BROKEN SYMMETRY: A Young Adult Science Fiction Thriller (12 page)

At last, Josh stepped into the circle holding a microphone, and the school cheered. He had thrown on a black blazer and wet his hair
—
and he looked good.

He brushed a curl off his forehead, pressed his lips together, and gave me a final steamy look before he started singing. I recognized the song instantly.

Major uh-oh.

Josh was serenading me with
I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing
by Aerosmith.

My favorite song since I lost my father.

My hand shot up to my mouth.

The sound of his voice brought moisture to my eyes. I stared at him, spellbound, his words floating inside me like helium. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face tortured with emotion, and shouted the lines into the microphone, his voice perfect.

After the song, another freshman ran into the circle with a bouquet of white roses, and Josh presented them to me.

“Blaire,” he said, “will you go to prom with me?”

“Tell me you’re sorry,” I whispered, my fingers still covering my mouth, “for what you said yesterday.”

He dropped to one knee and held my gaze. “I’m sorry.”

And I could tell he meant it.

“Well?” he said, eyebrows raised.

“What do you think, you dufus?” I pulled him to his feet and kissed him, and around us the school broke into awws and cheers.  

I kissed him, to see if it felt real.

***

For the rest of the day, my insides bubbled like the champagne Charles had given us the night before.

Josh Hutchinson.

I could fall in love with him. He knew how to hit the reset button on my life. He knew how to give me butterflies and make me blush like a high school junior was supposed to.

I skipped ISDI and took the day off, feeling giddy for the first time in weeks.

Chapter 11

But even Josh
asking me to prom couldn’t distract me from a question that had been tugging at my mind . . . something Charles and Damian had mentioned while explaining crossover. With all the excitement, I had almost forgotten.

Almost. But not quite.

Now, in the first quiet moment since the crossover, what they had said yesterday crept into my mind: the man who showed up two weeks ago was not my real father; he was a reflection.

Like the soldiers Damian had killed.

Just a reflection. But according to Damian, my father
—
my real father, or
source
, as they called it
—
had been orphaned. He crossed over and the mirror broke while he was still inside, cutting him out of existence.

So where had his reflection come from? A reflection of
what?
If my dad had vanished, wouldn’t his reflections vanish too?

There was something else Damian had said:

After you break symmetry the reflection starts to diverge from the source
.

In other words, my father
—
the one who showed up two weeks ago
—
had wandered up from a reflection that had diverged from the source. A reflection that had diverged a long time ago. More than eleven months ago, in fact
—

No, even longer than that. His story about how I had gone missing at age four
—
I’d attributed it to memory loss. It wasn’t memory loss. Where he was from, I
had
gone missing.

He was from a reflection that had diverged more than twelve years ago.

***

I arrived at work on Wednesday to find Damian and Charles at each other’s throats, still shaken by my realization.

“How the hell was I supposed to know he overlapped?” said Damian, through gritted teeth. “It’s not my fault.”

“Not your
fault?
” said Charles in disbelief. “Spare me, Damian, I know how you work. What in the world did you do to him, anyway?”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

They ignored me.

“I did my mission like I was supposed to,” spat Damian, eyes locked on Charles. “You would have been proud of me.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“He didn’t know jack about Aneuploidy-47. I told you, it’s not my fault he killed himself.”

“There’s always a risk,” said Charles. “You know that. That’s why we don’t kill a reflection when we don’t have to. Everything we do has the potential to psychologically affect their source.”

“Charles, it’s not my fault.”

“Then whose is it?”

“Guys, what’s going on?”  I said again, this time louder.

“This is what’s going on, Blaire.” Charles grabbed a remote and switched on an old tube TV squatting atop a filing cabinet.

Onscreen, the channel 8 CBS news streamed live air footage of a convoy of Humvees and camouflaged trucks driving along a freeway.

“. . . is expected to double the concentration of armed forces within the perimeter,” said the news anchor. “Peter, what’s your status in the air?”

