Mutant Star

by Karen Haber

  “And wouldn’t your folks be pleased,” Alanna said drily.

  Rick chuckled. “No, really. You should see me handle a cycle in the daytime.”

  “If it’s anything like the way you drove tonight, I believe you,” she said. “Still, it sounds like you don’t exactly know what you want to do, either. So maybe I’ll forgo your sage advice.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not ready for college. I’ve been protected and pampered for as long as I can remember.”

  “Hey,” he said. “Don’t knock it.”

  “I don’t. But if I’m going to be a poet, I’ve got to know more about life and less about quatrains and couplets.”

  “So you’d like to gain a little more time by making a couplet out of us, huh?” Rick shook his head. “I don’t know if I feel flattered or chagrined.”

  “Oh, you!” She gave him a poke in the ribs. “What I’m saying is I like being with you. It feels better and realer than anything I’ve ever done.”

  Rick pressed up against her. “I’d have to agree that it doesn’t get much more real than this. At least, I don’t.”

  “Stop joking around, Rick. Do you want me? Do you want to be with me?” She sat up in bed, a pale ghost with wild dark hair and golden eyes. “You know, you’ve got to start thinking about the future. You’re not a little kid anymore.”

  Rick was about to say that he didn’t want to think about the future and nobody could make him do it. But her face in the soft light was so beautiful. And he heard himself say, “Maybe you’re right.”

  Well, maybe she was. Suddenly he saw a future that was more than casual one-night stands, quick meals, and lonely rides along some dark road. He could be with Alanna. Belong to somebody and have her belong to him. Maybe he would even marry her. The thought made his heart beat strangely. He looked at her. And gasped.

  Alanna’s eyes were rimmed by dark circles. She was suddenly older, much older. The youthful exuberance in her face had been replaced by something noble and resigned. Gray streaks glittered in her dark hair. Her skin was looser at the neck, tighter around her lips. And her eyes were sad. So sad.

  “Rick,” she said. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me that way?”

  As he watched, she blurred like a watercolor covered by a fresh wash of pigment. He blinked, and she was young and beautiful again, her fine-boned face flickering in and out of shadows in the yellow candlelight.

  Rick rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. Nothing.” He held her close. Her skin was firm. He was tired, that was all. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Alanna,” he whispered. “I want you to be with me. Here. Now.”

  She was silent.

  Finally, he risked a look at her face.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  She shook her head, smiled a watery smile, and kissed him. “No. No. You said everything right. Everything.” She kissed him again. “Oh, Rick, I love you, too.”

  He gathered her into his arms. “Then it’s settled. You’ll stay. Postpone Whitlock.”

  Alanna nodded. “Oh, I can just imagine what my parents will say. Which means I don’t have to be around to hear it.” She nestled against him for a moment, but then she seemed to grow restless and began looking around the room. “Wow, if my mother could just see these.” She stared, fascinated, at a line of rebuilt screenbrains on a shelf across from the bed. They glowed with tiny blue crylights. “Are they sculpture? Mother would love them!”

  Rick started laughing. “Now that’s an infinite idea. When I can’t fix them anymore, I’ll sell them as Akimura originals. They’re screenbrains. Haven’t you ever seen them before? I fix them. When I’m not riding my cycle.”

  “Really?” Her eyes were bright. “They’re truly singular. Post-rad. You should really show these to my mother. I know she’d be inspired.”

  He grinned indulgently. “Next time she visits. I promise.”

  Alanna reached for the nearest screenbrain. But the jellbed shifted under her and she toppled out of it, hitting the shelf hard and knocking it loose from its mooring. The entire row of screenbrains slid down toward her, half a ton of metal circuitry.

  No.

  Rick wasn’t certain if he had said it or thought it.

  Then he was next to Alanna with his arm around her, and the brains were piled neatly on the floor, blue lights blinking.

  “Are you okay?” he said. “Nothing to be afraid of. You’ve got those good old telekinetic powers. Strong enough to hold off a ton of brains.”

  Alanna shivered in his arms for a moment. Then she looked up at him.

  “Rick, I didn’t catch those brains,” she said. “You did.”

