My body snapped rigid and I fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling through a thickening red haze. Fire raced through my veins. Through a deep and increasing roaring I heard Qualls say, his voice two octaves too low, “We’ll leave him in here and simply transport the dressing room to your ship.”
“This dose is not sufficient for us to begin programming,” The Dealer rumbled. “He will require another in space.”
“Fine. He’s paying for it.”
Their voices whirled away, lost in the roar, which fragmented into other voices, singing voices, a thundering chorus of voices belting out every song I had ever heard. No, not many voices, just one voice, multiplied a thousand times...my voice...
The initial paralysis suddenly left me and I levitated from the bed, weightlessly bouncing against the ceiling. With just a little more effort I knew I could pass right through it and join those voices in orbit, only a few kilometres straight up...I had power, strength, I could do anything...
I reached out for the energy streaming from the glow-tube and wove beams of light around my fingers, changing their colors and flinging them against the walls, laughing as blue and green mixed to cyan, red and blue to magenta, green and red to yellow...
Then the colors whirled together, forming a rainbow maelstrom I could no longer control. The colors darkened, deepened to thick, inky black, blinding me, the thunder of the whirlpool drowned out the voices...it sucked me in, swallowed me...and spat me out again onto a wet Fistfight City street beneath a garish green holosign, naked inside thin pajamas. I was cold, I was hungry—and small, so small.
No! I screamed. I don’t want to be back here! But I looked up read the sign even though I didn’t want to: “Deeplove Orphanage.” Then my gaze went lower, to the sliding metal gate, standing ajar, and I knew I had just short-circuited the Gatekeeper and escaped, and I knew I had to run because I could hear the alarms ringing inside and they’d be after me, but my feet wouldn’t move and I looked down and saw that I didn’t have feet, I had orange crablegs like a Hydra’s, and my legs had joined into a stalk, and my arms were twisting into tentacles, and I opened my mouth to scream but all that came out was an alien shriek that echoed back from the walls of the orphanage as laughter...
...and then I was lying on the bed in my dressing room, shaking and shivering and sweating, and Meta was leaning over me.
Another hallucination, I thought dimly. She’ll turn into something horrible in a minute.
But she stayed the same rather plain girl she’d always been. “Kit, are you all right? I saw Qualls and those other—things—come out, but when I knocked you didn’t answer. I was afraid you were sick...”
It couldn’t be Meta. The door was locked. “Door—locked—”
Meta grinned. “I have one of Mr. Qualls’s keychips.”
It definitely couldn’t be Meta. “You could—couldn’t—”
“I stole it at the hotel. He tried to lock me in my room.”
I managed to raise myself up. “Got to—got to go—”
“No,” Meta said firmly. “Lie down. You’re sick—”
“Not sick...drugged.” I could feel reality slipping away, voices and monsters gibbering in my mind, and I clutched her arms, desperate to feel something solid. “Qualls. Help me—”
“All right, all right.” Meta looked around, spotted my bag and grabbed it. “Can you walk?”
“Have—to—” Clinging to her I made it as far as the door, while the dressing room turned inside out in my head and Meta sprouted green leaves. “Get us out—the streets—we can hide there.” Fat Sloan’s, I thought. Rain. Maybe he can help...
“Just like in your song!” Meta almost squealed.
“Only—you’re rescuing me,” I said, and hoped, as we stepped out into the misty night, that was true.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Flash is called flash because it acts instantly (as I’d already discovered) and because its effects recur in ever-shorter bursts until it’s eliminated from the body. For the next few hours I’d be out of my mind more than I was in it—and might not know the difference.
Meta headed for the gate. “Qualls—” I said, resisting.
“The security people come with the stadium, don’t they?”
Did they? Yeah, they did. I nodded.
“Then just leave it to me.”
I didn’t have much choice. Neither my brain nor my body were exactly at their best. Only Meta’s arm kept me upright.
A frowning security guard met us at the gate. “Passes?”
