by Haber, Karen
“Lights!”
The room was bathed instantly in a golden glow.
Tavia Emory stood near the door, hands on her hips.
“One more test,” she said. “Tell me what I’m thinking.”
Still floating above her, Ashman closed his eyes. Smiled a tight, pained smile with his thin, colorless lips.
“You’re thinking that you’d like to have a statue of me carved by Narlydda. Perhaps in synthetic amethyst. And that as long as you’ve given her that commission, you might as well select the subject too.”
Tavia Emory clapped her hands gleefully. Her silken, copper-colored robes whispered as she moved.
“May I set myself down now, madam?” Ashman asked, bowing pompously from midair.
“Oh, of course, silly. Come sit here by me, Victor.” She sank down onto the wallseat and patted the cushion next to her.
Ashman lowered the table and lowered himself to the capacious bronzed satin cushions. Curled on his side, head supported on one hand, Ashman watched her through half-closed eyelids.
“And just where is our young friend Yosh?” he asked. “Have you tired of him and sent him away? Does that mean there’s a chance for me?”
“Yosh is visiting Narlydda in Mendocino. They’re collaborating on the Moonstation Memorial.”
Ashman arched a thin, perfect eyebrow. “I didn’t know our musician was a sculptor as well.”
“Well, you do know that Narlydda works in various media. She wanted the help of a musician familiar with spun ceramics—controlling its tonalities in pressurized environments.”
“And he can answer her questions?” Ashman’s look of surprise was genuine now. “I thought all he could do was tootle on that glass flute of his. Well, good for him. A breakthrough for his career, I suppose. And while he’s away?”
Tavia smiled. “I love it when you flirt with me, Victor. It means you really feel good.” She grabbed his hand impulsively. “Oh, we’re going to do such wonderful things together, you and I.”
“Tell me again.” He leaned back against the pillows. “As if I haven’t heard this before. Indulge me, Tavia. It’s my favorite bedtime story.”
“Once you’re ready, we’ll contact the mutant councils, the world governments and the media. Give them a demonstration of what you can do.” She shook her head in amazement and delight. “You’ll be such a rallying point, Victor. Such a symbol of hope and unity. If only Richard had lived to see this. He dreamed of the day when mutants and nonmutants would be drawn together. Finally, we’re ready!”
Ashman smiled an almost-feline smile. “Your words are like poetry, Tavia. You convince me every time you say them.” Gently, he kissed her hand. “Thank you.”
She stared at him, mouth open, nonplussed. “For what?”
“For giving me hope. And more.”
Melanie buzzed at Camphill’s office door.
“Come.”
The door slid back to reveal a semicircular room whose far wall was a clear slab of transparent plastic glass through which the filtered sunlight poured, casting an incandescent arc on the spotless white carpet. Everything in the office was white. Melanie slipped off her shoes. Randall Camphill reveled in little power games, and one of his favorites was requiring everybody on staff to remove their shoes at the door to his office. If he’d asked, his entire staff would have disrobed as well. Camphill’s word and whim was law at Cable News, at least until he was promoted or deposed in an executive coup.
The curved walls of his office were lined with monitors, each tuned to a different news broadcast, each flashing pink, brown, yellow faces, white smiles, blue titles.
A good disaster really brought out the experts, Melanie thought. This one had even knocked the Soviet elections right off of prime time. She watched as a familiar face appeared on the lowest row of monitors: a woman in her late thirties, her dark red hair expertly coiffed. Senator Andrea Greenberg, known for her pro-mutant policies and pro-business stance. An unusual combination.
“What is it, Ryton?” He was seated behind his massive glass desk in which a thousand filaments of gold and purple swirled and twinkled in the sunlight.
“Mr. Camphill, I’ve got a story idea.”
“About?”
“The Moonstation disaster. A closer look,” Melanie said quickly. Camphill had a notoriously brief attention span. “We’ve heard from the scientists and politicians. We know that everybody thinks we should close Moonstation down or that we should plunge on deeper into space. Why don’t we narrow the focus? Get away from the theorists and generals. We could do it with a feature on Kelly McLeod. The shuttle pilot who gave the first alarm. I went to school with her and I think I can give this a really personal spin.”