The convoy exited the freeway
—
which I now recognized as the Interstate 5
—
and continued down a broad city street. A hissing voice came on air, laced with static: the pilot of the news helicopter.

“The military vehicles have left the freeway and are continuing west toward the Institute on Genesee Avenue
—
” A hiss of static cut off his voice, which came back on a moment later. “Channel eight, I am now being escorted out of the airspace by two helicopter gunships. It appears the U.S. Army is taking this drill very seriously.”

The cameraman zoomed in on the convoy in the distance, now driving single file through the south security checkpoint into the quarantine zone. A repeating announcement scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

Suicide of Scripps director prompts armed forces to double protection within quarantine zone.

***

“
More
protection?” My gaze flicked to Damian, then to Charles. My first crossover . . .
the quarantine zone
. “I think it’s about time you guys told me why you want to get inside so badly.”

“Because that’s where they’re keeping it,” said Charles. “You saw the plans, right?”

“The artifact chamber? But I thought you guys built that.”

“We didn’t build it. We’re trying to break into it,” said Charles.

“To steal an artifact?”

“A couple months ago they found something in the ground,” he said, “and they brought it here for research . . . to Scripps.”

“But Scripps does biomedical research.”

“Exactly. And genetics.”

“What about the stuff underground?” I said. “That’s new, right?”

“The particle accelerators and all that equipment?” said Charles. “Built specifically for the artifact. You’d think they were setting up a quantum physics lab, right?”

I peered sideways at him, eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”

“There’s a dozen other labs they could have chosen throughout the country for that kind of research, much better suited, too. Instead, they built an underground lab less than twenty miles from the largest U.S. Navy base on the west coast under the cover of a military exercise. Sound strange to you?”

“A bit.”

“What kind of research requires a quantum physics laboratory, genetics laboratories, and the protection of the entire Pacific Fleet?

“Uh . . . something really dangerous,” I offered.

“
Really
dangerous,” said Charles. “We think they’ve discovered the forty-seventh chromosome. We think they’re sequencing it.”

“And you want to stop them?”

“We want to know where they got it.”

***

Throughout the day, I returned again and again to the Immunology building’s blueprints, specifically the underground chamber. Though nothing so much as hinted at the nature of the artifact it contained, I did spot one thing: a maintenance tunnel which branched off and connected with the beach half a mile away. I was just peering closer
—
noticing it wasn’t nearly as fortified as the rest of the entrances
—
when Amy slammed a backpack onto my desk.

“New assignment,” she said.

“Organize your own crap,” I muttered.

She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t recognize this?”

I noted the bag’s olive green polyester, briefly wondering if she had stolen one of my own. “Nope. I definitely don’t own anything that tacky.”

“Did you do
anything
on your first mission?” She gave an exasperated sigh. “While you were tagging along and being a pest, Damian was actually doing work and gathering security records.”

“I’m sure you could have done the mission better, Amy,” I said sweetly. “How come they didn’t send you?” Wow, Blaire.
Low blow
.

Her lips thinned. “My dad’s scheduled your next crossover for Tuesday. He wants you to bring back a sample of that DNA. And Blaire, I suggest you start prepping. This time, you’re going solo.”

***

The phone call came at dawn, Thursday morning, when only a blue-orange tinge colored the Eastern horizon. My home phone.

I dragged myself to the kitchen to answer. “Hello?”

“Blaire, I tried your cell phone,” Charles said, his voice frantic. “It rang on my desk.”

“Oops. Forgot to pick it up.”

“Never mind that now. I need you down at the office.”

“Now?”

“No, ten minutes ago. Get your ass down here . . . it’s Damian.”

The hair behind my neck stood on end. Something in his voice, his tone. I swallowed, tasting morning phlegm. “What happened to him?”

He strained his next words. “I need you to crossover again.”

My stomach chilled. “Is he okay?”

“He’s . . . he’s stuck in a reflection.”

