by Alicia Ellis
“I’m just checking on your precious progeny. Wouldn’t want her to have an ouchie that wasn’t cared for by half your staff. Would we?” Fisher reached out for me, but I dodged her hand. She stumbled, flailed, and this time managed to clasp onto my left shoulder.
I shrieked as her fingers dug into the flesh just above my new arm. The constant dull throb in my shoulder flamed into a stabbing pain, and I blinked back tears.
My mother’s eyes went wide. For an instant, I thought she would lunge at Dr. Fisher, but Ron arrived in time to prevent that. He gripped the doctor’s forearm until she loosened her fingertips. My body sagged with relief as the pressure eased, but my shoulder continued to throb.
Ron nodded at my mother and me, his expression apologetic. “Dr. Fisher, let me see you out.”
She yanked her arm loose. “Don’t act like you’re not upset about having to work on this child. You’re just as excited as I am about the Model Ones. But management”—she sank as much derision into that word as a drunk person could muster—“would rather we work on an arm that will never be a mainstream CyberCorp product.”
“Please.” For a second time, he attempted to steer her to the front door.
“You’re as bright as any engineer we’ve got, and we both know it. Don’t act like you’re okay with having to coddle Lena over the phone on a daily basis.”
My mother fixed her gaze on Ron. “Are you not happy with your job? Because we can rectify that.”
“No.” He raised both arms in surrender. “I love my work, and I love working with Lena.”
She raised a hand in a beckoning motion, and out of nowhere, a huge man in a black suit showed up beside us. “Please escort Dr. Fisher and her intern outside and put them in a taxi.”
The man shifted to put himself between us and Fisher and gestured toward the door. Ron’s shoulders slumped, but he trudged toward the exit and guided Fisher along the way.
As soon as the two of them stepped away, one of the engineers pulled my mother into a deep conversation about the ethics of artificial intelligence. I was relieved to no longer be the center of attention.
The throbbing in my shoulder inched its way up to the back of my head, and each time I blinked, the world spun for an instant.
“Marissa.” My tongue felt too thick, and I barely managed to get the word out.
She waved a dismissive hand toward me.
Anger boiled in my stomach, but the pain eclipsed it an instant later. I grabbed a table as I stumbled. The wood crunched under my grip. The two people whose drinks had been on the table shouted as liquid sloshed on me and splattered them.
“Lena?” My mother’s voice. Her face appeared between the spots that bounced around my vision.
She wrapped an arm around my shoulders and led me into the kitchen. A small group of caterers, all wearing black button-downs and matching skirts or pants, occupied the room. They turned toward us as we stepped into the kitchen, faces curious.
My mother pushed a bar stool away from the counter and motioned toward it. “Sit.”
“I need my medicine,” I murmured.
“Troy.” My mother snapped her fingers, and a tall man in his mid-thirties appeared. “Run up to Lena’s room—left at the top of the stairs, first door on the right—and grab the pills in her medicine cabinet.” When he stared at me, brows furrowed, she added, “Now.”
Troy jumped into action, racing from the room. A minute later, he returned, and my mother shoved two pills and a glass of water at me. I swallowed the pills dry and then gulped down the water.
My headache began to subside right away, and I noticed the room was now empty except for my mother, Troy, and me. All the caterers had gone. I wondered whether she had cleared it to give me space—or because she didn’t want me embarrassing her.
I sat straighter in my chair. “I’m fine. Can I have a moment alone please? To recover.”
She gestured to the empty room.
“I mean alone. Please.”
With an exaggerated sigh, she led Troy from the kitchen.
Only seconds later, Hunter popped his head through the other door, the one leading to outside. “You okay?”
“Hey. What are you doing here?” Despite the ache in my head, I sat up straighter and grinned.
He stepped inside, bringing with him a burst of refreshingly cool air from outside before he closed the door behind him. “My mom’s your caterer.”
“Not my caterer,” I corrected. “My parents’.”
“Whatever. Are you okay? You looked a little green a moment ago.”
“Oh, you caught that? No big deal. I just needed to take my pain meds.”
“And before that?” he asked, grinning at a private joke.
I gave him a questioning shrug.
He pointed toward the family room, where I’d been before the headache attacked. “You looked like you were two seconds away from grabbing one of those little hors d’oeuvre forks and sticking it in your eye.”
I laughed. “That would have been more enjoyable.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let out such a genuine laugh, not just to fit in or to make the people around me feel comfortable. I liked the feeling.
His fingertips brushed my right arm. Even through the fabric of my dress, the warmth of his skin sent tingles through my body. He stood near me, his face less than a foot from mine. The fresh mint that always danced on his breath floated over me. His lips were so close. The upper one had barely a hint of a dip in the top of it. I bet they’d be soft against mine.
My gaze rose back up to his eyes, which looked amused. I angled my face away, so he wouldn’t see me blush.
“Like what you see?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His hand moved from my arm around to my lower back and pulled. I leaned closer, without even meaning to. He smiled.
