Omega City (2 page)

ON THE DRIVE TO REISTERTOWN, DAD FILLED US IN ON THE DETAILS OF his research and Eric stared out the window at the passing countryside like he was looking for escape routes.

“In the official record, Dr. Underberg had already been fired from the State Department in 1984,” Dad was saying. “So the question is, why would the President of the United States be having dinner with him and the Speaker of the House?”

“No,” Eric mumbled under his breath, “the question is why Dad thinks the memory of some old waiter is going to change people's minds.”

Dad says Eric's going through a mainstream phase
right now. I just call it sulking.

“Why was he fired?” I asked Dad.

Eric made a sound like a cuckoo clock.

“The official explanation was unauthorized use of funds,” Dad said. “But just because they didn't like what his research produced, that doesn't mean he was wrong to make it. Think of all the things the Underberg battery could have done for us. Prevented wars over oil, stopped the spread of global warming—”

“Made sure my video game didn't run out of juice so I could have taken it with us,” Eric grumbled.

“Exactly,” Dad said cheerily. “Meanwhile, it's not our fault you forgot to plug in the charger.”

“Why wouldn't people want something like that?” I asked Dad.

“That's the important question, isn't it, kiddo? The sad truth is, sometimes it's easier for people to stick with the problems they know than try to imagine a new way of life.”

That didn't make a whole lot of sense to me. “But if the new way would work better, then wouldn't people at least try it? I didn't like it when you took the training wheels off my bike, but I practiced until I could ride it faster than before.”

“Well, you're smarter than most people, Gillian,” said Dad.

“That's what she's always telling me,” added Eric from the backseat.

“And what if you made training wheels for a living?” Dad asked. “Then you wouldn't want people to learn how to ride a real bike, or you'd be out of a job.”

I'd never thought of it like that.

The phone on the console buzzed and I saw the name
Fiona
flash on-screen. Dad instantly forgot what he was saying and picked up.

“Hi! Are you there yet? Yes, we're on our way.” There was a pause. “Me and the kids.”

Dad invited Fiona?

Fiona and Dad met a month ago, when she showed up at his “Roswell Secrets” lecture at the Learning Annex one Thursday night. She came the following week to “The Myth of the Moon Landing.” The week after that, they went out to dinner, and last Saturday he took her to the movies. Guess Dad's reentered the dating pool.

Sure enough, when we pulled in to the parking lot of the diner five minutes later, I saw Fiona waiting for us outside.

I'll tell you right now, Fiona Smythe was not the kind of person who usually attended Dad's conspiracy theory lectures. Most of his students either wore tinfoil hats to protect themselves from what they believed were the government's mind-control rays, or they were bored retirees with nothing better to do than go to beginner slide shows with titles like “JFK: The Facts Don't Add Up.” Fiona
had sleek, bouncy shampoo-commercial hair, four-inch patent-leather heels, and diamond earrings the size of gumdrops.

And I had to remind Dad to change his underwear last week. They aren't exactly an obvious couple. Still, she was on Dad's side, and that's hard to come by these days. My best friend, Savannah, thinks Fiona will be good for Dad, like maybe convince him to get his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed before his sideburns meet at his chin. Or actually fix the fraying elbows of his blazers.

“The nerdy professor look is cool,” she once told me. “But your dad is getting a little too close to hobo.”

I took a look at my father as he parked. Pants: clean. Shirt: wrinkled, but serviceable. His glasses weren't crooked, and it looked like he'd trimmed his beard. Could be worse.

And Fiona looked happy to see him. She air-kissed his cheeks when we got out of the car and gave us an awkward wave. “Hello, Eric and . . .”

“Gillian,” I prompted.

She faced Dad and gave a little pout. “The diner looks closed.”

“That's weird.” Dad peered through the windows. “I just called an hour ago.”

I looked inside, too. The diner obviously hadn't been updated since before I was born. Old beige booths with
cracks spiderwebbing the vinyl lined up on one side, while a white laminate lunch counter sat on the other. Behind it, I saw a shadow move in the doorway to the kitchen. “Dad! There's someone inside.”

