Boy Robot Page 26

  “He was supposed to come?” My brain scrambles to remember something from my dreams.

  “Well, don’t be too disappointed,” Kyle says, shuffling in his chair slightly. He has long black eyelashes, currently cast down as he avoids my gaze.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not.” I wait for him to look back up at me and smile once he does.

  A curious expression comes into his face. “You’re not,” he says, surprised.

  “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

  He cracks a smile now as well. “Most people say things they don’t mean and don’t mean most of what they say.”

  I try to puzzle out the statement to think of a witty response but can only muster up a yawn.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, halfway through. “I got drunk last night. First time. Not really feeling one hundred percent just yet.”

  He laughs and pushes himself past me, back toward the door. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

  • • •

  People—Robots, I assume—come and go as we make our way to the elevator. I notice that although almost everyone seems to know Kyle, they all avoid eye contact when they say hello.

  We walk into the elevator and wait for the doors to close. A guy approaches, too engaged in a conversation to realize who is already inside, but turns in the other direction as soon as he sees Kyle. I look down to gauge his reaction, but he seems to be unfazed.

  The doors open and we step into the main hall. The cold, cathedral-like chamber is now filled with the echoing voices of dozens of people catching up and greeting one another over breakfast, in stark contrast to how it was last night when I first saw it. We head to the kitchens on our left, where a line begins with a rack of plastic trays and continues on past a row of assorted dishes and kitchen workers serving them from behind the buffet. After the line is a small market area that looks like a miniature grocery store with rows of refrigerated glass cases housing all sorts of goods and baskets of fresh produce. It’s colorful and warm and doesn’t feel anything like the main hall it’s attached to.

  Kyle greets a few more people, who smile and avoid eye contact, as we make our way to the beginning of the food line. He hands me one of the yellow trays and then sets one for himself on the metal counter.

  “Why do they do that?” I want to elaborate, but I can’t think of any way of asking without being offensive. It might be offensive of me to even ask in the first place.

  “I make them uncomfortable,” he says, pointing to the scrambled eggs.

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. I shouldn’t have said anything to begin with. I look down at his wheelchair and quickly look away as soon as I realize what I’ve done.

  He looks up at me and grins. “Wait, you think it’s because of my wheelchair?”

  I stammer and search for the best way to apologize.

  He just laughs. “That’s actually really sweet of you, but no, it has nothing to do with this.” He gestures down.

  I start to blush and turn to nod to the guy serving the food. He scoops some eggs onto a plate for me as well.

  We make our way through the rest of the line in silence. I grab a muffin from a large basket at the end, and Kyle hands me an electrolyte water from a small refrigerator. I follow him over to one of the long aluminum tables in the back of the room, set up near the hangar door I came in through last night. The door itself is actually quite hidden now that I’m looking for it again. There’s barely any indication on the wall that there’s a door there.

  Kyle pulls up to the end of one of the tables, and I take a seat on the bench next to him.

  “So where are you from?” he asks, before taking a bite of hash browns.

  “Missouri. You?” I spread butter onto the muffin and try to keep it from crumbling.

  “Florida.”

  We chew without speaking as more people begin to arrive and line up at the kitchen. I quickly notice that everyone here is young. There probably aren’t any Robots in existence above the age of twenty-five.

  “You guys had a rough trip, I hear,” Kyle says through a bite of bacon.

  “You could say that. How was it for you?”

  “Getting here? Well, I’ve been here for a couple years now. It wasn’t that bad, actually. I had help.” Kyle’s eyes get lost in his words for a split second. “But that was then,” he continues. “It’s gotten a lot worse out there, from what I’ve heard. Personally, I’ve never even seen a Sheriff.”

  I almost drop my fork. “Are you serious?”

  An endless horde of men and women—clad in black, chasing after me—flashes in my head.

  “Yeah. I don’t get sent out into the field very often.”

  I’m worried I’ve said something wrong again, but before I can apologize, he speaks again.

  “You must be something special, though. I’ve never seen them hold an emergency Assembly meeting like this for a testing.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re getting tested this morning, after breakfast. Gonna find out what you’re made of. In fact, we should go now. Finish up.”

  I pop the last bite of muffin in my mouth and swallow. It’s so dry it scratches my throat.

  • • •

  Standing before the Assembly feels like standing in front of a pride of lions. My palms are slick with sweat as I wait for them to pounce.

  There are seven chairs at the long, rectangular table in front of me. Aleister and Arielle flank the head chair. Aleister, in a loose, black knit sweater with a swooping neck that shows his pale clavicle, sits with both of his dogs at his feet. I wonder if they ever leave his side. Arielle, whose flowing hair is now the vibrant shade of an orange Creamsicle, gives me a small smile. On the left side, next to Aleister, sits Yuki, who has a new pattern of braids woven into her hair, and a tall, pale girl with white-blond hair whose hawklike nose and severe, almond eyes lend her an icy expression that makes Azure’s look warm and inviting. On the other side, beside Arielle, sits a boy with a buzzed head; he is covered in tattoos from his hands up to his neck. A few even creep up to his scalp and face. He nods at me as my eyes meet his. Beside him is a girl with dark brown skin and long black hair. She has deep, mahogany eyes and a small, glittering gold nose ring.

