Shield

by Rachael Craw

  My ears get hot.

  “You’re grinding your teeth,” Kitty says.

  “Shut up.”

  Jamie is four, three, two steps away. He comes to a stop, hands deep in his pockets. His downturned eyes rise to find me. His mouth does this combination: purse, press and pull back; impossible to interpret.

  I think I blink – that’s something. Speak. “What are you doing?”

  “Is your phone off?” He pulls his from his pocket.

  My stomach swoops at the sound of his voice. I frown and dig for my phone.

  “Hello, Jamie.” Kitty shakes her head. “It’s nice to see you too.”

  He nods at his sister, a half-hearted snort – not very jolly. “Kit.”

  I find my phone in the front pocket of my pack and press the button without thinking. My cover photo lights up. No. I flip it screen-down into my palm, my cheeks flooding with heat. I pretend I’m checking the mute button but it’s too late; I know he saw it. An old photo – Jamie kissing my cheek, me screwing my nose up, a stupid selfie.

  “It was on silent,” I mumble.

  “Ethan’s back.”

  My head snaps up. “Ethan?”

  “He’s been trying to get hold of you. He’s sending Davis to pick us up from your place at two.”

  “Both of us? Together?”

  “I think it was an order.”

  “What’s it about?” Kitty demands, a wobble in her voice.

  Jamie shrugs. “He didn’t say.”

  My mind spins like a tyre without traction. Ethan’s back from the UK. This means his trip was successful and he’s secured a new Proxy for the Stateside Affinity Project. Soon they’ll be back in the business of identifying Sparks and deploying Shields to protect them. Is that what he wants us for? Supply Protection? I haven’t even completed Orientation – I’m still under the jurisdiction of the psych ward. Worrying things, but the thought of seeing Ethan gives me a rush of … what? Joy? Relief? Fear? I push the fear away – the residue of my nightmare. For all his German hard-ass, weathered-agent routine he’s only ever been kind to me.

  Jamie checks the time on his phone and pulls his car keys from his back pocket. “We should go. It’s forty minutes to your place.”

  I stare at the keys in his hand, my resolve thinned to almost nothing by one swivel of his wrist. Pathetic. I swallow and force the words out, “I think Kitty should take me. We’ll meet you there.”

  Jamie draws a slow breath and looks at the ceiling. His throat works. He nods once and walks away, creating a wake of turning heads – from me to him. I try to ignore the stares and give Kitty an apologetic look.

  She grips my arm, directing us towards the parking lot. “I’m sure everything is fine,” she says, but her voice catches and she blinks too much.

  FAREWELLS

  The water is scalding, foam to my wrists. I work Miriam’s “non-scratch” scrubber in frenetic circles over the pan – look busy, in case Jamie comes in the kitchen – only twenty minutes to fill until Davis arrives. I strain to hear Kitty and her brother in the living room. She’s quiet. He’s on the phone to their folks, telling them not to worry, that it’s probably nothing, just Ethan wanting to touch base now he’s back from Europe – he’ll likely be home by tomorrow night.

  None of us believe it. Ethan wouldn’t pull us out of school just to say hello. He wouldn’t send Davis to collect us. Panic tempts me with thoughts of Miriam but I tell myself she’s okay. She’s stable in the Affinity Project ICU. Besides, Ethan wouldn’t bring us in together if it was about Miriam … unless … unless he thinks I’ll need moral support. My hands grow still in the sink. Please, let it be about something else.

  Another possibility pops into my mind, more cringe-worthy than devastating. What if Ethan examined the last few weeks of data from our trackers? Are we finally being busted for our rule-breaking weekend? Jamie and Kitty both stayed the first few nights after I was released from the psych ward. Kitty slept beside me. Jamie slept on a camp mat on the floor. But when I was certain of Kitty’s sleeping-pill snores, I’d slip from the bed and into his arms. Blurry hours of silky worship with no threat of fainting “mid-snog”. The Proxy took care of that when her telepathic blast forced my signal to full maturity. Only one thing kept Jamie and me from crossing the line and neither of us would name it – name her.

  Helena.

