by Jay Kristoff
Lemon felt a warmth in her chest, watching the old man fumble. He was a soldier, scarred by years of battle, iron voice and leather skin. But at the same time, he was clumsy and sweet and altogether flustered. She swore she could see tears shining in his eyes.
“You’re really bad at this,” she grinned.
“God in heaven help me, I’m awful,” he chuckled.
Fix rolled his eyes from his spot near the doorway. “Funk me sideways, will you two just hug?”
Lemon laughed as the Major scowled. “That’s enough out of y—”
The old man fell silent as Lemon wrapped her arms around him and squeezed as hard as she could. Standing on tiptoes, she kissed him on the cheek.
“Thanks,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
“Congratulations,” Diesel said, her voice flat and unimpressed.
“Aye,” Grimm nodded. “Cheers, sir.”
Stepping across the room, he shook the Major’s hand, followed by Fix. Grimm offered Lemon an awkward handshake, which turned into an even more awkward hug. But his smile was wide and genuine, and his arms were warm and strong, and when he spoke she could feel the bass in her chest.
“Glad you’re staying.”
“Yeah.” She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Me too.”
Diesel put her boots up on the coffee table, looking between Lemon and the Major with a blank expression. “So, what happens now, sir?”
“We go look for my friends, right?” Lemon asked.
“What friends?” Fix growled.
“Lemon has comrades who are MIA.” The Major took a deep breath, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But before I send any of you into the field again, we need to know the extent of your gift, Lemon. Its limits. And its potential.”
“You want to test me?” Lemon asked.
“Exactly,” the Major nodded.
“What kind of test?”
“The kind that comes with imitation double chocolate protein bars at the end?”
“Those are my favorite.”
“I noticed,” he smiled.
“My friends could be in trouble. They could be hurt.”
“I understand,” the Major said. “I truly do. But you could get hurt heading out there unprepared. The Brotherhood will be on the bloody warpath after what you pulled in New Bethlehem. They’ve been hunting us for years. They don’t forget and don’t forgive. I’m not prepared to send soldiers into the field with you before we know what you’re capable of. It puts everyone at risk.”
“But what about the risk to my friends?”
“I don’t mean to tell you your business. You’re obviously a tremendously resourceful young lady to have survived alone for this long. It’s just…to find you after all these years…” He shook his head and sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m probably not doing this very well. I just never imagined…”
Lemon squeezed his hand. He was talking sense and she knew it. Blood ties aside, she just met these people, she couldn’t ask them to risk their necks with the Brotherhood on the prowl. She didn’t even know where Zeke and Cricket were. But still, the thought of them out there alone, in heaven knew what kind of crud…
The old man squeezed her fingers back. She could feel the strength in his grip, the years and scars of war. And yet, he was gentle as falling feathers.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
She looked up into his eyes. A few days ago, the idea would have seemed insane. But then again, this whole show would’ve seemed insane. A secret haven for deviates under the desert. A group of people just like her. A family she never knew she had. The idea that she wasn’t alone. She could feel the silver around her neck. Her lucky charm. All the kilometers and all the years, and it had led her here.
She held his hand tighter and nodded.
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
* * *
________
Sweat dripped from Lemon’s bangs, stung the corner of her eyes. Her head ached from frowning so hard, and her heart was thumping in her chest.
“Can we just skip to the imitation double chocolate protein bars now, please?”
“Give it another shot,” the Major urged.
“But I’m terrible at this,” she groaned.
“You’re not that bad.”
“She really is,” Diesel called from across the room.
Lemon pouted, unsure how to respond. Sass was definitely called for, but truth told, she found it hard to disagree with Diesel’s assessment. She settled for a lazy middle finger, which the older girl didn’t even notice.
The deviates were all gathered in the training facilities on the basement level of Section B. Lemon had never been into this part of the installation, and walking down from the greenhouse, she’d done her best to only seem mildly impressed. The space consisted of a gymnasium, boxing ring, and a shooting range, encircled by a small running track. It smelled vaguely of sweat and the earthy greenery above.
Fix and Diesel were squaring off in the ring. The girl wore gloves on her hands, short dark hair held back with a plastic clip. The big boy called instructions as the pair drilled hand-to-hand combat routines. Diesel seemed to have a mean right hook. Grimm meanwhile was busy with target practice. Lemon was seated at a long metal bench in the middle of the room along with her headache.
Arranged on the buffed steel in front of her were three car batteries, each one hooked up to a glowing light bulb. They were spaced about a meter apart.
“Come on,” the Major called from across the room. “You can do this.”
“Wanna bet?”
“One more try.”
Lemon sighed, looking into the old man’s eyes. She still found it hard to actually call him Grandpa aloud, to truly consider everything it would mean if she really was his kin. But she found herself wanting to please him anyway. He reminded her of Mister C in so many ways, and there was so much more that seemed good about him and what he’d built here. She liked him. She wanted to show him what she could do. She wanted to make him proud.
“I believe in you,” he said.
