2015-08-21
402
When transgenic blood derivatives bring miraculous cures to Seattle, Max and other newly-free transgenics find themselves once again in danger of imprisonment and even death at the hands of those who want to exploit them.
PROLOGUE
A street in Sector 4
At first glance they looked just like any other young family in post-Pulse Seattle. The parents were dressed in shabby, probably second-hand clothes, and the little girl curled up in her father's arms was bundled up in a winter coat that was too big for her. A cop in a patrol car, passing under a streetlight, smiled at them. Poor, sleepy kid, his expression seemed to say. The parents smiled back.
But the cop didn't see the way the father's arm tightened protectively around the girl's waist, or how her mother stopped smiling the moment the patrol car vanished into the winter darkness.
The parents glanced at each other. Cautiously, the woman knocked on the door of a run-down building. After a long wait, the door opened just a crack.
"Name?" said a voice from inside.
"Dr. Bowen sent us," said the woman nervously.
The door opened wider. "Inside," the voice commanded, and the couple stepped into complete darkness. Suddenly a bright light shone in their faces and they instinctively shielded their eyes. The little girl whimpered into her father's shoulder.
"Got the money?"
The woman reached into her coat and brought out an envelope full of cash, which was instantly snatched from her hand. "This way," the voice said. They made their way down a dark hallway into a room containing a battered old doctor's examination table and an IV stand. In the dim light they saw that their guide was a good-looking, young, Asian man wearing a black hooded sweatshirt.
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"Here," he said, indicating the table. Gently, the man laid the little girl down. She whimpered again.
"It's all right, baby," whispered her mother, stroking her forehead.
A man wearing a medical tunic walked into the room and silently hung an IV bag on the pole beside the table. He turned around and left without saying a word.
The husband's eyes nervously followed him out, then returned to the woman and child.
"You sure you want to do this?" asked the husband. "All the medical experts are saying it's too dangerous--"
"I don't care! It's her only chance!" replied the woman fiercely. She turned to the man in the black sweatshirt, who had rolled up the little girl's sleeve and was swabbing her arm with a bit of cotton. "It works, doesn't it? Transgenic blood can cure anything?"
"It works," he answered shortly, inserting the IV needle into the girl's arm. Silently, desperately, her parents stared as clear liquid began to flow from the IV bag.
The black market house
The man in the tunic left the treatment room and walked down a short hallway to a steel door. He punched a password into the keypad by the door, which slid open to reveal a room lined with steel cages just large enough to stand up or lie down in. Each cage held a transgenic, the barcodes on the captives' necks clearly visible above the gray scrubs they all wore. Most were lying down, and some were chained to their cages. None of them moved or looked at him as he passed them. He passed a cage labeled X6-713, barely glancing at the young female who lay listlessly inside. Her bony frame and sunken eyes marked her more as a starvation victim than as a transgenic soldier.
As he neared the last cage, a door at the back of the room opened and Ave walked in, followed by two guards carrying tasers and dragging a struggling teenager. The teenager's head was shaved, revealing a barcode at the nape of his neck. Seeing the cage, he renewed his struggle with increased desperation. The guards responded by unloading both tasers into him, causing him to fall limply to the ground. While he was immobilized, they quickly carried him into the cage and laid him spread-eagled on his back, snapping metal cuffs on his wrists and ankles.
As the guards stepped out, the teenager regained his muscle control. He began pulling fiercely at his shackles, but only succeeded at drawing blood where they rubbed against his skin.
"Ave, I'll need three more units for the front," the man in the tunic said casually, ignoring the captive's frantic struggles.
"In the storage room," Ave directed, then turned her attention to the new captive. She stepped into the cage and placed into his arm a needle connected to IV tubing. The blood began to flow quickly, rapidly filling a bag hanging just outside the cage.
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"I recommend that you don't resist," she said, her voice toneless. "The cuffs are titanium alloy. You won't be able to break out."
Ave stepped out of the cage and walked to an office beside the back door. The door was slightly ajar, revealing a tall man talking animatedly into the phone.
"Great news, Mr. Stevenson. We doubled prices this week and demand's still going through the roof," he said in a pleased voice. "I'll drop off today's cash in twenty minutes."
As he hung up the phone, Ave knocked tentatively on the door. The man turned around and eyed her appraisingly. "Come in," he said lazily, giving her another once-over.
"Excuse me, sir," she said nervously. "I've come with my daily report."
"Well, report then," he replied, giving her another stare.
"We've had no incidents from the donors for over a week. It appears they have resigned themselves to cooperation."
"Very intelligent of them," he said acidly.
"We received a new recruit today. He was connected to the production line immediately. We will recover three units from him today."
"Take four," the man smiled casually, "and hold off on his rations until tomorrow. It will make him more compliant."
"Yes, sir," Ave replied softly, a flash of worry crossing her features.
"You're dismissed." The man waved her away.
