Metal Heart: Book 1: The Metal Heart Trilogy

by Melinda Crouchley

  Clinton’s fist slams into my back and sends me sprawling into a pile of rubble from a blown apart shipping container. My head hits first, on the sharp, jagged corner. The vision blips in my left eye, a rainbow of colors seeping into the edges. They pool in the middle of my sight, merging into a sea of black. The acrid warmth of blood splashes across my tongue. With my still functioning right eye, I catch sight of the broken edges of the metal where I hit spattered with red and blue liquid. The left half of my face is numb as if my mind and body lost connection there. Adrenaline shoots through me and a strong desire to fight rather than flee rips me onto my feet.

  I whirl towards Clinton. He takes a step back—blinking at my ruined face—and then pushes forward, chest barreled.

  “You’re dead Garza,” he shouts, close enough for spittle to land on me.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “You let the LRAD sneak up on us. You blew up the assault vehicle before we had a chance to get cover.”

  I shake my head vigorously. Tendrils of pain flick out from my shattered eye socket and I reach up to the flashing wires there. It’s not full, throbbing pain. It’s the pressure points. It’s the mingling of real human hurting and robotic sensory stimulation.

  “Jesus.” Rabbit groans from off to our left. “Your eye.”

  “Holy shit!” Luis shouts. “Holy shit dude. This is not good. Not good. Rabbit, her eye is fucking gone. What do we do?”

  “Send up the distress flare and flag down an EMT.” Rabbit waves at Luis, who nods and reluctantly jogs away from the scene. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Clint.” Rabbit approaches us with his open palm technique from the tech lab. He reaches up to touch Clinton’s arm, but Clinton shrugs him off angrily. “She needs medical attention, her eye—”

  Clinton jabs an accusatory finger towards me. "You can't do anything right.”

  “You’re the one who can’t pass aeronautics.”

  “Shut up Garza,” Clinton growls.

  “You’re so pathetic even your father—”

  “Eleni,” Rabbit says sharply. “Stop.”

  Clinton glowers at Rabbit.

  “What’s with you?” Clinton demands, thumping a fist against Rabbit’s chest. “Stay out of this. This is between me and her.”

  “I can’t stay out of it,” Rabbit insists, gaze flickering over to me. “I don’t want to—I just want—”

  Rabbit’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows back his statement. Clinton turns slightly, following his gaze.

  “Garza?” Clinton asks. “You want Garza?”

  The disbelief underscoring Clinton’s questions burns hot against my skin. Why is it so impossible Rabbit Santiago would want me?

  Rabbit wants me.

  The world tilts a little on its access and I reach out to steady myself against the shipping container.

  “You and Garza?" Clinton interrupts. "After what she did to me? After everything we've done for you?"

  Rabbit’s eyes widen and then narrow to slits. He wheels to face Clinton. “What you’ve done for me? Are you fucking kidding me. Eleni—”

  “You can forget about your future,” Clinton says.

  “What’s he talking about?” I ask.

  Rabbit looks back at me despondently through the snarl of his curling hair. His outstretched hand falls to his side.

  “Eleni, I—” Rabbit starts. Clinton interrupts him.

  Everyone interrupts Rabbit.

  “You can forget what we offered you Santiago. Forget our deal. You don't look at her. You don't talk to her. She sabotaged me. She ruined me. She'll ruin you, too. Just like Skye.” Clinton shoves Rabbit and steps between us, blocking our view of one another. “She’s a monster.”

  “It’s not like Skye. It’s not gonna be like Skye. Now just calm the fuck down,” Rabbit says, a steely frustration working into his words. “Everyone calm the fuck down.”

  “You calm down,” Clinton growls. “I can’t believe this shit. I’m trying to look out for you. Garza is bad news and you can’t help yourself when it comes to a wounded chick. I’m trying to be your friend.”

  “You don’t have any friends,” I interject, taking a lurching step forward. The movement causes some loose wiring in the eye socket to sizzle. It fills the air with a melting plastic smell. “You don’t know what it’s like to be someone’s friend.”

