Metal Heart: Book 1: The Metal Heart Trilogy

by Melinda Crouchley

  “No it won’t. If it’s on the net, it’s forever,” I remind her.

  “People have short attention spans. They’ll forget soon enough. So relax.”

  “Yeah, I’m super relaxed,” I say, poking at the apple core on my tray.

  Scar rolls her eyes, squeezes my shoulder, and leaves the table. The rest of us follow suit. We compost our uneaten food and depart on our separate ways. As I walk beside the twins, it’s even more impossible to tell them apart when they’re dressed in uniform. Today they’ve both gone for double braids and their dark almond eyes are hidden under hats. We exit the main doors and meet up with our group outside the mess hall.

  We usually march down Chenoweth Creek Road, the main road through the base, but it’s raining outside today and the lieutenants are lazy so they order a hovercar. The lambent blue glow of the engines hum as the machine drifts in the air, rocking peacefully back and forth. A metal ramp rolls down from the door and we board the craft in pairs, taking assigned seats.

  I end up squashed between the two Rosas who are excitedly chatting about preparations for testing they will endure this morning. We enjoy the thirty minute ride from one end of the base to the other, passing the giant operations building and the mile long armory jam-packed with expensive tech. I pay special attention as we cruise by rows of EMP tanks, drones, and helocrafts.

  Adrenaline surges through me in proximity to these large, dangerous machines. They lurk on the base grounds like a napping pride of lions, watching and waiting to pounce at the first sign of danger. Part of me is horrified by the purpose they serve, but a greater part of me is fascinated and thrilled by them. They possess a complicated, sexy power and the tech inside them is a thing of beauty.

  In four months we will be done with training and education. We will be operating these weapons in actual military scenarios. We will be killing human beings, instead of virtual simulated ghosts. Instead of shooting each other with rubber pellets. Those thoughts are not so thrilling. Those thoughts keep me up at night. They are the endless subjects of the letters between Mateo and I.

  It’s nice to be indoors. The room temperature is moderate and the climate is dry. The giant warehouse is decked out for urban warfare today, and it looks like we’re running a scenario at a large commercial port. There are gutted out rotting semi trucks and twisted cargo containers scattered around larger buildings and cranes dotting the expanse. A rusting metal sign dangling above us reads “Terminal 6.” A strange sigh of relief escapes me when they close the SIM doors and we meet up with our tactical superiors.

  My body is on high alert. All the tension arising from the last day culminates here. The altercation, the ominous apprehension from yesterday’s afternoon General Assembly, the wave this morning, and the creepy interaction at breakfast prepare me for a rocky day playing at war. I’d hoped for a semblance of the camaraderie soldiers are supposed to have for one another on the battlefield, but Rabbit is still glued to Clinton’s side. And Clinton still looks lost.

  We are behind all the other units scanning the area for specialized weapons technology as well as identifying any last remaining targets and securing the rear of the forward surge. No drones today. I yearn for the somber, safe interior of the tank and the swooping display of our remotely piloted aircrafts. I don’t want to be anywhere near Clinton or Rabbit.

  I keep as quiet and invisible in our unit as possible. Corazon, Clinton, and Luis are in the lead. Rabbit and I walk ten paces behind, using our chest displays to punch up the camera view from the back of our helmets. Our rifles, loaded with rubber bullets instead of live rounds come equipped with mirrors to scout for approaching enemies. We are only issued real plasma rifles for target practice and trips outside the base. Too many accidents in the last 10 years to trust a resident with a real plasma rifle inside the SIM.

  Every once in a while we turn to get a full visual scan of the area behind us. So far nothing has made an appearance, which is typical for this kind of simulation. Taking up the rear usually results in a dull exercise for our squad. All the fighting happens in front of us, where I prefer it. As much experience as I’ve logged in the simulators, entering a war zone raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

  “Up there.” Luis nods towards the roof of a building about 700 feet away, a Contra soldier holding a rocket launcher aimed directly at the EMP tank.

  “Think they’re gonna get him?” Rabbit asks.

  “Probably not,” Luis says.

  Corazon taps on her band, “Bison Four, you’ve got a sniper with a rocket launcher east of your coordinates, roof-top.”

