Xenofreak Nation

by Melissa Conway

  She was struck dumb by his words, by a revelation so earth-shattering, she stopped breathing and wondered if she had the fortitude to begin again. He didn’t have to say another word; she already knew the depths to which he’d sunk to further his cause. That he’d used her as a pawn was bad enough, but that he’d done it hand-in-hand with a monster like Dr. Fournier was the ultimate betrayal.

  An unnatural calm suffused her soul. “You want to make human cloning legal?”

  Her father let out a frustrated growl. “I’m not alone. In the last decade, cancers and autoimmune diseases have skyrocketed. Health insurance premiums are second only to the mortgage in the average household budget. Quality of care is in the toilet. If the United States doesn’t take a stand, there won’t be anything left to stand for.”

  “The legislation,” she said dully. “The Pure Human Society is a front.”

  “No. Everything I’ve said about regulating the practice of xenoalteration has been true. It needs to be made safer for the poor fools who choose that lifestyle.”

  “I didn’t choose it.”

  He grabbed her hands and squeezed painfully. “But you understand, don’t you? You see why I had to make the ultimate sacrifice…my beautiful daughter. Think what will happen once the legislation passes and grant money becomes available! Research facilities will break the speed barrier to compete for the money. In a couple of years, I guarantee they’ll be able to grow new hair for you from your own cells.”

  Bryn’s shaky nod went off to one side, but she managed to keep a look of agreement on her face even though tears began streaming down her cheeks. Her heart was breaking, not only from the betrayal, but because what she’d always mistaken in her father for fervent zeal was in reality something much more dangerous.

  “So you’ll do it?” He, too, had tears in his eyes. “All we lacked was public support, and that’s where you come in. You’ll be the anti-xenofreak poster child, and once we have their attention, we can change the message.”

  Bryn was having a harder and harder time maintaining her composure. The rage and hurt rose in waves, and every time she beat it down, it rose again more strongly. Her goal now, for the short term, was to get her father out of her bedroom.

  She gulped a breath of air and said, “I’m on board, Dad. Just—can I be alone for awhile? I really need to think.”

  He made an aborted motion like he was going to hug her but didn’t want to deal with the quills. “I’m so, so sorry, Baby. Sorry that I didn’t trust you enough to let you know what—what needed to be done.”

  If he didn’t leave, she was going to explode in a fiery ball of hate and fury and that couldn’t happen. She no longer knew what he was capable of. It was vital that she keep her true feelings under control if she wanted to get out of this in one piece. He’d had her kidnapped and mutilated. What else would he do to secure her compliance if she didn’t go along with him now? She recalled his words, “Maybe we should talk to the doctors about medication.”

  She choked out one last word, “Okay.”

  When he left, she took her pillow with her into the closet, shut the door and despite the quills, managed to muffle her sobs. When she emerged an hour later with a tentative plan of action, she hid the shredded pillow and picked up each and every feather.

  Chapter Twenty

  Scott wanted to drive, but Padme pointed out that anyone looking in would see his hands on the steering wheel.

  “You should have found a pair of gloves,” she said.

  “In July? That’d be just as conspicuous.”

  “We are both wearing our hoods up. Is that not conspicuous? We radiate conspicuosity.”

  Scott didn’t think ‘conspicuosity’ was a word, but didn’t argue.

  She drove. The car was, indeed, a clunker, a gasoline-powered monstrosity that probably cost its owner a bundle every year in green tax. If they did as he asked and destroyed it, he’d be able to put a down payment on a modest electric version. Instead, because there was no way they trusted the guy not to call the police immediately after they walked out the door, Padme parked the car four blocks away, near a corner convenience store.

  Scott picked up some snacks in order to break one of Shasta’s twenties while Padme selected a small bottle of antacids and two sodas. There was an old television behind the counter blaring a news report. In the worst timing possible, they’d come in just as their mug shots were plastered across the screen. Scott sensed Padme tense up next to him, but since the cable networks only broadcast in holo, the picture on the television was blurry and the color off just enough to make the photographs resemble almost anyone fitting their general descriptions. Except for the fact that the woman who was supposed to be Padme had normal ears. He hoped she wouldn’t notice.

