Brave New Girls: Tales of Girls and Gadgets

by Kate Moretti

  That means money… and that it’s got to be the Institute. Oh, Google, it’s the Institute come for us, and now we’re all going to die or be taken, which is probably worse. I’m panicking, my thoughts skittering wildly. Where is everyone? Where are the soldiers? My lizard brain—instinct deep enough, it can’t be overridden—crushes me against the wall as though I could seep through it, as though my telekinesis is powerful enough to shatter six inches of steel and let me through.

  It’s not.

  My breath catches in my throat, and I realize I’m making a faint, almost-inaudible whining sound. I clamp my mouth shut, forcing myself to breathe out of my nose in tiny pants. If the invaders do have goggles, they see me anyway, but I’ll be damned if I’ll make it fun for them. Flattening myself to the ground, I scuttle along the wall, every muscle concentrating on moving as quickly and silently as possible. The mats are rough under my hypersensitive hands; tiny fibers seem to catch and pull at my tight workout clothes, trying to trap me.

  I have to get away from the door, find something to hide behind.

  The awful weapon roars again, followed by another from a different direction, and more screaming tears at my eardrums. So there are at least two shooters for the thirtyish people in the gym. I spare a moment to wonder why no one is psionically scanning the area and attacking the armed invaders. Doesn’t matter. Maybe no one here is strong enough in both branches of ability… or maybe they’re in shock. Maybe there are no soldiers, and it’s just civilians and trainees like me.

  Doesn’t matter. The words beat through me like a pulse. The air feels like black syrup, as though I have to swallow it instead of breathing it. I’m edging along the side of the room, eyes blindly locked onto an invisible target, when I brush against something. A hand grabs me, hauling me up against a muscled body and covering my nose and lower face.

  I can’t breathe.

  A moment… two… and panic roars through me, unstoppable, telekinesis popping out of me, unsought, and slamming the body against the wall. I twist free, on the verge of hyperventilation, and the body behind me relaxes suddenly, sending a telepathic message wrapped in reassurance and apology.

  Abial. It’s Daine.

  Daine. I collapse against him, my adrenaline escaping in hot little huffs of air, my eyes stinging, and my injured mouth complaining from the rough treatment. Then he pats my side, and we slide our sweat-slick hands together automatically, so we can pass messages without fear of being read from outside our skin-on-skin connection.

  Who’s in here? I ask, the unspoken “anyone useful” rippling unmistakably through, as well. Daine is a seventeen-year-old newly qualified ARC agent. He has perfect recall and is an adequately strong Reader, but he has minimal projection capabilities. He can’t even lift a grape. He’ll be next to useless in a fight, and we’re definitely in a fight sort of situation.

  I repeat my question, pushing for his attention. He’s thinking about his girlfriend, Darcy, and fear is twisting in his belly, turning his guts to cold liquid. But I’ll ignore the feelings unless he deliberately shows them to me. It’s only polite.

  Finally, I feel him jerk himself out of his debilitating panic and focus on me, his seriousness woven into his reply. James is here, but the shooters are Institute. They’re Readers, strong, so he can’t link us all up. I got something from him, but then he closed off, or… or was shot, I finish for him. He continues, I think I saw Raoul and Ivan, but they were over there.

  Over there, where the majority of the firing is aimed, I realize and gulp. Four agents, one of them pressed against me and not telekinetic… basically just dead weight in a fight. The other three are probably already dead.

  All around the gym now, I hear panicked running, sounds of feet slapping against training mats, and people bumping into equipment, stifling pained cries. There’s a fleshy thump as someone is slammed against the ground, telekinesis in play, but whether it’s on our side or not is a mystery in the overwhelming blackness.

  We have to get the doors open. I squeeze Daine’s hand, and we both flinch as another loud crack signifies a weapon firing. The split-second illumination shows a creepy vista of shadows: people lying on the floor, crushed against walls, and four tall figures in military formation towering above them like monsters. Institute, for sure. Probably two Readers to figure out who’s where, and two Projectors to counter any telekinetic attempts at fighting back.

  We’re screwed.

  Daine follows the attackers as they move, using his telepathic reading power to remain aware of their location in the dark. He keeps me updated. I can’t get into them to read their thoughts. They’re shielded up like iron. But if we work together, maybe you can grab their zaps? Or throw them in the air?

  He’s asking if I can use his read of the situation to bolster my lower power and attack with my telekinesis, which he doesn’t have. He’s grasping at straws, and it’s obvious in his “voice” and body, which are both thrumming with distress. He might be an agent, but he’s a rookie at best, and his strengths aren’t in combat. He knows this as well as I do, but he’s hoping we can combine our abilities and protect the people—the kids—in here.

  That is a great idea, but we’re not the ones who should be doing this!

  I consider it for a moment. I don’t think it will work, and I tell him as much. Won’t work—I’m no match for four, and they’d just shoot us to splatters if they knew what we were doing. We’re not a priority right now. No, if they went after Raoul and Ivan… they’re hunting down the threats.

  If the strongest telepaths are indeed being picked off, it means that they know who the strongest telepaths are, which gives me probably five more people’s deaths before I’m on the wrong end of an energy blast.

