The Mutant Prime Read online

  “Very good.” She gave him a sly look, an invitation. But he ignored it.

  “Don’t you think you’ve carried this too far? Face it—you’re scared to admit that the world-famous Narlydda, artist of sky and space, is a mutant. So you cheat all of us from sharing in the legitimacy, the renown.”

  “Cheat you? That’s not how I see it.” She stood, stepped out of the foam, and stalked toward the wall-mounted sonic dryers. She was a tall, lanky woman, naked in the filtered sunlight, with an odd green cast to her skin and hair, save for a silvery white thatch at her forehead.

  The dryers hummed, removing all traces of the dream foam. Nearby, a basket of ripe peaches sat on a low glass table. Narlydda selected one and floated it into her grasp, took a bite, swallowed. “Is this the face, the body, the skin, that the public wants to see behind the marvelous Narlydda’s work?” She finished the peach, tossed the pit into the compactor. “Not bloody likely. You know better, Skerry. The critics would kill me. They’d relegate my oeuvre to a mere curiosity. Mutant kitsch.”

  “Bull. It’d shake everybody up. A good idea, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.” She said it archly, but there was fire behind her words.

  “What’s the use of art if it can’t stand a little controversy? Especially in this effete, technohybrid paradise? We can’t always count on the Japanese-American Consortium for scandal.”

  He was using one of her own arguments against her.

  Narlydda sank down onto the cushioned deck. “I can’t believe you’re that naive. The art critics will only approve so much controversy. Otherwise, they might lose control of the market. And as for collectors … well, they do what the critics tell them.”

  “Don’t you have any faith in your work?” His look was steely.

  “Of course I do. I’m damned good. But what are you suggesting, Skerry? That I shoot the golden goose? Thumb my nose at the art establishment? Make fools of them? I’m plenty independent, but I’m not stupid.” She slouched against a soft yellow pillow. “Fifteen years ago, when I got started, Eleanor Jacobsen had just been killed. Then old ‘Mutant Uber Alles’ Jeffers was unmasked as a lunatic fanatic.” She gave a mock salute. “And thank God for that.”

  “Thank me.”

  His voice was flat. She paused, uncertain. Surely he was joking.

  “Well, I thought it was a bad season for mutants,” she retorted. “And a good time to lay low.”

  “You weren’t alone. I remember.” He paused, lost in some private memory. Then he shook it off, returned to the offensive. “But times change.”

  “Oh, sure. I grant you that things are better than before. But even now, we still make normals nervous. Admit it, Skerry. You know it’s true.”

  He nodded grudgingly. She smiled, a point won.

  “Besides,” she added, “I like my privacy. I don’t want to be bothered by all those critics and journalists. And I’m too old to go back to being a poverty-stricken artist.”

  “So much for artistic integrity.”

  “Stuff it, Skerry!” She stood up. “I’ve got plenty of artistic integrity. Narlydda is a free agent. Nobody tells me what to do or how to do it. As for cheating the mutant community, I donate plenty to our genetic research and storehouses. You can’t accuse me of being stingy or uncaring. Even if I don’t attend clan meetings. And since when are you so concerned about the mutant community, lone wolf?”

  Skerry climbed out of the pool and stretched out on the biplast deck. His thick, graying hair was caught in a ponytail at his neck. Hallucinatory images of red concentric circles and blade waves danced around his muscled body as the foam evaporated.

  “I’ve always been involved,” he said calmly. “Behind the scenes. That’s my style.”

  “Well, what’s so different from what I’m doing?”

  “At least I don’t hide behind the mask of a normal.”

  Above the bubbling silvery foam, the image of a small woman formed. She was pink, naked, standing on a seashell, hands modestly clasped over her privates. Her dark hair was pulled back into a chaste bun. A banner ran from her left shoulder across her breast, to her waist. Blinking yellow neon letters spelled out the name ANNE VERLAND. The woman’s eyes flashed from gray to gold as her skin flickered back and forth between pink and green.

  Narlydda laughed and clapped her hands. “Very good. I think maybe you should be the artist. And I see you’ve been boning up on your art history. Botticelli would be amused.”

