by Terry Brooks
“You mean why my father was killed? You do think he was killed, don’t you? You don’t think it was suicide?”
The Shoe gives him a look. “Your father was killed because he did something either to reveal or sabotage whatever he was working on for BioGen. It’s obvious. What we don’t know and have to find out is exactly what he was engaged in doing. But we need to talk about you first. I made some brief inquires earlier after talking with Jenny. There is a concerted effort afoot to track you down. This is not confined to any one police agency; it is system-wide. That level of commitment is usually reserved for the worst sort of criminal. It makes me wonder what they want with you.”
“It makes me wonder too.”
“It should. Those responsible for your father’s death have brought pressure to bear on not only the L.A. Preventatives but also ORACLE. Hence, Achilles Pod. That suggests your enemies are people with a lot of power and influence at their fingertips. It points to BioGen because they were the ones your father feared. But why bother with you? I suspect it is because these people think you know something or are in possession of something that might expose them.”
Ash frowns. “But that’s ridiculous. I don’t know anything. My father never told me what he was doing. This whole business is as much a mystery to me as it is to everyone else.”
“Are you sure? Think carefully before you answer. Was there something your father said about his work at BioGen you might have forgotten or overlooked?”
Ash thinks it over for a few minutes. “Nothing.” Then he leans forward impulsively. “Why are you helping me? You barely know me. You don’t owe me this sort of effort. Why don’t you just send me away and be done with it?”
“Are these your insecurities talking? Or your suspicions?” The Shoe smiles. His eyes twinkle.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” Ash says. “I appreciate the offer of help. But I’m pretty paranoid just now. One moment, my life makes sense. Everything is going along just fine, moving along smoothly. The next, I’m being hunted across all of L.A.” He pauses. “Can we just say that instead of insecurity or suspicion it’s curiosity?”
The Shoe laughs, rocking in his chair. “Why not? You’re entitled to an answer in either case. I’m helping you because I liked your father. He was a decent, well-intentioned man who revealed himself to me in ways I may one day explain to you. He certainly didn’t deserve to be killed and have his death labeled a suicide. I could ignore that and send you away. But then I would be directly responsible for what happens afterward, and I don’t think I care to live with that.”
“I do have somewhere else I could go, if you want me to.”
“Oh, do you? To your Uncle Cyrus, perhaps?”
This catches Ash off guard. “You know about him?”
“Of course. It’s my job to know about such men. A hard man, Cyrus. A smart, calculating man. He’s driven by a passion to reform criminal justice and perhaps societal behavior in the bargain. He has great ambitions, great plans for the whole of the Territories, and I am certain he is fully engaged in pursuing them. He is not likely to let your father’s death go uninvestigated. He will come to the same conclusions you and I have, and he will seek out those responsible.”
“Then I should go to him.”
“No, you should not go to him. Not right away, at least. Not until we know more than we do now. At Street Freaks, there are only six of us that need to keep your secret. At ORACLE, there are thousands. No matter how well-meaning or protective your uncle Cyrus, the danger of harm finding its way into your circle of protection if you choose to go there is much greater than here.”
Ash thinks about it. There is something to what the Shoe says. He feels safe at Street Freaks, something he can’t be sure of if he chooses to move again. The other kids—excluding Cay Dumont—are doing everything they can to make him feel he belongs there. He has already decided that trying to find his way to his uncle would be something of a crapshoot.
“All right,” he agrees. “I’ll stay if it’s okay with you.”
“Then it’s settled!” The Shoe rubs his hands together in satisfaction and stands. “I have some work to do if we’re to find a way to improve your situation. Jenny is using her considerable computer skills to investigate BioGen. She’s quite adept and will find out something. While she is doing that, I will make a few personal visits to people who might be able to help in other ways. I want you to stay put. Your disguise is adequate but not flawless. I don’t want you leaving the Zone for any reason—or even this building, unless you are in the company of at least one of the other kids. They know how to take care of themselves in this part of the city, and you don’t. So you pay attention to them and do what they say. No arguments, no objections.”
