by Terry Brooks
The truth is, he had a good time at Checkered Flag with his friends. Friends. He contemplates the word a second time. He dares to allow himself to use it. Holly Priest, Jenny Cruz, Tommy Jeffers, and Woodrow (no last name)—they have done so much to try to help him, and that’s what defines friendship, isn’t it? He’s lucky his father sent him to Street Freaks, even if he still doesn’t understand the odd choice. He imagines the Shoe could give him some idea, but he hasn’t had the chance to ask since learning he would be allowed to stay.
Besides, as far as he can tell, the Shoe hasn’t returned.
In any event, if he hadn’t come here, it is hard to imagine where he would have ended up. Probably looking for his uncle Cyrus. But when he stops to think about it, he realizes he doesn’t even know where his uncle’s offices are located. He’s never been there, never bothered to look them up. Somewhere in the Metro. Coming here probably saved him from falling into the hands of Achilles Pod.
He moves away from the mirror and puts his rumpled clothes back on. With a dry towel draped about his shoulders for additional warmth, he goes down to the kitchen to find something to eat, thinking he will stay there until sunrise. He glances at the clock and sees that it is four a.m. Entirely too early for him to be up, but it is what it is.
He turns on the large vidview that hangs on the wall and watches the News Reader. The conflict in the Dixie Confederacy continues to dominate the reportage. Demonstrations have turned violent in many places, angry crowds clashing with the Confederacy Authorities. In the latest incident, two were killed and dozens injured. Buildings were set afire and vehicles smashed. The cities of Atlanta and Charleston are under martial law and lockdown.
He waits for mention of himself, but when it comes, it is brief and over almost before it begins. He reaches to turn off the vidview, and all of a sudden the great man himself appears, his uncle Cyrus Collins, commander in chief of the Calzonia arm of ORACLE. He stands before a bank of reporters and vidcams at a news conference, his face hard and set, all angles and planes, all purpose-driven intensity. He gestures as he speaks, and his movements emphasize how big he is and how suited to his office. Ash remembers his face, if not much about the man. One thing he does remember. He remembers how intimidating his uncle could be. He remembers how Cyrus towered over him, a mountain that defied climbing.
He is fumbling to turn up the sound when the news report shifts to something else, and Cyrus Collins is replaced by the image of a bridge spanning a river. Ash takes a moment to gather his composure. He is unnerved by his uncle’s unexpected appearance. He feels overwhelmed and strangely helpless, as if even his uncle’s mere presence on a News Reader diminishes him in some way.
Exhaling sharply, he switches off the viewer.
He is eating a sandwich when he hears a car door slam. He gets up, walks out of the kitchen and through the empty bays to the front of the building, and looks out. A Flash 5000—a sleek, two-passenger sports car—sits idling at the curb. Someone stands next to it, bending down to the passenger window and speaking to the driver. Then Cay Dumont steps back as the Flash drives off. She moves over to the gates, triggers a release, and walks through.
Ash has the presence of mind to back away from the window and return to the kitchen. He knows he should leave, go back upstairs, crawl into his bed, and close his eyes. But he will not back away from her like that, no matter how uncomfortable the thought of another confrontation makes him.
So he sits and waits, his pulse racing.
Moments later, she appears at the door and looks in. “A little early for you to be up and about, isn’t it?” she says.
He blushes, and without stopping to think about it, he says, “Early for me, late for you.”
He regrets it immediately, realizing how it sounds. But Cay only shrugs. “I’m used to it. Do you always get up at four in the morning?”
He shakes his head, trying to regain his composure, which has disappeared to some far-flung place. “I couldn’t sleep.”
She comes over and sits down across from him. He wants to kiss her. He wants her to kiss him. It is an irrational impulse. He takes a bite of sandwich, breathing in its smell, trying to distract himself from looking at her. He fails completely in his efforts.
“Ash, isn’t it?” she asks. He nods. “I was a little rough on you yesterday, Ash. I was in a bad space, and I took it out on you. I thought you were another of Holly’s rescues, some street kid she’d saved.”
“I was, sort of.”
“I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t know about your father. I thought you were coming on to me.”
“It’s okay.”
She gives him a smile, and his throat tightens. She is so beautiful he can hardly stand it. He thinks he doesn’t belong in the same room with her. Even in the same world.
“Yeah, well. I didn’t need to talk to you like that.”
He nods, his eyes shifting to his half-eaten meal. “Forget it.”
They are quiet after that for a few moments. Ash avoids looking at her.
“The others probably told you about me,” she says.
He hesitates and then nods. “A little.”
She removes the remains of the sandwich from his plate and takes a bite. “This is good. You can make me a sandwich anytime.”
“I could make you one now.”
She takes another bite of his. “No, this will do.”
He stares are her, watching her eat. “What?” she asks, when she sees him looking. “You want this one back?” She is holding out his half sandwich.
He shakes his head. “I was just wondering. About synthetics . . .
eating.”
She gives him a wry smile. “We do everything you do. That’s how we’re built—to be like you.” She pauses. “We don’t need to eat, but we like to. We have taste buds and everything.” She shrugs. “Eating is a form of bonding.”
