And was he right? Could the world really handle enhanced mutants? She remembered the memorypak Skerry had handed her in Rio. She’d planned to show it to Jacobsen as soon as they returned from Brazil. But that had been weeks ago. The demands on her time had been overwhelming. And whenever she thought of Skerry’s request, it had sounded more and more like paranoid fantasies. She’d promised herself to show the memorypak to Jacobsen this afternoon. Would there be time now?
The call waiting lights continued to blink despite Caryl’s frantic efforts. She was fielding calls as fast as she could, shaking her head furiously.
“No. I’m sorry. We have no statement to make at this time. No. Absolutely not.”
Andie took a deep breath and punched in the priority override code to summon her boss.
“Where did you get this?” Jacobsen demanded. The screen was empty. They’d scrolled through the contents of the memorypak twice.
Andie sighed. “I’ve already told you.…”
“That some mysterious stranger in Rio approached you, seemed to know me, and gave you this?” Jacobsen leaned back in her chair, eyes wide in disbelief. “Don’t you realize that by accepting it you could have compromised the entire bunch of us?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, I suppose it’s too late now. But you should have come to me immediately.”
Andie had never seen her look so exasperated.
“Perhaps I should have let you push Horner out the window in Rio. Damn the man.”
“I thought you didn’t read minds without asking permission,” Andie said, her cheeks reddening.
“I don’t. But you were practically broadcasting. Even non-mutants can do that, occasionally.” Jacobsen’s expression softened into a smile. “Why didn’t you tell me about this, Andie?”
“I thought we were being watched.”
“You were probably right. Nevertheless, I wish I’d known sooner. And now I have the proof I’ve been searching for, if this is trustworthy, that genetic experiments on human embryos are taking place in Brazil. And, somehow, I must find a way to undo the damage that fool Horner has done without outright lying.”
“I think you’d better hold that news conference tomorrow morning,” Andie said. “Before this gets worse. I’ve already had two answermechs installed in the office today.”
Jacobsen frowned. “It goes against precedent. I should make my report to Congress first. And I’ve got to get a copy of this memorypak to the Mutant Council. However, I suppose you’re right. Horner’s set off a wildfire. I’ve got to put it out first.”
“I’ve reserved the Presidential Room for ten a.m. tomorrow.”
“Fine. Get Craddick on my private line, would you, Andie? Then issue a release to all the usual media networks.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur as Andie set up interviews after the press conference, fielded other calls, and rode herd on the rest of the office staff. Her nerves felt raw, abraded a bit more each time somebody mentioned the term “supermutant.”
At six-thirty, Karim called to remind her of dinner plans. Reluctantly, she canceled. At nine-thirty, she remembered to have a sandwich sent up to the office. Two hours later, she forced herself to go home. Livia greeted her at the door with petulant Abyssinian yowls.
“Sorry, my dear. Tough day at the office. I know you’re hungry.”
Andie kicked off her shoes, grateful for the luxurious pile of the blue carpet against her aching feet. She fed the cat, adding an extra portion out of guilt, then settled onto the sofa to review her notes for Jacobsen’s comments the next day. Livia curled up beside her, purring and licking herself contentedly. Slowly, Andie’s head nodded forward. Her eyes closed. But her sleep was uneasy, filled with dreams of golden-eyed Frankenstein monsters stalking her, herding her toward churches whose doorways opened to reveal rows of sharp, grinning teeth.
Between shows, Melanie leaned against the bar and eyed the crowd at the Star Chamber. Two men in nice suits looked like they’d be generous tippers. Near them was a group of Korean tourists; they always tipped well and they never grabbed very hard. She saw a couple of the regulars and made a note to stay away from the gray-haired chuter. He kept trying to pull off her arrows.
