Damaged Goods

by Jennifer Bardsley

  “A couple of Boeing commercials do not make you experts!” Beau streams forward in pursuit of his brothers.

  “Take the chips out,” moans Seth.

  “Hold tight. We’ll land in San Jose soon.” I cradle Seth’s head.

  “No,” Seth whispers. “Now.” His face whitens with pain, like he’s about to pass out.

  “Richard? Do you have any razors?” Cal paws through the first-aid kit.

  “Razors!” I cry. “No!”

  “Blanca,” Cal’s voice is stern, “we don’t have time to argue. We need to take care of Seth.”

  “I’ll help.” Sarah pulls her ponytail back tight. “Tie him down with seat belts so he doesn’t struggle.”

  Fatima holds out her arms. “You’re a soap model. Not an expert on antiseptic.”

  “So what?” Sarah snaps. “That doesn’t mean I couldn’t be a nurse.” She reaches for hand sanitizer and slathers it on.

  “Blanca,” Seth whimpers. The chips are crawling toward his elbow now. Seth’s beautiful tattoos are ripped to shreds. Any second the angel for Sophia will be destroyed.

  “I’m here.” I stroke his hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I keep my eyes on Seth and ignore the commotion coming from up front as Trevor and Beau carry Captain Lin and the copilot’s writhing bodies back to the cabin.

  “There.” Cal holds up an impromptu scalpel. “I think this will work.” It’s a spoon taped to a one of Richard’s razors. “Let’s get these out of you, my boy.” But when Cal looks down at his son, his face turns ashen.

  “It’ll take two of us.” Richard’s voice is deep and low. “One on each arm before it’s too late.” He rolls up his sleeves and rubs his hands together with antiseptic while Sarah fashions an extra scalpel. “Give him some gin.”

  Fatima raids the beverage cart for anything that might help.

  I open a tiny bottle and pour it down Seth’s mouth, but he sputters.

  “Enough,” Seth gasps. “Do it.”

  I don’t watch what happens next. I focus my green eyes on Seth’s brown ones. I hold his face in my hands, and I put our noses close together.

  He screams in pain. Terrible cries of agony rip the air in two.

  But I keep my tone calm and steady. “I love you, Seth. No matter what I will always love you. I’m here for you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this okay. I promise.”

  I don’t know if Seth hears me. I keep saying the words over and over anyway. “I love you. No matter what I love you.”

  “There,” Cal says with a voice dry as dust. “It’s done.”

  I look and find Sarah madly wrapping bandages around Seth’s arms. Richard helps control the bleeding. Cal’s shirt is smeared in blood, and he drops the improvised scalpel like it’s on fire.

  “Now people!” Zach yells from the cockpit. “Hang tight ’cause we’re landing this thing.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Ryan’s voice echoes.

  “Everyone,” Cal orders, “fasten your seat belts.”

  I take the first seat I can find and buckle up. Then I brace for impact.

  “Blanca,” Seth’s small voice whispers in front of me, “do you have your chip-watch?”

  “My chip-watch? You’re talking about tech now? We’re about to crash!”

  “Turn it on.” Seth struggles to speak. “Don’t you see? What happens when we land? This could be the work of terrorists.”

  Keung, my brain shouts.

  In the last few seconds of our descent, I somehow manage to turn on my chip-watch.

  And hear a partial sentence in Mandarin.

  Only after winter comes …

  The McNeal Solar jet is battered. But Beau’s brothers activate the escape hatch moments after landing the plane. We all manage to slide down the emergency chute with only minor scrapes and bruises.

  Except for Seth and our two captains.

  Trevor carries the copilot, her limp arms smoking at the shoulders. I smell the aroma of roasted flesh.

  But Captain Lin holds tight to coherence. “Blanca,” he whispers as Alberto rests him on the asphalt, “I lied to you.” I reach down and hold his hand. “I was a Guardian, but I became loyal to your mother, not to Beijing. That’s why they did this to me.”

  “Who did this to you?” My heart palpitates. “Keung?”

  “No,” Captain Lin whispers. “Bigger than Keung. Our boss, Wu Park.” Then his eyes roll back in his head.

