"Sorry, Grunge. I just don't see…"
Sarah watched through the window in the kitchen door.
She'd seen Grunge come in, which was basically unheard of. "Poor people freak me out," he'd said when Sarah and Bobby had told the team they were planning to volunteer. She had tried to intercept him, but she had a line of people waiting to be served. He'd found his way to the kitchen by himself, though, and she had caught the tail end of the conversation.
Enough to get the gist.
She pushed through the doors.
"Hello, Grunge," she said.
He spun, obviously startled, but he recovered quickly and flashed her a wide grin. " 'Sup, Sarah?" he asked.
"What brings you down to the impoverished end of town?" she said by way of reply.
"Just lookin' for the Bobster," Grunge said.
"I heard."
Bobby looked at her, all puppy dog eyes. "I was just telling Grunge I couldn't go to the concert with him. What about Caitlin, Grunge? Did you ask her?" Bobby asked, naming their redheaded team leader. Grunge had had the hots for Caitlin Fairchild since they'd met, Bobby knew, so if she was available to go out tonight, he would certainly have asked her first. "Or Roxy?" Also known as Freefall, and the fifth member of Gen13, Roxy Spaulding's crush on Grunge was at least the equal to his lust for Caitlin.
"Kat's been at some museum all day, and Roxy's going to be there, but not with me. She met the drummer of that band, remember, and she's supposed to meet him there."
"That's right," Bobby said.
"So it's gotta be you."
"Grunge, I…"
Sarah looked at Bobby, doing his best to turn down tickets to a show he'd really love to see. He doesn't care about the rally, she thought. Not really. His interest in political causes was a subcategory of his interest in her, that was all. And she wasn't in a position to offer herself to anyone, especially any boy, right now.
"Just go, Bobby," she said.
"What?"
"Go. I'll be okay."
"You sure, Sarah?" he asked. But a smile was already beginning to play around the corners of his mouth and eyes. She had made the right decision. Sad, she thought. But that's just the way he is.
"Go to the concert," she said. "There'll be other rallies."
"Well… okay, Grunge," he said, snatching one of the passes from his friend's grip. "I'm there."
Ten minutes later they had their coats and gloves on and were pushing their way out into the chill wind. Bobby nearly bumped into a ragged, bundled up figure, then leaped back as he saw who it was.
"Mr. Joe!"
The homeless man looked up. He smiled, revealing teeth that had once been perfect and now had gone yellow and bad. His face had scars, many recent, but his eyes were sharp and alert.
"Bobby, old son. You have the look of someone who's getting up to something. Or am I wrong?"
Bobby grinned and looked away. "Just headin' out for a while. Havin' some fun."
Mr. Joe placed his hand on Bobby's shoulder. "Good. Good." He nodded at Sarah. "The two of you work so hard, you deserve all the happiness you can get. If there's anything I've learned, it's that. Take your joy where and when you can. Do that and your life'll be worth living."
Grunge looked over. "Hey, Mr. Joe. Heard all about you."
Mr. Joe raised an eyebrow. "You watch out for this one, Bobby old son. He's got the devil in him." Then his smile broadened. "Maybe he can teach you a thing or two."
Bobby held the door open as Mr. Joe entered the shelter. He felt better—a whole lot better—knowing his friend was all right. And Sarah looked at him just a little differently too, some of the hardness gone from her elegant features.
They hailed two cabs, since they were heading separate directions. Sarah got into the first, and Grunge and Bobby waited while a strikingly tall, silver-haired woman climbed out of the other, and then they piled, laughing and shoving, into its back seat.
The tall woman scanned up and down the block once with a practiced eye and then went into the Mary McCardle Shelter. She took in the scene inside at once, and went straight to the serving table. She was dressed in all black, a cloth coat over a turtleneck sweater, black slacks, and boots. As she crossed the dining room she peeled off black leather gloves and stuffed them in her coat pockets.
"Hello," she said to the man serving dinners. "Who do I speak with to see about volunteering?"
"Just a sec," the man said. "I'll get Jennifer for you."
He left the table and disappeared down a narrow hallway. As soon as he was gone, Suzanne Sawyer turned and surveyed the people eating their free meals, including one who had just wandered in and held himself just a little higher and stronger than the others. A man who somehow reminded her just a little of her employer. She listened carefully and heard another of the homeless call him "Mr. Joe."
Interesting.
Wager said this would be a good place to start looking, she thought. And one thing about Wager—you can usually count on him to be right.
Interesting, indeed.
Caitlin Fairchild walked slowly and carefully across a spacious but crowded wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She didn't pay any attention to the paintings mounted on the wall. They weren't what was really on display this evening.
She was.
And she hated it.
Turning her head slightly, she felt her beautiful, rich, long red hair cascade over her tight shoulders. Her white silk blouse and jacket whispered slightly as she pressed her arms to her sides and placed her hands on her purse, somehow attempting to draw herself up into a thinner, less tempting target for those in the crowd who knew exactly what personal space was all about—and were intent on violating hers at every possible opportunity.
I shouldn't have come here, she thought. I should have known better…
The muscles of her impossibly long legs, revealed by her short white silk skirt, tensed with every step. Her statuesque body, all six-foot-two of it, was coiled and ready to spring.
