Metal Heart

By Melinda Jasmine Crouchley

Eleni Garza watched her parents die in a terrorist bombing that stopped her heart. Prothero, a shady corporation, saved her life by implanting her with experimental nanotechnology. To repay her debts, Prothero enlists her in military service.

During a routine combat simulation, strange powers emerge and Eleni discovers she may have a cure for a global virus. She may, in fact, be the cure to the virus. Now she just has to escape a heavily fortified military base and deliver herself into the hands of terrorists. No problem.

The sequel, Tin Road, is available for download now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melinda Jasmine Crouchley
• Release date: Dec 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370805167

Melinda Jasmine Crouchley

I'm a Pacific Northwest local with an MA in Book Publishing and BA in English from Portland State University. My first three novels, young adult science fiction books, Metal Heart, Tin Road, and Iron Curtain were accepted into the Multnomah County Library Writers Project Collection.I recently wrapped up tenure as the Managing Editor at Ooligan Press, and I'm now working as an Editor.I currently live in Portland, Oregon with my spouse, our daughter, our Boston Terrier Oreo Cookie, and I'm the proud steward of a Little Free Library. I love to read, write, and play Pokemon Go. Gotta catch 'em all.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE:

COMBAT SIMULATION

On Tuesdays we run combat SIMS from behind the front lines.

My squadmate Rabbit Santiago and I are nestled securely inside a virtual tank, plopped down just outside of a bombed-out desert city. Our objective is to provide air support using our drones to scout ahead of the troops. The manufactured rubble strewn in front of us reminds me of the Afghanistan landscape and the rusted, broken signs are all scripted in Arabic.

We monitor the drone’s visual feeds on our bands, routing information to the troops and tracking any movement we pick up on the battlefield. Reports are made to Corazon, our squad leader, via the mics attached to our helmets, in order to keep chatter off the waves.

This is a routine simulation, on a routine Tuesday, at routine Fort Columbia in grey-washed Oregon and we’re tucked so far away from the danger of battle I’ve grown bored watching the shapes and colors morph on the virtual in front of me.

None of this is real. This far away from the action, I sometimes question if we’re even real. Right now it feels more like we’re big kids with big guns. Fake soldiers playing at war while the world outside our walls is ravaged by the nano virus. We’re the last, best hope for keeping the peace and ensuring survival beyond the virus. We’re the final line between what’s left of society and the terrorists. But why does it still feel like we’re invisible?

The only reality is mandatory national service. It’s the reality and the lie. And the desire to escape this prison climbs and crashes in my body like the explosions outside our metal confines. But for me there’s no return to a restful normal life again. Not after what I did. Not after what I’ve become. I pull in a deep breath of the tangy sterile tank air, breathing in the odd scent of bleach, sweat, and cinnamon that accompanies Santiago like a musk.

I blow it out in a long weary sigh. Does he even know how his smell permeates the tight quarters, drowning out the blinking lights and breaking up my concentration?

Hold up. Santiago sits up straighter, his helmet lightly bumping against the roof. Garza, you see that? He tilts his band awkwardly towards me.

Santiago, who stands a foot taller than I do, is folded into the cramped space like a long-limbed paper crane, his beak nose grazing the tank wall in front of us. He barely has room to move without brushing against me and his arm veers dangerously close to touching mine. He stops just short, bordering on casual indifference.

A slash of color pulses in the bowels of a building in the northeast corner of the map. I blink and the purple beacon vanishes, leaving a trace of radiant light bursts in its wake. I slip a gloved hand under my visor, wiping sweat from my brow. The brightness dissipates, but a high-pitched squeal picks up in their stead. I knock my fists against both sides of my helmet to shake out the sound. It wavers and then stops.

You alright over there? Santiago asks.

I shrug, and refocus on the map. I don’t see it. I did, for a second. I don’t see it anymore, I say.

Our displays show nothing but crumbling skyscrapers and cracking towers. Innocent citizens fleeing before the sting of war. Their blurred images haunt across the screen like ghosts. It shouldn’t have to be like this. We should have been able to stop this.

But we’re in the shit now.

Right here. A weird signature in this building. Santiago points towards a squat white tenement with stone peeling off the walls.

