Simulated, p.33
Simulated, page 33
The clear night dares me to look up and when I do, my numbers reach into the heavens, drawing lines across the sky and digging for treasure.
I set my gaze on the stars. It’s high time Noble had a little competition.
EPILOGUE
LÜDERITZ, NAMIBIA
February, Three months later…
THE WORLD IS upside down.
In reality, I’m in the Southern Hemisphere where the earth is tilted toward the sun, so unlike Seattle right now, where frost covers every leaf and blade of grass, here in the arid city of Lüderitz, it’s summer and a blazing heat radiates over a rainbow of brown terrain colliding with a deep blue sky. So it’s not exactly upside down, no matter how life feels right now.
I’m sitting outside on a sandy ledge in shorts and a tank top, wiping sweat from my brow, staring out at the South Atlantic, calculating how many hours it would take to sail the 3635 miles to Rio de Janeiro. Behind me, Felicia and Pens are wrapping up the final tests at a solar-powered workstation we set up on the coast, two miles north of the city. Working with the Namibia United Energy Research and Development team, PSS helped develop new tools and techniques to locate and recover renewable energy sources in safer, faster, and more sustainable ways. Harrison and Eddie are installing the last of the PSS updates to their new tech at the NUE headquarters in town.
“One last test and we’re done,” Pens says, satisfied. “After seventeen days of working on this project, we can finally be beach bums and go sightseeing.” She gulps down a bottle of water.
Felicia snags her bathing suit, and dives behind the workstation door to change. “Harrison and Eddie want to explore the shipwrecks off Skeleton Coast,” she yells from inside. “I think we should head to Victoria Falls in Zambia. What do you say, Jo?”
“Huh? Sure. Meet you there,” I say, distracted as my mind measures the sounds coming off the ocean. The global wind patterns—or the polar easterlies—and the eddies forming in the sea are so different here. No wonder so many ships have run aground and there’s often heavy fog.
“Jo, you’re not paying attention again,” Pens yells over. She sighs, shaking her head. “Fel, where are the X-2 chip readers? I can’t find them.”
“Harrison has all the micro-tech in his bag. He’ll be back in 15 minutes.” The oscillations of Felicia’s voice collide with a car speeding by in the background. My mind buzzes, listening to it all.
“Fifteen minutes is too long when I’m this sweaty. It’s hotter here than our last job in Saudi Arabia,” Pens whines, fanning herself. “Jo, do you have that old phone from China?”
“Yeah, why?” My gift tracks the familiar pitch in her voice.
“The tech we’ve installed is super advanced, but we need to make sure it can read anything, no matter how outdated. Can I use the sim card? That should work for this test.”
“No problem.” At least my nostalgia is good for something. I take out the old phone from my backpack and rub the edges. I don’t know why I carry it with me. It’s not like I ever turn it on. It’s sort of a reminder I’m free. It was the first piece of tech I used after escaping the Pratt. Chan gave it to me. It’s also loaded with old messages from Kai. I toss the phone to Pens and stare out over the ocean. I wonder where he is right now.
“Thanks,” Pens says. “This should be done in one minute. Then, we swim.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I say again. “I want to read up on the new PSS jobs before swimming, so we’ll be ready to make a decision on where we’re going next. There are jobs in Benin and Mozambique, or we could move on to South America?”
I don’t really care which job we choose next as long as I keep moving. Seeing the world in a new way has been like getting another PhD. In every location, I’m creating new charts, new graphs, new logs of information. Everything is numerically recorded—sounds, sights, rules, languages, maps. My brain is filling up and filing everything away like it’s preparing for something. But I don’t know what. The capacity of my gift is increasing, but it’s also creating more questions—that no one here has answers to.
“Jo, we’ve been on the road since Tunisia,” Pens says, not looking up from the machine. “Don’t get me wrong. We’ve never accomplished this much. And we love it, but we’re not the one who lost a boyfriend.”