  A resident pops out of the tank and fires her rifle towards the sniper, who staggers a few steps back, drops the launcher, and falls from view.

  “Good thing we weren’t taking bets,” Rabbit says.

  He looks over at me, his expression carefully blank. I narrow my eyes at him and he turns away, absorbed with his display.

  A blast from the EMP tank at a target unseen to our unit is the catalyst to a wave of static electricity rolling back at us. The static-electricity aftershocks are a vaguely unpleasant experience. In the next few minutes, everything we touch delivers a mild sting and our rifles and displays frag too. Mine don’t. They never do. All of the machines attached to me work perfectly. Including the implants. The machines in my body and blood wouldn’t be much good to me if they could be rendered inoperable by a single EMP pulse. Another hidden benefit of the prosthetics.

  Rabbit smacks his chest console and gives his helmet-cam a jog. The equipment is out of commission for the moment. This is the only time our GPS signal and vitals are undetectable to Prothero. They have alternate means of tracking us when the bands short out due to EMPs. We’re all implanted with microchips at the top of our spines, near our brain stems, where removal would be difficult and potentially deadly to achieve. A life insurance policy, of sorts.

  “Equipment’s down,” Rabbit reports.

  “Rabbit—”

  He holds up a hand, then clicks the mic off his helmet. I nod and do the same.

  “I tried to warn you. About Clint.” He squints at me like it hurts to meet my eyes. Like talking to me is physically painful.

  “What's wrong with him?” I ask, my gaze shifting ahead to the rest of our squad.

  “That's a loaded question.” Rabbit gives a mirthless grin. “Lots of things are wrong with Clint.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You didn't do anything. Do not blame yourself for any of this. Guys like him are always looking for an excuse to hurt someone.”

  “I guess. Senator Fuller—he hit Clinton in the face,” I say, wincing at the memory. “And Clinton just took it. I mean, he’s like twice the Senator’s size. I don’t get it.”

  Rabbit reaches up underneath his helmet to tug on one of his ears. It's not a gesture I’ve seen him use before. It seems more like a nervous tick than conscious behavior.

  Rabbit tugs harder at his ear. “You gonna tell me anymore about what happened between you? Why he wants to kill you so badly?”

  Before I can answer, machine gun fire rattles off a few feet from our location. We both duck for cover. Rabbit taps on his chest display and the screen shudders to life.

  “Equipment’s back up.”

  I glance quickly at mine. All clear. We both rise to our feet, shaking off the virtual dust. We hoist up our scanners and move forward, albeit much more slowly than we should be moving. The relative isolation and quiet is about as pleasant as a SIM gets. Neither of us are anxious to dive headfirst into combat.

  This far removed from the action, it’s hard to remember we’re in a war zone. It's more like being immersed in an intense video game and less like the real thing. It’s the lack of smell. SIMs do everything but recreate the scent of sulfur and blood and sweat. The hot, acrid scent of death. I don’t want to die again. I don’t want to die fighting for a side I didn’t choose.

  “You know most of it already. It doesn’t really matter anyway. We’re
gonna die on a battlefield somewhere just like this.” I spread my arms wide, indicating the shattered glass and steel towers, the hollowed out cars scattered and rolled up against the buildings.

  Rabbit’s head drops. “Not me. My situation is different.”

  “How?” I ask. The conversation with Senator Fuller rushes back to me.

  Rory Santiago has secrets.

  He ignores the question. It’s none of my business but somehow, our businesses keep getting tangled together. First the specialization, then the squad, and now Clinton. We can’t stay away from one another. Why can’t we stay away from each other?

  Rabbit studies my temple. I reflexively move to cover the circuitry, reminding myself of the last time someone touched them. The terrible scrape of Senator Edmund Fuller’s waxy skin against mine. Rabbit blocks me and our gloved hands briefly fumble together.

  He disentangles himself, clicking off the speakers in my helmet, bathing us in a wash of silence from the squad. It’s a relief to be disconnected from their shouts. He moves in close to me, our faces inches apart, the tips of our noses almost brushing. He presses against the hard casing of the helmet as if he could melt through and touch my cheek.

