Street Freaks

by Terry Brooks

  “We have to take a chance. It’s all we have left to work with.” She brightens. “Hey, this is your dream come true. You and me get to go on a date. Think of it that way. Maybe you’ll feel better.”

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then say so now. Are you in or out?”

  He looks away. “You already know the answer to that.”

  She gives him a smile. “You’re right. I do.”

  She leans back, her sandwich finished. He is surprised to discover that he has eaten most of his as well.

  “Why did we come here?” he asks. “To find nourishment?”

  “Not really. But food is a good idea. We came to pick up a few things before breaking into your condo. Also I think we should wait until after midnight.”

  He remains unconvinced. “What if we can’t break in? What if my memory doesn’t come back? What if we can’t find what we need? What if this is just another dead end?”

  “As long as no one catches us, we’re no worse off. But your father went to a lot of trouble to hide something important in your memory. Something that might help us bring down BioGen and stop what’s happening to all those street kids. There’s no reason to think we can’t uncover it. We just have to keep trying.”

  Ash looks away, considering the risks. It doesn’t take much thinking to realize how extreme they are. But it also doesn’t take much to understand how few choices they have if they are to find a way out of this mess. The kids at Street Freaks have risked themselves for him time and time again. Now he has a chance to pay them back for all they have done.

  Suddenly he wants to tell her something, to take a chance. He hesitates, unsure of how to say it.

  “If we do this,” he begins. “If we pull it off . . .”

  He searches for the right words. Her eyes are fixed on him, and when he looks into them, he sees the possibilities that she keeps trying to deny.

  “Go on,” she says.

  “Can we start over? Can we think about being more than friends? If that’s what we still are? Can we just think about it?”

  “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

  He shakes his head. “Not where you’re concerned, I don’t. I know you think I don’t understand, that I’m naive and probably ought to grow up. But I think you’re wrong.”

  She says nothing. She just looks at him. He cannot tell what she is thinking, but the intensity of her gaze is terrifying.

  “I mean, the Shoe is dead and Street Freaks is gone, and we both have to start over somewhere. So maybe you could . . .”

  “Change my spots? Even though I’m a leopard?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I know I’m not . . .”

  “I could try,” she says abruptly, interrupting him. She waits for his reaction, then nods. “I could try.”

  He smiles. “That’s good enough for me.”

  When she goes into the bedroom to gather up the things she thinks they will need, he turns on the wall-mounted vidview. There is a show on about growing up in the Northwest Territories. What he sees makes it look attractive, but it fails to hold his attention. His thoughts are elsewhere. On what lies ahead, mostly. How they will get into his sky tower home, now guarded and locked. How Cay thinks she can trigger a return of his memory so that he will know where his father’s file is hidden. How they will manage to retrieve it and escape before they are discovered.

  What will become of them after this is over?

  At some point a news bulletin scrolls across the screen about the troubles in the Dixie Confederacy. Mob action resulting in fires and property damage continues to disrupt the peace. Occupying public buildings and government offices is taking place everywhere. Secession demands surface anew. The list goes on. The attacks on government institutions are troubling. There is a suggestion that action on the part of the United Territories and ORACLE may be close at hand. Achilles Pod units are being readied to intervene.

  Finally, Cay reappears, shuts off the vidview, and tells him to come into her bedroom. Strewn across her bed are sets of protective clothing, including blackout sheaths and Forms. Then she picks up a wasp sting—a small, compact handgun that fires knockout darts. Ash has read about them. Depending on the strength of the serum injected into the dart tips, you can either render a target unconscious or you can terminate it.

  He looks at the tiny weapon and then questioningly at her. “Don’t worry,” she says. “You use it only if you have to protect yourself. Probably won’t be necessary. Just don’t shoot me by mistake.”

  She tosses him a blackout sheath and a pair of Forms and sends him back out into the living room to change while she does the same in the bedroom. When she emerges, she is clothed in black from head to foot, a sinuous panther ready to hunt. He is ready for her, his sheath and Forms molded to his body.

  “I still don’t remember where the file is hidden,” he says.

  “So let’s go see what being back in your old home does for you.”

  “Yeah, okay. But how do we get into the building?”

  She smiles and gives him a wink.

  - 26 -

  They drive the Bryson out of the Red Zone and into the Metro. Cay doesn’t speak to him. She seems to have nothing to say. Ash understands this. He doesn’t have anything to say either. There’s nothing for it now but to follow through. They will gamble on her hunch about his memory. They will risk everything on going back to where it all began weeks earlier.

  She doesn’t ask him where to go or how to get there. She already seems to know, taking the streets he would have told her to take, turning at the corners where he would have told her to turn. He studies her profile. The blackout sheath covers her face and flattens her hair to her head, changing her look entirely. Her features seem hard and sculpted. On the surface, at least, she appears to be a different person.

  They pull into a sky tower parking garage not far from his neighborhood and exit the Bryson. She retrieves a pair of heavy combat jackets from the rear of the vehicle and hands one to him.

