by Jadah McCoy
The fatigue hits me again as I wrap the towel around myself and step out of the bathroom. Bastion is outside waiting as he said he would be. He’s sitting on the bed but pops up when he sees me. My wet hair drips on my shoulders and the floor as I pad over to him.
A display of food waits on the bed.
“You should eat something,” he says. “All of these are high in protein. If my research is correct, it will help with the creation of blood cells.”
I grab some nuts from the pile and eat them. I know I should eat something, but my stomach flips inside me, both with nervousness and sickness. I force the food down because my body needs it.
“Get some rest and then we can go,” Bastion says, pulling back the sheets on the bed.
The gray light of almost-morning filters in past the shades, and shadows pass across the bed and walls. It’s very lonely down here, and too quiet. Quiet like the moments after Sanders passed. Devoid of breath, without life. Heavy with darkness and disbelief.
“Can I go up there with you?” I ask him.
“But there’s not—”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
He looks at me, eyes bright with inner workings and electricity that runs through him. I can’t read him right now, and it bothers me for some reason. He looks away from me, glancing toward the stairs.
“All right. Let’s get your blankets, then.”
We each grab a blanket, and he follows me up the stairs, my pace probably agonizingly slow for him, but he doesn’t say anything.
We reach the top of the stairs and walk through the back room. I sit down on the floor, wrapping myself in the sheet. He comes in behind me and wraps me in another blanket, tucking it around my body. The cold is setting into me again, and the blankets do little to fight the frigid temperature of my toes.
“I’ll come check on you soon,” he says. He’s still for a moment, then rises from his crouched position and walks into the next room. He joins Michelo at the counter. I can barely see them from the corner I’m laying in. They whisper among themselves, but I can’t hear what they’re saying from here.
Sleep begins to take me, the fog reaching into my brain and squeezing all conscious thought from me. My eyelids are heavy as bricks as they open and close over my tired eyes.
Bastion comes into view again. His mouth is moving, his hands waving. He’s speaking to Michelo, and he doesn’t look happy. As I watch, Michelo walks away and Bastion stares down at the floor. He then collapses against the counter, his face dropping into his hands.
It seems like a dream, and maybe it is. My eyes drift closed. Everything stops.
A cold, empty hall leading toward a door. Still shadows and then something writhing within. The hinged, bladed arms of the Cull reach out and grab hold. Blood falls. The rat cut open and pinned apart, its organs undulating like mine. Remember…
I gasp awake. The room around me is dark. No light passes through the windows in the next room. There are no sounds around me, not the jingling of the bell on the door or Michelo fiddling with or rearranging his things in the other room. Panic hits me, acrid in the back of my throat, and makes my heart race.
“Bastion.” His name falls from my mouth, more like a reflex than anything.
I almost call for him again, but then his light footsteps cross the room. The relief is like a cut across swollen flesh, letting the poison drain out.
“Syl? What is it? What’s wrong?”
I sit up, my stiff, sore body tangled in the blankets around me, and my towel falling off in places. I stumble a bit but finally kick the layers away and stand, bleary with fatigue. Bastion stares down at me, worry detectable in his glowing gaze.
“You said you would check on me!” I push on his chest, the adrenaline of fear cooling and settling as anger. Even pushing with most of my strength—whatever small amount of strength left in me—he doesn’t budge.
“I did! You were fine.” He grasps my wrists and pulls my fisted hands away. I face-plant into his chest and try to jerk back, but he holds me there. I know it’s just metal and wire beneath fake skin, but it seems so real. He’s real beneath my touch, like a person.
“You’re okay,” he tells me, jaw pressing into the top of my head.
No. Not now. Please, not the stupid, awful tears.
But my body has other plans. All the adrenaline, the stress, the fear and pain and sorrow culminates in my body, ushered by the comfort of another’s touch.
