Mutant Legacy

by Karen Haber

  “Beautiful. But why a Roman theater?”

  “Why not?”

  “How did you get it?”

  “A group of Korean investors who belong to Better World. But later for that.” He draped an arm around my shoulders and gave me an affectionate squeeze. “I thought you were going to tell me about her, little brother. Miss Mundo Melhor.”

  Lulled by Rick’s voice, the warmth of the sun, the sound of birdsong echoing through the theater, and the sudden relief of stress and worry, I let my secret escape. Rick listened intently, nodding occasionally but remaining silent until I had finished my tale.

  “This sounds like the real thing,” he said.

  “I hope so.”

  “Good. You’ve been alone too long, little brother.”

  It was my turn to give him a cryptic grin. “Not always.”

  Whatever he might have replied was lost in a roaring, thunderous concussion that seemed to buckle the earth beneath our feet. I fell to my hands and knees.

  “What the hell?” I gasped.

  But Rick had completely disappeared. Teleported himself away—but where?

  A siren began to sound its shrill alarm, whoopa-whoopa-whoopa. The air was filled with dust and a cloud partially obscured the sun. I ran down the aisle and back the way I had come, slamming the iron gate of the stadium behind me.

  The streets were filled with people running in all directions, yelling and screaming. A young man in a blue jumpsuit raced by and I grabbed his arm, swinging him around to face me.

  “What’s happened?” I demanded.

  “An explosion at the main building,” he gasped. “Maybe more than one.”

  “What caused it?”

  “I dunno. A ruptured gas line, maybe.” He wrenched out of my grip and sped away.

  A crowd of people had already gathered outside of Better World headquarters. I could see that the top half of the building had been damaged: the green panes of glass were cracked and a wall brace hung away from the building at a perilous angle.

  Betty Smithson was ahead of me in the crowd and I fought my way next to her.

  “Does anybody know anything about it yet?”

  She gave me a wild, distracted glance. “Oh, Julian. That’s Rick and Alanna’s private apartment. Alanna was in there when the explosion happened. She may be hurt.”

  Just then, Rick appeared on the front steps, Alanna by his side. She had a jagged cut on her cheek that oozed blood but otherwise she appeared unharmed.

  “Betts,” Rick said. “Help Lanna get cleaned up, okay?”

  As he handed her off to Betty, a group of Better Worlders crowded around him, peppering him with questions.

  “Was it a bomb?”

  “Where did it go off?”

  “Did you catch anybody?”

  “Was anyone else hurt?”

  Rick held up his hands. “People, listen, we’re okay. Nobody else was hurt. Yes, it was a bomb. No, I don’t know who set it, but I sure as hell intend to find out. I want a clean-up crew in there, and I want security to look the place over carefully.”

  I hurried over to him. “Rick, are you okay?”

  “Sure. Sorry I bolted out of there, little brother. But I could tell where the blast had originated and I had to be sure that Lanna was safe.”

  “Any idea whose work this is, or how it was planted?”

  “My guess is that some terrorist group infiltrated B.W.”

  “Could they do that without your sensing it?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I’ve been pretty busy lately, and pretty damned tired, too.”

  “But why would they plant explosives?”

  “We’ve been getting various threats for almost a year. We scare them out of their birthday suits. Some of them seem to hate us. Some fear us. Others just want our attention, I guess. Or just want to annoy and hinder us.”

  “Threats? Rick, why didn’t you increase security? Contact the FBI.”

  “And run this place like an armed camp? No thanks. That’s not the way I do things. And I don’t like to call in outsiders. We take care of ourselves.” He took a deep breath and let it out, seemingly invigorated by the crisis. He looked much better than he had even an hour ago: there were only slight shadows under his eyes, and he looked thin but fit and crackling with energy. Where was the invalid who had been calling for me from his bed?

  “You’ve got to stay and help me with this,” he said. It was a statement, not a request. I knew I couldn’t desert him. And he knew it, too.

