grin. Everyone is smiling and clapping. “The voice, the computer program that helped me with the coral. It brought my gift back. You didn’t tell me I’d have help in the sim. I expected to be alone again.”
The smiles slip away from their faces.
Ms. Taylor’s face goes pale. “What voice?”
“The voice in the sims,” I say, startled by their blank expressions. “It told me to look at the coral when I was panicking. My gift came back for five minutes and ten seconds. The longest ever.”
They look at each other in a way that makes my stomach sink.
“That program is locked. It’s impossible for anyone to enter the sims. We monitor your brain activity from the outside,” Ms. T said, glancing again at her team. They are shaking their heads, whispering and frantically scanning the computer screens in front of them.
“What are you saying?” I ask, my skin now cold.
“Jo,” she says, “whoever was speaking to you wasn’t PSS.”
Chapter 1
RIVERS RESIDENCE, WEST SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Four weeks later…
I'M NOT IN China anymore.
It’s the first thought in my mind when I wake up. The first thought I’ve had each day since I returned to Seattle. In the beginning, that comforted me. I was far away from dangerous criminals and collapsing economies and underground prisons that turned my world upside down, but now the same thought feels like lead in my heart.
My right tranq-earring, which also serves as my alarm, starts buzzing and whispering at exactly 7:00 am. Wake up, it’s Monday sings a soft voice that is programmed to sound like my mother’s.
At the word Monday a smile spreads across my face. I rub my eyes and jump out of bed. After speaking a command into K2, my smart watch, the espresso machine begins clicking, grinding, spitting, and foaming milk in the kitchen below my bedroom. I have exactly four minutes to hop in and out of the shower before my triple shot cappuccino is ready. I set a timer for only three, because Mondays are not a day to waste time.
Mondays my gift comes back. Mondays are freedom.
Since returning to Seattle, my new life quickly spiraled into what I’ve always dreaded—a droning bore. I’m getting antsy. I promised my dad I would spend six months resting and recovering from my experiences in China. Those months aren’t even half over and already the Phoenix in me feels like a bird with clipped wings. From the outside, everything seems fine, but on the inside, I’m running, trying escape. Except there’s nowhere to go.
I keep returning to the same question: How does a math prodigy go from taking down criminal empires and saving world economies to slow walks on the beach and teaching math to high school students once a week? The only answer I’ve come up with is—they don’t.
It doesn’t help that each time my gift resurfaces it’s like a storm, swirling and brewing over my ocean.
Out of the shower, sipping on my coffee, I thread my wet hair into a haphazard French braid and slip a red beanie over my head. Then I run downstairs to grab my car keys off the driftwood bench. As I pull open the front door, rich, salty air from the Puget Sound buzzes through my senses.
“Dad, I’m leaving now,” I yell upstairs. I silently pray that my dad will reply like other fathers: Ok, have a good day, see you later. I’m not so lucky.
“Wait, Jo!” my dad shouts from the bedroom, an edge of panic in his voice.
I set my bag down, looking at my watch and tapping my foot. How long until he’ll be at my side? His feet don’t move as fast as they used to.
Almost three months have passed, and my dad hardly lets me out of his sight. I don’t blame him. His daughter was pronounced dead for two years. To him, I’m a living second chance that he won’t risk losing again.
Every Monday I do my longer simulations at PSS. Apart from my boyfriend Kai, my sims are the only thing keeping me sane. But for the past four weeks, there have only been hiccups of my gift here and there. Nothing like last month when the hacker got into my sim in the Coral Sea.
I’d never seen the PSS team so worried. No one has ever gotten through their impenetrable security before. Ms. T made it very clear that a hacker like that is a threat to PSS, to the program, to me, and to the world. If any hostiles were to get their hands on PSS tech, then no one would be safe.
“Coral Hacker” as we named him, has contacted me three times. After he hacked my sim, I realized it was the same robotic male voice from the strange phone call I’d received soon after I returned to Seattle. The caller had known all about me and my gift. He’d called me Double-Eight and claimed to have the same gift as me. He’d said: “You miss it, don’t you? The way it defines the universe into beautiful, intricate paths.” Then he’d warned me about Kai and said he’d be in touch. After that call, PSS set me up with a new phone with the highest level of security that they could offer—registered in Switzerland and protected like Alcatraz.
But then he entered my sim in the Coral Sea.
The third time was during another sim a couple of weeks ago—a phase three, where I was lost on Denali. As the robotic voice started speaking, I wanted to talk to him, but I pushed the red escape button like Ms. T had instructed me to do if the hacker broke into my sims again. Since then, they’ve reworked the PSS firewalls and he hasn’t gotten through, but still no one has been able to trace him.
