by Haber, Karen
“I didn’t know he was going to be here.”
“You saw the list of those subpoenaed.”
“Yes.” Kelly looked away from Landon’s glittering eyes. “But I thought maybe he wouldn’t come.”
“What? Ignore a government summons and risk a citation for contempt of Congress?”
She shrugged. “You told me yourself that mutants are independent. Unpredictable. I didn’t think he’d come. I prayed he wouldn’t. Maybe I just thought if I ignored it, it would go away.”
“Terrific.” He stood up, ran his hands through his short brown hair. “Well, I don’t think this compromises anything, really. Have you talked to him?”
“No. And I don’t want to.”
“I thought not. Don’t suppose you’d want to tell me the details?”
Kelly forced herself to meet his gaze. “We were sweethearts. Childhood sweethearts.” She closed her eyes. “Gods, I can’t believe I just said that.”
“What’s wrong with it if that’s the truth?”
“Makes my skin crawl.” She gave him a tiny smile. “Anyway, we wanted to get married. But the Mutant Council had other ideas. So he married a nice mutant girl and had a nice mutant baby. And I joined the service. Thought it was time to see less of him and more of the world.”
“A good idea.” Landon’s tone was sympathetic. “I’d almost accuse you of being foolishly optimistic, trying for intermarriage. It’s still considered shocking in certain circles these days.”
“Well, I learned the hard way.” She paused. “Speaking of certain circles, what does the Mutant Council think of this supermutant?”
“He’s disturbing. We don’t know what to make of him. And now that he’s accepted the protection of the Emory Foundation-—he’s under lock and key in Scottsdale—we’ve got to ask permission to talk to him.”
“I’ll bet the military brass are going crazy.”
Landon nodded.
“Everybody wants a piece of him. The military. The CIA. The research labs. If I were Ashman, I’d stay out in the desert.”
“Will they get their hands on him?”
“Eventually.” Landon shrugged. “Unless he can also make himself disappear.” He toyed with his screen key for a moment, then looked up. “All right, Kelly, I’ll grant you a leave until this circus is over. But don’t disappear completely. Stay in touch.”
Kelly jumped up. “Thank you. I didn’t think—”
“Save it.” Landon smiled. Then his face turned somber. “I don’t know if you can outrun your past, Kelly. But you saved my life, and the least I can do is try not to trip you up now.”
“Thanks.” Giddy with relief, she walked out of his office as though floating through a low-g field.
I was lucky when they rotated Heyran Landon onto my duty roster, she thought. Bless his golden eyes.
She spoke quickly into the black mesh callbox. “Elevator, down.”
If she hurried, she could pack and catch a morning shuttle back to the East Coast. Visit the folks.
The red-enameled elevator doors slid open with a sigh and Kelly entered the cab. She was so preoccupied that she scarcely noticed the other occupant of the elevator until the doors closed and he turned around. A slim blond man in a sober gray suit.
“Hello, Kelly.”
The tenor voice was familiar. It had echoed through a hundred memories and nightmares. It belonged to Michael Ryton.
“Stop dancing around, Tavia, and admit it. You just don’t like my sketch.” Narlydda sat opposite the hawk-faced woman in a spacious office flooded by sunlight. Tavia shifted a moment, straightening a seam in her green silk caftan. Then she looked up, golden contact lenses gleaming.
“It’s not that I don’t like it, Narlydda. I wouldn’t exactly use that term. No, your work is so very, very fine that I would never say I didn’t like it.” She smiled. Was there just a trace of condescension there? “What I would say is that I think this has perhaps been, well, misconceived.”
“Misconceived?” Narlydda sat back in the plush leather chair and glared through the eyeholes of her half-mask. “How so?”
Tavia picked up a hammered bronze paperweight and shifted it from hand to hand. “How I envy mutants their abilities,” she murmured. “If I were a marvelous telekinetic, I would juggle without hands.” She put the paperweight down. “So many wondrous mutant abilities. And now there’s Ashman.” Her voice grew louder, more imperative. “I think it’s important to honor all mutants for their achievements, don’t you?”