“I’m with him,” Meta said sweetly, and I managed to lift my head. The guard shone a flashlight in my face. His eyes widened.
“Sorry, Mr. Nebula—”
“Oh, label me Andy, gladeye,” I said. “Everyone else does... did...didee-da-dit-da-dit...” My words turned into phosphorescent balloons, and I waved good-bye as they lifted into the sky.
The guard looked up, then back down at me. “Is he all right?” His voice started three octaves below middle C and screeched to a high C-sharp in the space of four words. I winced.
“Should be a singer, gladeye! What a range...range...range, range on the home...” The guard sprouted bovine horns.
“He’s just—happy,” Meta said. “Happy to be home. We’re going out celebrating!”
“Looks to me like he’s already been celebrating,” the guard said. “Well, enjoy yourself, Mr.—Andy.”
“Moo! Moooo!” I said to him, and suddenly everything snapped back to normal. I straightened abruptly. “Um—I mean—thank you very much.” I turned to Meta. “Come along, my dear.” Taking her arm, I led her grandly down the street.
Behind us, a clamor abruptly arose from the stadium and the guard’s communicator squawked. “Uh-oh,” I said.
“What’s going on?” Meta started to turn around, just as the guard shouted, “Stop! Mr. Nebula, stop!”
I grabbed Meta’s hand. “Run!”
“A minute ago you couldn’t even walk!” Meta shouted above the thudding of our feet on the pavement.
Sirens wailed from somewhere ahead. “Police—and ambulance!” I shouted. “Faster!” My blood blazed anew, filling me with energy. This was what flash was all about! I ran as fast as I could, almost dragging Meta, laughing out loud as shockwaves of colour exploded around us. Green fire burned in our wake, silver stars burst from our mouths and drifted to the ground like snow—
The flash ended. “Kit, stop! Stop!” Meta screamed.
I stopped. Meta broke free and stumbled away from me, sobbing, clutching her arm, and I saw my handprint outlined in red on her skin. “What’s wrong with you? What’s going on?”
The manic energy had vanished. I felt weak, sick—and lost. I stared around. How far had we run? Blank brick walls surrounded us. I could still hear the sirens, slowing, fading, back at the stadium. “Meta, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—it’s the drug—”
“What drug? I thought—a sedative, to knock you out—”
“No...” My knees gave out and I sat down abruptly on the curb. “No, Meta. He—” I took a deep breath. “He gave me flash.”
Her hands flew to her mouth. “Kit, no!”
I nodded miserably. “And that’s not all...I can’t go back, Meta. I’ve got to hide from him, hide until he gives up.”
Meta sat down on the curb beside me. “Then I can’t either!”
“What?” Awful realization hit me. “Oh, Meta—I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Rage suddenly exploded in me like a volcano, rage at my stupidity and blindness. I roared my anger and self-loathing at the top of my lungs, pounding my thighs with my fists—then I raised my hands high over my head, screaming, and brought them down as claws to rake at my face—
—and something stopped me, some force that dared to stand against my fury. I could feel my anger coiled under my skin like vicious, poisonous black snakes and suddenly it turned outward, toward whatever it was that dared to thwart my—
And then the flash passed, and I found m
yself standing over Meta, fingers clawed, her hands holding my wrists. I jerked free of her and stumbled back, dragging the back of my hand across my froth-flecked lips. “Meta...I can’t—you’ve got to leave, get away from me. I was going—I could have—”
“I’ve got nowhere to go,” Meta cried. “You know this city, I don’t. And if I go back to Qualls—if he’s as bad as you say—”
“But I—” I covered my face with my hands, took a deep breath and tried to control the shaking. The flash was a time bomb in my blood. The first dose hit hardest, I’d heard that often enough...but how hard? How long? Yet Meta was right. I couldn’t leave her, she wouldn’t last six hours on the street, and I couldn’t send her back to Qualls. I’d gotten her into this, I had to get her out. I leaned against the nearest wall. “I’m all right now. The lucid periods should last longer and longer, and I’ve never heard of a dose lasting longer than a few hours.” And after that? How long before I began craving the next dose? Well, one problem at a time. “Just...watch me. If I start acting strange, stay clear until—until it’s over.”
