I Hope You Get This Message Read online

  Cate’s mom pulled away. She was sweating, despite the coolness of the air. But her eyes, at last, found focus. “Nothing’s going to happen to us, Cate,” she said, her head tilted like a bird’s. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?”

  TRANSCRIPT

  EXCERPT FROM TRIAL

  SCION 3: I apologize for the interruption, but I fear we’re talking in circles. I believe it would be far more fruitful to further discuss the concerns about the impact of the leak. The communication itself compromises not only the integrity of our deliberations but potentially our planetary security.

  SCION 6: We’ve already established there is nothing to discuss. Your sentiments are nothing more than paranoia. The specimens of Epoch have repeatedly denied the possibility of civilizations that predate theirs, despite comprehensive evidence to the contrary. Even if they have the capacity to translate the leak, they can pose no risk to our people.

  SCION 11: Every moment wasted on conjecture brings us closer to the Anathogen virus, rendering this entire discussion meaningless.

  SCION 13: [abruptly stands] I would like to propose that a representative of Project Epoch—a human—be present to speak on their behalf. Can it be a just trial if the accused cannot bear witness?

  [Let the record show the feeds crashed momentarily due to an upsurge in traffic.]

  ARBITER: Order, please, or we will cut the feeds.

  SCION 13: Scions, we are deciding the fate of a species. The humans of Planet Epoch share 98 percent of our DNA, yet we are discussing their potential eradication as if they are no more than bacteria. Do they not deserve a say in their own fate?

  SCION 7: It would take more than eight days to bring them here.

  SCION 13: Then perhaps we should not be deciding the fate of an entire species in a matter of eight days.

  ARBITER: Sit down, 13. [Scion 13 sits.] Unfortunately, the countdown for the Anathogen dispersal demands a swift decision, and Alma grows ever weaker with each passing moment. Let us continue.

  3

  Adeem

  “Earth to Adeem,” Miss Takemoto’s voice rang out from the front of the computer science lab, shocking Adeem into awareness like an electric jolt to his skull.

  Adeem looked up, confused. At the front of the room, Miss Takemoto’s hand was still gripping the Expo marker to the whiteboard where she’d begun writing a string of code. From the looks of it, they were reviewing arrays. Kindergarten stuff. He knew he’d zoned out for a reason.

  “Glad you could join us again,” she said as the class erupted in snickers. “Now if you could refrain from huffing on that applesauce pouch like a baby elephant, we can all get back to class.”

  Adeem shoved his red-rimmed glasses back into place and blinked in slow, clumsy realization. He pulled the applesauce pouch from his lips. He’d been sucking, not blowing—not that he was about to correct her, of course—on an empty pouch of Very Berry Applesauce for God knows how long. When had applesauce turned to air, anyway? Was that why he was so airheaded? The lack of sleep was affecting him more than he thought.

  He’d been up all night listening in on ham radio nets—basically discord channels for radio junkies—on his shortwave radio. Ever since he’d overheard a former NASA engineer explain what he knew about the alien message on one of the nets, information not available to the general public, he’d been hooked. He’d even discovered the radio could allow him, if the timing was right, to communicate with astronauts on the International Space Station, people who’d reached the scientific equivalent of enlightenment. And they’d talk back, their voices carried by nothing but photons, almost three hundred miles from Earth. Who knew what else he’d find?

  An embarrassed smile crept across his face. “My bad, Miss T.”

  She waved her hand impatiently. “Just toss it, please. How many times do I have to remind you there’s no food allowed during class?”

  As he stood and dropped the empty pouch with a thunk into the nearby trash bin, he could feel his classmates’ eyes on him, wondering if Miss Takemoto would finally snap and write him up. It wasn’t the first time Adeem had caused an interruption, after all. Once, he’d made a program on C++ to control her mouse cursor from his phone, forcing her to click on all the wrong programs; it’d taken her ten minutes to realize it was him. Then the other week, he’d made her computer meow whenever she pressed the space bar. But his grades had cushioned him from any kind of penalty, and he was pretty sure Miss Takemoto had been impressed he could pull those pranks in the first place. It’s why she’d been hounding him since freshman year for his college plans, trying to get him to meet with an MIT rep, and throwing sign-up forms for code jams and national robotics competitions in his face—sometimes literally.

