Four
Blythe Sol, Dax Janner, Yasmine Zambrano, and Gage Bronson
Restoration Resistance Headquarters, the office of Professor Neville Hinckley
August 15, 4010
9:00 pm
Entering the familiar office of the Professor calms me immediately, which is good because, for a moment there, I was totally freaking out. No one around here asks me about my past, because they know I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t talk about the injuries that caused me to enroll myself into the Restoration Project’s Healing Hands campaign, and I don’t talk about my life before joining the Resistance. Of course, Gage, being new to the group, didn’t know that, and I can’t really blame him for asking. Now I feel like an idiot for running out on them.
Fortunately, no one calls me out for acting weird. By the time the rest of the group caught up with me on the steps of the dining hall, I had gotten myself together. Gage was silent and so was Dax once he’d asked me if I was okay. Olivia had said something about a date and bounced off in the direction of the park we erected a few years ago.
“I’ll take you two to see the Professor now,” I said to Yasmine and Gage, ignoring Dax’s annoyed glare. I know he doesn’t want Gage anywhere near our team, but I have a feeling he would be perfect. Despite my doubts about him being from D.C., I have to say his passion and dedication to helping our kind has me squarely in his corner. Dax can kiss my ass.
As we set off across our small citadel toward the main building housing our Science and Technology center, the guys fall in behind me silently and Yasmine walks at my side. After a few seconds, she looks at me with those soulful, dark eyes of hers and I see my pain mirrored there.
“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 you’re not alone,” she says as we come to a stop on the front steps. “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 for 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 on their guard. 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—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 their 3D images. I know he’s heard us come in though, because he waves us forward distractedly.
“Come in, come in,” he mumbles around the chewed-up pen hanging from his mouth. Sandy 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. A bit distracted when bothered with the tedium of everyday life. Maybe a tad neurotic and jumpy. Quiet and thoughtful, and possibly the kindest person I know.
“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 new additions here who’d like to be added to our team,” Dax says, only to be shushed.
“In a moment,” the Professor replies 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 I am what I am today, and why we are all hunted. Seeing his projection in 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 heading out to lay flowers in front of headstones, or gathering 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 also 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 almo
st 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 sounds good, but we all know that the confiscation of firearms from every citizen other than the peacekeeping MPs 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 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 could, 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 mightier 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 Resistance, the people of America see him as some kind of great savior, the charismatic junior senator who came out of nowhere, put the country on his back, and carried it across the desert when it was weak and near dead. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that he will be reelected 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 MPs, 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 Enforcers, 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 over eighty criminal charges between them. 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 manipulation, 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 who 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 abandoned neighborhood in Dallas, we missed our chance at rescuing several 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 as a vegetable once they’ve done surgery to remove her artificial left brain. And what about Yasmine? Will they 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 that moment, I am reminded of my humanity and a wave of calm washes over and through me. I squeeze his hand back so tightly I know it would hurt if it were any hand but his. This is Dax, though, 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 threat to me, and maybe I think his eyes are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. So what? At the end of the day, Dax is the one I trust with my life. More than that, Dax is the one I trust with my emotions and secrets.
“Because of their rebellion and breaking of the law requiring all Bionics to willingly turn themselves over to the Science and Technology department of the Restoration, these members of the terrorist organization known as ‘The Resistance,’ will be put to death on the eighteenth of August. Their executions will be televised live as a message to those still holding out hope that this so-called Resistance will accomplish anything. It will serve as a reminder to them that they have no choice but to turn themselves over for the good of their country and for the safety of other citizens. Ladies and gentlemen, I leave you now with this plea—if you have any information that will lead to the capture of one or many rogue Bionics, please do not hesitate to inform the nearest Military Police Officer. Do not try to apprehend them yourselves, as they are often dangerous and violent. Urge any family members that you are harboring to turn themselves in, for they are not only posing a risk to those around them, they are also sacrificing your freedom as well, as any citizen found harboring fugitives faces severe penalties. Any person with bionic apparatuses issued by the government who turn themselves in willingly will not face any penalty.
“And finally, I want to remind the American people that the founders and leaders of the Resistance are still at large. Professor Neville Hinkley and his associate, Jenica Swan, are the voices behind the Resistance. My offer stands, America—five-million dollars each for the Professor and Miss Swan, alive. If we can put an end to their reign of tyranny, we can take a step in the right direction toward ensuring that our citizens are safe. Please, everyone, let us do the right thing for the good of our continued growth and prosperity as a nation. Thank you and God bless the United States of America.”
The president’s image disappears, and the newsroom is now being broadcasted into the Professor’s living space. After a few moments, he finds his remote and silences the inane chatter of two newscasters. He knows none of us want to hear the political pundits continually praise Drummond’s efforts at creating peace and harmony in our society.
We’ve heard it all before.
After a few minutes of silence in which everyone works through whatever emotions are the strongest, Dax stands and faces the Professor, who is sitting in his favorite armchair, arms wrapped around his chest as if he’s in an immense amount of pain.
“Sir, we should really call a meeting with Jenica and discuss a rescue mission,” he says softly, knowing as well as I do that the Professor is probably in emotional hell right now. As one of the foremost scientists leading the Restoration Project�
�s Healing Hands initiative, Professor Neville Hinkley personally created all the bionic and computerized technology used to modify those injured in the blast and, even some like Olivia, who were exposed to radiation and lost vital organs to disease because of poisoning. He never says it out loud, but I know he feels responsible for many of our predicaments. After all, he created us. None of us blame him, at least none that I know of. If anything, we love him for saving us, for going underground with the Resistance, and giving us a safe haven from the tyrannical laws of our president.
