by Karen Haber
“Who said anything about staying away from me? I thought maybe just some time off to rest your mind …”
“No!” He couldn’t stop now.
“Then go for a walk. Get a little exercise.” She took him by the shoulder, shook him gently. “I think you need a vacation. But I won’t order you off the program. Not yet.” She glanced down at her watch. “Look, I’m due at a department meeting. See you tonight?”
“Sure.”
She was already out the door.
Julian leaned over Eva’s deskscreen and pressed Rick’s phone code.
A flat, metallic voice announced: “Circuit is busy, repeat, circuit is busy. Try call later.”
Shit. That was no help. Where was Rick? Julian couldn’t help feeling that his brother was in serious trouble. Twinsense told him so. And there was nothing he could do about it.
He glanced at the clock. There was time for another flare ride. Eva was wrong. Julian didn’t need a vacation. He needed answers.
He fitted himself into the headset and microphone. Sank into the flare connection. And watched his brother, dressed in a blue pressure suit, pace along a corridor toward a transparent wall. On the other side of the glass, Julian could see the enormous blue curve of the Earth against the backdrop of space and stars. The image hung before him for a moment before disintegrating into a hundred buzzing particles. Julian paused a moment. No other image came to him. He removed the headset.
“Record,” he said.
“Recording,” replied the lab screen.
“Eleven-fifteen. Akimura. Flare ride. A mutant male, approximate age late twenties, in pressure suit, apparently in space. Walking toward window through which planet Earth can be seen. Approximate span of vision: twenty seconds.”
“Further recording?”
“No.”
The screen clicked off.
Julian stood up. If he reported seeing Rick again, he’d be off the couch. But he’d told the truth, hadn’t he? Just omitted one detail. This strange coincidence wouldn’t last. He wouldn’t have to do this very often.
***
Rick parked his cycle in front of the house. He had tried calling Alanna from the road. No answer. Well, he would phone her as soon as he was upstairs.
“Aki.”
Henley was sitting inside. He looked paler than usual, and even more anxious.
“Henley, how goes it?”
“Not too well. You see, Akimura, we’ve got a little problem we wanted to talk to you about.”
“We?”
“Everybody in the house.”
“And you’re the designated representative. How democratic.”
“Step goofing around, Ak. We need to talk.”
“So talk.” Rick leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
Henley began to fidget uncomfortably. “Well, we, I mean they … aw, hell, Ak, you’ve got to leave.”
“What? Who says?”
“We all do.”
“Even you, Henley?”
Henley nodded slowly. “Even me. Come on, Ak, this isn’t where you belong. Not anymore.”
“Why?”
“Those mutant stunts you pulled. At the Zeitgeist. And here. I mean, I’m grateful for your saving me from the breen and all, but it’s just started to be too much. Even Shoggie complained to me. It’s—it’s scary, Rick. Weird. You’ve got to go. I’m sorry.”
Henley sounded embarrassed as he said it, but Rick saw there was no chance of appeal. Henley told him that Tuli—his old cycling pal, Tuli—had wanted to throw his stuff out the window and change the locks. As if that would have done any good.
“And if I refuse?”
Henley stared at him, mouth open. There was real terror in his eyes. It hurt Rick to see it.
“Relax,” he said. “Just kidding. I’ll get my stuff together and be out of here by tomorrow.”
“Tonight,” Henley said, his voice almost a whisper. “You’ve got to leave by tonight.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Rick demanded. “Is that fair? You know what housing’s like. Jesus, Henley, there’s a three-week wait at every housing kiosk in northern California. Be reasonable.”
“Sorry. You’re out. Go stay with your brother in Berkeley. Or some other mutant.” And as Henley said it, Rick felt the pain twist in his stomach, as clearly as if he’d been kicked. Go back where you belong. Suddenly he was furious. Henley was frightened of him, was he? But not frightened enough.