  Even the applesauce pouches were her idea. Easy to eat when coding, healthy sugars and all that. “I’m not having you become one of those Mountain Dew–chugging zombies, not under my watch,” she’d said before tossing him a pouch after school at Coding Club. Back when he actually showed up.

  He took his seat in the back of the classroom. Beside him, Derek Robinson, his best friend since fifth grade, shook his head. Idiot, he mouthed. Adeem flashed him a grin.

  Adeem normally spent his weekends at Derek’s house, where they made their own video games. They’d work side by side late into the night before Adeem would call it quits and crawl to the kitchen to eat all of Derek’s Corn Pops in the glow of the refrigerator, while Derek sat cross-legged on the countertop, adding final touches to some artwork on his tablet. Their latest project was a cat simulator game. Before that, it was a dating sim for AIs. A platformer. They’d done it all.

  But the games never went anywhere, and Adeem’s parents—and Miss Takemoto—were hounding him now with words like “wasted potential” and “future plans.” They might have had a point. Making games took time, time that probably could have been spent doing homework or fluffing up his résumé or studying for the SATs. Things he never did. In the end, though, Adeem put their game-making on hold, if only to stop dragging Derek down with him, give him his weekends back. Even if his future was a black hole, Derek’s didn’t have to be.

  Not that he’d told Derek the real reason, of course. As far as Derek knew, Adeem simply didn’t have time to make games anymore now that his weekends were taken over by his newest weird hobby: amateur radio. Which was partially true.

  It’s not Thursday if you don’t get dragged by Miss T at least once, Derek typed on a blank Notepad file on his computer—their way of passing notes, though they sat next to each other—once their teacher began lecturing again.

  Adeem opened Notepad on his own computer. She’s just mad because I already finished her joke of a midterm. He’d created a binary translation program using JavaScript. It had taken him two hours, a couple applesauce packets, and one tumbler of black coffee. He’d turned it in last night, and Miss Takemoto had replied with a single thumbs-up emoji; they both knew the midterm project was nothing more than a formality for him.

  Derek’s eyes widened. Why do you even bother taking any comp sci classes when you’re just gonna dominate them?

  Adeem shrugged and typed: And miss baby’s first steps into programming? No way.

  404 Humor Not Found, Derek replied with a scowl. JavaScript Fundamentals was Derek’s first coding class, and he wasn’t shy about expressing his hatred of it to Adeem, much to Adeem’s amusement. But for someone who only cared to do artwork for their games, Derek was actually pretty good at coding. It’d be fun having Derek in on his pranks, not that he’d risk getting Derek into trouble, too.

  Miss Takemoto finished writing the array object and was now highlighting the various elements and variables in different-colored markers. But Adeem caught her glancing back at them, as if she knew he wasn’t really paying attention. He batted away at the guilt buzzing in his head like a fruit fly that wouldn’t die.

  The thing was, Miss Takemoto had high hopes for Adeem, and he knew it. Adeem wasn’t exactly a genius—and according to
his mom, he was an idiot for not taking school seriously—but he’d always been pretty good at fixing things. It had started with him tearing apart his sister’s old toys and putting them back together: a plastic “robot” dog, a canary-yellow drone, a remote-controlled R2D2. Then his dad’s antique Philco radio, chipped at the left-hand corner from when his sister, Leyla, had once dropped it. He’d nearly taken apart the family computer until Leyla introduced him to programming, and he soaked up code like a sponge. He loved everything about it: the fractals of scattered text across his white screen, the delicate architectural coherence of it all, and the looming threat it could all fall apart with a single misplaced symbol. Coding was like a game of chess, but he could make the rules. With his own imagination being the only constraint, coding was the closest he’d ever felt to having some semblance of control over something.