I held the phone away from my face, reducing Charles’s voice to a tinny squeak. I stared at the speaker, my jaw slack, before I brought it back to my mouth and spoke. “How?”

“I think he got carried away last night. I need you to bring him back.”

“Okay,” I said, already wide awake. “I’m leaving now.”

“Meet me at the office. I’ll brief you here.”

I was about to hang up the phone, but something else in his tone made me hesitate. “Charles, what am I going to have to do?”

He paused a moment. “You’re going to have to break him out of jail.”

“How, exactly, do you expect me
—
”

“Just come quickly,” he said. “Amy and I have an idea.”

Chapter 12

“
We’re prepared for
things like this,” Charles explained after he let me into the dark office. “About a year ago, we devised a way to communicate between reflections and the source. Using his one phone call, Damian dialed his laptop, which transmitted a call through the mirror to his source laptop via infra-red, which then dialed my home number. I called you as soon as I got his message.”

“So . . . this is just training, right?” I peered sideways at him and laughed nervously, but cut myself off. “I mean, it’s not a
real
jail.”

“He used room A,” said Charles, ignoring my comment. “I’m going to give you the master keys for that room so you can use the same mirror. He already broke the symmetry, so all you have to do is just step through. Simple, right?”

It was a real jail.

“But . . . but I can’t break him out of jail,” I stuttered, suddenly gripped by fear.

“It’s going to require some cunning,” he said. “Fortunately, Amy came up with an idea . . .”

Great. If this was Amy’s idea, I was guaranteed to wind up orphaned in a reflection.

“. . . after you’ve crossed over, I want you to detach the mirror from the wall of room A. Take it with you to the jail. You should be able to slip it through the bars to Damian. Make sure he’s safely through, then pull it back out and come back through yourself.”

“Very shrewd,” I said, “but one problem. What if the police don’t let me carry a six-foot mirror to his cell?”

Charles winked. “I’m sure you can get creative.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just give me the keys.”

“That’s why I hired you.” He pulled out a tangle of keys, freed one from the ring, and handed it to me. “Put this in your pocket and leave it there. Cell phone and everything else goes on the stool, but the key must stay in your pocket.”

“Yeah, I saw the sign on the stool. Who cares?”

“The lock on the door leading out is a mirror image of the one leading back to the office. It’s set up to avoid errors. Once you step into the reflection, that key will only open the door to the garage. Once you’re back in the source, it will open the door to the office.”

“I get it. You guys are anal.”

“Blaire, you’re human,” he said. “You make mistakes. When you crossover you’re even more likely to make mistakes. And when you crossover when you’re sleep-deprived, you’re certain to make mistakes. We developed these safety precautions for a reason.”

I took the key from him. “Anything else before I risk my life for this boy?”

“There is one more thing,” he said. “Something you should know.”

“Yes, Charles?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Just a heads up,” he said, “but unlike your crossover on Monday, this time you and Damian didn’t break the symmetry as a single unit
—
you guys weren’t touching each other. Tonight, only
he
broke the symmetry. That means you’ll be down there with your reflection.”

***

The inside of my mouth dried out, and I ran my parched tongue over my lips, trying to rewet them. The idea of being down there with my reflection disturbed me more than I expected. “Where will she be?” I said.

“Still sleeping at your house,” said Charles. “She was never woken up by my phone call, so you shouldn’t have to worry about her.”

I nodded.

“Just go straight to the police station, and no matter what, do not let that mirror break before you and Damian get through. Otherwise you’ll be orphaned.” He slid back the sleeves of his pajamas to check his watch. “In a few hours, the rest of us will arrive for work in the reflection. Make sure you’re back before then.”

Again, I nodded.

“And Blaire,” he said, his blue eyes piercing. “He’s not more important than you. No sacrifices tonight. Got it?”

“Sacrifice myself for Damian?” I gave him an askew look. “Why would I do that?”

Charles just smiled. “You can take my Prius,” he said, dropping another set of keys into my palm. “It’s in the garage.”

