by Jadah McCoy
That’s what Sanders used to say, at least. I don’t know if I believe it.
I know I can’t get used to him being gone, even years later. It’s still an empty space in me. If I try hard enough I can still feel the weight of his arm around my shoulder, the stubble on his chin when he kissed my forehead; I can still hear his overzealous laughter.
I can take a beating like it’s nothing. It’s my memories that leave me raw.
“Can’t feel it,” I hear myself mumbling again and again, and Rohem hits harder and harder until he’s sweating and wheezing.
He seems to give up, tired. Darkness ebbs at my vision, and it’s a relief. I hope I wake up dead. I can’t abide this existence anymore.
My eyelids weigh a million pounds, and as they close, I chant a prayer: just let me die, just let me die, just let me die.
Syl
anders.”
The name falls out of my mouth as hands pull me to my feet. My body flounders as consciousness leaks into me, slow and viscous as poison pumping through a wound.
“Looks like playtime was a bit rough.” I’m not surprised to hear Pontus’s amused voice.
My entire body aches as the PIC behind me forces me to my feet. The cramps in my stomach keep me from standing up all the way. I can only imagine the marbling of black and blue that’s made its way across my skin by now. The smell of shit clings to my clothes and crusts my face, making my stomach roil. I look down. Dirt and mud and other horrid things stain the white bodysuit I’m wearing.
Pontus makes a sound of disgust as the PIC presents me to him. His suit today is gold and cream and matches his hair perfectly. A streak of golden eyeshadow accentuates each dark eye.
“Well, I don’t want her,” he says. “She’s filthy.”
The PIC shrugs, his arms beneath my armpits as he supports my weight.
Pontus rolls his eyes. “Let’s go, you worthless piece of scrap metal.”
I’m only vaguely aware that we’re moving. My toes drag against the streets until the PIC grows enough brain matter to pick me up and throw me over his shoulder. If I had an ounce of energy left, I might have howled at the pain of his shoulder digging into my fresh bruises. But all I can manage is a halfhearted grunt. My face hits his back again and again in cadence with his steps.
“And I thought I was dramatic,” Pontus mutters.
I drift in and out, a slave to the bidding of oblivion.
They plant my butt on a cold seat, and I jerk back to my subpar attempt at consciousness. A couple of sharp clicks tell me they’ve locked my hands to the chair.
The room is gray, cold, bleak, and reminds me too much of where Surgeon General did his experiments. It’s terrifying that I have no idea where I am—that I can’t remember how I even got here. It’s like a dream world, as though I’m a specter only half-present in this universe.
Pontus is in front of me. He leans against the table that separates us, pressing his palms against the sterile metal. The PIC stands motionless as a plant, blocking the closed door. There is no escape. I suppose escape was just an illusion all this time.
Maybe Bastion turned us in himself. Who knows? Who even cares anymore?
Pontus stares down at me with eyes the color of frozen shadows. I stare back up at him with a face that I hope translates my apathy for this situation. Won’t he be surprised when he thinks he’s pulling out wires and his nice suit gets splattered with blood and gore? I hope I get to see the look on his face before I bleed out—a consolation prize.
“Have you had a change of heart yet?” he asks. “Have anything to say for yourself?”
I stare at him, blank-faced. “No.”
He smiles. “Well, that is unfortunate—for you. For me, however…”
A drawer floats out from the table. He begins to set out various instruments in front of him. I’ve never seen such interesting and useless-looking torture devices before. There are devices that end in blunt curls, twisted circles, and flat tips. I have no doubt he will find a way to hurt me with them, but I get the notion they might be a bit more intimidating to an android.
A cocky smile graces his face.
I can’t contain a snort. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were overcompensating for something.”
“We will see who’s laughing at the end of this.” He runs his hand over the devices. “Care to tell me who else is in your little ring of sympathizers?”
He picks up one of the tools, the one with curling metal prongs at the end of it. He saunters across the room toward me.
“Not really.”
