Metal Heart: Book 1: The Metal Heart Trilogy

by Melinda Crouchley

  “Eleni!” he says sharply, fear and excitement tinging his voice.

  The virtual blurs, flickers, and spills forth more horrors. Scarlett with her stomach blown open on a nameless, desolate battlefield. Rabbit drifting lifeless into space, arms outstretched reaching for the handle of a spacecraft he will never be able to reach. The Rosas in a Prothero lab collapsing to the floor, dark veins bursting on their skin and black blood pouring from their ears and eyes.

  “No!”

  A burst of electricity erupts in the room. The bulbs in the ceiling shatter, raining glass down on the white tile floor. The virtual grows until the irradiation engulfs us both. We are inside the pixels, they are crawling angry ants biting into me with tiny pincers. Burrowing inside and creating an exoskeleton of my flesh.

  Dawson regains his faculties, scalding me with the bands. The virtual splendor blinks out, taking most of the light in the room with it. The pain around my wrists grows so overwhelming I collapse onto the chair. Dr. Dawson approaches me in the dim. His band illuminates and sparks strangely against the lens of his glasses, which I suspect he wears for professional stature, rather than functionality. He steps towards the chair where I sit, bumping against my legs, reaching out blindly.

  “I’m right here,” I say.

  “I can’t see you.” He touches the top of my head.

  I shrug away from him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You disappeared.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Eleni, everything about you is impossible.” He takes another step forward.

  I roll the chair backwards. Dawson blinks in surprise. He moves both arms in front of him, like a mummy stalking its victim, fingers reaching into the empty space between us. I look down at my body. And he’s right. The pixels implanted themselves in my pores and I’m invisible, wrapped up in a cloak of nanos, reflecting the light and images around me.

  “My God,” Dr. Dawson says, patting my knee. “Do you know what this means?”

  It’s a rhetorical question I don’t bother answering. It means more tests. It means if I don’t pass them, my friends will die. I lean over the table and rest my pounding head against the crisp metal. There are no good options for me here.

  “Do you know what this means?” he asks again, and it’s not directed at me. No doubt Reznik watches and listens somewhere in the walls. And has been watching and listening the last five weeks.

  I say nothing more, cradling my seared wrists in my lap, willing the hurt away.

  “Your emotional state is the source of your abilities. You’ve displayed another symptom of the mutation. Thus far we’ve seen virtual manipulation, control over electrical impulses, and this would be an ability to manifest photothermal deflection.”

  “That isn't even a real thing,” I say. “You just made it up.”

  “You made it up. You made photothermal deflection a real thing. What you just did is the perfect example of what I was hoping to see. What I know you are capable of. We’re done with testing for the moment, but I’d like you to remain here. I’ll need to speak with you shortly.”

  He exits the room as if it’s on fire. He leaves in such a hurry, his tablet lays forgotten on the metal table. I tilt it towards me, pick up a pen and sketch the loose, angular outline of Rabbit Santiago. Not Mateo with Rabbit’s appearance. Not the lime tree. I draw Rabbit and I miss him so much, my metal heart aches.

  I should have stayed. I should have kissed him longer and stayed. I don’t want to be his friend. I want to be more than just his friend. And now, it doesn’t matter anymore. I will likely never see him again.

  I turn music on over the virtual wave and relax my mind. I fill in the raw umber color of Rabbit’s pupils. Minutes tick by. My physical connection to the tablet allows me full entry to all the information collected in it. To the databases it’s connected to. A heaviness spreads over me as I tune out my real vision and concentrate on an inner image, the shapes and data streams flowing past my subconscious. I move between files and folders like skipping stones over the water. I glide into private documents and peer around.

  In real life, in the physical world, I’m vaguely aware of my eyes twitching and my fingers still attending to the coloring and shading of Rabbit. The little crescent moon scar on his cheek. His bushy, frowny eyebrows. The lilt of his lips. Internally, I am miles away, buried deep in the hard drive of the tablet, ferreting out the facts I need to free myself from Prothero.

