Eleven
Dax Janner and Blythe Sol
Resistance Hideout in Memphis, Tennessee
August 18, 4010
1:30 a.m.
When Blythe and I rejoin the others in the cafeteria, a deadly silence has fallen over our group and it immediately sets me on edge.
“Something’s wrong,” I say to Laura, who’s standing there watching me with a grim expression on her face.
She nods. “You two should come with me. You’ll want to see this.”
What is she talking about? There I go being impatient again. As Blythe and I follow her toward the living area of the large, open space, my mind is reeling with the possibilities. Whatever has gone wrong, it’s enough to make people get the hell out of our way as we cut a swath through those gathered in front of a small, flat television panel. It’s an older unit, but the picture’s clear. Two news anchors are delivering a report, as white letters scroll across a red bar through the center of the screen. The sound is too low but I can see the words as clear as day as two chairs are vacated for our use.
RESTORATION RESISTANCE TERRORIST CAPTURED IN WASHINGTON D.C.
In the corner, a picture of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and very battered Olivia McNabb stares back at us, her eyes wide with fright. Blythe gasps, and my hands clench into fists as Laura steps between our chairs with a remote in her hand. As the volume increases, I force myself to swallow the bile building up in the back of my throat and still the roaring of blood in my ears. I sneak a peek at Blythe and her usually deep, caramel-colored skin is now tinged green. I want to reach out and comfort her, but I don’t know if the gesture will be misconstrued as something else after our kiss in the control room.
I return my focus back to the perfectly groomed and starched news anchor reading from a teleprompter.
“This just in ... an attack on the Stonehead facility in the nation’s capital, where several Bionics were scheduled for execution in just a few hours, resulting in a standoff that lasted through the night has now ended. According to law enforcement, the terrorist group known as Restoration Resistance, sent in a group of militants to free the prisoners in what has been described as a well-planned and tactical offensive strategy. The terrorists were said to be in possession of a specialized EMP signal, which they used to cut power to the entire facility, without causing harm to their own hovercraft or weapons. Officers say they were eventually able to restore power to their weapons, but not before some of their own were killed in the fray. The scene at Stonehead was eerily dark during the standoff, but night vision cameras captured the footage we are bringing to you now.”
The prison video camera feed fills the screen and we watch as Olivia, Gage and the other members of our team fight for their lives. I watch Olivia become a blur as she races from cell to cell, using one of the MPs laser guns to blast the locks before sliding the iron gates open and freeing the prisoners. Gage uses his body to block those running to escape, firing back at the MPs cloistered at the end of the hall in formation, hiding behind their riot shields as they fire back.
Blythe gasps as one of the glowing red beams strikes Olivia, causing her to fall to her face, stunned. Without missing a beat, Gage rushes forward and throws Olivia over his shoulder, careful to keep his weapon trained on the MPs, who are slowly inching forward with their riot shields in place.
“They think he’s one of us,” I murmur to myself. Otherwise, the MPs wouldn’t be tiptoeing around Gage the way they are. They could see that Olivia was fast, but they don’t know what, if any, tricks Gage has up his sleeve. He’s in deep shit when they find out he’s got nothing but a gun and a set of huge balls. The other members of the team close in around him, forming a protective barrier as they fire back at the MPs and I realize that something has gone horribly wrong. Agata’s EMP signal should have knocked out the MPs’ weapons. That they are still able to fire on Gage and the others has me worried about the little girl. Gage disappears into the circle of bodies and I wonder if this is the moment when he called Jenica for backup.
The video fades as the reporter comes back on screen, the picture of a beaten Olivia taking up the entire right side of the screen.
“Because of the darkness and chaos of the moment, the male accomplices shown in the video have yet to be identified. They are said to have made off with half of the prisoners, but were forced to leave the others behind in favor of making an escape. However, MPs were able to detain ten of the prisoners, along with this young woman pictured here. She has been identified as Olivia McNabb, formerly of Los Angeles, California.
