Sleeping Giants (Themis Files #1)(25)

—I don’t know what you want me to say.

—I asked a very simple question. What happened?

—We had one kiss…

—Mr. Mitchell. It would make things easier for both of us, especially for you, if we could forgo the part of this conversation where you take me for a complete idiot…

—OK, it was more than a kiss but it’s not like we defected to Russia or anything. I don’t think the Army has anything to worry about.

—You keep forgetting. I am not the Army, nor am I concerned with their code of conduct. I have no interest in seeing either of you court-martialed. I will, however, grow tired of asking. Just tell me what happened.

—Well, we’ve been at this for five months now, full-time, and alone. After a while, we either end up killing each other or we grow closer, there’s really no in between. We spend what? Twelve hours a day together in the sphere? Six or seven days a week. It seems pointless to go into details, but let’s just say it didn’t take long before I started thinking about her for the other twelve hours.

But Kara’s Kara. So every time I tried to get closer to her, she’d back away and give me the cold shoulder for three days. I tried to give her some space, as much as I could while being in the same room. It’s really hard spending that kind of time with someone without the conversation eventually slipping into personal territory.

After a while, I got tired of being called by my rank and last name every time I mentioned anything not work-related. You’d be surprised how many things will strike a chord with her. I still don’t know what happened to her, but apparently anything having to do with family, children, or relationships will make her mad. I mean, I really tried, but anyone who gets edgy when cats come up as a conversation topic has some serious emotional issues.

A few weeks passed. I just kept my mouth shut and focused on getting the big girl walking. We tried a few things, but each time our computer model ended up flat on her face. It happened so often at first, we had to remind ourselves she would wreck a dozen houses if that happened for real. Turns out, even if I get the leg movements right, Kara still has to move the arms and torso in sync for her to keep her balance. Turning is even more complicated.

I started calling every movement out loud—left knee up, leg forward, left foot down—so she could shift the weight at the right time. After about a month of that, she started anticipating my movements, reading my body, the way I would move my shoulders before lifting a leg, things like that. I got pretty good at reading her too. I spend my entire day looking at her, since I’m facing away from the console. You do this from sunrise to sunset every day, it starts to feel natural, like you actually need the other person for something as simple as walking. She noticed I even stopped moving my arms when I walk on my own. She says it gives me a Terminator kind of look…The liquid guy, not Arnold.

—Does that mean you can make her walk?

—No, not quite. Even with Kara helping with the balance, I’m still short one leg joint. I can’t seem to get the upper legs to move quite right. She has really short thighs between her hips and her actual knees. I don’t have that; my legs connect to the braces just below. I have to thrust my whole body upward at every step to get a natural movement out of her and it’s really hard to keep that going for more than a few steps.

But we’re making progress. Perhaps that’s what got Kara to open up a little. Perhaps it’s because we started pulling even longer shifts. But one night she asked me out for a drink. It wasn’t the first time, but she always made sure Dr. Franklin or Vincent tagged along. We usually go to the Aviator’s lounge at B-Gate. Our exit inside the terminal is past security so it’s convenient and Dr. Franklin can smoke. She doesn’t, really, but she likes to light one up when she drinks. She mostly stares at it. Anyway, it closes at ten thirty so we drove to a real place that’s open late. It was a bit of a dive, but anything where normal people go feels pretty special these days.

I don’t know if I was nervous, or just really tired, but I got drunk. Plowed. One bourbon, one bourbon, one beer. I don’t think they had Scotch anyway. I was on my second round when I started talking. She basically just listened to me spill my guts to her all night long. I was still mad at her, so I did it the mean way. You know: “I can’t stop thinking about you but you’re the coldest person I’ve ever met”—that kind of thing. She just sat there and listened. When I became a bit too incoherent, she dragged me to her car and drove me home without saying a word.

I wanted to hide under a rock the next day. More than anything, I was waiting to see what kind of hell she’d put me through for this. She didn’t. We just went through our routine. She was quite cordial actually. Nothing the next day either, then the next. After a week had gone by, I assumed she had decided it was best to pretend it didn’t happen. I was still reasonably embarrassed and inclined to agree.

A week later, she stopped me on the way out and asked if I still wanted to take her out to a real dinner. I tried to look like I thought about it before saying yes. I was going to pick her up on Sunday. I was at home getting ready when she called to cancel: “It’s not a good idea, we work together, blah blah blah.”

I should have been mad but I thought it was mostly funny since she was the one who invited me. We went through this dance one more time until I finally had it. I just stopped by her house on our night off and told her to hurry up. She didn’t argue. I must have looked more confident than I was.