  When I reach the file folder with the band schematics for the fourth gen device in it, the virtual projection clicks on, displaying the tin box. It rotates in the lighted pixels, so the cameras in the room survey it from all angles. This is how it’s going to be? If I want to get the band schematics, I need to give up my secrets. Otherwise, we keep our boxes locked.

  I test and probe at the file, running my virtual fingers along its spine, trying to find the invisible connection of the moon and stars where I could insert a coin and bust the whole thing wide open. The folder and the virtual image shiver for a moment. As I crack open the document and content pours out, the virtual tin lid lifts slightly, the red silk interior gaping out for all the world to see. For the monitors hidden in the room to capture.

  If I want something I’ve never had before, I’m going to do something I’ve never done. I push forward, bullying my way into the file, the lid of the tin bursting open and revealing the stack of letters from Matty. The file rips like the hem of a shirt and I reach my hand inside, grabbing like a greedy animal at the data it contains. These are the fourth gen schematics. These are what I need to rid myself of the band technology and escape.

  I finally get what I wanted, and never received, from my terrorist boyfriend. I finally get the freedom I've been fighting for. It only takes exposing him and the Contras. I hope all the time I did, all the time I will do, all my years in Prothero prisons are worth it in the end. Matty, holding me hostage in these walls so I could feed him information. I hope it’s worth it, revealing our secrets in order to free myself. The virtual projection zooms in on the top letter in the pile, a series of numbers written on hemp paper. Scribbled at the bottom, With Love, The Matador.

  I drop the pen and the virtual flickers away, along with my tenuous mental grasp on the folder containing the band schematics. What little I manage to hold onto is more precious than any other item I’ve clung to this far. The band schematics are in my possession now and there is nothing the Contras or Matty can do to stop me using them. I attempt to re-open the file to unshackle myself. It is locked.

  OK, so maybe Prothero can stop me for a little while longer. This is a small hiccup, but not insurmountable. I’ll need a code to crack the file open and review its contents. I flick on my band and select a cryptanalysis application to run in the background, on a remote server at Fort Columbia I tapped for such purposes. The encrypted and blocked signal should be masked from Prothero. Should be. I don’t comprehend the entire depth and breadth of tech here. It’s more powerful than anything I’ve felt, but there is comfort in realizing that an all-seeing eye can only see so much. There will always be cracks to slip into. There will always be weak points to exploit because no system is guaranteed. Technology is more fallible than most people.

  The downside on my end, there is no telling how long the decoding program will take to run its course or if Prothero security will sniff it out. I’m going to try. After the developments of today, I want out of here so badly I taste it in my mouth. It doesn’t taste like copper. It doesn’t taste like limes either. It’s the scent of cinnamon and the tang of bleach.

  I can’t stay here at the lab. They’re turning me into a monster. An invisible, duplicitous monster. Every new ability development feels worse, more sinister than the last. I am Dawson’s monster and I want to be free.

  How do I get free? Really, truly free?

  An hour staggers by and Dr. Dawson returns as abruptly as he left, arriving with a host of other Doctors and scientists at his heels, i
ncluding Reznik. The Doctors silently seat themselves in a row of chairs behind Dawson. My pulse quickens. I sit up straight, about to click the erase button on the tablet when Dawson scoops it up, examining the image of Rabbit Santiago for a moment, stroking his beard contemplatively. The calculating look in his eyes swells like the scream I stifle in my throat. Don’t look at him. Don’t you dare look at him.

  “Eleni, I want to thank you for all your hard work and progress so far. Your service to this country and the Prothero community is commendable, as always.”

  I hold back a contemptuous snort. As if I'd volunteered for testing out of intrinsic motivation to benefit their cause. I cooperated to shield my friends from harm. I say nothing. I don’t even look up and meet his gaze.

  “After examining the latest manifestations of your ability, the team and I decided you should be remanded to another facility. An institution not unlike the National Service Academy, and you will find the others there possess aptitudes similar to yours. The Kinetics Educational Research Institute, KERN, maintains special housing and a whole different system of training. There is a former resident from Fort Columbia headed there, so you’ll feel right at home,” Dr. Dawson says encouragingly.