“Sir?” Dax says when the Professor doesn’t answer.
The Professor’s head snaps up and he pulls his pen slowly away from his mouth, blinking several times and looking around the room as if just now realizing that he has visitors. “Hello,” he says softly, gazing back and forth between Yasmine and Gage. “I am Professor Neville Hinkley.”
“Yasmine Zambrano.”
“Gage Bronson.”
The Professor cocks his head slightly and studies Gage. “Have we met before? Looking at you, I’m experiencing a rather strong sense of déjà vu.”
Gage lowers his gaze from the Professor’s and shakes his head. I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, but he seems to blush a bit as he answers. “No, sir, I don’t think so.”
He studies Gage a bit longer and then shrugs, seeming to dismiss the conundrum from his mind. Whatever it is, I’m sure he’ll let us know if he remembers. “It’s very nice to meet you both.” He turns to me, his eyes expectant behind his frames. “How many in Dallas?”
I shake my head. “No more than two dozen. These two were with them. They’re interested in joining our team, sir.”
The Professor looks at Yasmine and smiles, reaching out to touch her arm. Yasmine flinches, but is otherwise still for the Professor’s inspection.
“Lovely,” he murmurs as he taps his fingers against Yasmine’s skin. “Flawless finish, strong, durable—a girl with impenetrable skin. How much of this did they use on you?”
“It covers ninety percent of my body,” Yasmine answers.
The Professor smiles. “A human’s skin is his first line of defense against injury and sickness. Tell me, since receiving your skin transplant, have you experienced any illness at all?”
Yasmine opens her mouth to answer, but Gage’s voice muffles her response. “I’m sorry, but shouldn’t you know these things already? After all, you are the inventor of every bionic organ or body part currently used by the government.”
I sense ambivalence in Gage’s tone, and I don’t think I like it. Dax doesn’t either. The Professor fixes Gage with his wide, wise stare, seemingly unruffled by the stranger’s outburst.
“My time as leader of the Healing Hands initiative was ended when I spoke out against the treatment of our patients. There wasn’t time for me to document the side effects, benefits, or drawbacks of every single case. To date, Miss Zambrano is the first recipient of a skin transplant that I’ve had a chance to interview.”
That shuts Gage up and he allows the conversation to continue uninterrupted.
“I have not been sick,” she answers with a smile. “Not once since the transplant.”
The Professor beams and claps his hands together in excitement. “Fascinating. Just fascinating.”
He swivels his gaze toward Gage and frowns. “You do not possess any modifications, young man.”
Gage shakes his head. “No. I came here with a family member. She has a very unique and—according to the government—dangerous modification.”
“A bionic left brain,” I add at the Professor’s confused expression.
Confusion melts into horror as he removes his glasses and stares at Gage in disbelief. “Young man, you would have me to believe that the Restoration actually approved the use of a bionic cerebrum?”
“You aren’t the one who performed the operation?” Gage fired back.
The Professor shakes his head and stands, pacing in front of the now-dead television screen. “I created the bionic cerebrum as an experiment. Theoretically, it could restore full mental function to a person with limited brain damage. It was designed in a way that it could be used as a whole, or in pieces. My main goal was replacement of the frontal lobes, which are responsible for the retaining of long-term memory. It was never approved for use by my superiors. Their reasoning was that it could potentially create a person with the mind of a computer, capable of cracking the codes of a bank safe in under one minute, or even such boggling tasks as mind reading or control. Of course, I never believed in the paranormal potential of such a device, but I could see how a computerized brain could pose a problem. In the hands of a convict or criminal, it could be quite dangerous.”
“Well, before President Drummond went on a witch hunt for the Bionics, an experimental surgery was approved,” Gage says. “One patient who had been in a near-vegetative state since a head injury caused by the blast was chosen as a candidate. The results were stunning.”
“I’d very much like to meet with the child.”
Gage shrugged. “I’d be willing to arrange that on one condition.”
“Name your price, young man.”
“Whatever rescue mission you’ve got planned for the prisoners from Memphis… I want in.”
The Professor rubs his chin and studies Gage as if trying to read him. I know he’s trying to decide whether we can trust him. I already know where Dax stands and am sure Jenica would be on his side. As the head of our team, I don’t know if it would bode well for Gage if Jenica hates him, but I hope the fact that he brought us Agata will earn him some bonus points.
The Professor does what I knew he would do all along. He throws Gage a bone.
“We’ve never had an un-modified member of the team before,” he says slowly. “I believe it could be to our advantage, especially when trying to infiltrate areas with heavy Military Police Patrol.”
“But Professor—” He holds his hand up to stop Dax, who is all ready to protest this decision.
“On a trial basis only,” he adds with a pointed look in Gage’s direction. “We will see how you perform on this mission and make a decision from there. If Jenica and the others report to me that you are a good addition to the team, I see no reason not to allow it. We need all the help we can get, Mister Bronson, and I’m not choosy about where it comes from, so long as it is genuine.”
Gage nods and smiles. “You can count on me, sir.”
The Bionics Page 7