Not Your Backup, page 5
Emma nods. Another faction complete with their own efficient means of communication? That would be great.
“Something to think about,” Bells says.
“Look, I’ve been organizing this thing with Thomas and Kyle for years,” Cal says, steepling their fingers. “If there was such a group, we would have found them by now. I mean, it’s a great idea, Bells, but I don’t think they exist.”
Bells is quiet on the ride to his motorcycle, and Emma is lost in her own thoughts, trying to figure out the next step. The explosion keeps replaying in her head with all of them barely getting to safety.
“I’ll call you later.” Bells gives her a quick kiss. “You did great today, okay? We all tried our best.”
“Thanks,” Emma says. They’re nice words, but she doesn’t think they’re true.
Ch. 4…
Emma dreams of fire and stars exploding. She awakes with a cold shock and catches her breath. Warm golden light streams into her room. How long did she sleep?
Doors open and close; the sounds echo through the house. Emma can hear people walking around in the kitchen; there’s a clang of something falling, some cursing, and laughing. Voices echo through the hallways: her aunt’s laugh, grandmother’s grumbling, and even the shrieks of her five-year-old cousins.
She’s not used to having her whole extended family living with her, let alone in the house built for Abby and her mom. The house, despite being built into the canyon, feels almost devoid of natural touches. It’s all edges and sleek metal and cold laboratories. It’s lovely, though the Jones’ tastes are more austere than what Emma likes. But it’s safe, safe from the League and from the prying eyes of the Collective. She’s glad they’re all here now.
Emma’s stomach grumbles, so she dashes downstairs; her stockinged feet skid on the smooth concrete floors. For a moment she longs for the soft coziness of their old house. Her moms still drop by every few days to change cars to keep up the appearance of living there. Timed lights turn on and off in various rooms and loops of idle conversations in Spanish play intermittently throughout the house. They found a few bugs during Emma’s very thorough sweep. She didn’t destroy them; she figured being aware of the bugs would keep them one step ahead. They didn’t know who was monitoring them— the League? Kinsgton? But either way it was safer to be careful.
Emma wanders into the kitchen, blinking wearily as she reads the projected time on the wall. Nine-thirty. “Mom? Mama?”
People can completely change the atmosphere of a room. The kitchen Emma once thought of as a cold, metallic place is filled now with soft, warm light, and her mothers are laughing. Emma can’t help but smile at the way Mama gently rests her hand on Mom’s elbow while she sets down a mug of steaming coffee for her wife. Josephine Gutierrez chuckles; there’s a stain on her doctor’s coat that she hasn’t noticed, and Samantha Robledo is softly murmuring in her ear. It’s an easy, comfortable dance Emma’s seen a million times.
On autopilot, Emma pours herself a cup of coffee, then adds three spoons of sugar and a generous splash of milk.
“Mija! You shouldn’t be drinking so much coffee; you’ll stunt your growth,” Mama says.
“I’m already short.” Emma takes a large sip. “I might as well have the coffee.”
Mom kisses her on the forehead. “Coffee has no effect on height; you all know this.”
“Josephine,” Mama says, rolling her eyes.
“Bye, loves!” Mom says, lingering in the doorway.
Her mothers exchange a look and glance at Emma, but don’t say anything. Emma resists rolling her eyes. If they have something to say to her, they should just say it, but she knows her mothers. “Have a good day at work,” Emma says. Whatever it is, it’ll come up, she’s sure.
She grabs a pan dulce and bites into it with glee. With her mothers both juggling busy work schedules, Emma’s breakfasts always were pretty simple: protein bar or instant oatmeal or fruit. Abuela must have gotten the sweet pastries from the market.
“Did Bells figure out the other alternate identity for you? For the hovertrain ticket back to the Rockies?”
