Shield

by Rachael Craw

  “Where is she?” he asks.

  In the silence I know they point to the back room.

  Ethan sighs. I identify its weight and duration as two parts disappointment and one part lack of surprise.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Just my lip,” Helena says.

  “You are trembling.”

  “It’s only adrenaline leaving my system.”

  “You have not been sleeping.”

  “It’s getting better.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “Der Bär worries too much.”

  Ethan produces a brief low sound. “Is there any wonder?”

  The last part is a road bump, displacing my thoughts. Der Bär? And Ethan’s reply – that soft-centred grumble, a note of warmth? Familiarity?

  “What did Thurston want?” Jamie asks.

  “To warn me. Robert is campaigning against the Initiative. He has been speaking to the trainers.”

  “Knox? Telling them what?” Jamie demands.

  Ethan doesn’t reply at first. I picture them looking at the door to the back room. Then he says, “Recruiting for the Initiative was never going to be a simple matter.”

  “Der Bär must consider my offer,” Helena says.

  “That is not what I brought you here for,” Ethan says.

  I interpret the silence as Jamie and Helena gazing at each other, picturing the babies they’ll make together. I squeeze my eyes closed tight and try not to hiss at the pain in my face. Stop it. This is what you wanted, for him to be free.

  “You are off field duty and you have commitments already.”

  “The Proxy will transition to a new carer,” she says.

  “That takes time,” Ethan says. “It is a sensitive process. Your exams are coming up and–”

  “Beggars cannot choose.”

  MIRIAM

  Ethan walks close beside me as we make our way to the ICU. Neither of us speaks. The silence isn’t comfortable, like we’ve forgotten the ease we shared when I was recovering on the psych ward. I realise now the peace I’d enjoyed on the ward was artificial, cut off from the real world of the functioning Affinity Project. I wonder if the staff there had to work hard to hide their disgust for me. I never picked up on any bad vibes at the time. Everyone was civil and kind. That’s because they’re not real Shields. It’s true, their signals were remarkably weak but they weren’t deactivated. They simply stayed below ground – stayed in the compound. They didn’t have the chalky skin of a Proxy, bleached by hours soaking in saline, but were definitely pale from lack of sunshine. I didn’t like to think about that choice either. A life of hiding.

  I steal a glimpse of Ethan’s profile, his thickly stubbled jaw, his shadowed eyes. His signal, a deep thrumming pulse, runs beneath mine. There’s comfort in the bandwidth even if we’ve lost it in the face to face. Neither of us hurry to make eye contact. The whole time he doctored my injuries he’d kept his words measured, simply assessing my pain, examining the cartilage of my nose, telling me to brace while resetting my finger, comforting words, German words. “Brünnhilde.” His name for me tapped at feelings I couldn’t describe, complicated but not unpleasant. There’s a hint of connectedness and agreement in a nickname and that’s … nice.

  I want to explain about the mess hall. I want him to ask me about it. I want him to believe me. New signals crackle the bandwidth and before the turn in the corridor I hear the footsteps that go with them, heavy-booted tread. I misstep and cringe, embarrassed to be so skittish. Ethan gives me a reassuring glance and when we round the corner he keeps a half-step ahead of me, using his body to block the men’s view. I lower my head to hide the pulpy evidence on the left side of my face.

  “Sir,” they greet in unison.

  “Mmph.” Ethan slows his pace as we pass, keeping himself between me and the men.

  Once we’re out of earshot I say, “You can’t be with me all the time.”

  “We will work it out.”

  I recognise the recovery ward on the right; its doors are pulled back so I catch a good look of the room where I woke up after my spine had been skewered. The long rows of beds either side of the walls are empty. No Wardens yet. I shiver. It won’t be long before the new Proxy is put to work. There’s a sense of anticipation in the compound, waiting for core business to resume.

