Freaks in the City (9 page)

Jay closed her sagging jaw and blinked to
clear her head. It was one thing to admire his physical form on a
purely aesthetic level—for example, as he wandered past her on his
way to the laundry clad in only a towel draped low on his hips. It
was quite another to be this close to him, in a confined space.
Close enough to easily see the beads of moisture dotting his spine
where he’d missed drying himself. Close enough to inhale and taste
the citrusy body-wash that mingled with Tyler’s own unique scent to
create a tantalizing new scent—one that curled through her senses
and stoked a feeling she could only label as “need”. She knew there
was nothing “aesthetic” about the way she was viewing him now.

Perhaps a shower would help—a cold one. With
the spray setting on high so the fierceness of the water would
pummel some commonsense and logic back into her head. Humans—males,
especially—resorted to this method when they needed to banish
inappropriate desire and clear their minds. It was worth a try.

Jay reached into the shower cubicle and
turned the dial to cold and the pressure to maximum. She pretended
not to notice Tyler choking on his mouthful of mouthwash when she
stripped off before stepping beneath the water. She stood beneath
the icy-cold stream, letting it needle her skin, waiting for the
unnatural heat that had bloomed in her body to cool.

When she exited the en suite, Tyler was
sitting up in bed, his sketchpad resting on his bent knees. He gaze
flicked to her, skimming the short royal-blue robe she wore. A dull
flush painted his cheeks as he bent his head to his sketchpad
again.

His blush was interesting—or perhaps
gratifying
was a more accurate word. She interpreted it to
mean he liked the way she looked while wearing this article of
clothing.

She rather liked the way
he
looked
wearing this article of clothing, too. He’d borrowed it a couple of
times, such as the time he’d gotten oil paint and mineral turps on
his clothes and she’d insisted on putting them through the washer.
She had to admit that butt-skimming faux-silk robes did things for
tall, physically fit guys like Tyler. Good things. Really good.

She absently stroked the lapel of her robe,
remembering.

He’d bought it for her with his first
paycheck from his on-campus job in the college auditorium ticket
office. “I noticed you don’t own one,” he’d said when he handed her
the package. “I chose the shade to complement your eyes—hope you
like it.”

She had liked it. Very much. It wasn’t real
silk but that didn’t matter to Jay. She’d never received a gift
before—ever. Not even the gift of a name. The significance of
choosing the right name had been too overwhelming for the man who’d
created her. So in the end, knowing she required a name to fit in
to human society, and wanting to honor the man who’d sacrificed his
life for her, she had taken Alexander Durham’s middle name of “Jay”
for her own. It was more acceptable than the designation Cyborg
Unit Gamma-Dash-One.

She shook off the too-vivid memories of her
creator and replayed the moment Tyler had presented the robe to her
in her mind. That memory was one to treasure, one she’d fixed in
her permanent memory banks and replayed over and over.

If the warm glow of pleasure simmering in
her belly hadn’t been riches enough, Tyler’s comment about choosing
the color to complement her eyes had formed a lump in her throat.
That he would spend his paycheck on a gift for
her
, that
he’d chosen it specifically with her eye color in mind….
Overwhelming.

She paused her current thought-thread and
anchored herself into the here-and-now.

“What are you drawing?” she asked, fishing a
t-shirt—one of Tyler’s that she’d appropriated—and a pair of cotton
sleep shorts from the tallboy. She doffed the robe, laying it atop
the tallboy. And then she pulled the t-shirt over her head, and
bent to step into the shorts.

“You.” His voice sounded strange—slightly
hoarse and lower than usual.

She climbed into bed next to him. “You sound
strange. I hope you’re not getting a cold.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m not getting a
cold.”

She laid her palm on his forehead, gauging
his temperature.

“Satisfied?”

“Yes. May I see your sketch?” It would have
been easy to sneak a look, but Jay respected Tyler too much to do
such a thing. No artist—regardless of the art form involved—liked
to publicly display their work before they were ready to do so.

He angled the sketch pad toward her.