“Yeah, it’s all covered,” Emma says. The new DED is on her desk somewhere. Bells gave it to her last week; the same person who made Bells’ ID when he was pretending to be “Barry” created a new identity for her. It’s a bit more sophisticated than the simple ones Brendan made when they were at the Villain’s Guild and just needed it to pass muster for one train ride to Aerial City.
The new DED is nice, but after so long without wearing one Emma can’t bring herself to put it on just yet.
“I’m not going to ask too many questions about it, but I do wonder what Bells and his family are involved in that they know someone who could make this,” Mama says.
Emma snorts. Her mother can’t turn off her Councilmember brain for one minute. “You know that it’s because they didn’t want Bells in the Meta-Human Registry,” she says. “Since he’s a mutant and all.”
“Is that it, though? I mean, sure it’s a curiosity, but Bells did say he turned down the offers for experimentation, which is great, considering what we know now of the League and their experiments.”
Emma takes another sip of her coffee. “Do you have any meetings today? You’re not traveling this week, right?”
Mama gives her a careful look and pushes the plate of pan dulces at her. “Abuela picked out your favorites but remember this one is for your cousin.”
“Mama,” Emma says warily. “What’s going on?”
“I think I’m going to withdraw from the campaign,” she says. “I’m perfectly happy being a Councilmember, and all this trouble with those MR-D4Rs— It’s because Kingston wanted to get to me, to use you as leverage.”
Emma drops her pastry. Samantha Robledo is the only other serious contender in the next Central presidential campaign. If she drops out, Kingston will win again. “But Kingston is corrupt. Our country deserves better. You have to run! What about everything we’ve been fighting for? I can’t believe you would just give up like this!”
Mama gives her a stern look. “He’s already tried to kidnap you once, sending us that new MonRobot under the guise of a present? What’s to stop him from trying again?”
“But obviously if his plan didn’t succeed—”
“But what’s to stop Kingston from sending more? The only way you can be safe and be able to just be free to walk about the city is to give Kingston no reason to harm you.”
Emma’s stomach sinks. “That’s not the answer! Please don’t drop out of the race. I’ve already done so much to stay safe. I’ve been careful. I haven’t been back in town. I even dropped out of school.”
Her mother looks at her own cup of coffee. “Yes, that’s another thing we wanted to talk to you about. We know it’s a huge sacrifice and, honestly, you don’t have to do it. I know you’ve had a lot of fun planning your protest escapades with your friends—”
Escapades? Emma stands up, anger rising inside her. “I’m not going back to school. Look, I’ve already passed the equivalency test—”
“But how will that look to colleges—”
“We’ve got more important things going on right now, like dismantling the entire Heroes’ League of Heroes!”
“But what about after? I’m not disagreeing with you, mija, but once we’ve gotten that handled then what? What are you going to do?”
“I can always go back to school,” Emma mutters.
“What about your dream to go to space?”
“I can always come back to that,” Emma says. “There might not be space to go to if we keep on this path!”
Emma looks up at her mother. It’s like looking into an equally stubborn mirror.
“Mija, we’re just worried this whole thing is taking you away from your path.” Samantha Robledo gives her a kind and understanding look that Emma knows is a well-practiced one.
“Don’t— don’t treat me like I’m one of your constituents! I’m your kid! And this is what I want to do. I’m ready to be a hero, even if you aren’t.”
Not waiting for a reply, she storms out of the kitchen.
Emma kicks a stray piece of tumbleweed, then glares at it when it catches on her shoe. She scowls, shaking her leg and finally yanking it free.
She paces in the shade behind the house. She’s through packing, she’s got no more plans to work on, and her moms still won’t see reason about dropping out of the presidential race. And Bells sent her an ominous message an hour ago: just the line we need to talk.