  Wu Park? The woman who founded the Guardians? She’s like the Chinese version of Barbelo.

  “Blanca,” Call hollers, “we must take Seth to a hospital.”

  “No,” I say, “not a hospital.”

  “What?” Cal asks.

  “Don’t you see?” I cry. “This is a terrorist attack.”

  “Only one place will be safe,” Pilar answers.

  I know exactly where she’s talking about.

  “Tabula Rasa!” Fatima exclaims. She places her hands protectively over her baby bump.

  I look out into the parking lot and see Vestal limos pull up.

  Cal whips his head from the limos to me. “No,” he shouts.

  “Yes! Tabula Rasa has lead-lined walls. Whatever the terrorists do won’t be able to penetrate them.” I look to my friends, and the Vestals nod their heads in unison.

  “Absolutely not.” Cal tightens his grip on Seth, who leans heavily against his father.

  “Come with us, Blanca,” Richard says. “We’ll keep you safe.”

  Fatima and Beau nod their heads in agreement.

  “Please, Cal?” Pilar pleads. “Come with us too.”

  “I’m sorry, Pilar, but no.” Cal gives Pilar a wistful look and then shakes his head.

  With the corner of my eye, I see Alan’s limo pull up.

  “It’s time to decide,” Seth gasps. “Once and for all. Are you a Vestal or are you a McNeal?”

  “Do you really have to ask?” I run over to my family and wrap my arms around Seth’s other side.

  Pilar follows me, and for a moment, I think she’ll come with us. But then she bends down and kisses Cal farewell.

  A mass of Vestals file forward and carry my friends away into the waiting cars, corporate logos on every one. When I watch the limos leave without me, I feel abandoned.

  And I know that it’s my own fault.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McNeal. But I don’t dare step out of this car.” Alan sticks his head out of the window of the limo and inches the vehicle up closer.

  “That’s okay. Fill us in on the ride to the hospital.” Cal gently places Seth in the back seat and then looks back toward the airplane. “We’ve got to get the pilots.”

  “Agreed.” I buckle Seth’s seat belt and then race back to help Cal. He carries the copilot to the front seat of the limo with ease, but it takes the two of us together to drag Captain Lin back to the limo.

  The ride to the freeway is laborious. There are car crashes everywhere, as if everyone’s chips activated at the same time. I hear a helicopter buzz above me and spot countless fires along the road. Alan drives on sidewalks and around smashed-up cars, forging a path.

  “Thank goodness for this cloistered limo,” Alan says to Cal in the front seat. “It probably saved my life.”

  Cal looks at all the wrecks. “We’ll never make it to the hospital this way.”

  “You’re sure that’s the place to go?” I ask.

  Cal glances back at Seth and the pilots. “What choice to do we have? These guys need care.”

  I hold my hands out wide. “And so does all of Silicon Valley.”

  A streetlight bursts overhead, its solar box buzzing.

  “McNeal Solar,” Cal exclaims. “How could I be so stupid? It’s probably chaos in the control room. I need to help stabilize the grid.” Cal rolls down the window and leans outside with his chip-watch, trying to get a connection. Then he pulls back inside the car. “Dammit! All I can hear is blathering i
n Mandarin.”

  “Ask Blanca what they say,” Seth mumbles.

  “What?”

  “She’s fluent.” The color slowly returns to Seth’s cheeks.

  “Well, I’m not fluent exactly, more like—”

  “Blanca,” Cal says, “save it.”

  I take a deep breath. “Sorry.” The limo grinds to a halt, boxed in by cars, so I open the door, step out, and turn on my chip-watch. It’s always harder to understand a foreign tongue when you can’t see the mouth move. So it takes me a moment for my brain to adjust to the different language.

  Only after winter comes, the voice says with a thick Beijing accent. Do we know that the pine and the cypress are the last to fade.

  My heart beats so fast it feels like my chest will explode.

  Only after winter comes, the announcement begins again. Do we know that the pine and the cypress are the last to fade.

  “What?” Cal calls from inside the limo. “What is it saying?”

  I climb back into the car, my limbs shaking. “It’s from Confucius.” I say before translating it for them. “I need to tell the FBI. I think the Guardians might be behind this all!”