Not human? I squint. Maybe my eye implant is shorting out and feeding me bad information. In two years of perfect operation, this would be a first. I blink hard and bypass the visor again, pressing my fingers to the synthetic eyelid for a bio reset.

When I blink my false eye back open, I catch Santiago staring. He clears his throat, diverting his gaze to the energy signatures I don’t see. It’s not the eye implant he’s drawn to, because Prothero constructed that to look as human as possible. They were eerily exacting in their work. What he’s staring at are the twinkling blue-green data chips and wires woven into the skin at my temple—the scars rumpling the skin on the left side of my face and neck and running down onto my collarbone. That’s what he’s really looking at. It’s not the first time I’ve caught him staring either, but he’s hardly the first person to stare. The thing is, we’ve been on the same squad for almost six months. You think he’d be used to it by now.

Santiago clears his throat. It’s some kind of missile system, he says, rotating the building image. His drone jet hovers in the air above the building, collecting and transmitting the data. I’m taking it in for a closer look.

Careful.

He lowers the jet, angling it in broken windows, searching in rooms with holes blown in the siding.

There’s definitely a hot item, but I can’t get a good visual. It’s the same signatures of the missile system we saw two weeks ago in that forest SIM. You remember this deep purple color?

Confirmed, I say. But I can’t read the data on the screen he points to. I can’t see anything inside the building. It’s just a grey, ugly wall. Would you like assistance Raptor Two?

He cocks his head, suspicion warping his otherwise congenial features. Here we go.

This behavior stems from my status as the top resident in the Aeronautics specialization. Santiago has played second string since I stepped out of the testing room. But it’s not like my privilege is unearned. I pilot Raptor One, have logged more hours in the flight simulator, and possess the highest grade in our Tech class. I’m smart and focused. I didn’t buy my way into service like Clinton Fuller, son of Senator Edmund Fuller, hailing from the great state of Texas. I didn’t volunteer like Rory Rabbit Santiago with his near perfect NEL score.

Santiago has never acknowledged our rivalry, though tension formed between us the moment we met. The first time we shook hands, a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. Now, no matter how much time we spend together, no matter how comfortable the silence—he makes me nervous. He’s the only one in our Academy specialization who even comes close to presenting as competition.

Maybe it’s just that. Friendly competition. Someone to finally keep pace with the untouchable Eleni Garza. And maybe it’s not just that. Maybe it’s something else. I wouldn’t know the answer to that because Santiago is good at being hard to read.

Like now. Despite his obvious annoyance, he’s reigned all his emotions in and ironed them over, like the tank wheels grinding through the dirt, boiling everything up under a facade of calm.

I’m going to drop this building. Condor Five, do you copy? Can we move all friendlies out of the blast area? Santiago requests.

Corazon’s voice crackles over the speakers built into our helmets. Do you have Raptor One for backup?

Negative. I’m on this.

I don’t think so. Garza, monitor the area for enemy combatants. Do you read?

Copy that Condor Five, I’m moving into location now.

Santiago covers his helmet mic and turns, his nose literally brushing against the wall of the tank. I’ve got this Garza.

I spin the jet around and aim it at the building Raptor Two hovers near. Only doing as ordered, I say.

Sure. Right. He uncovers his mic. Condor Five, I’ve got Raptor One in-bound. Am I go ahead to deploy?

Affirmative. Light it up.

Santiago grins at the visual projected from his band. The heat mark explodes like a luminous beacon on my read-out. It shudders on the virtual as my drone approaches. A second color blinks to life on the fourth floor of the building, pulsing just below the missile signature.

Raptor Two, hold your fire, I say, zooming in on the image. It’s red, a human signature. There are people in the building.

We have a live target.

Live being a relative term. The SIM civilians aren’t real, but they are considered as such in field exercises. We wouldn’t sacrifice them outside of these doors, so we don’t sacrifice them during an operation. Those are the rules.

I’m not seeing it, Raptor One. I have go ahead. Delivering the package.

It’s not all clear. Let me investigate first. There are humans in there! I urge my drone jet faster.

He scowls. There’s nothing on my monitor except the explosive. Condor Five, can you confirm human presence in the building?

I cannot. Raptor Two, hold your fire. Raptor One, show me what you see. Patch me in.

