by Greg Cox
Maurice shook his head. “No, miss. Just you!”
Her heart leapt at the news. Shawn wasn’t dead. She had saved him after all, despite the best efforts of yet another Nova Group fanatic. A scowl marred her lovely features. I should have tracked them all down before this, she thought venomously. Before they had a chance to come after us again.
Screams and shouts came from the ground floor pavilion at the base of the Needle. “Out of my way!” a hoarse voice shouted as their assailant burst from the glass doors onto the sidewalk outside. Isabelle, whose encyclopedic memory had absorbed the files of every single 4400, had already identified the terrorist as one Jamie Skysinger, abducted September 15, 1987. Panting breathlessly, he charged past the throng of tourists recovering from the quake. He hurdled over a decorative flower bed, not even trying to be subtle in his escape. He couldn’t have looked more guilty if he’d tried.
“You!” Isabelle leapt to her feet. She pointed an accusing finger at her attacker. “You shouldn’t have done that.” The fury in her voice was unmistakable. How dare this walking hurricane spoil her romantic stroll atop the Needle. “I was on a date!”
His face blanched as he spotted Isabelle, alive and well and out for blood. She wondered how much he’d heard about what she had done to some of his fellow terrorists. It hadn’t been pretty, but Isabelle had no regrets; she’d do it all again if that’s what it took to keep Shawn safe. Smirking, she hoped that Jamie knew every gory detail of his comrades’ deaths. If not, she’d be happy to share them with him.
Something had certainly put the fear of God into him; he looked a lot less confident than he had been up on the observation deck only minutes ago. All his righteous fury had evaporated, leaving only naked fear behind. “S-stay away from me!” Sweat ran down his face. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He ran from Isabelle as though the devil herself was after him.
Close enough, Isabelle thought.
She sprinted after him. She limped at first, as the lingering after effects of her meteoric fall slowed her down. Hairline fractures sent sharp pangs through her legs with every step, but the pain only heightened her hunger for revenge. A broken heel hobbled her, so she kicked off her remaining shoe. After only a few yards, her stride evened out. She chased after Jamie with all the speed and grace of a panther.
He looked about desperately for some place to hide. The elevated tracks of the Monorail ran overhead, but the train, another “futuristic” relic of the World’s Fair, offered no chance of escape. The aging Monorail had been out of service for months. Ignoring the steps to the terminal, he dashed diagonally across Thomas Street toward the nearest shelter.
The Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame was nestled in the southwest corner of the Experience Music Project, a bizarre architectural experiment that looked more like an enormous piece of abstract art than a building. Purple, red, blue, silver, and gold glittered across twisting waves of painted aluminum and stainless-steel shingles. The amorphous contours of the edifice were a source of considerable local controversy; some people found the edifice, designed by eccentric architect Frank Gehry, revolutionary. Others thought it was just a big, garish blob. A metallic green robot perched above the entrance to the Sci-Fi Museum like an extraterrestrial gargoyle.
There was no line in front of the museum, so Jamie rushed inside. Gaining on him, Isabelle followed him into the lobby, where a life-sized replica of Gort, the giant robot from The Day the Earth Stood Still, stood by motionlessly as Jamie shamelessly bypassed the ticket counter and headed straight toward the doorway to the galleries beyond. A museum employee, who looked appropriately nerdy, tried to block him. “Wait a sec. You need a ticket!”
Jamie elbowed the poor guy in the gut. He raced through the doorway, briefly vanishing from Isabelle’s sight. Doubled over in pain, the hapless ticket taker nevertheless looked up as Isabelle approached the gate. She shot him a warning glance.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He wisely backed off and let Isabelle enter free of charge.
A large floating sphere dominated the first of the museum’s four main galleries. A kaleidoscopic montage of memorable images from movies, TV, books, and comics flashed across the curved surface of the globe. Martian invaders torched whole cities. Gorillas on horseback chased Charlton Heston through the brush. Flash Gordon rocketed toward Mongo. E.T. phoned home. Zippy sound effects and sound bites played softly in the background. Displays of sci-fi memorabilia, including Captain Kirk’s chair and uniform, lined the walls. Posters, first editions, and movie props were mounted within glass display cases. Most of the artifacts came from the personal collection of a local Microsoft billionaire. Etched-glass portraits of celebrated writers and filmmakers adorned the Hall of Fame on the far right. Computer kiosks offered visitors an opportunity to explore various topics at greater depth.