Emma’s gone over many possibilities; in all of them Bells breaks up with her for some reason or another. We’re better as friends. I don’t think this is working out. Kissing you is terrible. Let’s just focus on the Resistance. Just imagining Bells saying these words fills her with dread. She didn’t think the end would come so soon. The old insecurities flare up, the fears—why Emma learned it was always better to be the dump-er, not the dump-ee. But this is Bells. She doesn’t know how to process her feelings; she loves him, but there’s that feeling that’s always been in her heart, that maybe the way she loves someone might not be the same way they want to love her.
Bells approaches on his motorcycle. It’s a salvage that he and Kyle put together a few weeks ago. It’s miles away from that gaudy beast the League outfitted him with to match his old Chameleon supersuit.
Bells pulls off his helmet and shakes his hair out. He’s changed his hair: a fresh fade under short curls styled close to his head. Confident and cool as ever, he strides over to her, and Emma’s heart beats quicker.
“Hey,” Emma says. He seems to be in a good mood. So maybe it’s not a breakup talk?
Bells beams, and then his face settles into a more solemn expression, and Emma’s heart pounds on.
“Look, I came over to tell you something,” Bells says.
“What? What is it?” Emma takes a deep breath and prepares her response: Yes, we are better as friends. No, of course this won’t be awkward. I don’t want to lose you.
Bells takes her hands and lowers his voice to a steady tone. “You know how we’ve been looking for a way to communicate effectively with people all over the Collective? In a way that is encrypted and isn’t as complicated as Thomas and Kyle’s version?”
Emma’s internal emotional roller coaster suddenly stops, and her brain takes a moment to reprocess. Right. Communication. The Resistance. Nothing about their relationship at all. She tries not to look too relieved.
“Yeah, we’ve been talking about building—”
“We don’t have to do that,” Bells says. “It already exists.”
“What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying…” Bells lifts his eyebrows. “…is that we don’t need to create a whole new encrypted communication network.”
Emma stares at him, at the dancing mischief in his eyes; it’s almost the same look he gave her when he first told her he had powers. He’d been hiding a huge part of himself. Is this like that? What else has he been hiding?
“Come on. I’ll tell you everything at the farm.” Bells holds out her helmet.
Emma is filled with questions as she climbs on behind him. The Broussard’s family farm is one of her favorite places, filled with memories: playing games with Bells, running about in the vegetable patches, dancing in the irrigation system. It’s a good, comfortable place for both of them; that must be why he wants to go there to tell her about this new network.
She holds on tight as they race off into the canyons, and Emma soon realizes they’re not headed to the Broussard farms outside of town.
“I thought we were going to your farm?” Emma shouts against the wind.
“We have another farm,” Bells shouts back; it’s barely audible. Emma holds on tight as they drive through the Unmaintained lands, past the turnoff for the hideout, going higher and higher into the mountains. Emma tightens her grip on Bells’ waist as the air gets colder.
Bells stops the motorcycle and squeezes her hands. Enjoying their closeness, Emma rests her head on his. She and Bells have always shared an easy affection. Assuring and comforting touches are such a part of their routine that Emma isn’t used to seeing what those touches could mean now.
She pushes the doubt to the back of her head and tries not to think about what touching means for their friendship now, their relationship, whatever it is between her and Bells. Instead, she focuses on the question at hand. “Since when do you have another farm?”
“Since always.” Bells shifts. “It’s a family secret. I didn’t even know where Clairborne was until recently. The fewer people who know the better, since Grassroots is a huge secret.”
“Grassroots,” Emma says, turning the name over in her mouth. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Bells laughs. “Exactly.” He walks to a huge pile of rocks and then pushes one aside as if it’s nothing. “It’s fake,” he says in response to Emma’s stunned expression. “I didn’t suddenly get super-strength or anything.”
Emma laughs. “So that’s where you got the idea for the camouflage for our hideout!”
“Yup!” He wheels the motorcycle through the opening and motions for Emma to walk through before he obscures the path again. “Come on. We’ve got a long way to go.”