  Then she pulls back her sheath where it covers her head and shakes out her hair. She is herself again, strikingly beautiful and serene, all the hard edges gone. She looks at him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says quickly, pulling on his own jacket.

  “We’ll rent a jumper and fly to your home. Not to where you live. To the jumper hive. You remember the code to your unit’s garage? 82C, isn’t it?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

  “I used the vidview in my bedroom to look it up. You can find out anything online, right?” She smirks. “So can you get us inside, once we’re there?”

  He nods. “If no one’s changed the code.”

  “Why would anyone bother? Come on.”

  From there, they ascend by elevator to a jumper rental agency. As they near the service window, she tells him to let her handle things. She goes up to the window while he hangs back, but he can hear her talking to the agent. She is all cool and businesslike. She places her order for a jumper, provides credits to pay for it, allows him to scan her retinal chip, and they are off.

  “You gave him your ID,” he points out as they start down the rows of jumpers.

  She glances over. “Are you afraid for me? Think maybe I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve had some practice at this, you know.”

  “I was just saying.”

  “He got what I wanted him to get. Someone else’s ID. We synths are very versatile, you know. Not being creatures of flesh and blood, we are able to alter our identities. Another protective function against poor behavior in clients.” She laughs softly. “Stop worrying.”

  They move over to the assigned jumper and climb in. Cay powers up the engine, and they roll to the hangar door and out onto the landing platform. Around them, the Metro is a dazzling array of lights and stars, bits and pieces of brightness shining everywhere they look, the refraction altered by the particle content of the poisonous L.A. air. So beautiful, Ash thinks, but so deadly.r />
  They lift off smoothly, Cay working the controls as if she has been doing so all her life. And maybe she has. There is so much about herself she hasn’t revealed. She points their little craft toward his sky tower home without asking for directions. They rise into the upper traffic lanes, now all but deserted with midnight’s passing, and level out. It feels to him as if he is moving through a black ocean. Lights flashing like bright fish sweep past, each set upon its own course. A sudden rush of uncertainty infuses him, and he wishes momentarily that everything were back to the way it used to be.

  But that can never happen. There is only the future, and the future is an unknown.

  They fly up to the building that houses his home, its black mass looming over them as they near, eighty-five stories of stone and steel and composites, its lighted windows beacons of watchfulness. They approach the hive, its reflective numbers clear from this height, and ease close so that Ash’s side is pressed up against his unit’s narrow apron. Ash knows what he is doing is extremely dangerous, but without a remote they cannot access his family storage area without entering his unit’s code from outside. He releases the jumper door and climbs out, a chill wind whipping at his clothing as he presses himself against the building wall and carefully moves along the apron to the digital pad that will allow him to punch in his entry code. The unit door responds, sliding up to reveal a dark emptiness.

  Ash steps aside, and Cay moves the jumper into its designated slot. Ash waits until she climbs out before closing the garage door behind them.

  No words are spoken. Ash waits for directions. Cay moves over to the unit’s interior door, spends a moment or two on the lock, and opens it. Hallway lights reveal an empty interior. On this floor, there are only hives and machines that clean the air pumped through the building. No residents live here.

  With Ash leading the way, they walk to the elevators and summon one that will take them to Ash’s floor.

  Cay takes out her wasp sting. “Let me go first. You watch my back.” She gestures at his weapon, tucked in his belt. “You better take that out and be ready.”

  As the doors open, he feels a shiver. But when they step into the hallway, there is no one around. His home is farther along the corridor and around a corner, so they can’t be sure yet who might be waiting. They move ahead slowly, listening for any sounds. There are none.

  When they reach the corner, Cay motions for him to stop. With her back pressed against the wall, she sneaks a peek. She holds her position and then slides back again, turning to face him.

  Her voice drops to a whisper.

  “No one in sight. But the unit is sealed with vid-alarms. We have to neutralize them before we can enter. Wait here.”

  She steps out into the hallway and looks more closely at the closed door. Everything is abnormally still, frozen in a kind of stasis that suggests to Ash anything might happen if he even breathes. He scans the hall behind him and then looks ahead again. Cay is moving toward the door, walking slowly, weapon raised. She gets to the door and stops. Ribs of wire crisscross the door, connected to the vid-alarms in a tightly spun spider web.

  She backs away and returns to him. “Different plan,” she murmurs and heads back down the hall, motioning for him to follow. At the first door they reach, she turns to him. “Who lives here?”

  “The Kritzers,” he whispers back. “They should still be in Europa.”

  “Anyone staying over while they’re gone?”

  “A nephew, sometimes.”

  “Does he know you?”

  Ash thinks. “I don’t think so. I can’t remember.”

  “Seems to be an ongoing problem with you. Stay out of sight.”

  He backs away and plants himself flush against the wall. Cay knocks on the door, waits, and when no one answers, knocks again. She stands in plain view, smiling broadly at the peephole.

  Long moments pass. Then Ash hears the locks release and the door crack open. “What is it?” a voice asks.

  Cay goes into a long explanation about coming to see her aunt, who doesn’t appear to be home, and a seriously sprained ankle, which requires his help. A short exchange follows, and the door opens.