Isabelle recognized every image projected onto the central globe. Given that she owed her very conception to time travelers from the future, she had naturally reviewed all the relevant literature on the subject, which had given her a pretty good familiarity with science fiction in all its forms. Alas, H. G. Wells and his progeny had not provided her with any concrete answers regarding the purpose of her existence, only lots of occasionally diverting fairy tales. She had since moved on to other interests, like sex and relationships, but she still recognized a clip from Blade Runner when she saw one.
A shimmering starfield ran along the top of the walls. It took Isabelle’s eyes a second to adjust to the dim lighting, but she had no trouble picking up Jamie’s trail. His headlong flight through the gallery was causing plenty of commotion.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” a bystander protested as Jamie barreled through a clump of visitors loitering in front of an enormous mural depicting the history of science fiction. Isabelle glimpsed the illustrated timeline out of the corner of her eye as she raced through the gap Jamie had carved through the crowd. “This is a museum, not a frakking race track,” the aggrieved fan called after her. “Show some respect for other people!”
Don’t blame me, Isabelle thought. Talk to the guy who thought he could get away with blowing me off the Space Needle.
The fleeing terrorist careened past an exhibit on the planet Mars, in fact and fiction, to reach a stairwell leading down to the bottom floor of the museum. He stumbled on the steps, almost falling down the stairs, but managed to regain his balance. Isabelle was right behind him, her bare feet slapping against the steps as she chased after Jamie. She hit the bottom just as Jamie scrambled out of the stairwell.
“You can’t get away from me!” she hollered. “You and your terrorist buddies should have learned that the last time you targeted Shawn.” Her vengeful outbursts provoked anxious looks from the other museum goers coming down the stairs. The smart ones turned around and headed in the opposite direction. “You’re going to pay for messing with me and my boyfriend!”
Just like Daniel Armand.
And Jane Nance.
And Jorge Molina.
And Matthew Ross . . .
Beyond the stairwell, the next gallery had been dressed out to resemble the interior of some imaginary spaceship, complete with curved archways, imitation steel fittings, and an extensive “armory” of science fictional weapons. Ray guns, phasers, bat’leths, lightsabers, disruptors, weirding modules, pulse pistols, crysknives, blasters, and other futuristic ordnance were mounted behind glass, alongside an assortment of lurid book and pulp magazine covers. A tarnished metal sign required visitors to “Secure All Weapons with Safety Locks Engaged.” Impulsively, Isabelle smashed her fist through the glass and grabbed hold of Barbarella’s crossbow.
She had liked that movie, especially the sexy parts.
An alarm went off as she wrenched the crossbow from the wall. The high-pitched wail hurt her ears and jolted the handful of other visitors exploring the gallery. Startled tourists gazed at her in alarm, then scattered for the exits. Blood dripped from her knuckles, but the superfic
ial cuts were already healing. She spotted Jamie among the fleeing men and women. The back of his buckskin jacket presented a tempting target.
Hefting the loaded crossbow, she took aim at Jamie and squeezed the trigger, only to discover that the prop weapon was strictly decorative. Of course, she realized, kicking herself mentally. I should have known it was just make-believe. After all, I’m not a little kid anymore.
She hurled the prop away in disgust. The blaring alarm annoyed her. That’s a relief, she thought, as the siren was cut off abruptly. With nothing more to distract her, she dived into the mob of evacuees between her and Jamie.
Across from the armory, a jumbo-sized video screen posed as a window to the “spacedock” outside. Famous interstellar vessels, from the U.S.S. Enterprise to Buck Rogers’s art deco rocket ship, zipped past the supposed porthole as she chased Jamie into the next gallery. Frantic to get away from her, the shrieking crowd parted to let her through. Peering over the heads of the patrons in front of her, she spotted Jamie silhouetted against a wall-sized screen that offered eye-catching vistas of a series of futuristic skylines. The Jetsons’ cheery cartoon universe contrasted sharply with Jamie’s disheveled, sweaty-faced panic. His ponytail had come undone somehow and his straight black hair fell across his face. He looked dead on his feet.
