Titanium (Bionics)

by Michaels, Alicia

  Shiny Boobs steps forward, dropping her arms to her sides. “Laura Rosenberg, formerly of the U.S. Army,” she says. I smile.

  “You a New Yorker?”

  She smirks as if recognizing the same in me. “You know it. Been heading up security here since I arrived. Got crushed by a pylon in the blasts and took some major damage to my torso. Mostly reconstructed by machinery and covered by this metal plate. Of course they discharged me from the Army, but I put myself to good use here. These guys are all strapped with comm. devices and so am I. I can take you over to the control room and get one for you and your friend.”

  I immediately snap to attention. “Control room?”

  She nods. “It was a room with a switchboard that we pretty much used to run this place. It controlled the lights, an intercom system, and even a lockdown mechanism.”

  “Let me guess, the M.P.s tore it to pieces when they discovered you guys.”

  Laura nods again, anger flashing in her dark eyes. “There are switches that control thick, metal doors that slide into place over the regular ones. Too heavy to pry open, too thick to blast through—they are pretty much impenetrable. We were on lockdown when they surrounded us, but convinced our leader to open the doors. They were holding a group of our own hostage, most of them children. We weren’t going to just stand there and watch our children die while we cowered underground. We had no choice but to let them in. We expected a massacre, but you know Drummond won’t miss his chance to make a spectacle out of us. Guess they decided one mass execution would be better than simply reporting that they’d found and killed part of the Resistance.”

  At the mention of the President’s name, some of the guys behind Laura curse or mutter under their breaths. I catch plenty of utterances of ‘asshole’ and ‘coward’ and even hear someone spit. Yeah, that pretty much sums up how I feel about him, too.

  “Is there no way to physically close the doors?” I ask, thinking about Blythe’s mechanical arm. That thing’s strong enough to crush a steal beam if she puts enough pressure on it.

  Laura shrugs “Never been tried before as far as I know. The doors slide down a hatch and lock in place. If we were to close one, we wouldn’t be able to get them back open and we’d be trapped.”

  “What if we closed all but one? That way, we don’t have to break up our group to post guards at every entrance. The M.P.s will be forced to come through the front and by then we’ll see them coming. I’m assuming they left your surveillance system intact.”

  “Yes, it’s how they knew you guys were coming. They called up to Washington for reinforcements. I don’t know what’s taking so long; I’d think they’d be here right now.”

  I shake my head. “We’re running a double mission. Another Resistance team is working to free the prisoners at Stonehead. Those guys are busy right now. But once they can spare some guys, they’ll be here. My friend has a bionic arm. Might be strong enough to yank down those doors. How many other entrances?”

  “Four.”

  I select eight of the guys standing by and send two to each entrance. I make sure that each group of two has one weapon between them. Their bionic additions are the only other mechanism of defense they have. I see another bionic eye in the group, which is good since those things give off heat readings and will catch the M.P.s coming long distance. I tell everyone to keep in touch and report every half hour via their comm. devices. There are seven more left waiting besides Laura, and I assign them to keeping the peace among those inside the compound. In times like these, people get stir crazy and paranoid and the last thing I need are for these people to start fighting among themselves.

  “I need you to show me to the control room and get me those comm. devices. Then, I need a schematic of this place if you have one.”

  “Of course,” she says, snapping to attention like the soldier she is. I am digging the way this chick knows how to follow orders without questions. “Follow me.”

  We start across the room, ducking and dodging the many people walking through the cafeteria/living area carrying crates, boxes and duffel bags. I notice a group sitting off to the side doing nothing. I pause, my jaw dropping as I take each of them in because they immediately call for closer inspection. There are about ten of them, and they are nothing like the rest of us.

  When it comes to Bionics and their additions, I think I’ve seen just about everything. For God’s sake, half of Jenica’s face is made of metal and machinery and Yasmine’s skin is made of Kevlar. But this … what I’m looking at is more extreme than even the most excessive of accessories. They appear to be more metal than they are human, and one could easily mistake them for robots as opposed to humans. Closer inspection reveals that there is something very wrong with these Bionics. Their additions are haphazard and poorly made. Many of them appear rusty and are of poorer quality than the ones designed by Professor Hinkley.

  “Who are they?” I ask Laura as a man whose entire scalp is constructed of what can only be described as a metal cap stares back at me menacingly. The skin around where the cap has been bolted to his head is red and enflamed as if the addition was recently added. He’s also got a metal arm, but as he lifts it to flip me the bird, a sharp blade slides out of the back of his forearm with a ‘whoosh’. Just as quickly, he retracts it and then raises one eyebrow at me, as if daring me to fuck with him. Part of me wants nothing more than to cross the room and kick him in the head to test the strength of his deformed metal head.

  “Those guys are bad news,” Laura answers with a sneer. She doesn’t even try to hide her disgust. “We call them the Rejects because that’s literally what they are. Dane, our leader, was going to hold a hearing about having them kicked out of here. They have crazy ideas … ideas that might just cause people to believe what the President says about us being dangerous.”

  “You mean, that we’re superior to the Normals.”