She was at war.
Her enemy was a shadow. A whisper.
A look.
It had a million staring eyes and half as many bodies. A single impulse powered its every act:
Want.
Mindless, animal desire.
And it was all around her. She could feel it. So many young, attractive men and women all squeezed into this place, caring nothing at all about the exhibits, only looking for one thing—and looking at her as if she were the most exquisitely crafted piece in the entire museum.
She had come for the art.
Dammit.
Just find the exit, Kat. Try and relax and stay focused on finding the way out. You can do this.
Scanning above the heads of the rich and sexually aroused, she found the sign and made her way toward it, drawing more stares.
She had dressed conservatively, for heaven's sake. Her outfit tonight was nothing like the skin-tight number she wore into battle—and that was a pretty necessary evil. She had learned from experience that evening gowns and casual wear ripped to shreds when you were hurling cars at techno-enhanced super-soldiers and taking hits from plasma rifles.
Resisting the temptation to use her enhanced strength to clear a quicker path through the suits and gowns and staring, staring eyes, Caitlin wondered why this had to happen every time she went somewhere?
Her anger and frustration building, she forced herself to stop, close her eyes, and take a nice deep breath. It was the only way she could keep herself from lashing out.
She had almost found her calm center when a voice intruded.
"Excuse me."
Caitlin stiffened, waiting for the inevitable pick-up line. When it didn't come on cue, she opened her eyes and studied the man before her.
Mid- to late twenties. Expensive three-piece suit with some real muscle beneath it. A Rolex. Short cropped black hair. Sculpted features. A warm smile. An earnest expression. Almost innocent looking.
She was certain he would see
m absolutely sweet at first. They all started like that. At least the ones who didn't come right out and ask if she wanted to—
"I mean, excuse me, can I get by?" the man asked.
Caitlin looked around and saw that she was blocking the exit. She stepped back.
"Thanks!"
The man came nowhere near her as he went by. He didn't even look back. Instead, he walked into the next wing, which was considerably calmer, and kissed a pretty but plump woman with two children in a stroller.
He even called her "sweetie." And he wore a wedding ring.
Caitlin felt like an idiot. Not every good-looking man— or woman for that matter—was staring at her with that thought in their mind. As a matter of fact, if she had been in her old body, short, scrawny, plain, bespectacled and flat, and someone who looked the way she did now walked past, she would have found it hard to keep herself from taking a second look. And she knew exactly what she would have thought:
Another one of the pretty people. Probably thinks she's better than everybody else. I bet she 'ts just loving the attention, the looks.
Probably had a boob job, too. No one looks like that naturally.
In fact, even she didn't look like this naturally. She'd been experimented on. Changed.
What had she been thinking?
Get thee to some Paxil, girl, she chided herself.
She stepped out of the crowded wing, feeling better than she had a moment before. Stopping to look at a collection of Cindy Sherman photographs, she became lost in the artist's work. Something about the stark black and white contrasts and the fascinating manner in which the photographer had used herself as a model to represent various female archetypes brought order to the chaos she'd allowed to engulf her. Using costumes, makeup, wigs, and inventive sets, Sherman had cast herself as a vamp, a housewife, a schoolgirl, and more—all from imaginary 1950s B movies.
It's all about how you see yourself, not how others see you, she thought.
The tension drained out of her. Glancing over at the married man with the two kids, she felt embarrassment take its place.
The problem isn't with these people. It's with me.
Always has been…
"When I look at this, I think of connectionism."
Startled, Caitlin looked sharply to her left. She expected to find the man who had spoken staring at her. Instead, he seemed lost in the collection, almost unaware of her.
He was a redhead, like her. In his early thirties. Her height. A good looking guy in a sweater and jeans. David Caruso-looking. A little thin. Nowhere near the chiseled Greek God types who were always after her.
"Connectionism," she said.
He nodded. "It's a kind of one-sided school of thought within philosophy and computational psychology. It talks about parallel processing and neural networks—the inter-connectedness of it all—to explain human thought and behavior. Popular in the '50s and again in the '80s. I think right around when these works were done."
"Okay," Caitlin said. She folder her arms over her generous breasts. "And what exactly does this have to do with Cindy Sherman's Untitled Film Series?"
"Sherman's work touches on feminist theories of representation and body politics just as connectionism plays to chaos theories of the mind," he said. "Parallels have been drawn between the strange attractors in the neural nets to Jungian archetypes. This work strikes me as Jungian, so—"
"Strange attractors, hmmm," Caitlin said. She had no idea why she was even talking to this guy. Just a minute ago, she'd been ready to toss the next guy who hit on her through a window.
But this one wasn't hitting on her. Not exactly…
'Theorists suggest that brain chaos helps to define aspects of personality and behavior, including decision-making. That chaos is a direct sub-set of connectionism." He finally looked over, but he didn't smile. "Boring stuff, huh? Sorry."
He walked away. Caitlin hurried after him.
"Hey!" she said. "I never said I was bored. Did you hear the word 'boring' coming out of my lips?"
