His car sped along I-5, listening to police radio all the while. The smell of ozone and car exhaust hung heavily in the air, mixing with trash and sea air after he left the highway to navigate the dilapidated industrial district. No doubt the twenty-four hour news station and financial papers were pouncing on Sam's latest stunt like seagulls at a fast food dumpster. Alan had to feel a little smug about that; he told McKay flat out that he was just an old mascot and such things were not his business to interfere with.

"Twelve on the box" and "Most secure OS," my ass. Even if he was too old for another six-felony night, he could still relive those days vicariously through the younger generation. He checked the time – past midnight on the East Coast, but he knew Lora and Jet wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight under the circumstances. Activating the Bluetooth, he called out to Washington DC.

"Hello?"

"Lora, it's me."

"I saw on the caller ID. Never hurts to check, especially since..."

Since seven months ago. Since F-Con. Neither of them wanted to finish the sentence. "How are you feeling, honey?"

A heavy sigh, and the slow creaking noise of her turning around to sit in the old chair. He could see the steps in his mind and match them to the noise, he knew them so well; the half turn of her cane, the first creak as she leaned against the armrest, three more as she slowly eased her way in. "Exhausted. Jethro is packing up my computer now. He's using a lot of extra padding, treating it like it's made of glass."

"He has his reasons. Can't agree with them, but they are reasons." He paused. "Can he hear us?"

A long pause, probably as Lora took her ear off the phone to check. "I don't think so. He's got the radio turned to the classic rock station."

"Two things. First is that we're safe. Sam's little annual visit didn't do much damage, just stuck McKay's bug-ridden, overpriced OS to every torrent feed west of China. Heard from Amos that he BASE-jumped off the tower as a grand finale."

"So he hasn't found -"

"No, no trace of anything near the laser lab. Ma3a confirmed she could see him through the cameras, but never interacted with him. We dodged that bullet."

"What's the other news?"

Alan glanced over to the passenger seat. The archaic pager he'd carried for years, thought of only as a memento, barely managed to retrieve from F-Con's thugs. He swore and pulled back into traffic, realizing he was crossing over the lane divider.

"Alan?"

The display with its comically primitive LED lettering was still lit up to display 310-553-7955 "It's the pager. Remember that publicity stunt we did for Jet's game? The pulse?"

"Yeah."

"It worked. Pager went off during the dog and pony show for OS Twelve. I had Ma3a run a trace just to be sure – it's from the old arcade."

"What? The police searched it – top to bottom. Multiple times. So did we."

"We know that place used to be a speakeasy. Lots of potential hidden passages. Jordan had been trying to chart them all before the accident. It's likely there were still a few we hadn't discovered. And they didn't know who ransacked the apartment, but we do now. F-Con was able to destroy their tracks, and Thorne ruined a lot of our work, but they weren't able to get everything."

"They're still out there, you know. This could be a trap."

He had to admit she was right; Crown, Popoff, Baza, and their Wraith project were out of the picture, and the legitimate face of the company disbanded, but that didn't mean that they were eliminated as a threat . "We'll fight that Recognizer when we see it," he said, trying not to snarl over the phone. They kidnapped him in broad daylight – threatened her life, threatened his life, threatened Jet's life, tried to make a secret bid for world domination by turning the world's computers into their private dominion. He could deal with the nightmares and strange aftereffects, but Jet was hit much harder. "I won't go there alone."

"Alan..."

"I'm going to Sam's. It's time to let him know the truth..." He looked at the pager one more time as he turned onto the dead end leading to Sam's home, the faded Dumont Shipping lettering visible before the rest. "About everything."

Sure enough, he beat Sam there. The county jail kept a specific schedule, and there was always paperwork involved. He pretty much knew the timing of the process by now - both the boys had their run-ins. Pager in his pocket, cell phone with GPS activated. Just to be on the safe side, a .22 pistol in an arm holster under his trenchcoat – concealed-carry license in his wallet.

Sam was lax with security. Too little lighting, the bugler alarm was a commercial model, too much glass on the bottom floor, too much of the living space visible from street level. Marv, Sam's terrier-bulldog mix, was sleeping on a cushion and barely looked up when Alan let himself in with the key. It wouldn't take much for experienced "someones" to observe Sam's movements for a couple days via long-range camera, break a few windows and...

He jumped when he heard what sounded like a DataWraith's clattering noise, then told himself to relax when he realized it was just the sound of an abandoned beer can rolling on the asphalt outside.

Breathe. Alan reminded himself, trying not to look out at the neon, LED, and florescent patchwork of lights in the city. It just looked too much like the inside of a computer for his liking. Still mentally rehearsing what he was going to say, he heard the Ducati pull up.

Sam was paying no attention as he dismounted, muttering under his breath, opening the unlocked door, fast food bag in hand. Tossing the cheeseburger to the dog, he said tiredly, "Enjoy it, Marv, you've earned it." The dog tucked in with relish. Still apparently oblivious, Sam opened the fridge. Alan had to roll his eyes – eggs, soy sauce, takeout, and a case of Coors. As bad as his father at that age.

"Why you in my apartment, Alan?" Okay, so Sam did see him there, he just didn't care.

All the carefully crafted narratives and speeches Alan had been preparing decided to scatter. He shrugged. "You don't answer your phone." Forcing himself to put on an appearance of calm, he asked. "How you been, Sam?"

Sam half-laughed, half sniffed. "Y'know, Alan, when I was twelve, I really appreciated the surrogate father thing, but c'mon, Alan, I got it all under control now."

Typical Flynn bravado. Pull that stunt several years running and get away clean. First time you pull it without my son as a wingman, you get arrested. He tried to avoid sarcasm and failed. "Oh clearly."

