The Bionics

by Alicia Michaels

  ***

  The hovercraft lands smack in the middle of the city’s industrial district. Rows of factories and warehouses line the streets and workers wearing jumpsuits in bland shades of white, black, and beige walk in neat little rows to work like ants. MPs linger on the corners with their weapons lowered. But I can tell their eyes are scanning the streets, keeping on alert for trouble. Most likely, a broadcast has gone out with our descriptions. They are watching out for us.

  “We should split up,” I say as quietly as I can once we’ve stepped from the pod. “By now they realize the others have escaped and are looking for four people.”

  “You’re right,” Jenica says, her eyes darting back and forth behind the Professor’s glasses as she scans our environment. “Let’s split up and wait it out for a bit, let things cool off. Keep your COMM device on and close by. I’ll call you in a few hours and we’ll go from there. Hopefully, Janner and Strom will get the others back safely.”

  The last I saw of Dax and Sayer, they were hightailing it away from Stonehead. For their sake, and the sake of their rescued prisoners, I hope so too. We part ways, Blythe and I blending in with the crowd in our MP uniforms.

  “We need to get off the street,” she says, her voice low as we walk as quickly as we can without calling too much attention to ourselves. Even with a helmet on, I’m not sure if her eye is shielded from the scanners that can detect bionic equipment. Hopefully, no one will see the need to inspect the MPs on the street. Either way, she’s right. I’ve seen what panic can do to crowds, and news of our escape from Stonehead is undoubtedly spreading like wildfire.

  “Okay,” I say, scanning our surroundings for a place to hide. There aren’t a lot of options. Most of these buildings are filled with factory machinery and workers doing their jobs. “Keep your eyes open for an alleyway. We’ll duck into one and maybe slip into a building’s basement for a while.”

  We keep a steady pace for about half a mile before I find a darkened alleyway between two warehouses, one of which looks abandoned. Within moments, we are in the dark passageway with Blythe holding my gun and keeping watch as I pry wooden boards from across a doorway. By the time we get inside my palms are scratched and blistered, but we are alone, safe in a darkened warehouse that has been emptied of all equipment. Only stacked wooden crates and stray trash litter the floor, while a small beam of light trickles in through a few boarded-up windows.

  I lower myself onto one of the crates and Blythe stands in front of me, removing her helmet before reaching for mine.

  “You’re hurt,” she says, her eyebrows furrowing as she notices the nasty burn on my temple. Now that I’m sitting still and adrenaline has slowed, it stings like a bitch.

  I shrug. “No big deal. I almost took you out with a grenade earlier. Compared to that, this is nothing. Sorry about that, by the way.”

  Blythe laughs as she starts unsnapping her armor, stretching her limbs as the heavy pieces clatter to the floor. I follow suit, glad to be free from the oppressive uniform.

  “Luckily, the only part of me you broke is totally fixable.”

  I wince as I notice her bionic arm dangling uselessly at her side. “I could have killed you.”

  “I’m perfectly fine, see?”

  I stand and grasp her waist, pulling her back up against my front and sinking into her softness and warmth. “Hmmm, yes,” I say teasingly, burying my face in her hair. “Very fine.”

  She giggles and turns in my arms, only to jerk back when we’re face to face. For a moment, I’ve forgotten that I’m not myself. Just my luck, I finally get her alone again and I’m wearing some other guy’s lips when all I want to do is kiss her.

  “Sorry,” I say, dropping my hands from her waist. “I forgot.”

  She smiles. “It’s weird,” she says, her eyes tracing the contours of Jack Knightly’s face. “I know it’s you, but it’s not you. You don’t even sound like yourself.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re stuck with Captain Jack Knightly until tonight when the serum wears off. I can’t wait either; this guy is nowhere near as good looking as I am.”

  She smiles again and lowers her eyes shyly. “No, he’s not.”

  Silence passes between us and, after a while, I become restless. My every nerve is on edge the longer we are inside of this building. I know it will be at least a few hours before we can move again and even longer before we hear from Jenica, but I’ve never been good at sitting still and waiting. Blythe has sunk down onto the crate I was on before I started pacing, her head lowered. She yawns and I can see how tired she is. We’ve been going nonstop since the Memphis hideout rescue mission and she has to be exhausted.

  “You tired?” I ask.

  She looks up and nods. “Been a long… couple of… well, hell, it’s been a long couple of years, you know?”

  I nod. I do know. Since those bombs dropped, nothing has been the same. “Why don’t you sleep for a bit? I’ll keep watch.”

  “Aren’t you tired, too?”

  “Yeah, but I’m too cranked up to sleep right now. I’ll take the first watch and after you wake up you can take the second.”

  She was too tired to argue. After rifling around in the leftover crates for a while, I strike gold.

  “Looks like this place used to produce military supplies,” I say with a smile as I find a box full of canvas bags filled with survival gear. I open one and find a rolled-up sleeping mat, a few bags of dehydrated food rations, a bottle of water, a flashlight, a pocketknife, and a rain slicker. “Not sure how comfortable this bedroll is, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Right now it looks like a Dreamer.”

  “Wow, you really are tired.” The Dreamer is a mattress filled with a viscous gel that molds to cradle your body’s contours when you lay on it. It makes each one custom fit to the owner. To own one, I think you have to promise its manufacturers one of your firstborn. Blythe must be dead on her feet if she’s comparing the flat, stiff bedroll to a Dreamer.

  “Here, let me help.”

  I lower myself onto the bedroll first, near the top, and then pat the space beside me. Blythe is too tired to think twice and in a few moments, she’s stretched out on the mat with her head resting in my lap. Her face is turned away, leaving me an obstructed view of the lovely nape of her neck. My fingers find her ponytail holder and I slip it free, watching cinnamon-colored hair cascade down to her shoulders. She sighs and nestles closer as I run my fingers through the strands. Within seconds she’s asleep, but my fingers are still working, sliding through the locks of her hair, enjoying the contact for however long it may last, because I do not know when, or if, this will happen for us again.