Jay blinked, momentarily disconcerted. Tyler
had captured her listening to her iPod, gazing dreamily into space,
lips slightly parted.

Did she, Jay Smith, AKA Jaime Smythson,
truly look like this? She mentally photographed the sketch,
retrieved an image of herself from her databases, and compared them
both. It was an accurate rendition so far as sketches went, but she
finally concluded that he was so blinded by his feelings for her
he’d unconsciously improved her.

Tyler answered her unspoken question in that
uncanny way he sometimes had. “This is you, Jay. And you
are
beautiful. But it’s not just your physical form that makes you
beautiful, it’s what’s inside you—who you are.”

“What’s inside me makes me beautiful? You
are referring to my soul, correct?”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“But, what?”

“But I don’t have a soul. I’m not human. I’m
a machine—a very advanced one, granted—but a machine all the
same.”

He gently tapped her nose with his pencil.
“Of course you have a soul.”

She could argue otherwise but she knew how
stubborn Tyler could be. And deep down she wanted it to be true.
“If you say so.”

“I do say so.” He yawned as he set aside his
sketchpad, and reached for the panel of light switches by his side
of the bed. “Lights out?”

“Yes.” Jay shimmied down beneath the covers
and lay on her side, facing the door, away from Tyler.

His move. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to
be—human males making moves on the females? Not that Jay could
understand the logic. Why should males have to be the ones who
approached females and actively courted rebuffs?

Tyler smacked the light switch. Darkness
blanketed the room and Jay’s optics immediately compensated.

He scooted over to her side of the bed and
draped an arm about her waist. “Is this okay?” he murmured.

“It’s more than okay,” she said. “It’s
perfect.”

He snuggled closer, spooning. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For letting me stay.”

She folded her arms across his hand and held
his palm over her heart. “Goodnight, Tyler.” And as she lay there,
listening to his breathing slow and deepen as he relaxed into
sleep, she felt very, very lucky. Perhaps there was a God, after
all, and maybe, just maybe, He’d given His blessing to a cyborg who
wished with all her heart she could become what her boyfriend
wanted her to be. Human.

The night deepened. Jay entered the same
semi-downtime state she used when performing mundane tasks. Right
now, the mundane task at hand was simulating sleep.

The one crucial aspect she hadn’t considered
was her dreams. Cyborgs weren’t supposed to have the capacity to
dream—how could they, when their brains were nothing but glorified
computers? But Jay had begun dreaming during her downtime periods
ever since the night Father had commanded her to end his life. He
was old, dying of cancer, and he’d insisted the only way to protect
her from those who hunted her was for him to take her command codes
to his grave.

She’d fought the command but the compulsion
was too strong. That dream—of Father’s passing and the aftermath,
when she’d shed tears for the first time—hadn’t faded over time. It
was still as vivid as it’d ever been. Jay knew not even deleting
the memory from her permanent databanks would allow her to
forget.

