I twist my right hand in a lazy gesture, beckoning the soil to move. Beneath my feet the earth boils and solidifies in a circle, lifting into the air in a tall column with me atop it. The rock scales higher, stacking new layers of false earth until I reach the glass nest and stand facing Reznik.
I favor her with a ghastly leer. Her teeth set on edge and a grey pallor falls across her features. This is not the Eleni Garza she wants in her SIMs.
“I’m strong in here,” I whisper through the glass. She can’t hear me over the cannon boom of the thunder or see my mouth moving in the sheets of rain. I inch the earth column closer to the glass until my nose is nearly pressed against it.
“I’m strong in here,” I repeat again.
I want to be sure she hears me.
“Not as strong as you believe,” she says, her lips straightening in a hard, fierce line.
The bands crackle to life. My wrists burn and knees buckle, a swooning sensation crashes in. I pitch backwards off the earth column and my hands scrabble at empty air. I’m falling too fast and I’m in too much pain to concentrate my thoughts. Whatever is in the bands, whatever power they possess disrupts my abilities. It fries any sense of coherency or concentration right out of me. I hit the desert floor with a thud, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I can’t breathe. The rain pelts me with a few more drops and ceases. My vision blurs, doubles and triples. I push myself up until I’m on all fours but there is no reprieve from the pain. I’m on fire.
Reznik stops the electrocution and my tensed, aching muscles collapse. I land face-down in the mud. The gritty liquid froths down my throat and I cough out a substance looking and tasting sickeningly sweet, like hot chocolate.
“That wasn’t the simulation I had in mind, but it will suffice. You've fought your last opponent for the day. Hit the showers,” Reznik sings overhead, voice oozing with satisfaction.
I’m too exhausted to move my head and favor her with a glare. Instead, I lay in the wet dirt, waiting for Zapata and Iroh to come and drag me away. When they finally appear, Reznik is nowhere to be seen. As they pull my filthy, shivering body from the SIM floor, Zapata scoffs and Iroh shakes his head with pity.
The next day is more of the same. Testing with Reznik, but she doesn’t ask me to cloak. Instead she wants to abuse my ability to manipulate virtuals, as punishment for defying her yesterday. She asks me to create buildings, parkways, streets, gasoline cars. She does not provide me with a tablet aid, so the mental labor is much more intensive. She orders me to construct entire bustling cities, teeming with people, using only my mind, with the aid of technology—a far more difficult task than tapping into a technological resource for constructs. My body punishes me for these efforts with the now all-too-common nose and ear bleeds.
Today, a new symptom appears. Inky veins swarm up from my arms and across my temple, the tell-tale sign of NV. This much effort could kill me, and she wants me to recognize it. She is not full of hot air and empty promises like Dawson. She enjoys watching me suffer under the weight of these powers.
By the time I finish the city I can barely stand up straight, but she orders me to destroy it anyway. The whole thing took hours to build, but only a moment of blessed, soothing release to render all of my creations into nothingness. That is my lesson for the day and it’s permanently etched in my brain as I stand in the middle of the collapsing city, dust and debris blowing all around me. I’m protected by a shield of nanos—the destruction harmlessly seeping into my skin.
I turned away from the glass nest this session, afraid I’ll attack Reznik if I look up at her horrible visage. When I do turn to catch a fleeting glimpse of her, the nest is empty. No sharp looking woman tracking my every move with her icy stare. Only a vacant console, filled with lonely twinkling lights. I wipe away the final vestiges of the city with a disgusted gesture and move on unsteady feet to the door. It slides open, signaling Zapata and Iroh to initiate the long walk to the sparse white room.
I send a wave to Dr. Dawson on the Prothero frequency, the only person reachable through the restricted systems. In the message I request a meeting. He waves me back within seconds and asks if I’m alright and how he can assist. Is there anything I need? I press him for a chocolate bar, fifteen minutes in a sauna, a pony, and a tablet with a drawing program. Best to throw in a few exotic items so the others appear relatively harmless.
