About time

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR The metallic smell of dust, damp cardboard, and motor oil hits my nose the moment Tife forces the basement latch open. "Careful," Tife breathes, her voice trembling violently as she slips into the gloom of the library basement. "If the security guard catches us down here before the official 7:30 opening, we're getting suspended on day one. My dad will kill me." "Suspension is the least of our worries if that 8:00 AM update drops," I whisper back, pulling the heavy metal door shut behind us until it clicks softly into place. The basement is freezing. Cold air from the industrial ventilation units rushes over my bare ankles, making the stiff wool of my uniform skirt rustle against my legs. Up above our heads, the faint, dull thud of hundreds of footsteps echoes through the concrete ceiling students arriving on the ground level, their eyes fixed on their glowing screens as the assembly countdown ticks down toward zero. I pull out my phone, lowering the screen brightness so the glare doesn't give us away in the shadows. The interface casts a blue, eerie light across row upon row of stacked art supply crates, forgotten wooden easels, and heavy rolls of canvas. [COUNTDOWN: 11 MINUTES, 42 SECONDS] "Which way to the media server room?" I ask, stepping over a coil of thick industrial power cables running along the damp floor. "Follow me," Tife says, moving past the wooden crates with a sudden, anxious quickness. She knows these administrative halls far better than I do. "The elevator is shut off until morning assembly finishes, so we have to take the back utility stairs up to the second floor." We hurry through the dark labyrinth of storage racks. Tife’s leather loafers click sharply against the bare concrete, the sound bouncing off the moisture-stained brick walls. My heart is hammering against my ribs, each thud feeling like a countdown of its own. Every second we waste down here brings my secret closer to being plastered across the courtyard screen for three hundred students to digest. We reach the foot of a narrow metal staircase painted industrial grey. Tife takes the steps two at a time, her hand sliding up the cold steel handrail. I follow right on her heels, my eyes scanning the high shadows above. When we reach the second-floor landing, Tife stops dead, putting a finger to her lips. She cracks the heavy fire door open just an inch, peering into the silent corridor. The second-floor hallway of the library block is long, lined with glass-fronted administrative offices, editing bays, and the school’s historical archive rooms. It is dark and completely deserted, the grey morning light barely filtering through the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the hall. "Clear," Tife whispers, slipping through the door and onto the plush hallway carpet. We sprint quietly down the long floor until we stop in front of a heavy oak door bearing a small, polished brass plaque: STUDENT MEDIA & IT COORDINATION ROOM. I reach out, grab the brass handle, and push down with all my weight. It doesn't budge. It is locked tight. "I told you!" Tife hisses, tugging frantically at her box braids with both hands. "Tari keeps the physical key with him at all times! We can't get in! It's over, Dara, it's completely over!" 7:52 AM — 7 MINUTES, 18 SECONDS REMAINING "I can't shut down the primary server from out here without getting inside, I’m not a witch" I say, Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the far end of the long corridor swing open with a loud, echoey creak. Tife freezes. I freeze on the floor, my fingers hovering over the phone screen. Slowly, footsteps echo down the carpeted hallway. Crisp, deliberate, completely unhurried steps. Tife grabs me by the sleeve of my blazer, dragging me back behind the deep shadow of a large concrete decorative pillar just as a tall figure emerges from the grey morning light spilling through the hallway windows. He is wearing the senior secondary blazer, his navy blue tie neatly knotted at his collar, carrying a slim leather laptop bag over his shoulder. His face is entirely calm, almost serene, completely untouched by the social chaos currently consuming the rest of the student body out in the courtyard. Elo Tari. He stops right in front of the locked media room door. He doesn't pull out a physical keycard or search through his pockets. Instead, he simply reaches into his blazer, pulls out his smartphone, taps the screen once, and the electronic lock on the door clicks open with a sharp, pneumatic hiss. Tife lets out a tiny, involuntary gasp from behind the pillar. Tari pauses. He doesn't turn around immediately, but his broad shoulders tense slightly in the quiet corridor. "You can come out, Tife," Tari says, his voice smooth, even, and unnervingly quiet. "I know you're standing behind the pillar. You've been breathing loud enough to wake the security guard downstairs." Tife looks at me, her face draining of what little color she has left. I grip my phone tightly, push myself up from the floor, step out from behind the concrete pillar, and pull Tife along with me into the dim light of the hallway. Tari turns around slowly. His dark, analytical eyes slide from Tife’s shaking frame directly to me. His expression doesn't change there is no anger, no panic, no malice, just an intense, quiet curiosity. "And you brought the scholarship girl," Tari says softly, holding the heavy wooden media room door open with his elbow. "You're six minutes early for the broadcast, Dara." "You built it," I say, stepping forward until I am standing just a few feet from him, refusing to let my voice tremble. "You built About Time." Tari looks down at his phone screen, then back up at me, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the edge of his lips. "I didn't build it silly, I hijacked the software," Tari replies, stepping inside the dimly lit media room and gesturing for us to follow. "I just built a mirror. The school was already rotting from the inside out during the six-month lockdown. I decided that if it must rot, then it ought to with a purpose." "Shut it down, Tari," Tife chokes out, pushing past me into the room, her eyes wide with frantic desperation. "It's taking my private notes! It's about to leak Dara's file to the entire assembly screen in five minutes! You have to stop the update!" Tari walks over to the central server desk, where four large monitors glow in the darkened room, displaying lines of real-time terminal code, live video feeds of the gathering courtyard, and the dynamic leaderboard metrics. "who says it’s Dara that’s getting leaked and besides I can’t stop it," Tari says calmly, setting his leather bag onto the desk without looking at her. "The system is autonomous now. Once a countdown reaches the final ten minutes, the local bridge locks out manual overrides to prevent tampering. That was the agreement built into version 2.0." "What agreement?" I demand, stepping up to the glowing monitors. The screen in the center shows the countdown ticking past four minutes. "The agreement that truth matters more than social performance," Tari says, turning his head to look at me in the dim blue light of the monitors. "do you also have a secret you’re so desperate to keep hidden scholarship girl?." "Then whose secret is getting broadcasted?" I ask, my voice cold. "Exposing people isn't truth, it’s evil." "Don't do evil, and your secrets won't be revealed," Tari counters quietly. Tife shrinks against the server rack. "Tari, please... I wrote those notes in anger!" "The algorithm doesn't care about feelings, Tife. It only processes data." 02 MINUTES, 15 SECONDS Panic turns to sharp realization: Tari is driven by anger at the school system. "You think you're a vigilante?" I ask, stepping toward the door. "What happens when the creator regains control? How do you tame the monster you created?" "It’s just an objective app," Tari says, his brow furrowing. "Nothing built by a person is objective." I reach for the keyboard. "Dara, the output is locked!" Tari's calm cracks. "But I can stop you." I grab the baseball bat by the door and swing for the IT system, but Tari grabs my hands. If my past is about to be displayed to three hundred students, I won't let an algorithm or Tife tell my story. Outside, the assembly bell chimes. 00 MINUTES, 30 SECONDS "Dara, stop!" Tife screams. "Watch me," I whisper. I swing the bat at his head. Darkness consumes my vision, and my body hits the ground.