Metal Heart: Book 1: The Metal Heart Trilogy

by Melinda Crouchley

  The next morning a wave from our Tech instructor announces upsetting news. I’ve been reassigned as Clinton Fuller’s lab partner in our sixth period Tech class. No other choice exists but to assist him in obtaining a passing grade.

  During breakfast I show Scarlett the wave. She sips her customary black coffee and raises her brows in mock horror at the text hovering on my band.

  “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.” She pokes the runny eggs around on her plate with half-hearted disinterest. Breakfast is not her favorite meal of the day.

  “Uh, what?”

  “He’s well connected. If he can’t help you get early release, he might be able to score you a cushier placement.” She drops her fork and pushes the plate away dramatically. “Could they possibly cook these one morning? I mean, they’re practically goo!”

  “You think I should let him get away with this?” I ask.

  She laughs. “Bless your heart. Let him? Sugar, are you new here? Clinton does what he wants. You might as well take advantage of him.”

  I grab her plate, scooping the yolks and whites into my own pile. She’s just gonna waste the food anyway. Scarlett’s attention wanders down the table to an attractive resident with sideburns. He meets her gaze and smiles wide. Scarlett tips her coffee mug towards him and takes a deep gulp. I shovel a forkful of dripping egg into my mouth in disgust.

  Scarlett is a curly-haired blonde with large breasts and wide hips all packed into a petite frame. Guys stare at her for entirely different reasons than they stare at me.

  “Len, did you hear me?”

  “Huh? Sorry, lost in my own thoughts.” I grab a hunk of toast and rip it apart, soaking up the runny yellow goo on my plate.

  “I lost my parents again. They transferred camps outside of Mississippi. You think you can work your magic?”

  “Magic?” I ask, dropping the toast. “What do you mean magic?”

  “Your hacker magic?” She rolls her eyes. “To find my parents? Logan’s missing too. Hello, are you even paying attention?”

  I nod absently.

  It’s a pretty easy hack. I just set a bot to crawl the Prothero back-channels for mentions of transfers, cross-reference with Buford, and plug in the debtor ID that Scarlett furnished me with a year ago when they first went missing. The first time I tracked them down.

  Scarlett’s entire family was remanded to a debtors work camp in the deep south of the Americas. Scarlett sends all her stipend payments directly into their account but with all their efforts combined, they’ve barely made a dent in what they owe. Scarlett was the sole Buford to escape, by selling herself into National Service. The rumors are she slept with a recruiter. But the only way you truly get into National Service is by being extremely good at what you do. Scarlett’s trick is that she never lets on exactly what that is.

  After breakfast, I apply to the instructor to be returned back to my original solitary assignment in tech lab. She claims she can do nothing, the move came from above her head. I swallow back my pride and indignation. Scarlett was right. Fuller gets whatever he wants. Maybe I will ride this thing out. I could make this work for the both of us. This could work.

  Our first class is conducted in silence. Clinton mutely offers me the kinetic instruments needed to deconstruct and repair the tech we examine, keeping his electrocuted and bandaged hand on display at all times. He doesn’t mention last night, and neither do I. We complete our assignment for the day and both receive high marks. Despite my disinclination towards him, this unlikely partnership has a fighting chance. If I get Fuller a passing grade, perhaps Senator Fuller’s influence could erase my debts or end my National Service term early, like Scarlett suggested. Perhaps there is some benefit to this arrangement after all. I can make this work. I will make this work.

  Another lab passes in the same fashion.

  The third time we share a table, Clinton’s bandage is removed. My attention lingers on his wrist so he flexes his hand to show it’s all healed.

  “Disappointed you didn’t leave any scars?” he asks.

  I duck my head and study the schematics of the tablet to avoid his leer.

  “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “But you did,” he says. “Could you do that to my band? Make it electrocute whoever I wanted?”

  My face flushes. “No, I already told you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” I whisper, the blush traveling from my cheeks down to my neck.

  “Are you blushing?” Clinton asks, emitting a booming laugh. Heads turn in our direction. I glance around the room and my gaze falls on Santiago, who moved into a lab group with two other residents when Clinton abandoned him. They welcomed him quickly. It can't hurt to have a smart kid like Rabbit on your side.

  Santiago favors us with a look of disquiet. He catches me watching from across the room and shifts his head, dark curling hair hiding his expression from view. Santiago’s look—this entire exchange with Clinton—unsettles me.

  “Keep it down Fuller.”

  “Oh relax, Rabbit doesn't care.”

  “I don’t care if Rabbit cares,” I grumble, locking eyes with Santiago again.

  “Really? It kind of seems like you care.” Fuller scratches at his chin. “Look, I won’t get you in trouble for the mod. But I want you to work on my band.”

  “I don’t know how it happened. I really don’t.”

  “It doesn't matter. Meet me here tonight after G.A. to work on the band.” He moves to rest his healed hand on top of the tablet, obstructing the assignment, limiting all distractions.

  “Dammit Fuller,” I say, nudging at his fingers. “This isn’t going to work.”

  “You’ll change your mind.” His palm rests firmly on the tablet. Tough, inflexible. “You’re smart Garza. Be smart.”

