I’d rather dig ditches than work in cable news, Andie thought. The competition is cutthroat. Any newcomer can shoulder in and take over. If she was to judge, that young man had a promising career ahead. She’d have to find out who he was later.
The noise in the room lessened as Jacobsen entered from a side door. She gave Andie a small nod as she settled in.
“I would like to clarify the statements of my colleague, Senator Horner, concerning the so-called supermutant rumors,” Jacobsen said. She looked confident and in control. Andie began to relax.
“We must not allow emotion to get in the way of the facts. And, at the moment, the facts are that no proof has been uncovered revealing any sort of genetic experiments such as the ones to which Senator Horner referred. And absolutely no proof has been discovered of any sort of superman mutant. I fear that my esteemed colleague has been taken in by a hoax and invite him to reveal his sources to me or members of the media.”
The video jocks were watching Jacobsen raptly. Andie saw the strange, bespectacled young man in the front row aim what looked like a recorder at the senator.
“It is vital that we see this for what it is; a ghost, an unsubstantiated rumor—”
A shrill whine cut through the room, drowning out the senator’s voice. Jacobsen, turning to look for the disruption, froze in midstatement. She was enveloped in swirling white light.
Andie gasped, tried to move. But the room was packed. She was hemmed in. Helpless. In horror, she watched Jacobsen slump forward across the podium.
“That man. Grab the man with the glasses!” she yelled.
But he was jumping over a row of chairs, and dodging between people, running toward the door. Then the crowd erupted.
“Call a doctor!”
“Call security!”
“Get him. He shot Eleanor Jacobsen!”
A burly cameraman in a blue T-shirt tackled the gunman five feet from the door, and both disappeared under a pile of uniformed security guards.
Andie fought her way to the stage. Jacobsen lay sprawled on the floor like a rag doll. Her eyes were open, unblinking, and she was staring into space. A woman in a red dress leaned over her, checking for vital signs.
“How is she? Is she breathing? Does she have a pulse?”
Andie asked the questions mechanically. One look and she knew the truth. Jacobsen was dead. Numbly, she watched as the woman closed the mutant’s unseeing eyes.
“Get a doctor! Hurry!” someone yelled.
Andie forced herself to look at Jacobsen’s pale face, fighting an urge to smooth the disarrayed blond hair. All that splendid intellect, incisive wit, steady commitment—gone. The mutant heroine, golden Eleanor, murdered by a nonmutant. Tears stung Andie’s eyes. She sank down on the edge of the stage and covered her face. It was the end of everything, she thought. The end of everything.
“Hand me the laser level,” Bill McLeod said, bending over the nose of his antique Cessna.
Joanna rummaged in the tool pack. “What’s it look like?”
“It’s long and black, with a yellow LED.”
“I can’t find it,” she said. “Did you have to bring this thing with us on vacation?”
“Never mind. Just hand me the whole thing.”
Joanna swung it toward him, grinning. She didn’t pretend to enjoy working on his plane, but visiting the old airstrip near Lake Louise was part of their vacation tradition. And she did like to see the weekend pilots tinkering with their planes. The glint of bright metallic paint, the clear blue, cloudless skies through which the small crafts soared; she enjoyed being in the midst of it.
Although she’d attended flying school at Bill’s urging, and even qualified as a pilot, once the kids were born her interest in flying had faded. She treasured the memories of her solo flight. But she was satisfied to leave them as that: memories.
“Remember when Kelly used to come out here with us?” she asked.
“Yeah. She’d have made a hell of a pilot.”
“Sure would. I don’t know what she’s interested in these days.” Joanna let out a sigh.
“Besides knife fights?”
“Bill!”
He held up his hands in surrender, then turned back to the plane. “Just joking. Any news on that little mutant girl?”
“Melanie Ryton? Kelly hasn’t said much.”
“I noticed. She just moons around since we came up here.”
“She misses Michael. That’s natural.”
“I wish I could say the same for him.”
“You know I don’t like it when you talk about him that way.” She crossed her arms in irritation.
“Hell, Jo, I can’t help it. He gives me the creeps. He’s a nice kid, but those eyes. That slant on ’em doesn’t help much. And I don’t know who was more uncomfortable when Kelly made him give that levitation demonstration. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the couch. Can’t say that I blamed him, though. Sort of like being a sideshow display.”
Joanna chuckled. “Still, it was pretty amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mutant strut his stuff before. I almost envied him. It seemed like fun.” Briefly, she imagined floating in the air.
“Maybe. But if you ask me, that mutant didn’t look like he was having much fun.”
“No, you’re right. He’s so serious. But I suppose he’s worried about his sister.”
“Yeah. And now we’ve got this crazy supermutant thing to think about, if you believe that senator—what’s his name? Horner.”
McLeod was silent for a moment, which meant he was probably tightening a wire. She leaned against the silvery fuselage.
“Honey, it’s almost five-fifteen. Do you want to hear the stock market report?” she asked.
“Sure.”
Joanna pressed the stud on her watch. The disc jockey ran through the familiar string of commercials, some small talk about the market, and then proceeded to the closing figures for the day.