  Their good luck held out. There were no other customers in the store and the guy behind the counter, in typical New York fashion, showed no curiosity whatsoever. They stayed calm, paid for their stuff and walked out casually.

  Half a block away, they sat on a bus stop bench. Padme opened her medicine bottle, penetrated the safety seal with her fingernail and handed Scott four blue capsules and one of the sodas.

  “No thanks,” he said. “I have an iron stomach.”

  “I’m not suggesting your anxiety level is producing excess stomach acid,” Padme said. She held her hand out until Scott accepted the pills. “The new class of proton-pump inhibitors will cripple any micro-transmitters we may have consumed in jail.”

  Scott’s cultivated neutral expression helped him disguise his shock. He tried not to sound as avidly curious as he was. “What does that mean?”

  “Routine countermeasure. The FBI and CIA, and probably the XIA now, as well, can track our whereabouts with microscopic devices that transmit infinitesimally small radio pulses undetectable to normal receivers. They have no power source, but instead use acid from the host’s gastrointestinal track to run, like battery acid. Ingenious, really, but not infallible. The key is that unless you happen to be in possession of one of the feds’ special receivers, they are undetectable, so the host is never aware of them to attempt countermeasures. Dr. Fournier, however, is the most paranoid person I’ve ever met.”

  Scott looked at the capsules in his hand suspiciously. “So the antacid will disable the transmitters?”

  “No, just weaken them enough so the radio pulses can only be picked up when we’re close to a receiver. Mostly, they’re located on cell towers, so easily avoided.”

  “Wow,” he said. Unbidden, the memory of Bryn being subdued by Nurses Vonda and Nancy came to mind. They’d given her a shot of something that calmed her significantly and then coaxed her to swallow some pills. They’d initiated Dr. Fournier’s ‘countermeasures’ right in front of Scott and he’d been none the wiser.

  When they got on the bus, the driver didn’t so much as glance their way. There weren’t very many passengers this time of day, and the few that were on the bus were either snoozing or had their heads buried in holoreaders. They rode that bus, took the subway and then got on a few other buses until debarking on Coney Island.

  After Poppy, a powerful category four hurricane that dealt Long Island a direct blow in 2020, the already seedy Coney Island underwent a drastic change for the worse. Poppy didn’t discriminate. She wiped out public housing and rich communities alike. Tourist attractions that had been there for more than a century were flattened. Many businesses were destroyed, and others moved elsewhere as the neighborhoods failed to regenerate. The stadium that housed the popular Brooklyn Cyclones had collapsed from the flooding, and the city, beleaguered with the cost of reinstating basic services everywhere, had temporarily condemned it. Temporary had become permanent, at least until funding sources manifested, and in this economy, that wasn’t likely any time soon. The XBestia gang moved in.

  “They will look for us here,” Padme said. They were standing on an intact section of the boardwalk south of the stadium, looking out at the ocean.

  Scott made a sco
ffing sound. “Probably won’t have to. As soon as they offer a reward, we’re done.”

  “I know a place we can stay. For now.”

  He gave her a thoughtful look. “We?”

  She shrugged. “You can accompany me or not.”

  “Why don’t you stay with Lupus?”

  “He would not allow me to endanger him. When he deems it safe, he will find me.”

  It was cooler along the shore, so their hoods weren’t so out of place. Despite the island’s deservedly bad reputation, people were safe enough in broad daylight and still came to the beach. Four teenagers were playing volleyball and a family of six was building a sand castle nearby. Scott walked with Padme quite a ways before she turned toward an unprepossessing burger joint. The words ‘Bluto’s Last Stand’ were spray-painted in graffiti urban-art on the weatherworn exterior. A wooden sign with a grimacing, bearded cartoon character holding a blackboard stood near the door. The special of the day, a Bluto Burger and fries, was printed on the blackboard in white chalk.