I exhale a trembling sigh of relief. Multiple human heat signatures now appear in the building. I tap on the band monitor, giving Corazon full access to the scans of my drone. She remains silent for a moment. It’s an uncomfortable, drawn out silence. Raptor One, no visual confirmation. Garza, you’re seeing things.

I squint at the screen. The signatures are there, right in front of me, and if I angle the drone correctly, there’s an opening. I’ve gained a full view into the building. Humans are inside. A group huddles against a far wall and a young boy stands at the gaping hole, leaning out. He waves his arms in dreamy arcing motions, leaving traces of color and light trailing in their wake.

There’s a group of people on my monitor right now, women and children. Condor Five, Raptor Two, are you blind?

Raptor One, is this a joke? Santiago turns, studying my virtual with confusion.

I zoom in closer, hovering so near the building the face of the young man leaning over the gaping expanse swims into startling clarity. It’s a face I’ve sketched on a notepad more than a hundred times. The face belongs to the author of the letters in a tin box I keep in my room, to a boy named Mateo. A freeze takes hold of me. Voices chatter over the headsets, the colors flash on the monitor, and faces swim in and out of focus, but I’m unable to will my fingers to move. A faint odor, like the greasy scent of melting plastic, fills my nostrils.

Condor Five, I’m going to drop the payload. Can Raptor One backup? Santiago asks.

Raptor One, back up. Back up!

I—I can’t, I say. On the screen Mateo’s long hair flaps in the swirling wind from the drone jets. He’s waving out of the opening, mouthing inaudible exclamations. I flick on the targeted audio in the drone. At first, the only sound is the scream and buzz of Raptor Two’s jet engine. I aim the mic in the direction of the building, straight at the opening.

Help us! Eleni! the voices call from the radio. We need your help. We need you!

The blood drains from my cheeks. My heart jackhammers inside my chest.

Santiago, are you hearing this? I ask.

This can’t be happening.

My trembling fingers push the signal over our helmets, so the entire squad hears the audio booming in their speakers. The volume is turned up so loud—it’s almost deafening.

Garza. Santiago turns to me again, no longer indifferent. I don’t hear anything. You OK?

Over the radio Corazon shouts, Raptor One move now!

You look sick, Santiago says. Are you going to be sick?

He shifts over to grab my shoulders. Ordinarily I would try to stop him…but I just can’t. His comically large hands eclipse my upper arms. How is he even this big? I don’t bother pushing him away. It’s too late to stop him. He’s already hit the sequence on his band to destroy the building. Santiago’s drone shoots a bunker bomb through a sixth-floor window. It explodes on impact. I can’t move. I can’t move my jet.

I leave Mateo hanging out the opening, a group of women and children huddled in the room behind him, screaming for help. Calling for me. Horror grips and paralyzes me as the explosion collapses the building. The ceiling falls in on the group of people, taking my drone down with it. I watch the spiraling crash to the ground and the loss of signal as Raptor One blows apart.

Garza, what are you doing!? Corazon shouts over the radio.

I’m keenly aware of Santiago touching me, his giant hand pressed tentatively against my shoulder. I sense the uncomfortable proximity of his face to mine. The concern etched into his features. I shove him away and jump to my feet, ripping my helmet off and tossing it to the tank floor. I push the hatch of the tank open and clamber outside, gasping for air. I can’t breathe. My false lung is malfunctioning. I stumble off the edge of the tank, collapsing on the ground. My head spins.

Santiago exits the hatch and jumps to the ground. What’s going on?

I turn towards him, my vision blurring. I saw people. I saw people in there.

Yeah. You said that. Hey, you’re—you’re bleeding. His finger touches beneath my nose, bumping against my top lip. Red smears across his finger. That’s not good.

I touch my nose, my fingers also coming away bloody. Santiago blinks, studying me. He probably thinks I’m taking performance enhancing drugs, like Flash. I sniff some of the fluid back into my nose, rubbing at the rest staining my upper lip. I’m not taking Flash. Only idiots take Flash. My weakness is Salt. But drugs are not my problem right now. Drugs are the least of my problems. Why today? Why did this have to happen today?

It’s only blood, I say.

We’re not supposed to bleed in here. It’s a SIM.