The hacker is dangerous, the worst kind of genius, I tell myself. Even so, I can’t stop wishing I could ask him how he knew that the coral would unlock my gift.
Dad doesn’t know about the hacker. He also doesn’t know that Ms. T chose Mondays for my sims because that’s when PSS reviews jobs they’ve been asked to take on around the world and reveals ground-breaking tech and top-secret information. Even if I’m not allowed to participate in PSS jobs right now, Ms. T thinks it’s good for me to be a part of these meetings.
Dad finally shows up at the front door dressed in a blue wrinkled Henley shirt and jeans. “I’ll drive you over there. I can even wait for your training to be done. Then we can go get dinner together. What do you think?”
My heart crushes inside my chest as the gray-blue eyes of a father longing to protect his daughter peer down at me. “Dad,” I say, softly, “we’ve been over this. I need to drive myself. I missed two years of being a teenager. You have to let me go—alone.” I reach over and squeeze his arm reassuringly.
While I have steadily rebuilt my relationships with my sisters, Mara and Lily, Dad’s been busy building overprotective protocols around each one of us. Pepper spray. Self-defense classes. Alarm systems. Thank God for Ms. T, who convinced my dad that I’d actually be safer if I got my gift back. She also promised him that I’d get to use PSS “perks”.
Dad fidgets and takes off his hat. “I’m sorry.” He scratches his neck. “You have your phone? Taser watch? Tracker earrings?”
“Yep.” I lift my wrist and move my head from side to side to reveal my earrings.
The “perks” are all gadgets that PSS kids have designed. K2 is not only a smart watch but a military computer with holographic features. It also comes with a genius addition—three voice-activated tasers, which I haven’t had an opportunity to use yet. K2 can link up to any device in my house, has a tiny cartridge containing 88 seconds of oxygen if I ever find myself under water again, and if anyone other than me triggers it, it sends a message to my emergency contacts. My earrings are typical trackers even if they are pulled out. They have a traceable smart dust that will broadcast my coordinates for at least 48 hours. The earrings can hack anything using Bluetooth technology and also contain a tranquilizer dart if I ever need them as a weapon.
“Backpack?” he says, eyeing the bag at the ground.
I nod. “Emergency snacks, clothes, my extra cell phone, my cuff-bracelet. I know the drill.” I’m surprised he hasn’t implanted a biotag in my body so he knows where I am at all times.
“Alright,” Dad sighs. “See you at dinner?”
“Training might go longer. I’ve got all three sims today.” I don’t mention the team meeting. “I’ll be back no later than 7 pm.” I bite the inside of my lip, hoping he doesn’t ask any questions.
He nods, wearily. “Okay, I trust you,” he says, obviously stretching his faith. I hug him. He hugs me back tighter. “Seven p.m. I’ll be waiting.”
I have no doubt he will be. One minute late and my phone will ring. I always answer because I won’t risk him getting sick again like he did when I went missing two years ago. “Great, Dad. See you tonight.”
With Dad watching at the door, I spring into the salty brisk air towards the electric car I finally learned to drive. Being held hostage and then living in a subway-friendly city, I never had the chance to learn or the need to drive like other teenagers. But I soon realized in America, if you want to be free, you have to drive.
An intense excitement burns inside me as I start the car. I pull out on the road and head toward the university district. “K2, bring up my maps.” Holographic screens displaying distance, speedometers, GPS, and a timer are projected around me.
“K2, choose a route with no pedestrians, no police, and no cameras.” A tiny pinch of guilt pricks me. This is not how I should be using PSS tech. If anyone knew they’d probably strip me of my license.
“Calculating route.”
K2 projects a 3-D map of the route to PSS headquarters, and I let loose.
All the gauges sync with my mind. I drive attempting to calculate all factors—upcoming turns, other traffic, distance—as K2 delivers instant information audible through my earrings. I want to envision every curve along the route. Somewhere in my subconscious, I know I can match the speed on the speedometer with the speed in my gut.
If my sims have proven anything, it’s that phase three—when I’m facing danger—is the only time in which my gift sparks, as if it wants to keep me alive.
Now on an empty road, K2 announces, “There is one mile ahead without pedestrians.” I press down on the accelerator. Just for a taste. Just for that spark. K2 is only a computer program. An automated helper. He can’t calculate everything, but my gift, if it wakes up, can. Finally, my numbers stumble out. A satisfying thrill comes over me. I go even faster, like a fire in the wind, sparks of numbers flying everywhere. I’m so in tune with them I forget the dials and drive, faster and faster. The rush of calculations takes over until K2’s robotic voice commands, “Slow down.”
