The Bionics, no. 1, page 18
“Well, what are you waiting for?” I bellow, jumping straight into my role as the commanding officer. “Someone find Warden Daniels and tell him to get down here. Tell him I have an early Christmas gift for him.”
Three men jump to do my bidding and we walk our prisoners across the tarmac toward an entrance. Before our mission, Dax and I were drilled over and over on our knowledge of Stonehead’s layout. We didn’t have a lot of time to study Jenica’s schematic and get down the basics of where everything is in the country’s most secure, maximum-security prison. First, there’s a set of doors that won’t budge without the proper identification. Of course, a facility like this one hasn’t bothered with paper credentials in decades. It’s fortunate, then, that we have been injected with the DNA of the men whose identities we’ve stolen. It ensures that the retinal and thumbprint scans go smoothly.
The doors slide open for us welcomingly, and we usher the Professor and the others down a long, narrow corridor shaped like a tube. The glass walkway is identical to the others around us, that tunnel their way to and from various levels of Stonehead. Of course, Olivia and the others are situated near the very heart of the prison, down a winding path of twisting tubes. During our initial rescue attempt, we had the benefit of my niece Agata’s special abilities. Her bionic cerebrum’s electromagnetic pulse knocked down Stonehead’s power just long enough for us to break through the many checkpoints requiring fingerprints, retinal scans, and voice recognition. Even though they were able to stop her with some kind of weapon—we still aren’t sure what kind—by the time we reached the center it didn’t matter.
Now we have the liberty to walk through these doors without attracting suspicion, though we do gain the attention of every officer we pass in the tubes. They stare, openmouthed and envious, clearly unable to believe that two officers were able to bring down the most wanted criminals in America and a few of their accomplices to boot.
When we reach the main doors leading to the wing of the prison reserved for criminals marked for execution, we are met by Captain Rodney Jones, the dedicated soldier tasked with heading up The Enforcers, whose sole mission is the capture or termination of all Bionics. Dressed in a simple uniform of slacks and a button-up shirt decorated with medals befitting his high rank, he is still as menacing as he appears when decked out in his armor. He is as tall as Dax, which is insane, and twice as broad. No way is he that big naturally. If I had to guess, I’d say he takes full advantage of the steroid injections offered to the Military Police. To level the playing field, the government says. His dark eyes are narrowed and gleaming dangerously as he approaches. He is flanked by several other officers as well as Callius Daniels, the infamous warden of Stonehead.
Just behind them are a series of doors leading to small rooms where prisoners are processed in and questioned. I shudder as I remember passing these rooms on our first mission. The door to one is hanging wide open and the white tiles are bathed in blood… Olivia’s blood. It takes everything I have not to open fire on the MPs right then and there. Instead, I grip the butt of my weapon tightly with one hand and execute a perfect salute with the other.
“Captain Jack Knightly reporting,” I say in a soldier’s rough bark.
Dax salutes as well and the other officers return the gesture—all except Jones. He is circling us and eyeing the prisoners with a predatory smile. “Well, well,” he says, his booming voice reverberating from the walls and ceiling, “I must say I am surprised to see you Knightly, Barnes. When you didn’t return from Memphis, we feared the worst.”
Dax launches into the story we fabricated to explain our—or rather, their—absences. “We took a chance on following a Resistance aircraft, sir,” he says in perfect imitation of a subordinate soldier. “They were trying to escape as the other Bios attacked us. Captain Knightly and I pursued the craft and shot it down. Imagine our surprise when we found them inside.”
Jones’s eyebrows shoot up. “You deliberately defied orders, but I am willing to let that slide, Barnes,” he says with a shrug. “Sometimes following your instincts is worth it. And in this case…” He trails off, sauntering toward Jenica with a smirk. He leers at her, leaning much too close, so close I’m sure she can tell what he had for lunch. But she doesn’t move an inch. “I’d say it was more than worth it.”
Jenica is defiant, staring the captain down as he glares at her. After a few seconds, his eyes shift toward the rest of our prisoners. “Excellent work,” he says, clapping his hands together loudly and spreading them wide as if welcoming the prisoners to Stonehead. “Have them processed in and caged, Warden,” he says to Daniels. The warden is a rail-thin snake of a man with shifty, beady eyes and pointy teeth. I don’t like the way he’s eyeing Jenica’s headgear, as if she’s a shiny new toy he wants to play with. No one talks about it, but everyone knows that the torture of the Bionics is a regular occurrence on his watch. The government has assured the people that the ‘decommissioning’ of a bionic enhancement is humane. But behind closed doors, parts are removed without anesthesia, and of course, many who lose their parts cannot live without them. Those that can are now mutilated beyond repair and most likely wish they were dead.