“I’m scared.” I sob into his chest. It’s been so long since I’ve admitted a transgression such as fear—not since I was a child. I push it away, hurtling like a meteor into any situation and creating an impenetrable crater around myself. There’s no room for fear in my world. You act and live, or you give in to fear and die.
“I’m dying.”
Somehow, he’s able to understand the muffled words. “You won’t die.” He pulls me back, hands on my shoulders.
I glance up at him from under a wet mop of blue. I’m not a pretty crier, never have been. I’m sure I must be very appealing with my red nose and bloodshot eyes, drooling, snotting, and leaking from all facial orifices. I wipe at my cheeks and push my hair from my face.
He looks at me, seemingly unfazed by all the disgusting humanity dribbling out of me.
“Listen to me. I won’t let you die.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. “Are you afraid?” I ask him.
What is fear but the worry of physical harm coming to the body? The notion that you will lose something—a person, a thing, your memories, yourself. Does he experience that? Do any of them experience that when they can just be put back together again?
“Yes, I am afraid,” he answers.
It sounds so final when he says it. Like a fact and nothing more. I nod and look away, not willing to dig deeper into his confession.
He lets go of my shoulders, his arms falling to his sides, but he doesn’t step away from me. I look back up at him, our eyes meeting. My brows furrow. That unreadable face is back, that small hint of something behind his look. He takes a small step toward me and—
The chime of the shop door opening startles me. I jump, and Bastion turns toward the sound. The lights come on, illuminating the area in a warm glow, which leaks into the back room and touches my toes. Bastion steps away from me and leans against the doorway.
Michelo hustles into the room with us. He’s dressed well, better than I’ve ever seen him dressed in this dusty, oily shop. He doesn’t look like any slum android I’ve come across here, at least. He even has a cane at his side and a monocle adorning his face. There’s a pack slung over his shoulder, and he sets it on the metal table as he joins us.
“Well, I say, old chap, you do clean up nicely,” Bastion says with a grin.
Michelo turns the bag upside down and empties its contents. Articles of clothing fall out, and two masks clang as they land on the table.
“I’m not dressed this way ‘cause I felt like being fancy,” he says. “These costumes are necessary, now more than ever.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
Bastion answers. “We killed Pontus, but that wasn’t the end of him. He’s been upgraded. Same memories, mostly same personality, smarter probably, and harder to kill, definitely.”
“It’s all very complicated political malarkey. Pontus’s followers saw his murder as retaliation. It’s a witch hunt out there for Organics and sympathizers. And they ain’t goin’ down without a fight, neither.”
Bastion shakes his head.
“It’s a mess out there. I dug out my bodyguard simulator for good measure,” Michelo says.
“And did it work?”
Michelo holds his hands out. “I’m here, ain’t I? Here, put these on.”
He pushes the clothes toward us. Two suits. Two smiling masks. I dread putting that on my face. But if we want to sneak past the PICs—and apparently, if we want to even make it through the city—it will at least give us a chance of ble
nding in.
I take the clothes and mask downstairs to put them on. While stepping into the pants, I glance over at the windows. The lights are on outside, reflecting a rainbow of colors into the alley. I zip and buckle. Everything seems fine. Feet shuffle and walk by as they always have. No fires or riots disturb the peace. What is Michelo talking about?
I climb the stairs as best I can in the too-long pants, and look at myself in the shattered, jagged piece of mirror in the corner. It’s laughable to think that I might pass for a PIC. I’m not buff enough, and I’m too short and feminine. The clothes nearly hang off my body, the pants rolled up and the shoes flopping around on my narrow feet no matter how tightly I tie the laces.
All we have to do is get in, get the cure from Micro, get out, and that’s that. I live. They live. Everyone’s happy. Piece of cake. This will be over in no time.
Bastion comes around the corner decked out in the same clothes, his looking infinitely better on him. He fills the suit out in the right places—long legs, broad shoulders, hard chest.
