by Terry Brooks
He immediately thinks of Cay and feels a rush of anticipation. He tries to appear casual as he departs, even though every fiber of his body screams at him to hurry. He doesn’t know what it is about this girl, but the feeling is intoxicating.
It is also ridiculous. He is not so far gone that he can’t realize this. He hasn’t even met her. He knows nothing about her. Why should he feel like this just because she’s pretty?
Well, for one thing, she’s not just pretty—she’s beautiful.
He leaves Jenny and goes into the dining room. Cay is sitting alone at one end of a long table. If possible, she is even more beautiful in the daylight. She has an ethereal quality that is mesmerizing. As if she might be too perfect to be real. As if she were otherworldly.
Holly and T.J. are engaged in an intense conversation at the other end. Woodrow is nowhere to be seen. Without pausing, Ash walks directly over to Cay and holds out his hand. “I’m Ash,” he tells her. “I just got here yesterday.”
“Good for you,” she says, barely glancing up.
He hesitates and then withdraws his hand. Not exactly the response he was expecting. “I wanted to say hello . . .”
“And now you have. Go sit with the others, why don’t you?”
Anger surfaces. “I just thought it would be polite to introduce myself . . .”
Suddenly she is looking directly at him, her eyes so intense he cannot finish what he started to say. She regards him with such a flat and openly hostile stare he finds himself wishing he could sink right into the floor.
“Look, Jesse or whatever your name is, you don’t have to explain yourself. What you need to do is notice that I am sitting here and they”—she gestures toward the other end of the table—“are sitting there. There’s a reason for this. Can you guess what it is?”
Ash turns without a word and walks away, thoroughly humiliated.
Moving over to the serving table, he fixes himself a bowl of cereal while trying to recover his composure and then walks over to sit with T.J. and Holly. He tries hard not to look down at the other end of the table, but he can’t help himself.
“Feeling a little hot until the collar?” T.J. presses, exchanging a look with Holly.
“Let him alone,” she says quietly. “Give it a few minutes.”
The cereal has no taste to it. The other two sit with him, sipping coffee and saying nothing. The world seems to have come to a stop; Ash can’t even be sure he is breathing. He thinks he should walk back over and defend himself. But when at one point he starts to rise, Holly pulls him firmly down again and shakes her head no.
Eventually, Cay leaves the room. No words are exchanged when she does. Once she has departed, Holly speaks.
“Sorry about that. She’s just in one of her moods.”
“Should have told you what she’s like when that happens,” T.J. adds quickly.
Ash looks from one to the other. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Where to start?” T.J. sneers. “Lots of attitude, for one thing.”
“No kidding. She could give you lessons.”
“And she’s not real, for another.”
Ash is not sure what T.J. is saying. “What do you mean by that? Not real how?”
“Don’t talk about her like that, T.J.!” Holly snaps angrily. “How would you like it if we said that about you?” She turns to Ash. “What he’s trying to say in his irritating T.J. way is that Cay Dumont is a synth. She’s manufactured. Worse for her, she’s a pleasure synth. She was made to satisfy men’s sexual needs. She was built specifically for that purpose and that purpose alone; it’s her function in life. To attract men and provide them with sexual pleasure. She doesn’t do it because she’s hot for the idea. She does it because that’s how she’s made.”
“She’s always got her mojo working,” T.J. chimes in, which earns him a solid punch on the shoulder from Holly. “What? Am I wrong?”
Ash sits back, digesting this new information. Ash has heard of pleasure synths, of course. He doesn’t live in a cave. He knows about their function. He knows they are made to look impossibly beautiful and to be irresistible. Still, his attraction to her feels natural, even knowing what she is. But does it matter how he feels? Doesn’t it only matter that it was induced?
“Oh, don’t look so hangdog.” T.J. give an exaggerated sigh. “Everyone who comes near her has the same reaction. No one is immune. No man, anyway.” He casts a quick glance at Holly, who’s scowling. “No matter what Holly wants to believe, Cay’s not real. She isn’t made of flesh and blood like we are. She was manufactured using artificial substances and fluids. She’s a very expensive item created for use by very wealthy men. She’s a toy.”
Ash gives him a look. “Can we please stop talking about her?”
“All right, all right!” T.J. holds up his hands in surrender. “Just wanted you to know before things got any worse.”
“Well, they’re already bad enough.” Ash stands. He feels embarrassed and foolish. “If there are any more surprises, maybe you could tell me about them in advance.”
He slinks out of the room, not knowing where he is going and not caring. He just needs to get away. He’s never encountered a pleasure synth before—never even been convinced the stories about them are real. But there isn’t much room for doubt now. He still can’t believe he was so completely besotted with her. Still is besotted, if he allows himself to admit it. He looks at her and he wants to be with her. He wants to be as close as he can get.
Sitting alone on a bench at the far end of Bay 5, where Starfire waits to be claimed, he slowly calms down. As he does, the feelings she generated in him begin to fade. He wonders suddenly what she is doing here. What need does the mysterious Shoe have for a pleasure synth?
The obvious answer is not one he cares to dwell on.
