can’t lose them now. Not again.
“By the thirty-first?” I say, trying to do the math in my head. I count the days several times, hoping that I’ve made a mistake somehow. But I haven’t. “That’s in five days.”
Barclay nods and glances at his watch. “Five days, one hour, thirty-seven minutes, ten seconds.”
“Shit.” What else is there to say, really?
“They’ve already got all the remaining members of his family in custody,” Barclay adds.
Ben’s family. He told me about them after the first earthquake, when we sat under our table in Poblete’s English class. His mom the scientist, and his dad the traveling salesman. His older brother Derek.
We had these miniature car kits. They were like toys, but you built a car that was about two feet long from scratch and it was real, like with an engine and everything. But they were really expensive, so when my mom bought Derek a new kit, she used make him let me work on it with him. Then we’ d take turns with the remote, racing the car down our street. We chased the dog a lot.
I take a deep breath. I can’t let anything happen to them. When we were in New Prima, Ben could have gone home to his world, but he came back with me to mine, to help me find my brother and stop Wave Function Collapse.
But this isn’t going to be easy. And now there’s a deadline—one that doesn’t leave us much time. We only have five days. Less than a week. “What’s the plan?”
Barclay grunts. “We need to find Ben, prove him innocent, and figure out exactly who’s behind this.”
And we need to find Cecily.
It’s a tall order for only five days.
I take a deep breath. “How do we find Ben?” That’s the first step, and we don’t have time to waste.
“We have to talk to the one person who knows Ben better than you,” he says.
I don’t have to ask who that is, I already know.
Elijah.
For one thing, the stench is awful. It’s some dreadful combination of burning rubber, week-old garbage, and warm sewage. I wrinkle my nose at Barclay and look up.
The sky is the same iridescent gray that I remember, something that would be beautiful with all the different shimmering colors if it wasn’t crowded by thick, stormlike smog clouds hanging heavy in the air.
We’re in some kind of alley in what must be New Prima’s red-light district. Instead of the crystal skyscrapers, there are dark, graffiti-covered buildings with neon signs for alcohol, drugs, gambling, sex toys, and hotel rooms by the hour. The skyscrapers must be up there somewhere, since the sun is completely blocked out. It might as well be dusk or early evening.
But it’s morning, and no one seems to be around—probably because they’re still asleep from whatever they did last night.
“Did anyone see us portal in?” I ask anyway, since that could potentially blow our cover.
Barclay shakes his head. “I don’t think so. But if they did, it wouldn’t matter. No one down here would give a shit.”
I push myself to my feet and hug my jacket a little closer around me as I realize the building across from us has a number of floor-to-ceiling windows that only make sense if they’re lit up and showcasing someone stripping.
“Pull your hood up,” Barclay says. “We’re safe from being recognized for the moment, but we need to get to my apartment without being seen.”
He pulls a beanie from his coat pocket and puts it on his head. “Stick close to me; keep your head down. Don’t talk to anyone, and whatever you do, don’t look up.”
I follow his orders and stay close to his left shoulder as we walk through the alley. Underneath the neon lighting and the flashy signs, the filth matches the smell. There’s trash piled up next to the sidewalks and blocking the gutters, and old rainwater and possibly human waste sits puddled around the trash since it has nowhere to go.
We turn the corner and head down another alley, through a layer of foul-smelling steam that’s rising up from under the street. Barclay walks fast and keeps his head down, and I find myself almost running to keep up with him.
Whatever part of Prima this is, it’s not one I want to be hanging out in by myself.
After a couple more turns, we pass a stand in the street with a sign that says open-air bodega, but really it’s just a guy grilling some kind of meat that looks burned and smells unclean. My stomach shifts uncomfortably as I try not to wonder what kind of meat it actually is. There’s a bulky guy next to the grill, watching a couple of people nearby approach. He’s clearly some kind of guard to make sure no one steals the mystery meat. He catches me looking at him, and his eyes rake over my body while his lips curl into a smile. A shiver moves up my back.
“Walk faster,” Barclay says without turning around.
For once, I listen without question.
We make another turn and pass a homeless guy sleeping on a pile of trash. Next to him, an old metal trash can is smoking from a fire about to die out.
He lifts his head as we pass him. “How much for your girl, man?”
I almost expect Barclay to make a joke about selling me to the homeless guy if I don’t follow his orders and cooperate with him, but he doesn’t. And I’m glad.
Finally we get to a metal building that at least seems well kept. Two guys who look like some kind of cross between military and police are standing guard next to the door. They’re wearing dark fatigues, bulletproof vests, and black boots, and carrying machine guns. As we approach them, their bodies visibly tense, and they adjust their grip on their weapons.
“I’ll do the talking,” Barclay whispers. I’ve got no problem with that. “And remember to keep your head down.”
When we’re a little less than five feet away, with guns trained on us, one of the cops shouts, “Hold it right there. Let’s see your tags.”
I shift on my feet. I can’t help it. My body feels tense and a little too warm, and I’m not sure how this is going to work.
The cop examines Barclay’s ID, tilting it to see a hologram, and then runs it through a scanner. While he does so, we don’t say anything. I’m not exactly sure what the card says. A face tag sounds like some kind of ID, only any form of identification announces, “Hey, this is Taylor Barclay, the guy who’s supposed to be on some kind of IA mission, and guess what, he isn’t,” which, as far as I know, wasn’t