Metal Heart: Book 1: The Metal Heart Trilogy

by Melinda Crouchley

  As soon as I enter the lab, Clinton Fuller glares at me from the back of the room. My ears burn as I take a seat across from him. I don’t speak. Don’t make eye contact. It will only exacerbate the situation. That lasts for about five minutes.

  “This isn’t going to work out,” I whisper to him. “Maybe you should go back to Santiago? Save yourself the embarrassment of being seen with me.”

  It’s supposed to be a helpful suggestion, but the word “embarrassment” makes him cringe. One of his meaty hands curls into a fist.

  “Neither of us got what we wanted,” I insist, not heeding his warning glare. “So let’s cut our losses. Go back to our old partners.”

  “Shut up and do the work,” he responds with a menacing grumble.

  “You’re going to regret this.” I snap a data chip into the belly of a plasma rifle.

  It warms beneath my fingers and I smile in satisfaction, despite the stress of interacting with Clinton. The comforting hum produced by the mechanics clicking on soothes my frayed nerves. My life might be spiraling out, I might be manipulated and forced into tasks I am uncomfortable with, but technology is the one thing I can still exert control over.

  “I already do regret this,” Fuller says, voice rising.

  He swipes an arm through our project, scattering the pieces across the table and onto the ground. Destroying our entire work for the last 45 minutes. Probably damaging some of the pieces beyond repair.

  “Real mature Fuller. What are we supposed to do now?”

  He shrugs. “Pick it up.”

  “You first.”

  “Pick it up Garza,” he commands.

  I look around the room and notice we’ve pulled in a small audience. Rabbit stares down at his tablet, a curtain of hair masking his features. There are no Scarletts or Rosas here to ease my discomfort. Even Sergeant Vargas watches in mute fascination. Clinton Fuller gets whatever he wants and most of those in authority let him.

  “Do it yourself. Clean up your own messes.”

  “I don’t need to do that. Ever,” Clinton says, an ugly sneer crawling over his features. The uncanny resemblance to Senator Fuller curls my lip.

  “Rabbit,” Clinton says, with the intonation you might use to call a loyal pet to your side. “Come here.” I almost expect him to punctuate this command with a whistle.

  From across the room, as if he’s been waiting for this cue, Rabbit rises slowly to his feet. He paces over to our table, hair hanging like a distorted halo around his head.

  “Could you get that for me?” Clinton asks, pointing with the toe of his boot at our ruined project.

  Rabbit bends down to retrieve the rifle components at our feet

  “Rabbit,” I say, keeping my voice low but earnest. “Don’t.”

  He doesn’t respond, just collects the damaged items and places them on the counter. He stands there, his hands splayed out on the tabletop. His fingers press so hard against the table, his knuckles turn white with tension. His face is hidden, but an ache beats out of my metal heart for him. I have no clue how Santiago’s tied to Clinton, what the Fullers have on him. But I don't want to see him like this.

  A sudden impulse to touch him over-takes me. His hand is just a few inches from mine. My fingers twitch and I make a choice. I set my hand firmly down on top of his. For a brief moment our fingers intertwine and Rabbit’s head snaps up, hair parting so our eyes meet. His lips tick up into a fleeting smile and his forehead crinkles in confusion.

  “Eleni,” he says, a little too warmly. A blush rushes up my neck. A blush rushes to some other parts of my body too and I lose focus on everything for a moment. It's just me and Rabbit.

  And I do like the way he says my name.

  From the head of the room Sergeant Vargas interrupts. “Santiago, back to your seat.”

  Rabbit reluctantly turns to leave, pulling his hand away from mine with a surprising gentleness. I watch him go and his back isn’t hunched anymore. It feels like some weird inexplicable victory. Momentary and fleeting.

  “Prothero is the only thing protecting you, Garza. And they’ve basically left you for dead,” he sneers, his words low. “You're just as helpless as Rabbit. Remember that.”

  “And your dad is the only thing protecting you. Why are you even here? You’re just wasting everyone’s time.” I shove the pieces of our project across the table at him.

