“If a right-wing nutcase like Normal can be brought around, anything is possible.”
Now that they’d stopped, Joshua was catching up to them.
“Have to convince people, Little Fella,” he said, those soul-ful puppy-dog eyes cutting to her core. “People are afraid of what they don’t understand. Have to change their minds. Make them understand.”
She stared into Joshua’s unabashed sincerity, knowing he was right, but also knowing—even after all they’d suffered, all Joshua had suffered—that he was naive.
“There’s an old pre-Pulse saying among the Normals of the world,” Max said. “Shoot first and ask questions later.”
Logan said, “That’s another reason for you to start negotiations as soon as possible, Max . . . before they start shooting. Besides, how much food and water is there in Terminal City? Realistically, how long can you hold out here?”
“Longer than they think we can,” she said automatically.
“But is living the rest of your life in Terminal City—just waiting for the day they storm the place—is that what you’re looking for?”
Max shook her head. “Of course not.”
“Well, you’ve had your moment of triumph—we have a flag flying. But it’s time for a reality check, Max. You better get started talking to the other side.”
They had made it to the end of the tunnel now, and Logan unlocked another door. They all passed through and found themselves in the basement of a darkened building, where feline DNA allowed her to see the piles of desks, filling cabinets, and office chairs around them.
Logan clicked his flashlight back on and led the way up the stairs to the first floor. Though the windows were all boarded, this floor was much cleaner than the basement, and a revelation compared to the other Medtronics building back in Terminal City.
High-ceilinged, with a tile floor, the large room was separated by partitions into an office on the right, a living room in the center, and a kitchen and dining area to the left. Numerous monitors and a pile of computer equipment cluttered two desks in the office area, and miles of wire seemed to snake everywhere. There was also a video camera that would serve as the new Eyes Only link to the world. The living room was home to a large leather sofa, three chairs, and a coffee table. A giant area rug only slightly smaller than a city bus covered the floor. The kitchen had a big fridge, a huge oven, a microwave, and even a butcher block island in the middle, and a cozy dining area with room for six. Two doors at the far end of the room led to a bathroom and bedroom respectively.
“Pretty cool,” Max said, eyes wide, impressed.
It reminded her of Logan’s old apartment. The penthouse had been beautiful, always spotlessly clean, and decorated in a spare modern manner that truly reflected Logan. That had been before Ames White traced an Eyes Only transmission, and his minions had trashed the place, shot it to hell, wrecking everything and sending Logan into hiding.
Fortunately, the penthouse had been off-the-books, and in the many weeks of Logan keeping a low profile, White had apparently not been able to trace it to its true occupant. So both Logan—and his Eyes Only identity—seemed secure.
“It’s time,” Logan said to her, “to get Eyes Only up and running again anyway—we’ve been off the air too long.”
As she looked around Logan’s new quarters, she said, “This didn’t happen overnight.”
“I’ve been working on this pad for a while,” Logan admitted, “sort of having it as a backup.”
“Then you’ll move here, from Joshua’s?”
“The plan is, kind of hop back and forth. I think it’s probably wise to maintain two bases of operations, for Eyes Only—Joshua’s place gives us a sort of safe house, away from Terminal City.”
Smiling, nodding, she said, “You did really good.”
He liked hearing that. “Did I?”
“You couldn’t stay in Terminal City without risking a toxic backlash.”
“So I’ve left—but I’m still in your backyard.”
“Right. And we have a way in and out of here . . . starting with getting Sketchy and Original Cindy back to Jam Pony. We can use contacts in the outside world.”
From the far end of the room, by the boarded windows, Joshua said, “Cops.”
“Say what?” Max asked, coming over.
Turning to her, Joshua said, “Hole in one of the boards. I can see police.” He returned to his post, peeking through the tiny hole.
Logan joined Max and the dog man. They took turns looking through the spy hole, Logan first, then Max. She saw pretty much the same thing she’d seen on the monitor, only now from the opposite angle, from behind the barricade.