His response reads: I’m sorry Eleni. Due to your abilities and the unpredictably violent tendencies you display, we cannot allow you in the vicinity of tech you could manipulate to hurt others. Or yourself.
The cryptanalysis application has yielded no results thus far. It’s crawling slowly through the code and as each minute ticks by, the feeling of anxiety grows. I’ve got less than a week left and with no expected timeline for when the file will be opened, I’m running out of options. And hope. I need access to Prothero technology to speed up the process. The cryptanalysis is too gradual. I need more power, I need to increase the processing power exponentially. But I have limited access to resources here. I’m cut off from technology.
As if she senses my swelling panic, Reznik increases the training tempo, focusing on the ability to manipulate electricity. I need all of my mental faculties to concentrate on controlling the intensity of the blue glow. Reznik and Dawson coined this ability, “kinetic distortion.” The cloaking is “photothermal deflection.” The virtual creations are “photothermal manipulations.” If only they knew I could talk to the machines as well. I wonder what scientific phrase they would use for that. I doubt any such phrase exists.
In the process of frying two Contras at once with bolts of “kinetic distortion” or what the common folks might refer to as electricity, I trip over my own two feet and collapse in a heap on the ground. It’s another day of being too damned exhausted to move another inch. Reznik’s wintry laughter haunts the SIM, lingering in the air like smoke when Zapata and Iroh arrive to collect me. I make eye contact with Iroh and raise my brows, trying to convey a message without betraying a clue that could be caught on camera. A small frown passes over his face, but he otherwise makes no other indication of understanding my plea.
“This is becoming a sad routine,” Zapata grumbles as they drag my limp frame down the wide, white hallways.
“Let’s at least let her wash off the sweat and blood.” Iroh gestures with a shoulder towards the nearest commons. “You know, preserve her dignity.”
“I’m not touching nothing that comes out of her. You heard what Castro said.”
“Yeah, I know what Castro said,” Iroh says. “This girl seems harmless enough.”
Zapata shrugs, “Sure. Drag her in there and clean her up if that’s your thing. I’ll stand guard outside.”
“Fine.”
We move off to the right, into a sparkling clean, sterile commons. Iroh releases his grip on me and I hobble towards the sinks, washing the blood and grime from my skin. I return to where he stands, just inside the door.
“I need your help,” I plead.
He tilts his head up towards the ceiling. They might not be recording visuals in here, but audio is another story apparently. I turn and limp towards a bathroom stall and he moves to stand in front of the door. I don’t bother locking it as I take a seat on my bruised behind. I lean forward and rest my head against the door.
“I need access to the Prothero servers,” I whisper, so quietly I’m not sure he will hear. He knocks on the front of the door once. The metal heart hammers in my chest. I flush the toilet to add more noise distortion.
“Soon?”
One knock.
My heart flutters again and I push the door open, heading towards the exit. He shadows my movements, saying benignly, “The first stall is my favorite too. I usually stop by there every morning before work."
He opens the door for me. We meet up with Zapata and the rest of the walk is silent.
The guards and I make our morning pit stop at the Commons. In the safety of the first bathroom stall I reac
h behind the toilet seat and find a metal item attached to the porcelain with a tiny dot of glue. The alloy material doesn't match any tech I've ever encountered. It’s a long thin strip of metal with a USB port in the middle and a clasp on either end. I hold it up and the left band emits a short spark, a finger beckoning me forward. I lay the reader down on top of it and the band lights up like a Christmas tree. My head swims, coded foreign language running over the backsides of my lids.
The electricity generated by the band stings against my skin and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from yelling out. Eventually, the heat dissipates and when I look down, the band accepts the USB reader. It molds neatly into the metal, like an invisible hook and groove. The two ends of the metal strip attach to the band, encircling it as the band encircles my wrist. Mystifying and seamless.
The band kicks on and the USB generates a pale orange virtual, lighting up the inside of the stall. Data pours in a stream past my open, staring eyes in the same way a virtual projection appears from the bands. It hangs in the mid-air, illuminated against the backdrop of reality. The data runs up my arm, through my veins and into my temples. The information inside bursts with passcodes and bypasses for security measures and ways to permanently disable RFIDs.