“Market prices plunged on the heels of the assassination this afternoon…the Dow Jones Industrials closed at fifty-four forty, down seven hundred twenty.”
McLeod jerked his head up, nearly banging it on an engine panel. “Assassination?”
Joanna keyed up the news channel.
“And now, this just in from Washington: Arnold Tamlin, the alleged assassin of Senator Eleanor Jacobsen, was found dead in his jail cell in Washington at one thirty-eight this afternoon. No immediate cause of death has been determined. An autopsy is expected as soon as next-of-kin are located and notified.”
“Somebody killed that mutant senator. Bill, I don’t believe it,” Joanna said. She felt strange, light-headed.
McLeod frowned. “I knew something like this would happen sooner or later—”
“Shhh—listen!”
The newscast continued.
“Tamlin was apprehended moments after Senator Eleanor Jacobsen of Oregon was shot in the midst of a news conference. Senator Jacobsen, a mutant, was refuting comments at the time that had been made by Senator Joseph Horner concerning rumors of a so-called superman mutant. She was struck by a phaton blast at close range and killed instantly. In the scuffle that followed, the suspect Tamlin was subdued and taken into custody.
“Senator Horner had this comment to make: ‘It’s a tragedy. Just a pure and simple tragedy. But God’s will be done, I say. Let’s all bow our heads in prayer.…’”
Silently, Joanna pressed the red off-stud. A cloud floated across the sun, throwing shadows over the pavement.
“I never could stand that man,” McLeod said.
Joanna gasped.
“Is that all you can say?” she snapped. “A great woman is killed, and you make snide comments about some fool reverend!” Angrily, she threw down the tool kit and watched the contents scatter across the black pavement.
“Joanna, what’s the matter with you?” He stared at her, shocked.
She turned to face him, hands on hips.
“I’m tired of your attitude tow
ard mutants, Bill. Our daughter is in love with one, and all you can talk about is how creepy you think he is. A brave, brilliant woman has been murdered, and you don’t even have a shred of regret. I’m beginning to think Kelly’s right. You are a bigot.”
“Now hold on, Jo. I think that Ryton kid is okay, for all my comments. And I think it’s a lousy break for the mutants that their senator was killed. But you can’t expect me to get all broken up about it.”
“No,” she said. “But I do expect you to care.”
He swung down from his perch, took her in his arms.
“Jo, I do care. Any assassination is disturbing. Frightening. But don’t you see that the mutants seem to draw this kind of violence? And they have, ever since they came out in the nineties. I don’t want our daughter mixed up in it. Do you?” His gaze was solemn.
Joanna leaned her head against his shoulder. “It frightens me, too, honey. The Ryton kids seem perfectly fine to me. I can’t believe the mutants deserve this kind of treatment. And I don’t know what to tell Kelly anymore.” She blinked rapidly, fighting back tears. “I don’t care how many mutants are assassinated, I won’t forbid Kelly to see Michael. I can’t. And I want you to accept that. Now finish up and let’s get out of here.” She turned on her heel and strode away toward the skimmer.
James Ryton sat motionless in his office, the deskscreen blurring before his eyes. He’d watched the press conference begin, watched the camera swing crazily as Eleanor Jacobsen fell. Saw blurred faces, yellow curtain, and then a mutant woman in a white suit lying on the floor on her back, eyes open, unseeing.
“I told them we had to be careful,” he said to the empty office. His voice was high, almost giddy. “But they didn’t believe me. No, they never listen, do they? And look what’s happened now. The normals have killed Eleanor Jacobsen. I knew it. I knew it.”
And now the assassin was dead too.
He leaned his head into his hands, massaging his temples as the mental flares began their daily clamor. The normals would kill every single one of us if they could, he thought bitterly. And my daughter is somewhere out there, at their mercy.
Skerry sat on a wooden stool in the Devonshire Arms in Soho, sipping a Red Jack and watching the satellite broadcast. In replay, he saw the golden-haired woman fall again and again. Then the pale, dead face of the assassin in his cell. The bartender watched with him.
“Too bad about that mutant minister-lady, mate,” he said. “She seemed decent enough.”
Skerry nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“She was.”
He emptied his glass.
“Guess it’s time to get going.”
He flipped a credit chip toward the bar.
“Keep the change.”
Stephen Jeffers rubbed his hand over his mouth and watched the deskscreen in his office. “Dammit,” he said. “This ruins everything.”
Sue Li Ryton leaned back in her chair, her eyes on the deskscreen,. Trevan, the department assistant, walked into the office and, without a word, handed her an amber glass filled with liquid. She nodded her thanks and took a sip. She could smell the anise, but somehow, the drink didn’t register on her tastebuds. She took another mouthful. And another.
“Ouzo,” Trevan said apologetically. “It’s all I had.”
“It’s perfect,” Sue Li said, handing him the empty glass. “Could you fill it up again?”
Bejamin Cariddi watched the deskscreen in his office until the newscast ended. His face was white. He dialed a private code and cloaked his screen.
“Yes?” The voice sounded strained.
“It’s Ben.”
“You’ve heard, of course.”
“Yeah. I thought this wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Damned fool overdid it.”
