The Mutant Prime (12 page)

Yosh grinned. “Hardly. This is part of my job. And the guest of honor really should dance, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.” Narlydda glanced doubtfully at the rotating platform. As long as we don’t fall off.”

“Don’t worry about that. There are g-fields all along the perimeter: if you started to slip, they’d just pull you back up.”

“In that case …” She allowed him to sweep her up and onto the dance floor. He was graceful, led well, and seemed to enjoy himself so much that Narlydda began to catch his mood. The platform seemed at least as stable as the shuttle that had brought her here. For the first time that evening, she began to relax.

“Guest of honor?” she teased. “I thought that was Mr. Ashman. In fact, I’d prefer it—at least that way, he could share the burden of good manners that falls upon all guests of honor but somehow never extends to anyone else.”

Yosh chuckled.

“But I don’t see him,” she said. “Where is he?”

“Tavia’s toy is probably resting,” Yosh said, swinging her in a complicated loop while weaving around two other couples. “He’ll be here later. Have you met him?”

“Briefly.”

“What’d you think?”

“He seems like a delicate flower. Fascinating. Not quite real.”

“Oh, he’s real enough,” Yosh said. “There’s a spine of steel behind those fainting spells.”

“You don’t sound impressed.”

“I’m not. I mean, I think his skills are impressive. But if that’s the next step awaiting mutants, I think I’m really grateful to be normal.”

Narlydda spun in his arms again. “Poor Yosh. Surrounded by mutants. Must seem a bit tiresome.”

“It is. No offense. I like your green filters, by the way. But I get tired of all these golden eyes. Tavia even wanted
me
to wear those damned lenses. We had a real battle over it.”

“And you won.”

Before he could respond, the music changed to a fanfare of horns. The dance platform lowered gently until it was level with the rest of the ballroom floor.

Narlydda and Yosh came to rest facing the main entrance. Slowly, the door petals irised open to reveal Ashman, glowing in red silk pants and tunic. His skin was silvery, seemingly translucent. Narlydda expected to see his veins pulsing, silver-blue, just beneath the skin.

Ashman ignored the clamor of the guests and made his way toward Narlydda.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said eagerly. “So glad you’re here.”

“That’s very flattering.” Narlydda paused, uneasy. He seemed as guileless as a small boy. “I’d been wondering where you were.”

“Were you?” He smiled in delight. “Come talk to me, Narlydda. I want to hear about your work. About you. I think in some ways, we’re very much alike.” He took hold of her arm possessively. His touch was surprisingly strong.

Tavia Emory bore down upon them. “This is a party, Victor. You mustn’t ignore the other guests.”

Narlydda flashed her a grateful look. “Yes,” she said. “You have so many people here who are so anxious to see you—they’re all bored with me already.” She forced a yawn. “And I’ve been up since dawn. I’d really like to lie down. But don’t forget our appointment, Tavia. Tomorrow, before I leave.”

“You’re leaving?” Ashman seemed thunderstruck. “But I thought we were going to take a shuttle ride up to see Moonstation to survey the plaza and—”

“All commercial and private flights to Moonstation have been canceled,” Tavia said curtly. “You know that. Even the Emory fleet has been denied clearance. And besides, Narlydda has work to do.”

“Yes,” the artist said. “I have commitments and work at home.”

Ashman looked so crestfallen that she almost felt sorry for him. But the urge to get away was stronger.

“Oh.” He looked at the floor sadly. Then he brightened. “Well, maybe I’ll see you before you leave.”

“Of course.”

He waved and, with Tavia at his side, moved on into the crowd.

Relieved, Narlydda watched him go. He was an odd one, all right: spooky, even for a mutant. She looked around, but Yosh had disappeared. A pity. Narlydda would have liked to thank him for the dance, but she didn’t see a trace of him in the swirling mix of partygoers. Never mind. She could find her way back to her room alone. In five minutes, she was alone, safe behind the glazed pink-and-gold door.

