The Mutant Prime (27 page)

They moved through the pressurized portal and into a dome environment carpeted in soothing greens and blues. The cold white stars winked at them through the transparent dome casing.

“Home at last,” Ashman said. He unzipped his orange pressure suit and gestured for her to do the same. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.” Her stomach felt like a leaden ball.

“Well, I’m starved.” He straightened his gray pants and tunic. “Space travel must work up a hearty appetite.”

She watched in amazement as he sauntered toward the mech wall and ordered a choba roll.

Doesn’t anything bother him? she thought. A quick trip up in the shuttle and he’s ready for lunch.

With a grinding whine, the mech extruded the food through a white acrylic nozzle. Ashman caught it telekinetically, unwrapped it, and popped one of the green rolls into his mouth. “Mmm. Pretty good.” Munching contentedly, he wandered around the dome.

Why has he brought me here, hundreds of miles above the Earth? What was he thinking of, she wondered. Or was he thinking at all? Would he just lead her on a strange odyssey? What was next, the Moon? She was getting tired of being dragged around like somebody’s baggage.

“Ashman, why are we here?” Narlydda demanded.

He looked astonished. “You’re angry. Why? I just wanted to be someplace less public. Less accessible. And easy to defend.”

“This is easy to defend?” She gestured skeptically around the room.

“Of course.” Ashman sounded as though he were addressing a four-year-old child. “Richard Emory had all his factories equipped with state-of-the-art nuclears and lasers.”

“What? He must have been paranoid,” Narlydda said. “Besides, I thought private arsenals were outlawed years ago.

Ashman’s laughter bounced around the dome.

“You know that the rich can always find or finance ways to circumvent the rules.” He finished the last bite of choba roll and wiped his fingers fastidiously on a napkin. “And Mr. Emory didn’t just circumvent the rules. He reinvented them. His factories are orbital fortresses. I don’t even think Tavia knew to what extent her husband was prepared for Armageddon. How disappointed he must have been when it never arrived. And now it never will.”

“You hope.”

“I know.” Ashman wasn’t smiling anymore. “Once I’ve had a chance to rest and gain my strength, I’ll make sure that I enforce a lasting peace. That was Tavia’s intention for me, and I’d like to make it a kind of memorial to her.”

“Memorial? Then you did kill her!”

“I didn’t want her killed.” Ashman frowned and his voice took on an earnest tone. “Truly I didn’t. But Tavia can be so tiresome. So demanding. She’d never have left me alone. And her dreams of a pure, perfect peace led by the Mutant Council were pathetic. I thought maybe if I kept her asleep for a while, I could get away. That shot was supposed to simulate a comatose state. But Sarnoff overdid it, the idiot.”

“So you killed him, too?”

“Stop interrogating me, Narlydda!” Ashman’s eyes flashed angrily. “I had to get away. To establish myself.”

“Gods, what have I done?” Narlydda cried. “I should have blown us both to hell and back when I had the chance.”

“Don’t be silly,” Ashman said. “You’d have missed all the fun to come.” His expression turned icy. “You know, I don’t think you really value the opportunity I’ve given you. What artist doesn’t want all the time and freedom there is to work? And you’ve always hated intrusions—or so you’ve said. You should be grateful that I’ve given you a haven from the annoying, noisy nonmutant world. Why should you need or want anything else?”

He walked into an adjoining domeroom, gesturing for her to follow.

“We’ll sleep here,” he said. “The workrooms are beyond, in the next domespace. I think there’s a bathroom around here someplace.”

“That would be useful.” She gazed at the large couch in the middle of the room. Sleeping with Ashman? She shuddered at the thought.

He ignored her sarcasm. “And there’s something I think you’d like to see.” He beckoned toward a doorway, and despite her fear and irritation, Narlydda followed him. Peering through, she saw a large domeroom filled with glittering apparatus. It was a fully equipped robotic lab. As Narlydda watched, gleaming silver mechs shuttled between vacuum centrifuges and refrigeration units. She looked around quickly, but there didn’t appear to be any exits.

