The Mutant Prime (15 page)

“I’ll talk to Skerry,” she said. “If I can find him.”

CHAPTER
TEN

.

“
Nesse? Right this way.”

Lorten, Tavia Emory’s media liaison, led the Cable News reporters down a long, deserted white-marble corridor. She was clad in a neat blue jumpsuit with an Emory Foundation patch on the right breast pocket. Lorten walked quickly, and both Melanie and Nesse hurried to keep pace. They turned a corner and came to another hallway, this one lined in pink granite, and equally empty. The pink carpeting muffled their footsteps as they wafted past dark reception consoles and empty offices. The only sound was that of their own breathing. Melanie began to wonder if there was anybody home at Emory Foundation.

At the end of the corridor a door stood open and Lorten marched them through it into a spacious room paneled with blond wood and jade green enamel. The furniture was oversize: plump bronzed floatsofas set into sculpted acrylic frames. A chant for two voices, tenor and baritone, was playing over the roomscreen’s audio system. The sonorities blended, bounced apart, came together again in a minor key. A mutant chant. In the silence of the building, it filled the room with the resonance and impact of a full operatic chorus.

A woman with pale, pale skin and short, frosted hair, gold-tipped at the ends, sat slumped near the window, facing a wallscreen.

“Mrs. Emory, Nesse from Cable News.”

The woman sat up as though jerked by invisible strings. Her face had a sharp, predatory cast that reminded Melanie of an eagle: strong nose, chiseled cheekbones and a high forehead. Her golden eyes glittered. But there were dark circles under them.

“Ah, Nesse, yes? So glad you could come.” She held out her hand to the newswoman. She turned, rather jerkily, Melanie thought, toward her.

“And this is?”

“My assistant, Melanie Ryton.”

“Hello.” Tavia Emory smiled an empty smile.

“Hello,” Melanie said, and took her hand. You bald-headed bitch, Nesse, she thought. Since when am I your assistant? Tavia Emory’s hand was ice cold. She released it quickly.

“Please come sit down.” Tavia gestured toward the sofa. “Lorten. Coffee.”

Melanie stared at her. Something was wrong here. But what?

“I see you’ve noticed the eyes.”

“They’re hard to miss.”

Tavia Emory smiled and a bit of color came into her cheeks, “Contact lenses. Custom-made. Could I pass for a mutant?”

“You fooled me.”

She laughed tinnily and patted Melanie on the shoulder. “I like you, Melanie. I can see we’re going to be friends.”

Melanie smiled as Nesse flashed her a look of undisguised fury. “Aren’t those mutant chants in the background?” she asked, pressing her advantage.

Tavia Emory’s head jerked suddenly toward the speakers, then back to face her guests. “Chants? Oh. Yes. How did you recognize them?”

“I’ve had a bit of experience with mutants,” Melanie said. What was wrong with this woman? And didn’t Nesse see it?

“Aren’t they fascinating?”

“Yes,” Nesse cut in. “Tell me: What do you find most interesting about them, Mrs. Emory?”

“Oh, their skills. And their subculture.” She gave the reporter what seemed intended as a sly look. “Living among us for generations, in hiding. Just imagine.”

I don’t have to imagine, Melanie thought.

“Sounds kind of claustrophobic to me,” Nesse said.

“Well, I suppose.” Tavia Emory frowned, coppery brows coming together. “But that’s my point exactly. Hiding. Watching. Waiting. It sets them apart. Makes them special.”

“Yes, of course,” Nesse said. “Do you mind if Melanie sets up my cam stand while we talk?”

“Not at all.”

Tavia Emory seemed to retreat into a meditative state as Melanie scooped up the travelcam and triggered the gray tripod at its base. Three limbs extended, spread, and ratcheted up five, ten, fifteen inches, until the camera stood four feet from the floor, its yellow eye focused on Tavia Emory’s pale face.

“Nice piece of equipment.”

Melanie peered through the lens and hit the autofocus. “It’s all set.”

