My theory failed quickly. By the time we reached Lankershim and Oxnard, trouble was all around us. The air was full of smoke and sirens and car alarms. The clusters of chimeras had become a mob. Most ran past without a second glance at Zoe or me, but a few gave us quick grins and the critter wave of solidarity that looks like clawing the air. I suddenly realized that on this night, anyone who could pass as a chimera was as safe as could be in Crittertown.
Someone threw a trash can through the front window of a narcotics store. I expected looters to empty it, but instead, a tigerman in a tattered suit and a minister's collar smashed bottles of vodka and set the whole place on fire. As I wondered how many dollars in alcohol, hemp, heroin, and opium were in each whiff of pungent smoke, Zoe said, "They're trashing their own neighborhood!"
I glanced at her. "You want to bus them to Beverly Hills?"
A young apeboy kicked in the door of a furniture rental store and grabbed a flat-screen HV. As other chimeras climbed into the place with all the joy of children after eggs on Easter, the apeboy passed the HV to me with an oddly formal bow and said, "Happy holidays, Cousins."
I returned the bow and gave the HV to a goatman brushing by me. "Enjoy, Cuz."
The goatman already looked Satanic with his stubby horns and goatee, but he looked more so when he grimaced and grabbed my sleeve. "You smell funny."
Zoe said, "That human thing?"
"Yeah."
Zoe laughed. "Figures. Stinky works around them all day."
The goatman sniffed, then glared at me. "You're a skin."
Tensing for the SIG, I realized I would miss it when it was gone. Then I realized that producing a pistol in the midst of a crowd that wasn't feeling good about humans might not be the best way to improve interspecial relationships. I let my arm relax.
Zoe told the goatman, "He's okay."
I said, "We're just passing through."
The goatman asked Zoe, "Had to bring your furry down to sightsee?"
Before she could answer, the apeboy pointed away and shouted, "Copbots!"
A phalanx of police bots marched onto Lankershim from Oxnard. They announced in unison, "Clear the streets! Those who do not return to their homes immediately will be arrested!"
A rock flew from the mob and bounced off a copbot skull. A doggirl shouted, "They're our streets! You clear out!" It became hard to track the action after that. Around us, chimeras threw anything that came to hand, including bottles, broken furniture, and a headless doll.
Zoe told the goatman, "The cops want me. This skin's helping me. If they catch either of us, we're dead on the spot."
The goatman glanced at me.
I said, "Why waste a trial on a critter and a critter-lover?"
He scowled and released my sleeve. "Get!"
I nodded, lest the sound of a human voice make him change his mind. Zoe and I ran back down Lankershim, only to see another mobile barricade of copbots filling the next intersection, boxing in the worst of the riot—and us.
Zoe said, "Hell."
A dogboy and a monkeygirl on a scooter tossed a Molotov cocktail at the bots. The bottle hit one's steel shoulder and exploded, hiding it and its sexless siblings in a burst of black smoke and hot flames. The crowd cheered.
Then the bots, blackened but undamaged, marched out of the inferno with shocksticks extending from their forearms.
"C'mon!" I yanked Zoe toward a nearby building where a brass plaque read, "Toad Hall Apartments." I tried the door. Locked. "Kick on two. One. Two."
Her sidekick was as good as mine. The door crashed in on its hinges, but before we could enter, cool steel fingers closed on our shoulders. A copbot said, "Chase Maxwell. Zoe Domingo. You are wanted for questioning in the death—"
A new sledgehammer, price tag still on it, met the copbot's head from behind, cracking its skull like a piñata. The goatman let the hammer drop. "Thought I told you to get."
Two more copbots ran toward us. I said, "We're gone." The goatman ran down the street. The bots chose to follow Zoe and me into the hallway, which didn't surprise me a bit.
Zoe said, "There's a back door, right?"
"Trust me."
"That's not an answer."
An apartment door opened a crack as we passed. An ancient foxwoman in a housecoat peered out and saw me, Zoe, and the bots. She said, "Dios mio!" and slammed the door as shocksticks retracted and dart guns extended from the copbots' forearms.