“Eye of newt, toe of bat,” Ashman intoned, rubbing his hands together. Then he stopped, piqued. “Aren’t you going to ask me what’s cooking?”

He really is crazy, Narlydda thought. Calm down. Play along. Maybe you’ll find a chance to escape. She bowed cautiously, and said aloud, “A thousand apologies. And just what have you got bubbling on the stove?”

“It’s a surprise,” Ashman said gleefully. “What a shame that Dr. Sarnoff couldn’t join us. But two’s company. Luckily, he lent me his secret formula for enhancing mutant strength. Once you’ve had some, we’ll be a perfect match.”

“Had some?” She stared at him in alarm. “What is that stuff?”

“Think of it as mutant steroids,” Ashman said. “It’s wonderful. Just imagine the artwork you’ll produce. Oh, you’ll create quite a stir. I’m sure of it.”

“No thanks.” Narlydda began backing toward the door as fast as she could. Get to the shuttle, she thought. Get away. At least try.

“You are ungrateful, aren’t you?”

Steely, telekinetic fingers gripped and held her, unmoving. In horror, Narlydda watched a hypo fill with silvery liquid and float toward her.

“No, Ashman. Please. Don’t!”

The sting of the hypo cut off any further pleas.

The serum burned a path up her arm across her chest and along her other limbs, throughout her body, as though she were enflamed. If Ashman’s telekinesis hadn’t held her upright, she would have fallen to the floor.

“It’s not supposed to hurt,” Ashman said, sounding surprised and petulant. “It didn’t hurt me.”

“I’m not like you,” Narlydda gasped, appalled. Her arms and legs were shaking, spasming. She was burning up, being consumed from the inside out. “No, no, no,” she cried. “Make it stop. I thought you liked me, Victor. Help me.”

But even as she reached toward him in her fear and pain, he seemed to recede, to melt and run along the edges as she watched, until there was just a puddle of Ashman in front of her, shimmering in tones of silver and gray. Then a dozen tiny Ashmans sprang up, a miniature supermutant army, and advanced toward her, each one of them grinning insanely. Terrified, Narlydda pushed them away with her mind, and they splattered against the dome like bugs on a windshield.

“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” Ashman’s voice said approvingly. But it sounded odd, elongated and slow.

Narlydda’s blood beat a ragged tattoo in her head, her neck, her wrists. The pain was receding now, and the fear with it, replaced by an electrifying surge of power and strength. She felt the insane urge to dance and caper in time to that compelling blood rhythm. To grab Ashman’s hand and go waltzing around the room to a wild mutant two-step.

“I’m a nobody, who are you? Are you a nobody too?” she quoted. Then she giggled. The room needed flowers. Lots of flowers. She would cover the floor, the dome, blot out the cold, merciless stars with garlands of red, purple, yellow dahlias and moonflowers, fabulous blooms that she’d invent and then, maybe, Ashman would make them real.

Let there be flowers, she thought. And music. And sculpture. Lots of sculpture. She’d send for Anne Verland right away and tell her to clone all her sculpture. Maybe they’d need more dome space. Ashman would have to think about that.

“Whoa, now. Slow down,” Ashman said, grabbing her hand,

But she didn’t want to slow down. She could dance for days. All she needed were the musicians. She already had the crazy drummer beating away in her chest. When had she ever had this much energy? Didn’t Ashman understand? He of all people should understand. They could rule the world, the two of them. The misfit duo: Ashman and the green lady. But his grip was annoying. And what was he saying to her? He was making too much noise, like a buzzing mosquito. She couldn’t hear herself think. She needed space. Room. And most of all, she needed silence.

“Go!”

With a telekinetic snap, she shoved him away from her as easily as flicking an insect. How amusing to hear his astonished gasp, to see the horrified look on Ashman’s face as he went staggering back toward the centrifuge. Only his own powers kept him from a nasty bump on the head. Narlydda giggled. And now he looked mad. Oooh. Look out, here he comes.

Ashman flew at her, his face boiling with rage.

Stop that. Now
.