  Further down the corridor is the smaller Intensive Care Unit. My pulse can’t find its rhythm, erratic in my chest. The slider opens and a mournful note fills the bandwidth – Ethan’s and mine together. I follow him down the narrow aisle to Miriam’s bed. She’s the only one in here, but if my eyes were closed and my ears blocked I wouldn’t know anyone was in here at all. Her absence in the bandwidth brings tears to my eyes that I can’t stop. I don’t bother to try. At least a rock-hard lump in my throat keeps me from sobbing aloud.

  We move either side of her bed and Ethan’s dark green eyes sweep over my mother’s face but he doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t have the same burden of sensitivity as me and touching her would let him access her signal – her lack of signal. I guess he doesn’t want to feel that lack. When he looks at me, I see the hungry question in his face. Is she here? Can you sense her? I shake my head. He lowers his.

  Her hair has grown, like mine. If it were brushed down it would cover her ears and the edge of her jaw and the collar at the back of her neck. Someone has combed it back from her face and her skin looks smooth and clear. No shadows beneath the dark sweep of lashes. I slip my fingers beneath hers, warm to the tips, careful of the IV line taped to the top of her hand. The heat in her skin makes me glad, that and her steady heartbeat, the reassuring blip of the monitor at the head of the bed.

  “Kitty says hi.” I kiss her cheek then wipe my tears on the back of my bandaged hand, careful with the strapping on my broken finger. “Do you think they’ll let us try restorative therapy? Now there’s a new Proxy?”

  Ethan keeps his eyes on her face. Neither of us likes the idea of using the Proxy to help Miriam. Neither of us likes the idea of that child’s pitiful life at all. The cruelty and necessity for that cruelty. The whole thing is a moral quagmire. It could have been my fate. I could have lived my whole life in an Affinity Project lab, my skin turning to chalk, my irises bleached to silver, my sanity thinned to rice paper through endless Harvests, interrogations, boosts and whatever else a Proxy’s brain is used for. Finally he says, “It is not a priority.”

  “They can’t punish her for what happened. They cleared us.”

  “It is a delicate time, settling a new Proxy. They will not tax her system with anything beyond necessary functions. Boosting will be her only requirement until they can be sure of her stability.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “It is hard to say. Six, eight months at the least before they reassess.”

  I squeeze Miriam’s hand and send a sharp pulse into the bandwidth, like telepathic sonar, looking for an echo, any sign of her beyond Ethan, beyond me. My want stings my eyes and the back of my throat. “The Proxy said that we could find a way to bring Miriam back – you and me together.”

  A haunted look from beneath his gathered brow. “How?”

  I remember her crouching beside me, in my brother’s blood, her crazed silver eyes as she stroked my face, the terror of my paralysis as she assured me there was hope for Miriam. She “unlocked” me, she said. Gave me everything she had in a telepathic blast. There’s no doubt things have changed. I was sensitive before she ransacked my mind. Now I’m like an antenna, sensing too much all the time. The encounter with the women in the locker room had shocked me. The seamless access to Stephanie’s memories and the way it made her weak. It stirred other things in me, dark things. Things I wouldn’t want to admit aloud. I know I could do more. Even with the telekinesis, I could do more but I haven’t tried – afraid of what I might be able to do. “Use me.”

  He lifts his head.

  “I want to try. Use me instead of the Proxy – whatever restorative therapy looks like
. Plug me in.”

  Lines gather in the corners of his eyes. “No.”

  “I’m not waiting six to eight months for an assessment only to hear more excuses about why they won’t help her.”

  “You do not understand.” He hunches his shoulders, scrapes his fingers along his jaw. “It is a difficult, painful procedure. Not simply searching for her signal but giving your own.”

  “People give blood. They donate kidneys. Bone marrow. How is this different?”

  “You are not strong enough.”

  “How can you say that? You’ve seen me blow up a lab.”

  “That is not the strength I am talking about.”

  I keep my voice even. “I was released from the psych ward.”

  “From the ward. Not from their jurisdiction.”

  “Then clear me.”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “You think I’m … unstable?”

  His dark eyes move over my battered face, so dark I can’t see the green.