“No,” said Fiona. “I'm sure there's—”

I pointed as the shadow shifted. “Look!”

Dad banged on the door for probably ten seconds until a squat man came out from the kitchen. His dingy apron was streaked with grease and his eyes were wide and suspicious. He ran his hand through what little white hair remained on his broad scalp.

“Maurice?” Dad asked through the window. “Maurice Pappas? I'm Sam Seagret. We spoke on the phone.”

The man shook his head through the window. “Sorry. I think you've got the wrong guy.”

“We just talked!” Dad insisted. “I wanted to ask you a few more questions about that dinner you witnessed in June of '84.”

Maurice Pappas examined me and Eric, and then finally Fiona. “Who are they?”

Dad gave him an open smile. “Oh, these are my kids and this is my research assistant, Fiona.”

“Fiona
Smythe
,” she added, giving the man on the other side of the glass a smooth, even look. “Like
smite
, but with an aitch.”

That was weird. I glanced at Eric, who made a face.
Research assistant?
I mouthed to him. He shrugged.

The restaurant manager stared at us for a long moment. “I'm sorry,” he said at last, “I don't think I remember anything after all.”

“But you just said—”

“I'm sorry,” he repeated firmly, meeting Dad's and Fiona's eyes. “I think you're mistaken.”

“But—”

“Look, I've got a family, too, man,” he said, and pulled the shade on the door.

Dad's face fell. Fiona patted his shoulder in sympathy.

“I can't believe it,” Dad said. He banged on the door again, but we all knew Maurice wasn't coming back. Dad had been down this road before. None of his sources would help him these days. “It's only been an hour since we spoke and someone got to him already.”

“Yes.” Fiona nodded. “It was rather speedy of them, wasn't it?”

“I'm so sorry, Dad,” I said. We stood there for a minute, not saying anything.

After a moment, Eric cleared his throat. “You know what might help right now? Fro-yo.”

I glared at him.

“What?” my brother whispered. “It's true.”

I HATE TO say it, but fro-yo did seem to make Dad feel marginally better. Well, fro-yo and the fact that we ate it in Solar Park.

Solar Park is big and round and in the middle of the Reistertown town center. It was donated to the city by Aloysius Underberg, who was born and raised here. When Dad was working on the book, we spent a lot of time in this park, climbing on the jungle gyms in the playground and Rollerblading over the walkways while Dad sat on a park bench and typed, soaking up all the good Underberg vibes. Though Dr. Underberg might not be getting any love at the Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC, or on TV specials about the moon landing, he was still a presence in his hometown.

Well, as long as you brushed the fall leaves off the dedication plaque. Which was what Dad and Fiona were doing now, while Eric licked sprinkles out of the inside of his cup and I tried to make sure every bite of my frozen yogurt had the same proportion of kiwi fruit.

“See,” Dad was explaining to Fiona, pointing at the plaque, which was set into a big block of granite on the side of the walkway, “he had the town motto engraved right here:
Where history meets tomorrow
.”

“Fascinating,” said Fiona. She circled the sign, rapping
lightly on the granite with her knuckles. “This is the only place in the park with his name on it, is that right?”

Dad nodded, smiling down at the bronze plaque. I joined him. It was your basic dedication plaque. Dates, a snippet of the speech, a cool, scientific-looking engraving of nine concentric circles like an atom or something.

Fiona circled the plaque again, running her fingers up and down the seams of the granite.

“
Today, my dream for a better future has become a reality
,” Dad read. “Isn't it funny, Gillian, that a guy who dedicated his life to preparing for the very worst was always so hopeful that it was never going to come to pass?”

I slipped my hand into his. “But he was right. We're here and we're fine.” Dad might be having career trouble, but it wasn't
actually
the end of the world.

I looked up and caught Fiona frowning at the plaque. “This isn't working,” she muttered.

“Pardon me?” I asked.

“This whole evening. It's been a bust from the research angle.” She turned to Dad. “I can't believe Mr. Pappas wouldn't talk to you, Sam.”

Dad shrugged. “Let's not dwell on it. It's a nice night.”

