by Ryan A. Span
Later, alone in the room prepared for them, Gina sipped a cup of tea and stared at the wall. It was hung with interesting tapestries, but Gina never saw them. She was much too preoccupied with her own woes. Bomber sprawled on the bottom bunk looking as deflated as Gina felt.
A sour smile crossed her lips. “So I’ll be going home tomorrow, huh?”
He glanced at her with his simple, guileless brown eyes. “Sure, if you wanna be hacked into a million pieces with a machete. No problem.”
“Well, we’re not going to find out anything sitting here,” she pointed out. Her head still throbbed from the virtual nightmare. She couldn’t close her eyes anymore without seeing ash statues in the streets, smoking and crumbling in the acid rain. Small wonder she couldn’t sleep. Just lay awake shivering and sweating on her sheets.
“Nope,” he agreed. Of course he said nothing else. Gina thought about it with black humour, and quickly lost count of the silent seconds slipping away. Finally he stirred again. “You saw somethin’ back there, didn’t you? Again?”
Gina swallowed, putting her cup down. “Yeah.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
A flash of irritation crept up her spine. She’d been putting up with this bullshit for some twenty-four hours now, and one Bomber was just about annoying the fuck out of her. She was tired of it, all of it, pushing to her feet with wrath on her face.
She started off at a shout, saying, “Why the fuck do you even ask if you’re not going to press for the answer?! Do you even care?! God!” It only got louder from there. “You got me into this, it’s your fault, I’ve never done any wrong to anyone! I don’t believe this! I, I just,” her voice cracked, “I want to go home and... And...” A dry sob forced its way up her throat. The rush of emotions was too much to contain. Moisture filled her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands, sniffling.
“Hey now, no need for that,” he said, standing up to put an arm around her shoulders. “Listen, we’re gonna’ get through this. We are. First thing, though, we gotta’ get you some help.” He put a finger under her chin and made her look up at him. “I think maybe you picked up somethin’ while you were inside his head. I don’t know. Somethin’ like that. D’you know if there’s anyone on the Street we could go to that knows about this stuff? That maybe can find out what happened to you?”
Scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands, she rallied herself, getting her feelings back under control. She took a deep, sniffling breath, and let it all out. It relaxed her a little.
“Not on the Street,” she said, turned away from him to dig a paper towel out of her purse. “Someone, though. Retired. Used to show me the ropes when I was new there.”
Bomber raised an eyebrow. “Retired? Ain’t many telepaths that make it to retirement that I know of.” ”I know. I wasn’t planning to, myself.” She bit her lip, wondering why she’d said that. “Anyway. She might know something, if we can get to her place without running into any machetes.”
“They’ll keep their heads down for a while. They know we’re dangerous now. No, they won’t make their move until they’re good and ready.” He seemed to reach a decision. “We’ll head on over there in the mornin’, first thing. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, unsure of how to show gratitude. It wasn’t something she had cause to do very often, not on the Street.
In a rush she kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Thanks,” then dove headlong back into her bunk without waiting for a reply, too afraid of what it might be.