  “I’m glad somebody would be.”

  “Don’t sulk,” she said. “It’s boring. What difference does it make if I’ve got a computerized alter ego? I paid a year’s income for that simulacrum, and Anne Verland has been worth every credit. Half the art critics from Metro L.A. to Gdansk think Anne Verland is Narlydda anyway. And that software’s so clever, sometimes even I believe it.”

  She stretched like a cat in the sun, took a long step, and leaped into the air, tumbling above Skerry’s head up toward the arched skylights in a series of complicated, graceful arabesques. Still airborne, she performed an extended backward somersault and came to rest in midair, floating on her back above the sparkling pool. Tiny seahorses, winking orange and green, floated up to meet her.

  “Terrific,” Skerry said sourly. “I know somebody at Ringling Brothers/Sony who could use another telekinetic trapeze artist. And then you won’t have to hide behind a pink-faced computer program. Or skin dye.”

  “No thanks. I prefer to work with a net.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. But this Emory Foundation commission is big—really big. You may not be able to hide anymore.”

  “Then I’ll run instead.”

  “I’m not kidding, Narlydda!” Skerry’s eyes flashed golden fire. “Dammit, you know how I feel about you. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. But it’s time to decide where your loyalties lie and who you are.” He reached for his clothing.

  Gods, she thought, he could be tiresome. She took a deep breath. “You’re probably right. May I decide over tea?” Even as she said it, she regretted the words. She’d merely intended to nettle, but she’d overshot and now Skerry looked furious.

  Silently, he pulled on a bright purple tunic, leggings, boots. Then he turned to her. “You probably need a little more time than that,” he said. His tone was deceptively light. “And you’d probably prefer to spend it alone. Well, fine, Lydda. Take all the time you need. Take your whole bloody life.” He strode away from her toward the door.

  “Come back when you’ve calmed down,” she called after him. “I promise to decide by then.”

  But her words fell heavily on empty air as the front door shut behind him.

  The newsroom hummed like a hive of insects. Curious, horrified insects. The noise broke through Melanie Ryton’s concentration. She looked up from the latest facts on orbital factories to see half of the newsroom staff gathered around the mobile scanner in the center of the room. Everybody from glamorous, bald-headed Nesse, the anchorwoman of the evening news, to Ray Goldfield, the stringy-haired part-time intern, was staring at the amber mech and its wraparound screen.

  Something’s up, she thought. Something bad. Maybe San Diego finally had the 7.6 they’ve been expecting and fell off into the sea. I thought the ground felt wobbly this morning.

  She slipped into her red boots and joined the crowd.

  Disaster on Moonstation, a message tape announced in yellow letters. The casualty figures scrolled in: Fifty dead in subsidiary Moonstation explosion after Dome C cracks. Moonstation administrator dead. Sabotage a possibility …

  Randall Camphill, executive editor and producer, strode out of his glass-walled office. His short salt-and-pepper hair glinted. So did the diamond stud in his right earlobe. He plowed through the crowd until he was at dead center. Then he turned on the professional baritone voice that had made his fortune, first as a news anchor, then as a network executive.

  “Listen up, people. You’re paid to cover the news, not watch it. We’ve go
t to get on this, and fast.”

  Melanie held her breath.

  Camphill’s icy gray eyes swept the group. “Nesse, of course,” he said, giving the nod to their star. She grinned. Her bald head gleamed. “Benjamin, Saroya …”

  His gaze fell on Melanie, paused, moved on. “Richardson and Cross.” He nodded. “Get moving. I’ve got a shuttle scheduled for you in half an hour. You’ll find your mechanicals onboard.”

  He turned off the voice, turned back toward his office.

  Melanie followed him.

  “Mr. Camphill?”

  “What is it, Ryton?”

  Her heart pounded. “What about backup? Couldn’t they use someone else to help with background?”

  He nodded slowly. “You’re probably right. Good thinking, Ryton.” He looked over her shoulder to a stocky, dark-haired man in a blue suit. “Ferron, you go along to help with the transmission and research.” He disappeared into his office.