  I point at my wounds. “I didn’t do this. I didn’t start this. I defended myself. That’s all.”

  “You are still grieving … many losses.” He doesn’t name them but I count them in my head: mother, brother, boyfriend, freedom, future … “You are in a hostile environment with few allies. Your secrets are a burden you cannot put down.”

  Who I am, what I am, who my parents are.

  “Helena …”

  I drop my gaze. “I can handle it.”

  He hesitates. “There are things I should have told you, things that may be hard to hear, hard to accept.”

  I imagine my heart perforating along a pre-punctured line. “I get it. You brought her here for Jamie. I can handle it. Her. Them.”

  Jamie.

  A lightning strike of memory takes me: Jamie’s mouth on mine, his breath hot, the intoxicating scent of his skin, his wide warm hands pressing me to his chest. My fingers tracing his scars …

  Ethan grunts. I come out of the memory with a thump like I’ve fallen off a chair. He blinks at me red-faced, his large hand pressed palm to forehead. “Evangeline.”

  Heat burns up my neck and into my cheeks. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean to.”

  “This is what I am trying to tell you. You are not strong enough to control your feelings. They control you.” He detaches his palm from his head to gesture at the wall. “More broken glass in the mess hall.”

  “I was attacked.”

  “And you may be again.” He drops his voice. “You have enough to deal with without depleting your resources further. Miriam is stable. She is safe. The time for restorative therapy will come.”

  “So-assess-me-and-send-me-home,” I snap, hard and quick, a hot hammer in my chest. “You don’t need me in the way. You’ve got a team to put together, a cure to test.”

  His mouth forms a resigned line, tugging down at the edges. “Counsellor Thurston has made a suggestion. Davis also.”

  I wait, surprised by both names.

  “If you are willing, you could train to run communications for the Initiative. It would be purely non-combative, technical assistance. As you have seen, we will be hard-pressed to recruit anyone for fieldwork. We cannot afford to waste resources on non-combative roles.”

  I can’t process the clash of feeling, excitement, resentment, relief. “Counsellor Thurston suggested it?”

  “Davis suggested it last night. Counsellor Thurston is our Executive-appointed oversight. She just confirmed that the Council will allow your involvement so long as you are kept away from the general populace of the compound, clear your psych assessment and complete Orientation.”

  My stomach sinks again. “Kept away? With no one to train me?”

  “Counsellor Thurston is arranging access to the lower barracks as a base for the Initiative. I will train you. Helena will help. Davis also.”

  Lower barracks. I shudder to think how much lower that could be but that’s not the bit that gets the most of my attention and I keep a careful handle on my voice. “Helena’s on the team?”

  “You heard her. Beggars cannot choose.”

  “Can’t be choosers.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” I mutter. I want to ask what happened to her – Davis said her last assignment ended badly. It’s none of your business. Speaking of … “So, she knows about Aiden … and what happened? She knows he was my brother?”

  He nods.

  “You’ve told her everything?”

  “Everything she needs to know.”

  I search his face, gesturing at him and Miriam and me. “This?”

  “No,” he says softly. “She believes your aunt is in stasis.”

  “And she wants in on Team Stray?”

  “She wishes to help me.”

  I want to demand why – what the history is between them. I know Jamie respects Ethan, looks up to him – matching tattoos and all. Did they become close when Ethan paired them for Deactivation? I guess the three of them must have spent a lot of time together. Then another thought trips me. “Wait. Men and women aren’t allowed to train together.”

  “If Helena is present I may train you. Davis is safe.”

  I stare blankly. “He is?”

  “Quite safe.”

  The slider to the corridor opens and Davis, as though summoned, steps in – scowl set to maximum. “They split, sir. Bullshit stories about shifts starting and places to be. Asshat cowards.”

  I’d forgotten about the men arguing around Ethan’s desk and judging by Ethan’s face, so had he. He sighs and rubs his jaw, his gaze sweeping over Miriam, a parting look as he steps around the bed.

