The Bionics (The Bionics Series Part 1) (6 page)

“When the bombs dropped I was just a normal girl living in San Francisco. I was right at the center of the
city when it happened and I
suffered third degree burns over ninety percent of my body. My parents signed me up for the Healing Hands initiative, hoping to save my life. The pain was so excruciating, that all I wanted to do was die. I begged them to kill me, to let me die, but they wouldn’t.”

“They gave you new skin,” I say, hoping that she doesn’t mistake the tears in my left eye and my raspy voice for pity. I have nothing but respect for
Yasmine
and her bravery under the circumstances. She certainly seems to have suffered as much, or maybe even more than I have.

“Yes,” she answers. “They fixed me and now they hunt me because they hate their own creations. They fear me
enough to hurt the people I love to get what they want.”

I understand this and I think she realizes it.

“I just wanted you to know that you’re not alone,” she says as we come to a stop on the front steps of the Science building. “I wanted you to know that I’m here if you need a friend.”

That does it; I’m really a wreck now. No one but
Dax
has ever even tried to peel back my hard, brittle layers. He’s the only one I’ve ever allowed to get close enough. I force a smile and tell myself that I’m going to try for her, because as brave as she is to offer her friendship to me, I sense that she’s truly terrified, that she might need me just as much as I need
Dax
and Dog.

“I’d like that,” I answer truthfully.

That seems to be enough f
or her because she falls silent
as we enter the building.
Dax
and I are familiar, but our group draws a lot of curious stares and a few frowns because of
Yasmine
and Gage. I can tell that the scientists walking past
in their white lab coats are trying to figure out whether our two guests are Bionics, or if they should be afraid. They are all like us, too, many of them having once been prominent figures in the fields of science and technology before
nuclear war
made us all freaks.

I ignore them and lead our group toward the elevator,
which takes us to the top floor that
serves as both the
Professor
’s living quarters and work area. When the elevator doors open, we
see
the
Professor
in a position we don’t often find him in: seated in front of the television.
The figures of a male and female newscaster are being broadcasted into the room, and the
Professor
is glued to television. I know he’s heard us come in though,
be
cause he waves us forward distractedly.

“Come in, come in,” he mumbles around the chewed-up
pen hanging from his mouth. S
andy brown curls frame his face in wild disarray and his signature outfit—baggy cargo pants and a turtleneck beneath a white lab coat—is wrinkled and stained with coffee, ink, and God knows what else. His round spectacles frame pale blue eyes that are always darting around nervously. To many, the
Professor
would appear to be a crazy man, fit for the psych ward. Those of
us
who know better,
see
him as the mad genius that he is.

“Have a seat,” he says, motioning to the three sleek, black leather couches surrounding the large television built into the wall. We all trade amused glances before shuffling around books and stacks of paper—they’re everywhere. It takes a few minutes but once we’ve cleared off places to sit, we park it and stare expectantly at the
Professor
.

“Sir, we have two refugees here who’d like to be added to our team,”
Dax
says, only to be shushed.

“In a moment,” the
Professor
says without looking away from the television. “The
President
is about to speak and I don’t want to miss it.”

I roll my eyes and mimic a robot for
Dax’s
amusement. He knows how I feel about the
President
and his speeches.  I don’t want to hear a thing he has to say, especially not today.

“It’s the anniversary of the bombings,”
Yasmine
says quietly, her lips tight at the corners. “
This ought to be good.”

Seeing as how we’re not going to get anything done until the
President
has had
his say, I shut my mouth and lean
into
the smooth back of the couch. I don’t want to sit through this crap—get spoon-fed the horseshit that comes from this man’s mouth. He is the reason that I am what I am today and why we are all hunted
.
Seeing his projection i
n the room, so close that he
looks and sounds like he’s really here, fills me with rage so strong that I cannot look away.
I don’t know what it is about staring into the face of my enemy. I want to look away, but I just can’t.

Cool blue eyes seem to bore into my soul from beneath trimmed brown eyebrows. His brown hair is pomaded and arranged in its usual style, not one strand out of place. He’s got the typical good, clean, All-American good looks of every
President
before him, with
the
subtle air of something hard gleaming in his eyes. Maybe it was the two decades he served as General of the Military Police that’s put the hard glint there.
Whatever the case, I can’t stand even the sight of him, despite the vibrant colors of the American flag behind him, or the sparkling white smile stretching across
his chiseled face. Even the sky-
blue hue of his tie cannot disguise what I’ve already discovered behind the façade he puts on as easily as a sweater or coat.

President
Drummond is a monster.

“People
of the United States of America
,”
he begins, his
diction beyond perfect, his tones enunciating every t, r and s with precision.
“I speak to you on a day of remembrance, a day of celebration for our nation.
I am sure you are wondering just what I mean when I say that today is a day of celebration, when so many tragic deaths are marked by this date. Even now, many of you
are
head
ing
out to lay flowers in front of headstones, or gather
ing
around one of several memorials located near many ground zero sites in cities across the country. You
wonder how your beloved leader could speak so freely of joy and celebration on this day, and I do not blame you.