In the two weeks that Melanie had worked at the club, she’d quickly learned whom to avoid and whom to encourage. The chuters were most likely to grab hard. Something about doing chute just made them aggressive. But the joyheads were harmless. They giggled and tickled her, and sometimes they tipped well, if they remembered. She scanned the far side of the club. Oh, no. That weird gork, Arnold Tamlin, sat alone at a table. His eyes looked really unfocused tonight, she thought.
“I see your sweetie pie’s here again,” Gwen said.
“Get ’waved.”
Melanie had kept her distance from the big redhead ever since that first night at the bar when she’d been too green to fend off the other woman’s advances. She knew better now. When she awoke at night from tangled, sweaty dreams in which she tried desperately to get away from hands that stroked and mouths that sucked, she told herself she’d had too much to drink. Nightmares. It was nightmares that made her heart pound. Fear, not desire. It had to be.
During the second show, Melanie managed to avoid the chuters’ outstretched hands and concentrate on the Koreans. They jammed so many chips into her belt she was almost afraid to move. She danced carefully, teasing two joyheads, and even eluded that awful Tamlin. What a jerk. She finished her dance with a flourish and decided to have a joystick outside.
The night air was cooling and the sweat she’d worked up evaporated quickly. July in Washington was unthinkably hot, but at least there was some relief in the evening. She leaned against the backdoor of the club and thought of her family. Wouldn’t they be surprised if they knew how much money she was making? For a moment, Melanie was happy. She didn’t need them. She was fine on her own.
“Ex-excuse me. Miss Venus?”
Oh God, not Tamlin again. He’d followed her out of the club. Now he was blocking the door. Melanie backed away slowly, trying to smile.
“Yes?”
“I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy watching you.” He moved toward her, his eyes staring fixedly into hers.
“Thank you.”
“I was wondering if you’d dance just for me.…” He was coming closer, reaching out toward her.
“Oh, Arnold, I don’t know. I’m pretty tired.” She kept backing, trying to circle toward the door. Why didn’t Dick send somebody out to get her? Her break was over.
“Dance just for me, Venus. Levitate and dance in the clouds just for me.” He grabbed her by her shoulders. His grip was hard, fingers digging in.
“Arnold, I can’t levitate.” She twisted, trying to pull away. “Let go.”
“Sure you can. Do it with me now. All you mutants can levitate, right?”
“You’re hurting me.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. Melanie tried kicking at his shins as he pushed her but she stumbled over loose brick and toppled backward to the pavement with Tamlin on top of her. He put his hands around her throat, squeezing.
“Levitate, god damn you! You goddamned mutant! Freak! Levitate or I’ll kill you!”
Melanie tried to scream, though she knew the noise in the bar would cloak any sound she made. She struggled desperately, clawing at his hands as the roaring sound in her ears grew louder. Louder. Tamlin’s grip was too strong for her. Gasping, she struggled for breath, colors flashing against the inside of her eyelids. Then the colors began to fade. Breathing seemed like too much of an effort. She wanted to let go. But something wouldn’t let her.
“Miss? Are you all right?”
Somebody was shaking her. Melanie opened her eyes. A young man with longish brown hair, olive skin, and soulful brown eyes stared at her with concern. She sat up carefully.
“Where is he?”
“Ran off when I slugged him.”
“God,” she said, feeling her throat. “I think y
ou saved my life.”
“Well, I couldn’t just watch him strangle you.” He helped her stand up, a comforting arm around her shoulder. Melanie leaned back against him gratefully. He was one of the businessmen she’d noticed earlier.
“Are you all right? Do you want to see a doctor?”
She shook her head. “I’m all right.”
“Then let me take you home. He might be waiting nearby to follow you.”
“Do you think so?”
“Anything is possible with a maniac like that.”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Benjamin. Benjamin Cariddi. Ben.”
She shook his hand, feeling a bit foolish. “My name’s Melanie.”
“I didn’t think it was Venus.” He smiled crookedly.
She smiled back. “Give me five minutes to change. And tell them I’m through for the night.”
“I’ll meet you by the front door.”
