Mutant Star (18 page)

“Sorry. You’re out. Go stay with your brother in Berkeley. Or some other mutant.” And as Henley said it, Rick felt the pain twist in his stomach, as clearly as if he’d been kicked. Go back where you belong. Suddenly he was furious. Henley was frightened of him, was he? But not frightened enough.

There was a slow, growling mutter that slowly grew to a rumbling roar. The walls of the house shook. Henley, white-faced, cried “Earthquake,” and threw himself under the table. Rick laughed. No, not an earthquake. Not exactly. A cascade of furniture, rugs, pottery, cassettes, screens, and clothing came clattering down the stairs, a flood of possessions, coming to rest by the front leg of Henley’s refuge.

“Hey!” he cried. “That’s my stuff.”

“Sorry,” Rick said. “My aim isn’t perfect yet.”

Another rumble, and Rick’s belongings joined the pile: jellbed, screenbrains, screen cassettes, clothing—a mountain of goods that filled half the stairwell and threatened to swamp the living room.

“Now, what am I supposed to do with all this?” Rick said to his terrified housemate. “Could you hold it for me for a minute?”

“You’re gonzo,” Henley yelped. He was standing on the sofa now, looking as though he intended to dive out the window.

“Not yet,” Rick said. He wanted to break windows. Hurl Henley out the back door. Reduce the house to cinders. No. No. He took a deep breath. “So long.”

The door flew open and Rick strode through it, cursing. Only when he stood on the lawn, breathing heavily, did he become frightened.

I could have killed him, he thought. I nearly did.

The yard swam in his vision as tears filled his eyes. He was finished here. Henley and everybody else had seen that while he’d ignored the changes. But now he knew. There was no room for him in a nonmutant world. None at all. He got on his cycle, looked back once at the house, and set out for Mendocino and the healers.

***

The Retreat was a ten-acre communal estate outside Mendocino: three main buildings hidden behind high walls, strictly patrolled to keep the curious—and the nonmutant—away. The guard took one look at Rick’s eyes and waved him on.

The early morning sun illuminated a curving road leading down past eucalyptus trees to a group of redwood buildings nestled together in a cul-de-sac. Rick stopped his cycle and entered the largest building. He had driven all night, yet he felt alert, rested, strangely energetic.

A heavyset, gray-haired woman in pale blue robes stood in the main hall.

I’m Dr. Rita Saiken
.

“I’m Rick Akimura.”

Why have you come, without prior
notice?

“Something strange seems to be happening to me.”

Saiken frowned.
You’re a null, aren’t you?

I was.

Will you permit me to make a probe?

“I guess so. Will it hurt?”

No. Come into this room. Take off your jacket and lie on that table. Now close your eyes.

Rick felt the table, cool against his back. And an odd pressure on his forehead that seemed to sink beneath the skin, deeper and deeper. But the healer hadn’t touched him, had she? He opened his eyes. She was sitting on a wallcushion, head lowered in meditation.

Eyes closed please
.

“Sorry.” The pressure increased, became a vibration that ran through his cortex, down his spine, along every nerve. Muscles jumped in his arms and legs.

Interesting. Can you visualize the small portascreen in the corner of the room?

“The red one? Yeah.”

Fine. I’d like you to move it to the other corner.

Rick began to sit up.

Stay where you are. Just move the stand.

“Oh.” He took a mental fix on it, remembered its neat, curving shell. Up. He felt something uncoil at the back of his neck and knew the screen was lifting, floating easily across the room.

Fine. Excellent control.

Rick lifted the table he was on as well.

Very impressive.

You want party tricks? he thought. I’ll give you party tricks. He concentrated furiously and the healer began to float into the air.

That’s enough. Stop it. You waste time.

“So what?”

We have much work to do. Breathe slowly. Pace yourself. No. No. No.

Sorry.

And use mindspeech. You have it, you know. The only way to understand how to control your talents is to use them.

What do you think I’m doing here?

Stop fighting us, Rick. We’re on your side.

What side is that?

Open your eyes, please. Come with me.

Where?

For further tests.

She led him down a long corridor and into a multilevel room filled with children’s toys, benches, cushions, and tables.

What is this? Kindergarten?

Yes
.

I’m a little old for this.

Chronologically. But in terms of mutant ability, you are little more than an infant. Therefore, we must begin here. You have only the most rudimentary controls in place. It’s a miracle you haven’t injured yourself or somebody else. When did these skills begin manifesting themselves?

I don’t know. Two weeks ago. Maybe three.

Remarkable. We’ve never documented a null developing any skills at all, let alone this late into adulthood. All our studies will be affected. We must examine you thoroughly.

Hold on. All
I care about is getting a handle on my talents.

Of course. But this sort of training takes time.

How long?

Difficult to say. We’ve never had a case like yours. Several months, at least, I should think.

Rick could see a plan forming in the woman’s mind. It showed him parading through room after room, before this panel of experts and that, performing like some lab animal as mutant geneticists conferred, made notes, poked and prodded him.

Deftly, he moved in between her thoughts, inserting his own clauses:
He’s an unusual case, yes, but we’re really overcrowded. I’ll give him the basic one-week training and then we’ll see.

