Arranged on the buffed steel in front of her were three car batteries, each one hooked up to a glowing light bulb. They were spaced about a meter apart.
“Come on,” the Major called from across the room. “You can do this.”
“Wanna bet?”
“One more try.”
Lemon sighed, looking into the old man’s eyes. She still found it hard to actually call him Grandpa aloud, to truly consider everything it would mean if she really was his kin. But she found herself wanting to please him anyway. He reminded her of Mister C in so many ways, and there was so much more that seemed good about him and what he’d built here. She liked him. She wanted to show him what she could do. She wanted to make him proud.
“I believe in you,” he said.
And so, she took a deep breath and held it. Gritting her teeth, she reached out toward the middle light bulb. She could feel the static building up behind her eyes. Reaching into that prickling gray ocean, gently…gently…trying to let just a tiny sliver of it run out through her—
The middle bulb exploded. The bulbs either side exploded. The bulbs in the ceiling above her head exploded, raining broken glass onto her head.
“Shit,” she said.
“Swear jar!” Grimm sang with a smile.
Fix had turned at the flash, and Diesel had landed a punch in his belly, sending him to the mat. As the girl planted herself on the groaning boy’s chest and kissed him by way of apology, the Major limped over to the bench, leaning on his walking stick. He was still smiling, but Lem could see him getting frustrated just like her. She’d killed thirty bulbs and counting now. She’d be combing glass out of her hair for days.
“At least you didn’t blow the circuit breakers this time,” he said.
She slumped down on the bench, chin in her hands. “Can we all just admit I’m awful at this and move on to the chocolate part now, please, thanks.”
“This is important,” the old man said, sitting beside her.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, slumping lower.
“You can do this, Lemon. You just need faith. And practice.”
“And chocolate.”
The Major nudged her shoulder, pointed to Grimm in the firing range.
“Watch.”
The boy had his back to them, his T-shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders. As Lemon looked on, he extended his arm and pointed at one of a dozen paper targets hanging thirty meters down the range. She saw his dark skin begin to prickle, his breath escape his lips in a puff of white. And as she watched, the paper target began smoldering, then burst into flames.
Grimm blew on his finger like he was in an old 20C western.
“Hawwwwwt,” he crooned to himself.
“Nice shooting, cowboy,” Lemon called.
Glancing over his shoulder, Grimm finally realized he was being watched. He took a bow as she gave him a slow clap. The Major smiled, reached into his fatigues.
“Shoot this, cowboy.”
Lemon heard a sharp ping, and the old man tossed a small cylindrical object at Grimm’s feet. Her belly dropped into her boots as she realized it was a grenade. In a panic, she threw herself under the table, covered her ears, wincing.
Grimm held out his hands, fingers curled, eyes narrowed. Lemon flinched as the grenade exploded. But instead of a blinding flash, a deafening boom, there was a small, bright glow, a kind of dull, strangled whump. She thought the weapon might have been a dud until Grimm turned and raised his hands toward the firing range, engulfing every paper target in a bright blossom of rolling flames.
“Holy crap,” she whispered.
“Swear jar,” the Major said, helping her to her feet.
Lemon only stared, mouth open. The targets on the range had been reduced to ashes, the metal brackets that held them were on fire. Grimm fetched an extinguisher from the far wall, doused the flames in a white, chemical fog.
“When Grimm first joined us,” the Major said, “he couldn’t control his gift at all. He’d get angry or impatient, and things around him would freeze or burst into flame. He was a danger to himself, and to others. Now look at him.”
The Major reached out and patted her hand.
“Your gift is a wonder, Lemon. But it’s also a responsibility.”
Lemon’s heart rate had returned almost to normal. She took her seat again, stared at the broken bulbs on the table in front of her. “Okay, that makes sense for Grimm. But I can’t start fires. I’m not a danger to people. So what difference does it make for me? I can’t target my gift, so what?”
“So what if you need to?” the Major asked. “What if you needed to stop a machina that was hurting that logika friend of yours, without hurting the logika itself?”
“His name is Cricket,” she pouted.
“Yes, Cricket,” the Major nodded. “He’s just an example. We have an enormous amount of sensitive electronic equipment in this facility. What if you lost your temper and cooked our hydrostation by mistake? Or our power generators?”
“I guess,” she sighed.
“We never know what life will throw at us, Lemon,” the old man said. “We never know where it will lead us. But we can know ourselves. And in knowing ourselves, we know the world.”
“You ever use it on anything living?” Grimm asked.
The boy had returned from the firing range, smelling vaguely of smoke. He casually picked up a broken bulb from the bench in front of her, acting like he redirected lethal grenade explosions every day of the week.
“Living?” she asked. “Whaddya mean?”
“Living things run on electrics, too. Your brain and that.” Grimm wiggled his fingers near his ear. “Little arcs and sparks of electricity, neurons and electrons. It’s all current, love.”
“Is that true?” she asked, glancing at the Major.
“…Technically, yes,” the old man nodded. “The human nervous system does run on small transfers of electrical current. It’s how cybernetics work.”
Grimm shrugged. “So if you can fry machines, maybe you can fry people?”
“I think we should stick to the basics for now,” the Major said.
“Aw, come on, boss. Lemon can take a poke at me if she likes, I don—”
“Thank you for your suggestion, soldier,” the Major said, his voice suddenly terse. “But considering Lemon’s inability to moderate her gift, I’m not prepared to let her loose on a human target just yet. Especially one of you. We’re the future of the human race. We should learn to walk before we fly, yes?”