He jams the prongs into the port at the back of my neck and twists. A scream wrenches from my throat. I didn’t imagine such a benign-looking thing could hurt so much. He yanks it out after only a second.
I’m so tired of pain. What is this life but one pain after another?
“I don’t know anything!” I pull against the restraints. “I’m not part of some ring. I don’t have any names to give you.”
“Well, that isn’t good, is it?” He steps in front of me. “Because that means you’re of no use to me. And do you know what happens when someone is of no use to me?”
I say nothing.
“I thought you might be more fun.” He sighs and snaps his fingers at the PIC as he takes a seat across from me. “I do so hate to dirty my new suit.”
The PIC relieves his post and walks toward me. I’m bolted to the chair; there’s nowhere for me to go. My heart races. It makes my skin throb and my bruises ache even more.
He closes a hand over my throat gently, too gently for the violence he’s about to commit. How will he do it—how will he kill me? Snap my neck? Blow my Organic brains out? How do robots kill each other?
I stare up at the disturbingly joyful mask as the PIC towers over me. The moment seems frozen, neither of us moving.
“Kill her already!” Pontus throws his hands in the air with impatience. “Must I do everything around here?”
A thumb trails my jawline, ever so softly. Lightning quick, the PIC pulls his hand from my throat and replaces it with the pressure of a phaser cannon barrel. The cold weight of it pushes into my throat, and I swallow hard. I yank against the metal shackling my wrists. It gives a bit, but a sharp pain follows and warmth flows over my wrist.
Pontus’s eyes follow the blood, which pools and drips to the pristine floor.
“Human,” he says softly as though it were the answer to some age-old, undecipherable equation.
The PIC’s unarmed hand reaches up and grasps the edge of his mask. In one smooth movement, he lifts it from his chin and pushes it to the back of his head, revealing his face.
It’s not the countenance of some scary, skinless wire monster.
It’s Bastion staring down at me.
“What?” Pontus stutters, obviously just as shocked and confused as I am.
The pressure on my neck disappears, and Bastion’s gaze never leaves mine as his arm twists to the side and he blows Pontus’s whole fucking face off.
I guess that answers my question about how robots kill each other.
Pontus falls out of the chair and thuds to the floor, his body twitching. There’s nothing left but mangled wires, an errant eyeball, and his metal jaw clacking open and closed, open and closed. No amount of makeup or rhinestones will be able to fix that.
“Miss me, love?” Bastion says, a cocky grin on his face.
My head is spinning. “H-how? Why?”
“What, you didn’t think I’d just leave you here, did you?” He replaces the phaser cannon beneath the folds of his suit jacket.
“Of course I did!” I jangle the wristlocks that hold me in place.
He gives me a mock bow. “Oh, pardon me. Let’s get you out of there, shall we?”
Bastion approaches Pontus’s body and digs around in his fancy gold and cream suit until he pulls a keycard from one of the many pockets. He walks over and flashes the card against a black box on the side of the chair arm. The lock beeps, and
the bars retract into the chair.
I lean forward and rotate my shoulders, causing them to pop, and then rub my aching wrists. I stand up, my body stiff and unused. The desire to be clean and to rest washes through me so intensely I’m not sure I even have the energy to escape. But we’ve come this far, and I have to push through. I have to get out of here or die trying.
The exhaustion follows a palpable wave of anger. I can’t believe how selfish I was, how quickly I gave up when there are people out there who need me. Like Serge, and David, and everyone back at the Sanctuary. Everyone in that Godforsaken, Cull-infested city. I’m disappointed in myself. I gave up in the face of adversity instead of fighting harder. And that isn’t who I am. I’m the one who’s going to stop the splicing from ever happening again, no matter what the cost. I owe that much to my race.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m marinating in human shit. Can we please just get out of here already?”
He pulls out a pair of restraints with a bashful face. My chafed wrists hurt just looking at them. “I’ll have to put these on you,” he says. “Can’t have a prisoner unrestrained, you know.”