"There is one more thing, sir,"
"Make it quick. I have an engagement," he snapped impatiently.
"I think we need to increase the donors' rations," Ave offered without looking up.
"Now why would I want to do that?" he asked, as if talking to a small child.
"I believe the rations are inadequate to sustain our current donation rate," Ave explained. "Some of the donors are becoming emaciated."
"They're X-series, they'll survive," came the abrupt answer.
"I'm concerned about production, sir. I'm not sure that we'll be able to maintain the current rate of supply." Ave looked up, and for a split second her eyes revealed something deeper than a concern for supply.
"Let me worry about supply," he answered, his voice suddenly gentle. He looked at Ave compassionately. "You're really worried about them, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," Ave admitted, surprised at his sudden openness.
"Tell you what," he said, placing an understanding hand on Ave's shoulder. Then his eyes turned ice cold. "You can give them your rations."
He picked up his cell phone and briefcase and left the room, not giving Ave another glance.
ACT I
Jam Pony - December 10, early morning
"Let's go, people! It's two weeks before Christmas and just like Santa, we've got packages up the wazoo!" Normal's voice cut through the early morning chatter at Jam Pony as Original Cindy, at her locker, impatiently scanned the crowd of messengers. Just as she was about to head for her bike, Max finally appeared, slipping up to her own locker almost as if by magic.
"Hey, sugah, where you been all night?" Original Cindy asked. Then, seeing the faraway look on Max's face, she added slyly, "Couldn't tear yourself away from Hot Boy?"
Max pulled on her gloves, shrugging. "Nah. Just out and about, you know, riding my bike. Went up to the Needle. No big deal." She slammed her locker shut. "We better go. Normal's not exactly in the Christmas spirit this morning."
"Hold up." Original Cindy took Max's chin in her hand and gently turned her face toward the light. "You still lookin' a little pale. You check with that doctor like we talked about?"
"Well--" Max glanced over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and was about to speak when Julie, a new messenger, cut in between them.
"If you two are gonna make out, could you at least wait till you get out on a run?" Julie demanded rudely. Max's eyes narrowed.
"What's the matter? Jealous?" Max shot back, throwing her arm around Cindy's shoulder.
Julie curled her lip in disgust and stalked away. Original Cindy rolled her eyes. "Now what was you sayin', boo?"
"Well, yesterday I--"
"Hey, ladies." Sketchy sidled up to Max, eyes on Julie, who was climbing onto her bike. "Listen, think you could, ah, use your influence with our new colleague? She's a fine--what?" he asked in confusion as Max and Original Cindy started to laugh.
"Nothing. Sure thing, Sketch," Max agreed.
"Thanks. I appreciate any assistance--hey, on second thought, maybe you could hold off on that..." Sketchy's voice trailed off as a very attractive redheaded girl appeared in the doorway. Normal was nowhere in sight, but the girl spoke to one or two messengers, who pointed in the direction of Max, Sketchy, and Original Cindy.
Sketchy raised an eyebrow, suavely. The girl smiled back. Sketchy gazed at the girl as she walked toward them, Max and Original Cindy forgotten.
"So like I was saying," Max began for the third time, turning back to her friend.
"Excuse me," came the girl's voice, clear and pleasant. "I'm looking for a Max Guevara?" Max stopped speaking.
"This is Max Guevara right here," Sketchy said helpfully.
"Are you really Max Guevara, the transgenic freedom fighter?" the girl asked Max, seemingly awestruck. "Wow, you look just like your pictures on the news. I watched every minute of the coverage. I think you're the coolest, and you're so beautiful--"
Across the room, Normal emerged from his office. Instantly a look of horror swept over his face. "You! Idiot! Yeah, you!" he shouted as Sketchy glanced up. Normal broke into a run. "Who let her in here? Get her out of here right this minute--"
Sketchy froze.
"What do you want from me?" Max asked the girl, immediately suspicious.
"Are you Max Guevara?" she asked sweetly.
"Yeah--"
"Then here." The girl's voice was suddenly brisk and businesslike. She slapped a manila envelope into Max's hand and walked away just as Normal reached them, shirttail out and headphones askew.
"Awww!" he shouted in frustration, turning on Max. "I'd expect as much from the moron here, but you? I thought you were a genetically superior, highly trained soldier! How could you fall for that?"
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"Fall for what?" asked Max, opening the envelope.
"That was a process server! She just slapped you with papers for a lawsuit!"
"How you figure that?" Original Cindy asked skeptically.
"Because, missy, she's been here before. You people don't seem to realize that when a bike messenger knocks down a pedestrian or runs into somebody's nice shiny car, I get the heat." Normal turned to Max. "What did you do? Take more hostages? Fly through a customer's window on a hoverdrone?"
