“I’m not worthless!” Santiago yells. I turn around. He stares straight ahead, slumped over his damaged controls, looking out over the warzone.
I wonder if his facial expression mirrors the sad turn of his shoulders and bow of his head.
“I’m not worthless,” he says.
The only noise is the booming crunch of his jet crashing into a building and the surprised shouts of our squad over my headset. I pluck off my helmet and toss it down the stairwell in front of me. It clangs loudly in the din, the surprised shouts of our squad mates bouncing eerily off the surrounding concrete walls.
Outside of the SIM, I wave Scarlett. She promises to ditch a criminology class and meet up at her Salt patch for what she calls “a much needed distraction.” She doesn’t really need to check the beds. They are dormant for the winter. Whatever plants she’s growing now are indoors at the hydroponics lab and under super secretive lock and key. The lock and key belongs to our other friends, the Rosas. Identical twin sisters training to become biomedical technical engineers. Scar invented this Salt check strictly for the purpose of getting me outside the base and into a different frame of mind. We arrive at the patch and I notice a meager bed of winter flowers growing at the tented area where she keeps her supplies.
“That’s new.” I point towards the greenery.
“Oh yeah.” She chuckles. “I special ordered the seeds from some place across the country. It was a stupid indulgence but I’ve had a little extra cash flow lately. Planted them myself. Can’t believe how good they turned out.”
“Very pretty,” I murmur.
I reach down and close the fingers of my prosthetic hand around the flowers, delicately, so I don’t crush the petals. I rip the green and pink plant from the loamy, rich soil Scarlett carefully cultivated and tuck it behind my bad ear.
“That’s winter camellia. It’s a hardy plant, specifically bred to bloom in the coldest part of winter,” she says. “A bunch of scientists worked hard to make that plant what it is.”
“And what is it?” I ask.
“Resilient.” She smiles. “It looks good on you.”
She pulls a Salt cigarette out from behind her ear, where it was obscured by a tangled clump of blonde hair.
“You need this Len.” I don’t disagree
“Fuller wants to meet tonight. Alone. What should I do?” I ask, taking a long, lagging pull from the end of the cigarette. Trapping the smoke in my burning lungs. The fake one—can the smoke even damage an artificial lung? Probably not. No cancer for me. If I avoid the wrong end of a plasma rifle or another bomb, I could probably live forever.
“Take me with you,” she says flatly. “I don’t trust them. You shouldn’t go alone.”
“Thanks Scar.”
“Duh. You’re my favorite Lenbot. I’m not letting you feed yourself to the wolves without backup.”
We spend the rest of our on-duty hours together, ditching our last two classes of the day in favor of smoking two huge pipes of Salt. All the anxiety leeches from my system, replaced by a warm, heady confidence. Scarlett spends the downtime twisting winter camellias into our hair. The flowers blend nicely with her long curly blonde hair. They contrast wildly with my shoulder length waves but Scar insists they look nice. I don’t know, I rarely look in the mirror anymore.
We arrive early. The winter wind picks up, blowing sharp and bitter. I watch in fascination as the breeze untwists a camellia from Scar's hair and flicks it out over the waving waters of Lyle Lake. On the horizon, two human sized shapes approach. My stomach gives a queasy roll but the lingering Salt quenches the nausea before the anxiety spreads and takes over.
Santiago stops a little before Clinton and crinkles his brow, studying the flowers in our hair with fascinated concern, as if he’s worried they might catch and spread like a disease.
“Why’d you bring her?” Clinton demands when he and Santiago reach the water’s edge.
“Her has a name. I’m Scarlett,” she says, tossing her blonde curls and sending more camellias flying.
“I know who you are. This doesn’t concern you.”
“If it involves Len, it concerns me. She’s my best friend. We only evened out the odds here. It’s not fair if you bring your toadie with you,” Scarlett indicates Santiago by lifting a brow.
“He’s a rabbit, not a toad. And this is between Garza and me. Right Garza?” Clinton asks.