I nod and hold out my hands in front of me. He cuffs my wrists, not too tightly, which I’m thankful for.
“We should probably hurry.” He glances out the window. “I imagine someone will have heard that.”
Bastion places the mask over his face again. He pulls out the cannon and presses it against the small of my back, nudging me forward.
“Oh! Let me get that.” He rushes over to the door and opens it for me.
I chuckle under my breath. “You’re really bad at this whole ‘impersonating a bad guy’ thing.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I walk through the doorway and into a gray hall covered in pipes and valves. Bastion shuts the door behind us with a tiny click. He herds me to the left by pushing the gun into my hip. I limp in that direction, my hands raised up to my shoulders with palms out, the universal symbol for I surrender.
We slip around a corner just as footsteps echo from the opposite end of the hall. I don’t know how long it will be until someone finds Pontus. We could have days, hours, or just minutes. I doubt anyone would dare to interrupt Pontus during an interrogation, so that works in our favor. My stomach flips as I fight the urge to run. This place makes my skin crawl, and I want out, but running would just give us away.
The hall splits in a T, and we turn right. Metallic double doors with no doorknob wait at the end. We approach them, and Bastion pulls the keycard from his pocket, holding it against a black box on the wall. The double doors slide into the wall, revealing a small square room.
We slip into the room, and Bastion presses a number on the screen to the right of us. It lights up with a beep. The doors begin to close, and the muscles in my shoulders finally relax a bit, but then a hand bursts through the two doors. I jump, bumping into Bastion’s chest. The doors slide open, and a masked figure steps into the room with us. The PIC’s gaze burns when it falls on me, even through the mask. He settles beside us after pressing a button on the wall.
Ever watchful and now as tense as a trap ready to spring, I glare at the new occupant of our already claustrophobic area. The pressure of Bastion’s cannon at the small of my back is almost comforting. It soothes my raised hackles, but only a bit.
Behind me, he doesn’t move, doesn’t react at all. He’s as still and quiet as a stone, and I wouldn’t know he was even there if it weren’t for the gun digging into my skin.
The doors close and the room lurches. It moves, though I can’t really tell in which direction. My heart pounds, and I count the seconds until I’m free of this enclosed space.
The PIC is just as quiet and still as Bastion, and then slowly his neck cranes around. Sweat slicks my palms. He glances at the numbers lit on the panel to the right, and then he turns to look at us in one jerky movement. I stare straight ahead, determined not to call attention to myself if I can help it.
“Who gave you permission to take this prisoner to level G12, officer?” the PIC asks in his mechanical, monotone voice.
Too late.
I gulp. Bastion says nothing. He can’t say anything. If he speaks, the ruse is blown. He doesn’t have the inhuman voice that’s typical of every PIC I’ve had a run-in with.
Behind me, Bastion sighs. The jab of his gun disappears from my side, replaced by his hand on my stomach as he steps forward and pushes me behind him.
“It’s not a party until there’s a double homicide, I suppose.” He lifts the mask from his face.
He pulls his gun and aims for the underside of the PIC’s chin. The PIC blocks Bastion’s attempt by flinging an arm out. The gun flies out of Bastion’s grip and skitters to a halt on the ground beside me. The two androids grapple for the upper hand, an arm flailing out and knocking into my face. I stumble backward and catch myself against the wall.
Bastion and the PIC land on the floor, grunting and growling as they fight. Bastion closes his hands around the gun in the PIC’s grip. He pushes it away as it tilts closer and closer to his face.
Panic grips me. Some pretty ironic instant karma is about to bite my friend in the ass. The gun next to me catches my eye. I crawl over and reach for it, floundering a bit from the restraints around my wrists. I get my hands on it, and with swift surety, I climb to my feet. I take off the safety and aim for the PIC’s head. He turns to look at me, and I pull the trigger with no thought, no remorse. The mask shatters in a beam of hot, blue light. When the sparks fade, the PIC looks pretty similar to Pontus—irreparable and thoroughly dead.