“And actually, I gained one,” Felicia says, coming out ready to swim. “We just want to be sure you’re doing ok.”
Namibia is the ninth country we’ve been to since Tunisia. We finish one job, go home for a few days, then fly out again. We’re not on any special operations. There are no fingertip bombs, gangsters, political or economic crisis, terrorists or weapons. It’s just regular PSS jobs—solving problems and helping people. It’s relaxing. Jetlag doesn’t even affect me anymore. I calculate flight times and sleep patterns and now I adjust within hours. A small, but welcome perk of my gift.
“Even at night you don’t sleep much because of your hobby, which is cool but…” Felicia glances to the new PSS telescope and the math book on the table beside me.
I shrug an awkward grin. Bouncing all over the world also helps my research. I track, chart and record the stars from as many positions of earth as possible. Like tonight, I’ll take advantage of the low light pollution here, and work on the hardest code I’ve ever tried to decipher in my life. I’ve spent months probing galaxies and following asteroid patterns, analyzing sun and star energy and scouring the solar system for formulas and equations until finally a tiny pattern started to emerge. A puzzle in the light, a semi-morse code in the stars. I started to recognize coordinates, an address in the sky…and then the trail went cold. No more messages.
“Fine. I’ll come swimming. And you guys can choose the next job.”
I grab my bathing suit, about to change when Pens called out. “Jo. It’s asking for your pin number. Do you remember it?”
“Yep.” When my numbers came back, all the memories associated with my gift returned as well. Once again, I’m a walking directory of everything I have ever learned or observed. I walk over and punch in the old password. The machine starts beeping wildly.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“Well, it can read the card, which means, the equipment works, but strangely, it’s picking up a message that was sent to this number over a month ago.”
“What does it say?” I ask, walking over.
“It must be a wrong number. It’s written to someone named Mila,” Pens says.
Goosebumps roll over my arms, despite the heat. “Read it, please.”
Pens gives me a quizzical look. “OK,” she says. “Mila. I need your help. It’s urgent. Per favore. Call me.”
My hands drop to my lap, a rush of memories taking over my thoughts. “Non ci credo…I don’t believe it.”
“Who’s Mila?” Pens wrinkles her nose. “Jo? Are you okay? You’ve got that look on your face…”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just haven’t heard that name in a long time.”
It’s one of my old names from China—after Double-Eight and before Phoenix. There’s only one person on the planet who calls me Mila.
Rafael.
SNEAK PEAK: ACTIVATED
PROLOGUE
EUROPEAN UNION ENERGY SUMMIT, GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
Eighteen days after Tunisia…
THE BLACKOUTS FEEL like a sign.
It’s the first PSS assignment since my numbers returned. Maybe I’m foolish for jumping back into work so quickly after Tunisia, but an assignment to prevent darkness felt like a good place to start.
Since Tunisia, most of my time is spent in the midnight hours, searching for him—the one who turned my day into night. My sun into the moon. My sea into the stars. For Noble. Nothing is normal since I left him. Nothing will be until I find him. But even with the potent return of my mathematical gift, I still can’t crack his code in the stars.
It’s 6:32 pm in Geneva on the last night of the European Union Energy Summit. We’re in an auditorium built like a coliseum, seated with 211 people. Experts from thirty nations are gathered here in Switzerland, home to the largest power grid in Europe, to discuss the sporadic blackouts that have been hitting Europe and other parts of the world, leaving hundreds of millions without electricity.
Prodigy Stealth Solutions was invited too, discreetly of course. Agent Ramos, Ms. Taylor’s former boss at the Defense Intelligence Agency and PSS’s government overseer, invited us to be extra ears and eyes at the Summit. Ramos said he wanted a different perspective on the blackouts. So here we are. But if I’m right, this will also lead me to Noble. There is no way he doesn’t know what’s going on with these blackouts.
On paper, we’re just student observers. Ms. T and the PSS team sit beside me. We’re seated near the back row, where journalists take notes and camera crews record the Summit.
