The Bionics

by Alicia Michaels

  ***

  “Did you hear? Intelligence has found three Reject hideouts, including a weapons cache. Jones is going to make a move on it soon.”

  I meet Dax’s glance from across the round, gleaming steel table as the chatter of other MPs goes on around us. In a men’s locker/break room of sorts, we are surrounded by men changing, grabbing a quick bite, and gossiping like a bunch of women. We decided to slip in long enough to find out if there are any new developments. There is nothing else we can do until it is time for the prisoners to be taken for execution. As of now, we have another hour. We both pretend to be too hungry to talk and fall silent as we listen to the conversation a group of officers is having at the next table.

  “It’s a suicide mission,” one of them says, his voice filled with disdain. “Those Reject nuts are nothing like the Resistance. They’re a bunch of freaks.”

  “They’re all freaks,” scoffs another. “There’s no difference between them.”

  The first guy shrugs. “I don’t know, those Resistance people… they at least seem human. The Rejects…” he shudders. “They’re insane.”

  “Either way, Jones is ready to take them down,” Guy Number One responds with a shrug. “And I intend to get on that mission. Might even bring one of their limbs back as a trophy.”

  His companion laughs before draining his coffee cup and the two stand up to leave. Many others are clearing out and I can tell that it’s time for the morning shift to start and the night crew to leave.

  “Maybe you can get one of those arms they’ve outfitted with guns,” Guy Number Two says as they make for the exit. “Get it mounted on your armor.”

  The two share a laugh and are joined by several others on the way out the door. Dax and I find ourselves conveniently alone. Our eyes lock from across the table.

  “We’ve got to get our hands on that intelligence,” he whispers, his eyes darting back and forth as if the eyes have ears. They most likely do.

  I glance down at my watch. “We have a little less than an hour until execution,” I murmur back, careful to keep my voice as low as his.

  His smiles at me and his eyes are gleaming. My answering smile is wide. “Jenica will kill us for going rogue,” he answers. “She hates deviation from missions.”

  I shrug and stand. “Well, Jenica’s in a holding cell and isn’t expecting to see us again until 8:30. What do you say we poke around Jones’ office? In a place like this, there’s no need for him to hide anything. With both of us looking, we could find it and be out of there in no time.”

  Dax doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “Let’s do it.”

  As I follow him from the locker room, I am once again surprised to find myself feeling a bit of admiration for him. All bullshit aside, I’m actually coming to like the guy. We fight well together and I admire his instinct for acting on his own conscience when he feels it’s necessary, instead of always blindly following orders. For me, rule breaking is new. It wasn’t until very recently that I learned to start thinking for myself.

  Six months ago…

  Tamryn is gone, but her eyes haunt me every day. The pages of my sketchbook are filled with her image, scratches of charcoal in black and white with the eyes colored in a perfect shade of sky blue. Thinking of her haunts me, and when I close my eyes at night, those eyes are in my dreams, filled with tears and accusations as she asks me without words why I didn’t save her. Even as I try to convince myself there was nothing I could have done, my own uselessness angers me.

  Her loss has triggered a change in me, and as I watch news broadcasts of people—yes, they are part machine now, but they have always been people first—being abused by the government, I know that change has become apparent to my family. They watch me with eyes filled with confusion. Well, at least my parents do. My sister sees me through a lens of hope. I am starting to believe that she was never as naïve about the Bionics and the state of our government as I was. She always knew that things would happen this way and, after Tamryn is gone, she is starting to realize that Agata is not safe. Though she has not said it out loud, I know she is counting on me to help her should things go wrong. After all, she is a widow now and the only male figure in Agata’s life is me. My father is too busy with his own affairs to bother to be a grandfather to a child he now sees as a freak.

  It is not easy to hide—the change in me. Really, I’m not sure I want to. Our country, our world, is broken. Seems to me a little change is needed, even if it only starts with the individual. Because I am my father’s son, I am well educated in America’s history, and over the centuries, we have seen time and time again how the spark of the individual can trigger something enormous. We’ve seen less and less of it as time has marched on and our world—and courage and honesty—have become buried under depravity and corruption. But I like to believe the potential for that spark still lies deep within our collective subconscious. I am proven right when I discover the Resistance. The spark had already begun, and I didn’t even know it yet.