They drive through the Unmaintained lands for another hour. The late afternoon sun barely beckons across the tops of the canyons, and the air feels thinner. Emma loses track of time, but the sun is dipping lower toward the horizon, and the bright blue sky is giving way to streaks of violet, heralding the evening ahead. The sun hasn’t set, but up here in the mountains, long shadows are cast across the high desert as the wind whistles through the junipers and ponderosa pines. “How high are we going?”
“All the way up into these mountains,” Bells says.
“There’s a farm here?” Emma doesn’t see anything. The junipers rustle in the wind, their blue berries shake, and all she can see is the mountain greenery.
“Just here, beyond the gate.”
Emma doesn’t see a gate. She looks around and then at the ground. “Is the farm underground? How are you getting sunlight down there? Artificial light? Mirrors?” She knows the Broussards have that tech, but it’s only good for small vegetable gardens, like the one the Broussards made for the Villain’s Guild.
“Nope, it’s all above ground. I mean, we have the tech for that, but we don’t have to use those resources here.” Bells sweeps aside a small area of dirt to reveal a keypad and keys in a code.
The air in front of them shimmers. Something beyond Emma’s field of vision is moving, sinking into the ground.
“Come on,” Bells says in an excited voice.
They get on the cycle and drive through the “gate” and what looked like just a trick of light, and it’s as if a whole hidden world has been uncovered. “Camouflage tech,” Bells explains. “The gate operates the same way as cam-foil, but it goes up twenty feet around the whole property. If anyone was out here, they’d just see the forest.”
Emma shivers; she hadn’t expected this cold. In the Rockies, she’d been prepared; the white flurries warned of the cold, but here the desert looks exactly the same as it does in summer.
Clairborne is at least three times as large as the official Broussard farm, and Emma can see rows and rows of fruit trees and produce: lettuce and cauliflower and spinach and other vegetables she cannot name.
“Come on, it’s warmer in the greenhouse,” Bells says.
Inside the domed glass building, rows and rows of plants fill every spare inch; revolving tiers climb toward the ceiling. A fine mist is coming down, and Emma shrieks in delight. “You made it rain?”
Bells laughs. “There’s a natural water cycle in here; condensation builds, then falls down as precipitation.”
Emma shoulders him playfully. “That’s awesome!”
He leads her down a row of trellises with plump little red tomatoes. “These will be picked soon, but for now, try some!”
Emma’s had the Broussard family’s fresh fruit before, but never like this, plucked right off the vine. She picks another one, and another, popping them into her mouth. “It’s so good.” She sighs. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, I’ll pay you back. That must have been like twenty credits worth of tomatoes.”
“It’s all good, Emma. We’ve got plenty. I mean, Sean is the one who is the stickler for every credit, but you’re family. My parents would be happy to feed you.”
“So why the secret farm? What are you guys doing with all this produce?” Emma asks.
“Well, you know how we’re required to sell directly to the Collective, and they turn around and ship the produce all over the country with a flat price?”
Emma nods. She knows it well. She feels guilty, remembering Jess complaining at lunchtime about the stale, processed food served at the school, especially the sad salads with wilted and browning lettuce. Vegetables were available, of course, and there’s plenty of food, but it’s not fresh. She always brought food from home to share with her friends, and Bells did, too, but it bothered her that some people couldn’t afford fresh vegetables.
“Yeah, the Collective’s Food and Distribution Regulations are supposed to make it possible for everyone to be able to get food and share those resources, but— I don’t know, I think it makes it harder,” Emma says.
Bells nods. “Take this tomato.” He plucks the rosy red fruit and tosses it at her. “We grow this here. But we can’t sell it here. We have to sell all our produce directly to the Collective, which then ships our fruits and vegetables all over, so that this same tomato, by the time it comes back here and you get it in a grocery store, a bag of them could cost twenty credits, when it should only cost five. So that’s what Grassroots does: We give local farmers the support and the opportunities to sell directly to people in their area and the technology to operate farms under the Collective’s nose.”
