“What about the others?” a voice called from the back of the craft. I whip around in my seat to put a face to the masculine voice. From behind the others appears a head of blond hair, broad pair of shoulders, and deep blue eyes that lodge my heart in my throat. The refugees part to reveal him and I can only stare, slack-jawed. He is as large and wide as Dax, with smooth skin and features chiseled from stone. His brow is furrowed over eyes narrowed on Jenica. I look across the aisle to find Dax staring at me quizzically, and then back at the stranger. “Excuse me?” Jenica asks, her tone sharp. “What others?” “When do we help them? The other Bionics stuck out there?” Jenica’s jaw hardens and her hardware hums as she narrows both eyes, human and machine. “We don’t use that term here,” she says, referring to President Drummond’s nickname for us. The Bionics, they call us—humans modified by government equipment. They created us and now they hate us, fear us, force us to go into hiding to protect ourselves and our families. Because Jenica’s hardware isn’t as easily hidden as mine, I know that the term is especially sensitive for her, thought it doesn’t really bother me. In fact, most of us use the term in reference to each other and others like us. It’s being called a Bionic by humans that puts some of us on edge. It’s the implication that we are not human because of our modifications. It reminds me of the word ‘nigger’, which over the thousands of years that word has existed, has not lost any of its power. People with dark skin continue to call each other by the moniker, closing off the rest of the world from saying it and getting offended when the word comes from between white lips. It is the same with this word, this epithet that labels us as different from everyone else. “I’m sorry,” the stranger says, running long, slender fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean it that way.” Jenica nods once, but I can tell she’s still not fond of him. She’s not fond of anyone who speaks out of turn. “I am sure you didn’t. You should be more carefully about throwing that word around. As far as the other victims goes, that is not your concern Mister…” She looks up at him pointedly, pen poised over her clipboard, human eyebrow raised. “Gage,” he answers. “Gage Bronson.” Amazon:tinyurl/m47n7yo
Posted on: Sun, 15 Sep 2013 21:24:52 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015