"How about if you just get them here to play?" Tony suggested.
"That, too," she said.
When class ended, she stayed behind, packing up materials left over from the mask making. As she worked, she heard soft footsteps coming back down the hall and toward the room. She stooped and picked up a ball of yarn from under a desk, then lifted her head to see who it was.
Katia.
"Hello. Forget something?"
"No. I—I just had a question."
"Okay. Here I am. Ask."
She moved her head this way and that, as if checking the room for hidden cameras. She brought her face close to Jaguar's and said, very softly, "How do you know?"
"How do you know what?" she asked.
"If you're an empath."
Katia's eyes were glittering. Her eyes were almost drugged or—like Emily's eyes.
Jaguar let the question rest a moment, then, as gently as she could, replied, "Most people know when they have to ask the question."
Katia's pupils dilated, and she sucked in air. "How can you say that?" she asked, quick and breathy. "How do you know that sort of thing? You could be wrong, couldn't you?"
"Couldn't she what?" a voice said from the doorway. Katia startled and spun around. It was Steven.
Jaguar intervened. "Katia was asking if someone couldn't make more than one mask, because sometimes you're more than one thing at a time," she said. "I was saying I think you can, as long as the masks agree not to fight with each other too much."
This last she said looking toward Steven. He strode over, grabbed Katia with one arm, and pointed at Jaguar with his other hand.
"You think you got it all figured out," he hissed. "You don't know shit. Wait and see."
He tugged on Katia's arm. "C'mon," he said. "Let's get the hell out of here."
Jaguar went to her office after class to sit and collect her thoughts. As she entered, she stepped on a piece of paper someone had slid under her door.
A note that read, I need to talk to you. Meet me in B39, nine-thirty.
No signature. Katia, trying to hide from Steve? Someone less friendly?
Jaguar read it over three times before she realized it would tell her nothing other than exactly what it said. She wouldn't know more unless she went.
She looked at the clock. Quarter of nine. Time to attend to a piece of business first. She'd promised her students Moon Illusion, and she knew Rachel could arrange it for her. She calculated quickly, to figure what Planetoid time would be. Working hours still. Then she punched in Rachel's office number and waited.
To her surprise, when the pickup came on the other line, it wasn't Rachel's face she saw.
It was Alex.
He moved toward the screen, eyes wide with surprise, face looking tired and tense around his surprise. They stared at each other, waiting for the cognitive dissonance to settle. It had been almost three months since she'd seen his face.
"I'm calling Rachel," she said at last.
Alex relaxed back into himself. "I know," he said. "She's out on a team assignment. I had her calls forwarded to me."
She was about to ask why, then realized she didn't have to. She was a big girl. She could figure out the answer on her own. He was hoping she'd call Rachel if not him.
"You look awful," she said.
He leaned back in his chair, placing a finger across his lips.
"You don't," he said.
"A little home rest leave does wonders for the complexion. How's everything there?" she asked.
He took the finger from his lips and tapped it thoughtfully against his chin. "Quiet, Dr. Addams."
"Enjoying it?"
"Not particularly. I miss you."
He could not see her hands, but he imagined them in her lap, clenching and unclenching, as the expression on her face darkened.
"Everything okay with you?" he asked.
She grinned at him wickedly. "Hey, how about them Jaguars? Going to the Super Bowl this year to beat the Packers."
"I don't think so," Alex said. "The Packers'll take 'em early and often."
"Wouldn't be too sure. You know how Jaguars are. Relentlessly wild."
"I know," Alex noted. "I know that. But the Packers have a little more patience. They can stick to the task.
Did you call Rachel to discuss the football pool?"
She backed off and returned to business. "No. I wanted her to help me get Moon Illusion here. For my students. I can call back."
"No," he said quickly. Then, more calmly, "I can take care of it. What did you need?"
She tilted her head at him, questions forming themselves and dispersing in her eyes. She stuck to business. "What would the funding resources be for transport and payment and so on?"