  I’m not a concern… yet. I will be after they take out everyone who has more power. My grip on Daine slackens in shock at the realization, and he winds our fingers together so we can continue our mental conversation.

  If the doors were open, we’d stand a chance. There’d be enough light to mob them. There’s only four. Daine signals agreement with wonderment at how, and I wrack my brains. They must have cut the electricity somehow. That’d explain the doors and the lights. If we can get the doors open… people will be able to see, and to run.

  We toss ideas back and forth now and conclude that the only way to get the doors open without power is to set off the emergency alarm. And suddenly, I have an idea. We have to start a fire but without matches or a lighter. The junction box! I send an image of the box shorting out, setting off the fire alarms a few weeks ago. It’s brilliant. It could work… but we have to get there first. Across the open room.

  We think about using Daine as a distraction but abandon that idea. Making a run for it is dismissed, too, as it’s likely to turn the attention of the zaps toward us. After a few moments, we agree to inch across the floor as fast as we can while staying low and against the wall. There’s about twenty meters to cover before we’ll be behind the gym equipment and out of direct eye line.

  At that point, we might be safe to advance more quickly.

  We move in perfect synchronicity—one of the major advantages of telepathic communication. Once we’re crawling, however, our physical connection is cut because of the more important need of using limbs for transportation.

  The scuffling sound of our passage echoes obscenely loudly in my ears, as does my restrained breathing, and I almost collapse in fear as another vicious blast of energy is fired and a scream fills the room for only a millisecond. It’s cut off as the beam presumably makes it impossible for the victim to cry out any more. Probably shot in the throat, I think clinically, surprising myself with the detached thought. The afterimages left by the brilliant flash of light leave stark shadows printed in eerie green on my surroundings, further confusing my senses and ruining any progress I’d made toward night vision.

 
Nukers. Cowardly nukers, shooting unarmed people in the dark. How can they do that? Monsters.

  My awareness heightened by fear, I briefly read the gym as best I can in the dislocation of pitch-blackness, hoping the speed will stop the shooters from homing in on me. They don’t seem to be too interested in Readers anyway, or Daine would be dead. There’s someone crouched against the end of the weight bench. I give them a wide berth, wanting to reach out but worried they’ll call out in shock. It’s safer this way. After all, I almost shouted when Daine grabbed me. Thank nuke he had the presence of mind to cover my mouth. The blood from the split lip I received earlier is metallic on my tongue, and I wonder what it looks like now. Probably smeared all over my chin. Sexy.

  To my surprise, a little grin teases at the corner of my mouth. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and wince. What, I’m enjoying this now? I’m probably in shock. Get a grip, Abial. Just get to the nukin’ junction and turn the tables on these twitchy sons of slints. My mother would wash my mouth out if she could hear me—well, hear my thoughts. But she couldn’t, ’cause she wasn’t a Psionic.

  A hand on my ankle snaps me out of my mildly hysterical musing, and I realize with a start that I’m wedged between a bench and the wall, Daine pressed up against my calves.

  Focus, Abial. His mental message is reassuring; he’s still terrified, but now he feels like we have a plan, like we’re doing something. The helplessness is gone, replaced with a frightened but definite sense of purpose.

  I got it, I got it, sorry. It’s strange passing a message with the skin contact being on my leg, almost as though I have to push the thought down my body to send it to him.

  What do you need? he asks, and I send a jumble of nothing at him. He can’t do anything to help now. He lets go of me, and I grit my teeth and worm my hand up onto the surface of the bench. A moment passes without anyone firing at me, so I sneak into a crouched sitting position, hunched over. The junction box is about four feet off the ground; I’m going to have to sit right up and turn my back on the room, exposing myself totally.

  My nerves fail, and I freeze, my muscles quivering in fear.

  Suddenly, Daine’s hot hand closes on my bony ankle, reopening our direct line. I’m reading them. They’re… busy. The grimace in him discourages me from wanting to know with what, and I acknowledge his reassurance briefly before feeling my way blindly up the wall, trusting him to keep an “eye” on the room.

  My estimate of where the power box should be is off by a few feet, and in the time it takes me to find it, three more shots are fired. It seems as though the attackers are playing with the imprisoned, terrified herd of people, taking their time instead of just spraying the room with firepower, which would probably be the easiest way to deal with us. Every single shot convinces me that my spine is about to be blasted out through my stomach, leaving some interesting graffiti on the wall for ARC to clean up when they eventually figure out that everything’s gone to nuke in the gym.

  How has no one noticed the crazies shooting the room up yet? I wonder suddenly. Seriously, people, what are you doing? There could be more of them! This could be a full-on assault. There’s no way to know and no way to get a message out into the main body of the rebel station; psionic-muting metal frames every inch of ARC—something that usually protects us is now being turned against us.

  Getting the cover open without making any noise is a tricky thing in the dark. Fortunately, I’ve been able to pick locks since I was five or so, and the extremely basic single-pin catch is child’s play, even with sweaty, nerveless fingers. The ARC trainee tech pin works perfectly well as a pick, and the slender hair clip that was holding my bob out of my eyes for training provides a torque. The door swings open with a creak, and I hold my breath for a moment. If the invaders look over here, they’ll see me outlined, clearly up to something with a power box. Then I really will be paste.