Camphill shook his head. “Sorry, Ryton.” He shifted in his high-backed white leather seat. His eyes stayed focused on a monitor to his left. “I just don’t see the angle. Okay, so you and this lady shuttle jockey were chums. As far as I can see, she’s just one more face in space. Been interviewed by everybody, including us, and five minutes ago makes it old news. Besides, that mutant shuttle commander has more star power. A cold character, if you ask me, but the audience just gobbles him up and begs for more. You didn’t know him when you were a kid, did you?”
“No.” Just a few other mutants, she thought.
“Too bad. If you could give me a fresh angle on him, well, I might go for it. You’re a bright kid. If you come up with anything, flag me, and maybe we’ll get Nesse in on it.” Briefly, he looked at her, winked, then turned toward the wall of monitors behind his chair. The audience was over.
Melanie grabbed her shoes and, barefoot, stalked toward her desk. The last thing she wanted to do was give Lea any new angles. So Camphill thought that mutants had star power, did he? Maybe he’d like to see mutant gold up close. She could pop out her blue contact lenses and give him a wink. Maybe that would convince him she was anchor material.
Disgusted, she sat down heavily and reached into her drawer for a tab of Valedrine. Her hand closed on the pink plasticpak, but a flashing newsbyte pulled her attention to her deskscreen and its swirling yellow title.
“Reclusive artist Narlydda has received the Emory Foundation’s commission for a series of multimedia works to be sited at Moonstation plaza. Details at five.”
Narlydda! Melanie froze. What if she were to find her? That would grab Randall Camphill’s attention … and maybe even win her a promotion.
Valedrine forgotten, she hit the audio button.
“Get me the Emory Foundation headquarters,” she said.
A moment later, the Emory Seal, half fleshy Roman muse, half silvery moon rocket, splashed across the screen as though freshly painted, accompanied by a regal trumpet fanfare.
Emory Foundation was the brainchild and trust of Tavia Emory, and a memorial to her late husband, Richard, a space industrialist killed in the Soviet shuttle accident of ’23. Five years before his death, he’d been the first businessman to establish orbiting polymer factories as adjuncts to the French and Soviet space stations. He’d made billions. Emory Foundation was the machine through which Tavia turned Emory Industries profits into good works, social position, and power. She strewed hospital wings and artistic commissions about as though they were party favors.
“Emory Foundation,” the mech receptionist droned. “Your call will be answered in the order it has been received. Please don’t hang up.”
Melanie waited two minutes. Five. Finally, a human face stared at her. Curly brown hair. Olive complexion. Golden eyes.
“Emory Foundation,” she said. “How may I help you?”
“Melanie Ryton, Cable News, calling about the Moonstation Plaza commission. I’d like to interview Narlydda for our weekend feature.”
“Ah, yes, Ms. Ryton. Let me transfer you to public relations.”
The Emory seal reappeared, then vanished. And Melanie was looking at yet another mutant, a young man of about twenty-five. His head was half shaved in the retropunk mode. A
n inlaid green and silver mutant unity earring dangled from his left ear. His eyes glittered.
“We have a taped release we can give you,” he said. “It’s a review of Narlydda’s work, with quotes from her and the curators of last year’s museum retrospectives. We feel it encapsulates her philosophy about art—and that of the Emory Foundation.”
Melanie put on the professional smile which meant no thanks. “I’d prefer to interview the artist.”
The young mutant didn’t reply for a moment. A worried line creased his forehead. “I don’t think that will be possible.”
“Why?”
“We’re under strict orders not to give out the artist’s personal phone number.”
“I see.” Melanie frowned. “I’ll get back to you.” She broke the connection. She’d just have to look elsewhere.
The surf boomed in gentle percussion. Kelly pulled a pink conch shell out of a tuft of straw-colored dune grass and stared at it in surprise.