"There's the prisoners' opportunity fund for transport. For fees—maybe Arts for Earth. When do you want them?"
"The last week of classes, or a little before. A few weeks from now. I know it's short notice, but I just thought of it tonight."
That's all right. I'll take care of it. You have class Tuesday and Thursday, right?"
"Brad tell you that?"
A jab at him, and it hit home.
"No. I knew it before I sent him. Why?"
"Because I want you to stop playing Supervisor," she said acidly. "I don't work for you anymore."
He kept his face quiet, took her anger full on. I deserve it, he thought.
"Jaguar, would it help if I said I'm sorry. That I owe you in a big way, and I'm here to pay up."
She startled, and drew back. Alex pressed on. "There's something you need to know, and I don't want it going over the lines. Can we find another way to speak?"
"No," she said curtly. Bluntly. No explanation. But her eyes said not safe. No contact.
He frowned. That wasn't good. "I'll come to the home planet. Tomorrow. We can talk then."
"No," she said. "Don't."
"Why not?"
"I'll be out."
"Out?"
"With Ethan. We have plans."
"Jaguar—this is important. This is about—"
"I'll be out, Alex," she said. "Or, didn't I mention that Ethan's courting me assiduously? Leonard might be cajoled along those lines, too, if I put my mind to it. The room'd get a little crowded with you there, too."
He stopped, and looked at her hard. He noticed how carefully closed she was keeping her face as she spoke. This was more than anger. This was caution in the face of an unknown danger. Was she trying to keep him away, tell him something, or just keep him quiet?
"We have to talk," he said. "You need to know—"
"No," she snapped.
She leaned toward the image of his face and opened her mouth to speak, then, unexpectedly, gave a short gasp. She pressed a hand against her eyes.
Jesus. What was that? He held out a hand, as if he could touch her through the screen.
And he saw it. The energy flow, as visible to him as if someone had poured a bucket of water around her. There, circling her, and becoming her. She, becoming that other self, and yet not changing. The shifting of space and time around her, like light, like water, like fire.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "So beautiful."
And a voice speaking to him directly. Not over the wires. Not empathic contact. Something else. As if it strolled in the room with him, rough fur under his hands, golden eyes pulling at him, hot breath on his face.
Not safe. Don't talk don't tell nothing don't say not safe.
"Okay," he said quietly, "Okay. But how can I— dammit, don't cut me off."
This last in response to the sudden blurring of the screen. It flickered, and her image was gone. He stared at his telecom.
"Dr. Addams," he said, and noticed that the machine was still registering for sound. He couldn't hear her, though. Where was she?
"Dr. Addams, if you can hear me, put this in your mental file—you've been coded by the—dammit, Jaguar, answer me."
He brought a fist down on his desk, making th
e telecom jump, but doing absolutely no other good in the world.
She flipped off the telecom and sat staring at the blank screen while she rubbed her temples with her fingers. What had happened?
She could hear his voice, but she couldn't see his face. Did he cut her off?
No. Something else did. She knew this. Knew this.
But there was something else she was supposed to do. Tonight, before she went home. Something to do with— with whom? Her brain was suddenly void of the capacity for thought.
You're exhausted, she said to herself. Walking in power and playing pretend don't match. There was an elemental truth being spoken in her, and it took too much energy to engage with it and hide it at the same time. It was wearing her out. And there was something else she had to do tonight. Something.
She looked around the room as if the answer would be there somewhere. It was. The clock on her wall told her she was fifteen minutes late for her meeting, and how the hell did that ever happen. She cursed prolifically, pushed herself up from her chair, and without grabbing her coat or turning off her lights, left the office, shutting the door with a bang.
She jogged down the halls and deferred use of the elevator in favor of the stairs, which she took two at a time. She might still make it, she thought as she hurtled down the hall toward the basement level.