“Charles,” I said, voicing another question that had been building in my mind. “What happens if we do get stuck down there?”

“Don’t get stuck.”

“No, I mean, just hypothetically. I know it’s a reflection and all, but how is it any different than the source, once the symmetry is broken? Could we just start over?”

“Don’t get stuck, Blaire.” He peered intently at me, unblinking. “You’ll be one step farther from heaven.”

***

And one step closer to hell, I reasoned, stepping through the mirror after Charles locked me in room A.

Nausea surged through my body, and I fell to my knees, clutching my stomach. The toolbox he had given me dropped and broke on the floor, spilling wrenches and screwdrivers.

Tears stung my eyes, and I crawled into the corner and vomited. I had blanked out Monday’s crossover; I had forgotten how painful it was.

It didn’t just take out what it took out the first time; it took out more of me. Deleted more.

Gone.

We carry on with what’s left.

After a minute, I could crawl on all fours, though my limbs trembled. I fished around for a screwdriver through a blurry film of tears. 

I seized one, and fell to my side again, helpless against the shivers convulsing through my body. This crossover was worse than Monday’s.

Much worse.

Eventually the shivers subsided, and I hauled myself to the mirror and jammed the head at a screw. Not a chance I could slot it. Everything juddered. I pulled my hand back, took a deep breath. Steadied my hand.

I tried again, and this time connected. I rotated the handle using the right-hand rule. The screw tightened.

Duh. It’s the left-hand rule now, Blaire. The screw loosened the other way, and gradually, screw by screw, I unfastened the mirror. The last screw popped out and the mirror clanged to the floor. I propped it up and stared, amazed.

Through the mirror, the source room extended at an odd angle into the floor, perpendicular to the glass. As I tilted the mirror, the room beyond appeared to swing around.

Because in the source, the mirror was still mounted on the wall, its symmetry broken.

It was uncanny.

I slid the mirror down the stairs and into the garage, flinching when the corner jammed into concrete. The mirror toppled and jangled to rest, shooting reverberations through the enclosed space.

I stared at the mirror, miraculously uncracked, and swallowed my heart back down.

If the mirror broke . . . if I dropped it again and it got so much as a hairline fracture, then I would be orphaned in this reversed world forever. One step farther from heaven. Alone.

At least Damian was down here too.

I hated the relief that flooded through me at the thought, and I had to remind myself that Josh
wasn’t
down here. Not source
Josh, at least.

I carried the mirror over the grease stain where the Mustang usually parked and leaned it against Charles’s Prius, fighting another wave of panic. This was a nightmare. This was overlap. This was happening to my reflection, and my real self would wake up and it would be over.

Except my reflection was sleeping soundly right now
—
I was the one dragging a mirror across town at four in the morning. I buried my face in my hands and screamed.

I pressed the ‘unlock’ button on Charles’s keys. Nothing happened. Like my cell phone, the electronics must have gotten fried during crossover.

I tried to push the key into the door and realized, with a sinking sensation, that the key didn’t fit. Because this Prius, along with the door lock, was a reflection of Charles’s real Prius.

I needed to go back and get the reflected keys from the stool. I ran upstairs but found the stool bare, and I almost made the mistake of rushing back into the office to ask for Charles’s help. He wouldn’t be there.

His reflection, like mine, never got a phone call and was still sound asleep.

Could I take my Jeep? No, it wasn’t even here. Like my reflection, the car was still at my house. So why was Charles’s Prius here?

Another time, Blaire. Focus. I needed to reverse the keys somehow . . .

I needed another mirror.

As I rummaged through the cabinets flanking the garage, rule number two popped into my head
—
never nest crossovers
. Well, this counted as an emergency. Besides, I only had to stick my hand through and pick up the keys’ reflection. I wouldn’t fully crossover.

I wouldn’t even partially crossover if I couldn’t find a mirror, though.

