The Jump, page 3
“Cute,” I say. “I’m sure that’ll work on someone interested in guys.”
I move on and try to focus on the last part.
Clean up them thoughts.
This is my problem. I see things head-on. Jax is the expert puzzler because he flips things totally around. He can see several dimensions of a clue when we get one. He can weave his way around plays on words and implications, technicalities and not-necessarilies. He puzzles like I parkour.
We both use what we’ve got.
“What’s bakin’, biscuit bitches?” comes a familiar, raspy voice from behind me. I feel a hand clap me on the shoulder, and Spider hops between Jax and me with his messenger bag, which is almost as big as he is, and always stuffed with way too much junk, and those signature aviator goggles resting against his forehead.
“I see you’re both stuck at the ‘chromedome’ part of this race,” he says, eyes darting around from possible clue to possible clue.
“Yas has the ‘chromedome’ bit!”
Spider looks up at me in equal parts disgust and awe.
“How?”
“That’s what I want to know!” exclaims Jax, arms flying up in the air for effect. “Coming for my gig, the nerve.”
“Listen, Yas,” says Spider. “You can’t be a genius, parkour master, and server of iconic makeup looks. Leave some talent in the pool for the rest of us, eh?”
I have to smile at that. If there’s one thing I know, it’s parkour. If there’s another thing I know, it’s my way around an eye-shadow palette. The genius part? Who knows. But my phone buzzes, indicating it’s already 8:15 and we’re going to miss the bus to class if we don’t hurry. I’m instantly yanked back into reality.
“Yas, what do you want in exchange for a hint?” asks Spider. “Want me to jailbreak your phone for you like you asked?”
“Did it myself last week,” I say. “You were too slow.”
“Oof, she’s coming for your gig too!” says Jax with a chuckle. “Cold, Yas.”
“Okay, okay,” Spider concedes. “How about a bowl of hot ramen?” Tonight at my place? You can all come over so we can write the next JERICHO puzzle together, and Yas, you can have a nice hot bowl of noodles.”
Now, that catches my attention.
Spider lives with his mom in a modest apartment above their restaurant named Seoul Food, in the International District. Abba always warns me not to fall in love with earthly things, but their ramen is a thing I would gladly lie down and die for. All of their broths simmer for days before being served, and the black garlic oil they use turns the noodles into something straight from heaven.
“Veggie broth?” I ask.
“Only the best.”
I narrow my eyes and prepare to raise the stakes.
“Tell your mom to throw in two extra marinated eggs, and we have a deal.”
Jax whistles, knowing those eggs cost two dollars extra each in the restaurant, even though he’s never eaten one. Spider’s eyes get huge.
“How about an extra ramen egg, and a bottle of black garlic oil to take home?”
Jax looks back at me, waiting for my response.
“You know I can barely make a PB&J,” I argue, “let alone something involving black garlic oil. Two eggs, or no deal.”
Spider sighs.
“Fine. All yours. Now, what’s the clue?”
I pull out my phone and text Spider, and only Spider.
ME: I think chromedome means Steelhead, as in the diner right next to us.
Spider, not being the most savvy in the stealth department, turns his gaze up to the Steelhead Diner sign and doesn’t look away. I look at Jax, who’s clearly locked it in as a clue and starts hopping around in place as he tries to piece together the last part of the last clue. I roll my eyes and try to focus again.
Clean up them thoughts.
Then I notice the pipe trailing up the side of the building, and it all clicks into place.
Clean up them thoughts, or get your mind out of the gutter.
I walk up to the pipe, check the back, snap a picture of the Vault sticker, and upload it in a comment on the forum in less than five seconds.
“Ah, dammit,” spits Spider, kicking his shoe against a loose cobblestone brick and pulling a vape pen out of his pocket.
Jax sighs and walks up behind me to take his own photo. Second place. Spider takes third, because if he can’t make first place, he doesn’t care what place he comes in after that.
“Anyone check on Han lately? Where is he?” asks Jax.
