The Mutant Prime (5 page)

“What?”

“I’ve been pretty happy with this life. When I’m not grappling for dead bodies on the Moon, that is. Or ducking reporters.” He looked at her, shading his eyes from the sun. “Shocked?”

“No,” she said bitterly. “Mutant councils can be merciless.”

Landon stared at her. His eyebrows curved upward in surprise. “You sound as if you speak from firsthand experience.”

“Me?” She shrugged quickly. “No. No. Just picked up the impression from newscasts, I guess.” She shoved thoughts of Michael back into the subbasement of her memory.

“I see.”

With elaborate casualness, Kelly looked away. She sifted sand between her fingers, chased a small green crab with her toe.

Landon watched her for a moment. Then he stood up and stretched again. “Well, guess I’ll go for a run. Want to come?”

“No thanks.”

He trotted off down the beach, a slim, muscled figure silhouetted against the white sand, legs pumping. Kelly watched him go. For a moment, she imagined him without the bathing suit, in bed, suspended above her, eyes glittering. Quick, think of something else.

She looked out over the blue-green water swelling gently. Maybe she
was
being a fool. There was hard work ahead. And if she had company, perhaps her dreams wouldn’t be so haunted by silent explosions in zero-G. Nor would her days center around her handsome, forbidden commander.

Don’t be such an iron woman, she told herself. Give in. Get yourself a little comfort. She walked up the beach to the sleek wooden beachhouse and requested Grant’s number from the wallscreen.

CHAPTER
THREE

.

Bright sunlight made patterns on the white floorboards and lavender rug. Narlydda looked at the wallscreen. Nine o’clock. Time to key up the old art machine and get going.

Her light easel stood in the corner by the broad picture window. She turned her back on the view of rugged coastline and plugged in her brush. From the palette, she selected a bronzed mix touched with green and sketched the curve of a man’s arm onto the screen.

Good, she thought. Model it just so. Now a bit of texture, here and here. Maybe a bit more umber for shading.

She was sweating, the silken rose-colored robe sticking to her back. Barely pausing in mid-stroke, she shrugged out of the robe. Naked, she stood, a slim celadon figure framed by the easel. She preferred to work this way. The room was warm, especially with the sunlight spilling through the windows. And on foggy mornings the walls provided radiant solar heat.

This is the way Skerry first saw me. Bursting through all my defenses to find the naked artist.

Across the room, the wallscreen rang.

Go away. Leave me alone.

She sketched fiercely, but with one ear cocked, waiting for the simulacrum to take the call. On the third ring, it did.

“You’ve readied the studio of Narlydda,” said a smooth female alto voice. “How may I help you?”

“Narlydda? Is it really you?”

The simulacrum Anne Verland paused. Narlydda could almost imagine the computer humming as it selected a quick response from its standard menu.

“This is not Narlydda. I am her business associate, Anne Verland.”

“Oh.” The caller sounded disappointed. “Well, please tell her my name is Wendy Thomas and that I just love her work, I’m her biggest fan. I’ve got holoprints of the
Lunar Web
,
Spanninger’s Congress
and
Seventeenth Mile
.”

“Thank you. She will be pleased.”

The caller rang off.

“I wonder how they get my number,” Narlydda said.

“No system is completely sealed,” the simulacrum responded.

Narlydda turned toward the screen. A rather prim-faced young woman with pale pink complexion, narrow lips, and gray eyes stared back at her. Anne Verland, faithful computer watchdog. Worth every Eurodollar she’d paid IBM/Bergen.

“That’s true,” she said, “but we do a pretty good job of keeping the riffraff out, don’t we, Anne?”

“Yes, Narlydda.”

“How does it feel, to be a ghost in the machine?”

“I’m sorry, Narlydda. I don’t understand. …”

“No, you’re not programmed to understand.” Narlydda’s golden eyes twinkled. “Never mind, Anne.”

“Do you require further service?”

“Not right now, Anne. Thank you.”

The screen shut down.

Narlydda turned back to the portrait. Her curiosity made her monitor most calls, even if she didn’t want to talk to three quarters of the people calling. But it was time to stop teasing the computer and get back to work.

She’d planned a bronze and crystal figure, with elegant holographed details to capture the fleeting expressions that would play upon the face, the movement of hair, the rise and fall of the chest, breathing. On the light easel, a figure of heroic proportions had taken form, half aquatic creature, half man. Well-muscled across the chest with large shoulders, bulging biceps. Long brown hair caught behind the neck in a ponytail. A clipped brown beard. Graceful finned tail curving up behind him. A beautiful merman. Narlydda stared at the sketch, shaken. It was Skerry, to the life.

“You’re in love,” she muttered. “At your age. Damn fool. It’s the last thing you need right now. Especially when the object of your affections isn’t talking to you.”

The doorbell chimed a high, ethereal triad, notes floating in the air for a moment. The doorscreen showed a young Japanese man with long, sleek hair and dark eyes, wearing a tan leather jacket over a gray silk jumpsuit. A purple jewel glittered in his cheek.

Anne Verland flickered back to life. “Identity?” she asked.

“Yosh Akimura. From Emory Foundation. Narlydda’s expecting me.” His voice was a pleasant tenor.

You’re early, Narlydda thought, and grabbed up her robe, settling it firmly around her. I haven’t had time to put on skin dye, or even a mask. She hesitated. Oh, what the hell.

She hit manual override and unlocked the door. “Come on in.”

Humming gently, the door slid back into the wall, giving the young musician just enough time to enter before it automatically slid back into place, locked.

Yosh nodded in admiration. “Nice system.”

“It should be. Cost at least one sculpture.”