I leapt up from the chair and away from him. “No.” Not with Jackson lying unconscious in the hospital bed, and not when I’d put him there.
Just like that, he slid away from me. The space around me felt cold. We stood in silence for a few seconds, staring at each other, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. Hunter reached out and unwrapped one of my arms, then grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the side exit.
We didn’t need to speak, so I followed him without words.
As if they had a mind of their own, my fingers intertwined with his. His rough hands were firmer than I would have expected. Confident and comfortable. I breathed into the chill evening air as we stepped out onto a walkway. It led to the front of the house in one direction and to the back in the other. From the front, soft chatter drifted toward us. Still holding my hand, Hunter pulled me around to the back.
A sound caught my attention in the thick trees separating our yard from the next. A low rustling of leaves. A movement. There shouldn’t have been any guests on this side of the house, especially not hiding in the greenery.
A man burst from the trees and barreled toward us.
19
Massive and red-faced, the man ran at us. In my shock, my legs locked.
Hunter jumped into his path, but he didn’t slow. His shoulder slammed into Hunter’s chest, and Hunter went down. His head thumped against the ground.
I screamed—until the man slammed into me next. Air exploded from my lungs, and my scream died in my throat.
Déjà vu washed over me, as the huge guy with the stringy hair and unshaven face—the same one from back at CyberCorp—pressed me into the ground. I’d been wrong to assume he wasn’t the killer, and now he’d come to murder me.
“Death to the spawn of CyberCorp. The ungodly cannot live!”
He shook my shoulders so hard that I felt like my brain bounced against my skull. My vision blurred, and panic rose in my chest.
With both arms, I shoved his chest. He flew off me and landed hard on his back. The yelling stopped abruptly.
I glanced over at Hunter. He lay still, and my world slowed
for instant. But he groaned and rolled over. He’d be fine—he had to be fine. I couldn’t be responsible for putting another boy in the hospital.
My attacker jumped to his feet, fast for a man his size. With his height and bulk, he could have been one of my parents’ security guys.
“Somebody, help!” I shouted, but the loud music and laughter inside drowned out my words.
He didn’t know how strong my arm was. As much as I hated to rely on it, I had no choice here. I needed to take him off guard, unless I wanted to end up dead or back in the hospital.
I lunged forward and pulled my arm back, aiming for his face. He recovered too quickly, and his large beefy hand collided with my temple.
My head burst into pure pain, and I fell to the ground screaming. Bent over, I clawed at my head. Part of me insisted I needed to be alert. I needed to pay attention to the man trying to kill me, but a louder part cared only that my head was about to explode.
Spots filled my vision. The man stood above me, a hulking mass who blocked out the lights of the house. He reached a hand toward me, and I tried to shrink deeper into the ground and away from him.
But he kept coming. I had to do something.
When the man’s face came within reach, I swung my left hand forward and struck him across the cheek. He shrieked and stumbled backward. I jumped up and landed on my feet, head still swimming.
Dr. Fisher had told me the arm would read me. It would know what I wanted, so I relaxed and let the programming take over.
I lunged forward, and my metal fist connected with the man’s jaw. He howled in pain. I hit him again, this time in his cheekbone. The skin broke and blood spread outward. He crumpled to the grass and tried to crawl away. Without thinking, I struck again.
He threw his hands up to block his face. “No, no, no. Stop.” His voice came out a pleading whimper.
I got in one more punch, before I was lifted away from him. My left arm continued to swing once, twice more.
“Lena, stop!” It was Hunter’s voice. His arms wrapped around my waist. “It’s fine. You got him. You won.”
20
The police and an ambulance arrived ten minutes later, and my parents’ personal doctor arrived a few minutes after that.
The doctor stitched up a cut in my forehead, just above my temple, where the big man had hit me before I went on the offensive. Afterward, he looked me over briefly, but mostly poked and prodded my arm with fascination.
While the doctor worked, I craned my neck to get a look at the what the medics were doing with Hunter. They bandaged his head and made him lie down. No serious injuries—luckily. My conscience couldn’t handle putting another friend in the hospital.
The man who’d attacked us was another story. Two cops accompanied him in the ambulance.
He wasn’t in good enough shape to go straight to the police station.
He’d attacked me, not the other way around, but I watched the ambulance until it rounded the corner and passed out of sight. I’d used my new arm to almost beat a man to death, and I couldn’t feel good about that.
But without the arm, maybe I’d be dead right now.
Two detectives stayed behind to get a full account of what happened. A tall, brown-skinned man introduced himself as Detective Brooks, while the shorter man called himself Detective Arnold. My father showed the last of the guests out, while the detectives, my mother, and I remained in the backyard.
“Before we start,” my mother said, “I’d like your assurance that the details of events here will not be shared with anyone outside your department. And within your department, only with the people who need to know.
Both detectives nodded, their faces solemn.
“Of course, Mrs. Hayes,” Detective Brooks said. “We understand how important discretion is to your family.”
She nodded at me to begin my story.