There was a slow, growling mutter that slowly grew to a rumbling roar. The walls of the house shook. Henley, white-faced, cried “Earthquake,” and threw himself under the table. Rick laughed. No, not an earthquake. Not exactly. A cascade of furniture, rugs, pottery, cassettes, screens, and clothing came clattering down the stairs, a flood of possessions, coming to rest by the front leg of Henley’s refuge.
“Hey!” he cried. “That’s my stuff.”
“Sorry,” Rick said. “My aim isn’t perfect yet.”
Another rumble, and Rick’s belongings joined the pile: jellbed, screenbrains, screen cassettes, clothing—a mountain of goods that filled half the stairwell and threatened to swamp the living room.
“Now, what am I supposed to do with all this?” Rick said to his terrified housemate. “Could you hold it for me for a minute?”
“You’re gonzo,” Henley yelped. He was standing on the sofa now, looking as though he intended to dive out the window.
“Not yet,” Rick said. He wanted to break windows. Hurl Henley out the back door. Reduce the house to cinders. No. No. He took a deep breath. “So long.”
The door flew open and Rick strode through it, cursing. Only when he stood on the lawn, breathing heavily, did he become frightened.
I could have killed him, he thought. I nearly did.
The yard swam in his vision as tears filled his eyes. He was finished here. Henley and everybody else had seen that while he’d ignored the changes. But now he knew. There was no room for him in a nonmutant world. None at all. He got on his cycle, looked back once at the house, and set out for Mendocino and the healers.
***
The Retreat was a ten-acre communal estate outside Mendocino: three main buildings hidden behind high walls, strictly patrolled to keep the curious—and the nonmutant—away. The guard took one look at Rick’s eyes and waved him on.
The early morning sun illuminated a curving road leading down past eucalyptus trees to a group of redwood buildings nestled together in a cul-de-sac. Rick stopped his cycle and entered the largest building. He had driven all night, yet he felt alert, rested, strangely energetic.
A heavyset, gray-haired woman in pale blue robes stood in the main hall.
I’m Dr. Rita Saiken.
“I’m Rick Akimura.”
Why have you come, without prior notice?
“Something strange seems to be happening to me.”
Saiken frowned. You’re a null, aren’t you?
I was.
Will you permit me to make a probe?
“I guess so. Will it hurt?”
No. Come into this room. Take off your jacket and lie on that table. Now close your eyes.
Rick felt the table, cool against his back. And an odd pressure on his forehead that seemed to sink beneath the skin, deeper and deeper. But the healer hadn’t touched him, had she? He opened his eyes. She was sitting on a wallcushion, head lowered in meditation.
Eyes closed please.
“Sorry.” The pressure increased, became a vibration that ran through his cortex, down his spine, along every nerve. Muscles jumped in his arms and legs.
Interesting. Can you visualize the small portascreen in the corner of the room?
“The red one? Yeah.”
Fine. I’d like you to move it to the other corner.
Rick began to sit up.
Stay where you are. Just move the stand.
“Oh.” He took a mental fix on it, remembered its neat, curving shell. Up. He felt something uncoil at the back of his neck
and knew the screen was lifting, floating easily across the room.
Fine. Excellent control.
Rick lifted the table he was on as well.
Very impressive.
You want party tricks? he thought. I’ll give you party tricks. He concentrated furiously and the healer began to float into the air.
That’s enough. Stop it. You waste time.
“So what?”
We have much work to do. Breathe slowly. Pace yourself. No. No. No.
Sorry.
And use mindspeech. You have it, you know. The only way to understand how to control your talents is to use them.
What do you think I’m doing here?
Stop fighting us, Rick. We’re on your side.
What side is that?
Open your eyes, please. Come with me.
Where?
For further tests.
She led him down a long corridor and into a multilevel room filled with children’s toys, benches, cushions, and tables.
What is this? Kindergarten?
Yes.
I’m a little old for this.