He lifts the mask and pushes it back on his head. Bless him, he doesn’t even laugh at me in this ridiculous outfit.
“You look lovely,” he says.
“Shut up.” I roll my eyes.
He reaches over and tweaks my nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Ready when you are, love.”
Syl
e leave from the back entrance and blend in seamlessly with the crowd. The city is the same as it’s always been…at first.
The trams pass overhead with a gentle hum. The flying automobiles putter by, their bright lights jabbing my eyes. Slum androids amble by just as Elitians stomp past us with purpose in their dress shoes and heels, surrounded by their entourage of glimmering chrome bodyguards. Probably headed to that awful market to buy more humans for their collection.
A beat thrums through my shoes. I sense it when I run my hand across the building walls. Music. The streets shine from the rain. Everything is just the same, as it should be.
We pass certain streets, and Bastion slows his pace, slipping behind me, and grabs my elbow. He pushes me forward and instructs me not to look.
But I am me, so I do. Through the slits of the mask as we pass the corner, I see the glow of fire, the outline of a body—whatever’s left of it—defiled, set ablaze, and left there for all to see. The smell of ash and oil and melted rubber burns my nose. Something about Glitches tags the walls, and that’s all I see before it’s out of sight.
We pass many streets and alleyways like that, and Bastion tells me not to look, but I don’t listen. I want to see them, all of them. They’re sympathizers. I know that now. This is what it means to disagree with the idea that humans are nothing more than pets.
It’s fire, ash, broken bodies, and death. No wonder he’s afraid.
When we are quiet, with only the shuffle of our footsteps left between us, I hear it. The yelling in the distance. The screams. The running feet. He walks faster, and it’s hard to keep up with him, but I don’t complain.
We pass through the back alleys, unnoticed and unbothered by the other androids around us, their bright, mechanical eyes sliding away. No one wants to be noticed tonight. Not here, not now.
Relief fills me when the CorpEx building comes into view. I recognize it, the shining, sleek towers built into the city’s outer wall. This is the first and probably last time I’ll be relieved to see it.
We slither through the darkness like the snakes we’re dressed as until we finally reach the back entrance of the building. Bastion pulls the keycard from his pocket. There’s a picture of a face on it, red hair, blue eyes, crystal skin with blue designs across it. Micro’s face.
He holds it against a light on the side of the door, and it beeps in recognition. The metal slab slides open with a whirring sound. There’s no movement within. The sterile smell of the place wafts out, infecting the outside air. Bastion steps in and I follow. The white walls envelop us, and the panes of glass in the hall are so clean they resemble mirrors. When I look to the side, it almost seems as if there are two PICs in the room beside us. My heart leaps into my throat until I realize that it’s just our reflection.
“Where are we going?” I whisper. The sound is too loud in the silence of the halls, and I cringe.
“Just follow me.” He nods to the path in front of us. “Micro is in the lab on level 227.”
We turn right at a corner, our movements stiff and jaunty like the PIC’s usually are. I freeze for a split second when other masked androids join us in the hall going in the opposite direction. Bastion keeps walking, and I follow his lead. Surely they’ll say something about my height, my rolled-up pants, my jumpy demeanor, which isn’t at all like the commanding one I should have as an officer. That’s their job—to spot people like me.
But they pass by us, their heads held high and proud, their steady gaits uninterrupted by suspicion. We go on navigating the halls, passing a few more PICs as we do. I’m relieved when I see the sliding double doors that mean we’ve reached the moving box that will take us to another level in the building.
Bastion swipes the keycard again. I breathe a sigh of relief when the doors open and reveal there’s no one already inside. We step in, and Bastion presses a button on the wall. The cabin lights up, the numbers 227 displaying across all of the walls. With a ding and a jolt, we begin our ascent.
I lean back against the wall behind me, my heart beating hard. This is it. I glance up—only 137 floors to go. Those doors will slide open, and there will be a cure waiting for me.
