Elusion(42)

“Listen, I know Patrick’s your friend. He used to be mine, too. But if there’s something wrong with Elusion, who knows how many people might get caught in the crossfire?”

“Then we need to find out what fifty-twenty means,” I say. “It’s the only clue we have that links our stories together.”

He paces back and forth, his strides small and clipped because of how tiny the room is. “What if fifty-twenty is part of some numeric source code?”

“I don’t know. Programming code is really intricate stuff. Especially the kind Patrick and my dad were doing for Elusion.”

“It’s still worth looking into,” he says. “Did your dad leave his tab behind?”

“No, but it wouldn’t matter. He kept all his files on his work computer, for security reasons. That’s why he spent so much time at Orexis; everything he needed was in his lab or at his office.” I clap my hands together once all my synapses start firing in unison. “The office. Patrick moved into my dad’s office, which means—”

“He’s using your father’s computer.” Josh finishes my sentence, his eyes brightening. “A three-panel quantum with touch recognition. Am I right?”

I recoil from him a little bit, mostly because I’m freaked out by how precise his guess was. “How’d you know that?”

“Patrick likes to brag. Told me all about it at the party,” he explains. “Five feet long with a multitouch surface desk and four-foot screens. Not bad.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty sophisticated.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and try to corral the ideas stampeding through my mind. “Do you think we could hack into it? Get the data that way?”


“No, the security on their servers is really tough to break through,” he says after a pause. “And I bet they have other secure servers contracted, just to be used in an emergency, in case the main server at Orexis goes down for any reason.”

Even though I’m a little discouraged by Josh’s response, I press on, determined to find a way into the dark recesses of my dad’s computer banks.

“Okay, what if the computer was broken into by hand?” I suggest. “The files could be sent to a remote cloud where we could access them and—”

“Hold on—all of those files are going to be encrypted and too large to send,” he interjects. “And there’s the touch recognition, too. The only way around that is to use a QuTap.”

My heart sinks as a sigh of frustration escapes my lips. Magnetic-surge devices like QuTaps were taken off the market almost two years ago. I remember it being all over the Net. QuTaps are the only thing capable of disabling elaborate computer security systems.

“So it’s impossible, then,” I say, hating the defeated tone of my voice.

“I didn’t say that,” Josh replies.

I look at him, surprised. “Are you saying you can get one?”

“The one perk of being an academy boy is the military contacts,” he says with a shy grin.

“How long would it take?” I know I sound impatient, but that’s because we have no time to waste.

Josh reaches into his pocket and pulls out his tab, gazing at me as if he’s standing by for an order. “I think I could track one down in a few hours.”

This is our chance to get concrete facts—facts that will shine a light on this confounding mystery I’ve stumbled on to.

Without even thinking about the consequences, I say, “Do it.”

Josh blinks a few times, apparently a little concerned about my quick decision. “Okay, but how are we going get into Orexis? Without anyone knowing what we’re up to?”

“Maybe this will help.” I hold up my father’s passcard. “If this can get me past lobby security, I think I could talk my way into Patrick’s office.”

“Not a bad idea,” he says.

“And if we hold on to the passcard and don’t tell anyone what we have, who knows where else it could come in handy?”

“Okay, your secret is safe with me,” Josh replies, but then a streak of worry flashes across his face. “You sure you want to do this? If we get caught—”

“Then at least we’ll get caught together,” I say.


The next morning, I stand shoulder to shoulder with at least a hundred Orexis employees hurrying to get to their desks for the start of the Standard 7 shift.

It’s a madhouse—exactly as I’d hoped.

Dressed in a long raincoat to hide my school uniform, I clutch my father’s passcard in one hand and a bag of cinnamon buns in the other. I push my way through the crowd outside the elevator bank located in the lobby of the former Renaissance Center Hotel, where Patrick works. Although it’s not as tall as the rest of the buildings in the complex, it is one of the oldest commercial structures in Detroit. It serves as the office building for only the top-level executives at Orexis and the lobby has all the ornate, old-school decorative touches of the era it was built: vaulted ceilings, marble floors, and potted palm trees. I kind of like the fact that it hasn’t been modernized in any way.

I train my eyes on the closest of the three security gates, each of them manned by a Taser-wielding guard. Thankfully, none of them looks familiar to me; however, all of them appear as if they’re trained to attack at the slightest provocation. Except the skinny red-haired one on the left, who is distracted and checking his tab.