  He jumps back out of his seat, raising his fist. “I’ll fucking kill you Garza,” he shouts.

  I hop off my stool, a warm heat rising up on my wrist and curling around my forearm. It’s the band. It’s the warm rush of electricity. I stare across the table at Fuller.

  “Try it,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “I want you to try it.”

  Clinton takes a step forward and from our right, Rabbit appears out of thin air, like he teleported from the other side of the room.

  “Clint,” he says, his empty hands outstretched, both palms held open like a saint in supplication. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Clinton startles, taking one step back, his fist dropping to his side. “You're not doing this,” Rabbit says, his voice low and earnest. “Right?”

  Clinton looks at Rabbit, confusion contorting his features. “No. I don’t—I don’t know.”

  “It’s OK Clint. Let me help you. OK?” Rabbit says, tone soothing.

  “Yeah. Sounds good,” Clinton says vacantly.

  Rabbit nods and smiles, but it’s not a genuine smile. It’s fake and strange. I look around the room and pretty much everyone has abandoned their projects to watch this bizarre interaction. Even Vargas gazes at the scene from behind the safety of her desk.

  Rabbit surveys me out of the corner of his eye. “Garza, get a new partner.”

  I take his cue, nodding and slowly backing away from the table. Rabbit sits down heavily in the seat I just vacated and pinches the bridge of his nose. From my close vantage point, I see his hands slightly shaking. Fear constricts my throat and sends chills up my arm.

  Clinton drops back down into his seat, his head bowed.

  “I’m sorry,” Clinton says, directing his apology to Rabbit. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yeah. Of course. I know. It’s cool, Clint. You’re cool,” Rabbit’s voice is tender, like he’s talking to a young child. He surveys the table in front of him and picks up the EMP gun from the table. “Let’s just work on this, alright?”

  Clinton nods emptily, his fingers searching across the table. He selects a trigger and hands it to Rabbit without looking up.

  I open my mouth to interject but an impulse tells me to stop. It tells me that I pushed too far and maybe I broke something in Clinton. He looks broken.

  Or maybe he broke himself and I was just a handy tool.

  “Back to work,” Vargas barks, shocking the residents and myself out of our drama induced stupor. She exchanges a long look with Rabbit and he shakes his head firmly, his attention diverting back to Clinton. Vargas hesitates, taps her fingers on the table, and turns away.

  Broken Clinton is Rabbit’s mess to clean up.

  Clinton is eerily quiet for the rest of the period until the warning bell sounds for General Assembly. He stirs like he’s in a trance. Rabbit meets my eyes and his expression shifts. He doesn’t appear angry, he just seems tired. He opens his mouth, his brows furrow briefly, and I know he wants to say something, but instead he drops his head. He places a hand on Clinton’s shoulder, guiding him into line several people behind me.

  The entire walk to General Assembly I hold my pounding temple, willing the growing pain to retreat. The silence from the back of the line is deafening. Right before we enter the doors I break formation and veer off towards a water fountain. I retrieve two more pain relievers from my pants pocket, gulp them down and splash water on my forehead.

  I’m standing there long enough for Rabbit and Clinton to pass. Clinton shuffles like the undead, Rabbit gently pushing him forward. We share another loaded glance, and Rabbit’s mouth slips into a thin, disc
ouraging line.

  It’s quite possible Rabbit doesn’t like me anymore.

  In the assembly hall, Scarlett stands two lines over and playfully winks across the expanse of people separating us. I hold up a hand numbly to indicate I see her. She’s with Emilia Rosa. The other Rosa twin, Emanuelle, is four lines over. Emilia and Emanuelle Rosa are the only other people at the base who acknowledge my existence with more than a casual, passing interest. Probably because they’ve obtained the “freak” status as well. The base doesn’t house another set of twins. The statistical likelihood of both twins being suitable for National Service is slim, according to the mini-documentary Prothero financed on them last year. Like me, they bear the stigma of being Prothero public relations props.