Stepping away, she said, “Looks like they’re digging in.”
“You knew they would,” Logan said.
She gestured to the window. “You better cover that hole at night—even a pinhole of light could give away your position.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Just remember, that tunnel of yours runs in two directions. . . . Are you sure it’s safe here for you?”
He looked at her thoughtfully, and his answer was no glib comeback. “I wish I could say I’m certain, but that’s just not how this works. I can tell you, there’s no record of the building being anything but abandoned since my uncle ceased its use. And, thanks to his paranoia, there’s another tunnel down there that leads to another Cale-owned building on the other side of this block . . . well away from these barricades.”
“Good,” she said.
“I can use that to get in and out. The police are all concentrating on what’s in front of them. They don’t seem worried about what’s behind them. When we need to, we can even use the tunnels as a supply line.”
“You make a habit of it, don’t you?”
“Of what?”
“Coming through for me.”
He looked at her and she at him, and that would just have to do—no touching. Love didn’t just hurt, it killed.
“We better get back,” she said.
“Better,” he said.
On the walk back, down in the fluorescent-lit tunnel, Joshua seemed lost in thought and hung back even farther than before. When he finally exited the tunnel, Max asked, “What’s up, Big Fella?”
He shook his head, the mane bouncing. “Thinking.”
“What about?”
“The ones still outside.”
Logan frowned. “What ‘ones,’ Joshua. . . . You mean the transgenics outside of Terminal City?”
“Yes,” Joshua said.
“What about them?” Max asked.
“Not sure yet. Still thinking.”
Without another word, the big man brushed by them and up the stairs to the first floor of the Terminal City branch of Medtronics.
Though Max wanted to, she didn’t press him. Joshua, like most men, only talked when he wanted to, and pushing him wouldn’t help.
“Maybe he’s wondering,” Logan said, “if we can safely bring any straggling transgenics inside Terminal City?”
“Through your tunnel, maybe? A sort of underground railroad?”
Logan lifted both eyebrows. “Frankly, they’re probably safer in the outside world.”
“Probably. But at least in Terminal City they have an identity . . . a ‘country.’ And they don’t have to ‘pass’ as ordinaries.”
When she and Logan got back to the media center, Dix greeted them with, “Nothing’s changed. They seem to be settling in now. They must think they’re going to wait us out.”
“All right,” Max said. “You know where Original Cindy and Sketchy are?”
Dix checked the monitors of their security system. “I think Sketch is asleep in the back of the ambulance . . . and Original Cindy is up on the roof.”
“Get someone to wake Sketchy, would you? And send him up to join us on the roof. I need to talk to both of them.”
She and Logan went upstairs. Since the police hadn’t sent up so much as a hoverdrone, the roof seemed safe enough
. Original Cindy stood just this side of the flagpole, watching the barricade at the main gate. The roof gave them a pretty good vantage point to watch what the police were up to, at least at the main gate.
When she heard them, Original Cindy turned. “Whassup?”
Max took a step forward. “We were just talking about you.”
“Original Cindy’s always a popular topic of conversation.”
“Cin, we’re talking about you getting out of Terminal City.”
Original Cindy frowned and waved that off. “Girl, you ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy. You just afraid with my natural leadership, these fools are all gonna gravitate to-ward me.”
With a light laugh, Max put a hand on Original Cindy’s shoulder. “You gotta go, girl—it’s for your own good.”
“My own good?” She shook her curly Afro. “This about your own good. See, you my Boo, and I ain’t walkin’ out on your puny ass while you’re in the middle of some heavy shit.”
Max felt a wave of affection for her attitude-filled friend. “You know you can’t stay here. Sooner or later, this bad bioshit’s gonna take a toll on you.”
“So if I feel sick, I’ll come up here on the roof and breathe the sweet Seattle air, smog and all. Right now I feel as fine as I look, and you know how fine that is. Anyway, this is about something bigger than feeling sick and shit.”