Max slid the papers out of the envelope and studied them thoughtfully. "Says here--"
"Give me those." Normal snatched the papers from her hand and scanned them. "Max Guevara...Healthcorp...good. Don't see the name Jam Pony anywhere in here." He thrust the papers back at Max. "You're on your own, missy. And don't expect time off to deal with your legal issues," he called over his shoulder as he walked away. Shrugging, Sketchy followed him.
Max and Original Cindy looked at each other. "I'll deal with this later," Max said, opening her locker and stuffing the envelope inside.
"No, you deal with it now. Call Logan." Original Cindy pulled the envelope out of the locker and held it up in front of Max.
"I thought we were talking," Max objected, refusing to take it.
"We will. We'll talk tonight," Original Cindy promised. "But right now you got bigger fish to fry." She nodded towards the front desk, where Normal was engaged in a heated argument with a customer, pacing furiously and shouting into his headset. "Slip in there now and you could fax those papers over to Logan. Normal didn't say nothin' about dealin' with your legal issues on Jam Pony time, now did he?"
"You're right. He didn't," Max agreed, taking the envelope from Original Cindy's hand and hiding it under her jacket.
Logan's Apartment
As the sheets of paper rolled out of the fax machine, Logan scanned them quickly, the phone cradled on his shoulder.
"So what do you think?" Max, hiding out in Normal's office, sounded a little anxious.
"I think you need a lawyer, Max. Let me call Marianne right away. And I can start looking into it myself. I'll have her call you, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Max sighed. "Gotta run, here comes Normal--"
"I have to go, I've got another call--" Logan said at the same time.
As Max hung up Logan switched to the other line. "Yeah?"
Across town, at Joshua's place, Alec paced impatiently by the window. "Hey, Logan! It's Alec," he announced enthusiastically. "I'm over here picking up Gem for work and I thought I'd just get a jump on the day, you know, see if there's anything you need us for."
There was silence.
"Am I, uh, calling at a bad time?" Alec asked.
Logan, distracted by the documents Max had just sent him, looked up. "What? No. In fact, I think you're calling at a very good time." Logan set the papers aside and opened a file on the computer. Listen, I got the results on that juice you gave Max a couple of weeks ago."
"And?"
"Turns out the 'juice' contained components not found in ordinary humans. It's in a highly active state, which could cause greater immunity to illness and enhanced bodily functions, which would explain Sketchy's increased physical ability."
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"Which didn't last."
"That doesn't surprise me. Any guesses at the source?"
Alec stopped pacing. His face was serious as he answered Logan. "Why do I think I already know the answer to this?"
"Bingo. Transgenic blood. It was processed for administration. Now here's the problem: if it's not administered correctly, and if it's overused, it can cause organ failure."
Alec's brows met in consternation. "In other words, if non-transgenics take it in large amounts, they die and it's on us, right?"
Logan nodded grimly. "You got it."
Alex rubbed his forehead as if it ached. "Well, that pretty much puts us back in the cage."
"And, since specialized equipment is needed for this kind of sophisticated blood processing, I searched for transfers of medical equipment in the last two months. There are four facilities that received deliveries, scattered throughout the city."
"Which I'm sure you've already started to investigate."
"No, as a matter of fact, I haven't." Logan looked back down at the faxed legal documents. "Something else has come up, something that can't wait. I was thinking maybe you and Gem could check out these places, see what turns up."
"Yeah. Yeah, sure, we'll start today."
"Thanks," Logan said.
"Thank you," Alec replied.
"For what?"
"For throwing some work our way. And...you know, for staying on top of this transgenic stuff. Most ordinaries wouldn't bother."
"Most ordinaries don't have transgenic girlfriends," Logan grinned.
"Their loss. Anyway, later. Take care of that transgenic girlfriend of yours."
"I try," Logan sighed. "You know how she is."
"I do, but I think you can handle it." Alec snapped his phone closed as Logan hung up.
At Joshua's, Gem appeared in the doorway, carrying Elfie. "Gem, we gotta leave," Alec shouted as he put the phone in his jacket.
Joshua immediately walked into the room. "You said you'd take me to the market."
"I know, Joshua, but I gotta run. We've got a transgenic situation."
"This is a transgenic situation," Joshua objected.
Alec shook his head as Gem handed Joshua the baby. "Look, buddy, Gem and I have some really urgent work to do. It can't wait."
Joshua frowned. "The market is urgent, too."
"Not like this!" Alec snapped as he opened the door. Then, regretting his sharp tone, he relented. "Look, buddy, I really gotta run. We'll get your stuff. I promise. Just not now." He stepped outside the door, followed by Gem.
Joshua, holding the baby, stared after them as they rode away on Alec's motorcycle. "Maybe Joshua needs some urgent work to do, too," he told Elfie thoughtfully as he took her back inside the house.
A sector checkpoint
Max was stuck in a traffic jam at a sector checkpoint, bored and impatient, when her cell phone rang. She frowned at the display, then shrugged and answered anyway.
"Hey, Marianne," she said, pleased, when a familiar voice answered.