  “Fine,” I say. My own curiosity is piqued. Perhaps, as Scarlett hinted, this could be my ticket to early release. Modding Clinton’s band. Helping him pass aeronautics.

  “Excellent.” He releases his grip on the tablet.

  Santiago catches my attention for a third time. He’s looking over at us again, his expression quizzical.

  Clinton flashes him a thumbs up, and the corner of Santiago’s mouth twists. His eyes flicker over to me and he shakes his head back down to his work.

  When I return to the tech lab later in the evening it’s dead silent. Eerie. I half expect Clinton to show up late, or not at all. But he’s here before I am. Sitting at our new shared table space. He spins one of the older model bands in lazy circles on the table surface. The one I was deconstructing the first time he approached me about being partners.

  “How long is this going to take?” he asks, not looking up as I approach. I sit down across from him.

  “No idea,” I say, leaning over and opening a drawer to retrieve the kinetics.

  “It’s six months until we graduate. Probably before then,” he says, flashing a grin and revealing two rows of large perfectly white teeth. “Roll up your sleeve and hold your arm out.”

  I touch down the tip of the kinetic tool to the smooth metal surface of the band, steeling myself for the jolt this could produce, gritting my teeth against the anticipated pain. Clinton’s muscles tense. He remembers how bad it felt too.

  A weak glimmer of blue flares up the length of the kinetic tool, through the plastic handle and into my fingertips. The azure color melts into my pores and travels up the length of my arm, to where my band rests. The prickling sensation produced is wrong. I should be in pain. This should hurt. Instead, it’s as if the electricity responds to me. Seeking me out.

  I drop the tool instinctively and the tiny blue lines flicker away. My band flashes and goes dark, returning to a simple slip of cool, grey metal. It’s unclear where the energy goes, possibly absorbing into the air around us. Back into the band. Into my skin. The light disappears and we are left to contemplate in silence.

  Clinton stares, open mouthed, at his band an
d then at me.

  “What are you?” he asks quietly.

  I don’t respond. The scientific, inquisitive part of me demands I pick the tool up and make another attempt to produce the same result. Clinton, in his fascination, has left his arm in a prone position. I waste no time taking advantage of his shock. The moment the kinetic tip touches his band, blue fire lurches back into existence, rolling up my forearm. Instead of fear and pain, a heady, swooning pleasure passes over me. My hand tingles, but it’s not a numbing sensation. It’s power. As if I, or my band, absorbs this energy.

  Clinton scoots back from the table.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I wish I knew,” I say, moving to grip his arm and touch his band again without the tool. “Let me see.”

  “No,” Clinton says, taking another step back.

  “Why?”

  “Because it hurts. Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Don’t be such a baby.” I make a grab for his band.

  “I changed my mind,” Clinton says, moving backwards, running into the table behind him.

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to mess with my band.” He wraps a shielding hand around it.

  “But I need to understand.”

  “Look, I gotta go, Garza. Stay away from me, alright?” He makes a wild grab for his bag and his tablet spills out, clattering to the floor.

  He fumbles down to his feet and retrieves it, but not before I glimpse an image on the cover. It’s Scarlett. Why would Clinton Fuller plaster a picture of—Oh. Oh wow. Clinton Fuller has a crush on Scarlett. What the hell?

  He notices the direction of my gaze.

  “That’s nothing,” he says, swiping frantically at the screen. He taps on the image but it only glows brighter. “It’s nothing.”

  “Clinton. Stop.”

  He pauses in his frantic gestures, hiding his tablet from view and dabbing at the beads of sweat hanging on his forehead.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I ask. “Please.”

  He averts his gaze.

  “What are you?” he asks again.

  A hot throb of pain burns at my temples, crawling over the ugly scars. The creepy wires glowing on my cheek, forehead, and temple, depending on what processes work to keep my vision operational. White blue electricity licking its way up my fingertips like greedy snakes. I must look like a monster to him.

  “You’re bleeding,” he says. Then he turns and dashes out of the room in a strangely graceful manner for such a bulky guy.

  I don’t bother reaching up to verify his statement. Hot copper and burning already stings my tongue. I climb up onto the tech lab table and lay down against the cool metal, staring up at the lab ceiling. I tilt my neck so the blood runs straight down my throat, metallic and warm. The carefully lined up kinetic tools rest next to my head. A hazy memory of an operating table emerges, the quiet murmur of Prothero doctors hovering above, moving in and out of searing overhead fluorescents. The tiny pinprick sensation of a needle stabbing into my arm.

  A scrabbling sensation worms into my stomach.

  Maybe this incident was for the best. Impressing Clinton Fuller with my tech expertise for early release from mandatory service was a long shot. He would never sympathize with my plight. The power he possesses could never belong to me.

  But…maybe I don’t need his power anymore.

  Maybe I have some of my own.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  INTRINGUING PROPOSITIONS

  The tail end of January approaches at a rapid pace and though my expertise earns him high marks in lab, Clinton will be on his own when it comes to mid-year exams. Exams carry the bulk of the grade. I can’t escort him into this particular gauntlet. Study sessions are out of the question. He refuses to be alone with me since my band malfunctioned.