  “Resident from Fort Columbia?” I echo.

  “Ah yes, you know him,” Reznik smiles. “He was on your simulation combat unit, I believe.”

  Clinton Fuller. He vanished mysteriously. My blood on his hands. Maybe I infected him. Changed him. How is that possible? I’d never seen him taking nano suppressants and he had no visible implants. There was the electricity between our bands, when my abilities first manifested. The white sparks between Clinton and I. Is he...like me?

  “Clinton,” is what I manage to choke out. “Clinton Fuller.”

  “The name sounds familiar,” Reznik coos. “But I couldn’t really say. Either way, we are preparing for a trip. You’ll remain here for another four weeks to continue testing the range of your abilities before KERN takes over your training. Dr. Dawson has agreed, under a certain amount of duress, to allow me access to you during that time. I hope you’ve enjoyed the rest and relaxation of the last few months, Eleni. Things are about to become much more…uncomfortable.”

  Her sneer widens to produce dagger-like teeth. All the angles of her countenance are pointed, hardened, and white. She’s a hollow marble statue filled with evil. And I’m going to suffer under her direction. My stomach lurches but I contort my facial features into a vacant expression. She won’t see me crack. I won’t expose anymore weakness to her.

  “My testing will begin this afternoon. I hope you’re prepared,” Reznik says, directing the doctors from the room with a flick of her wrist.

  The door behind me opens. Two armed guards enter. I turn to leave with them and cast an anxious glance over my shoulder at Dawson. He smiles reassuringly, which only increases my nerves. The silence in the hall drones out all coherent thought. The guards escort me through a series of interconnecting hallways and I follow with leaden feet.

  One of the doorways dumps out into an open air courtyard somehow hidden in the glass, concrete, and stone. It’s the first taste of outdoors and freedom I’ve had in weeks. I stop walking, momentarily stunned, and the guards pause with me. I deeply inhale the chill dampness, the scent of wet soil filling my nostrils. I turn in a drowsy circle to savor the image of deadened winter trees and dormant grass. They are close. They are ready to burst to life.

  I understand that feeling.

  As I appreciate the natural scenery, one of the guards, Iroh, offers a loose, fleeting smile. It reminds me of Rabbit and my heart twists. I’ve noticed him before, he’s on the regular afternoon escort duty. He has jet black hair, almond shaped grey eyes, and skin as dark as mine.

  “Been a while?” he asks in a friendly tone.

  “Been awhile.”

  A bird zips down from the grey sky and descends on a branch near our heads, calling out with a hoarse song. Chastising completed, the blackbird lifts off and swoops back up into the swollen rain clouds.

  “Come on, keep moving,” the other guard, Zapata, says.

  “Just another minute,” Iroh says.

  “Whatever.”

  “It’s not all bad,” Iroh directs his comment to me.

  “No?” I ask, tearing my gaze away from the sky.

  “Not all of it. There’s hope.” He points towards the sky and I see, barely visible inside the cuff of his stiff, starched Prothero uniform...I see the curve of a brown rosary bead and the glint of a red cross.

  Rabbit’s bracelet. What did he say? What did he tell me?

  Hope. If you believe in hope. Hope, that dangerous thing.

  I do. I have to.

  It’s the only way I’m getting out of here.

  I restrain myself from embracing Iroh and slam my gaping mouth closed to avoid the suspicion of Zapata, who looks irritable at lingering in the courtyard. Iroh drops his arm and the rosary disappears into the fold of his sleeve. He captures my gaze for a brief moment, winks, and indicates with a tilt of his head we should move on. He leads the way with Zapata close at my heels. I’m boxed in between them again, but these brief moments breathing with fresh lungs have awoken me.

  I will endure Reznik’s tortures, but I won’t go to a new facility. I won’t strap myself into Prothero’s inoculation assembly line. No matter how prettily Dr. Dawson paints it. I’m not going.