"What is it? You want to help me with my homework, like old times?" The tone of voice rode between flippant and annoyed. "Have a catch?" To punctuate the statement, he tossed a can of Coors Alan's way. Alan caught the can and cracked it open. It wasn't his poison of choice, but it was at least an opening to stay a while.

Like old times when we could keep you safe. When you had someone looking out for you. "Y'know, you got a pretty nice view here." He gestured to Encom Tower in the distance. "Heard you did a triple axle off her a few hours ago."

Sam was trying to ignore him, changing his shirt with studied indifference. Alan inspected for bruising, bandages, lacerations. Sam would try and cover those up, but the glance-over revealed nothing more serious than some bruising. "Rough landing, huh?"

"Could have been worse."

"I also thought your...message to the board was very clever."

"Oh, you like that? That was Marv's idea." Sam sat heavily on the couch and took a long pull on the beer. "Alan, we really going to do this again? Do I really look like I'm ready to run a Fortune 500 company?"

There was a little too much of "Life's short, Pop, I plan to enjoy it" in the statement. He knew on one level why Sam and Jet resisted as hard as they did, but this was for their own good. If they didn't step up – who would? What he and Jet saw meant there was more at stake than ever. Yet, if he jumped right in, telling Sam about fantastic worlds and diabolical schemes, he'd never believe it; he had the worst combination of Flynn's immaturity and Jordan's pragmatism with the diamond hardness of someone growing up alone. Of course, that meant playing to Sam's pride was always an option.

"No. Truthfully, the company is pretty happy with where you are, too."

After all, he hadn't even aware of F-Con's buyout offer. Sam had been fighting in a capoeira tournament in Brazil and came back after the mess vanished from the headlines. Alan had quizzed Sam at the time about what he knew and...nothing. Of course, he didn't tell Sam the ugly details of mid-day ambushes and murder attempts by Shiva laser, just tried to let the news sink in that the boy almost lost everything due to a few shady thugs posing as businessmen.

Sam's face fell. "I bet."

Alan tried to twist the knife a little more. "See that way they can keep doing whatever they want. I guess what I find curious; the crazy charities, the annual prank on the company. Sure have an interesting way of being disinterested, Sam." Sam would know what he was referring to – Flynn Lives, the narrowly-averted F-Con buyout, the fact Encom learned nothing from it and kept chugging along on past success. Sam was angry and frustrated, but not angry and frustrated enough .

Sam pretended to be more interested in the motorcycle magazine on the coffee table than the conversation. He picked up that tell from Jordan; Alan had hit a nerve. "So what do you want, Alan?"

He pulled out the old pager and held it up. "I was paged last night."

That got a laugh. "Oh, man. Still rocking the pager, Alan? Good for you!"

Sam's reaction and inability to realize the significance was another big tell. Okay, so Jet really isn't speaking with him and hasn't told him anything. Good. "Yeah, your...your dad once told me I had to sleep with it. I still do." Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself for the reveal. "Page came from your dad's office at the arcade."

Sam froze for a second, then looked away, tossing the magazine on the coffee table. "So?"

"So? That number has been disconnected for twenty years." Alan tried to explain. "Sam, two nights before he disappeared, he came to my house. 'I cracked it' he kept saying. He was talking about genetic algorithms, quantum teleporation...he said he was about to change everything – science, medicine religion!"

And if his theory was right, already did . It was the longest of longshots, the idea he was still trapped inside a machine, surviving in that other world. But if the pager and Ma3a's trace were correct, they finally found him and could bring him home, putting an end to years of secrecy. If he was going to tell the whole truth, he needed Sam to believe in the impossible first. It could set everything right again. Come on, kid. Open up. I know part of you still needs those answers, but you have to believe first. He crossed over to sit next to him. "He wouldn't have left that, Sam; he wouldn't have left you ."

Sam flinched away at the fatherly touch. "Oh, Alan! You're the only one who still believes that! He's either dead, or chilling in Costa Rica – probably both." He closed off the conversation. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm tired. I smell like jail. Let's just reconvene in another couple years, huh? What do ya say?"

He's not gonna listen to you, Pop. Won't listen to Mom, either. Definitely not listening to me. Don't think we'll get through to him . Jet warned him about this possibility, but Alan hadn't wanted to believe it. He pulled out one last gambit; a spare set of keys to the arcade. "Here. The keys to the arcade. I haven't gone over there yet. Thought you should be the one."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Alan, you're acting like I'm gonna find him sitting there working. Just..'hey kiddo, lost track of time...'"

Hearing it out loud caused Alan to falter. He'd been picturing something like that. Just Flynn, hard at work, deep inside a world of code and thought, completely oblivious to time, just like nothing had happened.

The whole idea was ludicrous, wasn't it? That damn "digital frontier" of his was hardly survivable for five hours, much less twenty years. The time dilation alone would be bad enough. Thinking of other factors like software rot, hardware crashes, viruses, and the lack of reliable quantum correction just made it even less likely that there was anything left to save.

Maybe the pager going off was just a glitch after all. He would have to step back and re-think this. Either way, he wasn't going to get Sam's support. "Wouldn't that be something."

Sam still caught the keys when Alan tossed them over.

Walking out, he got back in the car and engaged the Bluetooth. "Lora, it's me."

"And?"

"Jet was right. Sam won't believe any of it." He sighed. "Maybe this is just another dead end."

"So what now?"

"Let me run a couple more things by Ma3a before I go down to the arcade myself. I tossed him your set of spares, not mine."

"You sure he should go alone?"

Alan looked into the window as the lights went off on the main floor. "I doubt he'll go at all."