Parties! The small talk. The patience and bright talk required of her despite the endless, presumptuous rudeness on the part of grotesque strangers. Why had she come here? How she longed for the quiet of her own home.

Gladly, she put aside her party finery and crawled into the huge bed. The covers were pale pink and feather-light. A soothing floral scent wafted toward her from the pillow. She fell into a comfortable slumber, dreaming at first that she was walking along a moonlit landscape, Skerry at her side. In silence, they walked, hand in hand. But as they approached a fork in the path, Skerry released her, moving away on a separate trajectory. “Don’t go,” she called. “Come back.” But he dwindled until he was only a bright spot of light on the horizon. And then gone. But wait … he’s coming back. Yes, riding through the white haze of the desert, moonlight on him, atop a silver horse. But it’s not Skerry. No. The face is pale, eyes silvery. It’s Ashman, and before she can speak, he dismounts and pulls her toward him, into his own private world, and he is touching her without touching her. She is silvery green, bathed in moonlight, sighing with delight at his mindtouch, dancing in his arms to strange music. His hands, when they reach her, are gentle, so gentle at first. And then less so, but that’s good too. And the small voice behind her eyes which is saying no, no, not this one, stop it, this isn’t a dream, that voice is very faint, very weak, and after a time, she doesn’t hear it at all. The only thing she can hear is her own blood pulsing as she dances in the moonlight, naked, in the middle of a silvery dream desert, with Ashman.

The California desert air sizzled, even in January. Michael hurried into the building, grateful for its refrigerated cool. He shivered as the sweat evaporated from his body.

I can’t believe Melanie’s here, he thought. It’s good to see her. A welcome distraction from the business of the investigation. Hope I wasn’t too hard on her. Hard to know how to act with her.

He walked quickly toward the main auditorium, repeating the chant for calmness. Ahead of him, the black doors loomed like sentinels.

Here goes everything.

Michael took a deep breath, pushed open the old-fashioned double doors, and entered the auditorium. The room was shabby and badly in need of repainting, with a mottled, greenish tint to the walls. Down front, the congressional subcommittee sat in the isolation that authority confers: suspended five feet above the crowd on a curved, raised platform.

“Michael Ryton! Calling Michael Ryton,” the wallscreen announced.

Nerves jumping, he hurried down the narrow aisle, aware of every eye in the place trained on him. Michael stood before the video terminals that lined the base of the front platform to confirm his identification. Placed his hand against the palmpad for fingerprint check. That completed, he took a seat beside Bill Sutherland. The congressmen stared down at him imperiously.

Kate Fisher, the salty consumer advocate and Democratic representative from Rhode Island, presided. Next to her sat Roland Johnston, D-Mississippi, Tami Feldman, D-New York, Jason Jordon, R-Wisconsin, and Darlene Timons, R-Oregon.

“Talk about a packed jury,” Michael whispered to Sutherland. “They’re notoriously antibusiness.”

Bill Sutherland gave him a sympathetic smile.

Kate Fisher glared over her old-fashioned lenses framed in silver and gold chromium.

“Mr. Ryton, it’s my understanding that you requested the opportunity to make a taped sworn deposition rather than appear here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m a busy man, and—”

“Too busy to appear before a congressional inquiry? My goodness, that’s busy indeed.” Representative Fisher smiled frostily. Beside her, Representative Johnston snickered.

Michael kept his face impassive.

“Mr. Ryton,” Representative Fisher continued. “Your company specializes in space engineering, does it not?”

“Yes.”

“You have completed several contracts for NASA, and have constructed Brayton generators for Moonstation?”

“That is correct.”

“Has your firm constructed any of the environmental dome units on Moonstation?”

“Only two subsidiary units to store mechs.”

She bore down on him. “Will you describe what safety features are standard requirements on these dome units?”

“We use an extruded polymer, a half-meter thick, heat and cold tempered, designed specifically to withstand artificial gravity and atmospheric pressures in vacuum and pressurized environments.”