And so, she took a deep breath and held it. Gritting her teeth, she reached out toward the middle light bulb. She could feel the static building up behind her eyes. Reaching into that prickling gray ocean, gently…gently…trying to let just a tiny sliver of it run out through her—
The middle bulb exploded. The bulbs either side exploded. The bulbs in the ceiling above her head exploded, raining broken glass onto her head.
“Shit,” she said.
“Swear jar!” Grimm sang with a smile.
Fix had turned at the flash, and Diesel had landed a punch in his belly, sending him to the mat. As the girl planted herself on the groaning boy’s chest and kissed him by way of apology, the Major limped over to the bench, leaning on his walking stick. He was still smiling, but Lem could see him getting frustrated just like her. She’d killed thirty bulbs and counting now. She’d be combing glass out of her hair for days.
“At least you didn’t blow the circuit breakers this time,” he said.
She slumped down on the bench, chin in her hands. “Can we all just admit I’m awful at this and move on to the chocolate part now, please, thanks.”
“This is important,” the old man said, sitting beside her.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, slumping lower.
“You can do this, Lemon. You just need faith. And practice.”
“And chocolate.”
The Major nudged her shoulder, pointed to Grimm in the firing range.
“Watch.”
The boy had his back to them, his T-shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders. As Lemon looked on, he extended his arm and pointed at one of a dozen paper targets hanging thirty meters down the range. She saw his dark skin begin to prickle, his breath escape his
lips in a puff of white. And as she watched, the paper target began smoldering, then burst into flames.
Grimm blew on his finger like he was in an old 20C western.
“Hawwwwwt,” he crooned to himself.
“Nice shooting, cowboy,” Lemon called.
Glancing over his shoulder, Grimm finally realized he was being watched. He took a bow as she gave him a slow clap. The Major smiled, reached into his fatigues.
“Shoot this, cowboy.”
Lemon heard a sharp ping, and the old man tossed a small cylindrical object at Grimm’s feet. Her belly dropped into her boots as she realized it was a grenade. In a panic, she threw herself under the table, covered her ears, wincing.
Grimm held out his hands, fingers curled, eyes narrowed. Lemon flinched as the grenade exploded. But instead of a blinding flash, a deafening boom, there was a small, bright glow, a kind of dull, strangled whump. She thought the weapon might have been a dud until Grimm turned and raised his hands toward the firing range, engulfing every paper target in a bright blossom of rolling flames.
“Holy crap,” she whispered.
“Swear jar,” the Major said, helping her to her feet.
Lemon only stared, mouth open. The targets on the range had been reduced to ashes, the metal brackets that held them were on fire. Grimm fetched an extinguisher from the far wall, doused the flames in a white, chemical fog.
“When Grimm first joined us,” the Major said, “he couldn’t control his gift at all. He’d get angry or impatient, and things around him would freeze or burst into flame. He was a danger to himself, and to others. Now look at him.”
The Major reached out and patted her hand.
“Your gift is a wonder, Lemon. But it’s also a responsibility.”
Lemon’s heart rate had returned almost to normal. She took her seat again, stared at the broken bulbs on the table in front of her. “Okay, that makes sense for Grimm. But I can’t start fires. I’m not a danger to people. So what difference does it make for me? I can’t target my gift, so what?”
“So what if you need to?” the Major asked. “What if you needed to stop a machina that was hurting that logika friend of yours, without hurting the logika itself?”
“His name is Cricket,” she pouted.
“Yes, Cricket,” the Major nodded. “He’s just an example. We have an enormous amount of sensitive electronic equipment in this facility. What if you lost your temper and cooked our hydrostation by mistake? Or our power generators?”
“I guess,” she sighed.
“We never know what life will throw at us, Lemon,” the old man said. “We never know where it will lead us. But we can know ourselves. And in knowing ourselves, we know the world.”
“You ever use it on anything living?” Grimm asked.
The boy had returned from the firing range, smelling vaguely of smoke. He casually picked up a broken bulb from the bench in front of her, acting like he redirected lethal grenade explosions every day of the week.
“Living?” she asked. “Whaddya mean?”
“Living things run on electrics, too. Your brain and that.” Grimm wiggled his fingers near his ear. “Little arcs and sparks of electricity, neurons and electrons. It’s all current, love.”
“Is that true?” she asked, glancing at the Major.
“…Technically, yes,” the old man nodded. “The human nervous system does run on small transfers of electrical current. It’s how cybernetics work.”
Grimm shrugged. “So if you can fry machines, maybe you can fry people?”
“I think we should stick to the basics for now,” the Major said.
“Aw, come on, boss. Lemon can take a poke at me if she likes, I don—”
“Thank you for your suggestion, soldier,” the Major said, his voice suddenly terse. “But considering Lemon’s inability to moderate her gift, I’m not prepared to let her loose on a human target just yet. Especially one of you. We’re the future of the human race. We should learn to walk before we fly, yes?”
Grimm sucked his bottom lip and nodded. “Yessir.”
