The Rebel Code

Chapter Twenty

I dread leaving the campground. I dread getting on a bus and flying all the way back to the mall terminal. But I don't get much of a choice. In the mall, we're invisible, and invisibility is safety. Before I know it, we're back under the shadow of that colossal structure, floating into the terminal and docking. I grab my bags and follow the others out into our temporary home, those steel walls I'd grown so used to. It's strange how I was only gone for a weekend, and I already feel so strange here, the way I felt the first time we arrived.

Larry reads my mind. "I can't wait to get out of here," he whispers, squeezing my hand. "It can't be long now, right?"

"With the new algorithm, it won't be long at all," I reply, only a little bit certain. I hope that's the case. I don't know how much longer I can stand it.

John ushers us up a ramp and into the tunnels that lead to the rest of the mall, but as we're entering, I notice a person approaching us. My first instinct is to assume the worst, and that the Cyber Police are on to us, but this person isn't dressed like an agent. She's short, in a simple sweatshirt and sandals, with a brown leather bag slung over her shoulder. She waves to get John's attention, and he stops.

"Are you John Bekker?" asks the girl.

"Yes," he says warily. "Have we met?"

"No, but Natcha said you'd be here." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small piece of paper. "She told me to give you this."

John looks around quickly to make sure no one's watching, and unfolds the paper. There are two freeboot glyphs printed on it in light pencil. The writing seems hurried.

The first glyph is a series of scratches indicating a number. Ninety-seven.

The second is an open eye.

John nods slowly, calmly, but I can see that his hands are shaking as he crumples the paper and puts it in his pocket. "Can you tell us any more?"

The girl frowns. "Natcha said for you to go immediately to the Grand Legacy Hotel on forty-nine and meet her there."

"But I need to use her computer," says John. "It's on ninety-seven."

"No," says the girl firmly. "You should not go to ninety-seven under any circumstances. Trust me. Avoid it like the plague. Natcha will explain, but I have to go."

And without another word, she slips into the crowd of pedestrians and disappears.

I turn to John for some kind of explanation. We've only been back for a few minutes, and already, everything feels like it's falling apart.

"We can't go back to the apartment?" I ask, tightening my grip on my bag strap.

"No, Jenny," he says. "It seems that's out of the question."

"So what do we do?" asks Mo.

"We get an explanation. We're going to forty-nine."

*

The service android on the elevator looks at us funny, I think. I don't know if they program them to look at people funny, but if they do, he does. While we ride, I take a look at the interactive directory on the wall to see what forty-nine is made of, and if there's any trivia worth knowing. The screen says that it's the most expensive floor to live on, and the widest of all of them. It's another entertainment floor, with twice the casinos and shops. It's also a hot commodity because the hangars allow parking for privately-owned hover-vehicles, meaning millionaires can come and hang out whenever they like without a special pass. So yes, even to the robotic eye, we must not look like the kind of people who'd go to forty-nine. Larry's basically wearing pajamas, and I'm certain I have mud on my socks.