  “Exactly. But they take it a step further. Most of them have an original addition or two that they received when they signed up for the Healing Hands initiative. But it’s not enough for them. They purposely add on more bits and pieces—they call them ‘enhancements’—in order to make themselves more deadly. They think that if they gather up enough Bionics and turn them all into freaks like them, they’ll be able to create their own personal little army and storm the capital. They think exterminating the inferior humans is the answer.”

  Dread floods my veins like ice water at what I’m hearing. This extremist group could pose a real problem. The Professor has worked so hard to show the world that we are not terrorists, just people trying to live normal lives. These assholes and everything they believe flies in the face of that. They are the ones proving President Drummond and the rest of the country right.

  “Where do they have the procedures done? I mean, I thought the government held the patent on bionic parts and organs.”

  Laura scoffs at me like I’m an idiot and I feel my face going hot with embarrassment. “Come on, kid, get real. It’s called the Black Market.”

  “I know what the Black Market is,” I hiss from between clenched teeth. I don’t appreciate being made fun of. “It’s how we supply you all with food and how you exchange it with us for fuel.”

  “Right, so they’ve got their own version of that. There is another doctor, one less known than our Professor and much less intuitive. He gets the job done, though. He designed the parts and sends holographic, tutorial messages to the other doctors that are a part of this sick and twisted group. They perform the surgeries, though a lot of those freaks end up with infections afterward because of the conditions these doctors work in. It leaves a lot of them deformed, but they don’t care. They only care about creating an unstoppable army.”

  “Army or not, they’re stuck down here like the rest of us. The least they can do is help.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  Laura’s warning pretty much goes through one ear and out the other. I don’t want to work with these assholes but if they
’re here, they’re going to pull their weight like everyone else, or they’re not getting on my hovercraft tomorrow.

  The guy I’ve dubbed ‘Blade’ stands as I approach, and he doesn’t look happy to see me.

  “Dax Janner,” I say, trying for the friendly approach as I offer him my hand. He looks as if my hand is a snake and decides not to take it. I drop it back down to my side and decide that I was right not to like this jackass from the start.

  “You guys look like you could really be of help on our security team,” I continue, my eyes searching each and every person seated in the group around him. Not one of them appears to give a damn about what I’m saying. “It’d be nice if everyone here pulled their weight until the next craft arrives.”

  “I don’t take orders, mate,” Blade answers. I’m taken aback by his thick, Aussie accent, and wonder how on earth this guy ended up in Tennessee.

  “Look, this isn’t a pissing contest,” I counter. “We were sent here to save your asses, so it might work out for you to cooperate, at least until we get you out of here.”

  “And who says we need you to get us out of here?” chimes in a chick with metal spikes sticking out of her neck. They are a menacing mix of body art and deadly weapon. As she stands, the spikes elongate and more of them pop out along her skin. Gross.

  “I’m sorry, but if I’m not mistaken you all would have been dead by morning if we hadn’t showed up,” I reminded her. “And for your information, some of our people were hurt and lost during this rescue mission so a little appreciation would be fucking appreciated.”

  Spikes smiles as if she realizes she’s struck a nerve and shrugs. “My condolences. Still, we aren’t exactly interested in joining your little group. See, our idea of a ‘resistance’ is a bit different than yours.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I answer dryly. “If you don’t want to leave with us, then what the hell are you still doing here?”

  “The food’s good,” Blade answers sarcastically. I really want to punch this guy in the face.

  “We’re going to be shutting down the other exits shortly,” I warn them. “When I do, there’s only one way out and I suggest you take it.”

  “Who’s going to make us?” Spikes taunts just as I turn my back on them.

  “Don’t screw with me,” I answer, turning my head just enough to look back without actually turning around. “I’m not afraid of a bunch of freaks with extra hardware. If I have to disassemble each and every one of you myself with nothing but a screwdriver, I will.”

  I leave them behind without worrying that any of them will follow or attack me. Laura’s following me pretty closely and Spikes looks like she’s a bit scared of her.

  “That was ballsy,” Laura says as she continues leading me to the control room. “Most everyone here just avoids them.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not much for avoidance.”

  Except for when it comes to Blythe, my inner self taunts.

  “I like you,” Laura says with a nod, as if she is just coming to this conclusion. “You’re young but you seem focused. You must have really been something before the blasts.”

  We enter the control room and memories of flashing nightclub lights, empty liquor bottles and scattered drug needles flashes through my mind. Yeah, I was a real boy scout.

  “Not really,” I say with a shrug as she hands me two comm. devices. A quick inspection of the control panel reveals that it is, in fact broken. Even I can see this and I don’t know jack about computers. And of course, the one person who could probably put it back together—Jenica—is nowhere near to assist us.

  I inspect my watch and sigh with anxiety as I realize it is only half past midnight. So much has happened and no more than an hour has passed. I still need to find Blythe and get those doors closed.

  “Let’s go,” I say before leading Laura from the control room.

  Dax Janner and Blythe Sol

  Resistance Hideout in Memphis, Tennessee

  August 18, 4010

  12:45 a.m.

  “Are you serious? Wow, what a bunch of lunatics!”