Experts aren’t sure what is causing the blackouts. Most scientists believe they’re a result of the recent geomagnetic storms caused by solar flares, which are eruptions from the sun. They aren’t normal power outages where electricity is simply cut off, but these intense surges of energy from the sun could severely damage power grids and mess with other electrical systems, which would explain why certain satellites are experiencing malfunctions and total failure. I came here with the intention of finding answers, maybe even solutions, but so far the trip is not what I had expected.
Ever since my gift returned in Tunisia, I’ve had to work double-time to pay attention. A new dimension of numbers has emerged, and now my numbers buzz with so many layers of information, it’s hard to think straight.
I always assumed if my numbers returned they’d be the same as before. I was way off. Noble wasn’t kidding when he said I’d need time to understand my new abilities. I’ve been upgraded to a new operating system without instructions. What he didn’t tell me was that my gift would crescendo like water coming to a boil on the stove. Which leads me to a question—what happens when it boils over? I’m afraid to find out.
The ability to measure sounds and frequencies started when I met Noble in the Bardo Museum in Tunis and now it increases daily. Not only do I pick up frequencies from humans, animals, electronics, vibrations—both manmade and natural—but I measure things unseen by human eyes, anything pulsing with energy around me. It takes time to identify the source of each frequency—if I can identify it all.
These unseen frequencies are hyper-visceral. They feel skin close, a whisper in my ear. I’m no stranger to paranoia—a product of the Pratt, no doubt—but everything feels like a threat. It’s a maddening tickertape running at speeds too fast to comprehend. I’m starting to feel like Double-Eight again, checking over my shoulder and raising false alarms.
Where I once had a handle on my gift, this is a whole new level of non-stop input. I’m a toddler lost in a seven-story mall and can’t find my way out—because the mall just keeps getting bigger. Which makes sitting in this room listening to experts discuss their theories about the blackouts incredibly challenging.
I shift in my seat, my mind galloping as I download 211 different people’s heights, weights, movements, mannerisms, and intentions. Next, I study the dimensions and structure of the auditorium. Finally, I process every frequency that buzzes in the room—voices, heat signatures, cell phone signals. Apart from all this input, my mind is also still trying to solve the problem at hand.
Scientists and power engineers sit at a panel on the stage. I latch onto clips of what they say. “Our major satellites and power grids must be protected if we want to avoid a global crisis that could thrust us back to the Stone Age,” an expert from the United States exaggerates.
“If the blackouts become longer or more widespread, it could be catastrophic,” agrees a female expert with a French accent. “Apart from casualties, the economic loss alone would devastate most nations. The blackouts have already cost France billions of dollars in lost wages, spoiled inventory, delayed production, and damage to our electrical grid. Not to mention the GPS failures that caused accidents all over Europe. What if GPS systems for planes fail next time? What if the power outages last for weeks? Or months? Winter is coming. What then? People will freeze in their homes.” Anxiety trembles in her voice.
I’m stumbling for answers in the dark like the rest of the world, only instead of focusing on the blackouts I’m still wrestling with what happened to my life after Tunisia.
I pinch my leg and try to focus. My mind traces the diagrams of international power grids that Agent Ramos shared with PSS, exploring different solutions—but none of it actually registers because something in this room is throwing me off.
My numbers, like algorithms, run analytics across the auditorium connecting faces and vibrations until I locate fourteen frequencies pulsing with negative numbers.
I pause. Identifying why my gift picks up on this activity is harder now. It could be any number of reasons, and without the right variables, finding a conclusion is like pulling one string out of a knotted ball of yarn. After sixteen equations and twenty-eight possibilities, I can’t pinpoint anything immediately wrong at the Summit or in the crowd, or tell whether the problem is connected to the blackouts. Could be another false alarm.
Suddenly, a different frequency steals my attention altogether. This one is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. Once again, I can’t identify what it is or where it’s coming from. It’s humming softly and boomeranging between me and an unknown source. Whatever it is, it’s making me tipsy.