People get hurt all the time. Luis broke three of his fingers a month ago. And Clinton always—

Idiots who aren’t paying attention. You’re not an idiot.

Corazon arrives, her impossibly short legs hammering against the SIM terrain like engine pistons. A red sprig of braided hair pokes out of the bottom of her helmet. Our squadmates Clinton Fuller and Luis Kang saunter behind her, smirking.

Out, Corazon orders, pointing towards the SIM entrance.

I didn’t mean to wreck the jet. I saw people. I heard voices.

No, you didn’t. Get out, Corazon repeats, another strand of her braided red hair slipping loose from the bottom of her helmet.

There were people in the building. I pinch the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt to stem the crimson trickle.

Out! Before I remove you. Corazon stalks closer. Make me physically remove you. I would love to.

There’s no more arguing. Not with Corazon. I pick myself up and hobble away, unsteady on my feet. I’m almost to the door when Santiago jogs up, holding my helmet.

He pushes it into my open palm, his expression caught between discomfort and sympathy.

You really didn’t see those signatures? Those people? I ask.

He shakes his head.

"I believe you saw something. The corners of his lips twitch into a brief, fleeting smile. And it spooked you. Ghosts in the machine? You seeing ghosts?"

"Not ghosts. I saw someone, Santiago. Why won’t you believe me?"

Garza, he says, hesitating. His slightly too bushy brows are knit together with genuine concern. Like Corazon, a stray piece of his curling hair slips out from his helmet. Unlike Corazon, he pushes it off his forehead carelessly. We stand together in a long, drawn out silence while hot fluid drains from my nostrils and drips down over my chin. I’m bleeding and really should get out of the SIM before Corazon makes good on her promise. But Santiago’s gesture of kindness sprouts like roots from the ground, knitting me to this spot.

Garza, you—

Rabbit, you coming or what? Clinton’s voice crackles over our helmets.

Fuller’s his best friend—the notorious Clinton Fuller. The only truly noteworthy thing about Fuller is how he’s managed to survive this long in National Service without being booted due to failing grades. It probably helps that Edmund Fuller has deep pockets and is a healthy contributor to the Fort Columbia Endowment Fund. And Rabbit Santiago’s here barrelling through National Service, dragging wealthy Fuller along fluttering in his coattails.

Santiago sighs, his shoulders falling. I’ve never seen him fail to respond when Fuller calls. It’s Pavlovian. You should get your nose checked out, you’re bleeding everywhere, Santiago mutters before jogging back towards the EMP tank.

I shoulder through the main SIM door into a dimly lit metal corridor colored with dull amber light. Phosphorescent rays of silver dash over me, scanning my limbs and the SIM suit, verifying I’m not smuggling out any unregistered tech. Making sure whatever exists in the SIM stays there.

A clipped female voice shivers out of the walls. "All clear Eleni Garza."

A row of lockers rolls down from the ceiling and I remove the individual pieces of gear from the haptic suit—the chest plate, the pads, the heavy boots, the helmet and the slick blue one piece that zips from my neck to the bottom of my torso. Extracting these clothes is so cumbersome, a small pool of the blood dripping from my nose builds at my feet.

I’m staring at my own reflection in the blood pool when the door next to me clicks open and blinding silver rays brighten the hall. The hulking form of Clinton, followed by the tall, reedy body of Santiago emerge from the lights and enter into the locker room.

I stand in the gloom wearing nothing but a sports bra and underwear, a silver metal necklace bearing an ornate coin dangling between my breasts. Santiago clears his throat and averts his gaze. Clinton stares at me lasciviously, offering an approving nod.

Nice panties Garza, he chuckles, elbowing Santiago.

You want to borrow them? I ask. They’re probably your size.

Santiago chokes out a laugh like dry leaves rustling, and heads to his locker on the other side of the hall. He always dresses with his back to the room, a bizarre form of modesty on a military base where no such thing exists.

You’re still bleeding, Clinton accuses from two doors down, jamming his helmet into the top rack with an unnecessary display of force.

I’ll get it checked out, I mutter, retrieving my off-duty green cargo pants, black shirt and hooded jacket from the locker. I step into the pants, pulling and zipping them up as quickly as possible. I want to get out of here. I’m not used to being in the locker room alone with two male residents.

