WhiteSpace: Season One (Episodes 1-6 of the sci-fi horror serial) (34 page)

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CHAPTER 1 — Jon Conway Part 1 (age 13)

Jon stormed home from school, through the house and into the kitchen, where he dropped the cardboard box on the floor with a resounding thud. He then tore open the refrigerator and grabbed an IBC root beer from the front of a neat column, leaving another eleven behind.
 

Mrs. Rasmussen appeared behind Jon, smiling.
 

“I can’t believe you didn’t take a jacket with you,” she said, shaking her head. “And why do you look like something that’s about to start shooting steam from its ears? Was it the ferry ride that has you all bothered, or the science fair?”

Jon twisted the cap from the top of his bottle, then pitched it into the trashcan.
 

“I suck.”

Mrs. Rasmussen crossed the kitchen to the fridge where Jon was still standing, then knelt to the floor, crossed her legs, and pulled Jon to the floor beside her.
 

Though Jon was plenty used to Mrs. Rasmussen’s unique brand of conflict resolution, the gesture still caught him slightly off guard. He had to balance his bottle on his way to the floor, tipping a sip’s worth of liquid over the lip of the bottle, where it splashed onto the Pietra Firma tile below.
 

Jon looked up at Mrs. Rasmussen, horrified.

She said, “Like you’re gonna clean it up?” then laughed.
 

Jon laughed, too, but looked down, embarrassed by the truth.
 

“So what happened?” she said. “Your homemade plastic didn’t go over so well? Is that what has you looking like you’ve been sucking on a jumbo bag of Sour Patch Kids all afternoon?”

“I’m not sucking on Sour Patch Kids.”

“Well, you’re 13 now, young Mr. Conway, and pouting is for children. So let’s start all over and tell me what’s in that head of yours?”
 

“I suck.”

Mrs. Rasmussen said, “Say that again and see what happens.” Her crimped blond hair draped between her breasts. Like always, it made Jon think of a mermaid. Mrs. Rasmussen was pretty, especially for being so much older then him, and Jon imagined she had been quite attractive, and maybe even beautiful when she was young.
 

She had on her dangerous face, even though her, “Say that again and see what happens” had never led to any sort of cruel or unusual punishment, or really anything at all. After years, Jon was curious. But not curious enough to push her. Not today.

Jon had gone to the science expo in Seattle with his class. His project was his own brand of homemade plastic. Jon hadn’t known much about plastic, much less that you could make your own, until he started his research. Even though Jon couldn’t see caring much beyond his presentation, he did find the research relatively interesting. Though most plastics had to be made in factories, Jon used a recipe that allowed him to use milk, vinegar, and a concoction of other stuff from the kitchen and laundry room which made the plastic not only stronger than the kind which used just milk and vinegar, but which seemed to provide for more uses.

Jon thought his idea was original, or at least an original twist on a common project, but there were four other projects at the Expo which used homemade plastics, just like his and better. Only volcanoes were less original.
 

“I got one of those ‘nice job’ ribbons,” Jon said. “It may as well say, ‘thanks for being total crap.’”
 

“Your work is not crap. You’ve never shown much of an interest in science before the Expo, so why do you even care what type of ribbon you earned? You entered the fair, did your best, and tried something you’ve never tried before. And that’s exactly what you were acknowledged for. Nothing more, nothing less. I would count this one as a success.”
 

Jon shook his head. “Warren got First Place when he did the Expo. First out of everyone. And I mean like, the entire state. Every year he entered!”

Mrs. Rasmussen said, “I know, he wouldn’t shut up about if for months each time.”
 

Jon smiled.
 

“Ah, so that’s what’s bugging you — Warren,” she said, breaking into a wide grin and patting his shoulder.

He lost his smile, almost immediately. “He does everything better than me.”
 

She shook her head. “No. He does
some
things better than you.”
 

“Yeah, all the stuff that matters.”

“Hot sauce,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “And crackers. You are colorful and articulate, and friendly and funny. You, Jon Conway, are a gentleman, and if you don’t mind me saying so,” she leaned in, just close enough to turn their conversation conspiratorial, “a delightful, but total pain in the cactus patch.”
 

Jon fueled his smile with another long swig of root bear. When he looked up, he saw his father, Blake Conway, suddenly in the kitchen.
 

“Mind if I take it from here?” Jon’s father turned to him, smiled, winked, then opened the fridge and grabbed an IBC from the front.
 

He twisted his cap and pitched it in the can.
 

“You’re home!” Jon cried.

“Of course,” his dad said. “Today was the science expo, right? Big day.”
 

Jon looked puzzled. “But you weren’t there?”
 

Like Jon, Mrs. Rasmussen was now standing. his father put his hand gently on her shoulder and said, “Thank you.”

Mrs. Rasmussen nodded, then said, “Of course, Mr. Conway,” and left the kitchen.
 

Jon’s dad hefted himself onto the countertop, then patted the granite and waited for Jon to join him. Jon hefted himself up beside his father.
 

His father said, “No, I wasn’t there. I’ll give you three guesses why. And please, no need to spare my feelings. I hate it when you pull that crap. If you can’t learn to shoot straight, you’ll never learn to shoot shit.”

Jon said, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know lives on I Don’t Give a Shit Street.” His father took a sip of root bear. “Do you live on I Don’t Give a Shit Street, or do you live in the beautiful, unblinking eye of Cedar Park?”
 

