A Pair Of Docks Part 3

But Simon continued, "Except it's probably pa.s.sword-protected, with some sort of dual security requirement to change the code, so the retinal scan isn't enough. At least that's what I would do if I were the programmer."

He addressed the computer. "Sarah, change line 34,572 of the nav system code to take a real number instead of an integer."

The female intonation replied, "Please provide the code pa.s.sword."

Abbey felt the disappointment pull at her. Simon muttered something about pa.s.sword algorithms. She studied the lacquered surface of the computer terminal. It was a rich blue with flecks of white and black, as if it were made of blue granite. But stone would be too heavy on a s.p.a.ceship. Abbey brushed the surface with her fingertips. Her fingers found the two stylized S's. SS, like two entangled snakes. Probably something to do with the S Systems they'd seen earlier. But there was something twisty about the S's that she didn't like. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her fingers away. Simon was dictating some strange words to Sarah. The time display in the bottom left corner of the screen read 4:23. Caleb had been gone for twelve minutes. She wondered if time in whatever this place was pa.s.sed at the same rate as time at home, and if they'd be home in time for dinner.

The computer voice startled her. "Algorithm running time: four hours and ten minutes."

"What does that mean?" she asked Simon. The ship seemed like it was slowing. The causeway in the hillside that they'd left behind half an hour before had reappeared in the window. Abbey sucked in her breath in relief as the large vessel sank gracefully back into its parking s.p.a.ce.

"It means we won't be able to solve the problem any time soon, unless I come up with something brilliant."

"Well, let's get out of here as soon as Caleb gets back, and then we won't have to worry about it," Abbey said.

"I guess," Simon said, pulling his toque down further on his forehead.

"Wait a second. That was the deal. You aren't planning to try to stick around and solve this problem, are you?"

Simon turned to her, his face drawn with the beginnings of the angles of adulthood. A skiff of stubble shaded his jaw. He was and wasn't the same Simon that used to play chess, crib, and Scrabble with her while Caleb leapt off docks, walls, and jumps. "We didn't have a deal, Abs," he said.

A shot of some stress-related hormone, adrenaline probably, careened through her body. "What? Mom and Dad will freak out if you're not home for dinner."

"It's not like anyone else would miss me."

I would, Abbey thought, the tears hot against her eyelids. "This has something to do with Russell Andrews, doesn't it?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

The ship had stopped moving. She listened for the sound of Caleb's sandals, but all was silent. There was only the low hum of the computer.

"Simon, how did you know the slogan? The S Systems slogan?"

"I dunno. I just threw that out there. I've always thought that's what computers should be like. We shouldn't even know they're there. They should just do their thing."

"Algorithm expectation of success one in one thousand," the computer said.

The door opened with a whoosh and Caleb burst into the room, his eyes alight and body jittering with energy. His orange hair stood wildly askew, like he'd just walked through a static storm. Everything about Caleb breathed surf, and sun, and tans, and beach parties, even in the winter. Abbey was the pale carbon copy, insipid almost, with her red hair compliantly curled at her shoulders, milky skin, and neat and folded lines. She was the potential energy to his kinetic.

"That was the best! You can see everything from up there. Do you have any idea how fast we were moving? Max says we can stay if we need to. He lives on board."

"We aren't staying. We're going. Now." Abbey rose to her feet. Neither of her brothers moved. She stomped her foot and glared at Simon. "Or I'll tell Mom and Dad about Russell Andrews, and the email, and...and I'll tell Sarah Baker you stole her scarf."

A vague hint of color flitted across Simon's face, and he opened his mouth to say something-something no doubt snide and threatening. Abbey only knew about Sarah's scarf because she had been snooping in Simon's room and found it hidden there. Plus, the stunning, unattainable Sarah had spent an entire week turning the school upside down in search of her rainbow scarf. Abbey braced for Simon's response, for his anger at her betrayal, but he pulled his brows together and turned back to the computer. "Sarah," he said, "try this pa.s.sword. Open bracket, if pa.s.sword equals two-two-five-three-seven then true, close bracket."

"Pa.s.sword accepted."

"Whoa, dude. How'd you figure that out?"

Simon ignored Caleb. "Now change line 34,572 of the nav system code to take a real number instead of an integer, then run a diagnostic."

Sarah's voice almost sounded enthusiastic. "Code change complete. Running diagnostic... Navigation system now functioning. s.p.a.ce-coordinate calculations can be completed to the third decimal."

They all stared at the screen.

"I can't believe it," Abbey finally said. "How did you know the pa.s.sword?"

"Most programmers have a standard framework they use for all pa.s.swords," Simon said. "They sub in a section of it for each new pa.s.sword based on a set of rules. So, they never forget their pa.s.swords because they can derive them, but the pa.s.swords are complex enough to be secure."

"But how did you know this programmer's set of rules?" asked Abbey.

"That's where it gets a little weird," Simon answered. "They're the same rules I use."

"Weird," said Caleb, writing something on a piece of paper and putting it in his pocket. "Since the problem's fixed, Abbey's probably right. We should head. It's almost dinner."