  Sex with Jamie would permanently bind our signals, robbing him of his chance at a normal life. With Helena he could deactivate. She could deactivate. No more Sparks, no more Strays, no more killing. Not a cure but, in time, full remission. All they have to do is follow the steps in Ethan’s program and be together … together together. Forever … I close my eyes, make fists in the hot water. I try not to think about our goodbye, the long hours of argument on that Sunday night before school. No raised voices. Worse. His whispered plea. My brittle resolve. I won’t be the reason he misses his chance at a normal life. That’s final.

  “Kit,” Jamie’s voice carries softly from the living room. “Dad wants a word.”

  A shuddering sniff. The sound of Kitty clearing her throat. “Hey, Dad.”

  Jamie’s footsteps in the hall. I slop dishwater down my leg, it burns then cools too quickly. I scrub the pan harder, keeping my head down. Jamie’s ETR amplifies as he steps into the room, that deep resonant note in the bandwidth, expanding as it blends with mine. My match. My Synergist.

  The old Affinity Project, the instigators of the original gene experiment, would have loved us together. Synergist Coding: the ultimate pairing of complementary signals that amplify physical and telepathic capabilities, the best in natural selection for passing on the purest strain of the synthetic gene. Perfect for ensuring the organisation’s investment, guaranteeing the next generation of super soldiers for hire. Money in the bank. Not so the Affinity Project after the rise of the Fixation Effect and the mutation that turned half of the genetically engineered population known as Strikers into Strays. From useful, trained Assets to lunatic killers.

  Now our Synergist relationship is considered dangerous because it increases our susceptibility to spontaneous Sparking which, despite the amplification in power and ability, increases our likelihood of being killed. Affinity, above all else, protect and preserve their Assets.

  Jamie’s silence shifts behind me. If I look up, I know I’ll see his reflection in the kitchen window. I keep scrubbing and curse Kitty for being such a tidy cook, leaving only a pan out of the dishwasher from last night’s grilled cheese. It’s embarrassing now. We both know I’m stalling. Finally, I force myself to stop, to pull the plug. I watch the water drain and wait for him to speak.

  He doesn’t.

  I can do silence. Watch me do silence. I take the dishcloth and run it around the sink. My heart taps an aggressive staccato in my ears. It’s a competition now, who can not talk the longest.

  I brace and turn. He leans against the pantry. I lean against the counter. Nice and easy. See how relaxed we are, leaning. Of course my pulse gives me away – if he’s listening. His pulse gives him away. Still, he’s better at it than me, thumbs in his pockets, feet crossed at the ankles, eyes down. I shouldn’t look at him because it’s like self-harm or theft or something … but I do – furtive at first, then when he doesn’t lift his gaze, fixedly – I look and look. The whole. The parts. The careful evenness of his expression. I want to ask about the bandaids on his knuckles, the shadows under his eyes. I want to smooth my fingers over his wrinkled collar. I want too many things.

  He blinks, hesitates and looks up. Right at me.

  One, two, three seconds. I should look down. This is crossing the line. It’s unhelpful. We’re undoing weeks of work. I regret my hair. My pallor. The shadows under my eyes. My silence. His. The way things ended.

  “I won’t deactivate.”

  “I want you to.”

  “You want me to be with her?”

  “I want you to be happy.”

  “With someone else.”

  �
��Free.”

  “With someone else.”

  “Alive and not killing or being killed.”

  “With Helena.”

  “… Yes.”

  Three weeks I survive, doing the right thing, staying away from him, choosing not to feel the loss. Numb and wise.

  This is not wise. Looking at Jamie is not wise – letting him look at me.

  In the bandwidth our signals are all over each other – they don’t know the rules – rushing together, blending seamlessly, creating a deep, rich chord. Jamie straightens and crosses the kitchen towards me. I tighten my hold on the counter, unprepared as he closes the gap. He stops beside me, reaches for the cupboard and takes a glass, flicks the filter by the faucet and pours himself some water. Two, maybe three electric inches between our arms. The mantra of “don’ts” frogmarch through my head but I’ve already looked. What’s to stop me from breathing in his scent, leaning into his heat, letting my shoulder brush against his? I’m already imagining the heady tingling that would– Stop it. “What are you doing?”

  He drains the glass. “I’m thirsty.”