“He hid in those trees.” I pointed to the thick greenery at the side of the yard. “He threw Hunter to the ground and then came after me. He was shaking me, shouting about how the spawn of CyberCorp had to die. I pushed him off.” I mimed a shoving motion.
“You just pushed him? That’s all?”
I nodded and kept going. “He landed on his back. When he got up again, I lunged at him and hit him a few times. Hunter pulled me off him.”
“What’s Hunter’s last name?” Detective Arnold asked.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t known him long.”
“Shepard,” Mom offered. When I cast her a questioning look, she added, “I’m familiar with all of CyberCorp’s medical cases.”
“We’ll get his account when we’re done with you.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “If you must.”
“Do you know the man who attacked you? Was he familiar at all?” Arnold asked.
I nodded.
His brows rose in surprise. “Tell me about that.”
“Twice before. He’s one of the anti-tech protesters at CyberCorp headquarters. The first time I saw him, he was screaming about how technology is evil. He tackled me—almost like tonight actually. But it didn’t seem like he was trying to hurt me that time, just trying to make a point.”
My mother’s lips pursed. “You didn’t tell me it was the same man.”
I shrugged.
“This man knows where we live, and he’s attacked you twice.”
“I guess I should also mention he was basically quoting that threatening letter CyberCorp got.”
My mother stiffened.
“Letter?” Detective Brooks asked.
“It was confidential.” She shot me a pointed glance. She pulled her hand-screen from her clutch, opened a digital version of the letter, and passed it to Detective Brooks.
Detective Arnold read it over his shoulder. “Why aren’t the police aware of this?”
“My security team is better trained than your officers, and they’re also knowledgeable about technology and how we do things. Plus, they’re experienced enough with the types of threats we get to know when and when not to react. The last thing we needed is your people bumbling about our property getting in the way. We had it handled.”
The detectives exchanged glances with each other in expressions I couldn’t read.
My mother paused, then added, “I did, however, inform your chief of police, in light of Harmony Miller’s death. He promised to keep it need-to-know—and apparently you didn’t need to.”
Detective Arnold opened his mouth to respond, but my mom cut him off.
“Would you mind wrapping up this interview? My own security team is going to handle the investigation anyway.”
Arnold remained obediently silent, and my top lip curled. Everyone let her get away with saying whatever she wanted to whomever she wanted. I wished the detective would tell her to kiss his ass, but of course, he wouldn’t. He’d stand there, bend over, and take it.
“One more thing before we take off?” Detective Brooks said.
My mother gestured for him to continue.
He turned back to me. “There are problems with your story. Even if we believe you managed to shove the man off you, it’s hard to swallow that you got in as many as a few punches without him hitting you at all. And it’s even harder to believe that you did all that damage with only three punches. How much do you weigh?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’d guess that man weighs at least twice what you do. How many times did you hit him?”
I played back the scene in my head. My fist colliding with his face again and again. “Five times,” I said after a moment. “Approximately.”
Had I overreacted? It was one thing to subdue someone, but I’d pummeled him. I’d made a conscious choice to use the arm, and I’d lost control. I stared down at my hands now, shame washing over me.
Blood covered the knuckles of my left glove. I started to pull it off, but I wasn’t sure the metal beneath it would calm my nerves at all.
“Did he hit you at all during that time?”
“Once. I think . . . I think the first punch hurt him a lot, and he wasn’t able to react after that.”
Detective Brooks raised a skeptical brow.
I glanced at my mom, and she nodded. So I added, “I was in a car accident about a month and a half ago. My left arm didn’t survive the crash. CyberCorp replaced it with a cybernetic limb.”
“Cybernetic? What does that mean?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” my mother said, a look of distaste on her face—as if everyone should understand high-tech robotics. “Suffice it to say it’s metal. I’ll have to talk to her doctors about why it’s as strong as it is. It’s supposed to imitate a human arm.”
“We’re going to have to see it to verify your story.” He glanced at my mom, his expression apologetic.
When I pulled off the glove, everyone reacted. My mother beamed with pride. Arnold recoiled. Brooks reached out his hand to touch it and then pulled back. That was the thing about technology. It prompted a wide range of reactions, but almost never indifference.
The silence spanned for too long as the two detectives stared. Eventually, my mother cleared her throat. Both men surfaced from the trance and turned toward her.
“I think that will be all,” Brooks said.
I grabbed his wrist before he could walk away. “Is that man going to be okay?”
His brow furrowed. “The man who attacked you?”
“He’s going to live, right?”
“He’ll be fine. He has a concussion and needs to be under observation overnight. Other than that, it’s just cuts, bruises, and a broken nose. Those will heal with time.”
Some of my stress dissipated. “Am I in trouble?”
“Of course you’re not,” my mother answered. She rubbed my back and fixed the officer with a stare.
I couldn’t help feeling grateful. Despite my mother’s overbearing, technology-obsessed, insensitive attitude, she’d defend me just as hard as she annoyed me.
“No, what you did was self-defense,” Brooks said. “You’ve done a great service to this community by helping us capture a murderer.”