I can leave this horrible place and go back to the Sanctuary. I can climb to the top of a building and look down at the peace below, the life that flourishes in the absence of civilization. I can let the sun warm my skin. Maybe I can convince Serge and the others that we should move, get out of Elite, go somewhere where there isn’t any of this. I can live. We can all—
“Syl,” Bastion says.
I look at him. He’s staring straight ahead. From the side, I can see the upturn of the pink lips on his mask, the perfect white teeth, the unblinking eyes. I want to see his real face, to try to decipher what it is that goes on behind it.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I look at him, my brows furrowing behind the mask. I realize he can’t see me or my quizzical look, so I ask out loud, “Why?”
“I need you to know that if anything happens—”
With a ding, the cabin doors slide open. “You have arrived at level 227,” a female voice says.
I glance away from Bastion, and the masked faces are the first thing I see—five of them. My heart shoots into my throat, and I freeze in place. Maybe they just need in; maybe we should get off. Maybe they don’t know.
Then a PIC in the front raises the weapon in his hands, and before I can react, strikes my face with the butt of it. The mask shatters, and pieces clatter to the floor. The pain burns my face like fire, and I collapse to my knees. Bastion moves quickly, pushing them away and fighting back, but they give him the same treatment. He takes a foot to the torso before he’s grabbed around the arms and dragged into the mob of masked androids.
Two of them grab me also, with their vise grips around my upper arms as my toes skid across the ground, my body dead weight.
“Let me go!” I lash out at them. I kick and throw elbows, but they’re too strong and I’m much too weak. It does nothing at all but make them tighten their grip. The other three androids struggle to contain Bastion in front of me.
They drag me through and throw me against the grated floor. The momentum causes me to roll a few times before I stop myself. I turn and push up. Behind me, three PICs stand in a line that I have no hope of breaking through. Beside me, the other two hold Bastion captive on his knees.
My hands shake as I grasp the narrow grates in the floor. Pipes twist and turn below me. Cogs rotate slowly. A furnace burns somewhere, bathing the guts of the floor in an orange light. Sweat beads on my forehead, dripping down my face. And
above all this, the wall is made of glass, and the city outside shines in. Zita, Zel, and KOI-10 are three blue silhouettes in the sky, barely visible through the pollution of New Elite’s lights.
In the very middle of the windows, splitting the glass panes in half, is a giant machine that towers to the ceiling and into the shadows. Buttons illuminate the sleek black surface. Around the room, the same lit tubes I’ve seen in other places line the walls. They aren’t empty, either. What used to be humans fill them—people with names and families.
I push to my feet. “What do you want?” I yell at the figures around us.
They don’t reply, and I already know the answer anyway. They don’t move at all. I step forward and lash out at the wall of androids, but they don’t budge despite my swinging fists. Two break away and grasp my arms, pushing me down as I try to pry myself away from them. I struggle, glancing behind me, and I notice that my hand is close to the gun at one’s side. If I could just reach up a little more, I could—
“Go away,” a man’s voice says. “I’ve no need of you anymore.”
The fifth PIC retreats down the hall to the moving cabin, leaving only the four that restrain me and Bastion. When I turn around again, a figure steps from the shadows of the room.
I don’t recognize him—not the long silver hair or the dark leather outfit—but I know him by the eyes. Those black eyes I would know anytime, any place. I’ve seen them staring down at me with malice in the woods, in the city, in this very building. It’s Pontus.
Blood covers his gloved hands. He pulls at the fabric—pinky and then ring finger, and so on, peeling the wet gloves off before tucking them into a hidden pocket.
“My, my. I’d say it was a successful night at the market. You should see how those meat bags split open. Much like you, if I don’t say so myself.”
“Pontus.” I spit his name like poison.
“It’s Lexion now, and I’ll thank you to call me by it.”
I struggle against the androids holding me in place with their bruising grip. With a relaxed gait, Lexion passes me and approaches Bastion.