Then she was at the door to B39, staring down the empty hall, standing still.
Nobody was there.
"Dammit," she exclaimed, and then stood, breathing hard.
The sound of motion down the hall caught her attention. She moved toward the door to the tunnels, stood, and pressed her hand against it. Someone in there. She pushed it open.
She walked a few steps down the tunnel and stopped again. She walked slowly, stopped to listen, then walked on. She walked, stopped, listened. Walked. Stopped. Listened.
Someone else was walking with her. Someone behind her, walking in time with her steps. They stopped when she stopped, only a faint echo of presence remaining. Brad again?
Not safe. Not safe. No contact.
The chant-shape moved inside her like a perturbed cat rolling out of dreams. She walked forward, past broken desks piled by the side of the wall, past cans of garbage heading for recycle or burn. She walked past a row of canisters labeled arcon: highly volatile. The footsteps behind her stayed their distance. The path rolled sharply downhill ahead. She walked under the tubed lighting that seemed to dim here.
Her foot slipped under her. The slope was steep and the cement worn smooth. Behind her she heard laughter and resisted the urge to go faster. To run. The lights flickered. Something wrong.
She stopped at the crest of the downslope. Darkness clicked in. Absolute darkness. No ambient light available.
Not safe. Not safe.
Her eyes peered through the dark and saw the colorless figure ahead of her. Someone. Someone walking. Now stopping and standing, looking at her. Staring at her. She made her way delicately down the cement slope. It was Emily, her starched white blouse the only visible light. She stood at the bottom of the slope, staring, eyes wide with terror, her entire body quivering.
Emily. Not safe.
"Emily?" she asked. Behind her she heard laughter. She turned to it, saw nothing. Turned back to Emily.
"Don't," Emily hissed. "I have to tell you. I can't hide for them anymore."
Jaguar walked toward her, whispered, "What is it?"
Emily shivered. Her skin began to ripple, as if each layer of molecules adjusted itself slowly, shifting in directions they weren't meant to go. A gurgling emerged from her throat, which she clutched with her hands. Blood appeared on her white blouse, a growing stain across her chest, and Jaguar ran, not sure if she was in her chant-shape or just herself, not sure if she was followed or not. The lights undimmed, flickered on and off strobelike, showing her Emily's form falling over and over, continuing to fall and bounce off the wall and bounce into a garbage can, against it, slouching onto it, falling behind it.
Jaguar slipped and came down hard on her knee, unable to sound for depth in the flickering lights. She stayed down and felt her way toward the sound of expelled air, a sigh that kept repeating itself. Emily Rainer lay hunched behind the garbage cans, her lungs working against all laws of differential pressure as she tried to breathe through the great slash across the front of her chest. Jaguar pressed her hand against it.
"Emily?" she asked. "Emily?"
Her hands moved over the pool of blood and someone was talking, trying to whisper and shout at the same time.
"Dr. Addams?"
She looked up. A young man emerged from behind the row of Arcon canisters up the slope.
She frowned.
"Dr. Addams," he whispered urgently. "It's Brad. You have to get out of here. There's someone following us. I saw—"
He stopped speaking, in response to the low rumble that began behind him. The canisters were moving. Rumbling. Shaking. Arcon. Volatile and explosive.
"Brad, run," she screamed, but instead he twisted slowly around to see what was happening behind him, twisting under the flickering lights as she heard laughter and saw the canisters fall, saw the ball of flame explode out toward him, through him as he exploded with it, and she flung herself over the body of Emily Rainer, into the only protection offered by the garbage cans against the wall.
13
Planetoid Three, Toronto Replica
ALEX WAS ALMOST AWAKE WHEN THE TELECOM next to his bed buzzed. He picked it up and saw Rachel's face.
Stricken would be a good word to apply to it.
"What?" he asked.
"Trouble," she said. "Big trouble. There's been a—a murder on campus."