He wonders about waste disposal, but he’s not about to ask a question like that at this point.
“I didn’t like what T.J. said about you,” he offers abruptly.
“No? Why not?”
“T.J. said you’re not real.”
“I’m not.” She brushes back loose strands of her blond hair. “I’m made of synthetic materials. Hence, the designation ‘synth.’”
“But it suggests things that aren’t necessarily so. Right there, that gesture you just made with your hair? That’s how any girl would do it. How you speak and move—that all seems pretty real to me.”
She stares at him. “Depends on how you define ‘real.’ I’m made of the very best materials, and my brain is fully programmed to tell me how I should act. My critical thinking abilities are on a par with any human girl’s, and I am capable of learning to improve myself when it is needed.” She shrugs. “But I’m still a synth.”
“Doesn’t change how I see you.”
“It will. Give it time.”
He shakes his head. “If you stop and think about it, being a synth is all that sets you apart. If you ignore the materials you’re made of, you’re just like everyone else. Why should anyone say you’re not real?”
She takes another bite of his sandwich and chews thoughtfully, never taking her eyes off him. “With T.J., that’s just how he is. Everyone else?” She shrugs. “Maybe it helps those who see me that way justify what they do to me. And helps those that don’t participate but just watch it happen feel better about themselves.”
He looks down, embarrassed for her, and then wonders suddenly why he should feel like that. She seems at peace with herself. “Don’t you think that says more about them than it does about you?”
She smiles. “You’re an interesting boy—sort of cute too, for someone so clueless.” Her blue eyes find his. “Are you offering to be my advocate in the ongoing debate about who’s real and who isn’t? No one else has applied for the job. Do you want it?”
“Sure,” he says at once.
She nods, smiles, and rises. “It’s yours. But let me
give you a piece of advice. Don’t spend your time worrying about me. Worry about yourself. You don’t know nearly enough about Street Freaks to start feeling comfortable. You can’t begin to know everything that goes on around here.”
She starts from the room, hesitates, and then comes back and stands next to him. He looks up at her, surprised. “I can see what you want, even if you don’t think it shows,” she says. “You don’t need to be embarrassed about it.” She bends close and kisses him lightly on the cheek.
He barely notices when she leaves the room, his attention focused on the lingering impression of her lips against his skin.
He sits there until the sun comes up. When the others appear, he is still thinking about her.
Time passes. Three days. Five. Ash sees Cay occasionally, passing through the building, coming from or going to wherever it is she disappears to when she’s gone. Once, she gives him a wave. Once they speak briefly but only to ask each other how they are. He thinks of her constantly, worrying about what she is doing and how much danger she is in.
She never talks about any of it with him, and he can never bring himself to ask her.
When he is not thinking of Cay, he is thinking about the passage of time and the apparent failure of either Jenny Cruz or the Shoe to uncover any fresh information about his father’s death. It is all he can do to stop himself from asking what’s taking so long, but he knows better than to do that. It is enough that he is being provided with a safe haven and friendship. It is enough to know that at least someone is trying. Without them, he would be on his own. How much would he find out then?
He asks Jenny at one point whether she knows if his uncle Cyrus is doing anything through ORACLE to find out what happened to his brother.
“As a matter of fact, he is,” she tells him. “He announced an investigation into the cause of his death. He also put out a plea to the general public for any information about you. Your picture is still showing up on vidviews and reader boards. I think he is genuinely worried about you. You might think about sending him a vidmail to let him know you are alive and well and not to worry.”
He could do that, he thinks. Perhaps he should. His uncle has reason to worry about him, given that he disappeared out of his home and hasn’t been heard from since. What if that’s the reason for all those reader board alerts—the latest of which now contain a monetary reward for information on him? What if his uncle generated them simply because he is worried about Ash? He has always assumed it was BioGen. But maybe while BioGen initiated the confrontation with the Hazmats, the searches by Achilles Pod were due to his uncle’s efforts to find him. What if he is looking at this backward?
The matter resolves itself in an unexpected way. By the end of his first week at Street Freaks, he finds his supply of ProLx nearly depleted. He knows he has to do something to replace it if he doesn’t want to risk an infection. But the Shoe’s instructions are explicit: he is not allowed to leave the premises without at least one member of his new family accompanying him. In order to leave, he will have to reveal to one of them the truth about his immune deficiency problem. But which of them will he tell?
The answer comes as a surprise.
He wakes early almost every morning now, unable to sleep more than six hours even on the best of nights, restless and troubled by the continuing uncertainty of his situation. On the last day of that first week when he comes downstairs to the kitchen, he finds Cay already there, drinking coffee.
He enters and sits next her. It is all he can do not to stare. The lavender sheath she is wearing reveals every curve of her body. She looks him up and down while he tries desperately to avoid doing the same to her. “How are you holding up?” she asks after a moment or two.
He swallows hard. “Not so bad.”
“Nothing new on your father?”
He shakes his head no and then abruptly asks, “Would you be willing to help me with something?”
