Dark Angel: Skin Game (23 page)

right after she warned Max. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her cell phone.

Glancing to her left, she saw the kid riding easily right next to her. In her surprise, the phone slipped from her hand, crashed to the street, and shattered.

"Even on my meds," he said calmly, "I still have my trans-genic speed."

Her mouth dropping open, Original Cindy veered right, trying to get away from the guy; but her wheel clipped a crack in the pavement and she went down hard, the bike tumbling over her, her head smacking hard off the pavement.

As things slowed and grew very quiet, she felt a dull throb in her head, the bike seeming to fly away from her unbidden, and she looked up to see the strangely unformed face of her fellow Jam Pony bike messenger, looking down at her just as her world turned colorless, then dark gray, then black.

"And it's 'Bobby,' " she heard him say, just before all consciousness left her. "For now, anyway...."

Less than forty-eight hours to negotiate a settlement before the tanks rolled in ... and the residents of Terminal City weren't any closer now than they'd been when the police followed them into the parking garage last week.

Sitting in the media center, exhaustion weighing her down like her bones were made of lead, Max rubbed a hand over her face and wondered what she and her mutant band could do to stave off a full-scale army invasion.

Dix and his crew sat arrayed around the monitors, the room quiet, almost funereal, as they went about their business. Rubbing her forehead with the tips of her lingers, Max pondered her missing friends.

Alec and Joshua remained incommunicado in Clemente's custody, assuming the pair was still alive. Thinking back to her own hospital adventure—she'd been shot trying to save a kid's life, only to have a nurse try to administer a prescription of poison—Max wondered if Ames White had gotten to them yet.

She knew Logan could find out what hospital they were in; but even so, the risks of a rescue would be great. If White had located them, Alec and Joshua might already be dead, or

moved, or simply used as bait for a trap to lure her. And if Max left Terminal City to go break them out, she would break faith with Clemente and put everything and everyone at risk.

If the only risk were her safety, she'd already be on her way. But now she had to take into consideration the effects of her actions on others.

Damn leadership, anyway—a pair of handcuffs.

Mole strode in, dropped his shotgun on the table and lit a cigar. He shook out the match and sat down across the table from her. "You okay, kiddo?"

"Peachy. Anything going on out there?"

He shook his lizard head. "Ever see them old war movies? 'Quiet—too quiet.' " He took a long drag on the cigar, then blew so much smoke out, it was like fog rolling in.

"Cops ain't movin'. They seem content to just wait for the big boys to get here with their tanks and shit."

"Yeah—won't be long now. The whole damn circus will be in town."

"Our people, though ..." His voice trailed off ominously.

"What?" she asked, sitting up.

"Mood's changing. They're worried out there, Max— maybe even scared. Look at the compound monitors."

Dix turned from his monitor. "Yeah, we got little pockets of somethin' or other, all over the place."

Max and Mole went up and looked over his shoulder. Almost every camera showed cliques of transgenics around the compound. Three or four, sometimes six or eight to a group, they all just seemed to be talking among themselves.

"What are they jawin' about, anyway?" Dix asked.

"They're planning," Max said. "In case we're not."

Mole puffed on his cigar. "Why? Don't we have a plan for when the Army gets here?"

She wished she had a good answer to that; but all she could give him was: "I'm still hoping it won't come to that."

"Yeah, I'm kinda hopin' my complexion clears up, too," he said, rubbing his reptilian cheek. "But just in case our dreams don't come true—" He waited for Max's eyes to meet his. "—might also make sense to have a plan in place."

Trouble was, there was no spin she could put on the notion of doing battle with the combined forces of the U.S. Army and National Guard within Terminal City that made it more palatable. "Tomorrow we'll put our heads together on that."

Sitting heavily on the edge of Dix's desk, the lizard commando said, "Anything you say, Scarlett O'Hara."

Not wanting to take this conversation any further, Max went back down the two stairs to the main floor. "Gotta check a couple of things. Be back."

Mole waved absently and Dix sat forward, eyes on his monitor, all his concentration focused on watching the splinter groups.

