Grounded

by G. P. Ching

  “Who claims this woman?” Patchwork asks, holding up the collar, as if I’m a dog they found in the street.

  There are too many hands, too many voices. Panic brushes aside my logical mind.

  “Get off me!” I yell, but it’s not just my voice that comes out. The elastic ribbon stretches down my body, branching into every hand that touches me.

  The men fall to the concrete, twitching, leaving me wobbling from their sudden dropped hands.

  I shuffle my feet and spread my arms to regain balance. The cord that bound my wrists is burnt to ash. The gray flakes scatter with my movement and snow down over the bodies of the writhing men. With a detached fascination, I back away from them. Did I do this? Did I hurt them? I have a second to think about it before I notice that the balcony of the warehouse is full of Red Dogs. Scrappy men and women in red collars stare at me from above. They do not look friendly.

  I bolt for the door. The Spark ignites inside me. Glowing blue, I snatch my bag from near the dumpster and race behind the buildings, pounding feet closing in. I dodge down alley after alley, a mouse in a maze. I run faster than I did on the Holotread, scaling a fence and then another, until I’m sure I’ve run longer and farther than any Red Dogs. Then I duck inside the first open door I can find, panting hard and raw with fear.

  Thankfully, the room is empty. I lock the door behind me and check each of the windows but there’s no one outside. I’m alone.

  Breath shaky, I throw my bag on the floor and rip a bottle from its belly. The cool water etches down my throat. I’m still hot and glowing blue. Hastily, I pull it inside, extinguishing the spark. Scorched holes pepper my clothing—my thigh, my hip, my back, my chest. I change, wishing I could shower. Wishing I could scrub the memory of that warehouse from my mind.

  What would they have done to me? I shiver, thinking of the red collar. Then a more insidious thought barrels into me. What have I done? I’ve never hurt anyone before. Violence of any kind is forbidden in Hemlock Hollow. I have no idea if the men are dead or alive and the scary thing is, I don’t care, not really. A part of me, deep inside, believes they had it coming.

  Dear Lord, am I losing my soul? My conscience?

  I fall on my knees on the cold, gritty floor of the abandoned building, and I pray with everything I have in me for forgiveness. I have strayed too far to a place where I no longer recognize right from wrong. I pray until my body aches and my mind becomes a series of apologies and pleas for help.

  It’s some time before I can think clearly again and longer still before I stop shaking but when there is nothing left in my brain but a dull buzz, I take in my surroundings. Where am I? The sun is sinking, and I’m no closer to Crater City. I slide on the pair of sunglasses I packed, wide banded and dark, then roll my hair under a cap, tucking in the loose strands. With a deep breath to steady my nerves, I step from the building and walk to the closest street.

  A car passes through an intersection up ahead. Where there are cars, there are people. I lift my chin and progress toward the intersection with my best impression of confidence. Whatever I do, I can’t show fear or give anyone reason to be suspicious of me. I don’t want to end up CGEF’s next human battery or a Red Dog slave.

  Thinking about CGEF brings back a host of memories. My mind darts to the horrors of Dr. Konrad’s table and the MRI machine. I try not to think about what Korwin looked like, covered in sores and bruised almost beyond recognition. Oh Korwin! The hole in my chest burns. What have I done? I could explode from the hurricane of emotions swirling within me. I am utterly lost, hopeless.

  “Miss, you got water in that pack of yours?” a deep voice asks me.

  I jump back, tripping off the curb and into the street.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you, girlie. Just thirsty and the fountains are done working for the day.” The man’s voice is raspy, his lips cracked. He’s huddled against the dilapidated building between two large bags crammed full of what looks like junk to me.

  My instincts tell me to run. The man might be homeless but he’s not harmless. He looks to be in his thirties with longish brown hair and a scruffy face. I should run for the hills, but I don’t. With a shaky hand, I reach inside my pack and pull out one of the three water bottles I’ve stowed there. I hand it to him.