  He stared at her. “Don’t joke around with me,” he said angrily. “You know I’m a null.”

  .

  ******************

  4

  A good-luck crane lifted green, arching wings as it traversed the walls of the recovery room in a graceful dance. Each feather was exquisitely rendered in holorelief. Hawkins focused on those feathers as the last effects of the anesthesia faded.

  He looked around for a wall clock or screen. How long had he been out? The tasteful, anonymous furnishings of the room gave him no clue. He felt as though he had been in hibernation. Every muscle complained at even the simplest request: turn, move the head, swing eyeballs from right to left. Ouch.

  A wallscreen whirred to life, image emerging from opaque wall. The head nurse of intensive care at Tokyo General Hospital surveyed him approvingly. “You are awake. Good. How do you feel?”

  “Stiff.”

  “Of course. That will pass.”

  He felt the prick of a needle and watched a wallmech retreat into its cubbyhole next to the bed.

  “Rest now.”

  He was already feeling more comfortable. Almost jolly. “What about the arm?” he said.

  “Oh, the arm is perfect. You’ll see.”

  Her image wavered before him, melted. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at Mr. Lee Oniburi.

  “Feels good?” Oniburi stood by the door, grinning his eternal grin. His black patent-leather hair floated up in little feathers each time he nodded. “I requested that a special development team work on your arm. There’s no other like it.”

  Hawkins sat up. Flexed his brave new arm. The pinching, stinging pain was gone. The prosthesis was smooth, covered in a convincing dark skin-toned plastic that felt warm to the touch: 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Guaranteed by the best surgeons in Tokyo. And Mr. Lee Oniburi.

  “Wonderful.”

  Hawkins flexed again, balling his fist against imagined danger. Five fingers covered with plasflesh coiled in readiness. Nice. Very nice.

  “Try it out,” Oniburi said.

  Hawkins uncurled his fist and reached for a glass on the bedside table. Grasped it. Lifted it. Had it halfway to the bed when it shattered into a hundred fragments. For once, he was grateful that his hand was not flesh: a normal hand would require stitches now. Of course, a normal hand would never have shattered that glass.

  Oniburi’s cheeks were crimson. “I forgot to warn you that this arm is twice as strong as the last,” Oniburi said. “Terribly sorry.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” Hawkins said. A panel in the ceiling slid open and a many-legged, round-bellied mech descended on a transparent string. Red lights blinking, the mech marched up and down the bed, vacuuming the glass shards while an aria from Madame Butterfly poured out of a speaker on its back. Mission accomplished, it gave a high-pitched whistle and ascended on its cord, disappearing into the ceiling once more.

  “Charming,” Hawkins said. “And only slightly off-pitch. I can see I’ll have to be careful of my arm. Especially in low-g.” He sat up, restless. “Lee, how much longer must I stay in bed?”

  “You are ready to be discharged,” Oniburi said. “I hope you will come with me now for an afternoon of relaxation.”

  Hawkins’s smile remained in place despite his irritatio
n. He wanted to get back to space and the cool, impassive face of the Moon peering in his window. The messy concerns of people, their anxieties, their needs, their resentments, were best dealt with at a distance. But Oniburi was in the room, and required attention. The careful two-step of etiquette. Very well, an afternoon sacrificed in the name of friendship and commerce.

  “You’re very kind.” Hawkins made certain his voice was modulated and soothing, Pooh-Bah to Ko-Ko in act two of The Mikado.

  More bowing and nodding now. In appearance, Oniburi was a natural for The Mikado. But Hawkins had heard his singing voice at the Hello Uncle karaoke bar. No, Oniburi was not really operetta material. What he needed was a soundproof shower. But he did understand miniaturized components for prosthetics. He and all his clever employees at Oniburi International.

  “I’d like to have a brief conference with my assistant, and then I am at your disposal.”

  “Of course.” Oniburi gestured toward the wallscreen. “Signal me when you are ready.” He bowed stiffly and left.