“Make sure they’re comfortable,” Jones adds with a chuckle. “Meanwhile, I’ll put a call in to the higher-ups. I’m sure they will want to interrogate America’s most wanted terrorists.”
Dax and I step away as the warden and his officers step forward to take the Professor and the others. My jaw clenches and my fingers curl around the butt of my gun as their shackles are deionized and they are separated. Blythe’s scent curls up through my nostrils as she’s taken past me, shoved roughly by a guard. Her eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and I can see her fear. I want to tell her everything is all right, but have to settle for letting my facial expression do the talking. Though, I don’t know if the desired effect is achieved since this face is not mine.
“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.
He 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.
Chapter 18
Gage Bronson and Dax Janner
Stonehead Prison Facility
Washington D.C.
August 18, 4010
8:30 a.m.
“Got it!”
I hold the small, palm-sized cartridge up in my hand, catching Dax’s attention from across Jones’ office. In a file cabinet in the corner, which is filled with classified files, I have found all the information the government has on the Rejects. “Good,” Dax says, pulling his COMM device from his back pocket. It has a handy slot for file reading on the back. “We’ve got to report to escort the prisoners to execution. We barely have enough time to copy the information and get back to the cell block.”
I come around the desk and place the slim, rectangular cartridge in his hand. He quickly plugs it in and presses a few buttons on the touch screen to begin copying the file. The transfer happens almost instantly, and Dax hands it back to me. I carefully place it back where it came from.
“Let’s move,” Dax says, leading the way toward the exit swiftly. A solemn silence falls between us and I know his mind is on what will happen next, just as mine is. The information about the Rejects, we can’t do anything with now. It’s of no use at the moment. Now is the time to focus on getting Olivia and the others safely out of Stonehead.
When we arrive at the cell block, a team of twelve officers is assembled, led by Captain Jones. Behind the glass doors on one side, I can see Jenica chained to a steel table in one room, the Professor in one next to her. The raised voices of interrogators are muffled as they pace back and forth in front of the tables, fists flying and blood splattering the walls as they work to get the information they need. It takes everything in me not to cringe as an officer’s palm makes contact with Jenica’s cheek. To her credit, she barely winces, her human eye narrowed murderously at the man abusing her as he takes out his frustration on her. The Professor is in worse shape, one eye nearly swollen closed, his wild curls now beyond repair and hanging in a battered face.
Three men jump to do my bidding and we walk our prisoners across the tarmac toward an entrance. Before our mission, Dax and I were drilled over and over on our knowledge of Stonehead’s layout. We didn’t have a lot of time to study Jenica’s schematic and get down the basics of where everything is in the country’s most secure, maximum-security prison. First, there’s a set of doors that won’t budge without the proper identification. Of course, a facility like this one hasn’t bothered with paper credentials in decades. It’s fortunate, then, that we have been injected with the DNA of the men whose identities we’ve stolen. It ensures that the retinal and thumbprint scans go smoothly.
The doors slide open for us welcomingly, and we usher the Professor and the others down a long, narrow corridor shaped like a tube. The glass walkway is identical to the others around us, that tunnel their way to and from various levels of Stonehead. Of course, Olivia and the others are situated near the very heart of the prison, down a winding path of twisting tubes. During our initial rescue attempt, we had the benefit of my niece Agata’s special abilities. Her bionic cerebrum’s electromagnetic pulse knocked down Stonehead’s power just long enough for us to break through the many checkpoints requiring fingerprints, retinal scans, and voice recognition. Even though they were able to stop her with some kind of weapon—we still aren’t sure what kind—by the time we reached the center it didn’t matter.
Now we have the liberty to walk through these doors without attracting suspicion, though we do gain the attention of every officer we pass in the tubes. They stare, openmouthed and envious, clearly unable to believe that two officers were able to bring down the most wanted criminals in America and a few of their accomplices to boot.
When we reach the main doors leading to the wing of the prison reserved for criminals marked for execution, we are met by Captain Rodney Jones, the dedicated soldier tasked with heading up The Enforcers, whose sole mission is the capture or termination of all Bionics. Dressed in a simple uniform of slacks and a button-up shirt decorated with medals befitting his high rank, he is still as menacing as he appears when decked out in his armor. He is as tall as Dax, which is insane, and twice as broad. No way is he that big naturally. If I had to guess, I’d say he takes full advantage of the steroid injections offered to the Military Police. To level the playing field, the government says. His dark eyes are narrowed and gleaming dangerously as he approaches. He is flanked by several other officers as well as Callius Daniels, the infamous warden of Stonehead.