  “You’re pathetic, Garza. Look at you. Jesus Christ look at her.” Clinton’s mouth forms into an ugly sneer. “You have no fucking idea who I am. Who Rabbit is. None of it.”

  “I am looking at her,” Rabbit says quietly. Clinton’s head snaps over to him. “I can’t stop looking at her.” He sighs heavily, running a hand over his face. “Oh god. Eleni. Your eye.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re picking her over me? Why? Because I fucked Skye that one time.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Rabbit says through gritted teeth. “That has nothing to do with it.”

  My heart drops into my stomach. I try to get Rabbit’s attention but he’s intentionally not looking at me now. “Face it Clinton. You’re a loser. Everyone knows it. Even your father knows it.”

  All the humor and color drops from Clinton’s face. His eyes bulge. A vein I’ve never noticed before pulses in the fabric seared away from burnt skin on his neck.

  Clinton winds up for a punch. I attempt to bolt around him, but his hulking frame blocks my retreat. I scramble backwards down the row of containers.

  Clinton attacks me with a wild swinging fist and I jump back in time to avoid his fury. Shouts come from behind Clinton. I hear the shuffling movement of approaching residents. I see the grappling hands of skinny Rabbit.

  Clinton’s inhuman appearance, the rage and humiliation, overwhelms me. It's all I can see. My damaged eye socket burns so I swipe at it, the back of my hand coming away purple with mingled blood and blue fluid. My left hand balls into a fist. He’s too big for me to take down, but at least I can get one solid punch in. Clinton takes a step forward and I stand my ground. I pull my arm back to deliver a punch and it lands squarely on his jaw.

  His head wobbles and he falls off to the right, against another shipping container. He uses it to steady himself. At the same time, simulated pain echoes in my artificial limb. I might be made of solid steel, but he must be made of solid rock. The false knuckle tissue on the fingers is torn and bleeding where my fist made contact. Veiny wires pulse up and down the arm, but otherwise, it is relatively undamaged. The pain is minimal. I could go rounds with this prosthetic.

  Fuller shakes off the blow and moves toward me menacingly. I’m about to pummel him once more, when he kicks my gut and sends me reeling. All the air vanishes from my lungs. A familiar male voice shouts my name. Rabbit. Rabbit shouts my name.

  Clinton follows the kick with a solid slug to my left temple and I collapse on the ground, my vision drowning in sparkling white and pink colors, my body unable to absorb anymore shocks and retaliate appropriately. A high pitched squeal roars in my ear and sound in the ear implant cuts out.

  Fuller’s on top of me, pounding with a flurry of fists mostly aimed at my head. My arms are thrown up over my face and I position the prosthetic to absorb the impact of the punches. My skinny forearm and wrist do not provide enough protection.

  The lights overhead pulse and dim. Static electricity floods the space between Clinton and I, the tiny hairs on our bodies standing on end. The scent of ozone fills the air. The panic in my system turns to dread. An explosion of power is imminent. Something’s going to explode. I’m going to explode. A warning static pours from the band, blooming over my arms and forehead and skull. The static connects with Clinton and he jolts off my inert frame, staggering away in a fury of pain. The fists stop.

  I push myself up off the ground to survey the landscape, my ribs and chest throbbing tenderly. A scrawny male frame holds Clinton, who thrashes and bucks in his grip like a wild animal. A Staff Sergeant muscles his way down the row and I discern the shapes of o
ther residents behind him, jostling for a better vantage point. The Sergeant shouts at us, but after all the abuse of the day, my ears run the sounds together into distorted white noise.

  My attention diverted, I don’t notice anyone next to me until my bicep is gently shaken. I look over to locate the source of the jostling. It’s one of The Rosas. Emmanuel.

  “What?” I ask her, dimly aware she attempts for a second or third time to elicit information.

  “Can you hear me?” Emanuelle asks again, sound rushing back into the world.

  I wince and nod, my head bobbing loosely on my neck as if my bones evaporated. I try to stand, but my legs are jelly. I slump back down to the ground, defeated for the moment.

  “Eleni, your eye—”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s gone. I know. Doesn’t hurt.”

