Chapter 16 - The House Beneath the House
The old house looked exactly as I remembered.
White siding.
Blue shutters.
A crooked front porch.
The tree where my father had hung my first bicycle.
The kitchen window where Mom had watched me leave for basic training.
The house had been empty for eleven years.
I had never gone back.
Not once.
Now I stood in the driveway at 7:21 a.m., staring at the place where my childhood had been built on a foundation I had never known existed.
My father stood beside me.
My mother stayed in the car.
I looked at him.
“How much did they own?”
“The land.”
“The house?”
“Yes.”
“Our neighbors?”
“Some.”
“The school?”
“No.”
“The church?”
He hesitated.
“Not exactly.”
I stared.
“Dad.”
He sighed.
“You're going to hate the answer.”
“I'm already there.”
He looked at the house.
“Northstar maintained properties near families it wanted to monitor.”
I felt sick.
“You monitored me.”
“We monitored everyone.”
“No.”
I turned toward him.
“You monitored me.”
“Yes.”
“While I slept.”
“Yes.”
“While I brought friends home.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
“While I was dating.”
“Yes.”
“While I was grieving.”
He looked away.
“Yes.”
I walked toward the porch.
Inside, the house smelled like dust.
The furniture was gone.
But one thing remained.
The old grandfather clock.
I stared at it.
“It still works.”
My father nodded.
“It isn't a clock.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He reached inside the wooden casing.
A hidden latch clicked.
The back opened.
Inside was a metal housing.
A scanner.
My father looked at my medals.
“Bring the stars.”
I took them out.
The first fit into a slot.
The second fit beside it.
A light turned green.
The floor beneath the clock moved.
A section of hardwood slid away.
I stepped back.
A staircase descended into darkness.
“No.”
My mother finally entered the house.
She stared at the opening.
I looked at her.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“You lived here for eighteen years.”
“Yes.”
“You raised me above this.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because your father told me not to.”
My father looked at her.
“That wasn't entirely true.”
Mom turned.
“What?”
“I told you not to tell her until she was old enough.”
“She was.”
“She wasn't ready.”
“She had become a general.”
“That doesn't mean she was ready to know what we had done.”
I looked between them.
“Stop deciding when I'm ready.”
They both went silent.
I descended.
The room beneath the house was enormous.
Rows of servers.
Paper archives.
Photographic equipment.
Old film.
Bank drives.
Surveillance monitors.
And a single desk.
I walked toward it.
There was one file.
MARA.
Inside was everything.
Every assignment.
Every injury.
Every relationship.
Every promotion.
Every mistake.
But then I saw something I had never expected.
A photograph of me at age seven.
I picked it up.
On the back:
FIRST ASSET CONTACT.
I turned toward my father.
“What does that mean?”
He didn't answer.
My mother did.
“It means they identified you as useful when you were seven.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“Useful?”
“You were observant.”
“I was a child.”
“You remembered details.”
“I was a child.”
“Yes.”
I dropped the photograph.
My father's face crumpled.
“Mara…”
“You let them watch me.”
“We believed we could control the monitoring.”
“You couldn't.”
“No.”
“And you knew.”
“Yes.”
I turned toward my mother.
“How often?”
“What?”
“How often did they report on me?”
She lowered her head.
“Every month.”
My hands began shaking.
“All my life?”
“Until your first deployment.”
“Why stop?”
“Because your father took you off the list.”
“With what authority?”
He looked at me.
“None.”
My stomach dropped.
“You used your own secret program to protect me from the secret program.”
“Yes.”
“That's insane.”
“Yes.”
I laughed, but tears were burning my eyes.
“My whole life is insane.”
A sound came from one of the monitors.
A notification.
Someone had accessed the system.
My father's face changed.
“Sloane.”
The screen turned on.
Victor Sloane appeared.
He sat behind a desk.
Calm.
Perfect suit.
No urgency.
No fear.
“Good morning, Mara.”
I stepped toward the screen.
“You're in the archive.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“You are.”
I looked around.
“What do you want?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“Because your father has spent twelve years keeping one fact from you.”
My father stepped forward.
“Don't listen to him.”
Sloane smiled.
“You should.”
“What fact?”
Sloane leaned closer.
“Your father did not create Northstar.”
I looked at him.
“He helped build it.”
Sloane nodded.
“And he wasn't its greatest enemy.”
My eyes went to my father.
Sloane said,
“He was its greatest success.”
The screen went black.
I turned.
“Dad?”
My father stared at the floor.
“It's true.”
My mother covered her mouth.
I whispered,
“What did you build?”
My father answered,
“The part that learned how to predict people.”
I stared.
May you like
He said,
“And you were the first successful prediction.”