  The skill had other benefits, too. Being the only two brown kids in school, Adeem and Derek were practically walking targets for people like Chris Wakely, the kind of kid who proudly hung a certain red baseball cap in his locker and grumbled, loudly, about the growing population of “Mexicans” during every school assembly. When Chris Wakely called him a terrorist in the hallway last year, Adeem hacked into Chris’s email and created a macro that made every one of Chris’s emails autosign as Shit Wakely. Coach Grier wasn’t too thrilled; apparently, it had made Chris’s college football scholarship prospects a little . . . strained.

  But that was the extent Adeem had ever used his talents: making silly little games, pulling stupid pranks. As for anything else—anything more—some invisible weight was holding Adeem back.

  How was he supposed to explain to Miss Takemoto and his parents that taking his coding talent seriously would mean that his future would forever be tied down to memories of his sister? Memories that still stung every time he saw the chipped Philco radio or wrote new code he was proud of. Code that she would have been proud of, too.

  If she’d cared enough to stick around.

  The eighth-period bell chimed.

  He turned off the computer and stood, racing to pack his notebook, when Miss Takemoto called his name, her voice only just bobbing above the cacophony of rustling backpacks and chairs scraping across the linoleum floor.

  She was waving him over. Dread coiled down from his stomach to his feet, fastening him to the floor.

  Derek looked at him sympathetically and shook his head but said nothing. Adeem breathed in, letting the oxygen settle before walking through the crowd of glazed-eyed students making their way out of the classroom.

  “You staying after school for Coding Club?” Miss Takemoto asked as he approached, hastily erasing the whiteboard, leaving behind trace marks of code. It smelled sharply of alcohol solvent and ink, and made him dizzy.

  Miss Takemoto was also the supervisor for Coding Club, and there was no way Adeem could deal with her any longer than he already had. He scrambled for an excuse. “Not today. I’ve got a . . . dentist appointment.”

  But Miss Takemoto suddenly spun to face him, her eyebrow raised. “Another one?”

  Shit. Note to self: think of other kinds of appointments. “Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “All that applesauce, I guess. Eroding my enamel.”

  She wasn’t convinced. Her eyes bored through him, and her face contorted as though it was straining to hold back her accusations. If he was lucky, the smell of alcohol solvent would hide the smell of his bullshit. Behind her, the flyer for the National Robotics Challenge still hung on the corner of the whiteboard. She’d probably put it there on purpose.

  It was times like this he wished he could ask Leyla for advice. Leyla, the one person responsible for his love of computers and old tech. Leyla, the one person who could always make sense of him when he could not.

  Leyla, the one person who he’d been sure would always be there. Until she’d ninja’d her way out of his life.

  Adeem flexed his stiff fingers and smiled through gritted teeth. “I’ll start showing up again soon. Just been busy with other stuff.” Like avoiding you.

  Miss Takemoto’s expression was unreadable. “I’ll hold you to it,” she said. And Adeem knew she would.

  Maybe Derek was right. He was starting to regret signing up for her class. He needed to avoid her altogether.

  Derek was still standing by the doorway, waiting. He always waited. And it surprised Adeem every time. He was starting to get convinced Derek would always stick around, a feeling so uncomfortably unfamiliar to Adeem.

  Because when Leyla left, Adeem was sure everyone else would, too.

  Adeem grabbed his backpack off his chair and followed Derek into the hallway. They walked side by side, making their way toward study hall.

  “Everything okay?” Derek asked casually, but his eyes spelled out worry.

  “Oh, that. I’m grounded from applesauce, apparently. Guess I’ll have to start bringing corn chips and Pop Rocks to class instead.”

  Derek snorted. “I honestly don’t know why Miss T puts up with your ass.”

  “Honestly? Me neither.” Adeem pulled his hood back down, letting cool air hit his neck. “Me neither.”

  * * *

  ADEEM: CQ, CQ, calling CQ. This is Alpha Eight-Romeo-Delta-Sierra. Hello, world. This is Alpha-Romeo—

  RESPONDER: A8RD . . . S? Is that correct?

  ADEEM: Yeah. I mean, affirmative. Over.

  RESPONDER: This is November-Seven-Foxtrot-Victor-India, coming in from El Paso, Texas.

