Breaking Through Page 3

  Then when she’d stormed out, I expected some sort of watery repercussion. I allowed Kray to chase after her and settle her down before her powers went berserk. Whatever he did changed her mind, and she’ll be boarding the Triton with the rest of the team.

  Nautia’s file is thicker than the rest of them. I pull out the earliest papers—her admittance records. How she got to the school isn’t surprising. It’s how we all wind up here; when our powers emerge and draw too much attention, we’re whisked away to our new home.

  She arrived at fourteen. Before coming to Brighton, she was an elite swimmer, earning gold medals at junior Olympic events all over the country. Until one day she broke down and sunk to the bottom of her backyard pool in Houston. Her parents found her there, completely dry, with walls of water sprung up like waves circling her. The next day, a government official escorted her to Brighton, and she was put under Cara’s charge.

  Cara refused to release Nautia’s therapy sessions—doctor/patient confidentiality—but included in the file are a few nondescript notes from each one. I scan them again. The aquator seemed to be making progress the first couple of years. Her class and training schedules indicate level five work by the time she was sixteen. And her best subject? Chemistry.

  “Why the outburst, then?” I ask myself out loud.

  I open an envelope paper-clipped to the top of a page and find pictures of Nautia’s projects—all of her making water do things water doesn’t do on its own. Water on fire. A bowling ball encapsulated in a bubble and floating six inches from the ceiling. A waterspout coming out of a fountain, spinning clockwise while the water below spins counter-clockwise.

  This girl is good.

  On the back of one is a note from her trainer. “Nautia Olson displays a significant aptitude for science, given her ability to become one with water. She doesn’t only control it; she becomes it.”

  No wonder Admiral Melene has been watching her. Which again makes me question her earlier behavior.

  I tuck the photos back inside the envelope and move on. There’s a release form signed by Cara and Admiral Melene, but not by Nautia, dated two years ago. If Nautia didn’t sign, it means she wasn’t released. I flip the paper over and scan through all three pages, but I can’t find a reason for the proposed recruit or for her refusal. It crosses my mind as strange, though not unheard of.

  I push the documents aside and look over the next batch. These are more vague with no notes from Cara, and I wonder if they stopped having sessions. From what I’ve read so far, Nautia had no trouble reining in her power and transferring it through her emotional core, making counseling obsolete.

  So if her abilities aren’t related to her emotions, why had she been assigned to Cara?

  The next group of papers I read are different. Last year, Nautia had daily therapy sessions with Cara, sometimes twice a day. Her grades fell, and her class schedule dropped to skill level two. Copies of a dozen maintenance bills fill a manila envelope—$1,200 to replace dorm room pipes, $7,300 for a full individual bathroom remodel, $56,000 for a new courtyard fountain.

  There’s no record of why she suddenly went on the fritz.

  I study Cara’s notes over the last twelve months. Nate Olson’s name covers the newest pages of Nautia’s file, but nowhere else is a brother mentioned.

  Clearly, something triggered this girl’s lack of control, and I have a hunch Nate’s a part of it. I grab my phone and dial Admiral Melene.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to bother you,” I say when he answers.

  “No trouble, Captain. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m going over the special officer files you gave me, and I’m stuck on Nautia Olson’s. It says you tried to recruit her once.”

  “The aquator,” he says. “Yes, I put in a request of transfer a couple years ago to pull her from Brighton early. She showed real potential, and I thought, what better place than the Navy to have her realize that potential? I spoke with Trainer Cara, and she seemed to think we’d be a good fit. However, when I arrived to work out the details, Nautia said she wasn’t ready. That she wanted to graduate from Brighton first. It happens, so we made plans to meet again after graduation.”

  “Which was supposed to be last year,” I say. “Something happened, though. Something not included in her files.”

  “All I know is I received a call from Cara, saying Nautia was going through some sort of nervous breakdown, and she wouldn’t be finishing school as planned.”