"I'm staying," Simon said stubbornly, staring at the screen.

Abbey opened her mouth to argue, but Caleb spoke first. "Dude, what's up with that? We've got a perfectly good world here that we can visit whenever we want. I'm all for an adventure, but where are you going to sleep tonight? Wouldn't it be better to do some recon first? Make sure there's no giant orcs or evil dictator?"

Abbey's fingers involuntarily traced the SS on the computer terminal.

"We can come back tomorrow," Caleb said.

Simon clenched his teeth, making his cheek pulse. "This place might be gone tomorrow."

Caleb shrugged and rocked back in his shoes. "It'll probably be here tomorrow."

Simon scowled, but he stood. "Tell you what. I'll think about it while I walk the two of you back to the stones."

"Fair enough. I'll let Max know we're done." Caleb pressed the b.u.t.ton to open the door. It slid open to reveal Max's khaki pantsuit and bearded face.

Abbey jumped.

"All done?"

"Yup," said Caleb. "The problem's all fixed."

"Sweet. You sure can't beat your service. I know people are p.i.s.sed about your new OS and the lawsuit with Salvador. No offense, of course. I understand it's just business. But Sinclair has b.a.l.l.s, that's for sure."

A chasm of discomfort opened and Abbey searched her brain circuitry for any sort of response.

"For sure," said Simon. "We have to run. Got another appointment."

Simon edged toward the door and she and Caleb followed. To Abbey's relief, Max didn't stop them. Abbey blinked as they emerged out onto the causeway. The light had a darker quality and the air hung with the lavish damp of a coming storm. Thunderheads loomed behind the mountains and a low rumbling echoed in the distance. Max leapt over the edge of the gangplank onto the causeway and started fastening the ship down with large metal clamps.

"Dang storms. They just keep getting worse and worse. I'd better batten down the hatches. Thanks for your help. Maybe I'll see you around."

Abbey, Caleb and Simon walked down the causeway back toward the mirrored building. She exhaled in short, silent puffs. They were finally headed in the direction of home. Maybe everything would be fine. She calculated the distance between them and the building-three hundred meters, maybe two-fifty. The average brisk walking pace of a human was six point five kilometers per hour. At this pace, they could cover that distance in two minutes. Abbey allowed herself to start to believe they would be home within the next ten minutes.

"Hey," Caleb said. "I recognize that kid over there by that blue ship. He goes to Greenhill. He was at the track meet few weeks ago."

Abbey swiveled her head reluctantly in the direction Caleb pointed.

"That's the kid I followed up the path," Simon said.

The kid stood on a different branch of the causeway, leaning into a roofless ship with racing stripes and silvery gadgetry. Abbey could make out the letters 'MAN' emblazoned on the side. As if a woman would ever fly something that looked like that. They could see the kid's profile.

Abruptly, the boy turned and started walking directly toward them and the stones, looking at a piece of paper in his hands.

Abbey's heart started bouncing around her ribcage. There were no ships left between them and the boy; only the mirrored building stood ominously at the end of the causeway, throwing their image back at them, black clouds roiling in the sky behind it.

"We don't want him to see us. Hide in the building," said Simon. "Move it."

Abbey's legs exploded into a kind of silent run-walk. They pa.s.sed the stones, which sat just to the right of the building, and Abbey looked at them longingly. Simon and Caleb raced ahead of her. Fifty meters...then thirty...then ten.

"Put your hood up," Caleb mouthed to Simon, "so he doesn't recognize you."

Simon obeyed.

"Which door?" Abbey asked.

"Door on the left," answered Simon. They stopped centimeters from the door, almost slamming into it. The door had no handles. Simon put his hands up against the door. It didn't open. Simon waved his hand in front of the door. Nothing. He pressed his fingers against the crevice of the door. Nothing.

"Now what?" Abbey asked.

The kid had reached the hundred-meter mark.

The door on the right swooshed open.

"Door on the right then," said Simon.

They ran inside. Abbey's eyes adjusted again to the drop in light. They stood in what looked like an airport waiting room with leather chairs and benches, garbage cans, and cheery sculptures. The mirrored gla.s.s formed floor-to-ceiling windows on the inside, and the entire causeway panned out in front of them when they turned. They could see the Greenhill kid continuing toward them. The room was empty save for a young man behind a counter in a stylized jade-green suit. His pants were pulled up too high and his belt was cinched tightly. Twinkle-Free Air, read the large sign above his head. He looked up in surprise when they ran through the door.

"We're closed," he said. "No more flights today."

"We're just trying to get out of the rain," said Caleb.

"Why didn't you take the door on the left then?" the man asked.

"It's broken," replied Caleb.

"Did you try the override?" asked the man as he walked toward them. "Where's your card?"