  “Rick, I’m afraid that Joachim Metzger may be behind this.”

  “The grand and holy Book Keeper? You’ve got to be kidding me. What makes you think that?”

  “I got a peek into his mind—”

  “I thought you were against that sort of thing.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “And you saw him planning this?”

  “No. But he was mad enough to kill. That much I saw.” I paused as a sudden idea struck me. “Rick, you could go back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Time-hop. Jump back far enough to see who set the bomb.”

  Rick nodded. “Maybe. I could try it. But it’s not always that easy to do. I can’t control the process enough to pinpoint my landings. I don’t know when that bomb was set there. I could land right in the middle of the explosion. It probably wouldn’t hurt me, but who knows? And even if I got lucky and arrived at just the right moment, I might not know who the guy was. And I can’t communicate with people in the past—they can’t see me or hear me.”

  “But what if it was one of Metzger’s people?”

  “I don’t know if it was Metzger, and I don’t care,” Rick said. “Our work here will go on, even if we have to wear flak jackets and conduct our sharings in underground bunkers.” He checked his wristscreen. “And I’ve got a sharing set for two this afternoon. Care to attend?”

  “Uh, no thanks.”

  He looked so disappointed that I could have kicked myself for refusing. After all, I was there, wasn’t I?

  “Oh, all right,” I said. “Why not?” What the hell—I knew how to protect myself from the more potent hypnotic effects of Rick’s powers.

  Rick beamed. “Attaboy.”

  At one-thirty a second bomb exploded in Better City.

  The noise this time was terrifying, like a superamplified sonic boom. Smoke and thunder filled the air as a fine mixture of ash and sand rained down. Amazingly, no one was hurt.

  The bomb made a substantial crater in the main parking lot and shattered the adobe facade on a nearby building. Seconds after the explosion, Rick appeared and began to yell hoarsely above the din of emergency vehicles. “Joe! Where’s Joe Martinez?” He rounded on the security chief. “I thought you told me this area was secured!”

  Martinez shook his head in chagrin. “We did a full scan with heat sensors and mechhounds. There was nothing. Nothing. I don’t understand it.”

  “Then I want hourly scans,” Rick said. “Double the security staff if you have to. We lucked out this time. But I don’t want there to be a next time.”

  The third bomb went off in the Roman arena at five o’clock. The explosion sent Rick into a wild fury, rushing around the grounds like a hungry lion in search of fresh prey. “Is everybody okay?” he demanded. “No one hurt? When I find out who did this, I’ll hang them upside down from the tail of a shuttle. In orbit.”

  I began to fear that our very lives were in danger. Whoever or whatever groups were behind this seemed to have access to every bit of Better City.

  Heightened security measures were instituted immediately: all incoming mail and visitors were scanned before they were allowed access to Better City or Better World personnel. A plan was drawn up by Rick and Joe Martinez to construct a bunkerlike building in which a bomb squad could open suspicious-looking packages.

  Joe Martinez set up regular patrols and guards could be seen standing watch along the perimeter of the city. People see
med subdued, quiet, and frightened, and an air of gloom settled upon Better World. By dusk of the following day, the streets were deserted, save for security patrols.

  I holed up in my room and thought about Star. She had never returned my call. All right, I thought. If that’s the way you want to play it, hard to get, then I’ll just keep calling you. And I dialed her number again.

  It was evening in Rio and I hardly expected Star to answer but she did and my heart leaped at the sound of her voice.

  “Ola. Quem esta?”

  “Star, it’s me.”

  “Julian.” She stared at me, mouth working silently as though she were chewing over what to say next. Then she whispered, “I got your message.”

  “Then why didn’t you call me back?”

  “I didn’t trust myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was afraid I would start yelling. I was so angry with you.” Tears welled up in her dark eyes and began to spill down her cheeks. “Oh, Julian, why did you leave me? Why haven’t you returned? I need you by my side.”