“Of course. I thought that was what I was doing.” What was she driving at?
“Honor them all. Especially Ashman.”
Their eyes met, locked. For a moment, Narlydda was tempted to give Tavia Emory a demonstration of telekinesis by pushing her backward out of her chair. Finally, Tavia looked away.
“You want me to do a sculpture of Ashman?” Narlydda said.
“I thought I’d made that obvious.”
“You’ve made nothing obvious, Tavia. I thought this commission was for a Moonstation memorial, not a private portrait.”
“This will hardly be private. …”
“My fee triples for portrait commissions, regardless of their intended use or siting,” Narlydda said sharply. “But I have no intention of changing my conception of the memorial. I think it’s perfect as is.”
“That’s a pity. There are so many other artists who are easier to work with. …”
“Then I suggest you contact them immediately. I reject this commission. Get yourself another artist.”
Before Tavia could reply, Narlydda was out the door, striding toward her room.
I don’t need her or her money, she thought furiously. I’ll order a taxi and get out of this claustrophobic fiefdom before I start knocking down walls. And as soon as I’m home, I’ll call Tri-Com and Cable News.
She grabbed her green leather travel bag. Thank God she’d packed before breakfast. But as she turned toward the door, she felt a wave of dizziness come over her. Head spinning, she sank down onto the bed.
Sleep.
The mental command was direct, compelling, inescapable. Narlydda slept.
When she awoke, the walls had changed color. No. She was in a different room, and the walls were a soft, padded blue-green velour. But where was she? Where was the door? Narlydda staggered to her feet. She felt fuzzy-headed. Drugged. A drink of water, that’s what she needed. She reached telekinetically for a glass sitting on a low table across the room. The glass just sat there. Narlydda tried again. Then, desperately thirsty, she strode across the room, grabbed the glass, and gulped down its contents.
The water was wonderfully cold. In a moment, her head began to dear.
How odd, she thought. Why can’t I levitate anything? Everything in here seems nonresponsive to telekinesis. Am I still asleep? No, that water was real. Could the walls be lined with mental dampers? I’ve heard about that stuff. But I thought it was controlled carefully, used only in storehouses to keep inmates from injuring themselves or others. And what use is it here, except to keep me under control?
She took a deep breath. “Let me out!” she cried. “Hey! Somebody, where am I?”
No answer.
Weakly, she kicked at the wall. There was a mech inset near the bed, programmed to provide food and drink. She saw that a luxurious bathroom opened onto the room at the far corner. But no door. No window. What had happened?
Don’t be afraid.
Narlydda yelped. The mindspeech was loud, almost painful.
I apologize for the volume. It is difficult to control …
“Ashman?”
Of course.
“Let me out of here.”
If I do that, then you’ll go away.
“At least give me a doorway. A window. A peephole. Something!”
A line appeared between turquoise panels and deepened until an entire segment of wall had slid back, revealing a doorway.
Come.
Narlydda walked out into a corridor lit
by yellow tube bulbs. There was a door on her left that led through a narrow passageway into what seemed to be a different wing of the building. She crossed a pink-walled corridor and entered a long, dimly lit chamber. At the far end of the room, a thin, white-clad figure sat on a strange acrylic ebony chair whose ladder back rose up behind him for at least two feet. Ashman sat enthroned, bathed in a pool of silvery light.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Three o’clock.” His voice echoed in the empty room.
“In the morning? I’ve been out that long?”
“Morning. Afternoon. What does it matter?”
She put her hands on her hips and tried to bluff him.
“You’d better let me go, Ashman. People will start to look for me.”
He laughed, a peal of high notes with just a touch of tension—or hysteria—in them. “I like you, Narlydda. You’re so brave, especially when you’re frightened. And I’m lonely.” He beckoned her toward him. “Talk to me.”
Obediently, she perched on a pile of red velvet cushions near his chair.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Really.”
“Mrs. Emory is my sponsor.”
“Sponsor?”
He shifted in his chair. “Difficult to explain. She has provided a shield for me. Which I appreciate.”