“Help me, somebody!” he shrieked, but none of the escaping tourists came to his aid. “She’s going to kill me!”
Isabelle smirked. She found she enjoyed playing cat and mouse with the would-be killer. “How about that?” she mocked him. “You can tell the future, too. I thought only that creepy little blond girl could do that.”
She let him scramble away again. Unlike Jamie, she wasn’t even tired yet. She glanced idly at the assorted memorabilia on display as she pursued Jamie as relentlessly as Yul Brynner in Westworld. An exhibit on doomsday scenarios looked interesting; she made a mental note to visit the museum again when she had more time. Did Shawn like sci-fi? It dawned on her that she had no idea. There was so much they still had to learn about each other . . .
If only the Nova Group would just leave them alone.
To her surprise and amusement, she discovered that the next gallery had been given over to a special exhibit on the 4400 themselves. THE 4400: HOPE FROM THE FUTURE? asked a large banner above a collection of magazine covers and newspaper headlines concerning the 4400’s return and subsequent activities. A holographic ball of white light hovered above a miniature diorama of Highland Beach, with an enlarged color photo of Mount Rainier serving as a backdrop. Snippets of news bulletins from the day of the return were piped over the loudspeakers. “The comet is now heading straight for Earth!” an apprehensive anchorman announced. “Scientists predict destruction on a planetary scale. . . .”
Boy, did they have that wrong, Isabelle thought. In the end, the “comet” had merely delivered the 4400 back to the present. There had been no Earth-shattering collision. Only time would tell whether the advent of the 4400 constituted a different sort of catastrophe. Isabelle hadn’t made up her mind about that yet. She cared about some of the returnees . . .
She frowned as she noted a portrait of the late Jordan Collier among the artifacts; even as an infant, she had never trusted Collier. As far as she was concerned, the charismatic tycoon’s assassination had been a very good thing. If nothing else, it had left Shawn in charge of The 4400 Center, right where he belonged.
No thanks to Jamie Skysinger and his murderous comrades.
A fresh surge of anger flared inside her as she realized just how close Shawn had come to joining Collier in oblivion. Would the museum have updated their 4400 exhibit to include Shawn’s obituary? Probably, although no one would have mourned Shawn as much as she would have. Her expression hardened as she ran out of patience.
“Time’s up, Jamie,” she announced. Her voice echoed down the dimly lit hallways. “This was fun for a while, but I’m getting bored now.” She heard him panting up ahead. His footsteps were dragging. There was no way he was getting away from her. “Besides, I really need to get back to Shawn.”
A feeble whimper drew her straight to him. Having taken a wrong turn, Jamie had run into a dead end. Isabelle had him cornered in an alcove devoted to the display of famous fictional robots and cyborgs. Robby, the Terminator, RoboCop, R2-D2, the robot from Lost in Space, an old-school Cylon, and other cybernetic celebrities looked on pitilessly as the trapped militant searched in vain for an escape route. Isabelle stood at the entrance to the alcove, blocking his path. Jamie’s bloodshot eyes pleaded for mercy. “Please,” he begged. “Don’t do this. People like us, we shouldn’t be fighting each other. That’s just what NTAC wants!”
“I think you’re confused,” she replied. “I’m nothing like you.” According to the late Matthew Ross, before she killed him, her ultimate destiny was to destroy the 4400. She still wasn’t sure what she thought of that, but disposing of scum like Jamie definitely felt right, natural, like this really was what she was meant for. “You’re what I’m here to exterminate.”
Jamie gulped. His back was up against a row of robots, who posed behind a thick sheet of glass like a mechanical police lineup. METAL OR MORTAL? read the blocky inscription above the display. Isabelle smiled coldly. Jamie was definitely the latter.
Unwilling to go down without a fight, he tried to pull himself together. Wheezing, he sucked the cool air into his lungs. Isabelle shook her head. Sorry, that’s not going to work this time. He had caught her off guard before, but she had his number now.