“But what if you try to hurt yourself again?”
“Maybe you should let me,” I muttered.
“Don’t be stupid!” The words came out like a verbal slap.
I couldn’t help grinning a little. “Thanks, I needed that.”
She came closer. “So where will we go? “
“Fat Sloan’s. It’s a flop—um, a hotel. A friend sent me a message to meet him there.”
“Can you trust him?”
I opened my mouth to say yes—and stopped. Could I trust Rain? I hardly knew him. And he was a Hydra, like The Dealer. Maybe he was a friend of The Dealer’s, and sent the message just to ensure that I escaped the stadium, I’d still run straight into their clutches. After all, Qualls had reminded me of the message waiting for me on the terminal... “Maybe not. So forget Fat Sloan’s. We’ll just hole up around here until I’m—normal. Then tomorrow, I’m putting you on the first ship to Carstair’s Folly.”
“Kit—”
“No arguments. Qualls is dangerous—and right now, so am I. I’m getting you away. Then I’ll just have myself to worry about.”
“But they gave you flash, Kit. You’re going to need help—”
“My problem. Not yours.”
Her lips pressed together. “Fine.”
“Good. Now...” I didn’t know exactly where we were, but I knew the neighborhood. No good for street-singing, but not bad for hiding. I used to have three or four “addresses” in this district—mostly abandoned warehouses. All I needed was a signpost. I started up the street.
Meta watched me carefully as we splashed along the potholed pavement. “Are you—normal, right now?” she said finally.
My heart skipped a beat. “I think so,” I said cautiously.
“Just checking.” She shrugged. “It’s hard to tell, with you.”
I laughed and took a playful swipe at her head. “Why you—”
She danced out of reach and I ran after her, and for a few seconds as we played tag, I forgot everything else—
—right up until the peaceforcer car slowly rounded the corner far behind us. I saw it first and lunged at Meta. “Meta—”
“You sure are slow for such a great dancer—” she taunted, then must have seen something in my eyes, because she stopped and turned around. “Maybe you could just tell them about Qualls—”
“Not with flash in my blood. That’s a crime all by itself. Run!” I dashed down the street. Maybe they hadn’t seen us...
They must have had nightsight. I heard the whine of their powerful electric motor and suddenly the whole front of the car lit up with blinding light that made the street brighter than day—and showed us only too clearly there was nowhere to hide.
But it also revealed street signs up ahead: Warehouse Road Four and Thrustfire Boulevard. “Got it!” I cried. “Come on!”
We reached the corner with the ‘forcers half a block behind but gaining fast. I dragged Meta out of the light and across Thrustfire, then dodged immediately down a narrow space between two buildings. We reached another alley, parallel to Thrustfire, just as the police car squealed around the corner. As we ducked into the cross-alley the flash of a spotlight speared the space between the buildings where we’d just been. “I’ve still got my old timing,” I said gleefully. “Who’s slow?”
“Don’t stop!” Meta cried, tugging at my hand.
“Not that way. This way!” Back into the narrow slot between the buildings we went. The whine of the ‘forcers’ car slowed and stopped; a door unlatched. “They’ll be down here any second,” I whispered, stooping over and searching the base of the building on the right. “This place had better still be—got it!”
“Got what?”
I bent down and lifted up the boards that covered a small basement window, its glass long-vanished. “After you.”
She hesitated. “It’s dark.”
“Well, wait a sec and the ‘forcers will light it up for you—”
Without another word she lowered herself through and disappeared. I sat down, poked my legs into the basement, slid forward—and stuck. My heart raced. Eight months—I’d grown—“Pull!” I whispered fiercely to Meta, and felt her grab my legs and tug on them. I pushed with all my strength.