  ADEEM: N7FVI . . . got it. Okay. Uh, I’m Adeem, from Carson City, Nevada. I just got licensed. As an operator. So I’m just testing out CQ for the first time. Kind of amazed it actually worked. I mean, I’ve fixed radios. But never actually transmitted anything.

  RESPONDER: Well! Nice to meetcha, Adeem. I’m Jim. Let me be the first to welcome you to the world of amateur radio. It’s a fun little hobby we have here, but you never know when it might come in handy, and you never know who you’ll meet. Go ahead.

  ADEEM: Sounds like it. I heard you can talk to astronauts if you’re lucky.

  RESPONDER: That’s radio for ya. It’ll connect you to just about anyone. Got anything to report?

  ADEEM: No. I mean, nothing yet. Was just testing it out, in case, you know? And I just . . . wanted to see if anyone could hear me.

  RESPONDER: Ha. I know the feeling. Well, rest assured, you’ve been heard loud and clear.

  ADEEM: That must be a first.

  RESPONDER: Come again?

  ADEEM: Nothing. Thanks, sir.

  4

  Jesse

  The glass door chimed behind Jesse as he entered the QuikTrip and narrowly missed slipping on a giant puddle—of water, he hoped—that someone had forgotten to finish mopping. A yellow CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign lurked stealthily to one side.

  Great. Thanks.

  He pulled his baseball cap farther over his face, his dark curls stubbornly peeking through, and peered at the counter. Monday meant Marco’s shift.

  Usually, when Marco wasn’t out smoking, he was bent over his phone, or cabled to his earphones, listening to music on blast. But today he had his back turned to the door, and his eyes glued to the small TV wedged between stacks of shitty one-ply toilet paper in the corner. The usual crowd of reporters were working themselves into a lather over the same alien planet bullshit as always. Dimly, Jesse remembered hearing the president was meant to deliver some urgent message to the nation.

  More scare tactics, he’d bet.

  Marco was so engrossed, he didn’t even glance over his shoulder when Jesse entered.

  But just in case: “Hey, my man. Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” Jesse asked cheerfully.

  Marco only grunted in response.

  Jesse smiled. Ah, Marco. Always dependable. The manager, Randal, was onto Jesse, and if he was manning the storefront, Jesse’d have to scrounge for loose change to buy a pack of gum just to snuff any suspicion. A waste.

  Long ago, Jesse had learned that swallowing his guilt, stuffing it deep down in
side him, made for pretty good sustenance. And though his mom never knew why the bread and peanut butter kept popping up on the shelves even when she had no money to buy them, she never questioned him, and neither did Jesse’s stomach.

  After Dad died, Jesse’s mom used to recite fortune cookie proverbs like, “You always have a choice in anything you do.” Her way of doling out motherly advice, or comforting herself. But if they had a choice, it wasn’t much of one. Money was tight, had always been tight. When the hotel closed down, one of Roswell’s last, Jesse’s part-time job prospects looked dim; almost no businesses in town were hiring, except for a new Citizens for a Safer World branch—and his mom called them a hate group, so Jesse steered clear. Even if it did make him feel helpless. Useless.

  But his mom was already taking about a million shifts a week waiting tables at Pluto’s, and there was a limit to how much he would watch her work herself to the bone for him. Even if his mom kept insisting she had everything under control, Jesse wasn’t stupid. He’d seen the piles of used tissues in her trash can, heard the arguments she had with Mr. Donovan, the landlord, on the phone. Jesse had to pull his weight, somehow. Unlike Ian, Jesse and his mom couldn’t up and leave when things got rough. They didn’t have a grandpa in Nashville they could run to. They only had each other.

  Now safely out of sight, tucked between the aisles packed with pork rinds and potato chips, Jesse surveyed the meager food options. His mom had never been a fan of white bread, but the QuikTrip carried nothing else. Maybe he’d get her a loaf of real bread from some bakery for her birthday. The fancy kind with poppy seeds on the crust, the kind that Dad used to get early in the morning every Sunday, when it was still oven-warm. When he wasn’t on one of his “business trips” to California. Or when he wasn’t obsessed with building his weird machines out of scrap metal in the work shed behind the house.