The mental command was sharp. Thunderous.

Narlydda ignored it.

“I told you to stop!” Ashman yelled.

“Now, now,” Narlydda said, waggling an admonishing finger at him. “You ought to watch that temper. And really, you shouldn’t mess in somebody else’s kitchen. Especially if you’re not a very good cook.”

Instead of flying at her again in a rage, Ashman stood back pensively. “I see your point,” he said. Behind him, another hypo filled with silver fluid. In two quick movements, he’d injected himself.

Narlydda stopped laughing.

Ashman’s eyes glowed with cold silver fire. He blinked, and she went toppling backward, somersaulting across the room. With a crash, she came to rest against the panels of the refrigeration cabinets.

That son of a bitch! She sat up, shaking her head to stop its slow, dizzying spin. How dare he!

Narlydda cast around her for something to throw. Telekinetically, she yanked a stool out of its storage slot and heaved it at the supermutant. He ducked, but she changed the arc of the stool’s trajectory and caught him with it at the knees. Ashman toppled, cursing.

Above their heads, a wallspeaker broadcast a burst of radio static It was loud and annoying. Narlydda shut it off.

Ashman was on his feet now, glowering at her. “Don’t make me do something I might regret,” he said. His voice was very high and strange.

For answer, Narlydda shoved him into a bulkhead.

“Is this a private game, or can anybody play?” a familiar voice asked.

Ashman whirled to face the intruder. “How did you get in here?” he demanded.

“Just followed your breadcrumbs.”

Narlydda knew that voice, that smile. It was her one true love, the man in the Moon, and he’d come all this way just for her. For little green her. She laughed with delight and triumph.

“Skerry!”

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

.

Skerry pushed back the orange sleeves of his pressure suit and stood, hands on hips, glaring across the domeroom at Ashman.

“You left a tough trail for me to follow,” Skerry said. “I’d have been here sooner, but cutting through that stealth field was a bitch, even for me. Lucky thing you left the front door to the factory open.” He cast a sharp glance at Narlydda. “Lydda, you look funny.”

“Ashman gave me some magic potion,” she said happily. She hummed a song fragment as her gaze wandered around the room. “Hi, Yosh. Hi, Melanie.”

“He what?” Skerry rounded on Ashman. “Are you crazy? What the hell did you do to her?”

“I never touched her,” Ashman said. “And I don’t have to answer any questions. Get out.”

“Not bloody likely.” Skerry moved toward him. His hands were balled into fists.

“Then I’ll just throw you out,” the supermutant said. His voice was thin and whispery but his eyes flashed with anger.

A green bolt of telekinetic energy slashed across the room toward Skerry.

“Melanie, Yosh, get behind me!” he yelled. “Get down!”

Yosh grabbed hold of Narlydda’s hand and yanked her down with them.

Spitting green sparks and hissing angrily, the telekinetic bolt hit Skerry full on, knocking the bearded mutant backward as it washed over and enfolded him in a deadly coruscating net.

Melanie closed her eyes in despair. Skerry was dead. He had to be. Nobody could survive that voltage.

“No,” Narlydda cried. She thrashed wildly in Yosh’s arms. “No, no, no. I won’t let you do it, Ashman.” Yanking herself free, she reached, panting, toward Skerry.

“Gods,” Yosh whispered. “Melanie, look at that.”

She was lying flat on her face on the scratchy carpet, just behind Yosh. Carefully, Melanie opened her eyes. And stared in wonder. Like a serpent recoiling, the telekinetic snare was pulling back into itself, disappearing as it released Skerry from its malignant grip.

“What’s that around him?” Melanie said.

“Protection,” Narlydda said. She slumped down, pale and exhausted, every bit of energy spent fighting off Ashman’s attack.

Skerry shimmered and glowed as though his skin were afire. A glittering esper shield stretched to cover him as he stood up and faced Ashman once more.

“I really don’t like you,” Skerry said, and his voice smoldered with rage. “You or your style.” As he spoke, a dark cloud formed around Ashman like a suffocating gray caul.