  “How will you do that, Miss Blanca?” Alan asks. “I can barely move this car.”

  “You need a motorcycle,” Seth suggests, his voice weak.

  Cal looks out his window. “So we’ll take one.”

  “What?” I ask. “You mean steal one?”

  “Not steal,” Cal says. “Borrow.”

  I stare through the glass. There are fatalities everywhere. Up ahead I see a group of riders thrown to the ground. “I don’t want to leave Seth.”

  “You won’t have to,” Seth slurs. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No,” Cal cautions. “Stay in the car with Alan. Let him take you to the hospital.”

  “I’ll be better off with Blanca,” Seth argues. “And I don’t want her going alone.”

  “She won’t be alone,” says Cal. “I’ll come with her.”

  I look at the both of them, the two men I love. My life wouldn’t be complete without either of them. “No, Cal. You need to go to McNeal Solar and deal with the power grid. This whole state is counting on you. Seth will be safe with me.”

  “But!” Cal protests but then stops himself. “Let’s not waste time arguing. All three of us are too stubborn.”

  So after commissioning Alan to take care of the injured pilots, we set off on the road on foot. Seth stumbles at first; soon his steps grow steadier. Fifty yards ahead of us, we reach the fallen motorcycle gang.

  I look down at one of them, a big guy with a handlebar mustache who reminds me of Gregor from the Defecto support group. “Excuse me, sir. Could I please borrow your bike?” But he’s passed out and doesn’t answer. I see singe marks on his shoulders where his finger-chips burned out. His leather kutte exposes long bloody trains of gore. I carefully remove the rider’s helmet and examine his bike. It’s banged up but still functional.

  Seth attempts to pick up a bike too. “No way.” I glare at his shredded arms. “You ride with me.”

  “Good idea.” Cal puts on a leather jacket. He lifts up a bike that’s only slightly damaged.

  “Can you ride a motorcycle?” I ask Cal.

  He shoves a helmet on. “Who do you think taught Seth?”

  “Be careful, Dad.” Seth’s voice is full of emotion.

  “You too, kids.” Cal turns on the ignition. Before he takes off, he looks at us over his shoulder. “In case I haven’t said it before, you two make me proud every day.”

  I put Seth’s helmet on him since his hands are wounded. Then I find one for myself: red with a lightning bolt.

  Seth gives me a once over. “Looks like you’ve become a pro at wearing color.”

  “Looks like you got rid of your finger-chips like I asked,” I retort.

  I take it as a good sign that Seth can make jokes. But as we pull away from the wreckage, Seth can barely hold on behind me. I take it slow, for Seth’s sake, which is agony because every fiber of me twitches for speed.

  Another helicopter flies overhead, but I can’t figure out where it’s going.

  Or who might be watching.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Everywhere I see destruction. The people who operated vehicles had it the worst. I steer our motorcycle around twisted fiberglass and shattered windshields. Some drivers died on impact, but others, trapped in their cars, scream in agony.

  “How are you doing?” I call back to Seth, my voice muffled by my helmet and the wind.

  “My arms are on fire, but I’m feeling better.”

  “Good.”

  “Turn on the radio and let’s look for news.”

  I briefly take my eyes off the road and glance at the bike’s tech system. It’s ten times more complicated than mine. “I don’t know how!”

  Seth reaches forward and flicks a switch.

  Only after winter comes, says the voice in Mandarin. Do we know that the pine and the cypress are the last to fade.

  Seth switches the channel and the same message plays on repeat, but in English. He flicks the channels again and again. We hear Confucius in Spanish, Farsi, Arabic, and German. “They’re not messing around.” Seth paws the radio off in anger.

  I pull off the Interstate through an exit clogged with debris. The city streets aren’t much better. My heart breaks when I see a school bus smashed into an RV. I veer our motorcycle onto the sidewalk and then back into the road, along whatever path I find.

  Sometimes we pass clusters of people, their shoulders burned, fallen in front of stores or stacked up on balconies of apartment buildings. Some walk around like zombies, their singed shoulders smoking. In the distance, I hear an ambulance and feel sad knowing there’s no way for it to get through the maze of destruction.

