Page 67 of Nolan
“Lemme see your ticket,” Travis says. When I offer it to him, he balks. “They have him listed as a bionic carry on, not as a passenger.”
“This fucking president,” AJ mutters. “I didn’t vote for her.”
A man in a suit, quite fired up according to his vitals, walks toward us behind the flight attendant, freshly bolstered by the presence of her manager. I’m resigned as he tells Apollo the same thing, and as a courtesy, promises not to charge him for checking me like a bag. A first responder discount, he says.
Apollo is just trying not to deck someone.
The airline attendant motions to me. “Right this way. We’ll go to the carry-on platform.”
Apollo turns to me reluctantly, his eyes filled with remorse. “Nolan. I’m so sorry, man.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I reply, just wanting to get all of this over with. “I’ll see you when we get there.”
The moment they’ve boarded and I’m alone, I’m in the hands of the airline. The loaders exchange glances when they’re told to secure me in the cargo bay with the other luggage.
“He’s the firefighter bot,” one of them says, talking about me as if I’m not there. He tries to take my arm, but I pull away.
“Trust me. You can’t lift me.” I get down from the jet bridge and onto the runway, walking toward where other workers are loading up the bay. I crawl in and stay still, allowing them to secure me into a space specifically created for bionics. I’m stored next to an older BN2050 unit, already powered down.
He has the right idea. As soon as I’m certain I’m strapped in properly, I gaze down at the medallion around my neck, distracting myself by doing wildfire research, preparing as best I can. Then I let myself focus on Mia, replaying our moments together. After everything that’s happened today, I encounter a sudden dose of paranoia.
With the intimacy shared between Mia and me, I don’t want to think about people at the station going through my stuff, scanning my memory banks, seeing her. I do what brings me immediate comfort instead. I double-check and make sure all memories of her—texts, videos, phone calls, recordings, the works—are where the fire department can’t reach them.
They can try to take away my dignity, but my privacy? No. I’ll keep holding onto that. It’s mine. That’s all there is to it.
Replaying Mia’s smile in my head, content on all fronts, I go into standby.
The fire has been raging for over a week now, and Cal Fire works tirelessly twenty-four-seven to try to bring it under control.
The Weekenders are placed at the front after a long briefing to prepare us for the worst of it. My audio receptors, keener than human ears, are overcome with ringing as a plane flies overhead, dropping crimson flame retardant to douse the flames that swallow up entire homes and forests.
We work hard, digging trenches parallel to the fire as it approaches and removing brush to rob it of its fuel with the California engine crews, doing our best to contain it. After an eighteen-hour shift, the Weekenders retire for a little sleep so they don’t collapse from exhaustion.
“Hey, Nolan!”
I look up as a helitack pilot approaches me, his crew jogging past him toward the landing pad of his helicopter. “Your battery out?”
“Not even close,” I reply.
“Then come on. I’ve got an engine crew stranded, one man severely injured. I could use you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Helitack crews are some of the toughest out there. They train endlessly to ensure their operations are smooth. But the season has been drier than usual, and the flames fester and billow quickly, overtaking the land like poison scorching through human veins.
It doesn’t take much for fire to overtake anyone. Just a matter of seconds, and a human could easily die.
The wind is on our side, but that could change at any moment. We have to be quick. Depending on its direction and power, smoke could rise, making it impossible for our pilot to maneuver and essentially force him to fly blind—a dangerous thing for all of us, if he can’t see the ground.
We hover above the pick-up point, near a house completely engulfed by a ravenous fire that refuses to die. I rappel down, and the moment I touch the ground with the helitack crew, I work to secure the other firefighters, noting their vitals are under duress. The wounded one among them is in bad shape with vicious third-degree burns on his legs, and I lift him onto a gurney, fastening him tightly to it. His team helps me get him into the helicopter before I do a rushed headcount.
One is missing. My visual feed blinks, focusing and zooming in on the identification of the absent fireman. Six-foot-one. Two-hundred-fifty pounds. Caucasian.
“Where’s Donahue?” I shout over the loud whipping of the choppers above our heads.
The engine crew is bone weary, but the moment someone is missing, they’re up and alert. “He was right there!” one of his team calls back.
“Stay here,” I tell them. “I’ll find him.”