A sleep dart thumped into the woodwork next to Zoe's head. Something snagged my coat. I whirled, opened the Pocket, and shot as the SIG hit my palm. The bots fell back. If anyone ever comes up with disposable copbots, fugitives won't have a chance.
There was a back door, which I had expected, given that the building looked old enough to have been built during the Regulation Age. Miracle of miracles, the fire release bar hadn't been removed by a landlord who favored security over safety. I hit the bar, and we burst into an alley.
The nearest vehicle was a battered green Ford pickup parked by a dumpster. We tried the doors. Zoe said, "Locked!" and looked for the next place to run.
I smashed the driver's window with the butt of the SIG, reached in, and yanked the handle. Zoe took out her window with an elbow strike. As I opened the driver's door, a sleep dart pinged off its side. I spun and shot at a copbot coming from Toad Hall. It ducked, and Zoe and I scrambled into the truck.
I handed her my SIG and hunched under the dash. She said, "I can't—" As I yanked out my pocket knife, a copbot gripped the driver's door.
Zoe shot twice over me. I heard the glad tinkle of a copbot's optics smashing, then the sound of the driver's door being pulled from the truck, followed by something heavy falling in the alley. Zoe said, "Huh. I guess I can."
I straightened up, touched the wires together, and the truck belched to life with a gas-powered roar and an acrid plume of exhaust. One copbot, clutching the driver's door, lay twitching by the truck. The other ran into the alley, shouting, "Halt!"
I wrenched the truck into reverse and rammed the second bot, flinging it back against the dumpster with a clang. Then I slammed the stick into first, and we raced away in a cloud of carcinogenic smoke.
Zoe said, "We're car thieves now."
"You too can become a criminal in twelve easy lessons." I glanced at her. Her breathing was heavy, but so was mine. She was grinning. So, I realized, was I. I said, "Technically, I became a car thief when I took Arthur's car. You were out of it then."
"You're a car ahead of me? Damn, I've gotta catch up."
"The night is young, Ms. Domingo."
"True, Mr. Maxwell. Where'd you learn to hotwire a gas-burner?"
"Eddie. I'm pretty sure he had paid for his, but I never asked."
Chapter Eleven
I drove residential streets as quickly as I could. Most neighborhood toll stations simply raise the pike at night, but we still gave away a lot of change to kids who may or may not have been authorized to collect. Eventually, with our pockets lighter, we parked in front of a lower-class house, a rectangular box from the 20th century that was almost redeemed by enormous rose bushes on either side of its front walk.
Zoe said, "I guess this is it."
"I guess so."
"Want to leave me here?"
"Can't. Payment's yet to be arranged."
"I wish there was another way."
"Hell, be glad there's one. Maybe if I reduce my firepower, I'll start using my brain a little more."
She smiled. "Small chance of that."
No lights were visible in the house. At the front porch, we looked at each other and shrugged. Zoe double-checked the address, then rang the bell. We waited long enough for me to feel conspicuous.
Then the door opened a crack. Moonlight fell on a woman who scowled out at us. Her eyes were feral. Black tattoos covered most of her dark skin. Her forehead tat was a wolf's head.
Zoe said, "Ruby? Nate sent us."
The wolfwoman opened the door wide enough for us to step into
the dark house. "This way." Her voice was husky, like a longtime smoker's.
I could see almost nothing. I did my best to follow Ruby's dark shape by sound. Zoe grabbed my arm to keep me from bumping into a chair. Maybe her touch should've been comforting, but it reminded me that those of us who took the slow route to speech and thumbs are not designed to function well in the night. How many chimps would walk willingly into a cave with a jaguar and a wolf?
Ruby turned on a lamp. We stood in a small living room furnished in early 21st century thrift shop. The wolfwoman looked at us, giving special attention to Zoe's artwork. Still scowling, she said, "My brother's driving a truck to Dallas. He'll come by around dawn. Let's see the hardware."
I opened the Pocket, caught my SIG, and showed it. I opened the Pocket again. The gun disappeared.
