Eye of the Storm (25 page)

My shoulder knocks the picture up, off its hanger. It bounces off me onto the floor and shatters.

Jagged shards of glass cover the floor. They crunch under my feet as I make my way to the biggest, sharpest piece. I kick it into a far corner where there aren't so many shards, lower myself to my
knees, then roll onto my side. Writhing and twisting and wiggling, I back my way into the corner until my fingers touch sharp, cool edges.

I'm facing the desk, but I try not to let my eyes fall on the radar screen as I maneuver the glass between my wrists and little by little by little, pick at the rough fibers of the rope. I can't see how much progress I'm making, and it feels like it's already been too long when there's a thump at the door, and I freeze.

My heart wants to burst out of my chest and run, but I hold my breath and wait.

There's another thud and a scraping sound—a tree branch or piece of roofing the wind has thrown against the building—and only then do I let myself look at the computer screen again.

The whole county is swallowed up in green and red, and the hook of that monster is inching closer to Alex's farm.

I can't afford to be careful anymore. Every time the glass slips, I feel the warmth of blood spilling from the cuts in my hands. But the rope is weakening; it's starting to give. I keep slicing back and forth until there's a muffled pop, and my hands—finally—are free.

Cutting the rope that binds my chest is faster with two hands, and soon the chair clatters to the floor. I grab the DataSlate with blood-smeared hands, fly to the door, and grab the handle.

Locked from the outside with Grandma's keys.

This time, I scream.

I scream long and loud, and even though I know the window must be StormSafe indestructible, I slam the DataSlate onto the desk, grab the chair that held me captive, and fling it at the glass.

It shatters. Shatters into a million pieces.

The wind swoops in with a howling whistle, and for a second, I can only stare. I guess you don't need safety glass if you believe the storms will always stay away.

I grab my DataSlate, climb out the window, and run for the main building.

The lights are still on, but the conference room is empty, and when I peer in the main doors, the reception desk is quiet, too. Dad's print wore off my finger long ago, so I tuck the DataSlate under my arm, pull Grandma's override card from my pocket, and look up to the sky.

Please work. Please.

I punch in the numbers and hold my breath until there's a beep and a click, and I push open the door. I run for the elevator, tap in the numbers there, and again, the beep of clearance—of course she would have access to everything.

My skin prickles as I press the button for the top floor and wait, willing it to rise faster, willing this office to be empty when I get to the top.

The DataSlate chimes in my hands and scares me so much I almost drop it. The message is short, from Risha:

Alex is here. Where are you?!?

Six words. But they are from Risha. And the tears I've been fighting for hours come back in a flood. Maybe because the cold,
awful fear that something happened to Alex has melted now. Maybe because for the first time since he drove away, I feel like I am not alone.

I write back:

StormSafe HQ.

Even as I'm entering the text, I can't believe what I'm about to do. Break into my father's office. Hack into his computer. And—
please, let it work
—reverse his awful commands.

The elevator dings, and I finish:

In Dad's office—trying to retrack storm
.

I tuck the DataSlate back into my pants as the door opens.

The only light comes from the wall of radar screens. They cast a green glow over the beige carpet, and shadows swirl on the walls.

I head straight for Dad's desk. The computer is logged off, but sure enough, right next to the bio-scanner is a data panel, and when I punch in the code from Grandma's card, the welcome screen appears.

ATHENA MEGGS, FULL CLEARANCE

It believes that I'm her.

A message pops up on the screen: DISABLE REMOTE ACCESS? CANCEL OR OK. I click on OK. Now everything will be up to me, and the thought makes me want to run, but I stay.

My hand trembles as I tap the screen, scrolling through folders and files, looking for the program to remotely operate the satellites.

I call up a search and type in everything I can think of: satellite, dissipation, redirection, downdraft, warming.

Nothing.

I pull up a database of the entire server and start scanning, but there must be thousands of files here. Programs with names I don't recognize. Documents full of numerical models, charts, and statistics. I'm not even halfway through the list, when my DataSlate chimes again.