Did you go crazy in there or what? Clinton asks, shedding his elbow pads. Are you cracking up?

Fuller bends down to unlace his boots. I contemplate delivering a swift kick to his head to end his crude interrogation, but decide against it. Fuller needs what little brain cells he has intact and fully operational.

I’m fine, my voice wavers, betraying me. Everything is fine.

You’re cracking up. What about you Rabbit? You think Garza’s cracking up? You think she can’t handle the pressure? Clinton gazes up at me from his perch. The light shadows his face and bared teeth, giving him a feral appearance.

I don’t know. She seems upset, Santiago says, not turning.

It’s a pointed and diplomatic statement designed to reveal nothing to no one.

Why are you guys out here anyway? I ask, pulling the hooded sweatshirt over my head with a mental sigh of relief. Nude and vulnerable with Fuller around is not my preferred state. Nude and vulnerable with Santiago? I don’t even let myself entertain the thought. Not now. Not today. Not ever.

Rabbit couldn’t concentrate after your mental breakdown. He bombed the wrong target and almost wrecked his drone. Corazon was so pissed. Said her pilots are a bunch of fuck ups and ordered Rabbit out. I left in solidarity. Clinton stands six feet away, naked except for boxers, studying me with bemusement. Santiago says nothing. You two need to get your shit together.

You alright? I direct my question to Santiago’s back.

He pivots his neck slightly like some kind of prehistoric bird, and raises his brows in surprise.

Yeah. I’m fine.

You seem fine. I lift the corner of my mouth. Aside from hanging out with Fuller.

Fair point. He turns to face us.

He’s pulled on a tight white shirt, exposing the half sleeve tattoo on his left arm. An inky black phoenix bird chasing a rabbit up to the moon, the whole image curling up and around his bicep. My gaze moves to his face. The corner of his mouth lifts to mirror mine.

Take care of yourself, Garza. We need good pilots.

The metal heart in my chest constricts, as it does from time to time, and I suck in my breath a little too sharply. The corner lift of his mouth deepens. His nose crinkles. I’ve been staring at him longer than is socially acceptable, especially since he’s not wearing pants.

I whirl away from him, slamming my locker door shut and hitting a soft key button on my wristband to connect with the SIM security system. Silver light pours into the hallway, casting an eerie pallor over us.

Behind me Fuller says, I’m a good pilot.

A swollen silence passes in which neither Santiago or I respond to Fuller. The sudden emptiness of words crackles between us. I hesitate at the door, waiting for someone else to speak. Waiting for Santiago to speak.

Not better than Garza.

Another prolonged silence, another cascading moment where the hairs on my arm tingle and rub hot against the fabric of my hoodie. Ozone scent climbs into my nostrils. I breathe it in deeply. Not better than Garza. Santiago thinks I’m good. I know for a fact I’m good, but it’s different when someone else says it.

Neither are you, Fuller says. You’re not better than Garza.

One more moment. I can only linger one more moment in the locker room without being too obvious. I just need to hear the last thing Santiago says before I go. He thinks he’s better than me. Doesn’t he?

Nobody’s better than Garza, Santiago says, his tone irritatingly neutral.

The crisp feminine voice reports, "No Prothero SIM technology detected. You may exit."

With a cushiony exhalation of air and a wash of green flickering in the dark corners of the hall, the far wall slides open. The floor beneath my feet shifts and rolls forward, dumping me out into the raw, blustering January air. The door seals tightly shut behind me. Winter rain splashes down, mixing with the blood trickling over my chin. I pause for a moment and draw in a sharp painful breath.

I haven’t seen Mateo Alvarez in four years.

And I just killed him.

CHAPTER TWO:

ANNIVERSARY WEIRDOS

There’s not much time to contemplate the mysterious and terrifying SIM appearance of Mateo. Not today. After a brief visit to the medical wing for a scolding from Nurse Esperanza, I skip dinner and make my annual pilgrimage to the non-denominational chapel Prothero erected on the Fort Columbia base. It was constructed within the last five years and the walls and floors retain a fresh chemical smell I associate with military installations.

An ordained priest leads services here twice a week, Wednesdays and Sundays. A rabbi Thursdays and Saturdays. They both commute in from Portland by train. The Buddhist monk sleeps in the only quarters the chapel provides. He performs all the other services, maintains the building, makes sure to douse the candles in the evenings.