  The Rosas have individual names, but most people don’t bother to remember them because they look and sound so similar. Only Scarlett, myself, and the commanding officers bother to distinguish between them.

  Scarlett speaks into her band and her wave registers in my earpiece. One of the benefits of being an android, I suppose.

  “What’s going on? You look sick.”

  I shake my head at her and whisper towards the band, “We’ll talk later.”

  Before we make any further exchanges, a siren announces the beginning of General Assembly. Colonel Gutierrez steps up to a podium at the front of an elevated stage at the back of the room. His voice projects over loudspeakers buried in the ceiling. He makes brief announcements about which residents are due for inoculations, and what upcoming power outages and food shortages to expect. He steps away, the auditorium grows dark and a virtual spins into existence, displaying the latest news from around the globe.

  My mind switches to autopilot as a pulsing red beacon leapfrogs from continent to continent, images spilling out from states and countries depicting all manner of horrors we are shielded from until our training ends. It’s the same bleak scenes on display, with the nano virus lurking as a persistent fearful threat we need Prothero’s protection from. They are shielding us from a dangerous biohazard, sheltering the deserving from a miserable fate, so we should be grateful. Images of war, bombs, guns, and disease flash past our upturned heads so fast my stomach churns.

  Gutierrez clears his throat loudly, calling my wandering attention back to the elevated stage where he speaks. Other bodies snap to attention.

  “There is one other issue I’d like to address before we part tonight. We’ve experienced unrest in our Southern states over the last five months. We suspect an informant exists in our ranks. An infiltrator feeding a Contra group information about our movements and our new weaponry.

  “If you have information or suspicions about a fellow resident, soldier or colleague please contact a sergeant or lieutenant. Do not attempt to confront this person individually. Federal agents will assist with detaining and questioning to determine guilt.”

  My left temple throbs, fear rippling out over me. I steal a glimpse down the line. It’s shadowy in the assembly hall but I can make out Clinton’s hulking shape. Projections from the images overhead dance oddly over him and the residents between us. He stares passively up at the ceiling, his eyes sunken and red rimmed. He might actually be crying. Foreboding washes over me as the image of a bomb exploding rises up on the virtual, raining debris down on the assembly. It dissipates into nothingness before it reaches us. I close my lids and Clinton and the destruction disappear into blackness.

  After General Assembly we’re released for the afternoon until dinner. Scarlett and I find each-other in the crowd quickly, we nod to the Rosas and scoot out the door to her barracks before we are discovered by any of Clinton’s group.

  I relate the story from Tech and once we’ve gone over the entire scenario, I beg her to drop it. We read our instructional texts together, sitting side by side on the floor at the foot of the bed, scrolling through the tablets on our laps, tucked up against each other. Breathing comes easier with Scarlett. My headache spins down to a dull roar. It’s possible to concentrate on the text.

  We are safe for the rest of the evening back in Scarlett’s barracks. We finish our assigned reading, making a brief foray into differential equations before we both lose interest. It’s time for lights-out at 8pm. I drop underneath her bed, laying on the cool concrete beneath it. She tosses me a pillow and I prop it below my head, staring at the mattress separating us.

  I reach up and poke a finger between the springs. She shifts and drops her head down to speak with me, her mass of curling blonde hair obscuring her ears. Her dangling face grows crimson as gravity forces blood to the top of her skull.

  “Yes my darling Leni?”

  “Nothing. I missed your stupid face,” I say with a teasing grin.

  “Your face is stupid. Goodnight dear.”

  “Night Mom,” I murmur back, my lids falling closed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SIMULATION COMBAT

  In the morning, during the stroll from our barracks to the mess hall, a wave pops up on our bands. I open it and my heart melts into liquid, dripping into my stomach. I notice others looking down at their wrists, then laughing and guffawing, elbowing each other. All around me, residents are laughing. They’re laughing at Clinton and they’re laughing at me.

  Someone, my guess is one of the mean girls from Tech with designs on humiliating both of us, circulated an image of us embracing. The image is shopped, our heads attached to the bodies of others, but it’s a fairly good depiction. I cringe, embarrassment and frustration assaulting me. This is not going to resolve our struggle, it’s only going to make the conflict between Fuller and I worse.