It's Risha. Three words this time.

We are coming.

Another sob rises in my throat. I'm relieved and thankful and terrified, and before I can type back, I whirl around to look at the radar.

The main storm is moving slowly, giving people plenty of time to watch and be afraid and understand what nightmare is coming.

And it's spawned a slew of baby tornadoes, all over the county.

No matter how desperate I am for help, no matter how hungry I am for someone to be here with me, I can't let them do it. There is no way Risha and Alex can get here safely. None.

No! Storm is too big. Stay there.

I send the message and get an immediate auto-reply.

RECIPIENT NOT AVAILABLE

“No!” I shout, and my voice echoes in the empty office. The only answer is the hum of the computers that are my only hope.

I turn back to the screen on Dad's desk.

Be here. Be here.
I scroll through the last half of the files. There must be a thousand documents and databases, and nothing that gives any clue it might be the program that whispers to satellites, tells them where to send their energy, how to turn away a storm.

What am I doing here? I bang my fist on the desk. Looking for
answers in this jumble of files is like searching for a single blade of grass swirling in a storm. But I keep looking. What else can I do?

Finally, near the end of the list of folders, my eyes land on one labeled REDIRECTION and I click it open. There are fifty files, maybe more. I tap the one called SAT INPUT—it takes forever to open—and scan the screen that appears.

At the top are three satellite icons, each labeled with latitude and longitude.

With a trembling finger, I point to one of the satellites—which one? I can only guess—and tap.

The screen fills with scrolling numbers that make me want to put my head down and cry. It's some manic feed of temperatures, humidity, atmospheric pressure, cyclonic measurements, and who knows what else. What am I supposed to do with all this?

I swallow hard, reach for my DataSlate, and pull up the page with Dad's redirection codes. There must be a hundred different sequences.

I choose one.

I choose, because the only alternative is doing nothing.

Please let it work.

Please let it work.

I chant the words over and over, like some magical mantra, as I type in the code, number by letter by number. One wrong stroke, and I could make it bigger instead of turning it away.

When the last string of numbers is lined up at the bottom of the page, I hold my finger over the on-screen button.

EXECUTE SATELLITE COMMAND

I can barely breathe.
What if I've done it wrong? Who am I to even think I can do this?

Before the voices in my head can get louder, I hold my breath and tap.

The screen flashes white, then blurs with a wild scroll of numbers, commands set into motion.

I look up at the ceiling and imagine the satellite miles overhead, stopping in its course, turning, rotating, blasting heat energy down, down, down into the cloud that gave birth to this monster.

When the numbers stop streaming, the screen reads.

COMMAND EXECUTED

Nothing more.

Did it work? I stand and run to the window, but there's no way to tell if anything's better. The wind is still blowing the rain at the building in horizontal sheets.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

A gust of wind rattles the window. It reminds me of another window, the one I threw the chair through, and I can't help wondering if Grandma Athena has come back to find it yet. If she's wondering where I escaped.

Or if she already knows.

I look up at the ceiling. No cameras, at least not that I can see. But no matter what, I'm running out of time.

I turn back to the radar image of the storm. It's actually slowed and—Is it possible? Do I dare hope?—looks like it's turning around. I tap the screen twice to put a track on the storm. The dotted line moves back across the screen.

“No!!”

Straight for Placid Meadows.

Placid Meadows, where concrete houses and storms that never cross the fence make everyone feel safe enough to ignore the warnings.

Placid Meadows, where toddlers giggle and shout nursery rhymes at the sky, even as the dark clouds swirl.

Placid Meadows, where Mirielle is probably nursing Remi on the couch right now.

Where Risha and her family and Alex are about to be—

“No!” I yell at the screen. “No! No! No!!!”

But the storm on the screen swells into something broader, stronger than it was even half an hour ago.

I leap back into the chair at Dad's computer and pull up the folder again, but all of these numbers mean nothing. Do I dare even try?