Logan stepped between them, a friendly referee. “The truth is, Cindy, you can do Max more good on the outside.”
She smirked and put her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you do her some good on the outside?”
“I plan to,” Logan said, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m leaving Terminal City tonight.”
“You bailin’?”
“Hardly. Cindy, we can do Max and her people more good—and be safer, ourselves—out there.” He gestured toward the city on the horizon.
“I ain’t worried about bein’ safe. Do I look like I’m worried about—”
Max stepped forward and touched Cindy’s shoulder. “I need live allies, not dead martyrs. You dig?”
As Original Cindy chewed on that, Logan pressed closer to her. “Look at her! Max is worried about both of us, and Sketchy too. And if she’s got us on her mind, she’s not keeping her eye on the prize.”
Her face creasing into a severe frown, Original Cindy said, “Well, hell—when you put it like that . . .”
“We do need you outside,” Max said. “You and Sketchy. . . .”
“You rang?” Sketchy said as he ambled across the roof. Still wearing the SWAT suit, he looked like a lanky cross between a surf bum and a storm trooper.
“We were talking,” Max said, “about you, Original Cindy, and Logan leaving Terminal City.”
Sketchy’s long, narrow face contorted into a frown, and Max thought, Great, here we go again. . . .
But Logan pulled the blond-haired bike messenger turned reporter off to one side. “You’ve already helped a hell of a lot, Sketch. You know the transgenics all appreciate that—Max especially.”
Sketchy glanced at Max and Original Cindy, then looked back at Logan and said, “Yeah. I caught that drift. Me and the dudes downstairs, we been . . . bondin’.”
Logan managed to hide his amusement at this stoneresque response. “Well, good,” he said. “’Cause now we need your help on the outside.”
“Outside?” Sketch asked. “As in . . . on the outside?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there a way out?”
Logan said, “If there was a way to get you out, safely out . . . would you be willing to help?”
Sketchy shrugged. “I came this far. How?”
“For one thing, as a reporter.”
Brightening, Sketch said, “You’re kidding! That’s what I do, man.”
And that was true—sort of. For most of the last year—in addition to working at Jam Pony—Sketch had taken a job as a stringer and part-time photographer for one of the local tabloid papers. It wasn’t exactly the Washington Post, but Max and Logan—in the coming media war—were in no position to be choosy—they needed all the help they could get.
And they all knew that the rag Sketchy worked for loved nothing more than stories about transgenics.
“I know Eyes Only is trying to help,” Logan said. Only Max and a small handful knew that Logan was Eyes Only; the others, like Sketchy, thought Logan was merely an Eyes Only source. “But Eyes Only is just one man . . . and he’s not in the print media. You could be a big help.”
Standing just close enough to hear, Max watched as Sketchy’s head seemed about to explode with pride and possibilities.
“I could do that,” Sketch said. “I was born to do that!”
“You think your editor will go along?” Logan asked.
“Why wouldn’t he? Transgenics make great copy!”
“That paper’s been feeding the fear, Sketch. The paranoia. We need to get the real story out.”
Sketchy considered that, then said, “You want positive stories about transgenics, right?”
“Yes. Otherwise, you’re part of the problem.”
“I’m not part of the problem! . . . Can I get pictures?”
Logan shot a glance at Max, who nodded. “We’ll get whatever we can,” Logan said.
“With exclusive pics,” Sketch said, “I think my editor’ll go along, and be happy to! I mean, if we’re the only protransgenic newspaper in the city, that’s got to sell some copies, right?”
Logan nodded, put a hand on the skinny guy’s shoulder. “Now you’re thinking like a newspaperman.”
Sketchy beamed. “I could get a byline and everything. . . .”
“If this fool can be a help out there,” Original Cindy said, “Original Cindy can do some real shit. What you got in mind?”