  We ride underneath a traffic signal and the lights sizzle out.

  “Will your dad be okay?” I shout to Seth.

  “He’ll be fine,” Seth yells from behind me. “He’ll get the power grid secured in no time.”

  But I’m not sure that’s possible. Not if Keung planted Guardians at McNeal Solar …

  I halt my brain from thinking. I don’t have time for worry now.

  The FBI building in front of us is protected by a perimeter of officers in SWAT gear. I pull as close as I dare, and they aim their semiautomatic rifles at our hearts. I see the target lines on our chests.

  “Halt!” somebody shouts. I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman because of the protective padding.

  “Careful, Blanca,” Seth murmurs through his helmet. He holds up his hands and freezes.

  “I’m taking off my helmet so you can see my face,” I shout. Then slowly, ever so slowly, I remove the headgear, and my long brown hair tumbles out, hot and sticky against my neck.

  “Don’t move!” the officer calls again.

  I hold up my hands and become still as ice. “I’m Blanca McNeal, a former Vestal, and I need to speak with Agents Plunkett and Marlow immediately.”

  “Stay where we can see you!” The officer pulls out a small rectangular box with some sort of antennae and holds it against his mouth.

  “What’s that?” I ask Seth.

  His voice sounds odd as he keeps his face stiff. “I think it’s an old-fashioned walkie-talkie. I’ve only seen them in movies when I was a little kid. What I don’t understand is how these guys are still okay.”

  I look at the officer’s thick protection equipment. “Lead-lined gloves. They blocked the transmission signal that activated the chips. The first time they brought me here and took my chip-watch away, the guy in processing told me—”

  But I don’t get the chance to finish my sentence. The front doors to the building open and Agent Plunkett stalks out.

  Her right hand wears a solitary glove, but her left arm is bandaged and bloodied, the sleeve ripped off at the elbow. It looks like she cut out her own finger-chips
with a penknife. She cradles her damaged arm with her gloved hand. “Blanca Nemo? Why are you here?”

  My body trembles but my voice is steady. “I’m here to tell you everything. I don’t know if it will help. But I have to try.”

  Agent Plunkett turns to the officer with the walkie-talkie. “Let her through. She’s the best hope we’ve got.”

  Seth and I follow Agent Plunkett through the first floor of the FBI building past major triage. Not everyone had lead-lined gloves apparently. Impromptu surgeries take place on desks and conference tables. People moan on the floor, their shoulders singed. A generator hums in the background and provides barely adequate light.

  Agent Plunkett opens a door and takes us up a stairwell, guiding our way by flashlight. I shield Seth against the wall so he doesn’t get hit by men and women rushing down the stairs.

  “Marlow is up here,” Agent Plunkett says. “He didn’t get his chips removed in time. I’m not sure which is worse—cutting the damn things out or letting their batteries run out of juice and trying to recover from that.”

  “You mean I could have left them in?” Seth contemplates his mangled arms.

  Agent Plunkett slams open the door to the fourth floor and leads us through darkened halls. “They don’t seem to kill people, but they definitely do a number on you.”

  “You can never be too careful,” I say darkly.

  We pause at the door of a small room, Agent Plunkett turns to look at me. “Bingo.”

  Inside I see Agent Marlow’s office. His desk sits close to the window, and he slumps in his chair, grimly pale. Burn marks circle each shoulder like pocks.

  “How’s the morphine, Marlow?” Agent Plunkett asks brusquely.

  “I didn’t take it. Gotta focus.” His eyes move slowly between Seth and me. “A Vestal and a Virus.” Agent Marlow takes deep, regular breaths like it’s hard for him to speak.

  “Burns are the worst,” Seth murmurs with empathy.

  “You know where to find me when you feel better,” Agent Plunkett says. Then she stalks down the hall to what appears to be a major command center. Plunkett nods her head and alerts a tall African American woman in a dark sheath dress. Like Seth, her arms are bandaged at the elbow where her chips must have been removed. “Blanca and Seth, this is Elizabeth Lister, the Executive Assistant Director for Criminal Cyber Response.”