“My friends, we have so much to celebrate on this day! As a nation, we are stronger than we’ve ever been, more united. In the face of adversity and struggle, we have come together to create a better society, not just for the good
of
our own cities and states, but for the good of our nation as a whole. Who can forget how we learned to genetically engineer healthy, wholesome foods after our
supply of water
was reduced by half due to pollution and waste? Because of this development, along with careful rationing of our goods, hunger has been almost completely wiped out. Am I the only one who is grateful for the vigilance of the Military Police? Because of their strictly enforced
curfews and gun control policies, our violent crime rate has been reduced by ninety percent.”

I clench my teeth as I listen to the
President
rattle off his inane list of statistics. Every year, it’s the same old song and dance. Sure, it all sounds good, but we all know that the confiscation of firearms from every citizen other than the peacekeeping M.P.s was done in an effort at control, not safety
,
just like every other policy put into place by Drummond.

“No, my friends, I have not forgotten about the devastation that rocked our country four years ago
on this date
. The North Korean nuclear attacks on Manhattan, Los Angeles,
San Francisco,
Austin,
Houston,
Chicago,
St. Louis,
New
Orleans
, Atlanta, Phoenix, Miami, Boston, Seattle, and Pittsburg, took the lives of
hundreds of
thousands of people, and altered the lives of the rest of us forever. From the ashes of the travesty committed against us on that day, we have risen like the mythical phoenix, stronger, better and wiser.
We have rebuilt where we can and relocated those who have lost their homes as well. Those cities that were rebuilt or unaffected by the blasts stand as testament to our
strength
and endurance.
We are now stronger than we’ve ever been”

“
It was my honor as a junior Senator from Maine to lead the rebuilding efforts of our country, to throw my hat into the ring and accept your generous
nomination for
President
of the United States. It has been my honor to serve you these four years, and to watch you thrive and fight to overcome the obstacles thrown into your paths. I urge you to join with me now, as we strive for a new order. Believe in me as I believe in you.”

He pauses as if allowing all that he has said to sink in and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
President
Drummond’s approval ratings are through the roof. With the exception of those of us in the
R
esistance, the people of America see him as some kind of great savior, the charismatic junior Senator who came out of nowhere and put the country on his back, carried it across the desert when it was weak and near-dead. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that he will be re-elected for another term
come
November. In fact, no one’s really putting up much of a fight, and everyone knows that the Democratic candidate is a joke, a walking punch line. No one’s going to unseat Drummond, so the upcoming election’s pretty much a waste of time.

“And now, I want to share with you
another cause for celebration.”

Drummond’s image swivels to the left, and at the center of the projection, a new picture emerges, prompting gasps and shocked reactions from those of us in the room. Over the video
feed
of about twenty Bionics in a cage surrounded by gun-toting M.P.s,
President
Drummond shares his latest development, his voice tinged with barely-controlled glee.

“Late last night, our nation’s most elite Military Police unit, the Restoration Enforce
r
s, apprehended this rogue band of Bionics living in a secret hideout in Memphis, Tennessee. According to Captain Rodney Jones, leader of the Enforcers, the hideout had been under surveillance for months and the members of this small but dangerous terrorist sect have racked up between them, over eighty criminal charges. After the rash of crimes sweeping the nation following the Restoration Project’s Healing Hands initiative, I do not think you need to be reminded just how dangerous The Bionics are.
My friends, I accept my part of the blame in the creation of these abominations we now know as The Bionics.
In our misguided attempts at giving those injured in the nuclear blasts a second chance, we have armed a large part of our population with weapons fit for manipulati
ng
, bending, and outright breaking of our carefully rebuilt society’s laws. Today, Vice
President
McCall and I wanted you to see for yourselves the extents of our efforts in finding and eliminating
those
Bionics that have resisted turning themselves over to us for deprogramming and the exploration of alternatives to suit their needs.
”

“Fucking liar.”

Dax’s
muttered curse is as loud as a gunshot in the silent room. Every eye, including mine, is glued to the projection, fixed on the faces of those captured in Tennessee. While we’d been combing an abando
ned neighborhood in Dallas, we
missed our chance at rescuing half a dozen members of our rebellion.

We all know that turning ourselves in to the government is a no go. For someone like me, it would mean a glass eye to replace the bionic one, and a plain old
fiberglass
arm to replace the robotic one. For a child like
Agata
, it means being turned back over to her parents a vegetable once they’ve done surgery to remove her artificial left brain.
And what about
Yasmine
?
Will the
y
pull the skin from her flesh and leave her to die; maybe slap a few skin grafts over it and hope for the best? If at all possible, my hatred of the
President
, the government and everything they stand for increases to fever pitch until I feel like I want to hit something.

Sensing this,
Dax
reaches out and grasps my human hand with his. Our palms touch and in the moment I am reminded of my humanity and a wave of calm washes over and through me.
I squeeze his hand back so
tightly
that I know it would hurt if it were any hand but his. This is
Dax
, thoug
h, and I know
his
big bear paw
can take it. I squeeze with all of my strength until the anger is gone. I sense Gage’s gaze on our clasped hands and ignore his questioning stare.
We may have shared a moment in the cafeteria in which I decided he’s not a thr
eat to me, and maybe I think hi
s eyes are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. So what? At the end of the da
y
,
Dax
is the one I trust with my life. More than that,
Dax
is the one I trust with my emotions and secrets.