Max turned her attention back to her best friend. “You can help get us supplies in, for one thing. And you can get us information, and we may even need you to deal with some hot-property fences and stuff, should we be forced to make our living by . . . well, less honorable methods than bike messengering.”
“If you mean takin’ down some more dope dealers,” Original Cindy said, “they ain’t nothin’ more honorable than that. . . . Hell yes, I could do all that, girl.”
Max knocked fists with her friend, and felt like one of the weights had at least shifted, if not totally lifted off her shoulders.
That night, she, Logan, and Joshua led Original Cindy and Sketchy to the Medtronics building, down the stairs and into the tunnel. They spoke as they walked, voices echoing a little.
“How we gonna stay hooked up, girl?” Original Cindy asked Max. “You got your cell?”
Max shook her head. “Cell phones are no good. The police will be monitoring all signals coming in or going out of Terminal City.”
“For some messages,” Logan said, “we can use Eyes Only bulletins.”
“Busting in on TV transmissions,” Sketchy said. “Sweet—but you think he’ll help?”
Logan nodded. “I know Eyes Only, and he’s always been on the transgenics’ side.”
“Cool dude,” Sketchy said.
“Yeah, I’d say Eyes Only is a pretty cool dude,” Max said, glancing at Logan and giving him a secret smile.
“So what else we going to do to stay connected?” Original Cindy asked.
Logan asked Max, “You think Cindy and Sketch’ll be watched by the police or White’s people?”
Max shook her head. “I don’t think either White or the cops know that these guys helped us—” She turned toward Cindy and Sketchy. “—so there’s no reason for them to surveil you. But watch your backs.”
“Always,” Original Cindy said.
“Then,” Logan went on, “how about using Joshua’s house as a drop site?”
The house was a condemned, abandoned one, where the mysterious Sandeman—a key figure at Manticore, and by some accounts the “father” of all the transgenics—had once lived. Joshua had squatted there, and then Logan, and its appearan
ce as a run-down derelict structure kept it useful.
“I like that,” Max said with a short nod.
Not missing a beat, Logan kept going. “If the blinds are up, there will be a message inside; if the blinds are down, nothing.”
“Rad,” Original Cindy said.
Sketchy said, “Not rad—what are you talking about? Joshua’s house . . . ?”
“Original Cindy will show you where it is,” Max said.
“Where exactly will the message be?” Sketch asked.
Logan and Max traded looks.
Then Max said, “There’s a desk in the living room. We’ll put any messages in the top center drawer.”
Sketchy looked perplexed. “Life and death riding on this, and the secret hiding place is a desk drawer?”
Max explained: “There’s no reason to hide anything any more than that. The house looks abandoned, and anyone who’s coming poking around has run into Joshua . . . and those people usually don’t come back.”
“So,” Sketch said, nodding, concentrating, “best not to overthink it.”
“Truer words,” Max said.
Original Cindy said, “Yeah, Sketch—don’t pop a vein over it, ’kay?”
“As Max would put it,” Logan said, “we better jet—it’s dark, but those cops are going to start getting restless . . . and we don’t want to get caught on the street.”
Max and Logan had worked out the escape plan during the day. Logan had sent an e-mail message to Bling, his physical therapist and occasional Eyes Only associate, to bring Logan’s car to the end of the second tunnel at precisely nine o’clock. By then Logan would be there with Sketchy and Original Cindy and the three of them would pile into the car and disappear into the night.
Just in case, Max would pick that moment to call the cops and suggest the beginning of negotiations. They figured the police would get so wrapped up in that, they wouldn’t give a civilian car driving out of the neighborhood beyond Terminal City a second glance.
Sketchy gave Max a quick hug. “I’m sorry for all the times I let you down . . . I didn’t mean to—”
“Forget it,” Max interrupted. “When it mattered, you came through.”
Nodding feebly, Sketchy said, “Thanks. I’ll make it up to you—I’ll do the best I can to help.”
Skin Game Page 6