  My sentiments exactly. I’d just finished telling Blythe about the Rejects and she’d responded with the appropriate amount of disgust and horror.

  “Wait ‘til you meet them,” I remark as we walk along one of the long tunnels leading to the back entrance of the hideout, Blythe’s hand in mine once again as she leads the way. “Real charming.”

  “Do you think we have anything to be worried about?” she asks as we near the open door leading to the outside. I’m happy to see the two guards here are on the job and not slacking. “The Professor has worked so hard to make this as peaceful a resistance as possible and I don’t appreciate those guys screwing it all up.”

  “One problem at a time,” I say with a snort. “If these guys are going to be a problem, you’d better believe they’re on Jenica’s radar if no one else’s.”

  It’s true. I don’t know exactly what Jenica’s job was before she joined the resistance, but we’ve all heard the rumors. Special Forces, FBI, CIA … whatever the case, Jenica’s the best in the business when it comes to covert ops, gathering intel, and keeping a straight face when things go wrong. We talk a lot of shit about her because she’s the hard-ass of the group, but we all respect her.

  “You’re right,” Blythe answers as we reach the door. “Let’s just hope they don’t cause any trouble while we’re here. That’s the last thing we need.”

  “I’m kind of hoping they accept my invitation to leave.”

  “You guys must be talking about the Rejects,” says one of the guards, who heard us coming and has turned to greet us. “Those guys are bad news.”

  “That’s what we hear,” I say as Blythe drops out of the conversation to inspect the steel frame of the sliding door Laura told me about. “I met some of them personally and it was a real treat.”

  “I’d have thought they’d be gone by now,” the second guard says fiddling with the butt of the gun at his hip. “What’s she doing?”

  Blythe has taken off her khaki jacket and is stripping off the flesh-colored, polyurethane glove the Professor designed to conceal her bionic arm. Dropping both onto the ground, she stands on her tiptoes and reaches up to grip the bottom of the sliding metal door, tugging gently to test its weight. Even with the slight pressure she’s put on it, the door is creaking and groaning in the frame. With another slight tug, it slides down a few inches.

  “We’re closing off the exits so that we are less vulnerable,” I answer as Blythe pauses, her hand poised on the bottom of the door, which is bent a bit from the pressure of her titanium hand.

  “You guys coming in or what? I can’t hold this door up forever.”

  Realizing that she’s trembling a bit under the force of the door’s weight, we all scramble to get back inside. I scoop up her jacket and glove before she slides the tunnel closed. We all link arms and allow Blythe to lead the way. Once we drop the guys back off in the cafeteria—their new assignment being to keep their eyes on the trouble-making Rejects—Blythe and I follow the schematic down two more tunnels and close off the other entrances, sending the guards back to the center of the compound, where everyone is gathering for the hastily prepared evening meal.

  “It’s not much,” says Laura as she ushers us to a table and our waiting ration of genetically engineered roast beef and a side dish that looks like potatoes and gravy, but tastes nothing like the real thing.

  “It’s fine, thank you,” Blythe says politely. We eat as much as we can manage because who knows when we’ll get to eat again.

  Throughout dinner, we suffer through the inevitable introductions and explanation of what parts we have and why, though I tune out after being introduced to a dude with a bionic set of ears—not the outer shell, but the inner parts are made of top notch machinery. He can hear a fly buzzing in the next room. It’s all very cool, but my mind is on Blythe, who’s stirring her potatoes around silently, her jaw clenched. These moments are al
ways hard for her, and I decide to rescue her before she’s expected to share.

  “Hey, Blythe, can I see you in the control room for a minute?” I ask, leaping abruptly to my feet, my chair scraping back noisily from the table.

  “Everything okay?” Laura asks, frowning with concern.

  “Of course,” I reassure her and Blythe leaves her place at the table. “We just need to make a call in to Headquarters and it’s a bit noisy in here. We’ll just be a few minutes.”

  I grasp Blythe’s arm and propel her toward the control room and abruptly yank the blinds shut over the large windows overlooking the cafeteria. As soon as we’re out of sight, Blythe releases a breath I’m sure she’s been holding for about five minutes. She sags against the closed door, her face drawn and pinched with worry, yet also bathed in relief.

  “Thanks,” she whispers.

  She doesn’t have to explain why she’s thanking me and I don’t have to ask. We know each other that way and it’s one of the reasons I can’t understand why she doesn’t see how much I love her. Part of me has always wondered if maybe she just doesn’t want to see it. It’s not easy for Blythe to be close to anyone and even I get held at arm’s length a bit. Loving her is like holding the stem of a rose tightly in your fist. The thorns might prick and tear my skin, but I can’t let go because the beauty of the bud has me entranced.

  I use the opportunity gifted me by seclusion and take a few steps closer, stopping once the toes of my boots nearly touch hers. She looks up at me, her eyes filled with worry and pain and I want nothing more than to crush her against my chest and tell her that everything will be okay and I’ll protect her from everything. Instead, I settle for resting my hand on her shoulder and kneading the tense muscle gently.

  “Come on, B, just make it through a few more hours and we’re outta here,” I say gently.