  “Eleni—” Rabbit says, and he’s so close his hot breath tastes like cinnamon gum and the pleasant tang of his sweat hits my nostrils. “Be sharp in here. Clint’s not—he’s not right. I talked him down yesterday but I can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “You don’t have to be. You—”

  He leans in closer. For a brief, astonishing moment, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. This is happening. Then it all becomes so absurd. Rabbit Santiago and I kissing in the middle of a SIM with Clinton Fuller a few hundred feet away. With bombs going off all around us. An explosion spouts shrapnel into the air and it rains down, the debris pelting our suits. Rabbit hesitates.

  “You should let me go,” I say gently, regretting the words as they leave my mouth. “We’re in the middle of a SIM.”

  Rabbit shakes his head and frees up space between us, but he retains his grip on the helmet—holding onto it as long as possible.

  “I can take care of myself.” I push against his chest with a wry smile, trying to affect strength and confidence. “Fuller won't beat me. Let him try.”

  “Eleni.” He frowns. “You’re not safe.”

  “No one’s safe.” I gesture at the carnage happening all around us. “Clinton’s not your responsibility.”

  “He is. That’s the problem.”

  “The problem with what?”

  Rabbit sighs, taking another step back. His far off gaze returns. He bends over and retrieves his helmet. I peer ahead and see Clinton turned to watch us, staring hard. There’s quite a bit more life in his face than the last time I saw him.

  “The problem with what, Rabbit?”

  He ignores my question, pulling the helmet back over his head. I spend a moment studying his profile against the spark of gunfire flaring up in front of him. On his right cheek, a crescent moon shaped scar dangles like the comma of a sentence. He’s handsome, in a scrawny, scrappy way.

  Rabbit's display catches my attention as it flickers back to life. It’s a mirror image of my own, which neither of us are paying attention to. In our distraction, an enemy assault vehicle rolled up behind us, equipped with an Automatic Denial System and a Long Range Acoustic Device operating on low frequency, otherwise verbal communication would be impossible. The wheels of the vehicle roll over debris, crunching rocks and rubble beneath the metal.

  We turn in time to see a gunner pop out a side panel equipped with an ADS gun. The function of an Automatic Denial System allows a concentrated burst of heat to be aimed at a specific target without damaging anything else around it. A discharge of hot air hits our backs and I dive on Rabbit to shield him from the blast, shouting out a warning to Corazon. We roll off into a row of cargo containers, away from the beam, when the LRAD kicks into full gear.

  The auditory sensation causes an indescribably awful pain to radiate inside my skull. I reach up to turn my left hearing aid completely off, but think better of it. I may need to hear in the immediate future. The pain of the LRAD, coupled with the scent of scorching synthetic material and skin wafting towards us makes me dry heave, even in the midst of combat. Corazon takes shelter, but Clinton and Luis are exposed to the brunt of both beams since Rabbit and I moved off. They’re on their knees in the street, covering their ears, in too much agony to go for their rifles.

  Corazon motions us to move around the side of the containers. We flank the vehicle, towards the open panels where the gunners aim the ADS units. We fire on them. Corazon shoots and the Contra simulation explodes, knocking her backwards and out of my line of sight. Our target drops his gun, and I snatch it up, tossing it away. Rabbit delivers a boot kick to the SIMS face and drags him out of the vehicle, dumping him on the ground. I point my gun into the opening of the tank and fire. The wheels stop turning.

  A noise emanating from the LRAD catches my attention. It’s the grinding, swirling sound of a machine working inside the vehicle. Rabbit walks a few paces ahead of me so I grab his elbow, attempting to haul him backwards. He digs in his heels and motions towards Clinton and Luis laying inert in the street.

  The LRAD pulses, deafening, yet there is a gurgling, churning discord underneath it. I explain to him with mimed gestures my apprehension about the sound, but field signals are not my strong suit, and he shrugs in incomprehension, turning away. Frustrated, I approach the vehicle and press my palm against the side of the metal. Vibrations resonate to the surface and machinery ticks and hums inside.

  Abruptly, the LRAD clicks off but the noise of the other device is overpowering, with a familiar undertone of liquid gurgling. I spin around to Rabbit.