  “We’re all … thirsty.” Like a saint, I push away from the counter, force my feet towards the hall. “Doesn’t mean we should help ourselves.”

  He snorts softly. “Everton.”

  Everton. I pause at the door, turn my head, not my body.

  “I’m leaving,” he says.

  A shooting pain – I’ve bent my nail on the architrave.

  “In a fortnight. I’ll finish school in London. I’ve spoken to Uncle Jeremy.”

  London.

  “I thought I could do this, but …”

  I stab my throbbing nail deeper into the paintwork.

  He straightens his shoulders. “I can’t stand it.”

  I can’t stand it but I can bear it more than the thought of him cut from my life so soon. I’m too winded to speak.

  In the distance, the rumble of an engine.

  Let it be Davis.

  The sound of Kitty’s goodbyes on the phone.

  “I haven’t told her yet,” he says. “Or Barb and Dad. I wanted to talk to you first.”

  What am I supposed to say?

  Neither Jamie nor I move, both of us listening as the van pulls into Miriam’s driveway. His eyes bore into mine, waiting for me to say something but what? That’s fine by me? Please don’t leave? Your timing sucks. I swallow and release my grip of the doorway, curling my bruised nail into my fist. “We have to go.” I catch a flash of pained frustration in his face as I turn to the hall. I touch the bookcase for balance, the alcove shelf where the Virgin mourns in her blue porcelain robe, the rail of the stairs. In the living room, I take my coat from the arm of the wingback. I hug it, my pulse hammering through the layers. Kitty looks up at me with wide red-rimmed eyes. I make my mouth say, “It’ll be okay, Kit.”

  Nothing will be okay.

  She tucks her chin into the high neck of her sweater. “I’ll take Buffy home with me.” The cat lifts her head where she lies curled on the sofa next to Kitty, her yellow eyes narrowed.

  Jamie comes up the hall, zipping his jacket. I zip mine. Davis’s boots rattle the porch and Buffy darts under the sofa. A sharp knock. The cat’s low growl. I spring the door open like it’s an escape hatch from a sinking vessel.

  Davis. Steel-blue eyes, tan, GI Joe stubble. He hunches against the weather in a black overcoat. I’m hit with a rush of feeling. His preset scowl notches in as he looks me over, exhaling a cloud of white breath. “You look like crap.”

  I resist the urge to alarm him with a hug and step out onto the porch. “We can’t all be as pretty as you.”

  Davis nods at Jamie. “Rockefeller.”

  Jamie grunts. “What, no glowstick?” He clomps past Davis down the steps to the leaf-choked path.

  “Give me half a sec and I’ll light it up for you.”

  Kitty shuffles up beside me, her woollen beanie pulled low, her nose pink at the tip, eyes watery as she looks up at Davis. “I was going to cook steak tonight.”

  His scowl doesn’t shift but his mouth softens. “Raincheck.”

  I wait until she follows Jamie to say goodbye at the van and turn my back so only Davis can see my face. If I had food in my stomach I’d probably bring it up. “What’s this about?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “You think it’s Miriam?”

  His blue eyes pin me, his scowl gone. “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “They’d alert me if there’d been any change in her condition.”

  I blink. “They would?”

  “Ethan tagged me into the daily ICU updates – in case anything happened while he was gone. He only just got back and she was fine this morning.”

  I can’t tell if I’m moved, upset or grateful that Ethan has Davis keeping an eye on things. It gives me a fluttering feeling. “Then what does he want?”

  “Quit your yap and we can go find out.”

  The van is running and I walk ahead, catching a glimpse of movement in the passenger window. A dark, handsome face. Cold shock takes me out of my stride.

  Davis drops a hand on my shoulder. “It’s Lane.”

  I don’t move.

  He gives me a gentle squeeze. “You think Ethan would send Benjamin to pick you up?”

  I hate my paralysis, the painful charge of adrenaline, my scrambling pulse and sweaty palms. I have to fight the flood of memory, the image of Aiden falling … his blood– Stop. Stop. It’s not Benjamin. This is ridiculous. I’ve had weeks to think about it; I know it wasn’t Benjamin’s fault. The Proxy used him. So, why am I freaking out?