  Not without a fight.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Photothermal Deflection

  A kinetic knife slashes towards my head and I lunge backwards to avoid it. I don’t put enough distance between the weapon and my upper right cheek. A stinging cut appears. I touch it, pulling away a liquid substance composed of blood and twinkling nanos. Dread overwhelms me but there's no time to think. The Contra returns to administer another stab aimed for my belly.

  I sweep kick his legs out from under him and disarm the knife in the same motion. Glancing down into his surprised face, I'm horrified for the millionth time at his similarity to Rabbit and Mateo. Dawson and Reznik took detailed notes. They even got the little crescent shaped scar on his cheek right.

  The knife sparks as my fingers close around its handle and the electricity agitates the SIM, cracking it apart into tiny pixels, falling like a fine dust to the ground. Goodbye Rabbit, goodbye Mateo. I’ve killed so many Contra clones resembling them the last three days, doing so registers only a minor emotional blip on the radar. Something akin to the guilt of squashing a spider or crushing a mouse in a trap.

  Reznik, perched in the glass control room located on the right wall of the SIM building, announces over the intercom system, “Well done.”

  I am deeply uneasy about any praise from this woman.

  “Let’s try another. Harder this time. Defensive cloaking instead of offensive combat.”

  I wipe at the blood on my cheek. The wound has completely healed, stitched back together by the helpful nanos. A week ago Reznik increased the dosage of the new injectors and nosebleeds are back with a vengeance. I found dark tinted blood trickling from my ear an hour ago. The blood smells acrid, weird. I glare up at her glass cage, considering how easy it would be to burst all the electrical components in there and fry her to a crisp.

  As if sensing my desire to expend a little excess energy she says, “I’m setting the intensity to 12. Cloaking please.”

  I close my eyes and take a seat on the ground, crossing my legs. Despite their insistence a heightened emotional state is the only conduit to access the tech abilities, I’ve found the best way to commune with the nanites is with a calm and otherwise emptied out mind.

  It turns out Dr. Dawson’s meditation practice was valuable after all. A few minutes go by and I open my eyes again to see the honeycombed nanos rolling up and over me. Swimming up my bloodstream and out of my pores, forming a protective layer and bending the light around my clothing and skin. All other imagery that might betray my whereabouts is masked, except for the outline of the bands. Reznik and
Dawson don’t want to lose me in the SIM while I'm invisible. I could slip right out of their grasp.

  If only.

  A new Contra emerges, rising from the ground, forming and building himself out of the earth. He wields another knife. His sensors pick up a heat signature, but can’t get a visual lock on me so he swings the weapon wildly, blindly. I take a step away to avoid his powerful lunges with the blade. He gets a bit too close and I side step his flailing arm, catching it in mine, twisting it backwards and snapping it off at the shoulder. I toss it to the ground at my feet. I kick the stuttering, flailing machine in the ass and it stumbles, falling to its knees and face. Drowning in fake blood pouring from the gaping wound of its shoulder. I stand there watching, helpless to do anything but kill this Contra clone until Reznik tells me to stop.

  I’m tired. My ears ring and head throbs. My stomach rumbles and sweat trickles down the inside of the uniform. The nano cloak is sucking all the energy from me. Moving with the pixel shield is like swimming in thick mud against the current and a strong wind. My arms and legs weigh me down. I’m sinking inside myself.

  “Wake up!” Reznik shouts over the intercom. I shake my head firmly and move towards the glass nest, stumbling against the scrub grass and tumbling weeds in the desert scenario she painted for SIM practice.

  “Can we take a break? Rest for a minute?"

  “In a moment. One more test.” She turns her chair away from the glass wall and walks to the back of the room to adjust dials on the digital monitor. I want to reach through this tech and crush her bones in my fists, but I resist the urge.

  Overhead, thunder rumbles in the sky and storm clouds form, interrupting the beginning of whatever new scenario Reznik was planning. She turns abruptly and stalks over to watch. Raindrops fall, peppering the parched earth and landing on my nano infused skin. The cloak fizzles out. Lightning crackles against the dirt near me. I catch drops of simulated water in my palm and tilt my head up at Reznik. The rain pours down in a deluge, drenching my clothes, turning the fake desert dust into a stew of mud.