Jon said, “I live in Cedar Park,” then, “Because you had a meeting at the same time, and it couldn’t be rescheduled?”

“BZZZZZZZZ”

“Because Hillary messed up your schedule, like she always does, and it’s a goddamn question of your sanity why you keep her on your payroll, especially with all the bonuses you throw her measured against the number of times she fucks shit up?”

“BZZZZZZZZ.” his father grinned. “And don’t be a smart ass.”

Jon laughed. “Because I suck?”
 

“Just because I’ve never smacked you before, doesn’t mean I won’t start. I figure I have at least another few years before you get enough meat on your bones to kick my ass back. Now stop saying you suck. It pisses me off.” His father wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulder. “None of those are reasons why, and no, I didn’t forget. I saw your giant pile of homemade plastic sitting on the table this morning. I didn’t need to go to Seattle and see it there, too. Not when I could arrange my day around being here when you came home instead. Know what I mean?”

“Sure,” Jon said. “It means you pretty much figured I’d suck.”

“Nope,” his father shook his head. “I didn’t figure anything of the sort, but I also didn’t think your homemade plastic stood a chance against science geeks who’ve been working on their projects all year. If you had won, then you would have only won because you’re Blake Conway’s son. And that would’ve been bullshit. Right?”

“Right,” Jon grumbled.
 

“Don’t whine or pout. Listen. You entered the science fair to prove a point. I hope you feel you proved it. If not, better luck next time. I love you, son, but if you thought you were gonna waltz in and win that science fair because you decided to throw your dart at the board up around two weeks ago, well that’s just downright disappointing to me, since I figured I raised a smarter boy than that. In general, shit in life is not that easy.”

“It is for Warren.”
 

His father smiled. “And
that’s
why I’m here,” he said.

Jon took a swig of root beer then looked up at his father, eyes suspicious.

His father said, “Warren is one of those science geeks who worked on his projects all year each time he entered. Unlike your homemade plastic, his projects
deserved
to win. His projects were groundbreaking. He built robots and grew artificial flesh, stuff that has applications at his job now! And hell, if Warren had the edge because he’s Blake Conway’s son, well that’s an edge, son, not a conspiracy.”

He clapped his hand hard on Jon’s back. “Did Warren get the lead in that play your class put on last year?”

“No.”

“And was I as sparkly as a firecracker when you did, even though I thought that shit was sorta gay?” his dad said with a laugh.
 

“Yes.”

“What about art? What about when you wanted to play the guitar? What about everything you ever say you’re going to do? Don’t you always have my support, one hundred percent even if you never finish a tenth of what you set out to do?”

“Yes,
 
but…” Jon said before his dad cut him off.

“But Warren is smarter and you like talking to him more because he always talks about business.” His dad finished Jon’s sentence, nearly word for word, though in a whinier voice than Jon would have actually used.

Jon’s cheeks went flush. “I don’t like it when you do that.”

“I don’t like it when you’re predictable,” his father said, setting his bottle on the counter. He turned his eyes to Jon. “Warren is Warren. Stop trying to be so much like him that you’re not enough of
you
.”

“I don’t
want
to be like Warren,” Jon set his bottle beside his father’s, then crossed his arms.
 

“Well, you could have fooled me,” his father said. “For the millionth time, I don’t love Warren better than you, and I never will.”

“If I was more like Warren, you’d want to spend more time with me.”

“Oh, great,” his father sighed. “Looks like today’s gonna be a highlight reel displaying all of my favorites. Listen, Jon, I work with Warren. He’s got 12 years on you. That means we’re going to have plenty to talk about, naturally. Plus more time to talk about all the stuff we have in common. You need to get over that. Our relationship is different. I admire you for who you are,
and
for who you aren’t. And I’m getting goddamn exhausted feeling like I have to renew our vows every few months.”

Jon said, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, but I’d like you to stop it. You are you, and I will never stand in your way. I support your choices.”

“You don’t like Sarah,” Jon said, not planning to bring her up, but unable not to in the moment.

“I never said anything about her one way or another.”

“Warren hates her,” Jon said.

“Warren hates everybody, at least anyone he doesn’t think is as smart as he is. But as you well know, he didn’t get that shit from me. Warren may have been born with a license to drive life like an asshole, and that might be my fault, but he’s the one who gets behind the wheel each day.”

“Warren says that Sarah’s not good enough for me, and that I’m making the family look bad.”

“That’s bullshit,” his father said. “He
thinks
he’s looking out for you. He probably thinks you’re taking this relationship stuff a bit too serious at your age. You’ve got your whole future and the world ahead of you, so you don’t want to settle with the first girl that lets you feel her tits.”

Jon flushed with embarrassment, finished his root beer so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge that comment, and got up from the counter to grab another drink from the fridge, plus one more for his dad.
 

They sipped their bottles to empty, while talking movies and books and plenty of other stuff Warren would never want to talk about, then they left the kitchen and the fridge with just six IBC’s as they headed outside, the both of them laughing, with a book of matches, Jon’s science project, and a bottle of bourbon.
 

Blake Conway was going to show Jon how easy, and fun, it was to burn shit that no longer mattered.
 

* * * *

CHAPTER 2 — Brock Houser Part 1

Friday
 

September 8

nighttime…

Brock Houser drove back to the Sands of Time, where he was staying in one of Jon’s rooms on the rented floor. All he could think about was the flash drive and what might be on it.