It is an impulsive act, one he has not considered. Asking her for help has always seemed out of the question. Yet, as if any such self-imposed hesitation has never existed, he asks her now.
She studies him. “Sure.” No equivocation, no hesitation. “What is it you want?”
“I need to get out of here for a few hours,” he answers. He cannot make his eyes meet hers. “I haven’t told the others, but I have a condition that requires regular doses of a particular medication, and I’m running out. I need someone to take me to a pharmacy so I can resupply.”
She studies him some more. When she shifts to face him directly, every part of her body seems to move beneath the sheath. “You don’t have a drug problem, do you, Ash? That isn’t something I want to get involved with.”
“No!” He feels insulted. “I have an immune deficiency problem. I was diagnosed a couple of years ago. My father started me on ProLx. He said it was the only thing that could help. If I don’t take it, my immune system collapses.”
“ProLx,” she repeats. “Don’t think I’ve heard of it. Do you have a prescription?”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t, of course. His father always supplied him with his medication. He has the container with the two pills that remain, but there’s nothing written on the outside.
“You haven’t told the Shoe about this, have you.” She makes it a statement of fact, almost an accusation. “Or the others?”
He shakes his head again. “Nope.”
“I suppose you have your reasons.” She considers him. “We could visit a pharmacy and find out if it’s in stock and maybe figure out a way to get hold of some.” She thinks. “If you don’t want to tell the others what you’re really doing, you’ll have to come up with a reason we’re going off together somewhere.”
That’s when he remembers what Jenny Cruz suggested about contacting his uncle. He has been careful not to use his personal vidview at any point following his arrival at Street Freaks, but if he can find a public vidview, any message he sends can’t be traced back.
“I can tell them I’m going to message Uncle Cyrus and let him know I’m safe. It was Jenny’s suggestion in the first place.”
She hesitates. “Cyrus Collins?”
He nods. “My uncle.”
“So you said.” She considers. “Maybe we should go outside the Zone.”
Ash shakes his head. “The Shoe said I wasn’t to leave the Zone under any circumstances.”
She smirks. “Do you always do what you’re told?”
He blushes. “Well, I just . . .”
“The Shoe doesn’t have to know everything. Are you afraid of him?”
“No.” And he isn’t. He just doesn’t want to lose his only protection. “Okay, we’ll go outside the Zone.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “But you’re not really planning on contacting your uncle, are you? You’re just using that as an excuse to get your medicine. Or am I missing something here?”
He doesn’t know the answer to that question. The pretext of contacting his uncle serves as a reasonable excuse for going out to replace his ProLx, but now he’s wondering if maybe he should send a message while he’s got the chance.
She makes a dismissive gesture. “Let’s tell Jenny we’re going to contact your uncle, but leave it for another day and just go get your medicine.” She sips at her coffee and makes a face. “Yuck. Who makes this stuff?” She looks at him. “Want some?”
They sit together in silence at the kitchen table. A few times, she glances at him but doesn’t speak. He tries to come up with things to talk about and fails. He tries to find something to tell her that she would find amusing or insightful and discovers he can’t. He is so inadequate to the challenge that even sitting there in silence is excruciating.
Eventually Jenny Cruz appears, her slender tiger sheath sliding out of the shadows, and Cay takes her aside. Whatever she says to the other girl, it is enough to gain the permission Ash is seeking, and by midmorning he and Cay are out the door, aboard the Flick, and driving down the Straightaway.
&nb
sp; “I didn’t know anyone but T.J. was allowed to drive this,” he says to her once they are off the premises.
He looks at her sitting in the driver’s seat, pixie blond haircut and startling blue eyes fixed on the road as she handles the powerful vehicle like it’s second nature. He is feeling euphoric, as if he is on a date with the girl of his dreams—which he obviously isn’t, but this is likely the closest he will ever come to it.
“He seemed very possessive of it when I rode with him,” he adds.
“What’s your point?” she asks, her lips curving in a seductive smile. “I don’t have a car of my own, so I took his.”
He hesitates. “So you took it without . . .”
“Ash,” she interrupts. “Do you know why I was brought into the Street Freaks family?”
It is the question he was told never to ask, and now she is asking it of him. Rhetorically, perhaps, but still. He shakes his head in response. “I guess I don’t.”
“I’m not tweaked like the others. Unless you want to consider me one big tweak. I was engineered from the ground up to be how I am. I was created wholly from synthetics. I wasn’t born normal and then rebuilt. Not like Holly, whose body was enhanced with titanium plates and moric flows and miniature computers. Not like T.J., whose embryo was implanted in a machine surrogate and then after birth given scads of steroids and chemical cocktails and put through rigorous physical training. Not like Jenny, who suffers from a disease that would have killed her if she hadn’t been turned into a walking blood transfusion. And certainly not like Woodrow, who lost every part of himself from the neck down. I’m not like any of them, yet here I am, a member of Street Freaks. Why?”
“Because . . .” He stops, not wanting to say what springs to mind because to say it will cheapen her. “People are attracted to you and want to please you?”