Fisher sighed as though the details bored her. “Were you familiar with the materials used for the dome unit that imploded?”

“Only in passing. The materials were all standard, as far as I could tell.”

“Could tell?”

Bill Sutherland cut in. “I respectfully remind the congresswoman that Mr. Ryton was not present during the fabrication of this dome, nor involved in the contract. His father agreed to act as subcontractor for Aubenay—”

“Yes, yes, we know all that,” Fisher said. She turned toward her chalk-white deskscreen. “Play back Captain McLeod’s testimony.”

McLeod? Michael felt a chill. The screens before him came to life with a dozen images of a woman in a purple uniform. She had a heart-shaped face, short, dark hair, and blue eyes. It was a face from out of his past. His dreams. Kelly McLeod.

“I looked up and saw the dome cracking. …” the recorded image said. Michael stared in wonder. She hadn’t changed in fifteen years. The soft lips. The pale skin. She was still lovely. He closed his eyes. Opened them, and saw her. Not the image, but Kelly herself. She was sitting at the far side of the first row of spectators, wearing a purple shuttle corps uniform, which made her seem official and yet appealing all at the same time. Her dark hair was cut shorter than he remembered, curling around her face. Her eyes, deep blue, sparkled as he remembered. Her face was pale.

Kelly. Here, now. Michael’s heart began to pound.

Her eyes met his. Her mouth opened in shock. What was she thinking?

The drone of the recorded testimony ended. Michael became aware of the silence surrounding him. Representative Fisher stared at him severely.

“Have you any response, Mr. Ryton?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.”

“You don’t
think
so?”

Michael’s cheeks reddened. “Could I hear the testimony again?”

Fisher sighed in disgust. “Replay.”

The tape began again: Kelly’s clear alto voice soberly recounting the implosion at Moonstation. When it ended, the congresswoman looked at him expectantly.

Concentrate, he told himself. Moonstation. Stress on the dome supports.

“When was the dome last checked for fatigue and for faults?” Michael asked.

Fisher turned to an aide behind her. He glanced down at a notescreen, then replied, “Six months ago, regular maintenance.”

“With all due respect, we recommend a twelve-week maintenance survey in vacuum environments,” Michael said.

“Mr. Ryton, it’s difficult to take your position seriously,” Fisher said. “How can you recommend additional safety checks now, considering that you and your father were involved in supporting legislation fifteen years ago that removed safety regulations on space engineering?” Her tone was frankly hostile.

Michael bristled. “That’s misleading and untrue. We only lobbied for reduction of certain unnecessary measures. …”

“Unnecessary to whom?” Fisher said. “Would the Moonstation casualties still be alive and among us now if those safeguards had been in place?”

“I have no idea.”

“No idea?”

Bill Sutherland broke in. “I again respectfully remind the congresswoman that Mr. Ryton was neither the primary contractor, nor the engineer assigned to this project. Without additional information …”

“And I again tell you that we’re aware of these facts,” Fisher said sharply. “Nevertheless, Mr. Ryton, you refuse to see a connection between your lobbying efforts and corresponding relaxation of industry standards which might have resulted in this tragedy?”

“Absolutely,” Michael said. “The measures we addressed concerned the engineering of generators and factory equipment. Not environmental domes.”

“But didn’t they have long-term effects upon industry standards?”

“I doubt it. But more specifically, I don’t know.”

“How convenient.” Fisher gave him a look of pure malice. “Nevertheless, these fatigue flaws to which you allude sound like an attempt to shift attention away from the materials your firm generated. Couldn’t the materials have been flawed to begin with? The engineering substandard?”

Michael’s face turned red with anger. “They never would have been allowed out of the plant. As my lawyer has said repeatedly, my firm was a subcontractor for this dome. I suggest you interview the primary contractor.” He glared back at Fisher. It was Aubenay’s dome, and his problem.