Stepping out into the sunshine, Max walked aimlessly for a while, allowing herself some quiet time. As she passed the groups they had seen on the monitors just a few minutes ago, some of the transgenics looked up at her expectantly. She smiled and tried to exude a confidence she didn't really feel. Most of them allowed her some space, but at the fourth group she passed, one of them—probably an X6, judging by the young man's features—separated himself and approached her.

He wore his brown hair shaved except for long braids set on each corner of his skull.

His jeans and T-shirt both looked like they hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine for months. Thin-faced, he had wide-set brown eyes, a small, straight nose, and full lips.

As he fell into step beside her, a smile creased his face. "How ya doin'?" he asked.

Returning his smile, she said, "Good. You?"

His smile disappeared. "Kind of... worried, actually."

"I can understand that."

"Rumor says the Army's comin' soon and that they have orders to kill everybody. I even heard there might be an air strike."

"Doubtful," Max said. "The media blade cuts both ways. We have a few protesters supporting us, you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah—they got their own signs, 'Save the Transgenics,' 'Stop All Animal and Human Testing,' that sort of thing. Not a huge group, but it indicates support we can build on.

What's your name?"

"Travis."

"Travis, it's going to be all right."

He frowned in thought. "So, the Army's not coming?"

"I didn't say that. I just don't think they're coming today."

"But when they do come ... ?"

He was keeping up with her as she walked the compound.

"We'll be ready."

Now he found another smile. "Thanks. Can I tell that to my buddies?"

"Sure—tell everybody and anybody that whatever happens, we'll face it together."

The smile faded. "Frankly ... that isn't much comfort, when you're worried that you're going to be... slaughtered. ..."

Max stopped and so did the young man. She looked un-blinkingly into his eyes.

"That's what this whole thing is about, Travis. It's not about whether we win or lose or tie. It's about facing this together, not alone. The Army wouldn't have any trouble with just one of us, would they?"

Travis shook his head.

"But what about hundreds of us? Thousands?"

He saw her point and grinned. "I'll spread the word," he said.

As she watched him leave, with some spring in his step,

her cell phone chirped. She pulled it out and flipped it open. "Go for Max."

"Hey, you."

Logan.

She smiled. "Hey."

"I thought I should let you know—I'm going to be gone for a while."

"How long a while?"

"Most of the day probably," he said. "I'm meeting Asha at Crash. I think I've got a lead on Sage Thompson ... and I need to talk to her about checking it out."

"Logan... it's getting tense here. I just talked to a young guy named Travis. He doesn't want the Army to come in and kill us all like animals."

"Can't blame him."

"What kind of name is that? Travis?"

"Well, Max... there was an officer at a famous battle in Texas, a long time ago, named Travis."

"What battle was that?"

"The Alamo."

"I haven't run across that in my reading, yet. How did it turn out?"

".. .Great. Everybody was a hero."

"That's something, anyway. Hey ... be careful."

"I will. You too."

She disconnected.

Logan Cale sat at his desk looking at the phone for a moment.

Max sounded exhausted, and he wished there was more he could do to help her. She took so much on her shoulders, but now there was nothing to be done about that...

... except, maybe, get to the bottom of the skinner mystery, and see if clearing that hateful story out of the headlines

could help ease the tension on the transgenics' situation in Terminal City.

Rising, Logan gathered his cell phone, his keys, and headed for the door. His car was parked near the end of the exit tunnel, and within ten minutes he was speeding toward the bar.

Crash, the favorite hangout of the Jam Pony gang, was nearly vacant at this hour of the day, the big video screens with the racing and other sports footage playing to a mostly nonexistent audience. Brick archways separated the Crash's three sections: the bar, the game room, and the restaurant area, with its tables and chairs. The jukebox, which usually screamed with metal-tinged rock music, stood mercifully silent; the occasional knock of pool balls from the back and the news on the television at the far end of the bar were the prominent sounds. A small lunch crowd would be in, in a half hour or so; but for the time being only the bartender and Asha were at the bar.

Logan came down the stairs and took a seat next to the blonde freedom fighter.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi, Asha."