He smiled. Then his smile faltered for a moment as he took her in. “Narlydda?”

“The real thing. Take a good look, young man. Not many people have the opportunity.” And I hope you’re happy, Skerry, wherever you are. She leaned over her desk and picked up a pad. “Please read the top sheet and sign it. It’s legally binding; a contract that you will not reveal to anybody in any way anything you’ve seen here. Just a formality, since Emory Foundation has a legal agreement that applies to each and every employee. Still …”

“You’re into detail,” he said. “Pen?”

She handed one to him. He signed with a flourish. She tore the top sheet off and fed it into the deskscreen.

“There. Well, so much for formalities. Come see my preliminary sketch, Yosh. Since we’re going to be collaborating, I’ll even ask your opinion.”

Yosh chuckled, but the sound died in his throat as he stared at her light easel.

“You like it?”

“That’s not the term I’d use.” He paused. “It’s very potent. Powerful. And beautiful. Sort of reminds me of Michelangelo’s
David
. But not really.”

“I’ll accept that,” she said, pleased by his comments. Well, so be it. Skerry would become the centerpiece of the Emory Foundation’s Moonstation plaza. A mutant merman on the moon. “Sit down, Yosh. Something to drink?”

“No thanks. I’m ready to get started whenever you are.”

“Eager beaver, huh? Well, I’m not quite ready to discuss materials, but—”

The screen rang.

“You’ve reached the studio of Narlydda,” said faithful Anne Verland. “How may I help you?”

“Melanie Ryton,” the caller replied. “Cable News. I’d like to interview Narlydda for our weekend features.”

The screen showed a young woman of about thirty, blue-eyed, although somehow there seemed to be something vaguely Oriental about the eyes. Her straight, silky dark hair was blunt cut at chin level and just brushed the edge of her yellow, high-necked tunic. Her expression was all business.

“Cute,” Yosh said. “Wish she were calling me.”

“Well, she’d probably rather talk to you than to my answering machine,” Narlydda said. “Not that she has a choice.” The image Melanie Ryton saw on her screen was Anne Verland sitting at her workstation, auburn hair pulled back into a bun. She, too, was all business. “I’d love to know how these media vampires find my number. Maybe I’d better change it again.”

“Narlydda is not available for interviews,” Anne Verland said. “We have a tape available from her museum retrospective last year. …”

“I’m not interested in that.” Melanie Ryton’s tone was brisk, aggressive. Narlydda didn’t care for it at all. “We want to give the Emory Foundation commission full coverage, and Narlydda’s participation is crucial.”

“I’m sorry,” Anne repeated. “Narlydda is not available for interviews.”

Good girl, Narlydda thought. Stonewall ’em.

“Can I reach her at this number later?”

“Narlydda does not answer this phone.”

“This is her corporate number. Is there any other number where I can reach her?”

“Narlydda does not give out her private number.”

“Then how can she be reached?”

“Narlydda does not give out her private number.”

“You’ve already said that. Look, I’ve got to talk to her.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“May I leave a message for her?”

“Narlydda does not return calls.”

Ms. Ryton sighed in exasperation. Narlydda almost felt sorry for her, pesty though she was.

“I’d like to leave a message anyway.”

“As you wish.”

“Please tell Narlydda that I must speak with her. It’s a matter of life or death—because I’m going to get killed by my boss if I don’t get this interview. All right?”

“Your message has been recorded.”

“Thanks. My number is 1213478712354. Ask her to call, day or night.”

The connection was broken.

Yosh whistled. “Tough lady.”

Narlydda chuckled. “Nice going, Anne. She was pretty insistent.”

“Aggressive. Yes. Reporters are often that way.”

Yosh gaped. “Your ‘answering machine’ is a simulacrum, isn’t it? I didn’t think any of those were commercially available yet.”

“I have good contacts in software.” She smiled slyly. “Anne is loyal, obedient, reliable. Almost everything I require in a companion.” Almost.

“What is she programmed for?”

“Phone and door, grounds surveillance. But she can do much more.”

“Such as?”

“Anne,” she said, “what do I look like?”

“You are approximately one and three-quarter meters in height, sixty-five kilograms in weight. You are forty-three years old, born in Oregon, of mutant ancestry, telekinetic skills highly advanced. Appearance: light green complexion, dark green hair with white patch in front, long nose …”

“That’s my description, give or take a few kilograms,” Narlydda said wryly. “But what do I look like to you?”

Anne Verland paused. Narlydda could almost hear the computer circuitry buzzing, straining over the unexpected question.

“I don’t understand.”

“Never mind.” Narlydda stared at the simulacrum. Should she put a portrait of Anne on the Moon? Immortalize her electronic amanuensis? It was an amusing thought. “Anne, how do you tell when there’s a real emergency on the line?”

“Voice analysis is usually sufficient.”

“What do you do then?”

“Notify the appropriate authorities or resources in the caller’s vicinity.”

Yosh cut in. “While they’re still on the line?”

“Yes, it’s a subsidiary connection, easy to make even while I speak with the caller.”

“And does the subsidiary connection also see Anne Verland on the screen?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Don’t you ever get confused about which Anne is which?”

“All of them are me,” the computer replied serenely. “Narlydda had me programmed with multiple image capacity.”

“Yes,” Narlydda said. “Although half the time I forget what I’ve programmed you with.”

“Would you like a printout …?”

“No thank you.”

The screen shut down.

“She’s very good.” Yosh shrugged off his jacket, reached into the pocket, and pulled out an envelope. “I brought you a personal message from Mrs. Emory.”

He handed her a sleek blue micropackette. Narlydda clipped it into the wallscreen.