“I warned you—”
“To hell with your warnings! It’s too late now. We’ll have to move even more quickly.”
“You took care of Tamlin?”
“Of course. You’ve still got the girl?”
“Lock, stock and golden eyes.”
“Then get going.”
Michael hurried down the dark hall toward his father’s office. In each room he passed, a deskscreen flickered yellow, gold, red. The same images repeated again and again.
Michael’s eyes burned with dry, angry grief.
They’ve killed her, he thought. Damn them, they’ve killed her!
He burst into his father’s office.
“What are we going to do?”
His father raised his head from his hands and turned to look at him wearily.
“Do?”
“Aren’t we going to demand an investigation?”
“Of course. Halden’s probably making a formal request right now.”
Surprised, he stared at his father.
“I thought you’d be angrier.”
“I am angry, Michael. It’s my worst fears come true.”
“Are we going to have a clan meeting?”
“Yes. On Tuesday, at Halden’s.” James Ryton’s voice was thin.
“I want to go.”
His father nodded. “Fine. Why don’t you set up travel arrangements.”
Melanie paused in the shade at the vidkiosk, munching a shimiroll. She was on lunch break from the reception job Benjamin had found for her at Betajef. It was fun to meet all the foreign businessmen and she preferred the neat pink company jumpsuit she wore to her Star Chamber costume.
Onscreen, some old fool senator was being interviewed. What was he saying…something about supermutants? As she watched, the scene shifted to a conference room where a slim blond woman with golden eyes lay on the floor. Melanie stopped chewing. Wasn’t that Eleanor Jacobsen? Her father was always talking about her. But what was the vidjock saying now?
“…murdered yesterday. Her alleged assassin found dead today in Washington. Mutant leaders across the country are converging on the state house in Oregon to discuss Jacobsen’s successor.…”
The scene now showed a panel of somber-faced video jocks dressed in gray and black jackets.
The gray-haired reporter said, “Allen, on the heels of this tragedy, I think we can expect to see heightened political activity on the part of the mutants.”
“Yes, Sarah,” replied a blond man. “There are also fears that this assassination is the first part of a far-reaching plot to eliminate all mutants in public office.”
“Damned mutants asked for it, if you know what I mean,” an older man with deep wrinkles around his eyes muttered, watching the screen.
Melanie ducked her head quickly, grabbed her filtershades, and moved away from the small group that had gathered in front of the screen. Was everybody looking at her? At her eyes? She told herself they probably hadn’t noticed her. She repeated the chant for calmness three times and hurried back to work.
* * *
The lights in the hospital corridor blazed with impersonal cheeriness. Andie sat on a yellow chair by the emergency room door, idly toying with stray wisps of hair that had escaped her bun. She felt as though she hadn’t slept in days, that she’d been born and would die in that same gray silk business suit. Her watch told her it was 3:30 in the morning. Then 3:31. And 3:32. She rubbed her eyes. The Valedrine the intern had offered her was beginning to work, and the sick numbness was melting into a warm buzz.
Leaning back against the wall, she shut her eyes, resting her head. Once more, she flipped through the day’s events like a video schedule.
Andie still didn’t believe it. She’d been three feet away. If only she could have saved her. Again, she ran through the events, imagining herself tackling Tamlin before he aimed the gun, then throwing herself into the path of its beam.
A nightmare. So awful. Grotesque and endless.
When Tamlin was found dead in his cell, Andie began to think the world had truly spun off its axis. Despite the video surveillance in the cell, the man had simply clutched his head, k
eeled over, and died. Preliminary autopsy results showed a massive cerebral hemorrhage. It would take days to locate his medical records, study his history, decide if this was death from natural or unnatural causes.
“Do you always sleep on the job?” a familiar voice asked.
Andie opened her eyes. A young, bearded man, tall and muscular, wearing U.S. Army fatigues and a white Japanese T-shirt, stood next to her.
“Skerry?”
“At your service.”
She bristled. “How can you sound so cheerful?”
“Reflex. How are you holding up?”
“Not well.”
“Which means better than most.” He sat down next to her. “I assume you were there?”
“Oh yes. I had a ringside seat.” Andie’s voice shook.
“Steady.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Look, I know this has been rough for you, but we’ve got some unfinished business, and it won’t wait.”
“What do you mean?”
“That little gift I gave you in Rio. I need it back.”
“Tonight? What for?”
“Now that Jacobsen’s dead, I’ll have to take it to the Mutant Council myself.”
“I thought you weren’t welcome there.”
“I’m not. But there’s nobody else who could do the job.”
Andie took a deep breath as a wild idea came to her.
“Skerry, let me do it,” she said. “I want to. For Eleanor.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, Skerry. Please. I was in Rio with her. I know as much as she did about it. Perhaps more. And I’ve still got a few government connections.”
“They don’t allow nonmutants in the meeting.”
“Couldn’t we try?”
“You’d never get past the front door.”
“Even with you?”
He paused. “Well, maybe with me.” A smile began to crease the corners of his mouth. “All right. I don’t know what good it would do, but it probably can’t hurt. I’m already in it so deep with them, it doesn’t matter. They’ll only banish or censure me.”