  “Thank you,” he says. He unscrews the cap and guzzles the contents, then eyes me from hat to shoes suspiciously. “What’s an uppercrust like you doing in the deadzone?”

  “Do you know how to get to the Oakdale Rehabilitation Center?” I blurt.

  “Sure. It’s on Mosato Avenue, right before you reach Western.”

  “Can I walk there from here?”

  “Oh no, girlie. It’s much too far. You’ll need to take a cab.”

  “Oh,” I say, the disappointment evident in my voice. “What street is this?”

  “This is Everglade. Tell the cabbie to take you west to Mosato and then take a right. He should charge you for seven miles. Don’t let him rip you off and take you the long way.”

  I force a smile. “Right. Thank you. Again, nice meeting you.”

  He holds up the water. “I owe you one.”

  I nod. Seven miles might be too far for an Englisher to walk, but where I come from it’s a stroll to a friend’s house. I head west on Everglade, joining foot traffic on the sidewalk.

  An hour or more later, the crowd thickens as I approach Mosato Avenue. This part of the city is developed and has plenty of energy. Electric billboards advertise products above me in the twilight, blinking their full-color pitch over the streets. I decide to rest and take it all in. I sit down on a cement bench, digging in my bag for a nutrition bar and my last bottle of water.

  The bench faces a shop window where televisions are for sale. Like the ones at the mansion, they appear static, oil paintings of fruit bowls and a woman smiling. A man pauses in front of the window and the shop owner smiles at him before tapping one of the screens. A woman stops to watch as do several teenagers. All I can see from the bench are flashes of color and light between the bodies of the crowd that’s formed to watch.

  I return my water to my bag and step toward the group, angling between shoulders so that I can see. It’s an advertisement for a show called Burn. I glance at the people around me, surprised to find them completely enthralled. The host is a man with a ponytail in a paisley robe. In a melodic voice, he asks, “What are you willing to burn for energy to burn?” People compete for prizes of energy allotments. In order to win the units, the contestants have to prove they want them badly enough to burn their most cherished possessions. In the clip, a woman bawls as her grandmother’s rocking chair goes up in flames.

  Around me, the spectators cheer and laugh. “I want to see that one!” a girl from the back says.

  In the Amish world, the gifts of the past are cherished, and the gift of each other, never sacrificed. How sad to give up your roots, a piece of who you are, for temporary comfort. I must be the only one to think so, though, because the people around me continue to laugh without empathy as another clip from Burn plays on.

  I’m about to leave when the advertisement ends and Alexandra Brighten’s face takes its place. I freeze at the edge of the crowd. Tonight on Channel 12 News, Alexandra says. My face is plastered across the screen, as is Korwin’s. Deadly criminals still at large in the capital…”

  I step backward and luckily, the people in the crowd are so centered on themselves and their view of the television that they don’t even look at me. Instead, they simply fill in the space I leave in front of the glass, slowly pushing me out. “They’ve upped the reward to fifteen thousand units!” I hear as I walk away.

  With long strides, I break away from the group. I don’t run. That could draw attention. Instead, I stroll, as if I’m late for an appointment rather than dodging scrutiny. I tuck a strand of my hair into my cap.

  No one seems to notice me. I don’t look back and pray my luck holds out.

  The CGEF logo is everywhere here, and traffic has a
ccelerated to a frenzied pace. I can’t see the drivers because they’re moving too fast. I remember this. This is the grid, the innermost roads of Crater City, wired to allow for super speed. I must be close to CGEF headquarters. A chill ripples through me just thinking about it.

  It’s dark by the time I find the Oakdale Rehabilitation Center. It’s inside a skyscraper named the Oakdale Medical Complex that houses a variety of health-related businesses. A map inside leads me to the second floor and the rehabilitation center’s front office.

  A doughy, curly-headed woman in scrubs gives me a practiced grin from behind the counter. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Forrest Woodward,” I say, recalling my father’s English pseudonym.

