Free Resist by Tracey Martin

like me. Before they perfected the human-technology integration. Most of their early experiments died, but the unlucky ones who survived are locked up, supposedly for our safety as well as theirs. I don’t know why exactly Malone keeps them around, but I suppose they must somehow be useful scientifically.
    The Es don’t seem particularly pleased about that, and having endured some of RedZone’s testing, I can’t blame them. I’m not sure what’s worse actually—hearing the angry roars of some or the painful cries of others. That’s the worst part of being down here, the part I’d been dreading. I want to put some of the Es out of their misery, but I don’t even know if there’s a difference between those who are hurting and those who are filled with rage. For all I know, the ones whose cries tear me up inside are the ones whose metal hands would tear me up for real if they got out.
    Malone says I was corrupted. On my last mission, I spent too much time on the outside, and my programming—hell, my brain—was damaged by the experience. This is why RedZone had to erase some of my memories, and this is why Malone needs to test me and make sure I can be fixed. And by sending me down here for my unit’s “protection”, Malone is warning me that if I can’t be fixed, I will end up here permanently. Just another E.
    Some might say it’s better than being killed, but I do not want to end up in this prison. I want to be fixed, or barring that, I want to know what happened to me so I can fake being fixed.
    This morning, as I prepped for the Noble and Reese mission, I hadn’t the faintest idea what my transgressions might have been. Now I’m certain it’s something to do with that night in the motel and a boy named Kyle. I ran away and took some of my unit members with me. Was it Kyle who corrupted me? He wasn’t one of us, but apparently he wasn’t normal either. Were any of the things I believed real? Did I really have proof that RedZone committed crimes?
    And if I believed Malone was doing terrible things and that I had to protect Kyle from him, then how did I end up back here? Just what parts of my life are the lies? The endless questions loop over and over in my head, and no matter how many times I ask them of myself, no more answers come.
    Without any sort of provocation, one of the Es slams against its cell door as we pass. I can’t stop myself from jumping with surprise, but the guards don’t notice my reaction. Their faces are white with fear, and they step away from the door. Inside the cell, the creature continues to bang rhythmically. I let out a breath, shaken but confident that there’s no way it can take down that door.
    The guards seem to realize it too, and one of them, pretending to be unfazed by the noise, pounds his fist against the door and tells the thing inside to shut up. Unsurprisingly, that makes it slam the door harder. Soon, other Es join the ruckus. The corridor descends into madness.
    The second guard unlocks my cell with trembling hands, and I step inside with my head held high. Though I have too many questions, damned if I’ll let any of these people find out what I’m thinking or feeling.
    But when the door shuts behind me with a clang, I close my eyes and allow myself to shiver. Whether it’s from fear or confusion or both, I can’t say. Outside my door, a new round of yelling and banging erupts as the men disappear down the hallway. I sink to the sparse cot against the far wall and rest my head on my knees. There’s a good part of me that wants to join the cacophony, screaming in my own frustration.

Chapter Seven
    Sunday Morning: Present
    The Es keep up their racket for over an hour—actually, seventy-one minutes—and despite me counting the passing seconds, it’s the longest hour I’ve endured in a while. Once they finally accept that their audience has left, the