Page 4 of Rage

I refrain from grimacing at the mention of Green and shake hands with our visitors as they offer polite thanks for the demonstration. They leave, clearly eager to see further examples of my work, despite their coldly professional expressions.

Yes, my work. Fuck Green.

“I want to talk with him.”

I blink, surprised that the general is lingering here instead of following our visitors out. “With who? AX2?”

“Yes.” Without waiting for my response, he approaches the heavy steel door separating us and types in the code.

“Why?” I blurt, but he’s already moving through the now-open door with long strides, and I have to take two steps for every one of his to keep pace as he nears AX2.

General Thompson throws me a warning look over his shoulder. He doesn’t verbalize the reprimand, but he doesn’t need to.

I manage to stop myself from cowering as the instinct not to anger the alpha kick in, but I do correct myself. “Sorry, I meant: Why do you wish to speak with him, sir? We try to keep engagements to a minimum so as to not stimulate any unwanted responses. The AX model can be… challenging, if not kept firmly in check.”

He sighs, as if I’m a child who shouldn’t need to ask the obvious, and nods at AX2. “Because as much as you and the other doctors insist he is a machine, he was a man first. I’ve read the reports—what you call challenges with their biochemical balance looks to me like men in need of letting off some steam. Prisoners undergoing solitary confinement exhibit similar bursts of temper.”

I clench my hands into fists behind him—a small rebellion he’ll never see. What I really want to do is scream.

“Sir. We base our conclusions on vigorous scientific research—”

The general silences me with a raised hand, his gaze locking with AX2’s. He is nearly as tall as the cyborg, but I know he couldn’t measure up to his muscular frame, even in his prime. No human can, alpha or not.

“Thank you for the demonstration, soldier,” he says. “I’m curious—if you had the option, would you choose to spend your free time among other soldiers? Or do you prefer the solitude of Dr. Thompson’s lab?”

“Sir,” I hiss, outrage heating my cheeks. My knuckles are white with the effort of containing my anger. “Please. You’ll undo months of traini—”

Once again, he silences me with a raised hand without sparing me so much as a glance. “AX2?”

The cyborg’s green eyes flick to mine for the briefest second before he says, “I serve the U.S. government. My desires are unimportant.”

“See?” I all but growl. “He does not need to let off steam, General. He is a thing—a weapon.”

“Please,” the general scoffs. “Torture any man for a few months, and he would respond similarly.”

“Excuse me? I don’t torture—!”

“So far, we have employed the AX2 models on relatively simple missions. It is the desire of the powers that be that we expand upon their usage for more complex tasks, some of which will require working closely with other soldiers—missions we can’t employ machines for. For that, they will need to socialize. Relearn how to work as part of a team.” The general arcs both eyebrows at AX2. “Do you remember, soldier? What it’s like to be part of a unit?”

“No, sir,” AX2 says, the rumbly bass of his voice not betraying any hint of interest.

Because he has none, I remind myself as I scour his blank expression. He’s incapable of emotion.

But even as I think it, a flash of memory heats my cheeks and makes goosebumps crawl down my arms: the undeniable yearning in his eyes as his grotesque member swelled in response to my examination yesterday.

No. Not emotion. Instinct—basic biology. Even insects possess the drive to procreate. And I have yet to figure out how to strip that impulse from the AX class.

Green doesn’t see the need, but then I doubt he’s had to endure their leftover alpha urges while trying to get on with work.

“If you recall, we don’t know if AX2 has been part of a unit before,” I say, the embarrassing memory from yesterday stripping my ability to keep my voice sufficiently respectful. I’m done caring.

General Thompson arcs one eyebrow a millimeter higher at my insolent tone, but finally deigns to look at me. “He was a soldier long before you came across him, my dear. He’s got that look about him.”

I bare my teeth at the inappropriate moniker, the heat in my cheeks deepening. “Either way, he doesn’t need to be socialized to be capable of more complex missions. Tell me what you need him to do and I’ll make sure he’s ready. I don’t need your help to do my job.”

He sighs and pats my shoulder. “I know you’re a brilliant scientist, Addie, but some things you can’t learn from a book. What I need is for him and the others to be ready for full social integration so they can complete any mission the Agency requires. The Russians are becoming increasingly, ah, problematic. The AX class could prove an invaluable asset—they are miles ahead of any technology our enemy has on their hands, so far as intelligence can discern. But we need them to be more than machines. You need to make them into more than that. Understood?”

And if the AX class happens to be the solution to this Russian problem, he as the general in charge of this project will be lauded. There are only so many opportunities left for a three-star general to climb in the ranks, but I suspect he has ambitions for the next step. He always has.

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