Cress

Chapter 5

         "Screen four," said Cress, squinting at the grid of icons. "High Jack to ...
         D5."
                Without waiting for the animated jester to cartwheel  to his new
          space, she shifted her attention to the next game. "Screen five. Claim ru-
          bies and daggers. Discard crowns."
    The screen sparkled, but she had already moved on.
           "Screen six." She paused, chewing on the tips of her hair. Twelve rows
            of numbers filled up the screen, some slots left blank, some tinted with
       colors   and patterns.  After her brain twisted around an equation she
wasn't sure she could have done a second time, the puzzle lit up before
her, the solution as clear as a moonrise over Earth. "3A, insert yellow 4.
7B is black 16. 9G is black 20." The grid melted away, replaced with a sec-
         ond era singer swooning into a microphone, the audience swelling with
  applause.
         "Congratulations, Big Sister," said Little Cress. "You won!"
Cress's victory was short-lived. She rolled onto her side and reassessed
   the first game. Seeing the move that Little Cress had made since her
    last turn squelched her pride. She'd backed herself into a corner. "Screen
   one," she murmured, swooping her hair over one shoulder and mind-
     lessly knotting the dampened ends around her fingers. Five knots later
    and her victory on screen six was forgotten. Little Cress was going to win
     this one.
    She sighed and made the best move she could, but it was immediately
    followed by Little Cress's king moving to the center of the holographic
    labyrinth and claiming the golden chalice.  A laughing jester appeared,
    gobbling down the rest of the game board.
     Cress groaned and pulled her hair off her neck, waiting for whatever
    task her younger self would randomly select for her.
      "I won!" said Little Cress, once the holograph had disappeared back
into the screen. The other games automatically locked themselves. "You
now owe me ten minutes of country-western line dancing, as guided by
the following video, followed by thirty jump-squats. Let's begin!"
       Cress rolled her eyes, wishing she hadn't been quite so perky when
she'd recorded the voice. But she did as she was told, sliding off the bed
as a mustached man in a large hat appeared on the screens, thumbs
hooked into his belt loops.
A couple years ago, upon realizing that her living accommodations
offered few opportunities to be active, Cress had gone on a fitness kick.
She'd installed all the games with a program that chose from a variety
      of fitness activities, which she would be required to perform from every
time she lost. Though she'd often regretted the program, it did help keep
  her from becoming cemented to her chair, and she kind of enjoyed the
dancing and yoga routines. Although she was not looking forward to
those jump-squats.
       Just as the twang of a guitar announced the start of the dance, a
    loud chime delayed the inevitable. Thumbs locked into her pretend-belt
   loops, Cress glanced around at the screens.
       "Little Cress, what—"
  "We have received a direct communication link request from Un-
    known User: Mechanic."
   Her insides spun as if she'd just done a backflip.
   Mechanic.
    With a cry, she half stumbled, half fell toward the smallest screen,
hastily tapped in the fitness-routine override code, checked the firewall
and privacy settings, and saw it. A D-COMM request, and the most inno-
  cent of questions.

         ACCEPT?

        Mouth dry, Cress smoothed both palms over her hair. "Yes! Accept!"
         The window faded away, replaced with blackness, and then—
    And then— 
    There he was.
           Carswell Thorne.
                              He was tilted back in a chair, the heels of his boots propped up in front
     of the screen. Three people stood close behind him, but all Cress could
     see were the blue eyes staring back at her, directly back at her, beginning
     to fill with the same breathless awe she felt.
    The same wonder.
    The same enchantment.
           Though they were separated by two screens and vast amounts of
     empty space, she could feel the link being forged between them in that
     look. A bond that couldn't be broken. Their eyes had met for the first
    time, and by the look of pure amazement on his face, she knew he felt it
   too.
        Heat crept up into her cheeks. Her hands began to shake.
         "Aces," Carswell Thorne murmured. Dropping his feet to the ground,
    he leaned forward to inspect her closer. "Is that all hair?"
The bond snapped, the fantasy of one perfect true-love moment disin-
tegrating around her.
Sudden, overwhelming panic clawed up Cress's throat. With a squeak,
she ducked out of view of the camera and scrambled beneath the desk.
Her back struck the wall with a thud that rattled her teeth. She crouched
there, skin burning hot and pulse thundering as she took in the room
before her—the room that he was now seeing too, with the rumpled bed-
covers and the mustached man on all the screens telling her to grab her
imaginary partner and swing them around.