  Hawkins asked for a screen-to-screen shield. The pink border of the screen began to blink discreetly, and in a moment a trail of butterflies, blue and pink to indicate privacy, were fluttering around the screen margins. Hawkins watched them with annoyance: peripheral, unexpected cuteness was one of the hazards of doing business in Japan.

  The ruddy face of Leporello materialized onscreen. He was clad, as usual, in red cap and green velvet tunic. Hawkins had used “The Laughing Cavalier” as a template for the simulacrum, and as a result Leporello displayed a certain tendency toward sly humor.

  “The surgery went well?”

  “Perfectly.” Hawkins grinned and held up his new arm, fingers waggling. “Mr. Oniburi has requested my company this afternoon.”

  “I’ll reschedule the meeting with the East Coast Mutant Council,” Leporello said.

  “Good.” Hawkins appreciated the sim’s ability to anticipate his needs. Of course, he had been programmed for that. “Any word from Jasper Saladin?”

  “He said to send him more mutants.”

  “Hmmm. I’m trying.” Hawkins slid out of bed and began dressing.

  “And Hugh Farnam asked for an appointment to see you.”

  “Bus Farnam? I thought he was knee deep in printouts at the physics department in Berkeley.”

  “I told him you were available Wednesday morning.”

  “Fine, Leporello. We’ll be at the Yellow Slipper tea room late this afternoon. Try to manufacture an emergency that, regrettably, requires my presence.”

  “One emergency coming up.” Leporello winked and his merry image faded.

  ***

  Rick yawned and stretched. The tight muscles in his neck and arms complained, then gradually unknotted. Aaah. Morning sunlight burst through the threadbare red curtains and dappled the wall above the bed. Beside him, Alanna stirred and muttered in protest as he got up and the jellbed swayed. A late sleeper, Alanna. Just as well. He’d be out the door and gone before she knew it. He wanted to get to work before noon. If Alanna awakened, he might not get there at all.

  The charge from the sonic shower made his hair stand on end. Dressed in clean jeans and shirt, he hurried into the kitchen, grabbed a chocolate tofu brownie, and, munching, hurried out the door. Late for work. Not good. Not unusual, either.

  The cycle roared to life.

  The uneven pavement flew past under the cycle. Rick grinned into the wind. He didn’t understand why so many people turned up their noses at wheeled vehicles. He loved leaving a patch of rubber on the ground behind him occasionally. You couldn’t do that with a skimmer. And he could always retract the wheels and use the jets when he needed to get someplace in a hurry.

  The wind blew his hair back and filled his leather jacket until he looked twice as big—almost as big as Skerry.

  Skerry. Don’t want to think about him now. Nor that entire dinner—what an agony. Not to mention what followed right after. Still, it had all ended surprisingly well once he and Alanna had kissed and made up. And luckily, nobody had been home when he took her back to collect her clothing. Alanna had left a message on the screen—so long, folks—and slipped away with him.

  That had been almost two weeks ago. He grinned. The image of her floated at the back of his mind. Pale flesh, dark hair, shining eyes. So he hadn’t been her first lover. That didn’t really matter to him. He was surprised, sure, but also relieved that he didn’t have to teach her everything. In fact, she’d taught him. He had to admit that telekinesis had its uses. Oh, my, yes. He was looking forward to suggesting some uses for it that very evening.

  So, Mr. Maximum Freedom, he thought, are you really in love?

  He shook away the question. Either you wanted to be with somebody or you didn’t. And either they wanted you or they didn’t. Save love for vidsongs and poetry: that was Alanna’s department.

  “My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun …” An old line from his English screen-reader danced through his head. “Nothing like the sun,” he repeated. But weren’t they? Golden, glowing, filled with warmth …

  “A nice haul this time, by God! You’ve got the gift, bright eyes, I must say that!”

  A snaggle-toothed crone grinned at him over a pile of glittering baubles: golden neckbobs set with blue and red faceted stones, silver rings, a diamond and emerald bracelet. The contents of Mrs. Jonathan Reddington’s jewel box, left unguarded at the wrong moment. With a little help.