He reaches across the desk, hand extended. Ash grips it firmly, feeling better now than he has since he arrived. A moment later Jenny reappears and takes him out again.
“Guess you’re stuck with me for a while longer,” he tells her.
She nods. She doesn’t seem surprised. “The Shoe can be very persuasive. What did he say?”
“He said he was going to look into things while you worked the computer.”
Jenny nods. “He’ll go into the Metro. He has lots of contacts there.”
Ash hears a door close and looks back to see the Shoe heading for the mysterious door under the stairs. “Is he leaving already?”
“He doesn’t like to waste time,” Jenny says. “Besides, he prefers that his meetings take place at night. Fewer people around that way. Tell you what. Let’s go talk with the others. They’ve been whining about a visit to Checkered Flag. Maybe we should break down and go.”
Ash has no idea what Checkered Flag is, but when Jenny mentions the name to the others, they all become very excited. Everyone but Woodrow, who immediately says, “I don’t like that place. I’ll just stay here, thanks.”
“Naw, you can’t do that!” T.J. exclaims. “This is a party! We’re celebrating Ash coming to stay with us. You are staying, aren’t you, Ash?” He looks at Jenny Cruz. “Isn’t that the reason you suggested Checkered Flag? A celebration for Ash?”
She nods. “Come on, Woodrow. No one will bother you. We’ll make sure. Please?”
The others echo her plea, and finally the boy gives a reluctant nod, eliciting cheers all around. “Now back to work until tonight,” Jenny orders.
Everyone disperses but Ash, who goes over to Jenny. “What, exactly, is Checkered Flag?” he asks.
She gives him a smirk. “You’ll find out.”
Since the day is already well along, he doesn’t have long to wait. At quitting time, the sun is a red ball on the western horizon, and the poisonous L.A. air that Ash no longer worries about—though God knows why he has become so cavalier about its reputed side effects—is causing the sky to color up like a kaleidoscope. While the rest of the group waits in front of the building, T.J. retrieves a six-passenger Barrier Ram to serve as their transport. The Ram is a thick-bodied, jagged-edged monster similar to the vehicle in which Ponce and his Razor Boys were riding when they stopped Ash during his search for Street Freaks—only, this one is in better shape. The engine roars and spits flames from its tailpipes, and there is a decidedly vintage look and a dangerous feel to it.
“Hang on!” T.J. advises as he revs the engine until Ash is fairly certain the Ram will shake itself apart.
They rumble through the open gates, which promptly close behind them, and turn down the Straightaway. The four with working legs sit in regular seats. Woodrow’s boxy frame is situated in an open space by locks that secure him to the floor. He seems resigned to his fate, a glum look on his young face. But he manages a quick smile when Ash catches his eye, so Ash smiles back.
The sixth seat sits empty. If she were there, it would belong to Cay. But there’s been no sign of her since breakfast.
They reach Heads & Tails quickly, and this time the activity that was missing when Ash walked by on his way to Street Freaks is considera
ble. There are vehicles everywhere, big and small, bizarre and stunningly beautiful, racers and monster machines, some parked at the curb, some cruising past. Dance music blares from inside the building, a wall of sound that mere bricks and timber cannot contain. Neon brightens the corners and eaves, meshing with the huge sign that flashes HEADS & TAILS in steady cadence. Girls lean out of windows framed in scarlet lights, waving and calling out to passersby. A few stand outside on balconies, offering a none-too-subtle preview of what’s available inside.
Ash glances over, wondering if Cay is there, and then hates himself for doing so. When she sees him looking, Holly gives him a nudge. “Don’t worry. We won’t make you go in there. It’s not our kind of place.”
“Might be his kind, Holly,” T.J. calls over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. “What about it, Ash-from-the-Metro?” When Ash ignores him, T.J. laughs cheerfully. “Hey, you can be yourself at Street Freaks, whatever you are.”