“All right.” The old man sighed, the cold authority slipping out of his voice. “Perhaps that’s enough for now. We know we have limitations, we know what we need to work on. That’s progress. Tomorrow is another day.”
“When are we going to look for Cricket and Zeke?” Lemon asked.
“Soon,” the old man assured her. “Very soon.”
He climbed to his feet and leaned on his walking stick, called to the others.
“Come on, soldiers. Chow time. I’m buying.”
The Major limped toward the hatchway, Diesel and Fix climbed out of the ring. Grimm placed the broken bulb down on the bench beside Lemon. He met her stare, and she could see the mischief in him. The way his lips curled in an almost-smile, the way those dark eyes of his twinkled.
“Move it, freaks,” Diesel said, marching past and punching Grimm’s arm.
Lemon followed the girl upstairs, Grimm walking behind her.
* * *
________
They were slouched in the common room, the dark illuminated only by the glow of the large digital wall screen. The Major had retired after a dinner of fresh fruit from the greenhouse, supplemented with some vacuum-packed protein from the storage cupboards. The remains of their meals were scattered all over the coffee table and Lemon’s stomach was wonderfully full. In a turn that surprised absolutely no one, Fix had drawn cleanup duty from the swear jar.
Lemon sat on one end of the couch, legs tucked under her. Diesel and Fix were next in line on the sofa, the boy fast asleep with his girl wrapped in his arms. He’d been busy in the greenhouse again—Lem could see traces of dirt under his fingernails, smell the perfume of living things on his skin. Diesel was asleep, too, dark hair strewn over her pretty face, her head on Fix’s chest. Lemon thought they were sweet together. That they fit, like pieces of a strange puzzle.
At the far end sat Grimm, boots up in front of him, rubbing his eyes as the movie they’d been watching faded to black.
“I don’t get it,” Lemon declared.
“It was Earth all along,” Grimm murmured.
“…They really thought the future was gonna be like that?”
The boy shrugged, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t wake the pair beside him. “Who knows what they thought. Writers back then were all wankers.”
Lemon yawned and stretched, trying not to notice the way he watched her from the corner of his eye. Trying to decide whether she liked it or not. Dragging her hand through her bangs, she stood slowly, looked upstairs toward her bunk.
“All right, I’m crushed. Think I’m gonna topple.”
“You don’t wanna come downstairs?” he whispered.
Her stomach lurched sideways, her mouth suddenly dry.
“With you?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean…the showers?”
Grimm’s face split in a broad grin. “No, the gym, you nonce. I thought you might wanna have a crack at short-circuiting me. Practice and all, you know.”
“Oh, right.” Lemon found herself laughing, out of relief or embarrassment she couldn’t tell. “I thought we were supposed to walk before we flew around here?”
Grimm shrugged, that mischief twinkling in his eyes again.
“Little bit of flying never hurt anyone.”
Lemon looked upstairs to her room, pouting in thought. The Major had sounded serious when he warned Grimm off this sort of test. She’d only just found out the old man might be blood, and she was still mentally testing those waters. Prodding the thought like a loose tooth and trying to come to grips with the idea she still had family, when for years she’d thought she had nothing at all. It felt real. Part of her desperately wanted it to be real. But family aside, the Major was still the boss
around here. He still called the shots. Maybe disobeying a direct order from him two days after meeting him wasn’t the smartest play.
Maybe I should do what I’ve been told for once in my life….
Grimm stood waiting in the hatchway to Section B. He motioned through the door with a graceful flourish.
“Milady?”
Who am I kidding?
She tiptoed across the room, through the hatch. Following Grimm downstairs through the greenhouse and into the gym again, she was struck with how quickly she’d grown to like it here. Hot dinners and soft sheets. Nothing to hide and a place to belong. Even the ugly uniform was starting to feel comfortable.
The fluorescents blinked to life overhead, the air-con system rattled softly. Grimm climbed up into the boxing ring, held the ropes open for her. Lemon crawled through, took up position in the center of the mat. Squaring up against her, Grimm leaned in as if bracing himself for a punch.
“Righto,” he said, tapping his temple. “Hit me.”
“…I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“Well, what do you normally do?”
“I dunno.” Lemon shrugged. “There’s…this static. I can feel it in my head. And I just sort of…let it out.”
“Okay.” Grimm nodded, thumping his chest. “Do that to me.”
“What if I hurt you?”
“I’m a big boy.” Grimm bounced on his toes, smacked the radiation symbol shaved into the side of his head. “Come on, let it rip, love.”
“Don’t call me that,” she scowled.
Grimm only winked, and Lemon tossed her hair, set her jaw.
“All right, fine. Don’t go crying to the others if I knock you on your ass.”
“Waaaaaaaaa.” Grimm grinned, rubbing at make-believe tears.
Lemon narrowed her eyes. Feeling for that gray wash of static. She could sense Miss O’s electrical currents all around her. The walls. The light fixtures. The greenhouse overhead. She could feel the hydrostation on the top floor of Section B, the digital screen in the common room. Beyond the sealed double doors into Section C, she could feel computers, electronic locks, alarm systems.