“I didn’t think you could find these anyplace but a shell farm,” she said. “Or a museum.”
Heyran Landon looked up from his own beachcombing, every inch the commander, even when wearing a black thong swimsuit and sitting on a pristine white Caribbean beach. His skin was naturally tan—it hardly seemed affected by the sun. His golden eyes sparkled at her in a way she found disconcerting.
“A few places yet are left,” he said. “To the very rich.”
“Or heroic.” Her wry expression made him chuckle.
“Especially to heroes after their rugged debriefing.” He patted her shoulder. “Chin up, Kelly. You’d think there was something wrong with being a hero instead of a casualty. Relax. Enjoy the privilege that being a hero brings.”
“It’s only chance that separates us from the casualties. We were in the right part of the dome. So we lived.”
“Bullshit. We lived because of your quick wits.” Landon dusted sand from his palms. “And that’s exactly what I told the brass. There’ll be a promotion in this for you, Kelly. At the very least.”
“If there’s any service left, after the investigation. Today, a space hero. Tomorrow, a commercial pilot.” She shook her head. “I just can’t help thinking of those who died. …”
“Bad case of survivor’s guilt, if you ask me. Look, there was nothing else you could do. Either of us could do.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I have to, to stay sane.”
She pulled at a clump of seaweed. Then she tossed it into the frothy blue-green water. “I hope they dismantle whoever’s responsible for the explosion.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. They’ll have a public burning, make no mistake. And if they can’t find somebody to play the goat, they’ll invent him. Or select a ‘volunteer.’ Whatever they have to do to keep the public pacified. And keep the space program flying.”
Kelly chuckled. “You’re awfully cynical.”
“I prefer to think of myself as a seasoned service veteran. Sounds much better than cynical.” He paused. “It’s good to see you smile, Kelly. Take my advice and soak up a new attitude before the investigation begins next Monday at Armstrong. This private playground is the perfect setting for it.” He gestured down the length of the sparkling beach lined with palm trees. “At least it’s a breather from that damned media circus back home.”
“It’s beautiful,” Kelly said. “But what paradise is patrolled by dogs and guns?”
“These days, any paradise that wants to remain unspoiled. And free from reporters and video jocks, or should I say jerks? So lean back and enjoy it. That’s an order.”
“Yessir.”
Kelly watched the sunlight dance on his light brown hair. An attractive man, she thought. A prickle of desire brought a swift, automatic rebuke. Down, girl, she thought. He’s your commanding officer. Not to mention married. And half of the reason you’re attracted to him is because he reminds you of Michael Ryton. Admit it.
She’d spent fifteen years putting as much physical space and work as possible between her and Michael. Pursued by unhappy memories, she’d run right into the Air Force, and from there to the shuttle corps. The last thing she needed now was to get involved with another mutant, much less a shuttle commander. Quick, think of something to say.
“When is your wife arriving?”
“Tomorrow.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Have you invited anybody to join you here?”
“No.” She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She’d considered asking Grant Tessalt. After all, she’d had a casual affair going with him for six months. But somehow she’d felt uncomfortable about asking him. She didn’t particularly want to be alone. But she didn’t want to be with Grant. Even if he was a major.
“Maybe you should reconsider,” Landon said. He sat down in the sand and stretched. “Once the investigation starts rolling, you won’t have much time for personals.”
“Do you think it’ll be that tough?”
Eyes closed, Landon nodded. “A lot of people are going to sweat before this one is over. Remember the hammering you got at headquarters? Just be glad you’re on the side of the angels. For starters, I expect to see complete reshuffling of the Moonstation administration. And NASA as well. They’ll be looking for somebody to hang, be it service, contractors, or the usual congressmen.”
“I always enjoy a good public hanging of a congressman.”
Landon smiled. “Me too.”
His teeth were white, even, perfect against his tan. Kelly forced herself to look away, down the beach to the water where the blue-green breakers swelled.
“Heyran, can I ask you something off the record?”
He opened his eyes, raised an eyebrow.