  “He’s in one twenty-two. Sign in, and I’ll buzz you back.” She points at an electronic tablet bolted to the counter.

  I pick up the stylus. I can’t use my own pseudonym. Everyone is looking for Lydia Lane. I invent a name—Carly Woodward. The signature fades behind a ticking clock and then the door buzzes. The woman behind the counter doesn’t even look up as I enter the rehabilitation floor.

  It’s hard to believe it’s been just over a week since my father’s stroke. So much has changed. I’ve changed. Even if I am able to return to Hemlock Hollow, I’ll never be the same. Under the costume of my skin, my blood knows the truth: I am different, down to my cells. For a moment, I am overwhelmed with shame thinking about it. Telling my father isn’t going to be easy. Then again, maybe I won’t have to. If Jeremiah has already been here, it’s possible he told my father everything.

  I knock on room one twenty-two, curious if he’s been healed or if the stroke has caused permanent damage.

  “Come in,” my father calls through the door.

  At the sound of his voice, a fountain of relief wells up within me. I enter, beaming. He’s regained his ability to speak! Once I’m in the room, I can see it’s more than that. My father sits at a table, reading an electronic newspaper. He looks strong, almost as good as new.

  “Can I help you?” he says to me.

  I pull off the glasses and remove my cap.

  He stands from his chair on shaky limbs. “Lydia,” he whispers.

  I cross the room and hug him with everything I have in me. But he pulls away first, glancing toward the door. “You shouldn’t be here. Leave now, before they come for you.” He spreads the window blinds with his fingers, looking up and down the street.

  “Then you know about what happened at CGEF?”

  He nods. “It’s been all over the news. You’ve got to get home where you’ll be safe.”

  “It’s okay. I signed in as Carly Woodward. No one knows I’m here.”

  “You don’t know what they can do. They could be tracking you right now.”

  “Dad, has Jeremiah been here?”

  He shakes his head and leans toward me. “No. And neither of you should be here. It’s dangerous.”

  I frown, wondering what has become of my best friend. My father falls into his chair more by the weight of gravity than his own will. He steadies himself on the table. I sit down across from him.

  “You look better,” I say.

  “I am. I can’t say I’m not grateful you sent me here, but some of the therapies…” He shivers and shakes his head. “They’re going to release me in a few days.” His gaze washes over my hair, my blouse, my jeans. “You cut your hair. You look… different.”

  “I am different. There’s something I have to tell you.”

  He grabs my wrist and squeezes. “I know.”

  “I’m not a scamp—”

  He squeezes harder. “Don’t say it. I know. I know what you can do.”

  My eyes narrow. “How?”

  “Lydia.” He wraps his calloused hands around mine. “You have always been my precious daughter.”

  “But?”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “But it’s time I told you the truth.” His voice is all gravel and his eyes are wet with the threat of tears.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You are not my biological daughter. I found you as a baby, when you were only a few weeks old.”

  His words punch into me and I stop breathing.

  “I was an Englisher then,” he whispers. “A fireman. I worked not far from here. Your biological father left you in my care. He gave me a letter and some money. I hid you.”

  I shake my head. “No… No…. What about our Bible? We have a complete ancestry in the front of our Bible.” I can’t figure out why he’s saying this. The floor is unsteady under my feet.

  “I was raised in Hemlock Hollow,” he says, spreading his hands. “Your ancestry is my ancestry. I left Hemlock Hollow for rumspringa, just like you did, at seventeen. I met a girl, an Englisher, and decided to stay. We married and had a son.”

  “What—”

  “My wife—the woman I told you was your mother—and my son were killed in an automobile accident. That much is true. But when your father left you with me, I ran from this world. At first I tried to hide you in the English world, but everything here is wired. People asked questions. In the end, I returned to Hemlock Hollow and they accepted me as if I’d never left. I was baptized, returned to my roots, and planned to live out the rest of my life there with you.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand.