  I reach up above my head and fumble around on the dusty metal of the shipping container until I grasp a door handle, hauling myself up. My legs sway drunkenly on the solid ground and I cling desperately to the frame of the container to steady myself. No more than ten feet away, Rabbit Santiago pulls Clinton’s arms behind his back. A staff sergeant stands in the empty space between us. He does not look pleased.

  “You’re an asshole Clinton,” I slur with puffy lips. My face is so swollen it’s hard to convey emotions. I can’t feel the full force of the pain yet while adrenaline courses through my veins.

  “You’re a monster!” Clinton bellows, striking out against the Staff Sergeant between us.

  “Both of you, knock it off!” The Staff Sergeant commands.

  I kick towards him with all the mustered force of my wobbling legs.

  “I’ll kill you!” He lunges again, slipping out of Rabbit's grip.

  I’m prepared this time, standing my ground.

  “You already tried!”

  The Staff Sergeant deftly shoves Clinton towards Rabbit. They go sprawling back into the crowd behind them. Nobody makes an attempt to catch their falling bodies and they tumble to the ground.

  “Not today,” the Staff Sergeant intones.

  I sneer at their misfortune until he turns on me.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  I wipe the smirk off with red and blue stained fingers, smearing the blood across my cheeks.

  “Oh damn,” the Staff Sergeant mutters, surveying the wreckage of my ocular implant.

  He taps a button on his band and speaks into it.

  “I need a medic in here.”

  I stumble over and collapse into a heap a few feet away, assured there will be no more attacks. The adrenaline crashes out of my system. I’m deaf in my left air. Blind in my left eye. I can no longer hold back the tears of frustration. I lean my forehead on my knees and cover my ears. I want to shut the world out. I want to disappear.

  A hand falls on my shoulder. Maybe Emilia or Emanuelle. I reach up to encircle the wrist, touching our matching bands, finding comfort in the human contact. It’s not one of The Rosas. The forearm is bigger and muscular. I release it at once and try to make out the owner, but my vision fuzzes again. I close both eyelids. It’s easier this way.

  In the black, Rabbit whispers, "I’m sorry. Eleni, I'm so sorry. I didn’t want— I tried—”

  “Rabbit,” I say. “Leave me alone.”

  He moves off. The sounds of a scuffle register and I look up to see blurry shapes melting and tussling in the row. The slim shape of Rabbit and the big blonde shape of Clinton. The discord of fist meeting flesh and another struggle, but it isn’t important at the moment. Nurse Esperanza appears, shining a band light into my real pupil. While I fade into a welcomed unconscious state, she speaks into her band.

  “Dr. Dawson, we need you at Fort Columbia. Urgently.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

  Scarlett finds me three days later. I’m sitting on a rock by the edge of a stream running by the base, skipping stones. A patch wraps over my left eye. They weren’t able to save the implant. It cracked in the socket and the internal connection to my visual cortex jarred loose during the initial gouging on the container. It would cost a significant amount of money to replace the old tech with a brand new model. It would take time and energy and Prothero has lost their interest in me.

  Dr. Dawson flew out from Washington DC to inspect the damage himself. It was nice to see him, despite everything. He’s older than I remember, his boyish good looks giving way to maturity and a more respectable graying around the edges. There's a professorial undertone about him I attribute to a growth of facial hair.

  The Doctor indicated he was personally interested in my case and made vague noises about a suitable ocular replacement he’d been tinkering with in the lab. They ran several tests—Dr. Dawson loves his tests—and found a tumor in the socket located where the electrodes connect and the nanos bind to soft tissue. I haven’t told anyone yet. What’s the point? I survived the explosion that killed my parents only to die at age eighteen of brain cancer—killed by the devices intended to give me life, sight, and sound.

  Maybe it isn’t cancer. But it was disturbing to the Doctor and the nurses, which is enough for me. There’s a tumor growing inside me and it isn’t one hundred percent benign or malignant, but it’s suspicious and unsettling. They took a tissue sample for a closer look back at the lab in Washington DC. They doubled the dose of nano juice present in the injectors and re-plugged in the wires, attaching an interim ocular implant. The tech equivalent of a spare tire. It’s a shiny silver model displaying infra-red instead of the regular color spectrum. It’s taking a considerable amount of adjusting to discern separate shades but Prothero isn’t offering physical therapy this time. Passive aggressive punishment for breaking their product, I suppose. My sympathies for them are muted by the overarching fact that they gave me cancer.