“Are you a native of Arizona?”
“Now that’s a leading question.” He waggled his finger at her in mock reproof. “And I brought you here to ask you the questions.”
“I’m not going anyplace, am I?” she said acidly.
“I’m fascinated by the unusual.”
“Then you must spend a great deal of time gazing into the mirror.” She wanted to say more, but his silvery eyes held her, transfixed.
He stood up, walked toward her. “I’m lonely,” he said. “I like you.”
Her heart began to pound.
Ashman placed his hand under her chin and drew her face up. His hand felt like parchment. “Yes, you are very unusual. Strong. Beautiful.”
She searched for her voice. Found it. “Thanks again. But isn’t this very sudden?”
“Don’t play games with me.” He shook her gently. “I feel such a strong attraction to you, Narlydda. Much stronger than with Tavia. But of course, she’s only a nonmutant.” The words were tinged with gentle contempt. His eyes glittered with strange light. “I must know you.”
Suddenly, Narlydda felt afraid. She wanted to pull back from his spidery touch and run, get away, but his grip on her was deliberate and steely.
He drew her closer. Closer. Their lips met and she was swept into an unwelcome communion of brutal, overwhelming power. He was inside her head deeper than anyone had ever been, rummaging casually through her intimate memories, her vulnerabilities, her fears. She recoiled in anguish against the violation but his arms held her imprisoned. Oh God no, please, get out. But still he roamed her depths, relentless, probing for her private essence, examining, savoring the humiliation this invasion caused her. Getoutgetoutgetout. Narlydda convulsed with a wordless, agonized mental shriek.
Ashman chuckled and released her.
Narlydda fell back in a heap by his feet and covered her face with her hands. Her head pounded. She felt naked. Flayed.
“Before we ever met, I’d suspected you were mutant,” he said. “Your work has an additional depth and dimension to it. No normal human artist could manage it. And you hide yourself, playing games with the public. You like your games, don’t you, Narlydda? Maybe I’ll teach you some new ones.”
Desperately, she cast about the room for an object to toss. She’d kill him now, if she could.
Don’t even try it.
Damn it. He had her outgunned. Narlydda began to tremble. What did he plan to do with her? But as she watched him, Ashman’s eyes grew dull. His skin took a waxy pallor and he slumped suddenly into his chair.
“What’s going on here?” a strident female voice demanded. Ceiling lights flared to life, revealing a long, narrow room whose walls were paneled in dark wood. There were no windows. Tavia Emory stood in the doorway, hands on her hips.
“My screens showed an intruder here. But I thought you’d left hours ago.”
“Tavia,” Ashman muttered almost to himself. “Would have expected that you’d have been in bed hours ago.”
Narlydda spun around. “Your precious supermutant has kept me prisoner here against my will.”
“What? Why would he do that?” Tavia said. There was contempt in her expression. “You’re crazy. Look at him. He’s weak as a kitten. What have you done to him?”
“Done? To him?” Narlydda began to laugh nervously, almost hysterically.
The Emory woman moved as though to hit her. Narlydda pulled back. But Tavia Emory was frozen in place. Only her eyes darted, fearfully, from side to side, glittering in their fraudulent gold. She seemed incapable of movement or speech.
“No, Tavia,” Ashman said quietly. “I summoned her.”
Tavia made whining noises in the back of her throat.
“Speak.”
“Victor, let me go. I promise I won’t hurt her.”
He nodded. Tavia Emory toppled onto a pile of blue cushions. Her face was pale, ghostly with fear.
“Victor, is it true? You forced her to stay?”
He nodded.
“Be reasonable, Victor. Please, listen to me. You can’t keep Narlydda here. …”
“Be quiet!” he yelled. “Won’t you be quiet? Must I silence you again?”
Terror silenced her. Mutely, she shook her head.
“I’m so tired of being told by you what I may or may not do,” Ashman said. “You think I’m a toy, but you’re wrong, Tavia. You have no idea what I am. And how alone. But how could you? You’re just a normal.”
Tavia cringed as though struck by a blow from his hand.