Ms. Taylor, the PSS Director, is sitting beside me. She listens to the various speakers intently, but numerically, her attention is on me, like she feels my unrest.
Pens, whose red hair is not in a bun on top of her head for once but flows straight down her back, is taking notes with one hand, while searching something on her phone with the other. Harrison is multi-tasking too. He’s researching every speaker invited to the Summit while he sorts every headline across the world related to the blackout. For the first time since I met Harrison, he isn’t wearing a hoodie or jeans, but dark blue slacks and a button up. His shaggy blond hair is parted and styled. It’s a version of him I’ve never seen before. Earlier I had joked that he actually looks like a prodigy now, whatever that looks like.
Felicia, who sits extra close to Harrison these days, looks so innocent in her white skirt and pink blouse, her shiny black hair dangling in a beautiful braid off her shoulder, but she’s likely hacking into the power grid database and several world leaders’ phones as we speak. Eddie, our inventor, uses a PSS program called Expose to scan everyone in the room for any ill-tech at work. Since he’s also a language expert, he’s been eavesdropping on foreign conversations since we arrived.
I shift uneasily in my seat.
Harrison moves a loose strand of his blond hair, and whispers, “You okay? You look pale.”
“Not sure yet,” I say. On one hand, I’m overjoyed my gift is back. I’m myself again and sizing up a situation is much easier. But on the other hand, if I can’t figure out what all these new frequencies and equations mean, this upgrade might break me. Tapping into people’s frequencies adds an extra layer of depth that isn’t always clear. Sometimes a person’s frequency fluctuates like a soft melody, other times it’s a clanging cymbal. With so many frequencies happening simultaneously, it’s critical to know exactly what you’re tapping into.
An expert from Finland, Dr. Juho Salonen, a 6’2” man with sandy brown hair, joins the panel on stage. Numbers flicker around him like fireflies. My gift is highlighting him, so I pay attention. Leaning over to Harrison, I whisper, “Who is he?”
“Seriously, Jo. You don’t know him?” Harrison asks, a horrified look on his face. I shake my head. “He’s the most famous Finnish aerospace engineer. He is a satellite tech guru and the chief scientist and CEO of Scale Tech, the company that funds the International Space Collaboration. You do know what that is, right?”
“Of course,” I respond. The International Space Collaboration is all over the news. It’s like a global NASA on steroids. The ISC is making history with their upcoming launch of a multi-functional ‘Super Satellite’ that’s been in the works for ten years. “But what is Scale Tech?”
“A private space tech company in Finland,” he says. “It’s small and their headquarters are in the remote Arctic region. They have some killer tech and the company is worth billions.”
I nod at this information, then turn my attention to what Dr. Salonen is saying.
“The International Space Collaboration is planning to send up our first Super-Satellite in three months. We need to ensure it is successful or the geomagnetic storms could destroy ten years of work…” His voice fades because those fourteen negative frequencies draw my attention again.
My eyes dart across the room as numbers highlight a face, then two, then three, and finally all fourteen frequencies connect to one man like a leash to a master. A black-haired man dressed in a gray suit sits close to the stage listening intently to Dr. Juho Salonen.
I can’t see his face but my analysis of his movements makes me shiver—he weighs the information thoughtfully, clearly knowledgeable about the discussion, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was amused at the panic in the room. An uneasy feeling curls in my gut. I’m about to have Eddie get closer to run a facial scan on him when I stop myself. If I get on that bus I don’t know where it will lead—and the last thing I need right now is more trouble.
In the last eighteen days, I’ve raised three false alarms. My numbers have made me paranoid again. The endless layers of frequencies in the conference room are messing with my head. I’m starting to sweat. Logically I know that every human reacts to a problem differently, and with frequencies, it’s even harder to discern why people do the things they do. I make a mental note to investigate the man later, but right now I need to get some air.
I lean over to Ms. T. “I need to leave. I’ll meet you at the hotel if that’s okay?”
