I Heart Robot (34 page)

We Lifers belong to those above us, body and soul, but no Fishie or Naut—the astronauts who pilot the ship—has ever tried to stop the ritual. In return we are not blatant. We mark feet, torsos, and thighs. Places hidden by our plain blue clothing.

If the son of the head Fishie reports me, it will go on my record no matter how minor the charge, and possibly add months to my sentence. A sentence I serve for my grandparents’ crimes back on Earth after the Upheaval. Like others, their crime was no more than refusal to hand over their vehicle and property when both were declared a government resource.

I swallow convulsively.

I don’t want that kind of notice. Not when we’re expected to land in my lifetime. Not when I hoped to find answers to the questions that haunt me.

The first lesson a Lifer child learns is control around their superiors. I won’t allow mine to fail me now.

“Did you want something? Sir?”

If there’s a faint pause before the honorific, well, I’m only human.

He lets it pass. “The Lady requires extra help at this time. You have been recommended.”

“Me?”

His lips twist. “I was equally surprised. Attend her now.”

The Lady is the wife of the senior Official on board the Pelican, and both Samuai and Davyd’s mother. She’s a mysterious figure who is never seen in the shared area of the ship. I imagine she’s hurting for her dead child. Sympathy stirs within me. I’ve seen the strain my own mother tries to hide since Zed died, and I don’t think having a higher rank would make the burden any easier to bear.

It’s within Davyd’s scope as both Fishie-in-training and son of the ship’s Lady to be the one to inform me of my new placement, but I can’t help looking for something deeper in his words. There should be a kinship between us, having both lost a brother so recently, but Samuai’s death hasn’t affected Davyd at all.

“Who recommended me?”

He shrugs. “Now. Lifer.”

I nod and move to tidy up, ignoring the persistent pain in my ankle where the needle went too deep. My defiance only stretches so far. Not acting on a direct request would be stupidity. I will finish my memorial for Samuai, but not with his brother waiting. It’s typical that Davyd doesn’t use my name. I can’t remember him or his Fishie friends ever doing so.

It was something that stood out about Samuai from when we were youngsters and met in the training room. It was the only place on the ship us Lifers are close to equal. I was paired to fight with him to first blood, and he shocked me by asking my name. “Asher,” Samuai had repeated, like he tasted something sweet on his tongue, “I like it.”

In my heart there’s an echo of the warmth I felt that day, but the memory hurts. It hurts that I’ll never see him again, that he’ll never live out the dreams we shared in our secret meetings. Dreams of a shared future and changes to a system that makes Lifers less than human.

When I’ve gathered the small inkpot and put on my slippers, I notice a smear of blood on the slipper material from where I slipped earlier. It’s the opportunity I need to let my change in status be known below.

“Umm.” I clear my throat.
Please let the stories I’ve heard of the Lady be true
.

“What?” asks Davyd from where he waits by the door, presumably to escort me to his mother. The intensity of his gaze makes me quake inside. It’s all I can do not to lift my hand to check my top is correctly buttoned and my hair hasn’t grown beyond the fuzz a Lifer is allowed.

“My foot attire isn’t suitable to serve the Lady.” I point to the faint smudge of brown seeping into my footwear. It is said by those cleaners who are permitted into the Fishie sleeping quarters that the Lady insists her apartment be kept spotless. She’s unlikely to be pleased with me reporting for duty in bloodstained slippers.

Davyd’s jaw tenses. Maybe I’ve pushed him too far with this delay. I hold my breath.

But then his annoyance is gone and his face is the usual smooth mask. “Change. I will be waiting at the lift between the training hall and study rooms.”

He doesn’t need to tell me to hurry.

He opens the door leading out into the hallway and I expect him to stride through and not look back. Again he surprises me. He turns. His face is in shadow. The brighter light behind him shines on his tousled blond hair, which gives him a hint of the angelic.

“Assuming it’s my brother you’re mourning,” his voice is deep and for the first time there’s a slight melting of the ice. “You should know. … He wasn’t worth your pain.”

1

The walls shook.

My favorite sunset photograph crashed to the floor. Again.

Why the Air Force felt the need to fly so low over the houses was beyond me. Whole sky up there, guys. Geeze.

I picked up the frame and checked the glass. No cracks, thank goodness. I hung the photo back on the wall with the rest of my collection: landscapes, animals, daily living, the greatest of the great. Someday my photos would be featured in galleries across the country. But first I had to graduate high school and get my butt off Maguire Air Force Base.

One more year—that’s all that separated me from the real world. The clock wasn’t ticking fast enough. Not for me, at least.

Settling back down at my desk, I flipped through the pages of August’s National Geographic. Dang, those pictures were good. NG photographers had it down. Emotion, lighting, energy …

I contemplated the best of my own shots hanging around my room. Would they ever compare?

Another jet screamed overhead.

Stinking pilots! I lunged off the chair to save another photo from falling. The entire house vibrated. This was getting ridiculous.

Dad came in and leaned his bulky frame against my door. “Redecorating?”

“Not by choice.” I blew a stray hair out of my eyes. “Are they ever going to respect the no-fly zone?”

“Unlikely.”

“Then next time you have my permission to shoot them down.”

“You want me to shoot down a multi-million-dollar jet because a picture fell off the wall?”

“Why not? Isn’t that what the Army does? Protect the peace and all?” I tried to hold back my grin. Didn’t work.

He grimaced while rubbing the peach fuzz he called a haircut.

So much for sarcasm. “It was a joke, Dad.”

A smile almost crossed his lips.

Come on, Dad. You can do it. Inch those lips up just a smidge.

His nose flared.

Nope. No smile today. Must be Monday—or any other day of the week ending in y.

