Pita was still inside the cop’s mind when she felt his lips begin to move. "One telecom call." He said it in time with her whisper.
"One call, and then back to the detention cell for you. We’ll continue this interrogation later."
***
Pita rushed down the corridor toward the barred door that was all that stood between her and freedom. "Masaki!" she shouted. "You came!"
The reporter waved at her from the public waiting room. He was a most unlikely looking rescuer. His shirt was half untucked, and hung loosely over his chubby stomach. His wide cheeks were spotted with gray stubble, but even this wasn’t enough to make him fit in with the tough-looking crowd of orks, scragged-out humans, and streeters who crowded the containment facility’s waiting room. He looked old and soft, his face too open and friendly. If Pita had seen him on the street, she would have pegged him as an easy mark for panhandling. But right now, she looked upon him as her knight in fragging shining armor.
She waited impatiently for the Lone Star guard to key the code into a panel behind the door. When it opened, she ducked through it quickly, still afraid that some fragger would change his mind and order her back to the cell.
Masaki half lifted his arms, as if expecting a hug. But when Pita stopped a few steps away, he dropped his hands. She gave him a nervous grin. "Uh, thanks, Masaki."
The reporter nodded. He looked chill about posting her bail, but he’d probably want a more concrete thank you later. They all did. But for now, that didn’t matter. Pita was happy to see a friendly face—any friendly face.
"You were lucky the holding facility was full. They were eager to clear out a few detainees." he said. "And lucky to have only been charged with a misdemeanor. If it had been anything more serious, they wouldn’t have let me post bail. Certainly not on the night of your arrest, anyway."
"I know that." Pita couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. Masaki sounded like he was lecturing her. Who did he think he was, anyway? Her fragging father?
"They said you could collect your stuff from the property office." he said. "It’s down this way."
Pita followed him out of the waiting room and down a corridor. At the property office, the cops made her sign an electronic signature pad before they gave back the things they’d confiscated from her earlier. Pita heaved a sigh of relief, seeing that the book on shamanism was included among her possessions. Her final mental command to the cop who’d tormented her had taken root, after all. She opened the plastic bag and took out Chen’s ring, the loose change, and the book, then dropped the bag on the floor. Let some drekhead cop clean it up.
"I’m parked in the visitors’ lot." Masaki said. "Let’s go."
Pita followed him outside, smiling as the door closed behind her. It was dark; it must have been close to one in the morning. The night air was cool and fresh; the light sprinkling of rain had washed much of the smog from it. Overhead, between the patchy clouds, a few stars sparkled.
Pita savored her freedom as they climbed the parkade stairs to Masaki’s car. The feeling was overwhelming, better even than being on Mindease. Except, of course, for the small tickle of worry she still felt. How long until that cop—Number 709—caught up with her again?
It
won’t
happen,
she told herself firmly.
He
isn’t
looking
for
me
.
He’ll
find
someone
else
to
pick
on
. But she couldn’t be sure.
Masaki drove slowly, keeping exactly to the speed limit, despite the lack of traffic. Only after they had put several blocks between themselves and the containment facility did Pita think to ask where they were going.
"Back to my apartment." he answered. "You can spend the night there."
Pita gave him a sideways glance. "I already have a place to crash." she said carefully. "Just off
"I don’t think so, Pita. You wouldn’t be safe on the streets. You’re better off with me. For the time being, at least."
"I wouldn’t be on the streets. I’d be—"
A note of irritation crept into Masaki’s voice. "Pita, I just paid five hundred nuyen to bail you out of that detention center. I think that gives me some say in where you’re going to sleep tonight. Or don’t you think so?"
Pita immediately fell silent. She stared out the window, suddenly very tired. She’d wanted to think that Masaki was a good guy, that she’d read him properly. Now she wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t been out of jail ten minutes, and already it was payback time.
The drive to Masaki’s place took about fifteen minutes. He lived in a highrise complex in Bellevue. The entrance to the parkade was through a double-doored security gate that required the driver to provide two separate retinal scans before admission was granted, and the lobby of the apartment block itself was watched over by a live guard, rather than the usual remote cameras. Pita decided that the building was designed either for the very cautious city dweller—or the very paranoid.
The fellow gave Pita a long look as she trailed through the lobby after Masaki. Why was he staring at her? Didn’t they allow orks in this building? Or was he just wondering what Masaki was doing, dragging in "street trash" in the early hours of the morning?
An elevator whisked them up to the twenty-fifth floor. Masaki led Pita down a corridor, carpeted with soft plush, to a door that bristled with yet more security features. He not only had to slide a magkey through the lock but also had to provide a voice sample and yet another retinal scan.
When the door was at last open, Pita reluctantly followed Masaki into the apartment. It was a little on the sloppy side—jackets that had been tossed on a coat rack had spilled onto the floor, and dirty dishes were piled in the sink—but it was a nice place, all right. Nicer than her parents’ low-rent condo, and certainly nicer than the streets. It must have cost him some serious nuyen. The furniture was a bit sparse; this place probably ate up most of his salary.
Masaki tossed his jacket on the pile and palmed a sensor in the wall, illuminating the bathroom. Then he turned to Pita. "I thought you might like to take a shower before . . . That is, to clean up a little." He gave a lame shrug. "Not that you look dirty, but after being in jail, and everything, you probably want to freshen up. Ah . . . while I get the bed ready."
Pita tried to keep her lip from curling. She’d barely walked in the door, and already he was propositioning her. And he wanted her clean. Given his cautious nature, it was a wonder he hadn’t asked her to take a test for VITAS too. "All right." she said, stepping into the bathroom. He didn’t have to tell her to clean up—she couldn’t wait. But she flipped him the finger after shutting the door anyway. She’d show him, all right. She’d take a shower. Not a long one—she didn’t particularly enjoy getting wet any more. But she’d let the water run for a good long time.