  “This seat taken?” Scarlett sits down next to me on the rock.

  “Saving it for you. Aren’t you supposed to be writing an essay on serial killers in the 21st century?” I inquire, offering her one of the smooth, flat stones I’ve gathered into a pile at my feet.

  She takes it in her petite, neatly manicured fingers. They’ve always looked so out of place here in the chaos of National Service. As if she is destined for better things. Office work. Raising children in a big mansion. Pressing palms at an art gallery. You can’t imagine dirt or grime smudged under those nails. You can’t imagine someone cruel enough to send her off to combat with a rifle. She will be destroyed and buried. My heart aches. She reads my mind, giving voice to my thoughts.

  “Are you kidding me?” Scarlett snorts. “Essays are time ill-spent. I’m strictly front-line material, Lenbot. Cannon fodder. Academics are for the smart girls.”

  I smile sadly, my mouth lopsided because the left side of my face is tender from all the poking and prodding. It’s a brilliant rainbow of quickly fading bruises. The visible damage from the assault should be gone by the end of the day.

  “Yeah, well they can have it,” I grumble, watching a failed skip sink beneath the surface of the water.

  “How's your eye?” Scarlett asks, distracting from my morbid mood.

  “Busted. Got a spare while they’re fixing up a new one, but it’s awful.”

  I toss the remaining handful of rocks in the water and pop the hood of my jacket up over my hair.

  “Come on Len. It’s not THAT bad. I bet you it's wicked awesome. Like a superhero.”

  “It’s not wicked awesome,” I mutter.

  “Don't be so grumpy, Len,” Scar says, bumping her shoulder against mine.

  “That’s my natural resting state.” I toe a rock around in the dirt.

  “And yet, I’m still here.” Scar bumps her shoulder against mine again, harder this time. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  “Do you wanna see it?” I ask. “The eye?”

  “No. Yeah. Is it gross?” She scoots in closer.

  “Very.” I peel back the patch. The interim eye is made of solid metal with a cyan blue le
ns operating as the iris. It moves and functions like the old model. The appearance, however, is much creepier. I kind of like it. It’s more conspicuous in a way my other ocular implant never was. I don’t need to pretend at being normal anymore. I’m more robot than person and this is the last visual reminder for everyone.

  “Oh wow. It’s pretty. Can I touch it?” She inquires.

  I laugh at her question. No matter what screwed up events are happening, Scarlett provides much needed levity. She tosses her blonde curls over one shoulder and leans in. The closer she gets, the more she fish-eyes in the lens until her image distorts like a funhouse mirror. Her lips purse thoughtfully and I laugh harder as they bulge and grow to outrageous proportions in my view.

  Scarlett taps the tech with one purple polish coated fingernail. It makes a tinny sound against her nail. I almost flinch at the touch, but the implant is too new to be fully incorporated and accepted as a real part of me. My body remains keenly aware of how false this organ is.

  “Cool. I’m jealous,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I predict things are going to change for you. This eye thing is way more bad-ass than you give it credit for. Now let’s get back inside. It’s freezing out here.” She stands and tugs on my elbow, pulling me to my feet.

  We hang out in her barracks for the afternoon, smoking with the window open, playing a dice game with a virtual movie on in the background. It’s a regular Sunday night. A night to forget for a few hours I might be dying.

  I don’t forget about it though. And I want to be a step ahead of Prothero if I can be, so the next morning I wave Emilia and meet up with her in the resident medical wing. She checks out a phlebotomy kit from the lab, and we hike out to an abandoned house mouldering in the suburbs of the Dalles. We scout the perimeter and when it’s confirmed to be all clear, we kick open the weathered front door. Birds scatter in the attic rafters, along with the distinct squeaking of mice, but it’s otherwise devoid of wildlife. And humans, the bigger concern.