Trapped!: The 2031 Journal of Otis Fitzmorgan (4 page)

I said, “D'en,” and the door slid open. Most computers were smart enough to recognize this contraction for “Door open.” It
was kind of lazy to say. “D'en,” but you can only say. “Door open,” so many times a day. And the Elevator's computer was supposedly
one of the fastest and smartest ever created. It had to be. It ran our communications, heating, water, food, air—all the systems
we needed to survive up here, thousands of milts above Earth.

I knew there were twenty-nine other passengers on board Climber so I was surprised to find that the hallway leading from my
room to the interior elevator was empty. I guessed people were either still sleeping or down in the common areas. The elevator
door opened with a DING! and I went in and pressed the button for Level 3.

Climber B is actually like a five-story box-shaped building that travels up and down a ribbon made of a lightweight material
called “carbon nanotubes,” which is a hundred times stronger than steel. Right then, I was leaving Level 4—the sleeping quarters.
I had no choice but to go down. You couldn't get up to Level 5 from inside the Elevator. Besides holding crates, boxes, and
bags, it's where a lot of the Elevator's equipment is located.

On Level 3, the elevator door slid open onto a small hallway that led around the corner to the gym. In front of me was the
Common Room. An Elevator worker had pulled out a partition, cutting the room in half. One side was for quieter activities—like
reading or chatting—and the other had louder entertainment options—like semi-real video games.

I glanced into the quiet section. It looked like a small restaurant that had been combined with someone's modern living room.
There were several tables where many adults were eating, watching news projections, or chatting with Interactive News Anchors
about the latest events. I saw Mr. Bennett viewing a holo-exhibit of modern art. Other people lounged on couches scattered
around the room, gazing out the observation window that took up most of one wall. Two adults were on a surround-show platform
and acting in a virtual soap opera. Holo-actors whirled around the two of them as they took part in the drama. Across the
room, I spotted my mom and dad talking with another couple over cups of coffee.

My dad raised his hand in greeting, and my mom mouthed, “How'd you sleep?”

I gave her the best smile I could this early in the day. She smiled back, knowing it was best to let me wake up at my own
speed.

With another wave to my parents, I headed over to the other section of the room, where a mostly younger crowd had gathered.
And where things were not nearly as peaceful. There were four couches but only one large central table on that side. A semi-real
video game unit (a real game unit would be too dangerous up here) had been installed in one corner. A holo-gunslinger was
there, shouting out taunts like, “Which of yer yeller-bellied so-and-sos thinks yer can outdraw me?”

But none of the five people in the room seemed interested in challenging the gunslinger. Everyone was too busy with a real-life
drama.

“I want my chair back!” a boy with spiky black hair and a squat, muscular build was shouting.

The target of his anger was none other than Mr. Noonan. He was perched in a master control chair at the head of the table.
The chair allowed the person to control the lights, temperature, sound effects—everything about the room. But Mr. Noonan didn't
seem to care about all the buttons—he looked too terrified to move. His hands clutched the armrests and his knuckles were
as white as his face.

A BOY WAS SHOUTING AT MR. NOONAN AND THE HOLO-NURSE.

The nurse hologram was standing next to him. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked in a soothing voice. “Please select
from the following. One: upset stomach. Two: headache. Three—”

The boy interrupted, the veins in his neck popping out. “You can talk to the nurse on the other side, where all the other
adults are!”

Before I could say anything, a girl with long jet—black hair stepped forward. “Maybe you should just leave him alone?” She
spoke timidly, making the suggestion as if it were a question.

“And who are you?” the boy fired back at her, pointing a finger in her face. The girl looked stunned by his rudeness. When
she didn't answer, the boy shouted into the air, “Computer, who is this girl?”

The pleasant voice of the computer answered,

LYSA A BENATO. AGE FOURTEEN. SHE IS THE DAUGHTER OF MAXINE—

“Computer, stop!” Lysa commanded, her voice rising. She looked even more flustered when the computer continued speaking.

—BENATO VICE PRESIDENT OF SALES AT URBANE COSMETICS.

“I gave the computer an order,” Lysa said, bewildered.

Looking smug, the boy gazed at her and folded his arms across his chest. It was clear from his bulging biceps that he had
taken one too many muscle-enhancing pills. Which could also explain his aggressive behavior. “My family owns the hotel at
the top,” he said, “so I'll decide what happens. My commands override all others.”

LYSA AND YVES FACED OFF

Now I knew who the kid was: Yves Jackson. He was my age, but he acted he owned the place. Well, in a way, he does—or at least,
his family does. The Jacksons put up tens of billions of dollars to complete the Space Elevator. In fact, so much of their
money had gone into the project, they'd been given sole ownership of the hotel at the top.

A TALL, SKINNY BOY TOLD THE HOLO-NURSE TO SHUT OFF.

“I need some medicine!” Mr. Noonan suddenly bellowed.

The holographic nurse looked at him. “This does not appear to be a medical emergency,” she said.

I stepped toward them, about to say something, when I was stopped by another new voice. “Nurse, please turn off.” It was a
tall, skinny boy with limbs that reminded me of a grasshopper's. He had a long face with widely spaced eyes.

The holo-nurse smiled, said, “Have a healthy day,” and flickered off.

“Why didn't I think of that?” Yves Jackson said, then turned to Mr. Noonan and demanded, “Now can you get up?”

“What are you doing? I need the nurse,” Mr. Noonan whined at the new boy, who held out his hands in a calming gesture.

“You have to get up!” Yves snapped.

Enough is enough, I thought. “Yves Jackson?” I asked in my most official-sounding tone.

“What?” he demanded.

“I'm Otis Fitzmorgan, an official with FSA. I noticed someone suspicious luring outside your quarters on Level 4,” I lied.
A little fib seemed worth it to help out Mr. Noonan.

“And what did you do about it?” Yves said angrily.

“Nothing,” I answered with an exaggerated shrug. “I'm no longer on duty.”

“Typical!” Yves cried. But my plan worked. Forgetting about Mr. Noonan, Yves threw up his hands and stormed out of the room
to check on his quarters.

With Yves gone, the tension in the room instantly came down a couple of notches. And everyone seemed to sigh in relief.

CROCKETT TRIED TO CALM MR. NOONAN DOWN.

The skinny boy gave me a nod of thanks and then turned back to Mr. Noonan. He crouched down next to the man. “Hi, my name's
Crockett Vinton,” the kid said in soothing tones. “I came up with my folks. They decided to stay behind for a few more days,
but I have to get back to the books. I'm in medical school.”

“You're a doctor?” Mr. Noonan asked.

“Almost,” Crockett answered. It wasn't strange for kids our age to be doctors and lawyers anymore. Genetic enhancements had
made some kids more mature. My own genes were straight from my parents—and hadn't been altered. Instead, my mom and dad had
been feeding my love of art and detective work since I was a toddler. All the art history books, home training, and museum
trips had paid off. They helped me rise to the top of my class and stand out as a government investigator.

“From what I can tell, you're just anxious,” Crockett was saying to Mr. Noonan. “You need to relax.”

“How can I? This is terrifying! I'm a writer, not an astronaut! Going up, I slept most of the way. But now we're going down!
I feel like we could crash at any minute!”

“Are you traveling with anyone?” Crockett asked.

“His daughter, Charlotte, is on board,” I answered for the man. “I'd get her but I don't think she's too crazy about me.”