Protecting Truth (8 page)

“I know, I know. They drive me crazy. A good crazy, I think. Boys are so confusing. I don’t know what to do. Let’s talk about something else,” she reels off quickly.

“I heard about that Perpetua giving you crap yesterday. If I were here, I would have kicked the pretty off her face for you,” she says.

“Thanks.” I smile. It’s nice to have Macey back. I too wish Bishop wasn’t around yesterday, so I could have just kicked Perpetua’s pretty face myself.

At the thought, I remember that there are new holograms to practice with. Even with all this teen drama, I need to practice if I’m ever going to take care of my real problem—hunting down Cece and the Underground and saving my mom.

::12::
Holograms

After discussing the nuances of choosing the perfect boyfriend with Macey for two hours, I finally head back to my room. A train of garment racks rolls down the hall and stops at the end of the corridor.

I squeeze past them and into my apartment. Gabe Garcia, the activities director, stands in the middle of our living room. He chats with Sam and Bishop, arms flailing with animated gestures. I catch the tail end of his elaborate story, something about his buying exploits in London, New York, and Paris over the summer vacation. Every year he buys each student a completely new wardrobe, compliments of the Academy.

“Sera!” Gabe screeches with excitement. “Love it, love it, love it!” he says as he touches my hair, my chin, and gestures at my robe. “It’s so bed-head chic.” He waves his hands through the air.

“Now, I was just telling Bishop and Samantha that I’ll be changing out your wardrobes this afternoon for the new year. So I want you all to make yourselves scarce for a few hours.”

“You really don’t need to do this,” I say. As much as I adore fashion, it seems a horrible waste.

“Don’t worry, my little poppy seed. We’ll be donating all the old clothes to charity. Every shirt, every ruffle, every everything! The needy will just be bursting with glorious chiffon, velvet, leather, and sequins, but hopefully not in that combination!” He sniggers. Gabe pinches my cheek, then turns and goes to work.

Bishop leaves the Academy to run errands. Samantha spends the afternoon in Olde Town with her ballet instructor and then her cello teacher. I change into workout gear and head to one of the personal training rooms, where no one will bother me and I can kick the crap out of one of my new defense holograms.

I jump on the nearby elevator. The ancient cage closes, and I rotate the rusty lever. The box glides down the elevator shaft into Olde Town. When it slams to the ground, I return the lever to its original position, retract the cage door, and step out.

The Animates here, metal raptors, occupy high pedestals on either side of the entrance bridge. With aviary precision, they twitch their heads, cocking them sideways, studying my approach with their bulbous yellow eyes. Internal cranks screech and grind as they move. One raptor stretches its long neck into the water rushing below the bridge and pulls out a flopping fish. The bird’s beak tilts upward and the fish drops into its throat.
Strange. Wouldn’t their diet consist of oil or something?

When I cross the drawbridge into the city, the temperature is neither hot nor cold. The courtyard, vibrant with life again, smells of smoldering wood. Students mill about, making me realize how lonely I was all summer.

I stroll past the Tower Building with the clock on its facade and into a dark archway that winds away beneath it. After several hundred paces, the vintage lantern at the entrance of the Defense Arts training rooms sputters to life.

The wooden door with iron findings slides open to a room as big as a gymnasium. Wood pillar posts support the high-reaching ceiling. Rusted chandeliers hang from long chains in three spots above, casting reflections onto the glossy wood floor. The decor style resembles a mix of old castle and high school basketball court. When school starts again on Monday, students will train here in the art of fighting.

The rooms I prefer to use flank both sides of the gym. They’re smaller, with foam-padded floors and mirrored walls. But most importantly, they’re private. I use the room farthest away. Turner has equipped that one with the defense hologram machines. It’s also the room students use the least, where I’m less likely to be found.

My sneakers squeak as I walk across the waxed floor. The door to my private room detects a presence as I near and slides open. I walk through and it glides shut. The industrial lights buzz and flicker to life.

I step into the middle of the room to stretch. After a few lunges and toe touches, my gaze locks onto the mirror. I practice intimidating expressions that I might give an attacker. When I’ve sufficiently riled myself up, like some kind of football player before a big game, my excitement surges at the thought of fighting a new hologram. I’ll have to thank Turner later, secretly.

“Seraphina Parrish. Hologram on,” I say to activate the four machines mounted around the room. Their green lights blink, ready for the next command.

“Defense hologram number thirty-seven,” I say the words slowly and clearly. Thirty-seven will be the newest routine. I hope Turner programmed something monstrous.

The machine speaks back, confirming the routine. “Hologram number—thirty-seven. This routine requires—no weapons. Safe words are—‘you win,’” the machine intones in a robotic voice. The safe words will end the routine, turning the machine off.

One minute later, a countdown begins. At the end, a hologram appears out of a vibrating haze of electrified dust. The vision, facing away, solidifies into a humanlike mass, then turns.

The boy stands six feet tall, a foot taller than myself. This in itself isn’t a big deal; I’ve fought taller. When he looks at me with eyes that look almost blue today, I don’t know if I can truly fight him, because the hologram looks exactly like Turner.

I evaluate him. My face flushes with embarrassment at his shirtless physique. His workout pants hang low, barely grazing his hipbones. My gaze wanders up his chiseled torso as he confidently strolls forward. That’s when I see something that makes me want to scream. My black rosary swings from his neck, brushing his sculpted pecs.

Hologram Turner stops. “See anything you like?” he asks amusingly and looks down at himself. I roll my eyes at his pathetic cockiness. He reaches for the rosary, holds it up, examining it.