My metal heart shudders as a cold computerized voice whispers from the inside of my prosthetic ear: Get out. The servers here at the Prothero lab are aware. Sentient. They notice me rustling around inside them.
A stronger, more urgent declaration of, “Get out,” accompanies a warning spike of power in the bands. I frantically disconnect, snuffing the blue glow like a candle flame. The codes disappear inside my flesh and the virtual projection goes dead.
My heart beats like fluttering moth wings against my chest. Whatever entity is in the servers saw me. It knew what I was doing. It comprehended and spoke to me. I take a few deep breaths to regulate my pulse, but the static electricity lifts the hairs on my arm and won’t go away.
“What was that?” asks Castro, one of the male guards.
“Nothing. Seeing what the weather’s supposed to be today.”
“Oh don’t worry, you won’t be seeing daylight anytime soon,” Castro assures me with a chuckle.
What an asshole. I run a finger down the spine of the USB reader and it detaches from the band. I drop it into the toilet and flush, praying the plumbing doesn’t back up, watching as the evidence hits the sewers.
Whoever Iroh works with, if it’s the Contras or some other terrorist organization...they know their tech. They’re smart. They’re everywhere. The conejos are multitude. Rabbit might be one of them. For the first time, this idea makes me smile instead of stirring acid pains in my stomach. And then I remember his connection to the Fullers and I fall into quiet contemplation. I wish I had more answers.
If Reznik devises more torture for me, I don’t retain precise memories. It’s another day of SIM testing. It’s arduous and frustrating. My hate for her grows with every minute. My mind swirls around the precipice of Prothero’s secret AI, impending freedom, the conejos, and the Contras. My brain works in loops separate from my body.
At the end of the training, I’m barely on my feet. Instead of the guards greeting me at the SIM doors, Dr. Dawson appears. He smiles in his gentle, placating way. I’ve missed him. I suppress the urge to run over and crush myself against his chest and I like to believe he does the same.
“Here’s that chocolate bar you requested.” He holds the food out to me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, retrieving it with numb fingers.
My whole body is numb.
“And here’s the tablet,” he says in a kinder, more genuine tone. “It’s your last night here. I thought it might be nice for you to draw if you’d like. No virtuals, if you don’t want them. No pressure, Eleni. Not from me. Not this time.”
A lump builds in my throat. Dr. Dawson is the worst kind of father figure, but he’s the closest thing I’ve got. I reach up and touch the tablet, moving past it and trapping his torso in a bear hug. Some urges are not worth fighting.
“Thanks,” I murmur into his chest.
He says nothing, but pats my upper back comfortingly in response. Good show Dr. Dawson. Good man. He threatened the lives of my friends, and shot me up with a dangerous virus, and crafted me into an unwilling monstrous human machine hybrid with the capability of doing great harm, but he’s saved my life more than once. He’s a good man, too.
I trail him to my room where he leaves me unshackled, and settle down under the covers of the hospital bed with the tablet propped up against my bruised, rapidly healing knees. I draw Scarlett and Rabbit. I draw The Rosas. I draw Nurse Esperanza and Dr. Dawson. I draw us all in a cherry orchard. Without my insistence, these images flicker up onto a virtual and rotate around the room. I don’t care.
Dawson stands in the middle of the projections, turning in ponderous circles, watching in open-mouthed, mute fascination. He reaches out every once in a while to touch one, dazzled at the haptic feedback. The particles don’t burst into colored fragments and flicker away like other virtuals. He’s studying me again, but his overwhelmingly positive feedback, after weeks of punishment from Reznik, is much appreciated.
“It’s good to see you drawing again. You look happy,” Dawson says.
A lime drops from a cherry tree to his right. He leans over and plucks it from the floor, turning it over, admiring.
“My sentence with Reznik is over. That’s something to be happy about. Are you coming to KERN with me? For a little while, at least?” I reach towards him, for the lime. He sets it in my open palm.