  “Is there a way I can gain access to her military files?”

  “Military files?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For Nautia Olson? Captain, there aren’t any. She never signed on to the contract; therefore, she was never recruited and doesn’t have a file.”

  “She’s in the system, sir. I checked before I came.”

  “Well, then, that’s admin’s fault for not removing her. The file is empty.”

  “How about a Nate Olson?”

  “Another Olson, huh? Brother? Same ability?”

  “Looks like it, sir. Says he was recruited to the Navy two years ago, the same time you tried to recruit Nautia. He’s mentioned in her files.”

  “I didn’t call in his draft, but I’ll see what I can find. You think you need another aquator? Because if he’s already Navy, I can put in for a transfer.”

  “No, sir. I’m just curious if there might be a connection between him and Nautia’s lack of control.”

  Melene sighs into the receiver. “I’ll see what I can find, Barton, but you might be heading for a dead end.”

  “I’d appreciate it, sir.”

  I hang up and pour myself some whiskey. Then I go through Cara’s notes one last time. It’s clear Nautia has everything I want for this mission. What’s also clear is that in her current state, the information is locked inside her head. I just have to find the key.

  And that key might lie with her brother.

  “We’re training for three months on a ship?” Britta grunts, lugging her suitcase behind her. “I get seasick.”

  I grimace. “Please tell me we have private cabins.”

  “I hope not,” Haskal says, swatting my ass as he jogs past me. “And I hope I get stuck with you.”

  “Ugh. I think I’d rather bunk with barf girl,” I mutter to myself.

  “You’d rather bunk with Barton,” Kray says close to my ear. “You’ve been ogling him since we landed.”

  I shoot him a glance over my shoulder. “Ogling?”

  “Major ogling.”

  “I don’t ogle anything, Kray. Unless it’s dipped in chocolate.”

  My best friend chuckles. “I’m sure you’d love to have a piece of Barton dipped like a cone.”

  “You know what I need?” I stop and turn to face the nosy mind reader. “A class on how to block you from my head. All the trainers do it, so obviously it can be done.”

  “Honey, I didn’t get any of that info from digging around in your nugget. I got that from the drool.” He wipes the non-existent saliva from my mouth.

  “Oh shut up.”

  Kray grins and nudges me up the ramp. Ahead of me, Gibson has Britta’s second and third bags suspended in the air in front of him. Why the girl brought three suitcases when the rest of us packed one is beyond me. The contract clearly stated we’re to wear Navy-sanctioned apparel at all times while on duty. On a ship in the middle of the ocean is a good sign we’ll be on duty more often than not.

  There are supposed to be five other Navy soldiers on board, but they must be somewhere else; it’s just us Specials lined up on the top deck, facing the ocean. Captain Barton walks out and stands in front of us. His sailor hat casts a shadow over his face, obscuring his expression. His lips, though? Those I see perfectly fine.

  “Ogle, much?” Kray whispers.

  “Rubberneck, much?” I fire back.<
br />
  “Welcome aboard USS Triton,” Barton says, standing tall and proud. “She’s a state-of-the-art vessel designed for a crew of four. While here, you are soldiers, and I expect your conduct to reflect that standing. Understood?”

  I nod my answer, while beside me, Kray mutters, “Yes, sir.”

  “I didn’t catch that, soldiers,” Barton says louder. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” we chime, some of us with more enthusiasm than others.

  I glance to my right. Gibson acts like he’s here for the Soldier of the Year Award. His chest is puffed out, his chin up in the air. Haskal’s playing the part too, though with less zeal than Gibson, and Britta’s going to piss herself when she realizes her cell phone might not get stellar reception in the middle of the Atlantic. Even now, she clutches it in her hand like she’s afraid Barton will toss it overboard.

  But me? All I care about is finding a computer so I can search the system and find out what happened to my brother. If that means I have to play the good soldier to gain Barton’s approval, so be it. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m not sure where I stand in his pecking order, but I know he’s read my file. That, coupled with me storming out on day one, I probably already have two strikes against me.