“McNabb was a participant in the Restoration Project, in which she received a bionic prosthetic hand to replace one lost in an accident caused by the nuclear attacks of August 15, 4006. She reportedly re-entered the program one year later to receive a set of bionic adrenal glands to replace those lost to cancer due to radiation poisoning. She was said to have gone missing when the President issued his ban on bionic prostheses and ordered all Bionics to report to the nearest Restoration Project facility for decommissioning. She has not been seen or heard from since, but her recent involvement in last night’s attack shows that she has indeed found refuge with the terrorist organization known as the Resistance.”
“Goddamn it!” The expletive falls from my lips unchecked as I pound my closed fists against my thighs.
“Forensic experts are now combing the scene in search of DNA evidence that could shed more light on those unidentified accomplices from the video. Captain Rodney Jones, leader of the elite Military Police corps known as the Enforcers, has vowed to lead the manhunt in search of every member of this terrorist group.”
Olivia’s picture fades and another video feed shows the Captain at a press conference. The audio switches over and as I look into the cold, dark eyes of the man leading the hunt against the people I call my family, I feel an overwhelming urge to go on a little hunt of my own.
“Good evening citizens of the United States of America,” the Captain begins. He’s lifted the face-shield on his uniform, but is every bit the soldier from the neck down. He is flanked by two other officers who have decided to keep their faces hidden. The reporters standing by have gone silent, hanging on to his every word. “At approximately ten o’clock this evening, Stonehead was attacked by a group we all know to be against the best interests of our great nation. President Drummond has worked tirelessly to restore peace and order to our lives ever since the devastating attacks on many of our nation’s largest cities four years ago. I want you to know that I have spoken with the President personally, and he wants you all to be assured that justice will be served.”
“The press didn’t want us to release any information about the victims, whose lives were lost tonight in the standoff at Stonehead … they want to hold the faces of the so-called Resistance up and cause us to forget the real heroes here. Private First Class Marcus Jones, Private April Jennings, Specialist Dirk Hanover, Sergeant Davis Marx, and Lieutenant Lexi Sorenson … those are the names of the true heroes tonight. Those are the names I want you to hold in your memory as you shake your heads over this senseless attack. Olivia McNabb is no hero, and neither are Professor Hinkley or his accomplice in the leading of the Resistance, Jenica Swan. They are known terrorists and will be punished within the full letter of the law.”
“Now, as for Olivia McNabb and the remaining prisoners here at Stonehead, we fully intend to carry out the execution, but will push it back until tomorrow morning at 9:00 am. Each prisoner is to be killed by firing squad, an event that is slotted to air live. President Drummond is adamant about sending a message to Professor Hinkley and the other members of this rag-tag squad that calls themselves The Resistance. We will not rest until each and every one of you has been decommissioned or executed, as is your punishment according to the law. I will uphold it as my personal mission to ensure that Americans sleep safely at night without fear of half-human, half-machine monsters terrorizing our streets.”
“That’s enough!” Blythe exclaims. Tears
are running down one side of her face, unchecked. I know that grief; it is slowly uncoiling itself in my gut and spreading through the rest of me. By 9:00 am tomorrow, Olivia will be dead.
Laura obliges and turns off the television with a click of her remote, casting the room into complete silence.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly to the two of us. “I didn’t want to upset you, but I thought you’d want to see this. I am sorry about your friend.”
I nod my thanks to Laura, but my focus is on Blythe, who looks as if she’s going to fall to pieces at any moment.
“Hey,” I say, my voice hoarser than I expect it to be. She looks up at me expectantly. “We are going to get her back. Do you hear me? I am going to call Jenica right now and tell her to move her ass so we can get out of this hole in the ground. I don’t care who tries to stop me, I’m going to make sure we get her back. You got that?”