  The van door opens and a young man steps down onto the driveway. He is reassuringly short and compact and not Benjamin. Though he is familiar. I’m still standing there, staring as he comes towards me, his expression wary. “Hey,” he says.

  “Lane Thomas, you remember Evangeline Everton.” Davis, gruff and impatient.

  Lane nods but I still can’t place him. He tilts his head. “You were looking for a phone in the cafeteria after escaping ReProg.”

  I squint, my lips forming a small “o”. The smiling helpful guy from the men’s mess hall, though he isn’t smiling now. “It wasn’t an escape – we were on a break.”

  “Whatever.” Davis clears his throat. “He’s the new guy.”

  I remember the whole room of men recoiling when Davis told them I had helped a Stray break out of a detention centre. I wonder if Lane knew that taking Benjamin’s assignment meant dealing with me. I wonder if he had a choice. “Nice to meet you.”

  “We should get moving, Malcolm,” Lane says. “Flight’s on stand-by.”

  “Malcolm?”

  Davis makes a scathing noise, a rash of colour in his face. “That’s classified, moron.”

  I cock my head. “Your name or the flight?”

  Lane makes a hasty retreat to the van.

  “I didn’t know you had a first name,” I say, biting my lip.

  “Get in the goddamn van.”

  Kitty waits for me, her face all crumpled and damp. We hug. Her arms tight, lending me strength. Mine, limp as spaghetti. I can’t think of a single reassuring thing to say. She fills the gap. “Don’t pick fights.”

  “Me?”

  “Things happen. I want you to be safe.”

  “Kit–”

  “Please.” She squeezes me.

  “I’m not going to fight anyone.”

  “You want to burn it all down.”

  I cough my indignation, speechless again. Where is this coming from? Am I so unstable she thinks I’ll get there and cause trouble? I pull out of her hold and try to give her a steady look. “I don’t want that, Kit. I only want Miriam. That’s all.”

  Kitty screws her face up to keep back the tears. “Good. Then give her a kiss from me.”

  She doesn’t wait to wave us off, returning to the house. Jamie’s already strapped himself in a seat against the wall, four-point h
arness secured – ready for sedation. The resonant hum of his ETR moves through me like a wave of grief as I climb in and take a seat opposite. I pull my harness on, shaken by Kitty’s plea. Davis opens a panel, retrieving the sedation gun. Before he can decide which of us to shoot first, I take it out of his hand.

  He frowns but doesn’t stop me. “Careful, you gotta–”

  I tilt my head and press the barrel to the side of my neck, depress the trigger and try not to wince at the sting. I hand the gun back, already clouding and grateful for creeping nothingness. I feel Jamie’s dark-eyed stare and then I’m gone.

  RETURN

  Davis leads us down the wide slope from the underground transport bay into the Affinity Project compound. I concentrate on the rhythm of my feet, legs still wobbly post-sedation. I recall nothing about the journey. I can’t pretend I wasn’t interested when Lane let slip about a flight. I wonder how far we’ve come and what time it is.

  At the bottom of the slope, a bank of elevators. Eight. Double width. Riveted steel. Davis takes us to the third, there’s room enough for a tank, grated metal floor, brushed steel walls. I stumble half-drunk from sedation. Jamie and Davis reach to steady me, a clash of signals in my head. I grip the side rail, the doors close and the noise of three active signals amplifies in the bandwidth. The others stand oblivious to the increase in Electro-Telepathic Radiation while I have to hold myself back from the static. I don’t want to Harvest anyone’s memories by accident, but since the Proxy opened me up my Active Frequency Sensitivity has gone through the roof.

  It’s hard enough navigating how I feel about being here let alone processing the memories rising in three other people. My first time in the compound I woke up to my spine being skewered in a core sample procedure, my hair chopped off and a trip to ReProg. My last time here, I blew up a lab in a grief-induced telekinetic rage. They sedated and relocated me to a no-glass zone, but the psych team were kind and Ethan visited me every day for four weeks. They even let me sit with Miriam in the ICU until searching for her in the bandwidth gave me nosebleeds.

  The elevator rumbles as we sink lower beneath the ground and I tell myself, I’ll see her today.