“Thanks, Melanie.” Nesse flashed a dazzling smile. “We probably won’t need you until later.”

“I guess maybe I’ll go take a walk in the desert.”

“Take your time.” Using the remote, Nesse triggered the cam, and when the light stopped blinking, addressed the lens.

“I’m talking with Tavia Emory, president of the Emory Foundation,” she said. “Mrs. Emory, thank you for joining us at Cable News.”

Tavia lifted her chin. Her eyes sparkled with sudden alertness. “My pleasure.” She smiled expertly into the cam.

“As you know, the supermutant Victor Ashman had made various claims about his powers. May we have your reaction to him?”

“Well, Nesse, I’m just very impressed. This man is a marvel. He is what he claims to be, a superior, evolved mutant. A bright symbol for us all of what humanity can attain.”

Nesse leaned toward her. “How interesting. Mrs. Emory, would you tell us a bit about your interest in mutants, and the mutant movement?”

“Of course,” she said eagerly. “I’ve
always
been fascinated by the skills and abilities of mutants. We should cherish them as our ‘younger brothers and sisters’ in the family of humankind. They have much to teach us. And we have much to learn.” Her voice had gotten high and thin, as though she were on the verge of tears.

“I understand that Mr. Ashman is your guest.”

“Yes. Emory Foundation has extended him the protection he needs: otherwise, he’d never have any peace. Mr. Ashman may stay with us as long as he wishes.”

“And in return?”

Tavia Emory gave Nesse a wooden look. “In return? We’ll have the pleasure of his company, won’t we?”

Melanie began to get restless. She’d intended to watch the interview, but this Emory woman gave her the creeps. All these rich people must use strange drugs, she thought. And it certainly throws off their reaction time.

She left the two women pinned down by the camera’s unblinking eye and walked out into the pink marble corridor. It was deserted, save for a green mechmaid crawling down the window wall on its twelve spidery legs, leaving a sparkling trail behind it. Its motor gave a soothing singsong whir as it moved.

Still, Melanie burned with humiliation. Somehow, she would get even with Nesse for calling her an assistant. She rounded a corner and found the plush bronze carpeting leading away in three tantalizing directions. In the distance, she could hear a bass thrumming, as if a giant heart were beating deep beneath the foundation of the building.

Eeny-Meeny-Miny-Mo. She chose the left corridor. Most doors she passed were closed and locked.

It was like a small city, Melanie thought. But where were the inhabitants? Every desk had an Emory seal, every office door was painted Emory blue, but where was everybody?

To amuse herself, Melanie tried each door she came to, zigzagging down the corridor. The first five didn’t respond to her touch. But a hundred yards down the hall, a sixth door opened at her request. Melanie walked into a small room whose walls were lined with screens. There was a main screen keypad on a stand behind the door. Quietly, she closed the door and stared at the gray matte faces of the screens. Curiosity nibbled at her conscience. The Emory Net was probably full of all sorts of goodies. She’d love to take a peek, but did she dare?

What the hell.

She touched the keypad gingerly. The screens sprang to bright, flickering life, bands of green, of orange, jittering across the room in a wild ballet of color, jumping from screen to screen, from wall to wall.

“Code?” the screen demanded in a mechvoice punctuated by clicks.

Uh-oh. Think fast. Melanie searched her memory for something that might serve as password into the Emory Net. The screen waited ten seconds, then flicked off.

An image danced in her memory of golden, glittering contact lenses.

Melanie touched the pad again.

“Code?”

“Mutant,” she whispered.

“Thank you.” The flickering images stabilized into a bright green, full-screen menu. “Make your selection.”

Melanie scanned the list, ticking off Mutant Council, Victor, Lorten, Fac 1, Fac 2, Moonstation Plaza.

“Moonstation Plaza,” she said.

“Getting.”

The information that appeared was disappointing: a list of sites and measurements.

“More.”

The screen obediently scrolled through a list of names that Melanie recognized as artists renowned for heroic sculpture. In the middle of the list was Narlydda’s name.