Chronologically. But in terms of mutant ability, you are little more than an infant. Therefore, we must begin here. You have only the most rudimentary controls in place. It’s a miracle you haven’t injured yourself or somebody else. When did these skills begin manifesting themselves?
I don’t know. Two weeks ago. Maybe three.
Remarkable. We’ve never documented a null developing any skills at all, let alone this late into adulthood. All our studies will be affected. We must examine you thoroughly.
Hold on. All I care about is getting a handle on my talents.
Of course. But this sort of training takes time.
How long?
Difficult to say. We’ve never had a case like yours. Several months, at least, I should think.
Rick could see a plan forming in the woman’s mind. It showed him parading through room after room, before this panel of experts and that, performing like some lab animal as mutant geneticists conferred, made notes, poked and prodded him.
Deftly, he moved in between her thoughts, inserting his own clauses: He’s an unusual case, yes, but we’re really overcrowded. I’ll give him the basic one-week training and then we’ll see.
Rita Saiken glared at him. “If you wish to influence my thoughts,” she said, “you’ll have to work much harder, Mr. Akimura. I’m a level-one telepath. Excellent shields. You really are wasting your time.”
“Oh.” Rick’s face felt hot. “What level am I?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
He took another telepathic peek at her. Sure enough, he saw the shields now. Fascinating. He could analyze their structure. Interlocking layers prevented telepathic linkage. How useful. Without much effort, he duplicated them, cutting himself off from Rita Saiken’s probing.
She sat up, mouth open in shock. What have you done? Those shields weren’t there before.
Not bad for an infant, huh?
Take them down immediately!
Ask nicely.
If you refuse to cooperate, we cannot proceed.
Rick sat up and grabbed Rita Saiken by the arm.
Stop! What you’re doing is strictly prohibited.
I’ve just changed the rules.
He held her in a mindlock and worked on her shields, peeling back each layer and discarding it until he had clear access to her. Saiken convulsed, jerking, but he held her rigidly, quelling the spasms with a telepathic command. He roamed freely, learning the secrets of control, the narrowing and broadening of vision, techniques of farspeech, clairaudient boosters, telepathic commands. He probed deeply, absorbing her knowledge at a blinding pace. In the process, he strayed across deep memories: images flared of an old man, nonmutant, with a cruel face, of a dark room, and a locked door. Saiken whimpered. Rick paused, took in the sad vision of harsh blows and monstrous abuse.
Rita, this memory isn’t doing you any good. And with that same thought, Rick obliterated the antique malignancy.
Saiken sighed.
Heal a healer, win a prize, she thought. Rick saw she had no more to offer him. Sleep. He restored her shields and withdrew.
Saiken was curled on her side, resting upon thick red cushions. Rick patted her gently.
I can’t stay here, he thought. They’ll try to cage me. And sooner or later, they might succeed.
He hurried out into the chill air. Early morning. How long had Saiken worked on him?
Behind him he could hear faint mind cries, growing louder.
Stop. Come back.
You’re not ready.
Dangerous. He mindraped Rita. Catch him!
Rick kicked in the jets on his cycle in a desperate plunge toward the gate. The guard, alerted by the healers, had sealed the doors and stood, facing him, arms crossed.
“You must go back,” he said.
Make me.
A telekinetic bolt, screaming blue and red, tore at him, forcing the cycle into a turn. Rick wrestled with the controls. Useless. He was going to hit the wall. No. He tried to levitate the bike away. No good. At the last moment, he floated free from the seat. The jet bike crashed into the brick, compacting into a sputtering, tangled wreck.
Rick floated, staring down at the wreckage. Then he drifted to earth and touched a crumpled fender.
You’re tired, the voices whispered to him. So tired.
His legs felt as though they would buckle beneath him.
Rest. Come back to the Retreat.
His head sagged onto his chest for a moment. Tired. Yes, he was so tired. He would go back and they would welcome him and—
The image of Alanna bloomed in his mind, fierce, sudden, enticing. He wanted to see her. Had to. Power surged through him. He turned and faced the gatekeeper.