  If he is even aware of it. He wasn’t firing on all cylinders the last time I saw him at General Assembly.

  Though my stomach is queasy from the wave, I manage to choke down four pieces of bacon, buttered toast, and an apple. Scarlett, after commiserating over the wave and its implications, keeps a watchful gaze on Clinton, Rabbit, Luis and two other male residents I vaguely recognize. Clinton looks less shell-shocked than yesterday, but he’s sitting unearthly still at the table, not engaging in dialogue with his friends.

  Rabbit isn’t saying much either. He asks Clinton a few questions, and Clinton either nods or shakes his head in turn. Rabbit must feel the weight of my stare, because he glances over his shoulder with the same frowning expression from yesterday, and scoots over to block my view of Clinton.

  I set down my half eaten apple, my stomach rumbling with agitation.

  “Who do you think sent the wave?” I ask, dragging my hood up over my head and slumping down further in my seat.

  “An evil troll. It’s not worth your time trying to figure it out. Do you think he’s gonna start a fight? In front of all the residents here?” Scarlett takes a sip of coffee, grimacing.

  “Maybe.” I push the tray away from me. “I don’t know. He looks really messed up. I mean, one minute we’re about to throw down and the next…I don’t know what I did.”

  Scarlett eyes me skeptically, “You have no idea?”

  “Look, he threatened to kill me. He raised his damn fist. Why am I the one feeling so guilty? I didn’t do anything!” My voice raises in indignation.

  “I’m not blaming the victim. Obviously he came at you. Everyone saw it. Everyone but me. So what else happened?”

  “Rabbit,” I say, my eyes flicking over to him and back again. “He stepped between us and Clinton just like—went blank. It was so weird.”

  “They’re weird,” Scarlett observes, taking a long swig of coffee.

  I pull out the injection device and Scarlett turns away. She dislikes the miniscule drop of blood collecting on the tip of my finger. There is a sick, sad kind of humor in a soldier who grows queasy at the sight of blood. The Rosas watch with vague interest. They are in the medical specialization and all the anatomical elements and oddities of the transplants and nano juice fascinate them.

  “Ugh. Why do you do that at the breakfast table? It makes me so ill,” Scarlett groans down into her
coffee cup, indicating the injector.

  “Guess I’ll just die then.” I drop the injector to the table dramatically.

  “Your death will be for a worthy cause.” Scarlett shoves the injector away with a finger.

  “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or what?”

  “I did, in fact, do just that thing. The lights were all wonky in our barracks last night. You didn’t notice them?”

  “That’s odd,” Emanuelle says. "Pretty sure we're on the same circuit as you. We didn't see anything."

  “Annoying is another way to describe it.” Scarlett takes an extra large swig from her mug. “It was annoying. The lights flashed off and on for hours. Not to mention Len is a walking, talking space heater. With her below the bed, I was pig sweating all night long.”

  “Pig sweating?” Emilia asks.

  I offer a brief, quiet snort in response and Scarlett chuckles good naturedly.

  To either side of Scarlett, I notice people staring. All during breakfast residents nudge each-other and point our way, laughing openly. I ignore them. As much as I’m used to invisibility, I’m accustomed to recognition as well. Dealings with Prothero numbed me to both.

  “What's in those injectors anyway?” Scarlett asks, raising a dubious eyebrow.

  “Battery acid and carbonite.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past Prothero.” She frowns down at the injector. I pocket it defensively.

  “Must we talk about my evil corporate sponsor this early in the morning? I'm anxious enough as it is.” I squint over at Fuller’s table. Rabbit’s skinny body is positioned stealthily to block my direct view of Clinton’s face. I just want to know what to expect. He threatened my life. I deserve to know if he’s going to make good on his promise.

  Scarlett pats my arm.

  “You wave me the minute those creepos try to mess with you,” She stands up. “And forget about the dumb picture. It sucks for right now, but it will be old news before too long.”