He was waiting for her in a sleek, dark skimmer. The upholstery looked like gray leather. Must be a good imitation, she thought.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Like hamburgers?”
“Real ones? Sure.”
“I know a great place to get some.” He turned the skimmer down a side street toward a freeway access, punched a code into the dashboard, leaned back in his seat.
Melanie stared at the dashboard. “Is this totally mechguided?”
“Just about.”
“Aren’t these skimmers outrageously expensive?”
Ben smiled at her. “Yes.”
Melanie blushed. Stop asking stupid questions, she told herself. Look out the window.
The landscape was unfamiliar; a quiet residential area to her. At the next exit, the skimmer turned off the freeway and sped along past well-manicured lawns and elegant homes that glowed yellow from recessed lighting. Another turn and they were speeding through a canyon of sleek high-rise buildings. The skimmer pulled up before a green tower whose top floor was obscured by fog and darkness, and rolled into a garage elevator. With a grinding shudder, the lift deposited the skimmer in a parking slot deep underground.
“Everybody out,” Ben said, opening Melanie’s door.
“Where are we?”
“My place.”
“I thought we were going to get a hamburger.”
“We are. I make the best ones around.” He grinned and led her to another elevator. “Twenty-third level, please.”
Before Melanie could count the floors, the lift had stopped and Ben was leading her down a plushly carpeted gray corridor. His palm against the knob-sensor gained them entry into an airy duplex. The atrium living room was filled with green plants and low-slung tawny leather sofas.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said and vanished into the kitchen.
The walls were covered with textured cloth that glinted in subdued golds and greens. There was a hallway connecting the entry hall to three bedrooms, a bathroom and a small study. The master bedroom lay beyond, a somber room paneled in rich, dark wood. The far wall held a private lift which she assumed led to the second floor.
The scent of grilled meat drifted toward Melanie.
“Come and get it,” Ben’s voice announced from the wall speaker.
The kitchen was long and narrow, lined by gleaming white cabinets. It led to a circular nook, where a table was set with thin black plates and shining utensils. Ben ladled sauce into a bowl near a plate of burgers and gestured toward a chair.
“Sit down. This is my own invention.”
Melanie looked at the sparkling plates and glasses, the silverware aligned in neat rows. She’d been eating in soya shops too much lately. Grabbing a burger, she took a huge bite. And another.
“Ooh. Great,” she said around mouthfuls. She’d forgotten how good real meat tasted. She added some sauce; it seemed to be part tomato and part onion, with a sweet and sour tang.
“I don’t believe in false advertising.” He took a swallow of beer, looked at her appraisingly. “What are you doing working in a place like that?”
“It’s a job. I needed it.”
“Where are your folks?”
“Dead.” Melanie concentrated on her food.
“Where are you from?”
“New York.” She reached for another burger.
“Don’t you have clan members who can help you?”
She stopped chewing and stared at him. “What do you know about clan?”
“I saw some docuvid that said mutants had clan meetings and things like that.”
“I don’t remember any vid like that.”
Ben shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t shown in New York.”
“Maybe.” She swallowed the last bite and wiped her mouth. “Thanks for the food.”
She stood up, grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Ben followed her.
“Home.”
“To some fleabag apartment, no doubt.”
“No doubt.” Melanie tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. “Let me out.”
Ben leaned past her and punched a code on the wall panel. The door slid open.
“You’ll never find a taxi at this hour.”
“There isn’t a station for miles around. And you don’t even know where you are.” He leaned against the door frame. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to come home with strange men, huh?” He smiled crookedly. Melanie’s heart began to pound. What had she gotten herself into now?
Ben shook his head. “Relax. I’m harmless. You’re free to leave if you want. Or stay.”
“Why should I stay?”
“Because this is a nicer place than where you sleep. Because there’ll be a lock on your bedroom door that only you will be able to operate. Because you need help and I can provide it.”
“Like what?”