  The moment drags out, and I swear I hear heavy footsteps approaching. I wouldn’t be able to fight them off in the light, let alone without being able to see them. What if they haul me away and wipe my memory instead of just shooting me here?

  I hold my breath, waiting, but no angry hands descend on my tensed shoulders, and nothing heavy hits me in the head. Still, my spine is crawling with anxiety.

  Pushing the debilitating thoughts to the back of my mind, I use my fingertips and telepathic reading skills to get a sense of what’s happening in the box. It’s a dangerous play, but reading inanimate objects is unlikely to signal them, since my interaction is with the box itself. If I tried to read one of the soldiers, they would feel me for sure—I’m still way too heavy-handed—but a close-range read of a physical item should… hopefully… go unnoticed. Not like I have much choice, anyway, as the box is a mess. Wires are clipped together and tangled in clumps, slotted into various points. Two seconds of light would be enough for me to make sense of it, but I just have to try to figure it out and hope for the best. Of course, they might have cut the trunk to this whole junction box on the outside, in which case, nothing I can do here is going to help, and we’re dead anyway.

  But this is gonna work. I’m so grateful to Daine in that moment that it washes through me, and I feel his cheeks heat in response. I couldn’t have even attempted to do this if I were alone. I’m a coward. I’d still be hiding on the floor in a trembling heap.

  Just get the doors open, and we’re even. I provide cheerleading and moral support at low, low costs.

  The shooting has died down, but the sound of flesh hitting flesh, crows of delight, and meaty thumps are still occurring, and distracting me. My eyes are finally starting to adjust again, but it’s so, so dark that the shadows I can make out in the box would still confuse me without telepathy to help. Even so, being able to differentiate between dark and darker helps settle me a little. It look/feels just like every other junction box on campus. That means a switch of the correct cables should blow out the transformers, causing a nice little explosion, setting the fire alarms off, and automatically disengaging the electronic locks holding us captive. Every electronic door contains a sensor and battery to open it in case of emergency.

  Let’s make an emergency. Taking a deep breath, I strip off my shirt, cover my hands with the fabric, and hope it’s enough to save me from a horrible death by electrocution. Then I gently shake my ankle free of Daine’s grip. I miss his comforting mental presence immediately, but there’s no point in both of us getting fried.

  I double the shirt over, limiting my dexterity but making myself feel better, and then flex my fingers. I’ll have to be fast—extremely fast, so I can drop behind the bench before anything happens. Really, I should tell Daine to move now—get away from the area—but as weak as it is, I don’t want to be totally alone.

  Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes to focus on my telepathic reading, wishing I was confident enough in my control to try to do this telekinetically. Too delicate, though. I don’t have anything like the necessary discipline for this sort of thing. Willing my hands to stop trembling, I swallow the acidic taste of fear and move.

  The wires pull out easily, and I switch them without missing a beat, plunging them into their new locations. I needn’t have worried about getting out of the way. The force of the electric shock lifts me clean off the bench and spins me through the air before I can really process it.

  I slam into the floor, feeling as if I’ve been pile driven, brain gibbering in shock. When I manage to roll onto my back, gasping like a beached fish, I’m vaguely satisfied to notice the main door sliding open behind the looming figure as he raises his hand, pointing a zap right at my face. I’m too young to die. The thought is haphazard, and I’m so scattered, I can’t even attempt to shield myself. The man’s face twists in fury, all the world slowing as his finger tenses on the trigger.

  Daine slams into his side in a rocketing explosion, flying blond hair clearly visible in the welco
me light pouring brightly from the entrance. I did that. The zap fires, so loud and close to me it makes my vision swim, ears ringing and brain swirling. A heartbeat later, my right arm screams in agony; it feels like my biceps has been melted right off the bone. It hurts. It hurts worse than anything I’ve ever experienced, but somehow, I force my body to stagger drunkenly to my feet. Then I weave toward the rolling forms of Daine and the shooter.

  Daine’s getting his butt kicked; the bigger, stronger man has him pinned with telekinesis, slamming both fists into his face. The zap is just out of reach, obviously knocked from his hand. If he thinks clearly for a moment, he’ll drag the weapon right back and shoot Daine’s head off.

  I stumble, my cheek feeling wet and hot. My injured arm hangs limply at my side, useless fingers dangling. With the last of my energy, I stagger into a messy kick. The top of my bare foot slams into the side of the man’s neck. He topples sideways with a wheezing noise like a punctured balloon, and I manage to kick him in the balls for good measure before dropping to my knees, gasping, and hauling my arm onto my lap. It smells like cooked meat.

  Taking advantage of his release, Daine grabs the man’s zap and drives it into the bridge of his nose with vicious strength. Now the guy’s breath bubbles wetly. The room spins dizzily, though, and I can barely see through the salty burning in my eyes. But I also can’t stop staring at the wreck of my shoulder and arm. It’s all black and red and white. I gag, vomiting into my lap over my cradled, somehow-undamaged forearm.