Blythe’s smile is sad, as if she wants to believe me but can’t quite stretch her imagination that far. Hell, at this point I’m having a hard time believing myself. I don’t stand a chance going it alone but I’ll be hard pressed to find someone willing to help me go in on such an insane mission. Still holding Blythe’s gaze, I yank my COMM device from my belt and call Jenica’s line.
“Janner, this is Swan, go ahead,” she says clearly from the other end.
“Swan, please tell me you’ve got some good news. We just watched the report about Olivia and we could use some cheering up right now.”
“Hang tight, Janner, I’m on my way back to you now. We’ve just finished unloading and directing the refugees from Memphis to their assigned quarters. Bronson and the rest of Team Bravo have arrived safely from Stonehead, including the little girl. Expect me in the next two to three hours and keep an eye out for the MPs. What is your status?”
“We’re packed up and ready to go. No problems so far, although it worries me that the MPs have been so quiet. No sight or sound of any of them, but we’re on our guard. Oh, and when we get home and settled, remind me to tell you about these loons they call the Rejects. You aren’t going to like it one bit.”
“Great,” she says sarcastically. “I’m excited to meet them already.”
“Well, they’re still here and they’re a warm bunch. I’ll stay in contact with you over the next few hours and let you know if anything suspicious pops up. So far, all clear.”
“Roger that. I’m on my way.”
I jam my COMM device back in its place on my belt.
“Why don’t you two try to get some sleep?” Laura offers, placing her hands on both our shoulders. “I’ll take over the security detail until you get the call that they’re nearby.”
Normally I wouldn’t leave my job up to someone else, but Laura has given me every reason to trust her. Also, I’m tired as hell and Blythe looks like she’s ready to pass out. A few hours of sleep would be nice.
“That would be good, thanks.”
“Here, we’ll put you up in one of the empty rooms. Each room has two cots.”
Blythe and I follow Laura up to the second level, where she finds an empty room and ushers us inside. Aside from the debris left over from someone’s hasty packing job, the room is clean enough and the sheets look freshly washed. Once we’re alone again, I turn to Blythe, who is staring blankly at the wall.
“Blythe, look—”
She cuts me off with a palm to the face. All I can think as my cheek starts to sting and my eye tears up, is that I’m grateful she used her human hand.
“What the hell, B?”
“That was for earlier!” she says, pointing an accusing finger at me.
“For kissing you or for stopping?” I asked with a smirk.
My question only enrages her further. “For getting mad at me for telling you the truth about yourself. I call it like I see it, Dax, and your behavior earlier only proves my point. I’m not one of your little whores; you can’t hit me and quit me like you did Olivia and all those others!”
“No,” I murmur, gripping her shoulders—gently this time—and pulling her in toward me. Her scent overwhelms me again—she smells like a green, open field, the likes of which I haven’t seen or smelled since the nukes took out Central Park. “You’re not like the others. And I have never kissed anyone the way I kissed you today because I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone that way before you.”
That shut her up. She swallows noisily and blinks, her eyes narrowing as if she is trying to figure out the truth from my gaze. It’s the first time, other than our moment in the control room, that she’s ever held my gaze this long with such honesty and intensity.
“Why?” she finally asks after a while. “Why are you waiting until now to say this to me?”
“Because you are always so guarded, B. And you’re my friend … my best friend. I couldn’t risk losing you by freaking you out, even though I’ve felt this way about you since … damn, I don’t even know when. It just happened.”
“You wouldn’t risk our friendship before, but you will now. That wouldn’t have anything to do with Gage, would it?”
Shit.
She’s got me there. Yeah, so maybe the blond hero’s coming on the scene put the fear of losing Blythe in me. I never had any competition or risk of losing her before him. Her smirk is mocking.
“That’s what I thought,” she accuses, turning her back on me. “You don’t want me, Dax, you’re afraid that Gage will compromise your position in my life and maybe you’re a bit jealous. You think you want me because someone else does. You’ll get over it.”
“There you go again,” I say with a snort. “Turning a blind eye to what’s right in front of you. Yeah, I might have felt threatened to walk in on you and Gage dry humping—” she scoffs at me, but I call them like I see them too “—but that doesn’t make what I feel for you any less real.”