  The day before the test, during a solitary moment in the SIM, Santiago turns off his mic. I mute my own headset and turn towards him, but he won’t look up from his drone monitor.

  “I have a message to deliver,” he says in a hollow voice. “From Clint.”

  “Santiago—”

  He interrupts me with a staccato delivery. “He wants to meet with you.”

  “He knows where to find me.”

  “He said tonight, at Lyle Lake.” Santiago flicks a thin finger at the readouts on his monitor absently, zooming in and out on the warzone it displays. Explosions and gunfire and brimstone. He won’t look at me.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You don’t know? He wouldn’t say. What—” His adam’s apple bobs and the words clog in his throat. He swallows them back. “What happened between you?”

  “What? Why do you care?”

  “It matters to me. Because we’re squadmates.”

  “Sure. Because we’re squadmates.” I nod at him placatingly.

  “We watch out for each other. Don’t we? That’s what we’re supposed to do.”

  I shrug, looking at my own monitor, looking out over the simulated wasteland in front of us. We’re piloting our drones from a secure location on top of a building, supplying a steady stream of information to all the squads engaging enemy combatants below. This particular exercise is so routine, Santiago and I could do this in our sleep.

  “Nothing happened between us,” I say with too much force.

  A burst of gunfire brightens our screen. I take aim at an enemy tank and release a missile in its direction. It explodes, virtual dust billowing into the air.

  “Clint's used to getting what he wants. He wants— he said he needs you. For something.” The concerned lines on Santiago’s face deepen.

  “I need him too. I’ll meet up with him,” I say. “Tonight. After dinner. 7pm.”

  “You need him.”

  “Clinton Fuller has political connections. This may come as a surprise to someone like you, but I want out of here. I want out of National Service. I want off this fucking base and to put thousands of miles between myself and Prothero. Fuller can get that for me. What do you want?”

  “What do you mean someone like me?” he asks, patching the coordinates of two surface snipers to the ground units.

  “A volunteer,” I say, my face carefully blank.

  “You think I volunteered for National Service?”

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  “I had to. I didn’t have any other choice.”

  “Yeah, well neither do I.”

  I divert my drone from the jarring snarl of the city center and drift over to scan a lifeless field for any signs of transmitting tech. I launch a probe into the bowels of the earth, distracting myself from the tension mounting between us.

  “Why don’t you have a choice?” I ask, looking up from the projected chest display. “I thought you wanted to be here?”

  “Who told you that?” His eyes narrow but he refuses to look at me.

  It’s a good question and the answer is…

  “No one.”

  “Right. So it’s rumors. You don’t know anything about me or what I want or why I’m here, Garza.”

  “Sure I do. You want to kill terrorists, don’t you? Isn’t that why everyone’s here? To commit state sanctioned murder?”

  “No. That’s not— I want—” he says, the hard look falling from his face. His eyes flicker up to meet mine, softening. Then over to my temple, the wires pulsing in shades of green and blue.

  “Nothing. I’m just delivering Clint's message.”

  I make another sweep of the field and unleash a barrage of machine gun fire. It rips through a corn crop, mowing down the stalks into a mess of yellow and green plant parts. Santiago frowns at my read-out, absorbing the actions of my drone with his annoyingly keen powers of observation. He notices everything. Nothing passes by him unseen, nothing occurs that he doesn’t entertain a quiet thought about. I usually respect our silence, but it’s broken and the nagging questions won’t be held back. Curiosity wins.

  “Why are you delivering his messages? Why do you even hang out with that gu
y? You run intellectual and aeronautical circles around Fuller.”

  “Why do you care?” He turns my question back around on me. I gape at him. I don’t have a good answer that won’t expose me.

  “I don’t care.”

  Santiago curls his upper lip. “Bullshit.”

  He rises to his feet, pacing across the rooftop, kicking debris and litter out of his path. I watch him settle into a new vantage point. The absence of his lanky frame at my side fills my stomach with a cold throb of remorse. I’m surprised at the loneliness of the SIM without Santiago close by. I’m surprised at caring and at how badly this entire conversation has gone thus far.

  “You and Clint,” he calls over the distance, facing away from me. “You don’t fight for what you want. You don’t really earn it.”

  “What—what are you talking about?” I shout back to him.

  “Nothing.” Santiago hunkers around the projections emanating from his chest console. “Forget about it.”

  I can’t forget it. I don’t want to. I pull out an EMP pistol and aim at Santiago’s display, blowing the drone control on his upper torso apart with the impact. It knocks out all his electronic equipment, putting him in the dark.

  “I am nothing like Fuller. I’m better and smarter than both of you. You’re—both of you are worthless,” I sneer, heading for the stairwell and the exit, anticipating the tongue lashing from Corazon.

  Her insults and threats will never outweigh the satisfaction of…nothing. I’m not satisfied. Arguing with Santiago doesn’t feel good. It feels awful and the awful feeling is overwhelming. Confusing. I don’t want to argue with him and I’m not mad at him. He’s not mad at me either. Why are we arguing at all?