T.J. appears a few minutes later and puts him to work polishing a racer scheduled for delivery by week’s end. This one is a sleek crimson Borlon-Essex Flash model Ash recognizes from pictures T.J. showed him the day before. Even though it is fresh off an assembly line he still hasn’t seen, there are smears and smudges here and there, and the cleaning takes several hours of meticulous work. But it keeps him occupied, and that is what he needs. Even so, he looks up from his efforts every so often and casually surveys the bays farther down for any sign of Cay Dumont, half hoping she will appear.
She does not.
At one point while cleaning the Flash, Ash sees T.J. backing Starfire out of the last bay and onto the composite drive fronting Street Freaks. He looks out to see who has come to claim her. No one is there. He watches T.J. exit the vehicle and come back inside. Still no one appears. After a while, he goes back to work.
The next time he looks up, Starfire is gone.
T.J. comes over to stand next to him, watching him work. “I think we might make a Street Freak out of you yet,” he says.
Ash shakes his head. “No thanks. I’m happy just being a fish.”
T.J. doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move away either. Ash finishes with the tires and rims and steps back to view his work. “Is she still here?”
T.J. doesn’t need to ask who Ash means. “She went out about an hour ago. She has things to do.”
“Why is she here in the first place if she’s a pleasure synth?”
T.J. exhales sharply. When he speaks, there is an edge to his voice. “You just got here. You don’t know all the rules yet. So I’m going to cut you some slack. But I’m also going to tell you something important. Only once, though, because you’ve supposedly got this amazing memory and you shouldn’t need to be told anything twice. We do a lot of things here at Street Freaks that we don’t talk about with anyone. ‘Anyone’ includes fish like you. Among those things is the answer to the question you just asked.”
Ash looks at him. T.J. is looking right back. The expression on his face suggests he has no further interest in discussing the matter.
Ash turns back to the racer. “I like this model. How
does she run on the Straightaway?”
T.J. hesitates, decides he deserves an answer, and launches into a comprehensive explanation about why the Flash is fast but not as fast as Starfire. Ash listens with half an ear. He is thinking about his father’s death. He is thinking how his father must have believed he could protect himself. Drivers of race cars must think like that too. They must believe that if they do everything right, they can beat the odds and stay alive. But sometimes they don’t do everything right. Sometimes they make mistakes. And sometimes there are intervening factors and unforeseen circumstances that disrupt even the best of efforts and the most carefully executed plans.
When that happens, you stand to lose everything.
Right in the middle of T.J.’s explanation about the Flash, Ash breaks down. It happens so fast that he is bent over with his face buried in his hands and his eyes squeezed shut before he knows it. He’s lost everything that matters. Everything. His family, his home, his way of life, and his chances for the future he had always imagined for himself. What he has now is a temporary refuge from which he can be ejected at any moment, a group of strange kids who are struggling with their own uncertain lives and secrets they won’t talk about, and a dwindling supply of ProLx, which he needs to replenish soon if he is to stay alive.
He has let his emotions get the better of him, and he hates it. He should be stronger than this. But he understands so little of what is happening. He puts it on his father, blames him for all of it. His cold, distant, never-there-for-him father, obsessed with his job and his research. Killed because of it, likely. Dead because his obsession overrode his common sense. Why didn’t he give a little thought to Ash? Why did he allow all this to happen?
When T.J. finally reaches down in a gesture of sympathy, Ash shoves him away. “Get off me!” he snaps.
“Okay, okay.” T.J. backs off. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine. This happens now and then. A condition of . . .” He can’t finish what he is about to say. The lie is so apparent it is ludicrous. He pulls himself together and gets to his feet.
“Got an idea,” T.J. says at once. “We need a break. Let’s take the Flick out for a spin. You can drive.”
Ash straightens, staring at him. “What?”
“Hey, don’t make me rethink this. I’m making a one-time offer. You want it or not?”
Ash nods at once. “Let’s go.”
They drop everything and head for the exit door leading onto the back lot. Jenny watches them leave without comment. Holly glances over and then turns away. Ash wonders how much they saw. For him, it’s already old news. He’s shelved it with all the other discarded, useless pieces of his life. His father’s dead. He isn’t. You got to keep moving forward or you stall out.
T.J. unlocks the Flick and directs Ash into the driver’s seat. “You think you know what to do?” he asks.
Ash looks at the dashboard controls and nods. “I watched you drive her. I remember all of it.”
“Okay, but be careful. Ask, if you’re not sure.”
Ash powers up the Flick, revs her engine hard, eases off the thruster pedal, releases the brake, and steers her out of her parking slot toward the front gates. When they get close, the gates open automatically, the laser bars shut down, and the tire shredders retract. Ash drives to the edge of the Straightaway, gives the traffic a quick look . . .
And floors it.
The Flick explodes down the composite like a savage beast, its engine roaring with pleasure. Ash accelerates so quickly that T.J. is thrown against his seat back, and a gasp of surprise escapes his lips. But then he recovers and begins to yell encouragement.
“That’s the way you do it, fish! Pump it up! Go faster! She wants to be driven!”