  To cope with the turmoil swirling in my gut, I fall back on my passion, which is art. Drawing by hand, specifically. It’s an antiquated pastime, as nowadays most artists prefer a digital canvas and create by touchscreens. I favor the feel of pencil and paper, the honesty of it, over dots and pixels. It’s a waste of time, according to my father, since he’s been priming me for a law career since Kindergarten. I was all fine with it when I was one of the blind sheep. Law is the career of choice for young people in Washington, as it is the center of the judicial system and politics. Most who reside in D.C. live their lives knowing they will grow up to work for the government. All of a sudden, I am not okay with this, and my father can’t stand it.

  “Have you finished your application?” This question is from my father when he walks in on me drawing one day, a picture of Agata with an intense expression on her face in profile. I’ve drawn the side of her head as if it’s being seen under an X-ray; beneath her skin and skull, machinery churns away. In my imagination, an invisible pulse of energy radiates from the bionic cerebrum.

  I shrug, and continue shading, barely sparing him a glance. My tablet sits nearby, the unfinished application an unopened file just as it was when it was sent to me. Tension rolls off him in waves as he stands in my doorway, an imposing figure in an Armani suit and tie. His nondescript brown hair and soft blue eyes fool people into thinking he’s warm and friendly, even a bit bland. He is none of those things.

  “I’ll get to it.”

  He steps into the room slowly, each movement calculated to intimidate. He has no idea how much he and others like him have diminished in my estimation. I am not intimidated or impressed.

  “Gage, we’ve discussed this. You’ve been out of high school for three years now. My connections can only hold your spot open for so long.”

  “I wasn’t aware that your power came with an expiration date,” I scoff sarcastically, my eyes still on the drawing taking form under my fingertips.

  The book is snatched abruptly from my hands and I finally spare my father a glance as he flips through it swiftly before hurling it against the wall, his chest heaving with barely controlled rage. This is the side of him no one outside of our house ever sees; I wonder if people would think so highly of him if they did.

  “Everything’s a goddamn joke to you, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely not,” I say nonchalantly, standing to face him with my arms folded over my chest. “It is my future we’re talking about here, and I’ve given it a lot of thought. I’ve decided that I won’t be going to law school.”

  There’s a vein in his forehead that’s going to blow any second. “And just where is it you think you will be going?”

  “The Art Institute, of course. You know, the one I’ve been telling you I want to go to for years.”

  His smile is derisive and his eyes are glinting with malice as he closes in on me, leaning forward into my face. His every word is sharp and succinct. “This is about your little girlfriend, isn’
t it? She’s gone and now you’ve made yourself out to be some kind of pitiful, tragic, love-story hero. Well, allow me to put some things in perspective for you. She’s gone—get over it. She made a decision to become one of those freaks and is now paying the price.”

  Disbelief rips through me and mixes with anger to make me feel like I’m going to be sick all over his shoes. “Choice? What choice did she have? What choice did any of us have in this? And while we’re on the subject, where’s the accountability on behalf of the government? They’re the ones that created the Bionics.”

  “A grave mistake that our nation is now paying for,” he says solemnly, as if he truly believes it. “We must all make sacrifices during this time in our nation’s history, son. It is not an easy thing to have to live with, but it must be done and the rest of us must move on.”

  “And what about people like Tamryn, Dad? What are they supposed to do? What about Agata?”

  At the mention of my niece’s name, his mouth goes tight at the corners and his shoulders go stiff. Horrified, I realize the path of his thoughts. He doesn’t have to say anything out loud—I just know. Agata is not safe. He will not protect her. It won’t be long before my sister is called on to give her up and he won’t do a damn thing to stop it.

  I let the subject go and make false promises to fill out the application. I let him think that my sudden outburst is because of my grief over losing Tamryn. That is only half-true.

  A few weeks later, I am gone, never to be heard from again. Agata mysteriously disappears with me. Even though my father is a prominent figure in D.C., no one comes looking for us. No missing person’s reports are filed and no media campaign is launched to locate us. We are simply gone—Agata clinging to me as I run through alleys and subway tunnels in the dead of night, toting a single bag filled with the meager possessions we will bring with us. Nestled at the bottom is that sketchpad. Even from inside that bag, buried under a few changes of clothes, bottles of water, and packages of protein bars, Tamryn haunts me, reminding me that I have succeeded for Agata where I once failed her.