  She is through the opening instantly, and by the time Ash catches up to her, the occupant—a young man—lies motionless on the floor. Wordlessly, Cay drags him all the way inside, and Ash follows her in and closes the door behind them.

  “What does all this get us?” he asks, trailing Cay as she begins searching the unit.

  “Didn’t you say you escaped using a ledge that runs along the outside of the building?”

  “Yeah. But you don’t expect me to go back out there again, do you?”

  “Afraid so. We need to get into your apartment if we’re to find anything out. Don’t weasel out on me now.”

  “You plan to get in through a window?” he asks.

  “Can’t go through the door.”

  “But the windows are alarmed too!”

  “Is that what the management told you?”

  “Everything in this building is alarmed!”

  She looks at him with something approaching despair. “They don’t alarm the windows of sky towers eighty-two stories up. Fact is they stop after the tenth floor. City codes don’t require more than that. No builder alive spends credits on safety where it isn’t required. Your windows might be locked, but they are definitely not alarmed. Trust me.”

  He isn’t sure this is a matter of trust, but it is clear her mind is made up about how to break into his unit. He really doesn’t want to go back out on that ledge, but he doesn’t want to tell her he won’t either. That doesn’t leave too many choices.

  She finishes making sure there is no one else in the unit, trusses up the Kritzer nephew, and then moves to the delivery port and steps outside, waiting for him to join her. The wind is just as strong up here as it was down at the hive level, and the temperature has dropped considerably. Already, Ash feels the beginnings of numbness in his fingers and feet.

  Cay starts edging her way along the narrow ledge, using the handholds provided for cleaning and repairs to keep from falling. Ash follows, determined. If she can do it, so can I. Just don’t look down. Just keep moving. It is a torturous journey, slow and uncertain, the wind trying to pry them loose from their handholds, the night cloaking everything but distant stars and tower lights. The roar of traffic rises up as if to taunt him, and the thought of dying is suddenly very real.

  But at last they stand outside the laundry room window he used to escape the Hazmats that came for him that first day. Cay’s hands work to gain a grip on the joint where the folding windows compress against the seal of the frame, and when she finally does, they open easily. Using her forearms for balance, she levers herself through the opening. Grappling for purchase, though his effort is much less agile, he manages to join her.

  Once inside, they stand where they are and listen. There are no sounds or voices to be heard. The unit is silent. They exchange a knowing glance. It appears it is empty, but they cannot be certain.

  Cay leads the way into the living quarters. Ash looks around in despair. Everything has been trashed. Even the cushions on the couches and chairs have been ripped apart. Carpet has been torn up and walls opened in huge gaps. The bots lie where they fell, silenced forever. There is barely enough of them left to use for salvage. Ash feels tears come to his eyes. Faulkner, Beattie, and Willis4. Seeing them discarded like this reinforces his anger.

  He stops looking and directs his gaze at Cay. She nods and beckons. They go into the kitchen and sit across from each other at the little breakfast table.

  “This is where your father told you about the file?” she whispers. “In your dream?”

  “Close your eyes and try to recreate what happened. Think about him, about his words, about anything he said or did. Don’t try to force it. Just let it happen.”

  He does as she asks, hands folded on the table in front of him, eyes closed. He pictures his father’s face, hears him speak the
first few words of what will be a troubling, difficult admission, hears him give the beginnings of a warning that Ash will think unnecessary. His father speaks of personal danger that might spill over to include his son. He tries to explain what has happened and why. Words that make Ash feel as if perhaps he doesn’t know his father at all. Words that sometimes make complete sentences and sometimes splinter in fragments, not all of which are intelligible.

  He hears himself make a small sound of something between regret and dismay.

  Hands fold over his. Cay’s hands. Comforting, encouraging.

  “Stay focused. Take deep breaths.”

  He breathes, relaxes, fades into the warmth and softness of her touch, imagines for a moment it might mean more than it does. Drifts. Images surface. Some are of his father speaking to him on that morning; some are of other things. His mother. Holly, facing down the Razor Boys. The Shoe, hanging from a rope. Suddenly, he sees T.J., smiling and carefree. The pain caused by his smile is too much to bear, and he pushes the image away.

  “This isn’t working,” he says, his words rough-edged with what he is feeling.

  “Just be patient. Just stay with it.”

  He does, but now things are beginning to repeat themselves, words his father has said more than once, comments and expressions that Ash has seen before. His memory is working hard, cataloging, organizing, sifting through everything. But there is a darkness keeping him from reaching the rest of what he knows is there—hidden and inviolate.

  His hopes dwindle; his confidence fails.

  He forces his thoughts again to his father sitting with him at this table, telling him of the danger they both face. It seems so long ago. He hears his father telling him he must run if he is told to. To Street Freaks. To safety.

  Heart promise.

  He’d almost forgotten. It was a ritual between them when he was little. His father would ask him to promise, binding his promise by placing his hand over his heart. So long ago. A lifetime, by now.

  He hears his father asking for his pledge, for the binding of it by placing a hand over his heart.

  His father insisting.