Mutant Star

by Karen Haber

  She sat up slowly. Blinding colors danced at the perimeter of her vision, accompanied by jangling pain. The bedcovers bunched beneath her as she recoiled from the cacophony. She sat very still, and the tumult subsided.

  Haltingly, she chanted for composure and freedom from pain. The noise faded, then grew, throwing horrid echoes around her head. The chants were useless. She needed neural dampers. But her supplies were in the bathroom. Too far to go. But the pain. Have to do it. Hurry.

  Byrne put one foot on the floor, then the other. The room swirled around her as strange voices jabbered and shrieked. She tottered, started to fall, grabbed hold of a wallcushion, and half crawled toward the bathroom. Five more steps. Now two. She clung to the webbed handhold and rummaged through her bag until she found the small pack of hypos. Gasping with pain, she pressed two hypos to her arm. The chittering and shrieking faded, faded, and was gone.

  Flee, she thought. You must leave. He’s too much for you. Perhaps he’s too much for anyone.

  ***

  After breakfast, Ethan Hawkins made what he thought of as his daily rounds, from Burma to Tokyo, from New York to Frankfurt, checking in with his factories, his investors and advisers. The diamond market was down, biochemical futures were holding firm, and speculation in lunar real estate was rampant. Just wait until they opened up Mars, he thought. The Mars boom would dominate the beginning of the twenty-second century. With luck—and the help of Rick Akimura—Aria Corp. would be poised to benefit from that land rush. Satisfied, Hawkins nodded, checked his stock quotations one more time, and shut down the screen. All in all, a normal morning’s work.

  He stretched, flexing his prosthetic arm, getting the kinks out of his shoulders. A walk was in order.

  He took his private lift down to the gymnasium level and made his way out into the atrium, striding over the green carpeting, taking note that the bromeliads in the hall plantings required attention. Their pale green and white leaves were dusty, drab. Details, nobody kept their mind on details.

  His wristscreen buzzed.

  “Colonel Hawkins?”

  “What is it, Leporello?”

  “Random scanning of communications yielded some information that I thought might interest you.”

  The image of a mutant woman with wild white hair and a pinched, frightened face appeared onscreen. Paula Byrne, the healer who had helped Rick Akimura. She wore what appeared to be an old blue pressure suit.

  “Rita,” she said. “I wanted to speak to you before I left Hawkins’s Pavilion. I see now that Rick Akimura is the promised one.”

  Hawkins slowed his pace, listening closely.

  “Are you certain?” a female voice said.

  A look of fear crossed Paula Byrne’s face. “He is the answered prayer, the one who will lead us into the new era. Rick Akimura is a fully enhanced mutant.”

  “Leporello,” Hawkins said. “Hold.”

  The image froze.

  “When did this conversation take place?” Hawkins asked.

  “Early this morning.”

  “Is Paula Byrne still on the Pavilion?”

  “No. She left on the first shuttle.”

  “A shame. Proceed.”

  Onscreen, Paula Byrne began to speak. “Yes, Sister,” she said. “He has every mutant ability you can imagine, and more. He can see into time, he can move between the ages. He is both telepath and telekinetic, powerful beyond our wildest dreams. He is the next step.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “I must think on this,” Byrne said. “I will talk with you when I return home.”

  “Then I’ll await your call. Yours in the Book, Sister.”

  “In the Book.” The screen went dark.

  “End of transmission,” Leporello said. “Further instructions?”

  “Nothing yet. Stand by,” Hawkins said.

  In a jittery mood now, he paced along the upper level of the observation deck, oblivious to the condition of the flora. Enhanced mutants? What was all that about? The woman was crazy, obviously. Rick Akimura, a genetic freak? What had she called him? The promised one? The answered prayer? It was laughable. These pathetic people and their preposterous cults. Hawkins prided himself on his skepticism. He didn’t believe in the bogeyman, he didn’t believe in the Moon monster, and he certainly didn’t believe in the mutant promised one. But what if Rick were a genetic freak? The next step in mutancy, as Byrne claimed. That would be a rare commodity indeed. Worth thinking about that.