I realize I haven’t gotten a text from Han in a while—not since yesterday—but he was active in the forum thread just before I got here, so he should be okay… right?
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket just as Spider’s pings in his bag and Jax pulls his own phone out. My new text reads:
HAN: SO YOU FINALLY MADE IT.
Wait, he’s here already?
I lock eyes with Jax, then Spider, and when I see the same shock and confusion on their faces that I’m probably wearing, I look around. I hear the sound of metal sliding slowly against metal, and out from a hellishly dark space behind an alleyway door easing open, steps Han. Brown sweatshirt, shaggy brown hair, twinkles in his eyes like always.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” says Spider. “I’m just gonna lurk in the Post Alley Court shadows until my friends get here and then send them cryptic-ass texts from a nearby hidden door to hell.”
Han smiles knowingly and shrugs.
Jax steps forward with a smile in return.
“Wassup, Han,” he says with a fist bump.
Han daps all three of us in turn and then holds up his phone with a nod.
“Wait,” I think out loud. “If you got here first, why didn’t you solve the puzzle first?”
He holds up his phone again for emphasis, and we all take to the forum. I scroll up to several posts before Spider’s, Jax’s, and even mine, where I see another almost identical one, posted from Han, and I sigh.
“The human mole wins again,” says Spider. “Well done, bro.”
“No fair, Han—you know every tunnel and doorway in this city,” Jax says, smiling.
“And under it,” adds Spider with a grin.
“And you know the whole transit system by heart, Jax. What’s your point?” I tease.
“Hey, hey, let’s fight on the way to class, shall we?” asks Spider, slinging his messenger bag more comfortably over his shoulder and beginning the trek up the steepest part of Pine Street to our E-line bus stop.
Jax turns to me with a challenging wink and then takes off sprinting.
“Race ya,” he yells, returning my earlier challenge. He darts up Pine Street, past a few tourists on their way down to watch the cheese curds churn in the vat behind the window at Beecher’s.
“Hardly a race!” I shout back, feeling a smirk spread across my face as I bolt after him. My legs begin to burn, matching my lungs, but I live for the competition. The blood racing through my veins. The fear of losing, and by extension, the raging need to win.
“Such confidence for one in second place!” he hollers.
“Loser pays for the other’s ramen!” I propose, looking up at the jungle gym of metal bars, platforms, and metal steps erected all along this street. He should know better than to challenge me to an uphill race when there’s conveniently placed scaffolding nearby.
I dart forward, leap, grip the lowest bar, and up I go.
Han
I follow Yas, Jax, and Spider through the front doors of Shannon High to find the halls empty. Weird. I thought we had a few extra minutes since we just barely caught the 8:20 bus.
The bell rings, loud and grating in my ears, and I lift my hands to cover them.
Late.
The three of them race down the hall, but I freeze and wait until the bell ends so I don’t have to run with my hands up to my ears. The teacher, Mr. Benton, doesn’t care if we’re five seconds late or thirty seconds late, so why should I? Late is late to him, so late is late to me.
I just wish they’d open the annex tunnel up for more than sports equipment deliveries. It’s way quicker to come in that way from where the E bus drops off. Practically a straight shot.
We all chose lockers next to each other, all right outside the same first-period class so it’s less likely we’ll be late.
Yas is the first to reach room 202 and read the sign on the door aloud.
“Period 1 Algebra II has moved to room 603 due to a leaky water pipe in room 202. Please be in your seat by 8:45.”
“A whole extra five minutes! Let’s go!” hollers Jax, taking off down the hall toward the east stairwell. I backtrack, opting for the west stairwell instead. None of them ask me why I’m not following, or if I’m okay, or where I’m going, or why I’m using a different stairwell. They all know I’ll meet them there when I’m ready. The truth is, the west stairwell has less sunlight in the morning, so it doesn’t bother my eyes as much, and the east stairwell has this horribly squeaky door that I hate. It may be a longer walk, but it’s way quieter.
I like not having to explain all of that.
