Max Collins - Skin Game

In the months since Max freed Joshua from Manticore, the sewers had served as a mini-underground railroad for the big guy, allowing him to move around the city without detection. Alec figured the sewer system was how Joshua had managed to stay in touch with the janitor, Hampton, without anyone knowing that he was ever gone.

Twenty minutes later, they dried off and changed into their own clothes in the run-down house, the interior of which had been taken over by Logan after the trashing of his penthouse; no sign of Logan right now, though.

Joshua’s wardrobe ran exclusively to T-shirts — size XXXL — and jeans, while Alec had left little more than that behind himself. While Joshua never made inconspicuous company, getting the big lug out of that hospital gown was, Alec knew, a good start...

Picking up the phone, Alec dialed Max’s cell. In the silence before the ring, his transgenic hearing picked up a low frequency hum, and he knew someone — the NSA? the National Guard? — was trying to trace the call.

He slammed down the receiver.

Should have thought of that. He’d seen how many times Max had used her cell, so of course the government would have the number and be tracing all incoming and outgoing calls. Another reason to get back to Terminal City, to tell her to ditch the phone.

But how to get back?

It was miles away and would take them hours, even if they did use the sewers to avoid being seen.

He needed someone on the outside, and neither Original Cindy nor Sketchy had wheels; still, they were the only two people he knew that he could trust, so he started dialing.

Original Cindy’s cell went unanswered; Alec didn’t know what to make of that. He had no time to spare to ponder it, though, and he dialed Sketch.

“A car?” Sketchy asked when the greetings were out of the way. “I guess I could borrow a car.”

“We need you to pick us up at Joshua’s house,” Alec told him.

“What are you doin’ on this side of the fence?”

“Not now, Sketch. Just get the car and haul ass over here. I’ll explain everything on the way back to Terminal City.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Sketchy said. “Half hour, tops.”

Forty-five minutes later, they were still watching out the window when a beat-up van pulled to a stop in front of the house.

“I gotta get myself a better support system,” Alec said.

“Yeah,” Joshua added. “We gotta blaze.”

They climbed in the old van and Sketchy hit the gas. But soon they were lumbering through heavy traffic, and Alec explained what had happened, and who the killer was.

“Bobby Kawasaki?” Sketch said, suddenly very white. “From Jam Pony, you mean?”

“Yeah — he’s a transgenic, passing... You okay, Sketch?”

But Sketchy’s eyes were wide and woeful. “Christ! I think I saw him this morning, with Original Cindy. I’m pretty sure they left together. Then I didn’t see either one of them the rest of the day. Never reported back from their first deliveries — Normal was really pissed.”

Alec looked at Sketch and the van went dead quiet.

“Sketch — you better step on it.”

Bobby Kawasaki sat in the worn wing chair and watched the crappy signal on a TV produced in some third-world shithole back before Pulse. The cheap motel room was dusty and dingy and had seen few customers on more than an hourly basis for most of the last ten years; but the desk clerk, a tiny Asian man with thick glasses and thinning hair, asked only one question: “You got cash?”

Bobby’s project hung safe in the closet on a hanger — he’d had to leave the mannequin behind — and Original Cindy lay on the sagging bed with a compress on the nasty bump on her head. He had meant to scare her, but when she’d taken that tumble off her bike, the woman took a much nastier spill than he’d anticipated. Glancing over at her now, he wondered if she would ever wake up.

After her crash, he’d left her bike lying in the street, loaded her onto his own bike and pedaled straight back to the motel, with her riding in his lap, her legs tossed up over the handle bars. From a distance she would have looked like she was having a joy ride, her face pressed into the cheek of her boyfriend. It wasn’t the greatest ruse, but people minded their own business in Seattle, and it had gotten them back here to safety and seclusion.

Taking her to a hospital was out of the question. He’d lose control of her there, and be right back where he started. That was also the risk of keeping her here. If she died, she would be of no help to him, which would be a pity, after all the trouble he’d gone to. The trap he’d laid for her this morning — letting her see him take the Tryptophan — had worked like a charm.

Well, at first it did, anyway. Bobby had gotten the woman talking, and she seemed about to help him of her own volition, when something he’d said seemed to make her wary. Though he’d run the conversation over and over in his head, he still didn’t know where he’d made the mistake.

It didn’t matter now anyway. If she died, he’d dump her — her skin was the wrong shade and size to be of use to his project, after all. If she awakened, she would help him. If she didn’t help him, he would kill her.

Bobby watched her ample chest as it rose and fell in shallow breaths. She was still with the living — the question was, for how much longer? Turning back to the television, he watched the Satellite News Network, looking for stories about Terminal City.

Though the national news still covered it, the siege seemed relegated to the back burner as earthquakes and other catastrophes started shoving at each other for space on the little screen. The local news still seemed largely focused on the siege, however; interestingly, a few protransgenics protesters had also shown up — FREAKS ARE PEOPLE TOO, one sign said, and BAN TRANSGENIC TESTING, said another.

Original Cindy moaned, and Bobby went to check on her. Slowly, as if every centimeter of movement caused excruciating pain, she moved a hand up to the washrag on her forehead. She touched it gingerly and her eyes fluttered, then opened wide.

Looking up at him, she managed to say, “You — Bobby.”

He smiled a little. “You remembered my name. I’m flattered.”

“What... what happened?”

“Your bike took a tumble. I picked you up and brought you here.” He could tell by her eyes that she didn’t remember clearly, yet, and what he was saying made little sense to her.

“Where’s... here?”

“Just a motel.”

She tried to sit up, but the pain obviously forced her back, her hand again going to the lump. “This bitch hurts.”

“Probably a concussion,” Bobby said.

“Why did you bring me to the No Tell Motel? If you think you’re gettin’ some, you ain’t been payin’ attention to Original Cindy’s predilections — short form: you ain’t gettin’ none. Concussion or not, I’ll kick your scrawny ass.”

He smiled. “That’s not what I want from you.”

Confusion tightened her eyes.

He went on: “I just want to join the others.”

She still didn’t get it.

“At Terminal City, I mean.”

“That’s right,” she said slowly, her voice thick with discomfort. “You’re a transgenic.”

He watched her wrestling with that. If she remembered what had freaked her out this morning, they’d have to do it the hard way. If she didn’t remember, then she might still help him on her own. Her eyes cleared slowly; from the look of her, she didn’t remember a thing.

“I should probably get my beautiful booty over to the ER,” she said. She tried to sit up again, but had no more success than the first time.

Helping her lean forward, he propped up the pillows behind her. “Aren’t there doctors in Terminal City?”