  Despite the laws prohibiting smoking in public establishments, the dark interior reeked of tobacco. The place was nearly empty; the only customers sat at the bar drinking even though it was just past mid-day. He suspected the two rough-looking men were xeno and probably XBestia, but didn’t spot any obvious alterations. The only waitress hollered out to them to take a seat. Padme chose a booth along the west wall. Scott expected the table to be sticky and wasn’t disappointed.

  The waitress scurried over and wiped the table down with a rag that looked and smelled like she’d found it wrapped around a garbage truck axle. She was a tiny thing with streaked blonde hair and a pointy nose. Her nametag read, ‘Mouse.’

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” she said, pulling two menus out from under her arm. Before she set them down, she took a closer look at their faces and said quietly, “You folks look a little out of place. There’s a café a few blocks down that’s probably more your style.”

  Padme lowered her hood and asked, “Is Phaco cooking today?”

  Mouse didn’t miss a beat. “Yep. He’s got a pot of chili on. Hot stuff.”

  “I will take the special. No onions. Will you tell him Pad is here?”

  “Sure thing.” Mouse lifted her eyebrows at Scott.

  “Chili sounds good,” he said. “And a Coke, please.”

  Mouse spun on her heel and disappeared behind a swinging door next to the bar.

  Less than a minute later, the door swung open again and a black man with a huge belly trotted out. “Padme! I heard you was in jail. Dey let you out?”

  Padme put a finger to her lips. When the man reached their table, she said, “I need a place to stay, Phaco.”

  Scott studied the big man’s xenoalteration with interest. His lower jaw jutted forward naturally, placing his bottom teeth in front of the top. He’d had his lower canines and probably the tooth next to them replaced with thick, protruding tooth-like objects that pointed up and slightly outward, ending at just beyond his wide nostrils.

  “Da back room is all yours. Won’t be quiet, but it’s safe. Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Cougar. He helped me escape. In the spirit of full disclosure, we’re wanted.”

  “Well, dat makes more sense den da judge givin’ an XBestia bail.” His eyebrows dropped into a frown. “Lupus okay wif you and Cougar…” he jerked his thumb, presumably toward the back room.

  “Lupus knows I would never cheat. Avoiding torture and death is a good incentive for faithfulness.”

  Phaco laughed. “Dat true.”

  He wiped a hand on his filthy apron and held it out to Scott. It was a perfunctory shake, like Phaco was putting him on notice that he was tolerated for Padme’s sake and no other. He was talkative, though, even if his alteration made diction a challenge.

  “I was born wif dis underbite. Coulda got it fixed, but it just wouldn’t be me, ya know? Dese here,” he ran a forefinger up and down one of the protrusions, “are the bottom tusks off a warthog, phacochoerus africanus. Dat why dey call me Phaco.”

  “Very intimidating,” Scott said sincerely.

  “Dat what I was goin’ for,” Phaco replied. Then he winked. “But I’m really a big softie. Ask Padme.”

  “It’s true,” Padme confirmed.

  “I din’t hear no mention of claws on da news,” Phaco said. “Dey functional?”

  Scott didn’t like to, but he felt obligated to demonstrate. He curved his fingers inward and extended his claws. Phaco set his tongue against his upper lip between the tusks and let loose with a low whistle.

  “Doc do good work.” He reached out and tweaked one of Padme’s ears. “Now I gonna go make you da best damn burger you ever had, you little cannibal.”

  It was the first time Scott ever heard Padme laugh.

  Phaco disappeared behind the swinging door and soon after, Mouse reappeared at their table. Without a word, she set a glass of water in front of Padme and gave Scott his chili and Coke. After she left, Scott commented, “Not so friendly anymore.”

  Padme quirked one side of her mouth and sipped her water.

  Surreptitiously, he watched Mouse. She went behind the bar and generously topped off her customers’ drinks. Scott heard the phrase ‘on the house,’ but couldn’t pick up the rest of what she was saying. She leaned her skinny elbows on the bar and seemed to be earnestly explaining something to the two xenos. One of them turned and stared in Scott and Padme’s direction.