I’ve only passed these doors half a dozen times. There are a few times of the year where I need solace. I find it here. Amongst the smell of fresh paint and treated wood and the streaming winter sunshine from the floor length windows. The church is mostly glass. The Prothero government has reservations about surveillance cameras in churches, but people in glass chapels can’t hide.

I pull the door open and the quiet assaults my senses first. Anywhere else on Fort Columbia there is always noise. Coughing, snoring, chattering, rustling. The sound of water flowing through pipes and floors, the hum of electricity, doors closing and opening, footsteps in the hallways.

In the Chapel it’s silent. The steps of my booted feet are loud and disruptive to the peace. I survey the room. A wooden confessional with decorative panel doors is built into the left wall. An image of Jesus Christ crucified on the cross hangs on the wall behind a raised stage and podium. To my right is a basin of holy water and behind that, tucked into the wall is a display of white candles, with eight rows and ten candles in each row. A sprinkling of candles are lit and the tiny flames dance, their spark reflected on the glass around them.

I side-step the holy water basin and move towards the illuminated wall. My business here will be brief. I try to avoid seeing the priest or rabbi or monk whenever I make a quick jaunt in. I don’t want to hear about God. I just want to light a candle.

I’m about to pick up the incense burner when the door behind me whooshes open on its well-oiled hinges. I turn as a familiar, stooped shape enters. I spin away, flipping the hood up over my head. I hear him stride to the basin, the soft plink of his fingers dipping into the liquid, the rustling of his clothing as he makes the sign of the cross, and moves into the pews. He takes a seat on the sparse wooden bench. I let out a watery sigh and grab the incense, setting it against the wick of a candle. It sparks.

I rifle in my pocket and pull out a letter from one of the weirdos. The people who remember the anniversary just like I do. They remind me I am loved and cared about by complete strangers who sympathize with my plight. I touch the incense burner to the bottom of the letter and a flame catches, crackles, and licks up the paper material. I watch it burn and feel nothing but the gravity of Rabbit Santiago watching me across the distance.

What are you doing? he asks while flames consume all those senseless, comforting words, turning them to ash. Finally the fire touches my fingers and I close my palm around it fast. It burns.

Stop. Stop! Santiago calls out, scrambling out of the pew, down the short hallway and over to the basin. He grabs my hand and, with no other option available, dips it into the holy water.

Another sigh escapes me as the cool liquid counteracts the false pain. The scorched skin isn’t real, but my brain tells me it is. The nanos send the warning signals and the heat registers in my phantom limb.

What are you doing? he asks again, scowling down at the basin of fouled holy water.

Minding my own business. I pull my hand away from him and jam it in my pocket. There’s another letter in there from another secret admirer who refuses to forget the past.

Not wanting to die in a fire kinda makes it my business.

Hard to argue with that logic.

I’m not lighting the church on fire. I get these letters once a year. I don't like them. So, I burn them, I say, narrowing my eyes at him. I’m just burning letters.

Not that you asked my opinion, but it doesn’t seem like a great ritual.

You’re right. I didn’t ask your opinion.

Santiago’s lips twitch but he stays put. My rock-solid wall of sarcasm will be no deterrent here. He’s dug in his heels. I’ve never seen you at Mass. Didn’t realize you were religious. Santiago tips his head towards the sparsely decorated, cavernous ceiling.

I’m not.

So, you hang out in churches burning letters for fun? he asks, his lips twitching again.

Just once a year. Just today. The day my parents died.

His face falls, and his brows pivot up in an expression of concern that I recognize from the SIM earlier. I’ve succeeded in rattling him twice today. It’s a new personal record. I’m not sure why I’m telling him any of this. Maybe it’s the loneliness in my chest, the emptiness of the chapel, the confessional mood all these religious trappings inspire.

Or maybe it’s Santiago, who I’ve been trusting with my virtual life for the last five months. Santiago who I see almost every day. Santiago, the patron saint of confined spaces and pilot simulations and mysterious tattoos and comfortable silences.

The Paris bombing, he says. That was today.

It’s not exactly something you forget.

I pull my burnt hand from my pocket—studying it. It’s raw, but the