  Stunned, Melanie stared after him.

  “Tough break, Mel,” Ralph Ferron said. His tone was sympathetic, but his dark eyes twinkled. He brushed past her on his way to the door. “You know how Randy C. loves to bait and switch. Don’t feel bad. I’ll bring you back some Moon dust.”

  “Thanks.” Just what she needed. Melanie slammed the green acrylic cover of her deskscreen in frustration. Randall Camphill specialized in arbitrary decisions, like most petty tyrants. How could she catch his attention long enough to convince him she deserved a chance at the anchor spot? She’d been with Cable News for five years, working her way up from the research staff to reporting as a correspondent. She worked hard, long hours, weekends, whatever they asked, and enjoyed the work. But how much harder could she work? If she gave all her reports while standing on her head, would Camphill even notice?

  She dialed up Tri-Com on her deskpad. Might as well check out the competition. Her screen pulsed with yellow and green light. Then the image solidified into a blond-haired, green-eyed Brazilian, Tri-Com’s star reporter, Lucia Silva, interviewing a trim, brown-haired man in a purple Shuttle Corps uniform. A nameline ran beneath his image: Shuttle Commander Heyran Landon. Landon’s eyes were golden, glittering.

  A mutant shuttle commander. Melanie felt a surge of surprise.

  I didn’t know there were any mutants in the Corps, she thought. Interesting. And won’t Randall C. be pissed off when he sees how Tri-Com scooped us.

  Melanie pulled off her boots and sat cross-legged in her chair, a slim figure in a soft black jumpsuit.

  “Audio.”

  The screen volume rose to a comfortable level.

  “Commander Landon, why were the casualties so few?” Silva asked.

  The mutant shrugged. “I’d have to say that the timing of the explosion had something to do with it. Most of the Moonstation inhabitants and visitors were asleep, safe in their own pressurized quarters. When the dome went, there weren’t many people around. Most of the casualties were due to failures of safety door seals and related pressure leakage.”

  “And here’s the other half of the rescue team,” the reporter announced. “Captain Kelly McLeod.”

  A dark-haired woman in a purple uniform trimmed with gray stared steadily into the camera. Kelly McLeod? Her old friend from Piedmont High was on Moonstation, a hero of the disaster? Melanie twisted in her seat and grabbed her lapscreen. Maybe there was still a chance for her to get in on the action after all.

  “Did you hear about the Moonstation disaster, boss?”

  Michael Ryton looked up from his desk, his face bathed in amber screen-light. In front of him was a five-year comparison of third-quarter profits. For a moment, he stared at his secretary, Lari, without recognition. Then her short red hair and snub nose came into focus, and behind her, the smooth blue-green walls of his office at Ryton, Greene and Davis Engineering.

  “What disaster?”

  “The main dome blew. Or one of them.”

  “Jesus, no! The entire industry will go under.” Michael turned to his deskscreen, flush against the sleek blue surface of his desk, and began punching buttons. “Survey contracts, Moonstation,” he snapped. “Specifics on dome construction.” He turned back to Lari. “I think Aubenay’s group got the contract on the domes. I hope so.”

  The computer hummed, beeped. Michael scanned the screen.

  “Hmmm. Still searching.” He ran his hand through his short blond hair. “That’s not a good sign.”

  Lari frowned.

  “Fifty people died,” she said quietly.

  “Terrible,” Michael said, staring at his screen. “Keep me posted. Also, tape and transmit any statements by NASA brass, other space engineers, especially any EEC firms …”

  “I get the idea.”

  “Thanks, Lari.” He wheeled around in his chair to the subscreen.

  “Get Jena’s shop.” Might as well tell her he’d be late. He wanted to check all the files relevant to Moonstation before the government did the research for him. Government scrutiny of documentation had gradually increased ever since the Japanese-American Consortium had joined France and Russia as a partner in Moonstation. If the industry survived this disaster, government surveillance would only increase.

  Circuits whirred. He could hear the screen ringing. Then his daughter Herra appeared onscreen. Jena must have shifted the phone so that it would ring at home instead of at her import shop.