Alex felt the blood leave his face as his hand clutched for the edge of anything to hang on to. "Rachel," he said, and could find nothing else to say.
"They found her in the tunnels," she said. "Alex— her heart was—gone. Just gone."
"Rachel," he said again, unable to squeeze out anything else.
"She was a professor. In Jaguar's department. Emily Rainer," Rachel said, then she blinked at Alex. "Oh, God. Did you think—you didn't think it was—oh, God. I'm sorry."
Alex felt oxygen return to his brain, his heart begin to beat again. She wasn't dead. Not dead. Not murdered. Not too late.
Adrenaline raced around his body, and he let it. "Is Jaguar—okay?"
"Sort of. She was at the scene of the crime and there was an explosion of some kind. I don't have all the details. She's not hurt, I don't think, but she's being held for questioning."
"Shit," he said. "Figures. Did she call for an attorney?"
"No. The cop shop called here. She gave my number. Alex, there's more."
He waited.
"Another body was found at the scene. Pretty badly burned. They couldn't ID it, which is why they called. To see if it was one of ours. I guess they found a code chip they thought was Planetoid material."
Brad. It would be Brad.
"Hell," he said. "Hell." He glanced up at the shuttle schedule on his wall. Next one out wasn't until four in the afternoon. He'd have to get a special requisition.
"Get Jill on it. She's Jaguar's usual legal counsel, and about the only woman I know who isn't flustered by this sort of shit. Apprise her of the situation. Tell her I'm getting a special rec and we'll leave in an hour."
He hung up on Rachel and called in his seat reserve.
Lieutenant Durk tapped a wooden finger against the table, pressed his face to the computer monitor, and read.
A murder on campus. Dzarny was on his way. Forrest wanted to know how long they should stick around, or if the project could be called complete at this point.
Twitchy man, Durk thought. The murder threw him. Granted, it wasn't in the plans, but it wasn't out of the reach of probability either. And it made sense. She was getting out of hand. Going out of bounds. Something had to be done. Pretty high profile, but it could be covered. Forrest was twitchy about it, though. But then again,
he'd worked research for a lot of years. That tended to make people twitchy.
He understood why. Working with people like their specialist made him want to twitch. If he was naturally inclined that way, he was sure he'd be nervous. But he wasn't. He sent a response: Stick, but prepare to move out quickly. Await notification of status change.
That was all. For Durk, the most important factor to consider was Dzarny, who was on his way. Durk leaned away from the computer screen and considered it.
Dzarny would arrive by the afternoon. Probably he'd be busy for a while. Durk would let him take care of business before contacting him. Then they'd talk. Durk would find out Alex's plans and make his accordingly. He knew all his options, and the consequences of each one.
The only thing he didn't know was what the Addams woman would do next. He wished she was a little more predictable, but he'd have to work around that. He didn't trust her to cooperate, or else he'd talk to her directly. He considered it again briefly, wondering if she'd do it for Dzarny's sake. No. She wouldn't trust anything the army had to say, and he couldn't blame her. Not even a little bit. If he was in her position, he'd have a good laugh at any proposition the Pentagon threw at her.
No. He'd trust his first instinct. She'd have to come through, whether she wanted to or not.
"Look, I'll say it one more time in English, and then I go to Mertec since you'd probably understand that about as well as you understand your mother tongue. I was in the tunnels because I got an anonymous note from someone asking me to meet them. The blood on my hand is Emily's. I got it trying to press her chest closed."
Jaguar held out her left hand, which was lightly stained. They hadn't let her wash it until they took any number of pointless samples.
A large and rather corpulent man named Keene stared down at her and said, "Sure, sister. C'mon. Why'd you kill her? And what did you do with the heart?"
Jaguar rested her head in her hands. "I ate it," she muttered.
"What?"
She brought her face up to stare at him with fiery eyes. "I ate it," she said. Keene's eyes widened, the pupils dilating. She held out two fingers and began to growl.
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