Read Online The Terminals by Royce Scott Buckingham - Free Book Online Page B

organ,” Cam said.
    â€œRight. I used all of my tickets making the man play it over and over, and I hummed the tune for months. I wanted one with all my heart, but by then my mom was single. She was a secretary and couldn’t afford anything like that. Instead, she bought me a second-hand keyboard and took me down to the courthouse to change my name.”
    â€œCool mom,” Jules said.
    Ari smirked. “You’re just lucky your name’s not ‘Organ.’”
    Cam considered Calliope through the heat of the air over the fire. It distorted her appearance, making her look like a blurred and reddish-haired ghost. Pale. Freckled. The smile on her colorless lips was uncertain. And she was slender. No curves, but she wasn’t about that, Cam thought. Not traditionally pretty, yet there was something about her.
    â€œYou like music?” he asked.
    *   *   *
    The bunker was open. It was always open. Anything they wanted, anytime they wanted. Calliope led Cam past the conference room and through the dining hall, where they grabbed a tub of chocolate pudding from the walk-in fridge and ate the entire thing with a big wooden mixing spoon.
    â€œIt’s just ahead,” she said, licking chocolate from the corners of her mouth. In the empty hall, even her soft voice was loud.
    They passed a small workout room with a heavy punching bag hanging from the ceiling. Helmets hung from hooks, and padded poles leaned against foam walls.
    â€œDefense and attack,” Calliope said, anticipating his question. “Kickboxing. Mixed martial arts. That sort of thing. Zara spends hours in here. I don’t like that stuff. Ward is teaching me communications method and tech instead.”
    Cam nodded, wondering what he would be trained to do. Then they stepped into a small room. The only thing in it was an electronic keyboard and a bench.
    â€œWhy is there foam on the walls here?” he asked.
    â€œSame reason. In case there’s violence,” she said. Then she grinned.
    â€œOh, acoustics,” Cam realized. “Duh.”
    She sat. It was more a slide than a sit, something smooth and natural that she’d done innumerable times either here or back home. Both probably. She leaned to tap the “on” switch as her rump flattened to become a part of the bench, and her slender hands fanned out over the keys like butterfly wings, her fingers alighting on black here and white there.
    â€œAre you going to—” Cam began.
    Calliope hit a chord. It boomed, drowning out Cam’s voice in the small room. He went silent, and she backed off, transitioning to a light melody. It was her way of telling him to shush, he decided. He complied, and the song built. Her hands danced over the keyboard, starting out playful, but quickly becoming insistent, and then demanding with a hint of desperation. They groped for and pounded the keys. Soon, rather than stroking them, she was punishing them. Her shoulders flexed and tightened. Her breaths came more quickly, her nostrils flaring. She played a series of notes three times through, faster and faster, and then leaped an octave higher. At the crescendo she paused. Cam wondered if she was done, but he didn’t dare speak.
    She wasn’t done. She hit a low note—a single note—and held it. Then she sang. Her voice was unexpected. Deep and smoky as she rolled into the lyrics, which were as bitter and ferocious as her hands. As she sang, she hit high notes that proved she was female, but she favored the lower end of the scale, the dark end of her machine. She sang about holding her struggling childhood dog while it was euthanized and wishing for breasts that never arrived—both of which made Cam feel bad for different reasons. There was more, all sad, some angry. At the finish she issued a long, low moan that built to a brief scream that ended abruptly, and when she was done she slumped, spent, as much emotionally as