  Suppose he really is what the woman says he is, Hawkins thought. Just suppose.

  Hawkins walked swiftly back to his office.

  “Colonel Hawkins,” Leporello said. “I was about to page you. Jasper Saladin is on screen one.”

  Saladin’s thin, craggy face appeared above the holoscreen.

  “Morning, Ethan,” he said. “I’ve got those figures you requested. Looks like we’re in for another big fad in gene splicing. Designer babies and all that.”

  “Again? Well, it’ll be good for business, I suppose,” Hawkins said. Somewhere in the back of his head a bell was ringing. Genetic research. Gene splicing. Of course. Of course. He suddenly saw yet another way in which Rick Akimura could be of use.

  “Jasper, what would you say if I told you that there is available a source of potent genetic material that could revolutionize the gene-splicing industry and give new meaning to the term self-improvement?”

  Saladin frowned. “I’d say you were crazy. Regulations on this kind of research are stifling, to put it mildly.”

  Hawkins smiled slyly. “On-world, in academic environments, yes. But not off-world. Not yet.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You know what a boom the genetic self-improvement market has seen: growth regulation, insulin generation in diabetics, interferon generation to nip budding cancers and combat viral illnesses.”

  Saladin nodded impatiently. “Of course. But you’re really talking about something outside of my field.”

  “Just for the sake of discussion, Jasper, what would your reaction be if you had access to the genetic material of a truly superior individual? A mutant, let’s say, from whom you could gene-splice traits for telepathy, telekinesis, and so on.”

  “I thought even mutant geneticists couldn’t splice in specific traits, yet. Besides, they’re not exactly generous with their research results. It’s taken a court order on more than one occasion to pry information out of them that helped save lives.”

  “That’s true,” Hawkins said. “But we know enough about gene splicing to agree that a multitalented mutant’s plasm would confer a gift upon the recipient regardless of the mix of the skills. The chance of receiving a direct transfer of talent is good. And many people would pay a great deal for that chance.”

  “And others would pay an equal amount to prevent them from doing it. This is dangerous territory, Ethan.”

  “I know, I know,” Hawkins said. “I’ve read the accounts of the witch-hunts of the previous century. The public outcry against companies that were thought to be breeding monsters in their labs. We’ve still got to cope with a remnant of that paranoid antitech mentality today.”

  “You mean the ‘Blues’ in Mongolia and Tibet?”

  “Yes, and a lot of other bizarre back-to-nature factions like them. Oh, they’ve gone back to nature, all right. Until they need media coverage. Then they’re surprisingly sophisticated, amazingly savvy.”

  “You don’t need bad publicity, Ethan.”

  “Don’t tell me my job, Jasper. I can just imagine Melanie Akimura leading a posse of investigative reporters down my throat if I so much as touch one hair on her precious son’s head. Maybe you’re right, Jasper. Maybe I should leave the genetic engineering to the mutants.”

  Saladin smiled sourly. “I know you better than that, Ethan. You don’t give up so easily.” He paused, obviously intrigued. “So Rick Akimura is the potential cell donor?”

  “Yes. And don’t we have a geneticist on the payroll?”


  “Yeah, but you’d need tissue samples.”

  “I can get them.”

  “Then do it, Ethan,” Saladin said. “Before somebody else does.”

  .

  ******************

  13

  Eva poked her head into the room, her eyes sparkling. “They’ve started work on the flare lab. Want to watch?”

  “I guess,” Julian said.

  Reluctantly, he joined her in the hallway. He was amazed by her adaptability. From Earth to orbit, from academic environment to private research program. Eva kept her balance. She stared out the observation port with unrestrained glee.

  “Julian, it’s even more beautiful than I’d imagined. Ethan has created his own private paradise up here.”

  He glanced at the cloud-covered Earth, willing himself to relax and enjoy the view. “You’re right,” he said. “He’s achieved more than I’d expected.” And indeed the many-layered satellite was filled with wonders. But try as he might, Julian couldn’t shake free of his resentment of Hawkins. The man had cheated him of the woman he loved.

