Mutant Legacy (26 page)

i
t
soo
n
became
obvious
to
me
that most of the
true
believers
on the staff, while devoted to Better World and possessed of the best intentions, did not possess the organizational abilities to make good administrators. I would have to look outside of our little nest for professionals: a financial officer, a city planner, and a director of therapeutic services.

First onboard was Ginny Quinlan, a smart, no-nonsense young woman born in Maryland and sporting both the fine-boned features and nervous energy of a thoroughbred. She had an MBA from Harvard and extensive experience with multinational corporations. She seemed to be just what Better World needed and promised to keep the corporation’s finances in order.

Next came Don Torrance, fresh from a stint as assistant city manager of Peoria. When his friend the mayor lost her job in an election, Don began sending out résumés and somehow I got a hold of one. I had long been convinced that Better City had to be maintained by a professional: the fire that destroyed two-thirds of the city proved to me that we were not managing things properly. Don was young, brash, and ambitious. I assumed that time would erode some of his rough edges and hired him, appointing him city manager and planner, answerable only to me.

Barsi came to us from the Mayo Clinic. She was a psychologist and therapist with excellent recommendations. Just what the Better World Clinic needed. But at first I rejected her application. Her dark good looks reminded me uncomfortably of Star. Nevertheless, Betty persevered and convinced me to hire Barsi to oversee the clinics. Obviously, she had spied the girl’s devoted nature from the start and thoroughly approved of her.

And so, inadvertently, I helped to create the very conditions in which, inevitably, a coup would be formulated to depose me.

Initially, the portents were all to the good. Ginny immediately streamlined our accounting procedures and bookkeeping. She seemed to be able to do the work of at least three people. Meanwhile, Barsi proved herself as a dedicated, patient administrator who untangled snarled paperwork, made intelligent referrals on difficult cases, and even managed to lure me into participating in one or two tricky therapeutic procedures. She was kind, intelligent, gentle, and tactful, and she managed to keep her ambitions completely hidden while slowly and thoroughly enchanting me.

Don Torrance remained a jangling presence but a necessary one: he was full of energy and ideas, and his brashness had to be tolerated in order to benefit from his skills. I reminded myself that Rick had not always been that easy to get along with. And in short order, Don had revamped our emergency response systems, upgraded our water-pumping and energy-generating capabilities, and began to draw up plans for expanding Better City.

Freed from the mundane responsibilities, I could devote my attention to the sharings and my research. It was a most fulfilling existence. The faithful greeted me warmly in the halls of Better World headquarters, in the streets, wherever I went. Of course, I enjoyed all the attention but it was a drain on me and eventually I decided that I had become perhaps a bit too accessible. I had hoped to maintain an open-door policy but that was obviously unfeasible. After all, what doctor can afford to have each and every patient drop by for a chat whenever he felt like it?ligretain an

When Betty, Barsi, and Ginny approached me concerning the need for my own private residence I initially fought them off. I hated the hassle of moving and was a man of increasingly entrenched habits. Nevertheless, they persisted, and reluctantly I endorsed their plans to build my official residence, replete with guardhouse and secret underground passages leading into Better World HQ. Without realizing it I helped to create the very conditions whereby a coup would become possible: isolate the head of the organization so that, at the appropriate time, it can be cut off without making an awful, bloody mess.

My new digs were luxurious indeed, four stories of graceful rooms and impressive views. The interior walls were whitewashed adobe, the floors were hand-rubbed pine, and the furniture was comfortable, low-slung, and thoroughly unobtrusive. I allowed Betty and Barsi to talk me into a spot of color here and there: venerable Navajo weavings and kilim carpets were scattered over the floors and hung upon the walls. I never tired of their jagged designs and thick textures. I kept a framed picture of Star at my bedside but aside from that retained few sentimental objects. I didn’t have time for them.

My favorite moments were dawn and dusk when the changing play of light across the mountains created a thousand moods and colors. I enjoyed fantasizing that I could see Star in the sunrise and Rick at twilight.

I settled happily into my new home, enjoying both its privacy and Spartan beauty. Occasionally, very occasionally, I regretted that I had no one with whom to share it. But my interest in having a regular companion seemed to have died with Star, and most of my erotic energy seemed tied into the group sharings: I had little left to spare. I’m certain that Barsi would have been happy to join me in bed and was perhaps a bit puzzled that she was never asked.

When Betty’s husband died she offered the use of her ranch to Better World as a training center and private retreat. It seemed a fine idea to me and in return I suggested that she move into a small house in Better City. I thought that the company of fellow staffers, the weekly get-togethers, the group trips, and the general therapeutic atmosphere would be a boon for her and she readily agreed. Almost immediately she joined a volunteer outreach group that spent part of each month providing services to communities in the remotest areas of New Mexico.

Better City itself had grown both up and out: at night, when I glanced through the window at the golden lights of the community, I imagined that someone had scattered the contents of a jewel box across the New Mexican desert.

I believed that Better City was a model community and I still do: it was filled with a lively mixture of people, all ages and ethnos, brought together by need, common interest, and belief. Our schools provided first-rate education and our children grew up straight, strong, and committed to doing for others as much as for themselves. Community theater and arts flourished, and Better City’s garden club maintained the public areas of the city as well as each member’s private garden.

We encouraged participation in team sports at every age level, and one of the favorite annual events was the baseball game between the Better City Little and Senior Leagues.

The years passed, not without controversy and many challenges to Better World, but they passed nonetheless. I didn’t really notice that so much time had gone by until Betty died and I woke up the next morning old and alone. When I looked out the window, I saw the earth-moving machines advancing on the area beyond the Better City stadium.

The knock at my door disturbed my morning meditations and I slowly swam upward through the layers of consciousness until I could speak. “Come in.”