"Hi, Max. Logan faxed me the papers and I've got news for you. Can we meet?"
"I'm out on a run. Why don't I swing by your office?"
"No, I don't think that's a good idea," Marianne responded hesitantly. "Could we meet someplace private? Logan's, maybe?"
"I don't want to bother him. Would you, um, mind coming by my place?"
"Sure. What's the address?"
"339 Waverly." Hanging up, Max scowled at the phone. "Let's see what you think of me when I'm not in a mansion or a penthouse," she told the receiver. Then she hopped on her bike and went back to the checkpoint line.
Max and OC's place, an hour later
Max was sitting on the couch, unwrapping a burger and fries, when Marianne arrived wearing a black suit, diamond earrings, and heels. Max watched her size up the place quickly--the worn-out furniture, the hot plate, the candles, the Ninja--and waited. Marianne dropped her briefcase on the couch and hugged Max. After a moment Max relaxed a little, not returning the hug, but not pulling away from Marianne either.
"It's good to see you," Marianne said. "I just wish I had better news."
"Sit down," Max invited, pulling up a battered wooden chair. She held out the container of fries. "Want some?"
"No thanks." Marianne watched as Max took a huge bite of the burger, followed by several fries. "You must work up quite an appetite riding all over the city."
"Mmmm," Max agreed through a mouthful of food. The food tasted wonderful to her and somehow she couldn't eat quickly enough. "So what's up? Why couldn't we meet at your office? My Jam Pony cap violates the law firm dress code?"
"Well, it does, but that's not the problem. The problem is that Healthcorp, which served you with the papers for the lawsuit, is located in our building just two floors below the firm. You're famous, Max, and easy to recognize. I'd rather keep you off the radar just now."
"What does Healthcorp want with me anyway?"
"Right now, they want you to be a witness. You're required to appear in court to give a deposition, although you are not the defendant."
Max took another huge bite of burger. "Then who is?"
"The United States military, Max."
Max laughed. "You're kidding. You don't think someone who's suing the U.S. military might be some kind of crackpot?"
"Max, I am taking this seriously. Because apparently, back in the 90's, Healthcorp invested a good deal of money in a biotechnology startup known as Manticore."
Max's smile vanished. Slowly, she set her burger down. "Go on."
"Their claim is that in exchange for venture capital, they were granted a patent on the DNA that was produced by Manticore."
"What does that mean?"
"It means they are arguing that when the military took over Manticore, it did so illegally. That all products of the experimentation at Manticore rightfully belong to the patent owners and not the U.S. government."
"You mean these guys are claiming they own me? Alec? Joshua? All of us?"
"Something like that, yes."
"What's in it for them?"
"Do you really have to ask? Can you imagine the profits they could make from treatments derived from transgenic blood alone?" Marianne reached for some papers in her briefcase. "I also found out that they are searching for the founding partners of Manticore. One of them died in 2011. The other is called Sandeman, also known as Richard Sanderson." Seeing the look of alarm on Max's face, she asked, "Does that name mean something to you?"
Max shrugged, her expression guarded. "I heard it once in a while around Manticore when I was a kid."
"Well, everyone's looking for him. Since he made the original business deal with Healthcorp, he could very well be the key to this whole mess. Think Logan might be able to get any useful information out of some of his journalistic sources?"
"We can try."
"Good. That would be a big help." Marianne returned the papers to her briefcase and stood up. "I have to get back to the office, Max, but we'll stay in touch. We're due in court for your deposition in less than a month, right after the holiday break. We'll have to work fast."
"That's me, faster than the eye can see."
"We're still on for dinner with you and Logan on Wednesday, aren't we? We can catch up then. We'll kick the boys out of the kitchen and mix a little business with pleasure." Marianne grinned at Max. "Deal?"
"Sure. Unless I get impounded as evidence first."
Marianne's smile vanished. "Max, be careful. These guys--"
"You don't have to tell me how rough it can get when the big boys come out to play," Max reassured her. "Thanks. I really appreciate this. See you Wednesday?"
"Sure thing," agreed Marianne.
Max locked the door behind her, then flopped down on the couch, pushing the burger away. The sight of it made her nauseated. She put both hands over her stomach and looked down at them. "Welcome to this crazy-ass world," she said with a sigh.
ACT II
Logan's Apartment - December 10, evening
Logan sat at his desk, swiveling his desk chair absentmindedly as he listened to messages playing back on his machine.
"Logan, just wanted to give you a heads up. The sector police have resurrected their impounding service. Thought our friend Eyes Only might want to warn..."
"Ow," Logan's pain-filled groan drowned out the rest of the message.
He flicked off the machine and pushed his chair away from the desk, revealing legs twitching with rapidly firing spasms. He placed his hands on his thighs, massaging slowly, methodically. Eventually the shaking slowed to a few intermittent tremors.