The walls shuddered as the engines of another aircraft throttled overhead, followed by an echoing rattle.

Dad’s gaze shot to the ceiling. His jaw tightened. So did mine. Those planes were flying way too low.

My stomach turned. “What—”

“Shhh.” His hand shot out, silencing me. “That sounds like …” His eyes widened. “Jessica, get down!”

A deafening boom rolled through the neighborhood. The rest of my pictures tumbled off the walls.

Dad pulled me to the floor. His body became a human shield as a wave of heat blasted through the open window. A soda can shimmied off my desk and crashed to the floor. Cola fizzled across the carpet.

My heart pummeled my ribcage as Dad’s eyes turned to ice. The man protecting me was no longer my father, but someone darker: trained and dangerous.

I placed my hand on his chest. “Dad, what…”

He rolled off me and stood. “Stay down.”

Like I was going anywhere.

As he moved toward the window, he picked up a picture of Mom from the floor and set it back on my dresser. His gaze never left the curtains. How did he stay so calm? Was this what it was like when he was overseas? Was this just another day at the office for him?

The light on my desk dimmed, pulsed, and flickered out. The numbers on the digital alarm clock faded to black. That couldn’t be good.

Were we being attacked? Why had we lost power?

The National Geographic slid off my desk, landing opened to a beautiful photograph of a lake. The caption read:
Repairing the Ozone Layer
. I would have held the photo to the light, inspected the angle to see how the photographer achieved the shine across the lake—if the world hadn’t been coming to an end outside my window.

I shoved the magazine away from the soda spill. My heartbeat thumped in cadence with my father’s heavy breathing. “Dad?”

Without turning toward me, he shot out his hand again. My lips bolted shut as he drew aside the drapes. From my vantage point, all I could see were fluffy white clouds over a blue sky. Nothing scary. Just regular old daytime. Nothing to worry about, right?

“Sweet Mother of Jesus,” Dad muttered, backing from the window. His gaze shot toward me. “Stay here, and stay on the floor. Keep the bed between you and the window.” His hands formed tight fists before he dashed from the room.

Another plane soared over the roof, way too close to the ground. My ceiling fan swayed from the tremor, squeaking in its hanger.

I trembled. Just sitting there—waiting—it was too much. I clutched the gold pendant Mom gave me for my birthday. If she was still with us, she’d be beside me, holding my hand while Dad did his thing—whatever that was.

But she was gone, and if all I could do was cower in my room while Dad ran off to save the world again, I might as well forget about photojournalism right now.

Wasn’t. Gonna. Happen.

Taking a deep breath, I crawled across the floor and inched up toward the windowsill. Sweat spotted my brow as my mind came to terms with what I saw.

Flames spouted over the trees deep within the adjacent forest, lighting up the afternoon sky. The fire raged, engulfing the larger trees in the center of the woods. I reached for my dresser to grab my camera and realized I’d left it downstairs.
Figures
.

I gasped as the flames erupted into another explosion.

The photojournalist hiding inside me sucker-punched the frightened teenager who wanted to dash under the bed. This was news. Not snapping pictures was out of the question. I flew down the stairs. The ring of the emergency land-line filled the living room as I landed on the hardwood floor.

Dad grabbed the phone off the wall. “Major Tomás Martinez speaking.”

The phone cord trailed behind him as he paced. His fingers tapped the receiver rhythmically—a typical scenario on the days he received bad news from the Army. I stood rapt watching him, hoping he’d slip up and mention a military secret. Hey, there’s a first time for everything. I’d have to get lucky sooner or later.

“Yes, we lost power here, too … Yes, sir … I understand, sir … Right away, sir.” He hung the receiver back on its stand and glanced in my direction. “I told you to stay upstairs.”

“What’d they say? What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you after I find out.” He snatched his wallet from the counter and slipped the worn leather into the back pocket of his jeans.

“You’re leaving? Now? Did you hear that last explosion?”

“I know. That’s why I’m being called in.” He picked up his keys.

“For what? You’re not a fireman.”

His gaze centered on me. I shivered. Dad in military mode was just. Plain. Scary.

“It’s a plane. A plane went down.”

The memory of the low-flying jets and the rattling of what must have been gunfire seared my nerves.

“Went down or was shot down?” The journalist in me started salivating.

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

The door creaked as he pushed down the handle. The blare of passing sirens reverberated through the room.

“Why would they shoot down a plane?” I glanced at my camera bag perched on the end table. My shutter finger itched, anticipating juicy photos to add to my portfolio.

“Everything will be fine. For now, just stay in the house.”

“Stay in the house? But this is like, huge. I want to take some pictures.”

His jaw set. That gross vein in his neck twitched. “You can play games later. Right now, I need to know you’re safe.”

“No photojournalist ever made it big by staying safe.”

“Maybe not, but many seventeen-year-olds made it to eighteen that way. Stay here. That’s an order.”

The whooting of a helicopter’s blades cut through the late afternoon sunshine. Butterflies fluttered in my gut as Dad disappeared through the screen door without so much as a backward glance.

Seriously? He expected me to just sit there—with the biggest photo opportunity of my life going on outside?

I ran to the window and brushed the curtain aside. The Air Force pilot who lived across the street ran to his jeep, a duffle bag swinging from his arm. Lieutenant Miller from next door left his house and exchanged nods with Dad as they both slipped into their cars.

The sound of another explosion smacked my ears. The ceiling rattled, and I steadied myself against the wall. How many times could one plane explode? I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax. I lived on a military base for goodness sake. The Army and the freaking Air Force were stationed next door. You couldn’t get much safer than that.

Flopping onto the couch, I clicked the power button on the remote control three times. The blank television screen mocked me.
No electricity, idiot
.