“Sure.”
“Why did you join the service?”
“It beat laying bullet train rails.”
“Not by much. Come on, you know what I mean. I can count the number of mutants in the service on one hand, and still come up with spare fingers.”
Landon grimaced. “You want to know why the exotic mutant asked what he could do for his country? The whole story?”
She nodded.
“It’s simple,” he said. “I was the sacrifice thrown to the military lions by the Western Mutant Council.”
“What?”
Landon’s expression was no longer playful. He stared out over the waves.
“Yeah. I was interested in mathematics. Planned on a career in solid-state computers. But my crime was that I was too steady. Too dependable. The military was clamoring for a pet mutant, and I was a safe choice: just enough telekinetic ability to be interesting, but not enough to toss a satellite at somebody. So the council decided I had a bright future in the shuttle corps. Provided a nice wife for me.” He shook his head, lost for a moment in memories. “Know what the most surprising thing of all is?”
“What?”
“I’ve been pretty happy with this life. When I’m not grappling for dead bodies on the Moon, that is. Or ducking reporters.” He looked at her, shading his eyes from the sun. “Shocked?”
“No,” she said bitterly. “Mutant councils can be merciless.”
Landon stared at her. His eyebrows curved upward in surprise. “You sound as if you speak from firsthand experience.”
“Me?” She shrugged quickly. “No. No. Just picked up the impression from newscasts, I guess.” She shoved thoughts of Michael back into the subbasement of her memory.
“I see.”
With elaborate casualness, Kelly looked away. She sifted sand between her fingers, chased a small green crab with her toe.
Landon watched her for a moment. Then he stood up and stretched again. “Well, guess I’ll go for a run. Want to come?”
“No thanks.”
He trotted off down the beach, a slim, muscled figure silhouetted against the white sand, legs pumping. Kelly watched him go. For a moment, she imagined him without the bathing suit, in bed, suspended above her, eyes glittering. Quick, think of somet
hing else.
She looked out over the blue-green water swelling gently. Maybe she was being a fool. There was hard work ahead. And if she had company, perhaps her dreams wouldn’t be so haunted by silent explosions in zero-G. Nor would her days center around her handsome, forbidden commander.
Don’t be such an iron woman, she told herself. Give in. Get yourself a little comfort. She walked up the beach to the sleek wooden beachhouse and requested Grant’s number from the wallscreen.
CHAPTER THREE
.
Bright sunlight made patterns on the white floorboards and lavender rug. Narlydda looked at the wallscreen. Nine o’clock. Time to key up the old art machine and get going.
Her light easel stood in the corner by the broad picture window. She turned her back on the view of rugged coastline and plugged in her brush. From the palette, she selected a bronzed mix touched with green and sketched the curve of a man’s arm onto the screen.
Good, she thought. Model it just so. Now a bit of texture, here and here. Maybe a bit more umber for shading.
She was sweating, the silken rose-colored robe sticking to her back. Barely pausing in mid-stroke, she shrugged out of the robe. Naked, she stood, a slim celadon figure framed by the easel. She preferred to work this way. The room was warm, especially with the sunlight spilling through the windows. And on foggy mornings the walls provided radiant solar heat.
This is the way Skerry first saw me. Bursting through all my defenses to find the naked artist.
Across the room, the wallscreen rang.
Go away. Leave me alone.
She sketched fiercely, but with one ear cocked, waiting for the simulacrum to take the call. On the third ring, it did.
“You’ve readied the studio of Narlydda,” said a smooth female alto voice. “How may I help you?”
“Narlydda? Is it really you?”
The simulacrum Anne Verland paused. Narlydda could almost imagine the computer humming as it selected a quick response from its standard menu.
“This is not Narlydda. I am her business associate, Anne Verland.”
“Oh.” The caller sounded disappointed. “Well, please tell her my name is Wendy Thomas and that I just love her work, I’m her biggest fan. I’ve got holoprints of the Lunar Web, Spanninger’s Congress and Seventeenth Mile.”