Logan pushed his chair to the edge of the desk, where his wheelchair sat waiting. Supporting himself against the desk, he partially stood on trembling legs, then sat down heavily in the wheelchair. He lifted one leg, then the other, onto the footrests. As the tremors stilled, he closed his eyes and relaxed back into the chair, sighing in relief.
Max stood in the office doorway, silently watching Logan, love and concern in her eyes.
Logan turned the chair around and saw Max.
"Hey, Max!" he said, a pleased smile instantly lighting up his features.
"You okay?" Max asked softly.
"Wheelchair's more comfortable when I'm sore," Logan admitted, then broke into another grin. "You're early. Possibly staking out Chez Cale for a culinary masterpiece?"
Max didn't smile back. "You sure you're okay?"
"What's happened has happened, Max," Logan said softly. "No use dwelling on it."
"You're giving up?" Max asked, confused.
"Nooooo..." Logan flashed her a mischievous little grin. "I was actually thinking about investigating the curative properties of apple pie a la mode."
Max inhaled deeply, then finally broke into a grin of her own. "Can't argue with that train of thought," she admitted.
Completely captivated by the smell of apple pie, she walked quickly toward the kitchen, her movements almost catlike as she stalked her prey. She found it under a dish towel lying on the kitchen work table: two pies, cooling on a rack. Max bent over and took another deep breath, almost burying her nose in the pie.
"You made these?" she looked at Logan with amazement.
"Check out the freezer," Logan smiled, a twinkle in his eyes.
"Real French vanilla ice cream," Max sighed. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were after this female's heart, or at least her stomach."
"Come and eat," Logan grinned, swiveling his chair rhythmically. He placed two forks and an ice cream scoop on the table.
"You run out of dishes?" Max looked at Logan in confusion.
"Tastes better from the pan," Logan explained. "Grab a seat." He took the ice cream from Max and dished a big scoop onto the pie.
They sat side by side, their chairs angled so they could see each other's face, the pie between them.
Logan held out a fork to Max, but then just as she was about to take it, he pulled it back. "Nice and easy now," he smiled mischievously.
"Fat chance," Max grinned, snatching the fork from his hand. They simultaneously placed their forks in the pie and took a bite.
"Wow," Max said quietly, her face brightening.
"Go for it," Logan smiled. He reached out his hand and took Max's in his. They ate silently for several minutes enjoying the simple pleasure of the moment.
"I talked to Marianne today," Max said, putting her fork down, her expression becoming more serious. "She wants us to find Sandeman. I'd sure like to be able to tell her something when she and Bennett come by Wednesday."
"It's weird that we haven't heard anything from him. I'll check the contact numbers he left you." Logan put his fork down as well.
"Speaking of Sandeman," Max pulled off her jacket, revealing new runes along her collarbones. "He sent me another message."
"Mmm," Logan murmured, instantly fascinated. He reached out a hand to trace the runes.
"Did you get any further with the last batch?" Max asked, watching Logan's fingers as they traced out each symbol.
"It's almost like a message within a message," Logan explained without looking up. "I told you about the instructions, but if you take individual sections they have a completely different interpretation."
"Like what?" Max asked absentmindedly, her eyes still following Logan's hand.
"The gateway to thy posterity shall be opened," he told her."Whatever that means..." Max's voice drifted off, her focus still on Logan's hand. Her mouth turned up into a soft smile as she placed her hand on his, following it along. Her eyes grew soft, almost teary.
Logan looked up, sensing the change in Max. "What's wrong, Max?" he asked, his voice concerned.
"I was just remembering the first time you did this," Max said softly.
"We've come a long way," Logan said, his voice quiet as well.
Crash - December 10, evening
At a small table in a far corner, where no one could overhear, Alec and Asha shared a pitcher of beer.
"So, we checked out two of the warehouses this morning. Zip, zilch, nada. I guess we'll get around to the other two tomorrow," Alec was saying."
Asha nodded, refilling their glasses but saying nothing.
Alec looked at her curiously. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"Well," said Asha, "...um...a warehouse seems like the ideal location. No one suspects they're anything other than food storage facilities..." She trailed off as if she hoped that would be enough to satisfy Alec.
It wasn't. "That's all you have to say about it?" he asked.
Asha gave him an amused look. "Not all of us have transgenic-speed brains, you know."
Alec snorted. "Don't start playing 'slow little ordinary' with me," he told her.
Asha smiled. "So, are you going to turn this over to Eyes Only?"
"No." Alec looked around, then said, "He's...I mean, Logan says he's busy with something else right now. Want to hear what I'm thinking?"
"Sure. Shoot."
"Okay. Most transgenics wouldn't voluntarily donate their blood. Even if some are, it doesn't explain the huge supply on the black market. Doesn't take a transgenic-speed brain to guess...somebody's capturing transgenics." He leaned forward enthusiastically. "So...once we find the place, I put myself out there as bait. They come after me, and wham! I'm in. Then, Gem and I take 'em down."