  Arielle leans in to the tattooed guy next to her and whispers something in his ear. Besides that, the room is silent. I look over to Kyle, sitting in his wheelchair off to the side of the table, but he doesn’t look at me. The buzz of the white lighting overhead begins to fill my head as I pick at my right thumbnail and wait for whatever is going to happen.

  The elevator to the main hall above us opens once again and Malek walks in. He’s wearing a simple gray T-shirt that accentuates his perfectly toned chest and biceps and a pair of khakis. He looks like he should be on TV, not down here in a subterranean bunker.

  He takes the empty seat at the end of the table and locks eyes with me. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Panic sets in as I realize I’m not going to get an explanation of what’s about to happen, or even so much as an introduction to the others I haven’t met yet.

  One by one—starting with the harsh-looking blond girl to the far left—everyone at the table joins hands. A multitude of colors fills the room as light begins to emanate from each of their eyes. The girl with the nose ring to the far right gestures me toward her with a smile and an open hand.

  I take a deep breath and walk toward her.

  The waves of energy rippling off of them percolates into my skin as I approach, and before I have time to second-guess myself, I take her hand in mine.

  • • •

  Snow falls outside the grimy window.

  The room is cold—almost as cold as it is out there, on the street.

  I want to be thankful for the roof over my head, but I can’t bring myself to feel much of anything anymore.

  She lets the next one in before the last one has even finished zipping up his pan
ts.

  I watch as a child slips on the icy sidewalk below and falls face-first into a small mound of packed ice—slush from the road, turned brown from the city and frozen several times over.

  His mother picks him as he cries and checks his face for a cut.

  She kisses his cheek and continues down the street as he stifles his tears.

  I feel a dip in the bed as the next man climbs on top of me and grabs hold of my neck.

  • • •

  I don’t know how much longer I can keep going, but I must not stop.

  He cannot be allowed to live. Not like this at least.

  He will pay for what he’s done to me, and I will make sure he never does it again.

  I press into the deepest corners of his brain, harder and harder, until I feel him about to break.

  His moans of pleasure shifted into cries of agony a while ago now, and I know I’m not far from succeeding.

  The light—the burning light fueling me—is dying out.

  It’s all slipping through my hands and I don’t know how I can sustain it any longer.

  Oscar rubs his little orange head against my leg, and then I feel it.

  I know what I must do.

  Without breaking eye contact, I lean over and grab the loose skin behind his head.

  He hisses in response, but I grip tighter.

  Energy surges into me from his body, and before he can protest further, Oscar goes limp.

  The stream of new energy is short-lived, though, and I desperately need more. I will need much more before this is over.

  I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, calling the other cats in the house toward me.

  • • •

  I hold him by his neck and look into his eyes. He has caused me so much pain—he’s caused her so much pain. I can feel myself poking and prodding at every function happening inside of his body. There it is—his heart. As easily as flicking a light switch, I turn it off. He crumples to the floor, and I look to Arielle’s body on the kitchen floor, lying in a pool of her own blood.

  They’re all here. My entire crew. These are my brothers . . . were my brothers.

  Now they’re standing in front of me, guns drawn, ready to erase me from the Earth.

  Even Seve—the man who was my father when my real one took off and left me to fend for myself.

  He orchestrated this. He must have. And for what? Money? Product?

  I’ve moved more coke for him than all of these motherfuckers combined.

  And now he’s standing with a gun pointed at my head.

  They all are.

  I close my eyes and think of the stories I used to create in my head.

  The pictures I would draw and the stories I would write.

  I was told I couldn’t. Real men don’t waste their time in la-la land.

  These were the guys who taught me that.

  Now I will drag them into my own la-la land, kicking and screaming.

  I let unimaginable horrors loose inside their heads, tormenting them with images from the darkest edges of my mind. Images that aren’t even there.

  By the time I let the visions fade, they’re all on the floor. Dead from their own bullets.

  Only Seve remains standing, shaking, sweating. The dark circle around his crotch reveals he’s pissed himself.

  The visions are gone now, but he looks at me as though he’s seen a demon come to Earth, coming to collect a debt long overdue.

  His shaky hand places the gun inside his own mouth and he pulls the trigger.

  • • •

  The tree pushes sharply into my back as I try to calm my breath and stifle my tears.

  There’s nowhere else to run.

  The three of them pin me back, the bark scraping the skin off my arms.

  I look at the outline of the longhorn on all of their shirts and know that the devil is real.

  Why did I even come here? I should’ve stayed at the dorm, studying.

  “Raghead.”

  “Terrorist.”

  They spit in my face and repeat the words over and over.

  Hot tears stream down my face.