“And what exactly do you feel? Lust?”
“If that’s what you think, after all we’ve been through together, then you’re blinder than I thought. Ironic for a girl with a robotic eye. You’re capable of seeing through just about every layer of the human anatomy, except for the one that really counts. I feel sorry for you.”
And as I plop down on my cot and turn my back on her, I realize how true that statement is. I do feel sorry for her. She had everything and lost it in the blink of an eye. Now, she’s so messed up, she can’t remember how to love anyone. At least not how they deserve. I’ve always known deep down, that even if Blythe ever gave me her heart, I’d only get a piece of it.
“Oh, by the way,” I add, turning to glare at her over my shoulder. “In case you need it spelled out all the way, I was trying to tell you that I fucking love you.”
Four years ago…
The sounds of the city of New York were the same on that day as they’d always been. Gleaming, silver buildings stretch up toward the sky miles away, and against the horizon, the Statue of Liberty—a structure thousands of years old—still stands as a proud monument, a symbol of freedom. The heat is particularly stifling today, one of the rare occasions when the weather actually matches the season we are in. Tomorrow, there are reports of possible snow. We can all thank the government goons and their experiments with environmental weapons and lack of care for the environment for that.
I wouldn’t normally be caught dead outside in this weather, but this deal has to go down today. I need the money, but more than that I need to unload the merchandise. I shudder to think what the MPs would do to me if they caught me with it. Probably turn me over to one of those government agencies that makes you disappear forever. They won’t have to work their powers of persuasion on me for long; I’ll sing like a canary in a heartbeat. I could care less about the people that employ me, or the fact that their synthetic drugs are more potent than the cocaine and heroin currently approved by the FDA and sold at drugstores all over the nation. What we’re doing isn’t exactly illegal, but everyone in this business knows that the manufacturers of the now legal drugs don’t like out
siders stepping on their turf. The fact that they’ve got street kids like me selling their stuff for less money and a better high pisses them off.
So, like I said, I need to get rid of the merchandise burning a hole through my pocket.
I’m scanning the street, watching for a man in a black leather jacket with a shaved head, the only description I have to go on. MPs are on every corner, their guns trained to stun, their gleaming fiberglass helmets keeping their identities safe from the rest of us as they scan the crowd for signs of trouble. Hookers work the street freely, and I chuckle as I remember learning in high school US History that their sex peddling was once illegal. I can’t imagine today’s MPs wasting their time hauling in a bunch of pros. This country’s got bigger problems than half-naked girls selling themselves on the street. Though, it does turn my stomach to recognize some of the girls as chicks I knew in school. Not that I’m in a position to judge.
I live in a rat hole, am addicted to the product I’m selling—though I’ll never admit it to anybody—and I’ll do just about anything for a quick buck. I’ve done more deals in back alleys than most of the prostitutes passing me by on the street. I am reminded briefly of my mother and how disappointed she would be in me if she were still living. Her presence in my life was the only thing that kept me from losing myself in the streets and now that she’s gone, I don’t give a fuck about anyone or anything. There is no one else to care about, or anyone left to care about me.
When I spot the guy I’m waiting for, I snap back to attention, forgetting about everything else except for making the deal and collecting the money—twenty percent of which is my cut for delivering. The flashing sign across the street from me says it’s okay to ‘Walk’ and as I step into the street with about ten other people looking to cross the street, I am not expecting the sidewalk to fall to pieces beneath my feet, or the deafening sounds of honking horns, screeching tires, scraping metal, and collapsing buildings that follows.
I am not expecting the Mack truck that has fishtailed trying to avoid hitting the pedestrians in the street—one of which happens to be me—to pin me to the ground for several days. Even if I wanted to run, there’s nowhere to go with cars smashed together and twisted around each other in the street. There’s nothing to do but try to brace for the impact…
The Bionics Page 20