  They passed the atrium gardens, the hydroponics, the freestanding pool wavering like a blue gem in its g-field. And finally they came to the flare lab.

  Eva uttered a short cry of recognition and caught at Julian’s arm. Julian could see why she was so excited. The lab was taking shape already. And before Hawkins was finished it would be equipped with new and glittering equipment, state of the art.

  “That bastard will do a perfect job,” Julian said.

  “Be grateful,” Eva said. “He’s giving us another chance. You’ll get your doctorate on time.”

  “I suppose he’s even arranged for mutants with the flare disorder to be part of the program?”

  “Of course. Marcus Schueller is on his way up here.”

  “Hawkins thinks of everything, doesn’t he?”

  “I hope so,” Eva said. She pointed at a tangle of wires and electrodes. “Look. I jury-rigged a flare-ride headset. When Marcus gets here, we can continue working.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to wait until the lab’s completed and we can run regular shifts?”

  Eva’s gaze was implacable. “I don’t want to wait,” she said. “Not for anything. Marcus is due to arrive this afternoon. We’ll get started then.”

  ***

  Rick sent a probe into Ethan Hawkins’s office. Empty. Good. He t-jumped through three levels and materialized in front of the office holoscreen. After double-checking that he was alone, he set up a shield to prevent anyone from seeing him.

  “Leporello,” he said. The voice was deep, powerful, almost a perfect copy of Hawkins’s bass.

  The screens remained dark.

  Rick added a bit more resonance, a touch of chocolaty baritone. “Leporello, answer me.” The screen flickered and the suave face of Hawkins’s virtual assistant appeared.

  “Colonel?” Leporello gazed around the room. “I thought you were just on the observation deck.”

  “Well,” Rick said. “I’m back in the office now.”

  “Where?”

  “Can’t you see me?”

  “No.”

  “But I’m right here in front of you.”

  “Perhaps it’s my visual circuits,” said the simulacrum uncertainly. “I’ll have them checked right away. Meanwhile, how may I serve?”

  “I’d like a report on the year-to-date profits for Aria Corp.”

  “Now? But we’re not even at the end of the first quarter …”

  “Now. Onscreen.”

  “Very well.”

  Leporello’s image vanished and in its place a waterfall of orange numbers danced through the air above the holoscreen.

  Rick watched, amazed. How could Hawkins digest all this stuff?

  A fragment of “Die Fledermaus,” hummed by a bass voice, floated into the room. Hawkins was coming.

  “Screen off,” Rick said.

  The orange waterfall vanished.

  Rick sat down quickly on the nearest wallseat.

  Hawkins strode in, still humming. He stopped abruptly. “Rick, what are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you until after lunch.”

  Think fast. “Colonel, I want you to redirect any business you have in the Pacific Rim. The revolution in Thailand will disrupt all private industry.”

  “That’s a tall order,” Hawkins replied. “Besides, it was just last week that you told me to invest heavily there.”

  “I know, I know. I didn’t foresee that the future can change. But enough random factors must conspire at any moment to slant a vision one way or the other.” Rick ran his hands through his hair. “Anyway, you’ve got to redirect your business there. Maybe bring it to Africa.”

  Hawkins inclined his head in mock salute. “You’ll forgive me if I take that under advisement?”

  The deskscreen buzzed.

  “Colonel Hawkins, Jasper Saladin is calling.”

  “Excuse me, Rick,” Hawkins said. “Put him through.”

  Saladin’s three-dimensional image formed above the holoscreen. “Ethan, we’re in a jam.”

  “How so?”

  “We’ve got to replace the number five thruster under the Pavilion as soon as possible: the casing is cracked and starting to come loose.”

  “Christ,” Hawkins muttered. “Isn’t there any way you can repair it? Fuse the casing?”

  “We’ve tried. Even sent out a telekinetic with the mechs. But it’s no good.”

  “How soon before we get a replacement?”

  “It’s due up in two days.”