Just as she had with Daniel Armand and his murderous accomplices, she turned the terrorist’s ability against him. Before Jamie could even exhale, a ferocious wind whipped up behind him, blowing out the glass pane between him and the robots. A storm of broken glass pierced his body as he screamed in agony. He fell forward onto his face. Jagged shards jutted from his back. Blood spread across the tile floor. His body twitched spasmodically before falling still. She felt his heart stop beating. Jamie Skysinger was gone with the wind.
Isabelle didn’t give a damn. A crimson pool flowed toward her bare feet, and she stepped backward to avoid getting blood on her toes. Her own heartbeat and pulse were perfectly regular. Murder was nothing new to her; even as a baby, she had ruthlessly eliminated anyone who posed a threat to her. She contemplated the lifeless corpse, then glanced back over her shoulder as she heard footsteps approaching. A portly security guard came running around the corner, then skidded to a halt at the gory sight before him. “Ohmigod,” he exclaimed. “What the hell happened?”
Isabelle shrugged. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.” She nodded at the corpse. “Some of the 4400 just don’t know how to control their abilities.” She wasn’t worried about being charged with Jamie’s death; she could say in all honesty that she hadn’t laid a hand on him. The evidence would back her up on that. Despite their suspicions, the authorities had never been able to prove she’d killed anyone. She just hoped Shawn wouldn’t be too upset. He could be oddly squeamish about these things. It’s not my fault, she thought petulantly. That stupid terrorist shouldn’t have ruined our day.
Being careful to avoid stepping in the blood, she leaned over and yanked Jamie’s bear-tooth necklace from his neck. She handed the necklace to the dumbfounded guard.
“For your exhibit,” she explained.
She left him standing there among the robots. She was anxious to get back to the Space Needle and find Shawn.
He must be wondering where I am.
FIVE
ACCORDING TO HIS FILE, Cooper DeMeers lived in the University District, just up the bus line from the Pike Place Market. As Diana and Tom drove north on Aurora Avenue, she was relieved to see only minimal damage from the earthquake a few hours ago. Small heaps of rubble littered the streets. Dangling phone lines and electrical cables needed fixing. Yellow CAUTION tape fenced off damaged stretches of sidewalk. A few businesses had closed for repairs. Darkened store windows implied scattered power outages through downtown, but a
quick phone call had assured Diana that Maia and other kids at The 4400 Center were okay. Still, the unsettling tremor had her nerves on edge. She felt all shook up, in more ways than one.
“Could have been a lot worse,” Tom observed from behind the wheel of their blue Chrysler sedan. After three years as her partner, he didn’t need to be a 4400 to know what she was thinking most of the time. Diana rode shotgun beside him. “No fatalities reported so far. They’re saying the quake was only a 4.8.”
“Yes, but the epicenter was right below the Market, and the quake struck just as we were closing in on DeMeers.” She fretted over the suspicious timing. “That can’t be a coincidence, can it?”
“I don’t know,” he hedged. “The whole region’s an earthquake zone. Everybody knows that. There’s a fault running right across downtown, parallel to I–90.” That was only about three miles behind them right now. “Plus, I saw DeMeers’s face when the Market started shaking. He looked just as startled as everyone else.”
True enough, Diana thought. Her own memory confirmed Tom’s observation; the sudden earthquake had seemed to take everyone by surprise. “But what if he didn’t do it on purpose? Maybe his 4400 ability is only just now manifesting itself?” Not all of the 4400 had developed their paranormal gifts right away. Some returnees hadn’t discovered their talents until years after their return. Hitherto unknown abilities were often activated by extreme emotional stress, as in the case of Orson Bailey, whose destructive mental ability only surfaced when he was extremely angry. “What if DeMeers’s anxiety this afternoon caused a latent 4400 ability to wake up? Today’s earthquake could be only the beginning.”
“What are you saying?” His brow furrowed. “That D. B. Cooper possesses some sort of . . .?”
“Tectokinesis?” Diana supplied.
Tom gave her a bemused look. “You just made that up.”