“It's getting dark,” Fiona said. “Why don't we all go back to your place? You promised to show me some of those pages from your new book.”

I nearly dropped my yogurt cup. What? No, he most
definitely had not. Dad never showed his works in progress to anyone. That was one of the ways they nailed him on the Underberg thing. He didn't have any colleagues who'd read his research and could back up his claims. He never even showed things to Mom, and she was both a fellow history professor and his wife.

But Dad's eyes lit up like they do whenever he gets going on one of his projects, and he said the impossible: “Right. I did.” He gestured to Eric and me. “Come on, kids. Let's head home. We can pick up burgers from a drive-through on the way.”

Eric was practically skipping. Fro-yo and fast food. I trudged behind. Fiona, Dad's new girlfriend, was one thing. And I guess I could even accept Fiona, Dad's new research assistant. But Fiona, Dad's trusted confidante? Who
was
this lady?

FIONA FOLLOWED US in her car as we stopped at the last fast-food place on the highway, and then down the unlit, country roads that led to the cottage. Inside, the stench of smoke still lingered in the air, but Fiona was polite enough not to mention it.

“I'll get some coffee started,” Dad suggested, and headed off to the kitchen.

“Be afraid,” Eric said to Fiona. “Be very afraid.”

Fiona's eyes widened and she gave Dad a weak smile.
“Actually, do you have tea?”

Eric shook his head. “Like that'll be better?”

“So, Fiona,” I asked her as we headed for the living room. “What do you do when you aren't going to Dad's lectures?” What made her good enough to get a peek at Dad's stuff?

“Nothing too interesting,” she replied, running a hand through her dark hair. “Resource management for a small development firm.”

“Oh,” I replied. I knew what each of those words meant on their own, but I had no idea what they added up to. And what in the world would her firm develop out here in the sticks, anyway? Farm equipment?

Dad returned with the tea, and as she held out her hand to take the mug, I noticed a mark on the inside of her wrist. A bit like a scar, maybe, but too regular and precise. Did they make flesh-colored tattoos? It looked like the outline of a letter J, but with a tiny little tail on the end of it.

“What does the J stand for?” I asked, pointing at her arm. “Do you have a kid? An ex-husband?”

“No,” she said, and tugged her sleeve down. “I've never been married. Never found the right guy, I guess.” She made googly eyes at Dad. Gross.

Dad, unfortunately, was making googly eyes back. Come on, Dad. Just because Mom dumped you doesn't
mean you have to get all serious with Miss Smite-with-an-Aitch.

“How did you do in Dad's Roswell class anyway?” I couldn't help but ask.

“She aced it.” My father raised his teacup in acknowledgment.

So what? I'd had that lecture memorized since first grade. You didn't see me getting to be Dad's research assistant. “What's the name of the secret government project they claim resulted in the incident?”

“Project Mogul, involving spy microphones mounted to high-altitude balloons.”

Spitballs. “And what was the name of the man who initially found the crash debris?”

“William Brazel, a manager at the Foster farm.” She took a sip of tea.

“Gillian,” Dad warned me. “This is not quiz night. Fiona's interested in more high-level info.”

I frowned. That's what I was afraid of. It had been a while since we'd been hounded by reporters, but that didn't mean we could let our guard down.

“Your father is one of the most accomplished scholars of his generation, children,” Fiona cooed.

I hate it when grown-ups say “children” like that, probably because it's usually substitute teachers trying to
silence a classroom or shopkeepers kicking us out of their store. Mom used it once, too. “Children, your father and I are taking some time apart.”

Children!
Mom of all people should remember our names. She gave them to us.

“So, Sam,” Fiona prompted. “You were showing me your notes?”

“Right!” Dad said. And just like that, they were gone. Eric flipped on the TV. I crossed my arms and slumped in my seat.

“What's with the face, Gills?” Eric asked, powering up his video game.

I softened. Eric's the only one who can get away with calling me that, ever since he stood up for me in third grade when the teacher told the whole class my name should
properly
be spelled with a J. It might have been the last time I appreciated having my kid brother in the same grade.