The boy outside was now just a few meters away. He looked like he was heading for the stones. Abbey stayed away from Greenhill kids at the mall. They just always looked unpredictable-like they weren't afraid of their parents, or princ.i.p.als, or even policemen. It was no secret that Greenhill was in the less savory part of town. But this kid looked different. He had shortish hair that fell in dark waves around his ears and angular cheekbones above a square jaw. Instead of the low-hanging jeans and baggy hoodie that most Greenhill kids wore, his Levis and warm-up jacket hugged his muscular form. He had the same downcast expression though, and studied the causeway with a fierce glare and pursed lips.

Abbey hugged her sweater tightly against her chest. The Twinkle-Free Air man was almost at the door. When he reached it, the door would open and then the kid would see them.

Caleb blocked the man's path, smiling broadly. "Hey, I thought there was another flight today. Isn't there an extra flight on Fridays?"

The man blinked and stopped. "But it's not Friday. It's Sunday."

The kid pa.s.sed by the door and headed to the left of the building. Back to the stones.

Abbey wanted to run after him and follow him through. To get back home to Wallace, Farley, and her parents. But only after she could be sure he was gone.

"Oh right," Caleb was saying to the man. "Sorry. My mistake."

"Your card?" the man asked. "Where is it?"

"Look at that!" said Simon.

They all turned and looked out the window. Giant white eggs pelted from the sky-thousands of them. Except they weren't eggs-they were hailstones.

"Oh great, that's the third this week," said the man. "The shuttle's going to be jammed up again. I'm going to start closing up. I have to run for my shuttle, so you can only stay inside 'til I go; you're going to have to find someone else to help you with the door."

"Yes, sir!" said Caleb.

"Man, I've never seen anything like it," whispered Simon.

A foot of gray-white slush covered the causeway. It melted as fast as it collected, running off the causeway edge in torrents. The rat-a-tat of hail on metal invaded Abbey's senses. When it hit the brick-colored dirt on the hillside, it sent sprays of dust up, filling the air with clouds of hazy red. But as quickly as it began, the storm ended, and the glint of sunlight once more reflected off the causeway.

The man stood behind them with a silver metal lunchbox in hand.

"I'm going now. You'll need to go outside. I'll lock the door behind you."

They obediently stepped back onto the causeway and crowded around the left door. Caleb made it look like he was retrieving a card. After a few minutes, when they felt certain the man was gone and no longer watching them, they sidled around the corner. Miraculously, the stones were still there by the benches, glimmering slightly under a pile of slush.

"You're coming home with us, right?" Caleb asked Simon.

"I guess," Simon answered. "But just for now." There was an ominous tone to Simon's response, but Abbey decided not to let herself worry about it yet. She just wanted to get home.

"All right, let's get the heck out of here," said Caleb.

Abbey stepped onto the stones first and felt the forward jolt. Seconds later, she stood in dim forest light under a canopy of trees with the bramble of the rosebush biting at her cheek. It was their woods. The dog barking in the distance sounded thankfully like Farley, and Simon and Caleb emerged behind her. The kid, who must have come through only minutes before them, was already gone. They made their way down the hill silently.

Their golden-yellow house glowed with middle-cla.s.s sumptuousness, Farley jumped at the gate, and their blue family van stood in the driveway. It all looked as it had before. Despite her wash of relief, Abbey pulled her sweater more tightly around her. There was no 'e equals mc squared' of time travel. No rules to cling to. Time travel into the future was theoretically possible, given the phenomenon of time dilation, based on velocity, in the theory of special and general relativity. But even time dilation only allowed for one-way travel-meaning that, according to the known laws of physics, she, Simon, and Caleb shouldn't have been able to get home.

Which plunged them into the realm of theoretical physics. Which Abbey had always hated.

Mark examined the cracks on his ceiling once again. There was Greenland with its coast of relentless fjords like the graph of an earthquake plotter, the curving east coast of Mozambique, the jutting boot of Italy, Lake Superior, and the Amazon River. He enumerated the cracks carefully, listing the geographic feature, its longitude, lat.i.tude, and key facts of the place, including the countries, languages, religions, and populations, all learned from his Oxford University Press Atlas of the World: Deluxe Edition (with special coverage of the world's oceans). He spoke quietly. He didn't want to attract the attention of his mother. It was well past ten and he was supposed to be asleep, his bulky twenty-six-year-old body folded into the confines of his single captain's bed. Ocean had already curled into the corner of his room, her tail wrapped around her body.

When he finished with the geographic features, Mark shifted his attention, as he did every night, to the sequence of lines and squiggles on his ceiling that resembled the profile of the Chicago Blackhawks' Indian chief logo, his face turned to the left. No matter how he turned the squiggles in his head, no matter how often he pored over his atlas, he could find no geographic match. This bothered him. He didn't want to see the Blackhawk logo (he'd prefer to see a meandering river, such as the Owens River in California, with no oxbow lakes), but no matter how hard he tried to see something else, the chief remained, resolutely facing away. Another unreadable face.

His mother sat on the porch smoking her pipe. The spiced chocolate aroma drifted in through his window. It made him feel like he could eat the air. She smoked it when she was thinking, when she was upset. It was his only way of knowing when his mother was worried.

She had been out there a long time.