  “Hi.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  She shrugged coolly as only a fourteen-year-old could and levitated a strand of long blond hair over her shoulder. Herra was beautiful, just like Jena. And knew it.

  “Do I keep track of her? Mutant Union meeting, maybe.” Her voice was one step beyond bored.

  “Again? She’s certainly turned into a true believer.”

  “I guess. Listen, Dad, I’m waiting for a call, and—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting.”

  Michael broke the connection. His head was pounding.

  Gingerly, he massaged his temples, then reached into his desk drawer for his alpha boosters. He’d only just learned about the Moonstation disaster but it had already given him a headache.

  The computer chimed, three quick bells. He turned toward the screen, scrolled through the information twice, nodded grimly. His stomach began to constrict into a hard, tight knot.

  Aubenay had indeed manufactured the seals—ceramic acrylics—and substructure for the Moonstation dome, ten years ago. But Ryton, Greene and Davis had provided the kiln and casting facilities, and had acted as consultant on construction. The work had been supervised by James Ryton, Michael’s father.

  “Legal, get me legal,” Michael said. “Hurry.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  .

  The room was dark, quite, illuminated only by a silvery spotlight. The light was trained on a thin male figure in white, bleaching all color from his shock of blond hair and pale skin. He was floating in the air, seventeen feet up, five inches away from the sloping, black-lacquered ceiling.

  Silently, the petals of the circular door slid open, creating the illusion of an unblinking eye in which the iris was dark, the pupil transparent. And in the center of the pupil, a woman stood.

  “How do you feel, Victor?” she asked. Her upturned face was stained silver by the lamp’s glow. But the silvery veneer did not mask the strong nose and brow, the plump, voluptuous lips, nor the strong, restless nature beneath the skin. Hers was a fierce, predatory face, softened only by the fleshiness that came from wine at lunch and dinner, rich desserts, and other savory gourmet rituals of the international business elite. Tavia Emory camouflaged her bulky figure under elegantly flowing robes, layers of slithering microthin silk. Her deepset eyes sparkled gold. She was not mutant. But oh how she longed to be. And Victor Ashman knew it.

  He floated down the air toward her, pedaling backward for comic effect until he stood lightly upon the gray woven-rubber carpet.

  “I’m fine, Tavia. Much better.”

  “I�
��m so glad to hear it. After last time …”

  “That’s over with,” he said quickly. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m stronger than ever.” He smiled, showing even white teeth almost silvery in tone. “But when are you going to release me from house arrest?” His tone was light but his smile did not reach his eyes.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Victor.” She dismissed his complaint with a wave of her hand. “As my special guest, you have the run of the house. You’re free to come and go as you please.”

  “Inside, yes. In fact, there are a few places I just might want to visit.” He trailed a long finger down her neck, toward her cleavage. Tavia shuddered lightly.

  Pleased, Ashman withdrew his hand. “But the front door doesn’t respond to my voice command. Or to telekinesis. What have you got in it, my dear? Mental dampers like the ones they use in the storehouses?”

  She ignored his question and, with a flounce, sat down on a large woven bronzed leather chair suspended by air streams. She pointed across the room at a green alabaster tripod table covered with amethyst cabochons of varying sizes. “If you’re so strong, try to lift that table by the wall. Without knocking anything off of it.”

  Ashman stared intently, and the alabaster table soared toward the ceiling, each purple gem on its surface in place as though glued.

  “Now levitate.”

  Eyes closed and lips compressed into a tight line, he floated upward until he was the silvery center of the table’s orbit.

  “Very good! You’ve made real progress.” Her voice throbbed with rich satisfaction.

  “Yes. I told you so.” The table wobbled a bit in its orbit around him, slanting dangerously. Hissing, the amethysts slid toward the table’s edge. Ashman made a small sound in his throat, halfway between a grunt and a whimper. The table righted itself, cabochons still firmly attached.

  “Nice recovery.”

  She watched him for a moment more. Then, growing restive, she moved toward the wall panel.