  “Zero,” Kray murmurs so only I can hear him. “You have zero strikes. You’re a project for him.”

  “A project?” I repeat, equally low. “What does that mean?”

  “He wants to figure you out. Why your powers seem to be rebelling against you, and he wants to fix it.”

  I glance down the line where our captain holds out a hand to Britta. “He thinks he can fix me?” I ask.

  “Dude won’t stop thinking. But yeah. You—your powers—fascinate him.”

  “So…my powers fascinate him? Or I fascinate him?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Big difference.”

  “Agree to disagree. Point is, you are on his mind and he is on yours, hence all the ogling.”

  I groan. “Not ogling.”

  “Ogle queen.”

  Barton walks in our direction after confiscating Britta’s phone. “Is there something you want to share, Shields?” he asks, stopping in front of Kray.

  Kray peers back. “Just telling Nautia here how badly you want to succeed at this mission since it’s the first one you’ve headed up by yourself. That’s a lot of pressure, Cap. You might want to reconsider your approach, as fear isn’t your style.”

  Holy. Shit.

  Shut up, Kray. Shut. Up, I shout inside my head.

  I hold my breath. Barton’s pupils dilate as he moves into Kray’s personal space. The captain has at least three inches on him, but Kray doesn’t budge.

  “It would do you well, Officer, to keep your ‘hands’ to yourself,” he says, his tone low. “This mission goes on your permanent record.”

  “And let me guess: you’re the one who will be writing up the report?”

  Barton turns away, ignoring Kray’s comment. “You’ll get settled into your cabins today, learn your schedules, and report to Weapons Training Center One at five thirty a.m., sharp.”

  “Five thirty?” Britta exclaims. Kray’s insubordination seems to have caught on, fueling Britta’s disdain over her cell. “You’re crazy!”

  “And you agreed to the terms, Miss Lighter,” Barton answers.

  Britta smirks like an evil supervillain out to get revenge from the man who stole her most prized possession. “I’m a minor. Legally, that little contract I signed is obsolete. So, I’ll—”

  “You are government property, Officer. You don’t have rights.” Barton spins around to face us all. “Listen up! This isn’t a game. This is national security. Life and death. Now get your asses to your cabins and get some rest. Tomorrow, you’re mine.”

  I’m relieved when I enter my assigned bunk alone. There’s one twin-sized bed in the corner, a dresser, a desk, and a miniscule private bathroom. Scanty digs, but I didn’t expect much. I’m actually impressed to have the place to myself.

  I toss my one bag onto the dresser and start making my bed with what I assume are standard military sheets. They’re itchy and stiff, and already I’m wondering if I’ll even be able to sleep on them. Then again, not sleeping means no nightmares, so this might work for me—for a while.

  I’ve moved on to unpacking my toiletries when someone knocks on my door. Immediately, I know it’s not Kray, who would have barged right in.

  Whoever it is knocks again.

  My heart skips a beat, hoping it might be Barton. It’s stupid and I’m nuts for even thinking it, but what if he can fix me? I set my shower supplies on the desk and reach for the handle.

  “Howdy, neighbor,” Haskal says, smiling like a tricked-out cartoon version of himself. “I’d like to borrow a cup of sugar.” He says sugar with a wink, and his gaze dips down to my chest.

  I groan inwardly. I consider slamming the door in his face, but before I can, he sticks his arm out, ready to block me from making any sudden moves. Instead, I settle for crossing my arms and glaring at him. I glare hard too.

  “What do you want, Haskal?”

  “Oh don’t be like that, sweetheart. I just wanted to stop by and lay down some ground rules.” He comes inside uninvited, forcing me to back up so he’s not on top of me. He chuckles and purposely brushes against my arm.