He raised a single eyebrow, as if she were toying with him. "You had this look."
"I'm not bored," Caitlin said. It was true. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a truly intellectual discussion. Not since college—and the creation of Gen13. "Really."
"Then you're the first."
She glanced at a clock against the far wall. "I haven't had dinner yet, have you?"
He shook his head.
"You know of anyplace close?"
'There's Jo Jo's. It's not far."
She smiled. "Then what's stopping us?"
Kat, an inner voice said, my goodness, girl, you are picking him up. What is this world coming to?
Hush, she thought.
On the short walk across Fifth Avenue, she learned that his name was Russell Crews, that he lived for physics, and that he was an assistant professor at Rutgers.
She also learned that he owned two cats and that he had a habit of blathering about science when he was nervous or excited.
So which is it? she wanted to ask. Do I make you nervous".
Or excited?
She kept the question to herself. The evening was going far too well to start steering things that way.
Even though he was kinda cute…
They reached Jo Jo's. Somehow the crowds on the street, the noise, the looks she received—none of it bothered her when she was with Russell. The restaurant was set in a Parisian-style townhouse. Caitlin peered into the crowded and noisy first floor dining room and was beginning to lose hope of being seated any time soon when Russell asked for a table upstairs.
They were led to a beautiful Victorian-style parlor on the second floor, where several tables lay open. The rush of laughter and music from below quickly faded.
"I love this place," Russell said. "It was created by chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten from Restaurant Lafayette. The food's amazing, inventive—and not a budget buster."
He blushed. "Sorry. That was a stupid thing to mention."
"I invited you," Caitlin said, laying her purse on the table. She took out one of John Lynch's credit cards. "Um—Daddy's platinum. I've been saving it for a special occasion, so… the sky's the limit."
They feasted. Russell regaled her with tales of college life and the bizarre experiments his students constantly proposed. She found herself laughing so hard she was practically in tears.
"We had one of those at my college, too," she said. "Some guy who brought in the box, brought in a cat, and said, if it's good enough for Schrodinger—"
She stopped the instant she noticed her companion tensing up. He has cats. Stupid, stupid…
She let him talk.
"Particle physics is probably the most frustrating area," Russell said. "Students discover something like QCD and get fixed on it, despite the ridiculous mathematics behind it."
She nodded.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "Quantum Chirodynamics. The idea that quarks are held together by a color force, or charge, of three colors each, and that similar colors attract while dissimilar ones repel."
"Right," Caitlin said. She knew all about QCD and QED, Quantum Electrodynamics; she hardly needed the principles spelled out for her. But it was a pleasure bordering on intellectual ecstasy to find someone who actually could.
"Antiquarks have anti-colors, all that," he said. "It's just tough when they get a notion in their heads based on appearances and you've got to shake it loose, that's all."
Caitlin understood.
Did she ever.
She held out a glass of vintage red wine, chosen by Russell since she had little experience with such things. They toasted to strange attractors.
An hour later, they were at a small get-together thrown by one of Russell's friends in the city, putting in an appearance. The apartment was small and cramped. Expensive tribal art lined the walls.
Everyone dressed casually. Topics of conversation drifted from politics to science, and from the influence of the medi
a on the masses to the sociological impact of Saturday morning cartoons.
"It's all crashing together," a woman dressed all in black muttered. "Who needs Armageddon when we've already had Wyle E. Coyote in office?"
Russell tapped Caitlin's arm gently. "Something I want to show you."
He led her from the apartment to a narrow flight of dimly-lit stairs. They trudged up to the roof, which looked out on a magnificent view of the Queensborough Bridge.
"Isn't it stunning?" he asked.
The golden lights of the bridge seemed to shimmer as a soft breeze gently lifted her hair, as subtle and welcome as a lover's caress. Caitlin murmured in agreement. She was only vaguely aware of how close Russell had come to her, yet—somehow, she didn't mind. She felt so comfortable and relaxed with him. He was so open about his life and his views…
"Have your students gone down the sociobiology rabbit hole yet?" Caitlin asked. "My roommate in college did. I'm not saying E.O. Wilson's work with ants and other social instincts was anything less than brilliant, but applying his theories to people, saying that language, group structures, and the disciplines of time and space all come down to biological urges is a little—"
"Can I ask you something?"
Caitlin looked over and was surprised to see Russell staring at her and not the view.
And the way he was staring—like a predator that had just trapped its prey.
"Russell?" she said, hoping she was just being paranoid again.
His hands found the front of her blouse.
Her fist found the bridge of his nose. A sharp high crack sounded in the night and Russell fell back against the roof's filthy ledge. His hand had closed over his nose and mouth. Blood stained the cuff of his sweater.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" he shouted.
"Lousy judgment, apparently," Caitlin said. "I thought you were interested in me. In what I thought. In what I had to say. Not just…"
She hugged herself as she watched his gentle facade fell away. He got to his feet and stared at his bloody hand. Then his gaze found her. The red glow of a nearby billboard made his eyes look incandescent. He was enraged.
Damn, damn, damn! Why couldn't this have worked out? she asked herself. Why, for once, couldn't a guy have been what he seemed?
Time and Chance Page 3