My eyes slide over to where Santiago stands, a little aside from the group, his head hanging and his shoulders slumped forward. He doesn't acknowledge me.
“Yeah. So let’s talk.” I look back at Scarlett and tip my head towards Santiago. She saunters over to join him.
“What do you want?” I ask Clinton.
“I need to pass aeronautics.”
“You’re halfway there in tech lab. But if you won’t study for the test, how am I supposed to tutor you?”
“No tutoring. Just give me the answers.”
“I don’t have the answers.”
“For the test. You can hack my tablet.” He leans in towards me, his look menacing. “I know you can.”
“I can, but I want something in return.”
He leans back, face frozen as I continue.
“I want out of national service. I want your father to forgive the debt I owe to Prothero. Do that, and I’ll hack your tablet during the test.”
“How much do you owe Prothero?”
“A lot,” I answer. “Millions.”
“That’s insane. We don’t have that kind of money laying around.”
“You expect me to believe that?” I cross my arms. “Alright then, then the deal’s off.”
“Fine. I'll see what I can do. AFTER I pass the test.”
“I want a receipt post-exam. Or I’ll show the Academy administration in excruciating detail how I helped you cheat. And we’ll both burn for it.” I keep my tone level and serious, but my insides tremble. I really don't want to burn for this. But if we pull it off? Freedom. I can almost taste the freedom. It tastes like limes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Clinton asks, voice pitching towards a whine.
“Nothing. This is just who I am. I mean, everything comes easy to us. Right, Santiago?”
Santiago stirs, turning his back. Clinton looks between us, a dull idea igniting in his tiny brain.
“Why are you talking to him?” Clinton asks, blinking at me, a grin flickering at the edges of his mouth. “You have a thing for Rabbit?”
“What—what do you mean?” I ask, chewing the inside of my cheek.
“You do. You totally do. He doesn’t like you,” Clinton says. It’s a kick to the gut, like all the air sucking out of my chest. I swallow and squint my eyes against the sensation. The sensation I shouldn’t even be feeling in the first place.
“Fuck off, Fuller.” I reach to cover the scars on my face.
“Just because he looks at you, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s just a hyper-observant weirdo and you’ve got a fucked up face. You’re interesting to him, like a science experiment.”
“OK. I get it.”
“No, you don’t,” Clinton says, turning slightly to hold Santiago in his view. Santiago twists his body around and I know he’s listening. Clinton isn’t trying to keep his voice low. “You’re trouble, and he has really shitty taste in chicks. I should know—I fucked his last girlfriend and it ended very badly for everyone. Stay away from him.”
“Wow, you’re a terrible friend.”
“That doesn’t matter. Just stay away from him.”
“I can’t.”
Clinton narrows his eyes. “Why not? What’s so fucking irresistible about him?”
“It’s not that. We’re in the same classes. I literally can’t avoid him. Or you. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Clinton’s face drops. “Oh. Right.”
“And if he doesn’t even like me why are we still talking? Just leave. You’ll pass your test. Both of you just leave.”
He nods absent
ly. “You’re right. Just stay away from Rabbit, is all. He's mine.”
“Yours?”
“Mine. I own him like I’m about to own you. What aren’t you getting here?” He turns fully to observe Santiago and his face softens as his gaze settles on Scarlett. “Why’d you bring her?”
“Because you wouldn’t hurt me in front of her. Would you?” His fists clench and unclench in irritation. “That’s what I thought.” I turn around. “Remember Fuller, written confirmation. Or I’ll wave your father personally.”
“Deal. Rabbit, let's go,” Clinton orders.
Santiago nods tersely. The wind gusts again and tugs a camellia from my hair, sending it whirling into the night. Santiago jumps lazily and snatches it out of the air. He holds it in the center of his palm, studying it for a brief moment. He doesn't look up at me as he pockets the flower and follows on Clinton's heels.
Santiago doesn’t like me. Why doesn’t he like me? And why does Clinton own him? What the hell is going on between them?