“No Eleni, I’m sorry. This is a solo journey. You might not believe it now, but KERN will be a positive learning experience. You’ll be with people like yourself, with abilities similar to yours. I might visit in order to chart your progress, but you won’t need me there.” Melancholy flickers across his features. He’s actually going to miss me.
“I haven’t stopped needing you since my parents died.”
I squeeze the lime too hard and it bursts into fragments, briefly illuminating the bed sheet fabric and my fingernails before sputtering out. Dawson pulls the glasses from his nose and runs the back of his hand over his forehead in a gesture I’ve come to recognize as annoyance. But that doesn’t apply here. I don’t think he’s annoyed.
“Are you tearing up Doctor?” I ask, teasing.
“Maybe. I’m tired, Eleni. The last couple of months have been arduous and I’m ready for a much needed vacation. Somewhere warm and tropical with a little umbrella in a big glass. Maybe South America. I’ll be accessible through the intranet, whenever you need me.” He pats my shoulder affectionately. Moisture glitters in his eyes. He’s definitely going to miss me.
He turns and walks towards the exit with none of his customary enthusiasm.
“Goodnight Dr. Dawson,” I call out. “I’ll miss your face.”
He casts a look over his shoulder, my heart dipping at the baleful expression he wears.
“Goodnight, Eleni Garza,” he says, shutting the door. “I will miss yours.”
The mechanical locking gears of the door grind together. It’s a lonely sound.
I smile in the solitude, taking solace in Dawson’s emotional upheaval at my departure. After three or four minutes of silence, I exit the bed and creep into the bathroom. Switch the fan and water on to provide a limited measure of cover. The left band thrums to life, flushing the purple shade I've come to associate with hacking. Band schematics spill out on the virtual and I flick past them until I find the needed code embedded in the security features. I type it into the projected keyboard and wait for the beep of an error message.
Nothing happens. The bands don't magically fall from my wrists but I sense a change. The tech softens, becomes pliable. I pull up the wave application, holding my breath as a loading icon rotates on the virtual. With a considerable reluctance on the part of the band, the wave app slumps open.
That powerful, sibilant voice crackles i
n my ear: We are watching. We are waiting. When will you wake up, Eleni Garza?
Mountains of goosebumps clamber over me with such strength, a dull ache registers in the base of my skull. Black, thick blood slips from my left ear and I wipe it away distractedly. The high pitched whine accompanying the voice squeals out and recedes.
When will I wake up? Wake up from what?
A final wall of resistance melts away and the wave storage box behind it registers over five hundred waves, the majority from Scarlett. The most recent sent yesterday around 2am. My metal heart wrenches at the sight of these stockpiled, unanswered communications. At the thought that even up until yesterday, Scarlett was attempting to contact me. She must be so worried. There are several from The Rosas. Even one from Nurse Esperanza.
There are none from Rabbit. Not a single wave. It’s a...I’m not sure what it means. I don’t know what I expected or how to feel that he hasn’t tried to contact me once in the last three months. My stomach heaves a little and a wave of nausea passes over me. I gulp back bile.
It doesn’t matter. Who cares what Rabbit does. Who cares.
I want to prioritize Scarlett’s loneliness, as indicated by her messages, but my pragmatism weighs out over everything else. A suspiciously titled wave from Emilia Rosa grabs my attention, pulling it away from Scar and Rabbit. The title text, “Testing. Testing.” This oughta be good.
That thing we disposed of didn’t end up being the subject of numerous tests. We didn’t synthesize an unverified vaccine from it. We aren’t working with anyone else to secure test subjects. We don’t need anymore samples, so don’t worry. Hope that eases your mind. Wherever you are. If you still are.
A cold boulder rolls into my stomach, replacing the nausea. I chew on the inside of my cheek. The Rosas risked their lives sending that message to me. If I’m to believe the opposite of the message, my blood sample, the NV2 in my system, yielded a possible cure. A vaccine. This is huge. This cannot be ignored. Turning my back and slinking off to KERN for more torturous training with Professor Reznik is not an option. Not with this new development. I turn my attention back to the wave storage.
Metal Heart: Book 1: The Metal Heart Trilogy Page 22