  I grimace, wiping at where he touched me. “I’m not your sweetheart, and what do you mean ‘ground rules’?”

  “You know, with us sharing a wall and all,” he says, hitting the one my bed rests against. “They’re not exactly soundproof, if you haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “And you have?”

  “I share my other wall with Britta. Sounds like she took one look at the place and broke down into tears, poor baby. Between that and Barton hijacking her phone, I think she wants her mommy.”

  “Shut up, Haskal, and get to the point.”

  He moves closer and takes a lock of hair between his fingers, twisting it. “My point, sweetheart, is that if you get too lonely in here, or, I don’t know—too hot—all you gotta do is say my name.” His gaze floats to my lips. “I’ll be right here to make it all better.”

  This guy makes my blood boil. For him to piss me off on board a ship that’s leaving port isn’t the wisest decision. If it were only me and Haskal the Asskal, I wouldn’t care about losing my cool. But we’re not the only ones, and the rest of the ship doesn’t deserve to drown today.

  I take a deep breath. Calm down. Relax. Slow your heart rate. I let out my breath slowly and go for a different approach.

  “Those are your ground rules, huh?” I say. “You shared them with Britta too then, right? She’s more likely to need you than I am.”

  Haskal clears his throat as he gives me a onceover. “The thing about playing hard to get, Nautia, is that it’s hard—not impossible. Give it time.”

  I press my palm against his chest and bat my lashes. “The thing about time, Haskal, is that yours is up. Get out.” I shove him toward the door.

  He puts his hands up in surrender. “For now. See you at dinner.”

  Before I can slam the door behind him, he motions to the metal hinges, which swing the door closed.

  Whatever. Haskal is a dick, but not unmanageable. I can deal for ninety days, right?

  I go back to unpacking. Not two minutes later my door opens.

  “Not the Caribbean Cruise ship I signed up for, but all in all, not bad either.” Kray sweeps past me and plops down on my bed. He bounces a few times, then shrugs. “Spared no expense on the mattresses, I see.”

  “Come on in,” I deadpan, walking over to close the door he left open. “Make yourself at home.”

  He grins and takes a bite off a Twizzler. “I always do.”

  I stare at him, waiting. Judging by the goofy smile
on his face, he’s got something he’s dying to tell me, but he wants me to ask before he divulges his treasure. So annoying.

  I give in. “I take it you haven’t been unpacking.”

  “You get a gold star today, Nautia.”

  “Lucky me. What have you been doing, then?”

  “I’m so glad you asked!” He takes another bite off his Twizzler, then points the rest at me like it’s a stick. “Reconnaissance.”

  I grab the desk chair, flip it around, and sit down, facing him. “Okay. What did you find?”

  “There’s a freaking basketball court two levels down!”

  I roll my eyes. “Reconnaissance, you said?”

  “That’s not all I found, but it’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” Eyebrows high, he bobs his head, trying to get me to agree with him. I don’t.

  “Yeah, not really. Unless there’re classified files hidden inside the balls.”

  “Balls?” Kray says like a junior high kid. “You want to check the captain’s—”

  “Get on with it, Kray,” I prompt.

  “You’re no fun. Okay, so when Barton said this ship was state-of-the-art, he wasn’t fucking around. There are rooms and shit on this thing I wouldn’t have conjured even in my wildest dreams.”

  “Please don’t,” I mutter.

  He ignores me. “Weight room, a firing range, simulator room, weapons room—”

  “Wait,” I stop him. “Weapons room? They don’t keep that locked up?”

  “Oh they do. The security into that room is tight—fingerprinting and retina scan. I only got a glimpse when I was following Barton around.”

  “Ah…so you were tagging Barton.”

  “Not at first. Only later, after I got eyes on him.”

  “And ears into his head, I assume?” I say, nodding because I already know. Kray’s a freaking leach.

  “Yeah, he’s not happy with me right now.”

  “That’s what you get for poking around in people’s brains.”