  “Move, now!” I shout, pointing in the direction of Clinton and Luis struggling in the street, a good portion of their clothes seared off.

  “What?” He asks, confused, and probably still a little deaf.

  “Bomb! It’s a bomb!” I turn my attention back to the vehicle. The ticking gains momentum. I reach in the panel and grip a hard metal device. A charger. I pull it out to examine.

  From behind me, Rabbit exclaims, “Oh shit.”

  Wires or external mechanisms are not visible on the charger to determine its origin or how to defuse it. The black, unadorned box is made up of hard metal and the explosives and tech are internal. It would take kinetic tools I don’t possess to crack the case and access the insides. The tools I need litter the ground, fifty feet away. There's no time to gather them. My fingers tremble against the black box. The circuits to disable the charger are right at my fingertips, but there is no way to defuse them while the metal blocks access.

  A low moan sounds nearby and I remember Corazon was knocked into a row of shipping containers. I toss the charger into the open panel on the assault vehicle. Disabling it would be a futile effort ending in my charred corpse. Well, the SIM version of a charred corpse, anyway. I don't care to discover what that looks or feels like today. I motion to Rabbit, who hauls Luis off the road, and scramble to assist our squad leader. My connection to the bomb is severed by the distance, but it doesn’t matter. There are only seconds left on the timer. Corazon needs to be shielded. I hope Rabbit moved Clinton.

  Corazon lays propped up against a rusted container, bleeding from scattered cuts on the exposed parts of her face, as well as a cut across her right bicep. She is twice my size and there’s no way I can move her in time, not without assistance. Her vitals on the display read as normal. I frantically glance around until I notice a piece of side panel by us. I grab the rusting silver metal and hold it over my back like a shield. I cover her, though my effort is pitiful, and wave Rabbit on the display.

  “Take cover!”

  The vehicle explodes behind us. The force of the concussion spills me forward. Wrenched metal and burning tire fall over us in chunks. The smell of chemicals and wires assaults my nostrils and churns my stomach. I roll off Corazon and
stare up at the sky for a minute, my breath coming out in short pants. Other than being covered in bruises and dirt, I am fine. I prop myself up on my elbows, trying to get a visual on the rest of the squad.

  Off in the distance a figure stealthily approaches, slinking through the shadows of rubble. His image wavers and flickers in the oily smoke from the fires burning around us. He’s tall, so it must be Rabbit. But he’s alone, which doesn’t make sense. I sent him off after Luis and Clinton. Why would he be alone?

  The figure steps out from the shadows and a wracking cough bursts from my lips. I prop myself up further, squinting. A low-pitched whine kicks off at the base of my skull, a migraine winding up in volume and intensity. The shadowy figure is Mateo. He’s not wearing a suit, he’s wearing street clothes. The clothes I last saw him in. The same clothes he was wearing in the SIM over a month ago when Rabbit destroyed that building. When the nosebleeds started. When the electricity sparked from my fingertips. The anniversary of the Paris bombing. When the new drugs started. My brain spins. It all feels connected, doesn’t it? Is it all connected?

  Mateo’s long, straight hair lifts and swirls in the drafts from the overhead SIM fans. He stops thirty feet away, the shadow of a shipping container swallowing most of his figure.

  “Eleni,” he whispers, lifting his hand and reaching it out to me. “Help me.”

  Help him? I’m the one who just got blown up.

  The whine pulses louder. I tap my ringing ears. The vision in my eye pixelates and blurs. Mateo’s shape distorts, then washes out of existence. Into the air where he stood, Rabbit emerges. Simulated Mateo transforms into real Rabbit, who’s lugging our wounded squadmates behind him. Luis and Clinton’s suits are shredded, flapping like tattered flags in the breeze.

  Burns mar their skin and a tiny part of me rejoices at the sight of their injuries. My ears ring from the LRAD and the explosion so their dialogue sounds like gibberish. They spot me and I give a brief wave. Then Clinton’s face contorts, and he surges ahead of the group. Luis and Rabbit tug at his arms, attempting to halt his progress. He shakes them off. I roll over onto my knees, turning away from them and climbing painfully to my feet.