Above the humming of the computer and the beating of my heart and the rain pounding the window, I hear another sound that makes my heart freeze in my chest.

The elevator door sliding open.

I dive under the desk, shaking, and wait.

“Jaden! Are you here? Jaden!”

Alex's voice washes over me, and I scramble out from under the desk. “Over here!”

They are soaking wet, both of them. Risha's hair is plastered to her forehead, and Alex's face shines with rainwater or sweat, or both, as he takes in the huge room.

“How did you get in here?”

Risha holds up her finger. Her hand is shaking. “I made another print this week. Just in case.”

“You guys, I tried to tell you not to come. The storm is—”

“We couldn't even see it until we were out of Placid Meadows.” Risha's whole body is trembling. “Jaden, it was . . . It had to have been an NF-7 at least, it was just—”

“We're fine,” Alex interrupts. “But for a minute there . . .” He shakes his head. “We thought we were okay, but then it turned, and I had to gun the truck, but we made it. I could tell it was still growing, so—” He stops when he sees the radar on the big screen. I watch him process the mix of images, the moving blobs of green and red, and
I hold my breath, waiting for him to see the path this storm is on now. He curses, and Risha rushes over to face a radar image of something too terrible for words.

She lets out a scream that shatters my heart like the glass in Grandma's picture. The scream of someone whose whole world is about to be destroyed. The scream of someone who knows she may never see her parents again.

She drops to the floor, sobbing.

I run to her, put my arms around her. Her body is hot with fear, cold with rain and air-conditioning, and she shakes harder.

“Risha, call on your DataSlate. Warn them!”

She tries twice but can't get a message through.

I jump to my feet and grab Alex's hand. “We have to stop it.”

He steps up to the computer. “Where's the program to redirect? We'll have to find a track that—”

“No!”

He wheels around, bewildered. “Jaden, if we don't change this course, then—”

“Changing it won't help. We have to stop it. We have to kill this storm.” I say the words out loud, even though I know they're impossible.

Alex shakes his head. “We can't. We never got to run the simulation successfully. We have no idea what the outcome would be, and we—”

“We have to try, Alex! Look!” I fling my arm toward the radar wall, where Risha is still crumpled on the floor. “We have to try. Otherwise, we're sending it
at
somebody, and even if that's not us,
it's still somebody, and then we're just like—” The words get stuck in my throat. “Just like my father.”

Alex closes his eyes, squeezes them tight, and I can almost see thoughts swirling behind his dark lashes. Finally, he shakes his head and opens them. “We can't take that chance. What if we end up making it worse?”

“But what if—”

“Jaden, no. There's no precedent for this. There's no research to support it. There's no—just, no!” He bends down and starts scrolling through the folders still up on Dad's screen. The dozens of data files with different codes. “Did you use one of these before?”

“Yes. And look what happened, Alex! We can't do this again. We have to—”

“Just wait!” He holds up one hand and keeps scrolling with the other. Risha has managed to pull herself together enough to stand behind us, her face red and puffy. Alex pulls her forward so she can see the screen, too. “There has to be a path here that doesn't hit any developed areas. Everybody, look. There has to be.”

“Which one?” I throw my hands up. “Alex, there must be two hundred separate codes there. We can't keep trying them all until—There's no time for this!”

“Wait.” Risha reaches a thin arm between us and scrolls back up through the list. Her bracelets clink together, and her eyes focus on the data scrolling past on the screen. The numbers, the patterns seem to calm her. “Which one did you run before, Jaden?”

“I don't even know. About halfway down, maybe?”

She scrolls halfway and leans in, squinting at the numbers. Then
she picks up her DataSlate, calls up a map, taps at it a few times. “Yes,” she whispers, and leans in to point at the computer screen again. “These numbers . . .” She runs her finger down the center part of the list. “. . . are all sequential in terms of geographic coordinates.” She taps at one of them. “This must be the code you ran. It corresponds with the latitude and longitude of Placid Meadows.”