The body collapses against Bastion, leaking steaming, viscous black liquid all over his suit. The lax hands release their weapon, and it clatters to the floor. Bastion pushes the lifeless form off his chest and stands up, brushing ash and red-hot wires from his suit. The black liquid dribbles down his clothed chest like candle wax.
“Thanks.” He glances at me.
I wink at him. “Maybe I should handle the guns from now on.”
“When we return to Michelo’s, I’ll search for my masculinity card and turn it in to you forthwith.”
“I’d love to add it to my collection.”
Bastion grabs the PIC and props him up in a corner, face-first. The back of the sagging body could almost pass for normal except for the singed hairs and the effervescent smell of plasma lingering throughout the cabin. The movement of the square room slows. A bell somewhere within the room dings, and a blue number lights up the whole wall beside us.
“There we go,” Bastion says. “Right as rain. We should probably, ah…”
He steps closer, an inch of space between his body and mine. He looks down at me from the shadow of his mask and reaches up, pushing the button on the wall directly behind me.
I let go of the breath caught in my throat. Stupid adrenaline.
The sliding doors pop open in front of us.
A sudden itchy ache in my throat makes me scratch at the skin there. Probably my nerves, or maybe I got scratched during the scuffle. Either way, no time remains to examine it. I pull my hand away. No blood stains the underside of my nails, so that’s a good sign.
Bastion slips the mask, scratched from the fight, off his head and throws it into the corner of the small room. Then he turns and unlocks the cuffs on my hands.
“Guess the gig’s up,” he says drily.
We step into the unlit hall. The frigid air and darkness makes goosebumps raise on my skin. As Bastion takes the first step, lights overhead illuminate the stark white walls. The lights blind me for a few seconds, and I hold my hands over my eyes to shield them. Our footsteps echo down the hall and wisps of cold fog trail from my nose and mouth. I rub my hands over my arms to try to generate some warmth through friction.
Bastion looks around before he spots a metal handle sticking out of the wall at the other end of the hall, a glass door resting beside it. The room inside is pitch black with only the ref
lection of the hall lights illuminating the glass.
Together we walk toward the door; our quiet footsteps sound too loud in the silence.
“We’ll have to go through the sewers,” Bastion whispers. “There’s no way we’ll be able to just walk out of here.”
“No problem.” I rub my cold hands together. “I have a lot of experience with sewers.”
“I doubt you have experience with this kind. All CorpEx’s experiments are dumped down there when they have failed or been used up.”
“You forget where I come from. Mutant lab rats don’t scare me.”
“There’s more to worry about down there than rats.”
Suddenly the hallway blinks white, red, white, red. A blaring alarm goes off, and I won’t be surprised if I’m bleeding from the ears now. Panic makes my body shake.
I slap my hands over my ears. “What is that?” I shout.
Thick metal grates descend from the ceiling, blocking the doors and climbing down the walls. We’re going to be trapped here.
“They found Pontus. We have to get out of here.” Bastion grabs my hand, and we run down the rest of the long hall and skid to a halt in front of the small metal door. It’s just big enough for a body.
In the next room, now lit by the panic lights, a row of metal tables sit, covered in white cloth. The outlines beneath the material are distinctly humanesque.
Ugh.
Bastion rips open the metal hatch, and it slams into the wall with a resounding clang. Inside, a metal chute of some sort leads down into the dark. I don’t want to see what’s at the bottom, but we don’t have a choice.
“Get in!” Bastion says.
Against my better judgment, and with the walls closing down around us, I slip into the chute face-first. I hear Bastion follow, his weight banging against the sheet metal that holds us.
My clothes slide against the slick surface, gaining momentum. My stomach flips, and I yelp as the chute takes a sharp curve. Suddenly I’m not gliding anymore; I’m falling down into dark oblivion.
With a grunt, I land in a soft heap of… something. The smell hits me after I hit the floor, and a gag rises in the back of my throat.