Rita Saiken glared at him. “If you wish to influence my thoughts,” she said, “you’ll have to work much harder, Mr. Akimura. I’m a level-one telepath. Excellent shields. You really are wasting your time.”

“Oh.” Rick’s face felt hot. “What level am I?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

He took another telepathic peek at her. Sure enough, he saw the shields now. Fascinating. He could analyze their structure. Interlocking layers prevented telepathic linkage. How useful. Without much effort, he duplicated them, cutting himself off from Rita Saiken’s probing.

She sat up, mouth open in shock.
What have you done? Those shields weren’t there before.

Not bad for an
infant, huh?

Take them down immediately!

Ask nicely.

If you refuse to cooperate, we cannot proceed.

Rick sat up and grabbed Rita Saiken by the arm.

Stop! What you’re doing is strictly prohibited.

I’ve just changed the rules.

He held her in a mindlock and worked on her shields, peeling back each layer and discarding it until he had clear access to her. Saiken convulsed, jerking, but he held her rigidly, quelling the spasms with a telepathic command. He roamed freely, learning the secrets of control, the narrowing and broadening of vision, techniques of farspeech, clairaudient boosters, telepathic commands. He probed deeply, absorbing her knowledge at a blinding pace. In the process, he strayed across deep memories: images flared of an old man, nonmutant, with a cruel face, of a dark room, and a locked door. Saiken whimpered. Rick paused, took in the sad vision of harsh blows and monstrous abuse.

Rita, this memory isn’t doing you any good
. And with that same thought, Rick obliterated the antique malignancy.

Saiken sighed.

Heal a healer, win a prize, she thought. Rick saw she had no more to offer him.
Sleep
. He restored her shields and withdrew.

Saiken was curled on her side, resting upon thick red cushions. Rick patted her gently.

I can’t stay here, he thought. They’ll try to cage me. And sooner or later, they might succeed.

He hurried out into the chill air. Early morning. How long had Saiken worked on him?

Behind him he could hear faint mind cries, growing louder.

Stop. Come back.

You’re not ready.

Dangerous. He mindraped Rita. Catch him!

Rick kicked in the jets on his cycle in a desperate plunge toward the gate. The guard, alerted by the healers, had sealed the doors and stood, facing him, arms crossed.

“You must go back,” he said.

Make me.

A telekinetic bolt, screaming blue and red, tore at him, forcing the cycle into a turn. Rick wrestled with the controls. Useless. He was going to hit the wall. No. He tried to levitate the bike away. No good. At the last moment, he floated free from the seat. The jet bike crashed into the brick, compacting into a sputtering, tangled wreck.

Rick floated, staring down at the wreckage. Then he drifted to earth and touched a crumpled fender.

You’re tired
, the voices whispered to him.
So tired
.

His legs felt as though they would buckle beneath him.

Rest. Come back to the Retreat.

His head sagged onto his chest for a moment. Tired. Yes, he was so tired. He would go back and they would welcome him and—

The image of Alanna bloomed in his mind, fierce, sudden, enticing. He wanted to see her. Had to. Power surged through him. He turned and faced the gatekeeper.

“Let me out.”

For answer, the guard unleashed another telekinetic bolt. But Rick was ready. He bent under the blast, turning the energy and directing it at the gate. Bars bent, groaning, and buckled under the force of his will until they were flat as railroad tracks. Rick sped up and over them, levitating away, until all telepathic noise had faded, and the only sound he heard was the pounding of his heart.

He couldn’t maintain this effort for hours. But he had to get to Marin. To Alanna. The bike was gone. He’d have to find transportation somewhere. In town.

He made his way into Mendocino and paused at a parking lot near the bullet train station.

He had no credit chips. Steal some? Hell, why not steal a skimmer? He eyed the snub-nosed vehicles in the lot until he found a dark blue streamlined number that looked appealing. Easy to pick the lock telekinetically and start the engine. Even without telekinesis, he could have done it. All these Korean skimmers had the same lock configuration. He pulled the car out of the lot.

Marin was three hours away. With luck, he would be there before midnight.

***

The ceiling was a shifting pattern of color washes, soothing to the eye. Alanna watched the wave pattern, willing herself to grow sleepy. Her mother had designed the wash screen for her years ago. The room audio was set to wave pattern. Slowly, she invoked the chant for sleep. Her toes grew numb, her arms heavy.

She was just slipping off into a strange, starlit landscape when she heard the call.

Alanna.

Faint, but audible.

Alanna
.

Stronger now. Whose mindvoice was that?

Can you hear me?

She sat up in bed.

Think something. Don’t worry. I’ll hear you.

Rick? When did you
develop mindspeech?
She began to sweat. What had happened to him?
Where are you?

In Mendocino.

I didn’t know where you went. Why didn’t you call me?

It’s a long story. Anyway, I should be there in a few hours. Can you get packed and ready?

Yes, but wait.
Where are we going?

I don’t know yet.

Are you crazy?

Don’t you want to be with me?

Rick, you haven’t called me in ages, been totally incommunicado, then you mindspeak me to tell me, get ready, we’re going someplace but you’re not sure where. Mindspeech, no
less? I don’t even think I’m talking to you!