  Phaco delivered Padme’s hamburger himself and chatted for a few more minutes before going back into his kitchen. At that point, the two xenos at the bar stood up. Instead of heading for the exit, they sauntered over to the booth.

  Before they could say or do anything, Padme spoke. “Do either of you gentlemen happen to know who I am?”

  The taller of the two, with shaved head and a spiderweb tattoo on his throat, cracked his knuckles. “We hear you two like to mess with little girls.” His breath was fetid with whiskey and something sour. Scott leaned away from the odor and let Padme handle the situation.

  She held up her arm and pulled back the sleeve. A roundish patch of scars, both raised and dimpled, marred her forearm. Scott recognized it as a healed bite-mark; one that would have been a vicious injury to produce such a scar. He’d seen photographs of the very same mark—on a series of corpses allegedly dispatched by the top XBestia enforcer.

  “This was a gift from Lupus,” Padme said coldly. “When you see his brand on a person who is not dead, my advice is to run, not walk, in the opposite direction.”

  “Lupus?” The shorter of the two asked. He shot a look over his shoulder at Mouse, who began wiping down the bar as if she hadn’t been avidly watching to see what would happen.

  “And,” Padme continued. “It would be best if you forgot you ever met such a person.”

  Both men began nodding, quite agreeable now. They backed away, and when they left, they were walking, but it looked to Scott like they wanted to take Padme’s advice and run.

  Scott took a bite of his chili. It was delicious, but as Mouse had warned, very spicy. He took a long sip of his Coke and spluttered, “Hot!”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It was a good thing her father slept like a hibernating bear every night. As long as Bryn avoided the squeaky floorboards scattered throughout the old house, it was no problem packing her car. The little Hamster didn’t hold much, but she took only what she needed, plus her mother’s photo album and a few other keepsakes. Tucked at the back of the album, she found the Christmas cards from Carla she’d stashed away each year. After her mother passed, Carla tried to stay in touch, but her father discouraged it. Bryn accidently discovered that first Christmas card unopened in the trash, so she made a point of sorting through the holiday mail each year before her father got to it.

  The address on the envelope changed every couple of years and it seemed to Bryn that the handwriting got sloppier, too. The message had over time remained the same, however. “You will always
have a place to stay if you need it.”

  Bryn needed it.

  Technically, and ironically, she’d turned eighteen that day, so she wasn’t running away. After what he’d done, her father didn’t deserve any sort of goodbye other than a terse note letting him know she hadn’t been kidnapped again. But then, he’d know that already, given his role in her first abduction.

  Bryn had finally peeked out the window. The news vans had gone for the night, but the XIA agents were parked right out front. She didn’t make the mistake of thinking she could run for it—this wasn’t holovision—she wouldn’t be able to shake them no matter what she did, and pitting her compact car against their souped-up sedan would make for one ridiculous chase.

  She’d found a lightweight beige cashmere scarf among those of her mother’s things she’d been allowed to keep. It covered her head pretty well, except for the odd quill poking through. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she flashed on Padme the first time she’d seen her. She, too, had worn a scarf to hide her alteration. Bryn had assumed from her appearance that Padme was a modest Middle Eastern young woman. At one point in the Pakistani girl’s life, that had probably been true.

  Bryn’s father slept on the opposite side of the house from the garage. She pressed the garage door button, wincing as it went through its rumbling, grinding process. After the door was fully up, she listened for a moment. Her father’s snores reverberated down the hall. She flipped on the light, went past her car and down the dark driveway to the agent’s car. The woman in the driver’s seat rolled down the window.

  “Hi, Agent Yang,” Bryn said.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Not really. Today was my eighteenth birthday.”

  Yang’s left eyebrow lifted slightly. “Happy Birthday.”

  “Thank you. So…I’m an adult now. Legally, I can do whatever I want.” Bryn didn’t phrase it as a question. She was determined not to sound like she was asking for permission.