Ruby said, "He'll bring a doc."
I said, "No cutting till Zoe's out of here."
Ruby nodded. "Come on."
As she took us down a short hall, I asked, "Why no lights? You think someone's watching you?"
Ruby showed her teeth in a cold smile. "Humans want to take the sun with them everywhere they go. Electricity isn't free." She stopped in front of a door. "You stay here tonight. Private bath, no room service." She turned to Zoe. "If you want to change clothes, there's some old things of mine in the closet."
Zoe said, "Thanks. Mind if we get some food?"
Ruby shrugged. "Kitchen privileges included. Don't wake me, don't break anything, and we'll get along fine. If the sheep in wolf's markings needs something, turn on some lights."
"Thanks."
Ruby went into another room. I looked at the door to ours, then said, "Food?"
Zoe nodded. "Food."
Ruby's refrigerator provided black bread, Asian mustard, and spinach leaves for both of us, cold cow flesh for Zoe, and cucumber slices for me. We split a big bottle of dark beer with our sandwiches and didn't talk much. Afterward, Zoe said, "Better."
"Good. You drowsy?"
"Nope. I could get used to whatever that medic AI dispensed."
"Tell me if you still think so when it wears off."
"Good point."
I put our dishes in the washer while she put away the sandwich makings. As she wiped down the counter, I said, "Zoe?"
"What?"
I almost commented on how very domestic we were. "Pass the sponge." I wiped the table, then yawned.
She said, "We should both get some rest."
"Can you?"
She smiled. "There's not a drug made that can keep this cat from napping."
We returned to the door Ruby had shown us. It opened on a tiny room nearly filled with a double bed and a dresser. The door by the closet led to a small bathroom with a toilet and shower. I said, "I'll sleep on the rug."
"No, I'll— Hold still." She reached for my coat, and my breath stopped as I wondered what she was doing. Then she plucked a sleep dart from the cloth.
I pulled off the coat and jacket, then lifted my shirt to see if the dart had scratched me. "Missed the skin. Maybe I should jab myself for a little help sleeping."
"Max? You can't give 'em the Pocket."
I looked up in surprise. "Sure I can. Ever hear of holsters?"
"Bullshit. You talk like you're giving away a watch. It's more like a finger or a kidney."
"Trust me. I'd rather give away the Pocket than a finger or a kidney."
"But—"
"It's mine, Zoe. I can do what I want with it."
"Sure. But why this?"
I couldn't think of an answer that would satisfy either of us. I shrugged and walked into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.
Zoe leaned against the door frame. "Is it that thing you told me about Long Island, when the critters died?"
I didn't want to talk about that then—or any time. I stripped off my shirt and looked at the fierce patterns on my face and chest. In the mirror, I saw her watching me. Putting soap on a washcloth, I said, "Seems a shame to wash off your artwork."
"Max—" I think she was going to call me on avoiding her question, but after a moment, she said, "I'll write when I find work."
I concentrated on washing my face, carefully not looking at her. "You can't."
Her voice was very polite. "Why not?"
"They could drug me to learn where you are."
"Oh."
I rinsed the cloth and started a second pass. "If you go through a place where you're sure you'll never return, you might send me a postcard someday, just to say you made it. No signature, no return address, no clues—"
"I got it."
"Sorry. I just wanted to be sure."
"I know." She took the washcloth out of my hand. "I'll get your back." She scrubbed the base of my neck. The cloth felt warm and pleasantly scratchy. As she reached my shoulder blades, she worked more slowly.
"Turn around." She washed the markings off my chest without looking up. When she turned to rinse the cloth, she saw me studying her in the mirror.
I said, "It has nothing to do with what happened in Long Island."
"Max—"
"It's just you."
I waited for an answer. Her eyes looked like the surface of an alien sea. Her face told no more than the Sphinx's. We both knew all the reasons I shouldn't have said anything. We had no future. Even if she wasn't going on the run, I was human, she was chimera. Our societies would let us have sex, but they wouldn't let us love. The Human Marriage Amendment banned interspecies marriage in every state. Under normal circumstances, the only relationship we could've hoped for would've been that of furry and pet, and neither of us could ever endure the inequality of that that.
