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One of the engineers speaks up, eager to join the mutiny, “I agree with Dr. Young. Planes have been around for decades. If pilot-less flights were feasible, it would have been done by now.”
“We need more time,” another adds.
The engineers bob their heads in unison, a silent agreement to overthrow me, but I can’t be swayed. A ravaging illness in my lungs couldn’t knock me down. Doubts and fear aren’t enough to stop me.
“Are you asking me to readjust my timeframe?” I growl, staring head on at the camera. “Me?”
Dr. Young’s eyelashes flutter a bit in discomfort. “Reality is what it is. It would be faster to invent time travel than to code this.”
I inhale deeply through my nose.
In. Out.
So many people take for granted that subconscious ability. To breathe. To exhale. But the air rushing through my lungs—that’s liquid gold to me.
“Go back and look at your contracts. Go back and read the transcripts from our interviews. Do I look like I give a damn about reality?”
The chair creaks even louder, moaning and protesting as I crouch closer to the monitors.
“I don’t care how many hours you work. I don’t care how late you stay up at night. I don’t even care if you get a divorce and your kids abandon you in your old age. When I chose you,eachof you,” I glance between the faces, “it was because you were pushing the boundaries of your respective fields. It was because you believed in this project, you believed in the impossible.”
“But Cullen?—”
“So,” I interrupt heatedly, “get those planes to remain airborne or it’ll be hell on earth…”
The threat fades as a strange tingle runs up my neck. I’m attuned to my computers like a mother to a sick infant and I know immediately that something’s wrong.
I swivel around to take account of the code I’m running in the background. Goosebumps prickle up my arm and the hair on the back of my neck stands to attention.
The code’s been interrupted.
For a moment, I assume that it’s a trick of the light or that I’m losing my mind after taking strong meds while sleeping only two hours a day.
But no.
The entire monitor has turned green.
What the…
Eyes latching onto the computer, I push my chair to the left. The wheels squeak against the cold floors, turning in all directions despite my sharp and intense push down a sure path.
“Cullen, what’s wrong?” Asad, an engineer I scouted from a giant tech company, peers at me from his video feed.
I ignore him, my entire being focused on the interrupted code.
Unbelievable.
Someone just broke into our mainframe.
I’m on the move. Fingers to keyboard. Line after line. I build a defense and the hacker keeps tearing it down like an expert in a game of whack-a-mole.
“Cullen, I got an alert! Someone hacked into the mainframe!” Asad yells, his delayed warning an annoying buzz in my ears.
Dr. Young gasps. “I saw the notification too.”
“Did anyone leave a backdoor open in the code?” I rasp.
Everyone shakes their heads. Not that they’d openly admit to a mistake that would cost them millions in damages and lawyer fees.