“Stop,” Melanie said. Narlydda. Hmmm. “Get me all related files on Narlydda.”

“Getting.”

The screen filled with specifics on a proposed statue.

“More.”

A series of taped messages featuring Tavia Emory flew by at double speed, invitations of some sort.

“More.”

Suddenly, a sketch appeared. A muscular merman with long hair and a beard.

God, he looks familiar, Melanie thought. I wonder who the model is. Nice sketch. Then she paused. This must be Narlydda’s study for the Moonstation commission. If she had a copy of this, she could scoop everybody else with it: nothing had been released.

“Print,” she said. “Photo ready.”

“Printing,” the screen announced. In a moment, a thick sheet of glossy white paper extruded from a slot in the wall that ran the length of the screen system.

Hands shaking, she grabbed the print. It was perfect. The merman in black and white. She rolled it up quickly and put it in her screencase.

“Save?” the screen asked helpfully.

“Save,” Melanie said.

She noticed that one of the screens to her left did not carry the merman sketch image, but rather was a list of numerals. On closer inspection, it looked like an address, phone code, and fax number. Whose? It had to be Narlydda’s. Melanie felt a little light-headed. She wanted to laugh. After all her scouting around, here was what she’d been looking for. She had to have that address.

“Print left screen,” she said.

“Copy?”

“Left screen.”

“Copy?”

This wasn’t going to work. And she couldn’t waste time searching for the proper command.

“Hold,” she said. Reaching into her screencase, she fished out a pen and pad. Hastily, she scrawled down the information.

“Save?”

“Save.”

The screen hummed. “More?”

Melanie was tempted. But she’d been in here long enough.

“End,” she said.

The screen went black.

Wow, she thought. I can’t believe it. Narlydda’s real address. Her private phone number. The Moonstation sketch. Melanie hugged herself with delight.

Her exultation was cut short by an odd whispering sound behind her. She turned to see the door irising open.

But I thought I locked that!

A woman stood in the doorway, her eyes glittering with mutant gold. She was tall and lanky, with cropped dark hair save for a thatch of white at her temple. Her skin had an odd quality to it. It was green. But aside from that, it was also transparent. Melanie gasped. She could see right through her.

A ghost? How could this be?

“I don’t believe it,” Melanie said, and reached toward the apparition. Her hand went right through the green woman. In response, the ghost gave her a reproachful look.

“Ex-excuse me,” Melanie said. “I mean, who are you? What are you?”

The woman’s mouth moved as though she were attempting to say something. But no sound came from her lips.

Fear took a firmer grip on Melanie. Her hands began to shake. “What are you trying to tell me? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I can’t hear you.”

The woman shook her head despairingly and faded slowly from view. The door closed and locked with a click.

Melanie sank down onto the small wallseat and closed her eyes.

Ghosts. Emory Foundation is haunted by green mutant women. Melanie took a deep breath. Then another. Finally, her pulse subsided to its normal, steady chugging and she sat up.

Don’t be silly, she told herself. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Maybe one of Tavia Emory’s staff was projecting and got lost. But maybe it’s time to go find Nesse and go home. Now.

She grabbed up her screencase and moved toward the door.

Footsteps. Outside, in the corridor, somebody was moving toward Melanie’s hiding place. And punching at the doorpad repeatedly. Melanie closed her eyes. But the lock held.

I want to go home.

Melanie pressed against the wall as the footsteps receded. She waited until she couldn’t hear even the faintest echo of them any longer. Then, quickly, she opened the door and slipped through. It closed with a snap behind her. Clutching her screencase to her chest, Melanie ran in the opposite direction from that of the footsteps, around a corner, down the right-hand split of two converging hallways. The halls were deserted as before. No phantom green women. No faceless pursuers. No mutant receptionists with golden eyes. She was alone, wandering through Emory Foundation. And soon she was totally lost. Out of breath, she paused by a door, tried to enter. It slid open.