No future means no consequences. I think that's why she put her hand on my cheek. I know that's why I took her hand and kissed the palm. We had this moment, and would never have another. We seized it.
She moved closer to me. I put my arms around her and drew her tight against me. We kissed. It was your classic awkward first-time kiss. Two thoughts wrestled in my mind: This is a terrible idea. This is a wonderful idea. The first thought saw it had lost and gave up without a fight.
Our lips brushed, then parted. Her tongue was like the wash cloth, warm, slick, slightly scratchy. Part of my mind said that I was kissing something inhuman, but she seemed so very human then that I no longer had the slightest idea what human was.
She twined her fingers in my hair and kissed my throat. Her tongue felt rougher on dry skin, but it was as far from unpleasant as you can get. It made me want to laugh. I suppose I would have, if I hadn't thought she might be offended. I peeled off her baseball jacket and let it fall by my shirt on the counter.
She said, "No one sleeps on the floor."
"Deal."
Clothes came off more quickly then. I pulled the red dress over her head while she fumbled with my belt. She wore no brassiere for me to return the fumbling. Her breasts were small, perfect for cupping with my hands. Her nipples burned into my palms.
My trousers fell with my boxers. "Oh, my," she said, for I was as ready as a man can be. I slid one hand down her spine, over the small of her back to her buttocks. The other traveled down from her breasts to two more, smaller pairs of secondary nipples. I caressed each of them as my hand moved down her flat stomach. Her panties peeled off easily. All of her hair was a jaguar blend of black, gold, and brown. She was as ready as I was.
"Bed," she said.
I picked her up to carry her there, then kicked at the pants tangled around my ankles. That didn't help, so I hopped toward the bed. She laughed in my arms. "And they say humans don't have mating rituals."
We fell together onto the bed. After twisting around to free my feet, I ended up on top of her. I nuzzled her throat, then kissed the top of her breast, then worked my way down her torso with my tongue, learning her taste. As I reached her thighs, she laughed again and pulled my head up to hers.
She pushed me, and I rolled over. She licked my stomach, and I gasped. She said, "Too scratchy?"
She crawled up my body to straddle my hips. "Prepare to suffer, monkeyboy."
Whatever our physiological differences, we fit together perfectly. She rode me hard, I bucked for all I was worth, we crossed the finish line together, and that's enough sex as horse-riding metaphor for one narrative. Describing the sex distracts from my point, which is simply that it wasn't just about the sex. Don't get me wrong—it was about the sex. It just wasn't just about the sex.
Afterward, we lay tangled together on the bed. I can't say what she was doing; I was enjoying the post-coital very slow fall from Heaven. When I landed, I lifted my head. "Is that purring?"
"Men get so smug."
I stroked her thigh. "Even smugger when they do it twice."
"Huh. If your head swells any more, it may explode."
"I'll take that chance."
She put her hand against the small of my back and pulled me into her. "I'll count it as a mercy killing."
So I became smugger that night.
Afterward, I must've fallen asleep. In my dream, I was making love to Kristal Agatha Blake while she tugged strips of her skin away to bare bright metal. I tried to run from her, but barbed hooks sprang from every part of her body, fastening me to her. The hooks must've been treated with a drug that made me feel pleasure instead of pain. I wanted even more hooks to snag me—and that realization made me want to scream, but the drug on the hooks had sapped my strength, leaving me unable to do anything but cling to Blake forever.
I heard a bell, far away. The bed shifted. Zoe whispered, "Someone's here."
Glad to be awake, gladder to be beside Zoe, I opened my eyes and checked my watch. It wasn't quite five. "Your driver's early." I heard the wolfwoman's bedroom door open. The floor of the hall creaked under her steps as she passed by. I lay close to Zoe, thinking about my dream and how I'd like another five hours, or even five minutes, of sleep, and wondering how I would feel when she left, and whether I would regret giving up the Pocket. I'm a sucker for the grand gesture. Sometimes I pay for them for years.
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