“Let me out.”
For answer, the guard unleashed another telekinetic bolt. But Rick was ready. He bent under the blast, turning the energy and directing it at the gate. Bars bent, groaning, and buckled under the force of his will until they were flat as railroad tracks. Rick sped up and over them, levitating away, until all telepathic noise had faded, and the only sound he heard was the pounding of his heart.
He couldn’t maintain this effort for hours. But he had to get to Marin. To Alanna. The bike was gone. He’d have to find transportation somewhere. In town.
He made his way into Mendocino and paused at a parking lot near the bullet train station.
He had no credit chips. Steal some? Hell, why not steal a skimmer? He eyed the snub-nosed vehicles in the lot until he found a dark blue streamlined number that looked appealing. Easy to pick the lock telekinetically and start the engine. Even without telekinesis, he could have done it. All these Korean skimmers had the same lock configuration. He pulled the car out of the lot.
Marin was three hours away. With luck, he would be there before midnight.
***
The ceiling was a shifting pattern of color washes, soothing to the eye. Alanna watched the wave pattern, willing herself to grow sleepy. Her mother had designed the wash screen for her years ago. The room audio was set to wave pattern. Slowly, she invoked the chant for sleep. Her toes grew numb, her arms heavy.
She was just slipping off into a strange, starlit landscape when she heard the call.
Alanna.
Faint, but audible.
Alanna.
Stronger now. Whose mindvoice was that?
Can you hear me?
She sat up in bed.
Think something. Don’t worry. I’ll hear you.
Rick? When did you develop mindspeech? She began to sweat. What had happened to him? Where are you?
In Mendocino.
I didn’t know where you went. Why didn’t you call me?
It’s a long story. Anyway, I should be there in a few hours. Can you get packed and ready?
Yes, but wait. Where are we going?
I don’t know yet.
Are you crazy?
Rick, you haven’t called me in ages, been totally incommunicado, then you mindspeak me to tell me, get ready, we’re going someplace but you’re not sure where. Mindspeech, no less? I don’t even think I’m talking to you!
Come on, don’t nag me. Things have been stranger than strange. I’ll explain it all when I see you.
You’re coming here?
Sure. Why not?
Rick, I don’t think you want to see my father. And I know he doesn’t want to see you.
Don’t worry about it. Just sneak outside. I’ll meet you down the street.
Rick, I—
Oh, one more thing. We’ll need wheels.
What happened to your jet cycle?
Tell you later. See you outside about eleven.
The linkage faded.
“Damn.” Alanna was wide awake. Rick was coming for her. She trembled, fear and excitement colliding. All these changes: would he look different? Was she foolish for hurrying to respond to his summons? Perhaps. But how could she ignore him? No, she couldn’t. That was impossible. She would go with him, wherever he took her. With a deep breath she willed herself to stop shaking, turned on the light, and began to stuff clothing into a backsac.
* * *
Dr. Rita Saiken sat in her darkened office and watched the stars twinkling above the trees like distant lanterns in the early morning sky. She was not a woman given to hysteria. But her encounter with Rick Akimura had shaken her to the core. She turned her attention to the other healers seated around the room. “A null doesn’t just change overnight,” she said. “Unless the null state is merely a latency period.”
“For what?” First Healer Hesta Doherty said. “Rita, forgive us, but we must be skeptical of any theories on mutant development. That intruder worked you over pretty thoroughly. We’ve found indication of memory erasure. Who knows what other damage he did? Are you certain you want to debate this now?”
“Absolutely.”
“You should rest.”
“And you should be willing to face the truth.”
“There’s little evidence that he’s anything more than a rogue multitalent,” said Kristof Jenner, Doherty’s assistant.
“Look at his file,” Saiken replied. “This multitalent you’re talking about was a documented null until age twenty-five. The son of a documented null.”