A cup of coffee with cream sat in front of her. If it was her first, he wasn't that late.

She'd taken only a few sips and the liquid still steamed.

The bartender, a skinny, tattooed guy with long, greasy, black hair, shambled toward them from the TV His name was Ricky and he usually worked nights; judging from the bags under his eyes and the frown etched into his face, morning duty didn't suit him. He brought Logan a cup of coffee and shambled off again.

"He doesn't say much in the morning," Logan said.

Asha smiled. "He doesn't say much more at night. Now, tell me what the rush is."

"It's about that NSA agent we were looking for."

"Thompson," she said quietly.

He nodded. "I may have found something."

"Yeah?"

"Eyes Only has tracked him to the Armbruster Hotel."

"I know the place."

"Well enough to watch my back?"

"Oh yeah."

Daylight sliced across the bar, and they both looked up to see the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. The sun blinded them and they couldn't see him clearly, but there was something about the guy that seemed familiar. The tail of the man's overcoat waved once more, then the door closed.

Blinking furiously to readjust his eyes, Logan peered up at the man, who was already halfway down the stairs: black hair slicked back, tight dark eyes, and an olive complexion; dark suit with a white shirt and conservative striped tie.

Logan turned casually to Asha, but his words were as urgent as they were quiet. "Go—

he's White's man."

Asha slipped off the stool and meandered toward the back. She was a memory by the time the man came up and stood next to Logan, showing him a badge.

"I'm Special Agent Otto Gottlieb. Can we talk?"

Logan simply shrugged.

"May I sit?" Gottlieb asked, gesturing toward the stool.

"Free country."

"That's the theory," Gottlieb said as he hopped onto the stool. "Your friend sure left fast."

"Not my friend. I think she was a working girl, got a glimpse of you and thought,

'Cop.' "

"She wasn't wrong, was she? ... Mr. Cale, I need to talk to you."

So he knew Logan s name.

Ever casual, Logan said, "I'm listening."

"Not here. We need to go somewhere else."

Smiling, Logan said, "You'll pardon me if I don't jump at the chance, Agent Gottlieb, but that's not the most enticing pickup line I've heard in a bar.... People who go

'somewhere else' with government agents, these days, have a tendency to disappear for good."

Gottlieb looked shaken, a bead of sweat trailing down one side of his face, like a teardrop that lost its way. "Look, Mr. Cale—you work for Eyes Only."

"Actually, I'm self-employed."

"I need to talk to him."

Logan smiled broadly. "Why sure, no problem. He's an underground cyber journalist you feds have been after for years ... and now by simply asking me, you'll get a direct line to him, no questions asked.... And what would you like for your other two wishes?"

"Mr. Cale, what if I can give you an assurance that—"

"I don't work for Eyes Only. I share some of his distrust of the government, but it ends there. So maybe you better just leave."

Gottlieb didn't move. His attitude shifted, subtly. "As someone who doesn't know Eyes Only, Mr. Cale, can you tell me why your fingerprints were all over the apartment where we traced his last broadcast to?"

Logan started to rise, but Gottlieb put a hand on his arm. "I'm not here to arrest you. In fact, I have a gift for you—a show of good faith."

Withdrawing a manila envelope from his overcoat, he laid it on the counter between them.

Sitting down again, Logan asked, "What's this?"

"All the fingerprint files from the apartment. White never saw them."

Logan studied the agent; the man's face had a tortured sort of sincerity etched on it.

"What about the NSA fingerprint people?"

"They're no problem," Gottlieb said. "They delivered the print identification just as they were supposed to ... to me. Agent White lost interest in Eyes Only when the situation at Jam Pony came up. I give them to you now as a sign of my sincerity."

"These prove nothing," Logan said. "This could all still be in a computer anywhere."

"I've dealt with that. They're gone."

"Well, hell—what more assurance could I need than that?"

"Listen, Mr. Cale! Just hear me out."

Ricky the bartender wandered up. The agent shook his head and the bartender went back to the TV Logan wanted to bolt, but after slipping the envelope inside his jacket, he turned to face Gottlieb. "So talk."