  “Your biological parents were involved in a research experiment conducted by the government,” he whispers. “They had the same abilities you do. Your father died the night he left you with me…saving you from them.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice breaks with anger, even though I am careful not to yell.

  He scrubs his face with his palms. “We were happy, you and I. You grew up completely normal. I didn’t know your biological father’s power slept inside of you. If we hadn’t left, maybe we’d never know. I planned to tell you someday, if you ever got serious about rumspringa. But the timing never seemed right. And then this.” He smooths his palms over the small table and leans toward me.

  As much as I want to be angry with him, deep inside I understand that he saved me. If he’d kept me in the English world, I’d have ended up like Korwin or worse. Deep grooves around his eyes and mouth testify to the truth. He kept me from this nightmare as long as possible, to protect me. But I can’t stop myself from feeling disappointed. I mourn the loss of the heritage I never had. Tears parade down my cheeks.

  “Did the man—my biological father—mention others like me? What about my mother?”

  “He didn’t have time to tell me anything. The note he left with you explained about the study. He believed the Green Republic intended to kill you. I needed to hide you. That’s all.”

  I nod. In my heart though, I still can’t accept it. I was so sure of who I was. I thought my power came from God or maybe the radiation from the Outlands. I was wrong. I come from the same place as Korwin. I am manufactured. I am not exactly human.

  “I know it’s a shock, learning you come from this world, but it doesn’t change anything. You are still my little girl. God brought you to me. Maybe not the usual way, but you were a gift just the same. I love you just the same.” His voice shakes. The light glints off his wet cheeks.

  I stare at my fingers knotted on the table.

  “The boy in the video, he’s not dangerous like they say, is he?”

  “No. Korwin and I… We are the only ones—”

  “He’s the only one like you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe, when we go back, we can find a way for him to come and visit.”

  I stare at my hands. Am I going back? Or does knowing that I come from Operation Source Code change everything? There’s so much I don’t understand.

  The sound of shuffling feet in the hallway brings my head around. Without courtesy of a knock, the door slams against the far wall. I leap in front of my father, adrenaline causing my hands to glow. The air around me crackles.

  “Hold it right there!” a
uniformed officer yells. His familiar face fills me with dread. Officer Reynolds. The same man who arrested me in Willow’s Province. The room behind him fills with green uniforms.

  He points his metal box toward me, the scrambler. “Think twice before you flame out, Lydia. This device will scramble your neurons. It’ll hurt and I’m not afraid to use it. Even if you do get lucky and get out of here, your father won’t. Put your hands behind your back.”

  I lower my hands, extinguishing the blue glow. They move quickly, handcuffing me.

  “How did you find me?” I ask.

  Officer Reynolds doesn’t respond but muscles me toward the door. “Bring the old man,” he orders the others.

  “No, no!” I beg. I try to fight, to use my power, but the handcuffs they’ve slapped on me are made of something that absorbs the elastic tickle. The cuffs seem to drain off my power; the more I try to use it, the more exhausted I get.

  “Just relax. The cuffs are wired to absorb your energy. I don’t want to have to carry you into CGEF.” Officer Reynolds forces me through the door and into the hall by the elbow.

  My father groans behind me, but I can’t see him through the ocean of green uniforms that surrounds us. They push and pull me through the reception area and out into the street, where a group of black vans wait. One of the uniformed men jogs ahead of me and slides back the side door to the van. Officer Reynolds shoves me inside. With my hands cuffed behind my back, I fall face-first into the cargo area and brace my shoulder on the floor in order to pull my knees in under me. As soon as I do, Officer Reynolds slams the door behind me. The van jerks into motion, and I squirm until I’m able to sit up on my knees. My eyes adjust to the dark interior. I’m not alone.

  Handcuffed to the seat at the back of the van, Jeremiah raises his head to look at me.

  22

  The ride from Oakdale isn’t long, confirming what I’d suspected. I’ve come full circle and am in CGEF’s backyard. I stare at Jeremiah, wishing I could read his mind. Where’s he been? How’d he get caught?