"You're kidding," Asha said. "Right?"
Alec's face fell. "Wrong," he said, insulted.
"Alec, whoever these people are, they've figured out how to deal pretty effectively with more than one transgenic at a time." Asha shook her head. "You'd be dead meat, both of you."
"You have something better in mind?"
"Yes." Now Asha leaned forward enthusiastically. "Let the S1W help. Just hear me out," she added as Alec opened his mouth to object. "We figure out some kind of a cover, get one or two of us inside, and then the rest of the team moves in. It wouldn't be the first time we've helped out Eyes Only, you know. And this time...maybe there's really something in it for me." Asha said the last almost to herself, her gaze dropping from Alec's face to her beer mug.
"I don't like it," Alec said.
"I don't like your plan either," Asha told him.
"Yours is too dangerous."
"Oh please! Now who's thinking 'slow little ordinary'?" Asha leaned forward. "I may not be Manticore, but I've got plenty of tactical operations under my belt. I know how to watch my own back."
"Never said you couldn't, but this stuff here is too dangerous – even for a transgenic."
"That's exactly my point! It's a lot more dangerous for a transgenic than it is for me." Irritated, Asha stood up.
"Oh, Asha, sit down. All I'm saying is I don't want to put you in danger -"
"And you being the bait is not dangerous?"
"That's different--"
"I don't think so." Asha reached for her jacket. "I think I'm going home."
Alec stood. "You know what? I think I'm going home. Watch this transgenic speed." Before Asha could zip her jacket, he was across the crowded room and out the door.
"Okay! Okay, fine!" she told the door. Then she sighed and sat down. "Might as well finish this," she said to herself, refilling her glass. She sat there for a long time, lost in thought.
Crash - an hour later
Max pushed her way through the crowd at Crash until she reached the bar. Jake, her favorite bartender, greeted her enthusiastically.
"Hey, Max, what'll you have?"
Max shook her head. "Nothing, thanks...you seen Original Cindy around anywhere?" Overhead, the news blared.
"...and now for an update on this breaking story from our health reporter, Dr. Talia Nolan. Talia?"
Jake shook his head. "Haven't seen her...but if I do, I'll tell her you're looking for her."
"Thanks," Max said, turning to leave.
"...at a press conference tonight, executives of Healthcorp made a stunning claim. They say they own the patent on the DNA of the so-called "X-series" of transgenics covertly developed by the U.S. military."
Instantly Max turned back. "Great. Splashed all over the damn news again," she said under her breath.
The picture switched from Dr. Nolan to a hotel conference room, where an older man in a business suit stood behind a podium, surrounded by microphones.
"The growing black market in transgenic blood derivatives is illegal and dangerous," he was saying. "Healthcorp couldn't, in good conscience, watch innocent people endanger themselves out of desperation. That's why we've stepped forward to bring our claim before the American public. By working in cooperation with the transgenic community, we can provide legitimate, safe, effective treatments for a wide variety of conditions." He paused. "There's someone I'd like you all to meet."
He turned from the podium and spoke to someone off camera. After a moment, a young family in shabby clothes appeared in front of the cameras. The shy, nervous parents stood next to the businessman, holding their little girl, who squirmed and pointed at the cameras and made silly faces. The businessman smiled.
"Twenty-four hours ago, this little girl was in the end stages of an advanced neurological disorder. She has barely been able to move since she was three years old. Last night, she was treated with transgenic blood derivatives. Today, she ran across the room." He nodded to the girl's father, who put her down. The girl ran over to her mother, and a tear ran down the mother's face.
"Excuse me," a reporter shouted. "Was this child treated by Healthcorp, at one of your facilities?"
"I'm sorry. On advice of our legal team, I can't say any more than that."
"Mr. Stevenson! Mr. Stevenson!" More reporters clamored for his attention as Max grimly left the bar, too preoccupied to notice Asha in the far back corner, staring at the screen as well.
December 11, morning
Joshua walked hurriedly up the steps of the old brick building in sector 8. He stopped in front of the door to confirm the address in the newspaper he was holding. With a nod of satisfaction, he walked in the door and down the hall. At the end of the hall, he stopped again in front of an old wooden door. The sign on the door read "Personnel Department – School District No. 3."
Joshua knocked once, then turned the knob and stepped into the room. He paused in front of the empty reception desk for a moment, then walked past it to a door marked 'Director.' He knocked again, and upon hearing a distracted "come in," he stepped into the room.
"Tracy, I'll need..." the woman at the desk looked up, then stopped in mid sentence, her mouth dropping open in shock. She stared at Joshua for a moment, then, regaining some of her composure, she asked curiously, "Can I help you?"
Joshua stepped forward and nervously handed her the newspaper. "Advertisement says school needs qualified teachers."
"That's right," the woman nodded cautiously.
"I'm a teacher," Joshua said confidently.