“You parade me around like a peacock, taking me out for show and tell, then put me away again in my cage. Well, I’m tired of it, Tavia. And most of all, I’m tired of you.” He took a deep breath and stretched, hyperextending his long, bony fingers. “Narlydda will stay here until I say she can go. Perhaps she will decide that she likes it so much here, with me, she won’t want to go.”
“Fat chance,” Narlydda said. She regretted the words almost as soon as she’d uttered them. The look on Ashman’s face was frightening.
“Don’t make me angry,” he said. “I’m getting tired, and that’s when I lose control.” He rubbed his eyes. “See how tired Tavia is getting? She’s gone to sleep already.”
Indeed, Tavia had slumped down upon the green wallseat cushions as though anesthetized.
Ashman smiled a tiny smile.
“It’s late, Narlydda.”
Like grains of sand draining through her fingers, the room began to dissolve, fragmenting into sparkling particles, green and white, white and red, reforming around her in the now-familiar turquoise walls of her cell.
Dizzily, Narlydda fell back onto her bed. Had she ever really left it? A squawk from above drew her attention. A parrot with silver plumage swung from a high perch near the ceiling. The bird had Ashman’s face.
There will be time for us later. When I’m stronger.
It grinned and vanished.
Narlydda huddled on the bed. Her hands quivered. She was beginning to get frightened.
The group gathered around the floating round table was somber and silent. The only sound was the strident echo of buzzing cicadas, penetrating the room from the depths of the neighboring canyons which surrounded the meeting hall. Steam from freshly brewed coffee permeated the air with its sweet, bitter chocolate aroma. But the brimming yellow cups sat untouched before the fourteen mutants at the table.
“We’ve got to proceed slowly,” Wade Walters said. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”
Rebekah cast a cold glance in his direction. “I think we’ve got a fair idea of the threat. Time is a luxury we can’t afford, Wade. I know what I saw i
n Phoenix, as do you. I’d hate to have my suspicions confirmed at our expense.”
“That’s recidivist thinking, Bekah,” Torey Summers said. He shook his head and the mutant unity earring in his left earlobe swung wildly, casting reflections upon the paneled walls. “Old-fashioned paranoia. Why can’t we accept Ashman as a startling new development, but a welcome one?”
“Torey, I don’t care what your opinion of my thinking is. You weren’t there. Ashman, whoever and whatever he is, is dangerous. Or will be.”
“I agree with Bekah,” Chemen Astori said. “We haven’t got a genetic map or footprint on Ashman, nothing from the East or West Coast Councils, so we can’t trace him. It’s like he popped up out of midair, out of a magician’s hat. I’ve asked the Russians to trace their files: nothing. Ditto the Europeans. He’s not part of the council or the union. Yet he speaks of working with us and presiding over us. Who knows how powerful he really is? Has anybody gotten close enough to try an esper probe?”
“He was shielded the entire time we were there,” Rebekah said. “And seamless. I’ve never felt a shield like that before.”
Wade frowned. “This is crazy talk, from a bunch of frightened little mutants. Why would he pose a threat to us?”
“Not a threat,” said Rebekah. “But he’s uncontrollable.”
Chemen Astori nodded energetically. “What if he could compel our most powerful espers? Teach them to meld, work in unison? Or our telekinetics? How would the normals react? What if they attacked him?”
“Or he attacked them,” Rebekah said. She looked around the room as eyebrows arched. “That’s right. Think about it. We have to consider the need here to protect nonmutants from, at best, an unscrupulous sport. And more likely, a dangerous renegade.”
Torey leaned toward the Book Keeper. “Why are you convinced Ashman’s hostile?” he demanded.
“I’m not convinced he’s hostile. At least, not yet. But he’s not part of us, and therefore we have no reason to expect his cooperation. He chose not to reveal himself to us first. I think he’s testing the parameters of his current situation. Which, as I remind you, is quite favorable. He has the support and protection of one of the wealthiest women on Earth—a known admirer of mutants.”
“I’d call her a collector,” Torey said.