I reach the stairwell and start the walk up. I don’t know when or why I got so interested in mapping infrastructure, or why people think it’s weird. So many people walk past unused closets, empty hallways, decommissioned dumpsters, abandoned buildings, and manholes that lead to even more hidden places all over the city. I think it’s weird to not care why they’re there, where they came from, or how they can be used. There’s a whole hidden network right under people’s noses, and when it comes to cryptology, the faster you can get to a clue, the greater the advantage.
I get halfway up the second set of stairs when I hear my phone chime, the normally quiet pinging echoing in this empty stairwell. I pull it out and realize the notification is from over a hundred posts I’ve missed from the Vault master forum thread in the span of five minutes. Some shit is going down.
I stop where I am on the stairs and start scrolling.
I see post after post after post about the new refinery going up in Beacon Hill, and how it just got approved. I think of Jax’s parents and their garden and how many times he’s brought Baby Bella mushrooms and bell peppers to school for me in exchange for puzzle hints. I know there are laws and rules, and this thing has officially legally been passed, but…
…I really didn’t want it to pass.
Now that the refinery is for sure going up, and that it’s just a matter of where, and that Jax’s garden is looking like the most likely spot, my dad will probably lose his job.
The pipeline leading to the refinery is supposed to run along the Duwamish Waterway and over to Harbor Island, where my dad works as a kayak instructor. The placement of the pipeline would mean the water wouldn’t be safe for kayaking anymore, which means he’d have to either move his business or shut down altogether.
If he loses his job, I go to live with Mom.
And I am not going to live with Mom.
As I stare down at my phone, more posts pop up, talking about something called “The Order” and a new puzzle with a first clue that no one can seem to figure out. Finally I see a screenshot of the original post. I brush the hair away from my eyes and zoom in closer.
It’s a picture of plain white text against a black background that reads:
WE ARE THE ORDER.
GUARDIANS OF PEACE, AND PROTECTORS OF THE PEOPLE.
YOU’VE SEEN US BEFORE.
WE MAKE THINGS HAPPEN.
WE’RE EVERYWHERE.
WE SEEK ONLY THE MOST ELITE TO JOIN OUR GROUP.
THIS GAME WILL REVEAL THE MOST DESERVING.
THE GAME IS ANARCHY.
THE PRIZE IS POWER.
GOOD LUCK.
What does any of that mean? These people sound like they’re threatening us. Weakly. Frankly, they sound like they’re full of shit. The original poster’s name is “The Order,” like the ultra-famous, ultra-elusive crypto-vigilante anarchist group that’s been operating in the shadows for almost a decade. Uncreative. Just like that unoriginal eye at the bottom, implying that they’re all-seeing or something. And what did they mean by “The game is anarchy. The prize is power”? For a group who wants only the “most elite,” they weren’t elite enough to remember to post their first clue before wishing us all good luck on a puzzle we can’t even start.
But just as I’m about to file “The Order” away as posers, another post catches my eye.
A second picture from the Order that says:
WE BELIEVE KNOWLEDGE IS POWER.
WE BELIEVE INFORMATION SHOULD BE FREE.
WE BELIEVE CENSORSHIP IS UNCONSTITUTIONAL.
WE BELIEVE THOSE WHO ENFORCE CENSORSHIP SHOULD BE INHIBITED.
AND LIKE WE SAID,
WE MAKE THINGS HAPPEN.
Now I’m a little panicked. These people are promoting civil unrest and associating with our forum. Not a good mix. Extremely dangerous. Risky for us.
There’s a post shortly after, linking to a news article from ten minutes ago entitled “Fire Alarm Pulled at Downtown Seattle Police Department, Building Evacuated.”
No. Way.
Did these people—this “The Order”—send someone into the Seattle PD office just to pull the fire alarm? The picture associated with the article shows several dozen people standing outside the Seattle PD building in downtown, right next to the courthouse on Fifth Avenue. Some are in uniform, some aren’t.
I keep scrolling.
GOOD MORNING, SEATTLE PUBLIC SCHOOLS.