Twenty minutes later, she cracked the bathroom door and peeked through the gap. Lying in the hallway outside was a pair of men’s pajamas—sloppily folded, but clean. Pita snagged them with a hand, shut the door, and tried them on. She’d thought they’d be too big; Masaki had quite the pot belly on him, after all.
But they fit. And that only served to remind her of how large and ungainly she was.
She took a moment to comb her hair, not bothering to wipe the condensation from the mirror. Looking at the hazy reflection, she could imagine herself as she used to be. A big girl, yes. But with a narrow jaw, square white teeth, and without the pointed ears that poked out of her hair at odd angles. The only good part about her transformation had been the fact that her breasts had grown along with the rest of her. From the neck down—if you discounted the overly long arms and extra hair—she had the body of a grown woman rather than that of a teenage girl. Chen had always told her how beautiful she looked. But he was an ork, born and raised. How would he know what a real woman should look like?
Drek. There she went again, running Chen down. Running herself down. Pita silently chastised herself for what she’d been thinking. Real woman—hmph. Human, she meant. That was her father talking. She’d spent too many years listening to the hate that spewed from his mouth.
Wiping the mirror clean, she took a good long look at herself, trying to imagine what Masaki saw in her. Then she sighed. "Time to pay your dues, girl. All five hundred nuyen of them."
Masaki was in the apartment’s living room, staring out of a floor-to-ceiling window. The view was of Lake Washington. Across the lake were the lights of downtown. It was easy to pick out the distinctive pyramid shape of the Aztechnology Pyramid and the towering Renraku Arcology.
Masaki had changed into pajamas, and as Pita entered the room, was yawning widely. Noticing her reflection in the window, he turned and cleared his throat.
"That was a long shower." he said.
Pita was immediately on the defensive. "Are you worried it will run up your fragging electric bill?" she asked. "I’ll pay you back. For that, and the bail, too."
Masaki laughed. "Don’t worry." he said. "The hot water is included in the rent. You can use all you want."
Pita glanced down the hall, bracing herself for what was to come. "Which one’s the bedroom?" she asked sullenly.
"Last door on the left. If you need anything, don’t be afraid to wake me up. I’m a light sleeper, anyway." He moved toward her, then gestured toward the couch. "You can sleep here. I’ve made up a bed for you."
Pita peered over the back of the couch. He was telling the truth. The couch was piled with blankets, and a pillow had been placed at one end of it.
Masaki touched a sensor in the wall, dimming the lights. "Well, good night. I’ll see you in the morning."
He walked down the hall to his bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. Pita shook her head in disbelief. Amazing. Masaki really was a nice guy, after all. Either that, or he found her so repulsive that. . .
She turned off the light, then burrowed into the blankets on the couch. Lying with her cheek on a pillow that smelled of fresh laundry soap, she stared out at the Seattle skyline. She liked the sensation of being above things, of looking down on the streets from a height. Of feeling clean, of curling into a tight little ball and snuggling down into blankets.
Sighing with contentment, she closed her eyes and fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.
***
Pita stared across the kitchen table at Masaki as he tossed two instant-breakfast packets into the microwave and set the timer. As they warmed up, he fished a carton of real milk out of the fridge. He sniffed it, made a face, then dumped the chunky white liquid down the sink. Turning to the cupboard, he pulled a packet of instant orange drink from the shelf and mixed up two glasses with water from the filtration unit.
"Not much of a cook, huh?" Pita observed. But she wasn’t really complaining. Not with the rich smell of reconstituted eggs and RealMeat bacon wafting through the air, making her mouth water.
"I don’t usually eat breakfast." Masaki explained. "I just grab a Poptoast and a cup of soykaf, and eat them on my way in to the station. But since I have company, I thought I’d better get domestic and prepare a home-cooked breakfast."
Pita had to smile at that one. Home-cooked? Still, it would be a better meal than she’d had in weeks.
The microwave timer pinged. Masaki took the breakfast packets out of it, peeled off the plastic film that sealed the top of each, and set one on the table in front of Pita. He handed her a fork, then sat down to eat the other one while it was still steaming.
Pita ate until the edge was off her hunger. Then she paused, trying to phrase the question she wanted to ask. She at last decided to be blunt.
"How come you didn’t try anything last night? Is it because I’m . . ." Pita was going to say ugly, but deliberately sought another word. ". . . because I’m an ork?"
Masaki chuckled and activated a holopic that was held to the fridge with a magnet. "See him?"
Pita nodded, looking at the three-dimensional image. It was of a middle-aged ork, a burly fellow with blond hair and a full, curling beard. "Yeah."
"That’s a picture of my partner."
"Your what?"
"My boyfriend."
"Oh." Pita blushed. She’d been thinking of Masaki as a loser who didn’t rate a permanent companion. Now she realized that she’d judged him by appearances, something she’d just accused him of doing to her. It was funny, thinking of someone his age having a "boyfriend."
She had one other question to ask.
"Carla’s not going to do the story on how Lone Star killed my friends, is she?"
"No." Masaki admitted after a moment’s silence. "She’s not."
"Will you?"
Masaki sighed and laid his fork on the table. "No, Pita, I won’t."
"Why not? Don’t you believe me?"
"I do, actually." Masaki said. "I believe what you told me over the phone last night. About recognizing the cop who gunned down your friends. He probably is a member of the Humanis Policlub. But we don’t stand a chance against Lone Star. You can’t take on a big corporation like that—not even with KKRU to back you up. They’re just too powerful. They’d find a way to spike the story before it even aired."