The woman's eyes opened wide. "Did you bring a resume, Mr...?"
"My name is Joshua," Joshua offered, his voice contrite. "I'm sorry, I don't have...resume?"
"Well, what are your qualifications then?" the woman asked, her voice taking on a patronizing tone.
"I'm a painter, and I teach freedom," Joshua smiled.
"Freedom?" The woman couldn't help laughing. "Do you have a degree, Joshua?"
"A degree?" Joshua asked, completely confused.
"A university degree."
"No..." Joshua said sadly.
"I'm sorry, but at this time we are only hiring teachers with master's degrees," she stated matter-of-factly. She turned back to her papers, but looked up again at Joshua's dejected sigh.
"I'm sure you'll find something appropriate," the woman said, a hint of contrition in her voice. "Come, let me see you to the door." She stood up and walked to the door, holding it open for Joshua. "Good luck with your job search."
"Thank you, ma'am," Joshua replied as she shut the door behind him.
"Freak," the woman said sadly, turning around and shaking her head. She didn't see Joshua pause on the other side of the door before he walked away.
Healthcorp offices, downtown Seattle
"Mr. Stevenson?" The administrative assistant's voice came through the speakerphone into the elegant corner office, twenty-two floors above downtown Seattle. "Dr. George from the CDC is on line two."
"Thanks, Laura. I'll be with him as soon as I finish this call." Stevenson clicked off the speakerphone and returned to his cell phone conversation.
"The CDC's on the other line...of course I'll let you know if there's even a hint that they're getting close to your operation...meanwhile, just keep right on doing what you're doing." Stevenson listened for a few moments, then smiled. "Listen, you're building up a better customer base for transgenic blood than we could get if we gave away free samples of the stuff at the supermarket." He snapped the cell phone closed, then reached for his desk phone and punched the blinking line two button.
"Dr. George," he said cheerfully. "You're a hard man to reach. You people must be working overtime on the transgenic blood investigation."
Three thousand miles away in Atlanta, Dr. George set down the paperwork he had been reviewing with an exasperated sigh. "We are, and I'd like to get back to it instead of sitting here on hold all day."
"How's the investigation going? Any closer to tracking down our black market friends?"
"Not a whole lot," Dr. George replied shortly. "Look, Mr. Stevenson, I am actually busy trying to catch those guys. Is there something particular I can do for you today?"
"Actually, Dr. George, I called to see what I can do for you," Stevenson replied. "The CDC and Healthcorp are on the same side here. We both want to put a stop to this dangerous situation and verify the claims about transgenic blood derivatives."
There was a moment of silence, then Dr. George laughed sardonically. "That has to be the most noble-sounding bit of corporate baloney I've heard in a long time. What is it you really want?"
"Sounds like I've called at a bad time." The good humor in Stevenson's voice vanished abruptly. "I'll let you go."
"Thanks--"
"Just one more thing, Dr. George," Stevenson interrupted smoothly. "Did you ever track down those medical records on Linda Eastman? The Seattle woman you suspected might be transgenic?"
"We did enter her into our database last year, but her case file was corrupted a few months ago. Inept temp office assistant. Can't get good help these days."
"That's too bad," Stevenson replied smoothly.
"Yeah. Sorry."
"I hope I won't have to bring you into court to testify about your little adventure here in the Northwest," Stevenson continued.
Dr. George looked at his computer terminal, where the records for Linda Eastman were clearly displayed. "So do I, Mr. Stevenson."
He hung up and pressed the delete key. In five seconds the screen was blank. Dr. George sighed. "You helped a lot of people when that plague hit, Max. I guess this is the right thing to do." He closed the program and turned back to his paperwork.
ACT III
Sublime P.I. and Laundromat
The door chimes sounded as Asha entered the laundromat and walked into the back room. She smiled when she saw Gem behind the desk.
"Place looks nice," Asha complimented her.
Gem smiled back. "I should hope so. Particularly after I made Alec replace the sign."
Asha sat on the chair in front of the desk. "What was wrong with your old sign?" she asked.
"You mean aside from the fact that it said 'Alec and Gem Detective Agency'?"
A look of understanding passed between the two women. "Ahh..." Asha nodded.
Gem laughed. "Actually, we thought of a better name. So, are you looking for Alec? He's out."
"Good, because I actually came here to talk to you."
"What's up?"
"Alec told me last night about tracking down the source of the 'juice' that's been showing up in the black market," Asha explained. She watched Gem carefully. "They must've captured some transgenics when everyone rushed out of Terminal City..."
"That's what we figure," Gem agreed.
"I know you had two more locations to check out, and I told Alec I've got some, ah, friends who can help out with that. So if you can, ah, give me the locations for those two warehouses, my friends want to move on it right away."
Gem looked at her thoughtfully. "Alec was okay with that?"
"Well...I offered to put an armed investigative team at his disposal. How could he say no?" Asha smiled at Gem, trying to look as innocent and helpful as possible.