Just behind them are a series of doors leading to small rooms where prisoners are processed in and questioned. I shudder as I remember passing these rooms on our first mission. The door to one is hanging wide open and the white tiles are bathed in blood… Olivia’s blood. It takes everything I have not to open fire on the MPs right then and there. Instead, I grip the butt of my weapon tightly with one hand and execute a perfect salute with the other.
“Captain Jack Knightly reporting,” I say in a soldier’s rough bark.
Dax salutes as well and the other officers return the gesture—all except Jones. He is circling us and eyeing the prisoners with a predatory smile. “Well, well,” he says, his booming voice reverberating from the walls and ceiling, “I must say I am surprised to see you Knightly, Barnes. When you didn’t return from Memphis, we feared the worst.”
Dax launches into the story we fabricated to explain our—or rather, their—absences. “We took a chance on following a Resistance aircraft, sir,” he says in perfect imitation of a subordinate soldier. “They were trying to escape as the other Bios attacked us. Captain Knightly and I pursued the craft and shot it down. Imagine our surprise when we found them inside.”
Jones’s eyebrows shoot up. “You deliberately defied orders, but I am willing to let that slide, Barnes,” he says with a shrug. “Sometimes following your instincts is worth it. And in this case…” He trails off, sauntering toward Jenica with a smirk. He leers at her, leaning much too close, so close I’m sure she can tell what he had for lunch. But she doesn’t move an inch. “I’d say it was more than worth it.”
Jenica is defiant, staring the captain down as he glares at her. After a few seconds, his eyes shift toward the rest of our prisoners. “Excellent work,” he says, clapping his hands together loudly and spreading them wide as if welcoming the prisoners to Stonehead. “Have them processed in and caged, Warden,” he says to Daniels. The warden is a rail-thin snake of a man with shifty, beady eyes and pointy teeth. I don’t like the way he’s eyeing Jenica’s headgear, as if she’s a shiny new toy he wants to play with. No one talks about it, but everyone knows that the torture of the Bionics is a regular occurrence on his watch. The government has assured the people that the ‘decommissioning’ of a bionic enhancement is humane. But behind closed doors, parts are removed without anesthesia, and of course, many who lose their parts cannot live without them. Those that can are now mutilated beyond repair and most likely wish they were dead.
“Make sure they’re comfortable,” Jones adds with a chuckle. “Meanwhile, I’ll put a call in to the higher-ups. I’m sure they will want to interrogate America’s most wanted terrorists.”
Dax and I step away as the warden and his officers step forward to take the Professor and the others. My jaw clenches and my fingers curl around the butt of my gun as their shackles are deionized and they are separated. Blythe’s scent curls up through my nostrils as she’s taken past me, shoved roughly by a guard. Her eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and I can see her fear. I want to tell her everything is all right, but have to settle for letting my facial expression do the talking. Though, I don’t know if the desired effect is achieved since this face is not mine.
“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.
He 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.
Chapter 18
Gage Bronson and Dax Janner
Stonehead Prison Facility
Washington D.C.
August 18, 4010
8:30 a.m.
“Got it!”
I hold the small, palm-sized cartridge up in my hand, catching Dax’s attention from across Jones’ office. In a file cabinet in the corner, which is filled with classified files, I have found all the information the government has on the Rejects. “Good,” Dax says, pulling his COMM device from his back pocket. It has a handy slot for file reading on the back. “We’ve got to report to escort the prisoners to execution. We barely have enough time to copy the information and get back to the cell block.”
I come around the desk and place the slim, rectangular cartridge in his hand. He quickly plugs it in and presses a few buttons on the touch screen to begin copying the file. The transfer happens almost instantly, and Dax hands it back to me. I carefully place it back where it came from.
“Let’s move,” Dax says, leading the way toward the exit swiftly. A solemn silence falls between us and I know his mind is on what will happen next, just as mine is. The information about the Rejects, we can’t do anything with now. It’s of no use at the moment. Now is the time to focus on getting Olivia and the others safely out of Stonehead.
When we arrive at the cell block, a team of twelve officers is assembled, led by Captain Jones. Behind the glass doors on one side, I can see Jenica chained to a steel table in one room, the Professor in one next to her. The raised voices of interrogators are muffled as they pace back and forth in front of the tables, fists flying and blood splattering the walls as they work to get the information they need. It takes everything in me not to cringe as an officer’s palm makes contact with Jenica’s cheek. To her credit, she barely winces, her human eye narrowed murderously at the man abusing her as he takes out his frustration on her. The Professor is in worse shape, one eye nearly swollen closed, his wild curls now beyond repair and hanging in a battered face.