  Hawkins scowled. “Can’t we get along until then?”

  “I hope so. What I’d really like is a techie who has as much strength as you do in your prosthetic arm.”

  “Well, why not use me then? I could handle tools, once upon a time.”

  “Ethan, it’s a little unorthodox to have the CEO making repairs—”

  “Bah. You’ve practically said I’m the man for the job. Besides, it’ll be a kick to take a spacewalk again. I’ll do it, Jasper. Send me the schematics.”

  Saladin nodded and his image vanished. Silently, a printout extruded from the screen. Hawkins tore it off and began studying it intently. He seemed to have forgotten all about Rick.

  “Colonel?”

  Hawkins looked up from the schematics and smiled. “Forgive me, Rick. Is there anything else?”

  “No. Not yet.” He turned to go.

  But Hawkins was staring at him in a calculating manner.

  “Just a moment, Rick. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in accompanying me?”

  “On a spacewalk?”

  “I might need another pair of hands out there.”

  Rick hesitated. He hadn’t expected this. “I don’t know. Sounds risky.”

  “You’ll be as safe as you are right this minute,” Hawkins said, grinning.

  “If you say so.” Rick told himself there was nothing to fear. He could always t-jump back into the Pavilion. Or to Earth.

  “Fine. Meet me at airlock number three in an hour.”

  “Okay.” Rick started to walk toward the door. But Hawkins still didn’t seem to be through with him.

  In a very careful tone he said, “Rick, I can’t tell you how pleased I am with our business arrangement.”

  “Don’t have to. Just keep the paychecks coming.”

  “Would you be interested in adding to those payments?”

  “How so?”

  Hawkins took a deep breath. “How do you feel about gene splicing?”

  “Using my genes, do you mean?” Rick regarded Hawkins with amusement.

  “Well, yes,” Hawkins said. “You must admit that you do have splendid talents. And if you were to share them …”

  Rick leaned against the doorway. “Isn’t this sort of thing just theoretical?”

  “Well, to some extent. But they’re making strides in the technology all the time. I’d have to consult researchers, specialists, of course. If t
hey gave me a green light, what would your reaction be?”

  “I’d say maybe I’m interested. Maybe.” He turned and met Hawkins’s gaze directly. “And then again, maybe not. You tell me what the specialists say first and then I’ll decide.”

  Rick walked out of the office, keeping his pace casual, unhurried. When he knew he was out of sight and earshot, he t-jumped back to his room. That orange waterfall still danced in his memory. And now that Hawkins so obviously wanted to exploit him to the fullest, Rick’s conscience was clear.

  He turned his roomscreen on.

  “Privacy shield, please.”

  The screen responded, glowing bright green. Rick probed it a bit, found the shield adequate. “Get me Moon Bank.”

  After a slight pause, a blue-haired woman appeared onscreen. Her features had the extreme symmetry of a simulacrum.

  “How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to open a private, secured, numbered account,” Rick said.

  “Voice-activated?”

  “Is that the best security you offer?” The sim smiled. “For extra special accounts we require voice and retinal scan.”

  “Okay,” Rick said. “Sign me up for one of those.”

  ***

  Rita Saiken grasped Paula Byrne’s hands gently. “Sister, I came as soon as I got your message.”

  The Book Keeper of the True Host leaned back against the pink wallcushions in her bedroom and gave Saiken a glassy look. Her mouth worked hard to form a word. “Monstrous,” she told the healer finally. “He is monstrous.”

  “Who?”

  “Rick Akimura.”

  “What?” Saiken peered at her uncertainly. “What are you saying?”

  “Too strong. He is too strong for us, Rita. Much too strong.” Tears ran down Byrne’s face. “He nearly killed me with a mental probe. Didn’t even realize his own strength. I still suffer residual flares from it.”

  “By the Book!”

  “Only neural dampers mask the pain.” She swallowed hard and went on. “He may be the promised one, Rita. But he will not help us. I feel certain of that. He is a horror. A devil.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Saiken said. “Sister, calm yourself. Allow me to link and provide healing—”