  I try to tell them I’m not a Muslim, or even an Arab, but they don’t hear me through their rage.

  All they see is brown. And red.

  Another kind of heat prickles at my fingertips.

  Terror, real terror, and anger pour out of me and coalesce into tiny stars inside my hands.

  I run from their burning bodies in the woods and know I can never go back.

  • • •

  I snap back into the room as the others pull their hands from one another. How long was that? A second? An hour? I honestly can’t tell. My mind is jelly. There is no alcohol to muddy the experience this time. I feel things, see things, when I touch other Robots. I know this now. The air in my lungs grows heavy. These flashes—they’re like my nightmares, the ones I’ve had my entire life. This cannot be good.

  What does it mean?

  The others look like they’ve seen a ghost. Yuki turns to Aleister, alarmed. The blond girl rubs her fingers together as though she’s touched something revolting, and all the others seem to exchange curious glances around the table.

  “You can leave, Isaak,” Malek says, leaning forward onto the table. “We need to talk.”

  Shakily, I nod and turn around to head back to the elevator. I want, need, someone to talk to me, to help me through this, but no one steps up. My trembling finger presses the button and the doors slide open. I step inside and turn to face the others, and in the brief moment before the doors close, I see that every single eye is on me.

  • • •

  Another group of people come in and settle on one of the couches on the other side of the room. I’ve been in the rec room off the main hall for what feels like hours now, waiting. Several large old couches partition off different sitting areas. An eclectic mix of furniture styles, patterns, and colors lend the variety of tables and chairs and lamps the collective air of a gypsy tent. It’s a cozy, cavernous room that I would enjoy if my stomach weren’t currently tied into an insurmountable pile of knots.

  Two guys play an old video game console on a TV in the corner.

  “Dude, you’re not allowed to connect. Controls only! Bastard.”

  Their banter goes back and forth, but I tune it out. I can’t stop thinking about the things I’ve been seeing, the visions that come to me in flashes anytime I touch another Robot. I think I know what they mean, what they’re all adding up to, but it doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t know that I’d be ready to accept it even if it did.

  My mind gets lost in memories of Pacific, my old school, the woods and caves, Jonathan.

  Where am I supposed to go from here?

  What is all of this leading me to?

  In books I used to read, the hero was always a neglected orphan who finds out he’s special. He goes on a quest that leaves him broken, but ultimately saves the world with his special savior magic and returns to where it all began as a hero. I look around at all of the other Robots in the room. Everyone in here is a neglected orphan. All of us are different.

  What makes you think you’ll be the hero in this story?

  I won’t be a hero. I’m scared, and alone, and as much as I hate feeling like no one knows me, I fear it’s worse that I don’t even know myself.

  Kyle appears from behind a large leather sofa and nods back in the direction of the main hall.

  “Apparently you’re a tough cookie to crack. They’re nowhere near a conclusion. Azure and your other traveling companions are heading down now to give testimonies, but as for you, looks like you have a free day.”

  The knots in my stomach squeeze tighter.

  Guess I won’t be learning about my magic powers today after all.

  • • •

  After lunch I spend a while exploring Grand Central.

  The second floor houses all of the training facilities—myriad rooms and cavernous gymnasium-size courts
where Robots train in various forms of hand-to-hand combat, weapons techniques, and hone in on their respective abilities. Members of the Underground who have clearly been here longer help those who’ve just arrived work with their abilities, coaching them to use these powers without burning out.

  That’s something I keep hearing about: burning out. Robots are not like superheroes in comics and movies—our power is finite, and easily expended. We have to pay for every single second we use them. Keeping yourself alive and functioning long enough to use your abilities in battle apparently requires a delicate balance. Every senior member in every room says the same thing:

  “Save your energy. You’re going to burn out. Save your energy.”

  I sit in on a group of telekinetics as they practice throwing rubber balls and various weights across the room. One of the girls lifts all of the objects at once and sends them flying into the wall at the far end. She gets dizzy and falls back onto the floor. The other students rush to her as the teacher grabs a bottle of electrolyte water from a cooler near the door.

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about, guys,” the instructor says. “You have to pace yourself. Know your limits. You will be able to push your abilities, but they grow like a muscle. They have to be properly exercised.” She talks with the wisdom of experience but can’t be more than year or two older than the girl, at most.

  By the time I get back down to the main hall, lunch is being served. Once I’ve loaded up with food, I look for a place to sit. Everyone already seems to be in deep conversation, so I grab an empty table near the back and sit by myself. I haven’t seen Kamea or JB, or even V or Tace for that matter. I wonder if JB has even thought about me since we arrived.

  I see the group of telekinetics come down the stairs from the training floor, laughing. The girl who collapsed sees me across the room and waves before getting in line. Once they all have their trays of food, she spots me once again and heads toward my table.

  “Hey, newbie. I’m Erica.” She takes a seat across from me and smiles as the others take seats around us.

  “Isaak.” I attempt a smile in return. “You could tell I was new, huh?”