  “You just took the words right out of my mouth.” How I wanted to hold her, to be with her at that moment. I threw aside all caution. “Star, I’m here with Rick. He was very sick, was calling for me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was afraid it would panic you and perhaps the others in Mundo Melhor.”

  “Oh, querido, you can be such a fool sometimes.” The tears began again. “If you can’t trust me, who can you trust? I love you so much. So very, very much.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes. “Star, please, come here. Be with me.”

  “But my work, the people—”

  I waved away her objections as though they meant nothing. “They can survive until we get back. Please, Star. I can’t leave right now. There’s trouble here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Paranoia returned with a jolt. “I can’t say. But I can’t get away. Couldn’t you just come up here for a little while? I promise you, we’ll return to Rio together as soon as things quiet down here.”

  “You want me to leave everything for you?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes. Goddammit, yes. I’m not asking you to leave it forever. I love you, Star. I want to be with you. Right now!”

  My fervor seemed to impress her. Her lips curved up into a smile. “All right. I’ll come. Give me a few days to settle things here and I will come to you, beloved. I can’t fight my heart. What will be will be.”

  We spent the rest of the call whispering endearments to each other in several languages. Brimming with joy, I bid her a temporary goodbye and went back to the chaos of Better World.

  Requests for information were pouring in from what seemed like every vid reporter on the planet. Finally, to free up the comboards, Rick called a news conference and announced that Better City was under siege by person or persons unknown.

  “This is addressed to whoever out there is trying to blow Better World out of business.” Rick stared defiantly at the cameras humming before him. Then his expression changed, softening to a smile. “I don’t understand why you want to hurt us. We open our doors to everyone, even you, if you need us. It’s not too late to come forward. I know you have got to be hurting. You wouldn’t be striking out at us like this if you weren’t. Come on. Come to us. Let us help you.” He paused, and his grin grew broader. “I’m getting better and better at finding your bombs. Don’t you want to come to us before I come to you?”

  “Any ideas on the source of these explosive devices?” a red-haired reporter asked.

  “Nope,” Rick said. “Just from somebody who doesn’t seem to approve of helping out other people.”

  “Do you think this is a terrorist group from an opposing religion?”

  “I don’t see why. We’re all on the same team, aren’t we? Supposedly.”

  The vid jocks began chuckling, all but the redhead.

  “Then you don’t deny that Better World has religious aspects?” he said.

  “It has whatever people want it to have. Whatever helps the most people is all right with me,” Rick said. “No more questions, okay? Thanks for coming.” With that he disappeared. On camera.

  Evidently, Rick’s broadcast and improved security measures deflected any other attempts at explosive mischief. The bombings stopped, at least for the time being.

  But the explosions had damaged more than stone and mortar. I felt a certain dispiriting malaise and I’m certain that everybody else at Better World sensed and suffered from it as well. The violent attacks on Better City, and our lives, had left all of us shaken and short-tempered. Quarrels began to break out between staff members, and even Betty Smithson, our rock of stability, seemed melancholy and irritable.

  Just about the time we began to average an argument a day Rick announced a small sharing just for inner-circle members to try to clear the air.

  Twenty of us gathered in a small lounge near the main auditorium of B.W. headquarters. The seats were deep and comfortable and, for once, everybody seemed relaxed, almost cheerfully expectant. And with good reason. Rick’s sharings packed quite a wallop.

  Rick walked in with Alanna and made his way to the center of the group. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and after a moment he nodded.

  Friends. We have been together now for some time. And we have endured both elation and disappointment, fear and joy. The circle remains unbroken.

  I felt the rising mental harmonies wash over me as a gentle tide and I welcomed it, leaning back in my seat. Although I missed the thumping, primal rhythm of the pandeiros’ drums I told myself that soon I would be back dancing among the celebrants. Patience, patience now. Here was love and understanding, warmth and the easing of all pain—

  There was a tearing, a terrible rending, and we pitched forward and fell, fell endlessly down a long dark and narrow passage howling with wind.