  Old Lucy would give him a good price for it, he knew. Best in Back Bay. And he deserved no less. How many would be so bold as to wait by the window until the right moment, then, using the Gift, spill some crockery down the hall? And didn’t milady leap up and scurry away to see what the problem was? And didn’t that leave the jewel box all unattended, and the window latch an easy mark for one with the Gift? Snip-snap. Up and over the sash, a quick blink, and Mrs. Reddington’s jewel box was glittering in his grasp. Thankee, ma’am. A tip of the hat, and into the leather pouch, into the pocket. Up and over the cold, painted window sash—not forgetting to close and lock the window behind him—we wouldn’t want to leave a draft, and milady to catch the grippe, now, would we?—and back out into the safety of the night, straightaway to Old Lucy’s. He was the best of the light fingers in Back Bay, and maybe all of old Boston. Let anybody try and put the lie to that statement.

  “Huh?”

  Rick blinked. A twelve-wheeled tanker roared past, rocking the cycle—and him—in its wake. The road was in front of him, wheels whining beneath him. Old Lucy? Boston? What the hell was that? Falling asleep on the road would get him killed fast. He shook his head to clear it. His arms tingled and he felt strange: dizzy, almost hungover. Stop for coffee or a stim hypo soon. He was up too late last night. Maybe he was getting old. Or crazy.

  ***

  Julian was floating, turning end over end in a timeless space as coruscating rainbows danced in his vision field. Red purple green. Blue yellow orange. Wait—he saw form. Movement. Depth and dimension. A figure in antiquated dress peered through a many-paned window at a woman sitting by a dressing table. It was just like some old-fashioned play: the man wore a long coat, a hat and scarf. The woman wore sumptuous green velvet, low-cut, and her hair was pulled back, caught at the neck by a shining green ribbon that sat above fat black curls.

  Crash!

  Julian heard the sound of crockery meeting stone.

  The woman started at the noise, jumped up, and hurried out of the room.

  The door swung shut behind her.

  As Julian watched, amazed, the window latch moved, and then the window slid open. The man clambered up and over the window ledge. His face was illuminated for a moment in the lamplight. Julian gasped.

  The thief’s eyes were bright gold. And his face was familiar—too familiar. He looked just like Julian’s brother, Rick.

  “Omigod.”

  “Julian, what is it?” Eva Seguy’s voice was loud over the lab headphones.

  The image
vanished.

  “My God,” Julian said. He sat up. Shook his head to clear it. “Maybe you should take me off this project. I’m starting to hallucinate.”

  “Get in here now.”

  Eva was waiting for him by the door to her office. She handed him a hypo. “Use it.”

  Julian eyed the red hypo with reluctance. “What is this?”

  “A serotonin booster.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “The mutant healers gave it to me. Every flare rider needs it occasionally.” She put her hands on her hips. “Come on, now. Don’t be ornery.”

  Julian pressed the hypo against his arm. It hissed and he sighed with relief as the strange aching in his head eased.

  “Now sit and tell me everything.”

  “Eva, you may have to disqualify me from the program.”

  “Oh, really? Let me be the judge of that.” She sat down next to him on the worn blue wallcushions. “Start at the beginning.”

  “I saw a man—some kind of thief.”

  “Where?”

  “Looked like, I don’t know, England or maybe Boston hundreds of years ago. Hard to tell. Anyway, the guy was using telekinesis to rob a rich woman of her jewels.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “I watched him decoy her, then sneak into the house. And he had golden eyes, Eva.”

  “Interesting.” She tapped her foot thoughtfully. “But I don’t see why you want to resign from the program.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Julian shut his eyes. “The man. He looked just like Rick.”

  “Your twin?”

  He nodded. “I think I’m losing my objectivity.”

  Julian felt the cool touch of her hand on his head. He opened his eyes. Eva gave him a skeptical look.

  “Coincidence,” she said. “You’re making too much out of this.”

  “Eva, I know what I saw.”

  “How could it have been your brother? You said this appeared to be a scene out of the past—maybe two hundred years ago. Use simple logic, Julian.”

  “I know. I know.”

  She stood up and began pacing. “You’ve been one of our most reliable flare riders,” she said. “I need you for this program, Julian. Don’t get spooked by something you saw that you don’t understand.”