vN The First Machine Dynasty(37)

Portia worked to shake the head and shift the tongue. "What is this, Amy? If at first you don't succeed: try, try again?"



I'd rather die than let you hurt someone else.



The arm trembled with effort. Portia stared at it, as though her glance would be enough to subdue the rebellious limb. It shuddered heavily, as though it carried a terrible weight. Portia devoted more of her focus to it. Her awareness started at the shoulder and moved down along the arm to the elbow and the wrist and finally the fingers. She was the better pilot – older, more experienced, and smarter. She deserved this body. Slight tingling returned to the fingertips. Slowly, she curled the fingers into a fist and clenched it.



"I knew you didn't have it in you."



Her other hand, the one holding the iteration, flew open and reached decisively for the fence.



If I let you live, I really am worthless.



Charge flooded the body. Portia's awareness split into a thousand pieces, each alerting her separately to the havoc Amy now wreaked on the charring skin, the gritting teeth, the muscles turning to stone. The girl refused to let go. Her stubborn hand clung with all its might. Raw black bone scorched on the wire. Portia smelled burning sugar – the scent of her own body's destruction and her own powerlessness to stop it.



And like that, the last of Portia's control snapped and she drifted back into the shadows of Amy's awareness like an untethered boat.



Amy stumbled away from the wire, clutching her hand. Her knees folded. She stared at her blackened hand. Through her open wound, she watched the bones slowly grinding into their joints. If she were human, she realized, there would be screaming and vomiting and crying. But there was nothing: no tears, no nausea, no shock, just the empty buzz of the botflies around her, and the dull sound of the compiler tirelessly annealing trash and forming it into food. Exhaustion ruled her: her body sagged with it, her head bowing slowly until it touched the ground. From here on the spongy floor of the garbage dump, she could peer into Junior's lifeless face.



"I'm sorry." With her good hand, Amy reached over to close his eyes. Under her skin, his flesh remained warm.



Are you sure he's dead?



Amy shut her eyes. "Stop it."



You don't know how deep his damage goes. Perhaps a specialist could repair him.



Amy shook her head. Even that small movement was terribly difficult. "You're only playing for more time."



And if you kill us both, then you're abandoning that child in this junkyard just to spite me.



Portia had lived in Amy's head for too long. She knew just what to say to get what she wanted. And although Amy knew this, she could not stop herself from reaching for Junior and standing up to leave, any more than she could silence Portia's wheedling. Portia had left Amy's mother in a place just like this one, and Amy was not going to do the same. They might have shared the same body, but they were very different, and if Amy had to let Portia live just a little while longer to prove that, then she would. Portia had already ruined enough lives; Amy could not allow her to destroy another. Junior was broken, and it was her job to make sure someone fixed him. Home would have to wait.



She started walking.





6



Amy Alone





The sign on the door read: PORTIA'S WANTED. Amy's teacher had let her skip ahead to the third grade unit on contractions and possessives, but she remained uncertain whether the sign was a joke or just a typo.



Amy had not eaten in five days. She saw everything in greyscale, now, even the maps on Rick's reader. She had searched frantically for news about her parents before the battery died. Both were in jail. No one said where. It was difficult to query further, with only one good hand. The jumps were harder, too. Well, the landings were the truly hard part. The index fingernail of her good hand popped off during a particularly nasty slide down a tree.



She did not see Rick and Melissa's RV when she sprinted back down the access road. Javier was gone. His son had not woken up. He had not so much as moved. The fabric of Melissa's old sweatshirt now pressed him against her body, silent and still as the bluescreens in the barrow.



Aren't you too big for dolls?



"He's alive. He just needs repair."



How do you know?



Amy didn't know. She admitted that. Junior's body was limp and cool and occasionally his eyes would fall open when she didn't carry him right. But somewhere there were bluescreen specialists. That meant they could be fixed. That had to count for something. She'd make it count for something.



She hid her mangled hand up her sleeve. She needed food. Desperately. And she needed money. Money could get her to her parents, once she found out where they were. Her mom would know what to do. Her dad would hug her and throw a vN pizza in the toaster oven and blow the dust off his old Fruits Basket discs and make it seem like no time had passed. Her mom would drill her, like she did every after day after school: whom had Amy seen? Where? Her dad always knew how to make her feel safe. Her mom knew how to keep her safe.