I don’t listen. Instead, I sink the pedal to the floor.
But just ahead a blind corner appears out of nowhere. Before I can react, my engine dies. My tech goes black. The screen fades.
I slam on the brakes, pulling over to the side. What just happened? K2 has never taken over the car’s system like that before. Then I see it ahead of me—a group of kids chasing each other to cross the street. I gasp, my heart skipping hard.
I didn’t see them. If K2 hadn’t stopped me…a chill ripples through me. I slam my hands on the dashboard. What was I thinking?
Suddenly, everything reboots. My engine roars back to life.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Thanks, K2.”
“K2 rebooting. Suspicious activity. Tech overridden. Unknown user.” The system flashes warnings before my eyes.
My heart pounds as I sit in the nearly silent car. It wasn’t K2 that killed the motor.
A sudden vibration hits my leg. I startle and slam back against the seat. “Incoming message from an unlisted number, no origin.”
Jaw tight, I grab the phone vibrating in my pocket. No one has this number except for my family, PSS, and Kai. It’s not my dad. I just left him. It can’t be Kai—he’s on a job for Private Global Forces and no contact is allowed. And I’m on my way to PSS. No one there would be calling me. It has to be Coral Hacker.
Looking at the screen, my skin shivers as the phone number morphs from New Zealand area code to India to Greece. A text message appears.
Choose Tunisia and tell your idiot boyfriend to back off or he’ll be sorry. You have five days.
In less than five seconds, the message has disappeared. There’s no trace of any call or text on my phone.
What’s in Tunisia?
Without a doubt, the message is from him. Coral Hacker is just as cryptic as usual.
I immediately look over my shoulder scanning the streets. Under my skin, the itch for a fight is simmering.
It’s infuriating that he can always find me. It’s troublesome that he sends me cryptic messages, like I know what he’s talking about. But above all, I despise that he claims to have my gift, then uses it to taunt me.
I’m about to call Agent Bai when the phone rings again. Another international number, just like the text. Great. Now he’s calling me? Who does he think he is? Suddenly I’m furious. PSS wouldn’t want me to answer. But my fear is overridden with a maddening desire to get to the bottom of this.
“Answer!” I shout to the system. I’m ready to give this rogue hacker a piece of my mind—and demand that he tell me how to get my gift back.
Chapter 2
BEFORE A ROBOTIC voice can utter an obscure warning and hang up, I shout into the phone. “Who are you? What do you want? Why are you calling me?”
A familiar, husky laugh follows. “I might be a bit old fashioned, Trouble, but I thought boyfriends call their girlfriends, especially when they haven’t talked in a few days.” Kai’s voice. And he’s very amused.
I groan with relief—and surprise. “Ugh. Sorry. Wrong guy.” I instantly calm down. His voice still has that soothing effect on me even if his new job isn’t exactly safe.
“Wrong guy? What’s going on? Is someone threatening you?” he asks, instantly serious.
I’m about to answer when it dawns on me. “Wait, why are you calling me? Private Global Forces said no contact with me when you’re in the field. It’s not safe.” A motorcycle growls in the background, and there are horns honking. “Don’t tell me you’re talking while riding too. Are you crazy, Kai?”
“Not any more than you are, Trouble.” The engine revs in the background.
“I told you, you can’t call me Trouble anymore. I have a very normal, boring life now.” Apart from my sims and that ever-growing itch, anyway.
Kai laughs. “Nice try. We both know that will never be true. You’ll always be Trouble to me. Trouble that I never want to be rid of—which is why I’m risking this five-minute conversation right now. If Bai found out, he’d kill me.”
“Don’t lose your job on my account.”
“He’ll never know. I bought a phone for this five-minute call because I missed you. It’s stripped of anything traceable, and I’ll destroy it the minute we hang up. Now, can I talk to my girlfriend?”
I imagine the cocky grin on his lips, and I miss him so badly it hurts. I’m also hyper aware of the risks in his new line of work. Ever since Kai helped solve the Madame case in China, he’s worked at his dream job with Private Global Forces, or PGF, training to be part of their new field team. But it was after his first field assignment that the hacker warned me about him.
I pull back on to the road headed to PSS and ask, “So how’s life where you are?” It’s been weeks since we last saw each other in person. To be honest, the separation is killing me. I’ve already spent so much time away from people I love that it really bothers me we can’t live in the same country. Kai and I were just learning how to be a couple, without tension and code names and clandestine operations. Now he’s got a job that takes him away for weeks at a time while I’m stuck here kicking rocks at the beach trying to guess their distance and velocity and wondering how long it will be before he can hop on a plane to come see me. After this job is finished, we’re supposed to discuss what’s next for us.