Scarlett jogs over to where I stand in the crab grass contemplating Santiago's actions.
“You don't look happy. Did you get what you wanted?” She asks, looping our elbows, pulling me out of my musing.
“Not yet, but I'm close.”
I’m huddled on a rickety set of bleachers, observing the basketball players shooting hoops on the indoor court. Santiago’s there, because aside from swimming, this is one of the more common activities he partakes in on the base. I’ve met him here a couple different times—we exchange cool head nods, and then he focuses on his game while I capture the lines of the players in motion: dribbling, elbowing, shooting, and occasionally dunking. Santiago dunks because he has the height for it.
He’s here, of course, in his customary off-duty uniform of a grey hooded sweatshirt and shorts. His big feet are clad in name brand athletic shoes and when he sits on the sidelines he absently chews the drawstrings of his hoodie.
He ignores me completely until a scuffle breaks out on the court, and the basketball bounces in my direction, rolling to a stop in front of the bleachers where I’m slumped down into the foot well, my short legs dangling above the court. Santiago shakes the hair from his face and trots over, curls bouncing as he strides.
When I notice his approach, I quickly glance down at the sketch in my lap and flick the page forward to a new blank screen. I have Mateo’s letter out, resting against the tin box that normally houses it. The tin box with the ornate filigree carved into the exterior. Aside from rough sketching the players, I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes pouring over Mateo’s letter again. The paper is starting to wear at the edges. It’s stupid, bringing it out here in the open. But there’s no privacy in the barracks and much more inclination to snoop. At the court or in the gym, nobody bothers you. Maybe a few side glances, but otherwise they’re absorbed in their game. I cut my gaze to the letter again.
Above me, Santiago clears his throat. I know it’s him because I recognize the sounds he makes. His covered feet squeaking over the court. The ragged sound of his breathing. The vaguely pleasant scent of sweat. My metal heart shudders in my chest. Santiago doesn’t like me. Clinton says he doesn’t like me.
“What?” I ask, still not looking.
“Yo, Rabbit!” Kang shouts from across the court. “Hustle!”
My gaze flutters up. Santiago glares over his shoulder, his neck tilting like a bird of prey. He looks back to me, opens his mouth.
“Come on!” Kang says.
Santiago huffs, chucking the ball over his head.
“Your friends are assholes,” I say.
“You said I’m worthless.” His foot slides into my view, kicking nervously against the bleacher below me. “That’s an asshole thing to say.”
“You’re not worthless.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
I shrug. “To be an asshole.”
He chuckles, like warm wind stirring through a wheat field. The hairs on my arm tingle and a brief zip of electricity crackles in the air around us.
“Can I sit?” he asks, nodding towards the empty bleacher bench next to me.
“I don’t know, can you?” I raise an eyebrow.
He plops down, unsettling the tin and Mateo’s letter. The page lifts and flutters away from the tin. He picks it up to examine it more closely.
“Another letter from a weirdo?” he asks, but I snatch it from his hand before he can investigate further.
“This one’s personal.” I lift the tin and scoot the letter underneath it, out of the prying hands and eyes of Santiago. His fingers already warmed the page. I swallow against a knot in my throat. Mateo and Santiago both touching the same letter. Why does that bother me? It shouldn’t bother me.
“OK then.” He turns away, facing towards the court to watch the game that picked up in his absence. Kang steals glances our way. Santiago clears his throat loudly. “Corazon said if you fuck up another SIM she’s gonna fail you.” Santiago’s eyes slide over to me and then back to the game.
“Fail and go where? I’m right where Prothero wants me.”
“Prothero wants you here,” Rabbit murmurs, squinting as Kang takes an elbow to the jugular.
“That’s the whole point of helping Fuller. To get out of here. Look around Santiago.” I gesture at the basketball court. “This isn’t our final destination. This is a way station—purgatory before hell. You’re Catholic, you should know that. Everyone here is going to die.”