Footsteps echoed from the street. The ‘forcers would find me, half in and half out, caught like a rat—
I felt myself transform, my clothes turning to gray fur, my face elongating, sprouting whiskers, my teeth growing long and sharp. I could smell the human coming, smell his sweat and the sharp metallic scent of his horrible rat-killing club, and I wriggled frantically and suddenly was free, leaving fur and skin behind but dropping into wonderful darkness. Quick as thought I turned around and closed the jaws of the trap, and seconds later heard the heavy tread of the human passing by, never knowing the rats he sought were close enough to bite him.
Ignoring the squeaking of the little rat who shared my hole, I curled myself up nose to tail and went blissfully to sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning I was more-or-less myself, except for a badly scraped shoulder and a torn shirt. But I didn’t know how long it would last. With Meta still protesting she wanted to stay with me, I set out for the Spaceport.
“I don’t know who Qualls and the Hydras have looking for us,” I told Meta as we emerged, blinking in the morning light, onto still-deserted Thrustfire Boulevard. “For all I know the ‘forcers on Qualls’s payroll. That means back alleys and zig-zags, all the way. Stay close.”
“Don’t worry,” Meta said. I looked at her dirty clothes and face and bedraggled hair, and knew I must look just as bad. Good-bye Andy Nebula, interstellar rock star, hello streetslug Kit.
The trip took half a day. More than once we dodged ‘forcers, ducking into dark passages that stank of garbage and human waste, slipping through cracks I used to fit down easily that were now barely wide enough, hiding behind gutted vehicles. As we neared downtown more and more transports and personal vehicles crowded the streets. The people filling the sidewalks didn’t give us a second glance after the first one of contempt. “It’s like they don’t even see us!” Meta complained said after one particularly overdressed female passed us by. “Can’t they tell we’re in trouble, that we need help?”
“They see people like us all the time.” I pointed to a gray-haired woman slumped in a doorway. “If they tried to help us, they might have to help everyone. They’re busy people; they don’t have the time. Besides, we don’t want any notice, remember?”
“I guess not.” Meta glared at another woman, who quickened her steps. “But I don’t like being treated like a dog left behind.”
I shrugged. Nothing had made me feel more at “home” than the way that woman’s eyes had flicked past me. Andy Nebula was only skin deep. Under that skin was Kit.
And under Kit’s skin was flash. I said nothing to Meta, but I could feel it working away, bursts o
f tingling traveling from fingertips to spine, phantom itches appearing and disappearing. Less than a day after my first dose, and—I licked dry lips. I wanted more. Right now that was all it was—want—but I knew in a few short hours it would be more than want; it would be need.
I had to get Meta away before then. I began to take more risks, crossing streets at main intersections, counting on the growing crowds to hide us from passing ‘forcers. Finally the glass-and-steel facade of the Spaceport terminal came into sight, and I stopped long enough to open my bag and take out Andy Nebula’s credit chip. “I don’t want to linger,” I said to Meta. “We go in, I buy your ticket,” (if this thing still works, I thought), “and you head for the departure lounge—I don’t care how long it is until you lifts. You’ll be safe in there.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.”
Meta said nothing, but looked skeptical.
Down the street, across another, and into the terminal building. Holosigns competed with vidscreens for attention. An old man sat playing a stringsynth—badly—his case open at his feet. Meta in tow, I sought departure information. A vidscreen sensed me passing and burst into life. “Andy Nebula!” it yelled.
I froze and stared at it. My face filled the screen as the voice-over continued, “the Murdoch IV-born teenaged Sensation Single who performed for 30,000 screaming fans at Brankston Memorial Stadium last night, today is on the run. He’s the prime suspect in the murder of Marcel Roy, forty-six standard, his stage manager, who was knifed backstage shortly after the concert. Nebula’s manager, Samuel Qualls, told ‘forcers Nebula and Roy had come close to blows on more than one occasion. Their dispute may have been drug-related, Qualls said; Nebula is a flash-user and Roy may have been his supplier...”
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