They continue on, leaving the wildness and partying behind, the sounds and the colors giving way to quieter spaces and less ostentatious views. The buildings they pass morph back into more familiar businesses and outlets, most of them darkened and closed. The chain-link fencing, razor wire, locked gates, and security cameras are a constant presence.
A few miles farther on, they reach another area of enhanced activity. Vehicles and bodies are massed on the Straightaway and on walkways fronting buildings that are brightly lit and open to the public. T.J. turns the Ram down a rampway that takes them into an underground garage. They park and walk to a bank of elevators. Doors open at a touch, and they ascend to the main floor.
On stepping out, Ash discovers everything he needs to know about Checkered Flag.
The nature of the business is immediately obvious. It is a giant gaming parlor loosely decorated in a racing motif with a jumble of racetrack trappings and memorabilia. Vintage gaming machines line the walls on three sides and fill most of the available floor space, their look and sound immediately identifying them as either relics restored or replicas meticulously copied, the designs and formats decades old. They burp and chime and ring and honk with joyous abandon, and crowds gather around each, credits in hand, waiting their turns. A serving bar for food and drink dominates the fourth wall. Eating spaces enclosed with brass railings have been set aside here and there on the main floor and higher up on a balcony overlooking the action.
Jars filled with Sparx sit on every table and all along the top of the bar, clearly being offered free of charge. Patrons help themselves to handfuls.
“This is our kind of place!” Holly announces happily, ignoring Jenny’s eye roll.
Holly sets out in search of a table while the rest wait, and after a few minutes she signals them over to a four-top set back against a railing with extra space for Woodrow to squeeze in. From the disgruntled looks on the faces of a couple moving away, it appears that Holly might have evicted them. Waving goodbye cheerfully, T.J. goes off to order drinks.
“Ever play any of these games, Ash?” Jenny asks.
“On my vidview at home.” He looks around in amazement. “I didn’t think the real thing existed anymore.”
“Down here, it does.” Holly grins. “Some things were better before than they are now. Today’s games are so sterile and predictable. I like the challenge of machines you can knock around a bit to improve your score. Want to try one?”
Ash follows her over to a pinball machine that looks brand new and is decorated with ancient-looking bots, a huge animalistic furball, some men and women with weapons that include gleaming swords, and the words STAR WARS emblazoned across everything. An audience crowds about a young boy who is hard at work racking up points with quick, experienced usage of spring flaps that catapult and slap at stainless-steel balls. Those gathered to watch step aside without a word when they see Holly. Perhaps her reputation precedes her. Perhaps they believe that discretion is the better part of valor.
When the boy who is playing the machine times out a few minutes later, Holly replaces him with Ash, moving him into position and feeding credits into the pay slot. The machine resets, and his turn begins. He is completely enthralled with the game, even though he is not very successful. He uses up his three balls in less than two minutes, and Holly has to feed the machine once more. This time he does better, well enough to earn a few cheers from those gathered around him. He loves the thrill of trying to master the technique and would have stayed there all night had Holly not dragged him away on seeing T.J. return with food and drink.
Back at the table, Ash munches on some sort of meat sandwich and drinks a beer. T.J. has provided everyone with the same meal except for Woodrow, who doesn’t eat or drink because the human part of him is sustained by nutrient feeds that connect to his throat through his neck. He is coming out of his funk now, and he laughs and smiles with the rest of them as Holly mimics with exaggerated gestures Ash’s attempts at pinball.
Not one of them is old enough to drink under the laws of the United Territories, but they down the beers anyway. No one bothers with ID; this is the Red Zone. Ash has sampled beer only once before, and he didn’t much care for it. But tonight he loves it. Cold, fizzy, and smooth, it goes down easily, and soon he is feeling its exhilarating effects. Sound and color are magnified exponentially, and everything becomes increasingly funny.
“Better slow down, Ash,” T.J. suggests. But he pays no attention, guzzling his beer and asking if he can have more. When Jenny Cruz nods, T.J. goes off without a word and returns with another round.