“I’ll make you a deal.” The hologram paces, sputtering electricity. “If you can beat me in a match, I’ll give you your necklace back. But not until then.” He grins. “Until then, it’ll stay right here.” He pats his chest. “Right next to my heart.”

A rage builds inside. At the chance of winning the necklace, I don’t even give him an opportunity to finish his thoughts. I charge clear across the room, blazing with fury.

Turner doesn’t expect me to fight him. I know because there’s a flash of surprise behind his eyes when I collide with his body, knocking him to the floor. I reach to rip the rosary off his neck, but he grabs my wrist first, halting it in midair. He’s stronger for sure, so it won’t be easy to win.

He uses the momentum of the struggle to roll me over until we’ve switched positions. He straddles my waist, my hips locked between his thighs. Both my wrists are above my head, secured against the floor. My struggling only makes him smile.

He leans in close to my face so that we’re sharing the same air. I want to turn my face to the side to avoid eye contact, but it would only be a sign of weakness, and I have to at least appear stronger than him.

“Not going to be as easy as you thought, is it?” he says with a crooked smirk.

“Sure it is.” I smile, and then head butt him.

Hologram Turner falls away, instantly releasing me to grab his forehead. I scramble to my feet, and he quickly recovers and does the same.

“That was a cheap shot!” he shouts.

“It’s not going to be as easy as you thought, is it?” I jab playfully.

This time he doesn’t respond, but I can see he enjoys the banter as much as I do. He crouches defensively, but after we circle each other a few times, I can see that he won’t attack first. That would not be the gentlemanly thing to do.

I twist sideways with my weight on one leg, then lash out to kick his stomach. He grabs my foot before it makes contact and throws it aside. Without missing a beat, I kick him again. Punch. Punch. Jab. Push. Kick. He only responds to block me, like some kind of lame punching bag.

I bounce away from him, out of striking range. “Well, you’re not being any fun! Fight back!”

He crosses his arms.

“I knew it, you’re scared! Ha!” I tease.

“Hardly!” He laughs. “You’re five feet tall and eighty pounds.”

“One hundred and seven and all muscle,” I correct and throw a few punches in the air.

He waves me forward with his fingertips.

I smile, strangely excited, and advance with another blow. This time he responds, taking a swipe. I duck and punch him back.

Our hand-to-hand fight is fierce, slightly hot, and completely unrelenting. An hour passes and I’ve finally, which much difficulty, coerced him into a submissive headlock. I’m about to finish the fight, to win the necklace, when the room’s door suddenly slides open.

“You win!” I scream and release him to quickly turn off the hologram machine.

Hologram Turner turns and whips my body to the floor and stands above me. His smile gleams with triumph, right before his body dissipates, rolling away into the air in blue electrical flakes.

Completely annoyed, I roll over to see who has entered. If they hadn’t, I’d have won the necklace by now.

Volta Swift, my Defense Arts instructor, stands at the door. Everything about the woman is striking, from her dark skin that contrasts sharply with her short and spiky white hair, to her muscular body, and her eyes…especially her eyes. She’s the only person I’ve ever met whose blue eyes edge into the realm of violet, like mine.

“The professor said you might be here.” She walks across the floor and helps me up. “Did you win?”

“No, unfortunately.”

“That’s too bad. The professor mentioned that you’ve been working very diligently this summer with his new invention.” I hope he hasn’t mentioned it to anyone else. Although I know that the teachers don’t consort with students, so the ones who are privy to my intensified defense lessons—like Terease, the professor, and Ms. Swift—wouldn’t say anything to Bishop. They’d have to go out of their way to do so. The real problem is Turner.

“I came to see one of the machines in action for myself. Do you mind if I have a go at it?”

“Go ahead.” I gesture to the floor.

I stand against the wall as she walks into the middle of the room. She activates the machines by her name.

“Volta Swift,” she says clearly. The machine scrolls noisily, looking for advanced holograms that have been programmed especially for her. “I’d like to use the holograms for training this year,” she speaks over her shoulder.

“Holograms found,” the robotic voice announces. “Hologram number—one— requires—a sword. Safe words are—‘you win.’ You have—one minute to retrieve your weapon. Countdown starts in—one minute.”

Ms. Swift walks calmly across the room and chooses a sword from the overflowing weapons rack. She inspects the blade, flipping it from one side to the other.

“Starting in—thirty seconds,” the machine intones.

Ms. Swift walks to the center of the room, swiping the sword through the air several times.

“Starting in—ten seconds.”

I slide my back down the wall and stretch my legs out before me, anxious to see her in action. Until now, the professor, Turner, and I have been the only ones to use the holograms.

“Hologram number—one—starting now.” The machine beeps five times. Through a cloud of haziness, a ten-foot-tall, two-headed, dragon beast-man appears in front of her. I jolt slightly. The beast is more hideous than anything I’ve ever fought. Ms. Swift crouches. The smile on her face reflects in the surrounding mirrors. In some sick way, she probably finds this fun, much like I do.

The beast man whips its long necks around the ceiling. Clutching his sword with his puke-colored scaly claw, his lizard eyes zero in on Ms. Swift, and he squares his body. Hulking forward, his sword swipes at the air in unison with his two bobbing heads. The beast spits a raging fire across the room and Ms. Swift stops and expertly dives out of its searing path.

The fight is a dance. Ms. Swift’s athletic grace carries her as she methodically carves chunks of scaly flesh from the beast’s body. With each slice, yellow blood the consistency of mustard spews from its wounds, eventually covering the entire floor. With a final blow, her silver sword rams into its heart. The beast hisses the sound of a million lizards and topples to the floor with a thud. The broken body swirls away into electrified dust particles, sucking up every drop of yellow blood with their exit.