Empty-handed, I stood to catch my breath and thought over my options. I didn’t want to go all the way back up and use room B; I was pretty sure I couldn’t even get into that room with all the fingerprint scanners and backwards locks. So where could I find
—

It was right in front of me.

The Prius’s side mirror.

I stepped up to the car and read, ‘objects in mirror are closer than they appear.’ I sure hoped this didn’t shrink my hand or anything.

I held the keys up to the mirror. All I had to do was reach through, grab the reflection, and be done with it. I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths. Oh, and I would have to break the mirror afterwards
—
the first rule
—
which would leave my vehicle without a mirror.

I opened my eyes. There had to be an easier way to do this.

I glanced back. On the wall behind the door hung two spare sets of keys, complete with the electronic smart key.

No doubt properly reversed already.

***

On the freeway, I glanced back at the six-foot mirror laying face up in the backseat, still reflecting room A with an eerie stillness. It was nice knowing I just had to fall into it to go back to the source. To go home.

I didn’t want to though. Not yet. I was just starting to feel the lightheaded rush of endorphins from the crossover, like runner’s high. My heart echoed, somewhere distant and unreachable.

I fixed my eyes on the road ahead, grateful that no one else drove at this hour, and mulled over my challenge: how to get a door-sized piece of glass that looked like some kind of portal past the police.

Nothing even remotely resembling a plan came to mind, leaving me wondering how many brain cells I’d fried this time.

The hum of the Prius lulled me into a daze, and my eyes clung to the freeway’s orange sodium lamps swimming overhead at regular intervals, battling the weight of my eyelids.

If only the mirror could be made smaller, or folded. Perhaps I could break the mirror in such a way that one of the slivers was still large enough to admit Damian.

No, Blaire.

Not even a
crack
.

So I couldn’t hide the mirror. But I could disguise it.

Paper. I had to wrap the mirror in paper.

In Art, we had been sketching life-size self-portraits on butcher paper. I had a whole roll in my bedroom.

***

Like the rest of my body, my house key no longer worked, so I snuck around the side and let myself in with the hidden key
—
and only remembered after I flipped on the lights in the foyer that I wasn’t alone in this house.

My own reflection was sleeping in my bedroom.

I froze, finger still on the light switch, and felt my insides cave in. What did this mean? Would I accidentally create a paradox or alter history?

After standing petrified for a whole minute, I managed to reassure myself. This wasn’t time travel, after all. Everything in these reflections was expendable, like Damian said.

My breathing calmed.

All that mattered was that he and I made it back to the source.

I crept up the hall to my bedroom and eased the knob counterclockwise until it clicked. The door creaked open
—
and I got a clear shot of my reflection.

She lay sprawled out, tangled in my comforter, her slender naked body
—
my
body
—
contoured underneath the sheets. The cloth rose and fell with her breathing.

The sight of her stood my hairs on end.
Myself
. My heart twanged, and each beat jolted my chest.

The roll of butcher paper leaned against the wall across from the bed. I held my breath and tiptoed inside. Five feet inside the door, my toes sank into a loose floorboard, letting out a violent creak.

My reflection shifted in her sleep. “Daddy,” she murmured. “Daddy, is that you?” She rubbed her eyes.

I pounced on the butcher paper, hoisted it to my side, and sprinted out the door. The back of the roll banged the wall, and the impact shuddered the house’s foundation. Behind me, my reflection gasped and sat up. 

Then the déjà vu hit me. A wave of vertigo brought me to my knees in the hallway. Fear chilled my heart. I was both of us at the same time, both squeezing the comforter to my chest, gaping terrified at the black hallway outside my bedroom door,
and
crouching in the hallway, frantic to escape.

But I was still mostly my source self. I dragged myself and the roll of butcher paper out the front door and limped to the Prius, then jammed my finger at the power button and floored it up the street.

I reparked and hunkered in the vehicle, the dark reflections of my neighbors’ houses lurking outside. My body shivered uncontrollably, but nothing could rid me of the cold seeping through my veins.

I had to press on.