Ash is sitting in something of a daze by now as he studies the people around him. They are almost all young, and they are an odd mix. Aside from differences in sizes and shapes and colors, they are almost all hybrids. Many have parts made of metal or composites meant to replace or improve upon flesh and bone. A few seem to have added pieces of animal fur to themselves. Many are tricked out with tattoos and metal jewelry. One or two have no human parts at all and appear to be bots. Some wear tanks and machines attached to their bodies, similar to the one that washes Jenny’s blood. One girl has no discernible features but instead has a face that is little more than eyes surrounded by bumps and indentations and that feeds her through a tube attached to the side of her neck.
Their dress is as varied as their looks. There are sheaths, of course, some of them with garish designs and flashing lights. There are pants and shirts artfully ripped out and patched. Boots are favored, but some of the girls are barefoot. One tall girl towers over everyone wearing foot-high platform shoes. There are long, sweeping dresses and coats, short-shorts and skimpy halter tops, cross straps that reveal muscular bodies and large breasts, and dozens of other fascinating permutations.
An unaltered bot comprised entirely of metal and composites, a rather tall and graceful piece of work, glides over to Woodrow, and after running his sensors over the boy, asks him what he is. Woodrow is cautious. He replies guardedly that he is neither all of one nor the other, but some of each. The two strike up a conversation about the nature of life.
Ash takes it all in, feeling unexpectedly cheerful. People passing by their table offer greetings, and Ash is quick to answer—even without knowing who anybody is or even if they are addressing him. He finishes off his second beer and requests a third. Jenny Cruz shrugs and says something about it being his night. Off goes T.J., and after a few short minutes, back he comes with another brew. Ash accepts the offering gratefully and grins without knowing exactly why.
Holly offers a toast. “To Ash, former fish and honorary member of Street Freaks!”
Ash drinks deeply. A short time later he is aware of the fact that he is facedown on the table. He tries to lift his head and fails. At that point Holly appears. She reaches down, lifts him out of his chair, and slings him over her shoulder.
“Time for bed,” she announces.
He is carried out of the room in a haze. There are gaps of time after that, and then he finds himself back in the Ram, belted tightly into his seat.
“Someone had a little too much to drink,” he hears T.J. declare, and wonders who he is talking about.
After that, everything is a blur until he is unceremoniously dumped in a bed. Sprawled beneath a blanket that hangs half on and half off him, he falls asleep.
- 10 -
Ash wakes early the next morning and rises immediately. He doesn’t do this because he is eager for the new day to begin. Quite the opposite. His head is a pounding ball of pain, and he feels nauseous. He moves quickly out of the bedroom where T.J. lies sleeping peacefully and Woodrow sits parked in his corner, and hurries down the hall to the bathroom, where he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet.
He sits down on the seat afterward, his face buried in his hands, trying to will the throbbing in his head to lessen. He hasn’t drunk a lot of alcohol in his life and certainly never as much as he did last night. He thought he counted three beers, but it might have been more than that. A lot more.
After waiting a moment for the last of the nausea to pass, he rises, goes to the sink, and splashes cold water on his face. It helps a little but not much. A medical supplies unit is inset into the wall to one side, and he opens it. A dispenser of pain pills draws his attention, and he dumps two into his hand and swallows them with a long drink of water from the sink.
“Better,” he says, but it’s more a plea than an affirmation.
He stands at the mirror for long moments looking into the face of the stranger staring back. Who is he? Not Ash Collins. Not the boy who once was and will never be again. This is someone else entirely. Spiky brown hair sticking out in clumps, metal jewelry glinting from the edges of his ears and nose, pasty face damp and drawn. Finding himself still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, he strips to the waist. His upper body is bruised and scratched from fleeing the home he no longer has and from the struggle he underwent to get to where he stands now.
Who is he, indeed?
He strips down the rest of the way and showers. He stands beneath the hot water for a long time, letting the heat penetrate to where the aches and pains throb. When he is done, he tries to tame his unruly hair and liberally applies healing salves to the wounds on his face and body. He doesn’t hurry. He knows it is very early, well before sunrise. No one else will be up yet, so he can enjoy this time alone.