  “We don’t need them,” Davis says. “Lane will come around. Gallagher and I can take point on field ops and if–” He casts an expectant look between us.

  “Evangeline,” Ethan says. “Are you onboard?”

  “Of course.”

  He nods, and there’s a look in his eyes as though there’s more he’d like to say but the opportunity has passed. An alert pings. Ethan pulls a device from his pocket. “The lab is waiting for me.”

  “You want me to take Evie back to your office?”

  Ethan frowns. “Jamie and Helena are there.”

  My perforated seams ache. Davis doesn’t change expression, though his eyes move over me.

  “I am afraid you will have to return to the dormitory, Evangeline. You will be safe there until we relocate to the lower barracks.” Again he looks like he has more to say but can’t. He sighs and strides out the door.

  * * *

  Davis and I make the first three corridors in silence, my head full. Miriam. Helena. Jamie. The attack. Radar on full alert, I scan for approaching signals. There are plenty of people around, on the other sides of doors – faint static. No one headed our way for the moment. I glance at Davis, surprised he hasn’t asked me about how I got beat up. Maybe he’s already heard.

  “Thanks for getting me on the team.”

  “Saves me taking your sorry ass home.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. When I told Ethan to send me home it had been bluster. Imagining being back at Miriam’s house by myself – no Kitty … A shiver crawls over the back of my neck. The jittery comedown post mess hall attack hasn’t eased. I know what it is.

  “What?” Davis asks.

  “What?”

  “Spit it out. You’re all …” He pantomimes shifty eyes and nervous twitching.

  I fight a pointless debate in my head like a three-second shouting match. Tell him to cram it! Ask for help! “I need you to get me something but you can’t tell.”

  He smirks, taking me off guard. “Contraband?”

  “Drugs.”

  He stops walking to turn and eyeball me.

  “Legal drugs. My drugs. Prescription. Obviously legal. God, Davis.”

  “Crazy pills?”

  “Screw you.”

  “I thought you were fine.”

  “I am. I mean, I’m doing really well. This mornin
g wasn’t – I mean, that fight had nothing to do with my – with me being – I’m fine. It’s just I haven’t had my meds since yesterday morning and now I’m on the team. I don’t want to let Ethan down.”

  “Isn’t it on your file? Won’t he make sure you get what you need?”

  “Of course but he’s busy and there’s a lot going on and I don’t know when the psych assessment will happen and I don’t want to ask him.”

  “You think you’ll look weak?”

  I don’t answer.

  “You think he’ll change his mind?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  He narrows his eyes, deep clear blue, penetrating. I’m not sure I’d call Davis safe – if Jamie’s signal wasn’t stamped on every cell in my body …

  I can imagine Davis laying waste to hearts out in the real world with his scowl and his smirk and his something else at the centre behind all the rough edges.

  He drops his gaze and shrugs. “Fine.”

  APOLOGY

  There are one hundred and eighteen rivets in the back of my dorm room door. I can almost count the lot while holding my breath. It’s three paces to the door from the bed and three and a half to the wardrobe. It takes six steps to circuit the room but I’ve stopped making laps because my head spins and I’m already fighting dizziness. My nails are red and tender, bitten to the quick, a couple of them tore too deep – I’ll have to hide them in my pockets. The battery on my phone is at twenty-two per cent so I’ve stopped checking the time. It must be late afternoon. I sit on the bed and explore the bruising on my face. I can see properly now the swelling has gone down though the skin is still tender around my eye. Exhausted, but too wired to sleep, I shuffle back against the wall, press my forehead to my knees and wait.

  There’s a knock on my door and a whispered, “Everton.”

  I sit up too fast and bang my head on the wall. Jamie? How did I miss the approach of his signal? I bolt off the bed, tuck my hair behind my ears and pray my eyes have lost their redness. I step beneath the sensor and the door slides back. Jamie barrels into me, almost lifting me from the ground in his rush to get through the door, glancing back over his shoulder.