Ash complies, shifting gears smoothly, taking her up notch after notch. The cars they pass come and go in a blur of colors. Their speed is so great that they are past other traffic almost before they can be certain what it is. Ash is grinning, his adrenaline pumping, his excitement blocking away everything but the moment. He has the Flick going nearly as fast as T.J. did on their first ride. He wants to exceed this; he wants to go so fast he is flying.
But he remembers T.J.’s warning and slows instead, easing the Flick back until she is running even with the cars around her, then turning her onto a side street and slowing to a stop against a walkway curb. Wordlessly, he exchanges a look with T.J.
“Told you,” he says.
“Yeah, you did,” the other boy says with a grin. “Guess you really have done some driving.”
Ash shrugs. “A little.”
“More than a little. Where exactly?”
“Africa.”
“What? There’s nothing in Africa! Wait, you drove across the Masai Veldt? In what?”
“Stripped-down Cherokees.”
“How did you get your hands on those?”
“Don’t ask.”
“You swiped them, didn’t you? So when did all this happen? How long ago? How old were you?”
Ash smiles. “I was ten.”
T.J. stares at him. “You were not. No one drives like that at ten.”
“I did.”
“Look at you. Still waters do run deep. You’re something else, fish.”
He tells Ash to take them back to Street Freaks but doesn’t say how to do it. So Ash drives around a little longer, only testing his limits when he gets back on the Straightaway. T.J. doesn’t say a word. He just lets Ash drive.
When they pull back through the gates and drive around to the back lot to park the Flick, T.J. looks over. “Maybe it would be best if we didn’t say anything about you driving.”
Ash nods. “Driving what?”
They walk through the back door to find that Jenny is waiting. “Saw you drive in. Looked like Ash was driving. But I must have been mistaken. You wouldn’t allow that, would you, T.J.?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she links her arm with Ash’s. “You come with me. The Shoe is back, and he wants you in his office.”
- 9 -
Jenny leads Ash into her office. Inside, the Shoe is waiting. Whatever Ash was expecting, it certainly isn’t what he finds. It doesn’t bring him to a full mouth-open, eyes-wide stop, but it does cause him to toss aside immediately all of the possibilities he has been considering.
The Shoe presents a stunning picture. He is tall and slight, not in the manner of scarecrows or streetlamps but certainly in the way of fashion models. His features are finely formed, everything just a little softer than sharp. He is handsome without being pretty, his hair white-blond and his eyes a brilliant blue. He is of indeterminate age, neither young nor old, and he exudes an aura of boundless energy. His presence is commanding, generated less perhaps by his looks than by the self-assuredness he projects as he rises from behind his desk to make a quick but unmistakable examination of his guest. Ash cannot help but feel he is being measured against a standard devised by the man facing him, and the results will determine the direction of the conversation they are about to have.
“Ashton Collins,” the Shoe greets him, extending his hand. “Welcome to Street Freaks. Pleased to have you with us.”
The way he says it suggests he is doing more than being polite—he is being genuine. Ash takes his hand, finding his grip surprisingly strong.
“You’ve had quite a time of it,” the Shoe observes, coming around the desk to place both hands on Ash’s shoulders in a fatherly gesture. “I don’t know that I would have been as composed and resourceful as you were in making your way here. It must have been frightening to have your house invaded and your bots destroyed. Hazmats. Ugly things created to perform ugly tasks. And then your father’s death. Uglier still. But you are safe here, and we are going to do our very best to help you stay that way.”
He gestures to one of the chairs facing the desk. “Why don’t we sit? Jenny, give us a moment alone please.”
As Jenny closes the door behind her, the Shoe returns
to his chair. He sits carefully, straightening his jacket, a gesture that suggests a man who values his clothes and appearance. Ash understands why. The Shoe is wearing creased slacks and a matching jacket of soft blue silk over a pink shirt that must have cost an arm and a leg. He could have walked into any vidview fashion room and been entirely at home.
“Now, then, let’s talk about your situation a bit,” he suggests, as if asking permission.
There is a peculiar lilt to the way the Shoe speaks, an accent of sorts, but one Ash cannot place. His tone of voice is not particularly deep, but his enunciation and volume are such that it draws you in. He seems to be well practiced in personal communication—a man who can command with words as well as appearance.
He reaches into a drawer of his desk, pulls out a pack of Sparx, and offers one to the boy. The Shoe doesn’t seem to think this odd, although Ash finds it a bit weird and shakes his head no.
“What I want you to do for me,” the Shoe says, “is to repeat everything you told the others. Jenny’s already given me an overview, but I would like to hear it now in your own words. Everything you remember. Just start anywhere.”
So Ash does. He goes through yesterday’s events in their entirety, starting with the attack on his home and ending with his arrival at Street Freaks. He leaves nothing out, including the fact that he still doesn’t know what he is going to do next.
“Did you know my father?” he asks hopefully, finishing up.
“As a matter of fact, yes.” The Shoe cocks an eyebrow. “We’ve done a little business in the past. But let’s leave the matter of my relationship with your father for now. Let’s talk about what seems obvious to me about this whole business.”