  Just as quickly as it had formed the groupmind fragmented into a thousand jagged, flaming pieces that stabbed and burned as they scattered. Nauseated, dizzy, and in pain, I pulled out of the sharing, attempting to free all the other minds in the circle as well. Apparently it worked, for the room was filled with noise as people cried out in confusion, stood up, holding their heads, or collapsed in their seats, white-faced and silent.

  Rick had fallen to his hands and knees, head down, the muscles of his face jerking in uncontrolled spasms. Alanna knelt by his side and I felt a sudden pang that she had somehow sensed his distress before I had.

  I hurried to my brother. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  Rick didn’t seem capable of speech. His eyes were open but fixed as though focused on some compelling internal space. Briefly I wondered what he saw and hoped at the same time never to have to see it myself.

  “Not again,” Alanna muttered.

  “What do you mean?” I said. “Has this happened before?”

  She nodded, looking miserable. “A half-dozen times, but always before we were alone.”

  “And you concealed it?”

  “He made me do it,” she said. “What would you have done, Julian? Announced it? Taken vid ads?” Her eyes flashed. “It seemed the best way to handle it for all concerned.”

  “Who else was concerned besides Rick?”

  I felt for his pulse: it was slow but regular. His muscle spasms were easing but he still seemed locked in that other place. I was terrified of what I would find, unwilling to probe, but I decided that it would be irresponsible of me not to try. I touched his shoulder and, tentatively, mind-spoke my brother.

  Rick?

  Nothing. My mindspeech echoed in the silence—it was like the time I had touched Thomas Wyndham’s mind. Quickly I shut that memory off.

  RICK!!

  This time I heard something. It was not thought, not exactly. More like a child’s tuneless singing, random notes warbled in a high, guileless voice.

  And I saw us, Rick and me, as young children playing on a lavender rug
in a sunlit room while towering adults with familiar voices moved back and forth around us. I heard my mother’s voice, playful, teasing. And then, with shock, I recognized the sound of a deep male baritone.

  It wasn’t Yosh. In fact, it sounded a bit like Rick as an adult. But I knew who that jaunty, robust voice belonged to. At least, I think I did.

  “Lydda,” he said. “Look at these two playing with your laser-brushes. Melanie, I think you’ve got a pair of budding Michelangelos here.”

  Skerry. It was Skerry, it had to be. I was watching a random moment snatched from the past that Rick had retained although I had no conscious memory of it.

  “Make that Michael and Angelo,” Yosh’s voice said. “Remember, they’re a pair but not exactly a matched set.”

  Graceful hands with slim fingers and long red nails reached in between us, grabbed hold of Rick and lifted him up, up, swinging into a soft lap. He continued to toy with a bit of screenbrain, unconcerned, as our mother cuddled him protectively and I watched. Already, at that age, I was watching.

  “I never worry about Julian,” my mother said. “He’s tested so well, and he already has his telepathy under such good control. But Rick seems to be a null, just like me.” She drew him a bit closer. “I hate to think of what he’s going to face.”

  “It’s a different world,” said Narlydda. “He won’t go through what you did.”

  “He’s a tough little guy,” Skerry said. He leaned down and patted Rick on the head. “Aren’t ya, champ?” Rick looked up from his tinkering and frowned, then glanced down again, more interested in the machinery than the adult babble.

  Narlydda said, “Don’t worry about him, Mel. He’ll surprise you, just wait and see.”

  “Besides,” Yosh said drily, “I don’t think you did too badly, Mrs. Akimura. Despite your obvious handicap.”

  My mother smiled, picked up a purple pillow, and tossed it at my father. But instead of ducking he caught it, put it in his lap, and patted it gently.

  “Julian,” he said. “Come on up here and keep your poor old nonmutant dad company.”

  How eagerly I crawled into his arms.

  Skerry sat across the room, filling a big purple chair. He winked at little Julian—at me—like a fellow conspirator.