“A better job, for starters.”
“And what do I have to provide you with in return?”
Ben flashed his smile again. “I’ll think of something. But not tonight. C’mon. It’s late.”
Melanie allowed him to draw her back into the apartment and close the door. He slid aside a wall panel, revealing shelves heaped with blue towels and sheets.
“Take what you need. Your bedroom is first door on the right. It has its own bathroom.”
She stared at him uncertainly.
Ben sighed and walked into her bedroom. He punched a code into the deskscreen in the corner. The screen remained blank, but a minute later, a droning mechvoice spoke.
“You have reached the South DCPD. For emergency, dial seven-three-three, for arrest records, six-two-two; for the drug unit—” Ben cut the connection, then made another adjustment.
“There. I’ve set it on autoredial. They can trace a call in three seconds, but you’ll find my address in the top drawer here if you care to report me for kindness to transients.”
“I don’t get it,” Melanie said.
“What don’t you get?”
“I don’t know you. Why should you do this for me?”
Ben smiled. “I just happened to be at that bar tonight because a colleague was in from Tennessee and wanted to see exotic dancing. And I certainly enjoyed your show.” He grinned. “But I didn’t enjoy watching some psychopath try to throttle you. And I can’t be there every night to protect you.” He cupped her cheek in his palm. “You were meant for other things.”
First the compliment, Melanie thought. Then comes the seduction. Well, all right. Get on with it. But there was an odd look on his face. Wasn’t he going to kiss her?
He traced her lips gently with his forefinger. “You really are lovely, you know. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He dropped his hand and moved back.
“If you hear any noise in the middle of the night, don’t worry. I frequently work at odd hours. I have several overseas connections; I’m an exporter of specialized goods. Now get some sl
eep.” He walked down the hallway, into his bedroom, shut the door.
Melanie watched him, disbelieving. What was he up to? He’d saved her life, fed her, and now he was sheltering her. He hadn’t even tried to make a pass at her, really. Strange. She sniffed the flowered sheets, enjoying their clean scent. Sleep beckoned. But first, she closed the bedroom door behind her, and checked the lock twice.
12
ANDIE AWAKENED WITH a start. She was lying on the sofa, still fully clothed. The wall clock told her it was seven in the morning. Shit! Jacobsen’s press conference was in three hours. She leaped up and ran for the bathroom. Two minutes in the shower, five in front of the mirror, and another five spent pulling on her gray silk suit and pinning her hair back in a severe bun. She grabbed her screencase and ran for the tube, praying that it was on schedule. Luck was with her, and she got to the office ten minutes before Jacobsen came in at eight-fifteen, leaving just enough time for Andie to transfer her notes to the senator’s deskscreen.
Caryl looked up from her screen and rolled her eyes. “I’ve been here for an hour. Ninety calls.”
As she spoke, another came in. The answermech caught it: Andie’s recorded image assured the caller that Senator Jacobsen would review this call and to leave a message after the tone.
Jacobsen walked in briskly. She looked cool and competent in an ivory suit.
“Everything under control?”
“So far. Your notes are ready.”
The senator nodded and disappeared into her office.
The rest of the staff was in house by eight-thirty. Andie began to feel more optimistic. They would carry the day. They had to.
Fifteen minutes before the conference began, Andie went down to the Presidential Room to check the mikes. All five were in place. She watched the reporters file in right on schedule.
She nodded at Rebecca Hegen and smiled at Tim Rogers. In fact, there wasn’t a face she didn’t recognize, save one. A young man with short black hair, pale skin and old-fashioned tortoise-shell eyeglasses shoved his way past the other reporters, settling squarely into a seat in the middle of the second row. At least one colleague glared at him. Probably saving the seat for somebody else, Andie thought. But the bespectacled man was oblivious to his neighbor’s displeasure. He gazed with great concentration at the table where Jacobsen would sit. Then he lowered his head and began to fiddle with a leather screencase.