Santiago clears his throat roughly, his gaze shifting down to his tightly clenched fingers. “Don’t do it,” he says. “Don’t help Clint cheat.”
“Why do you care?” I ask, tapping my pen against the pad. “You don’t even like me.”
“What?” His eyes widen, but he still doesn’t look at me.
“Fuller said you don’t like me.”
“I don’t not-like-you.” He pauses and frowns at his own statement.
“So you like me?” I ask, smirking.
“Of course I like you. You’re an asshole. All of my friends are assholes.”
“Haha.” I click the sketchpad on and off.
“And I’m telling you as a friend, don’t do this. Don’t cheat on the test. It’s not worth it.”
“I thought we were squadmates.”
Santiago shakes his head. “Whatever. We’re friends, ok? I said I like you. I’ve always liked you. Even when you’re showing me up in the SIM and being an annoying smart-ass.”
“I’m an annoying smart-ass? You’re an annoying smart-ass. Fuller said you only stare at me because you think I’m a freak. I don’t need your pity, Santiago. You already know what I do with people who pity me.”
Santiago ghost smiles. “You burn them.”
“Clinton said—”
Santiago rolls his eyes. “For the last damn time, Garza, I am not Clint. First of all, Clint talks too much. And second of all, he’s bad shit and you should avoid him at all costs. Don’t help him cheat. You don’t owe him anything.”
“Not yet,” I whisper.
His jawline tightens and his nostrils flare. “You should keep it that way.”
“What about you?” I ask, nudging him with my foot. “You don’t avoid him.”
“Like I said before, I don’t have a choice,” he says, anger leaching into his words.
“Neither do I. I’m not going to die again. Not for Prothero.” As I speak, an unreadable expression flickers over his face. “I’m not a coward.”
“I didn’t say you were.” He pivots to face me and I shrink from the sudden intensity of his gaze, pressing my back against the wooden bleachers. “I don’t think that. But you don’t need the help Clint offers. Trust me. His help always comes with a price.”
“What’s your price?” I ask, chewing on my bottom lip so hard copper tangs on my tongue. “He said he owns you.”
“Yeah. I’m sure he did. You’re fucking relentless, you know?” He turns back to the ball court. “The price I paid was everything
. And now I’m here. Right where I want to be.”
“You want to be here,” I repeat, studying his profile. It’s become so familiar over the last six months. I mentally trace the lines of his face, the lines I’ve been sketching on my tablet for weeks now.
“I do,” he nods. I almost believe him. But then he swallows and his adam’s apple bobs. There is a kind of desperation in this subconscious action. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here after all. Maybe Santiago’s just a really good liar.
“But you don’t want to kill terrorists, do you? I see you in the SIMs and I can tell your heart isn’t really in it. Except for maybe the explosions and the flying. So why here? What’s so great about being here? We’re not helping people, Santiago. We’re not saving lives.”
“I’m saving lives,” he says, quickly and forcefully, turning back to me. The heat of his glower is like looking directly into the sun.
“No, you’re not. My parents saved lives. And the only thanks they got was a fucking bomb. They were trying to do something good. They were trying to cure the virus.”
“You’re not your parents.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Just because they died, doesn’t mean you’re going to.” His jaw clenches around the words.
“You’re wrong. I already died. Whatever. At least my parent’s lives meant something. My life? It means nothing. All this money and effort, all these life-saving implants, and I’m just going to die as a Prothero soldier anyway. I’ve got no family. I don’t even have Prothero anymore. At least you have someone, Santiago. I have nothing.”
Hot tears are building up behind my right eye and a sob burns in my throat but I can’t stop the words. I don’t want to stop the words. It feels good to say them out loud to someone who will listen. It feels good to say them to Rabbit Santiago even if I probably shouldn’t trust him.
“Garza—”
“I don’t want to kill Contras.” The tears threaten to spill. “Everyone thinks I’m here for revenge but the truth is I don’t have a choice. I have to be here.”
“Garza—”
Metal Heart: Book 1: The Metal Heart Trilogy Page 5