This time, the dream was a new one—a
replaying of true events but with a horrifying twist. It looped
over and over, like a visual version of a broken record. And
despite resting safe in Tyler’s arms, she could not break free of
the dream….

~~~

She can sense them closing in. It’s
imperative she lure them away before they storm her apartment via
the skylights, and everyone inside the building risks becoming
collateral damage. The people hunting her don’t care about Tyler or
Caro or their father Michael, who had inadvertently led the
extraction team to Jay’s door, and put his own children in harm’s
way. They don’t care about innocents like Matt and Em and the rest
of the girls’ baseball team. They don’t care about anyone or
anything except for their mission objective: retrieving Cyborg Unit
Gamma-Dash-One, AKA Jay Smith.

She’s always known this day would come.
She’s prepared for every possible eventuality. She’s always
prepared, she never makes mistakes. Except… encountering Tyler has
changed all that. Now she is driven to protect him. His safety is
paramount. Because of him, she truly feels alive. Because of him,
she wants to live so badly she aches with the wanting. The pain of
leaving him—even if she knows it is the only way to keep him
safe—is a giant fist squeezing her heart.

One leap takes her down half a flight of
stairs. There’s no need to cover her tracks. She won’t be coming
back to this place. She rips two bricks from the wall, reaches into
the exposed cavity to snatch the wrapped package she’s hidden
there. She shoves it down the back waistband of her jeans and heads
for the doors.

She glances up the gloomy stairwell, hears
the squeal that confirms the reinforced door of her apartment is
closing. In seconds Tyler and his father will be locked inside her
apartment along with Tyler’s twin, Caro, and the other oblivious
partygoers. For now, it’s the only place they will be safe. But she
can’t think about Tyler right now. He’s her weakness, and she can’t
afford to be weak.

The instant before the door locks engage she
punches out a stairwell window with her fist. It’s a “Look! Here I
am, so come and get me!” gesture, and the shattering glass sounds
abominably loud over the now faint thrum of the music playing
upstairs. Just to be certain, she allows herself to be seen, luring
the extraction squad away from the building, away from Tyler and
Caro and the other humans she’s come to care about.

Movement in the shadows. Someone’s sharp
inhalation. A muffled footstep. A whispered acknowledgement to the
person listening and barking orders on the other end of the comms
device. More movement, furtive and quick.

She sprints toward a parked car and they
follow, exactly as she planned. A wholly un-cyborg-like feral smile
curves her lips. Only once before has she allowed them to get this
close to her. They will be unable to resist the trap she has
set.

She ducks behind the car, waits…. And as
they break cover, she upends the car on its side, using it as a
shield as she darts toward the next vehicle.

Despite her precautions a bullet rips into
her side, just below her ribs. She runs a quick diagnostic,
determines the bullet has been designed to lodge in her body, and
emit a signal to scramble her circuits and render her helpless. She
emits an electronic counter-signal that will dampen the effects but
it’s too risky to leave the bullet where it is. She digs it out
with her fingernails and stashes it in her pocket to analyze at a
more opportune moment.

The wound is deep. She licks two fingers and
shoves them into the wound, coating it with her saliva to stop the
bleeding and aid healing. The injury won’t slow her down, but the
fact that she failed to dodge the bullet makes her chest tight and
her breath come in short sharp pants.

Her fists clench and she grinds her jaw. Now
she easily recognizes this emotion. Anger. She takes out her
frustrations on the nearest vehicle—a florist’s van—and launches it
into the air.

A part of her realizes emotional overload is
playing havoc with her control—hence this little temper tantrum.
She inhales, counts to five, exhales. The possibility that all the
surrounding properties in the vicinity are empty of people is
remote. She doesn’t wish to be responsible for the deaths of
Snapperton residents whose only crimes are curiosity.

She’s off and running, zigzagging down the
street in a random pattern. If a bullet hits her this time, it’ll
be pure luck.

She leads the extraction squad to a new
housing estate. Construction has stalled due to lack of sales.
Those residents who can afford the pricey houses have no desire to
live cheek by jowl with the commercial district bordering the
estate. Her pursuers will believe she’s chosen this particular
property because it’s one of the few completed buildings, affording
her maximum cover. But there is nothing random about her selection.
She purchased the property to ensure it remained vacant. It’s
booby-trapped with C4. All she needs to do is flick the switch on
the remote timer in her pocket to begin the countdown.

The first man senses her stalking him and
whirls. He hesitates, vacillating between his gun—a known
quantity—and his as yet unproven EMP weapon. He chooses the EMP but
she is already reacting, knocking the weapon aside with her forearm
and chopping him across the throat.

She had no intention of killing him—she
pulled her blow so she didn’t crush his windpipe. He’s only
following orders, after all. But as he lands he smacks his skull on
the lip of the concrete garden edging.

Before she chose to hide in Snapperton,
before Tyler, she would have felt neither regret nor sorrow, nor
anything at all over this man’s senseless death. Now she feels
something. It’s fleeting, a twisting sensation in her stomach, a
brief overwhelming sadness and regret that shrouds her before she
can shrug it off. It’s yet another indication of how she’s
evolving.