I look at the time stamp and realize it was posted only five seconds ago, and I wonder what’s coming next. We’re in a public school. I’m standing in the stairwell… Am I safe? I hear the door open several feet above me, on the next flight up, and I hurriedly put away my phone, hop to my feet, and look up, hoping it’s not Mr. Benton, coming to hunt me down and drag me off to class. But instead, I see Jax looking down at me with a smile.
“Hey, man, I’m on a bathroom break to check on you. You all right?”
I nod up at him too soon, just as the blaring sirens ring out through this stairwell, and the white flashing lights in front of every bright red fire alarm bell start going haywire, and I crumble to my knees and cover my ears, and all I can do is clench my teeth. But then, through the pain, I hear Jax’s footsteps bounding down the stairs toward me, and I feel his arms around my shoulders, pulling me to my feet as we blend into the crowd shuffling down the stairs and outside to the lawn.
And the fresh air.
And the semblance of quiet.
And then, after breathing, and sitting, and squeezing my fists so tight, I’ve left tiny moon-shaped marks in my palms, I begin to feel okay again.
Spider
At first, even I thought it was an ordinary fire drill.
We shuffled down the stairwell single file like we do with an ordinary fire drill.
We meandered out onto the front lawn like it was an ordinary fire drill.
But while everyone else is now standing around watching fire trucks roll screaming into the parking lot, I’m busy reading the forum and realizing this shit is anything but ordinary.
It’s no coincidence that the alarm went off only moments after those guys that call themselves “The Order” posted that last message:
GOOD MORNING, SEATTLE PUBLIC SCHOOLS.
“Wait, wait, wait,” says Yas, folding her arms and smacking her gum in thought. “You think these guys are ‘The Order’ as in the Order?”
“I hope so!” says Jax, nervously toying with a purple crystal around his neck that I haven’t seen before. Yas rolls her eyes.
“Why would the Order be tampering with the Seattle Public Schools system’s fire alarms?” she asks.
“Because fuck the system?” offers Jax.
“I agree with Yas, though,” I offer. “That’s a pretty small system for them to be fucking with.”
“Maybe they’re going after something more high-profile,” returns Jax.
Han looks up from his phone and holds up the screen so we all can see the article he’s been reading. The headline reads “Fire Alarm Pulled at Downtown Seattle Police Department, Building Evacuated.”
“See? They got the cops, too! Fuck the system!” Jax beams proudly.
“Okay, so they’re wasting 12’s time,” says Yas. “I can get behind that. But why now? Did something happen to set them off? Seems unlike the Order to strike randomly. They’re usually more… precise.”
“Hey,” says Jax. “Who’s the expert on the Order around here? If they’ve made a move, there’s a good reason behind it. These people play six-dimensional chess, nothing less. Maybe Seattle PD has been up to something only the Order knows about. So far.”
“You just really want the Order to be involved in this—huh, fanboy?” Yas says with a wink in Jax’s direction.
“Not nearly as much as you want them not to be involved,” returns Jax playfully.
“You know, we don’t actually know if they’re human,” says Yas. “Nobody from the Order has ever been identified.”
I nod. She’s right.
Jax may be the expert on the Order, but I’ve done some digging on them in the past. Their little “hack” into the US Capitol’s records? It got them around several blockchain security walls. One alone would be impressive. Next to impossible, honestly.
“She has a point, Jax,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “Seattle PD seems… insignificant for them. Could be a sophisticated AI.”
Yas raises an eyebrow at me.
“You think a sophisticated AI would be spontaneously setting off fire alarms around the city instead of—oh I don’t know—canceling people’s student loans or something more useful?”
“Maybe it’s the AI’s day off,” says Jax, lip trembling as he stifles a laugh.
“Hilarious,” Yas says flatly.
And just like that, the alarm clips into silence.
We all look at each other with our Now what? face.
And then: Wee-oooh-wee-ooh!
It’s back on.
“What was that?” asks Jax, looking to me, the systems guy.