The door opened to reveal a burly Better World staffer in a green jumpsuit, heavy gloves, and boots. He had a long red pigtail and a full, bushy beard. “Morning, Dr. Akimura.”

“Who are you?”

“Mike Barker. I’m here to help you move.”

“Move? What are you talking about?”

A cloud passed over the genial face. “They told me you were all set to go. Don’t tell me they forgot to call you.”

“Who is they?”

“Mr. Torrance. And Ms. Quinlan.”

“I see. Well, they were wrong. I’m sorry, Mike. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But—”

“I’ve got to get back to my meditations.” I closed the door and locked it.

A moment later the screen began buzzing. I let it buzz. Finally, it stopped. A few minutes later there was a terrific pounding at my door.

“What is it?”

“Julian, it’s Ginny. We need to talk.”

I glared at the door in annoyance. “Can’t it wait?”

“No. Please, Julian. Let me in.”

I opened the door to find both Ginny and Barsi waiting for me.

“Well, what is it?” I said.

A silent, determined look passed between the two women. The silence lengthened until I was about to say something. But then Ginny turned to look at me, chin thrust out. “Julian, we owe you an apology. We each thought the other had told you, and it turns out nobody had.”

“Told me what?”

“About the plumbing: we’ve traced a series of leaks to the pipes below your house, and unfortunately, we’ve got to tear up the floor to get to them. I’ve arranged to have you move into an apartment next to Barsi until the entire mess is over.”

“I haven’t noticed any leaks.”

“Nevertheless, the pipes must be fixed.”

“But I don’t want to move.”

The two women exchanged nervous glances. I began to suspect that something peculiar was going on.

“Now, Julian,” Barsi said quickly. “You know you have to reserve all of your energies for the sharings. And to teaching those among us whom you’ve chosen to continue the tradition. You can’t be at the top of your form if you’ve got to climb over workers and equipment. Think of the mess and the noise.”

She smiled but instead of my usual melting response I felt chilled to the tips of my toes.

“I was just telling Ginny what a fine idea it is to have your apartments moved back into Better World, to the ground floor, next to mine.” Her dark eyes glistened with unmistakable invitation but I wasn’t buying it. “I’m looking forward to having you as my neighbor so we can work together more closely.”

More closely indeed. I forced myself to shake off tho sard e pleasant reveries her seductive insinuations evoked. I was a saintly and foolish old man—at least I had to convince them of that long enough to outwit this obvious attempt to put me under their surveillance. And once they had me there, I was certain they would never allow me to return to my own digs.

“Why in the world would I want to move?” I said. “I’m perfectly comfortable where I am. In fact, I’ve finally gotten my rooms set up exactly the way I’ve always wanted them.”

Another exchange of glances, this time amused and almost condescending. Things were worse than I had thought. Much worse.

“We’re glad to hear that,” Ginny said. “But you simply must vacate for the time being. We’ll try to get this over with as quickly as possible. It’s only temporary, understand?”

“Oh, I certainly do understand,” I said.

For a moment no one spoke. Barsi and Ginny looked at each other and looked hastily away.

“Good,” Ginny said.

We exchanged tight smiles and nods all around, but nobody was fooled. Plumbing, indeed! They had as good as announced their intentions: their coup was under way and I seemed helpless to prevent it.

This was real. Right here—right now—the battle had been forced upon me. Suddenly I had to fight desperately to hold on to the edifice that Rick and I—and Alanna and Betty—had built.

I tried not to panic as I cast about for some way to maintain control. It was not a task I relished, nor one for which I really felt that I had the strength. But I could not allow Better World to fall into strangers’ hands. Not in my lifetime. It was a calling, not a business, and I would fight anyone who wanted to use it to maximize profits at the expense of healing the needy.

When Barsi called to reschedule the transport of my possessions to the location they had selected I pleaded indisposition, an upset stomach. It would work, temporarily. But I could not elude them for long.

“Are you ill?” Barsi asked. Onscreen, her dark eyes gleamed with concern and suspicion. Despite my peril and the tension between us I felt a brief faint throb of some odd, unused feeling—love? lust?—but shrugged it off. For all I knew, Barsi’s attraction for me was her faint resemblance to my lost and lamented Star. Whatever the emotion, I didn’t trust it and certainly had no intention of acting upon it now.

“I just feel tired,” I said. “A little bit dizzy.”

Her eyes widened. “I can have healers at your door in five minutes.”

“No, no, my dear.”

Her worry seemed genuine. Sweet, lovely Barsi. She probably thought that she really did have my best interests at heart even as she conspired against me.

“I’m sure that a little rest will put me to rights,” I said. “A bit of sea air. I want to go to our retreat in Mendocino. A good old-fashioned mutant healing session will shape me up in no time at all.”

She looked dismayed. “But there’s a group sharing scheduled here in four days. I don’t see how you can leave.”

Yes, that’s right. They still needed me for the sharings—at least until my trainees had finished their apprenticeships. I wasn’t quite useless to them. But Barsi didn’t dare order me to stay here under her careful, devoted scrutiny. Ned sot yet.

“I’ll be back by then,” I said. “And this way you can get those damned plumbing repairs taken care of without having to move anything. Now, is there anything urgent, so pressing that I need to know about it before I go?”

“No, nothing.” She was a poor liar, for which I was grateful. So I knew that their plans to depose me had proceeded, full speed. This gave me pause. Was I really doing the smart thing? To leave when they were strengthening their control could be a poor move, strategically. But if I did not go now I might find myself prevented from doing so later. I could too easily envision a scenario in which I was held at Better World under house arrest, their captive sage, hooked on group sharings but otherwise incommunicado.