"Hmmm. What's the plan?" Gem asked cautiously.
"My team makes the ID. You track us to the location. Then, you come in and rescue us."
Gem frowned. "What about security?"
"My team will take the first crack at them. But a few more of your transgenic friends would come in handy."
"I'll see what I can do," Gem said thoughtfully.
Asha stood up, then turned back. "One little thing. Kind of a personal favor? Contact Alec only after I'm in."
Gem adamantly shook her head, "Oh no. No, no, no. I am not getting in the middle of this."
"I need to do this, Gem. I saw what they did to Alec the last time. I don't want him subjected to that again. My people will totally have my back. I won't get hurt." She looked appealingly at Gem.
Gem hesitated, then gave in. "Okay. Any girl who can round up her own armed force must have some resources. And speaking of resources...you got any comms for this little adventure? I'm afraid Sublime isn't exactly well-funded at the moment."
"No problem," Asha said, opening her backpack to reveal communications equipment.
"More than enough," Gem grinned. "Asha, when this job is over, we're going to have a talk. I need to know how you finance and organize your team."
"No problem," Asha grinned back, relieved. "Any time."
Community Services Center, Sector 5
The sign over the doorway of the ramshackle building read "Community Services Center – Sponsored by Dove Industries and the Seattle Fire Department." A few teenagers played basketball in front of the building while little children ran around the yard, giving a wide berth to the scaffolding that was propped up against one wall of the building.
Standing on the scaffolding, twenty feet up, was a big man dressed in jeans and a Firehall 49 t-shirt and a teenager dressed in typical street grunge. They were methodically scraping paint off the side of the building.
Suddenly the scaffolding on one side shifted, knocking the teenager off. In a heroic gesture the fireman threw himself down against the plank and was able to catch the teenager's wrist. At the fireman's action, the structure shook again, threatening to pull away from the wall.
"Oh God! Oh God!" shouted the teenager, accompanied by the terrified screams of the children in the yard.
In a split second, a tall, long-haired man appeared out of nowhere and braced himself against the scaffold, pushing it back against the wall.
"I've got it," he growled at the people above. "Climb down slowly."
The teenager was able to wrap his legs around the scaffold frame and work his way down, the fireman following carefully behind him.
"Stand back!" Joshua shouted once the teenager and fireman were down, sending the children in the yard scurrying back. "I'm letting go."
As the scaffolding crashed down into the yard, Joshua disappeared around the back of the building.
"Go inside, everybody," a priest in a dusty black shirt and white collar called to the children. "We'll take care of this in a bit." He quickly ran around the building and caught up to Joshua.
"I haven't met anyone that strong since..." he began, placing a hand on Joshua's shoulder and turning him around, then suddenly stopping in shocked silence. Quickly regaining his composure, he reached out his hand. "I just wanted to thank you for saving our friends. My name is Father Destry."
"Max's friend," Joshua grinned, recognizing the name.
"You know Max?" Father Destry asked with surprise.
"I am Joshua. Also Max's friend," Joshua smiled, shaking Father Destry's hand enthusiastically.
"Well, Joshua, also Max's friend, it's a pleasure to meet you," Father Destry laughed. "Why don't you come join us for lunch?"
"People don't want a freak to have lunch with them." Joshua looked down sadly.
"I'm sure there are at least a couple of people back there who would like to thank you. You're a hero today," Father Destry insisted.
"Okay," Joshua nodded reluctantly.
"So what brings you out today?" Father Destry asked conversationally as they walked back toward the front of the building.
"Looking for work, but nobody wants to work with a freak," Joshua hung his head.
"What do you do, Joshua?" Father Destry asked.
"I'm a painter, and a teacher. I like to teach children."
"As you can tell, we're doing a lot of work around this place. It's not exactly your specialty, but we could use a hand," Father Destry offered.
"I don't mind. I'll help you clean up the scaffold after lunch," Joshua grinned happily.
A warehouse, Sector 7
Two young men dressed in jeans, work boots, and ragged flannel shirts got out of a battered blue van. They carried clipboards and flashlights. Crossing the street, they headed for a row of dumpsters next to a warehouse. While one man stood facing out to the street, pen poised over his clipboard, the other lifted the lid of the first dumpster and shone the light inside.
"That's it," he said softly to his partner.
"Pay dirt," said the partner into the microphone concealed in his shirt collar, pretending to write on the clipboard.
A few seconds later, the back door of the van opened and Asha peered out cautiously. Seeing nothing but the two men at the dumpster, she crossed the street and, with a quick nod to the men, looked inside the dumpster. Under a few black plastic garbage bags were boxes containing paper wrappers from medical equipment, used IV bags, and tubing. Asha dropped the lid.
"Nice sanitation," she commented to her partners. "Ready to head in?"
As if they were moving on to inspect the other dumpsters, they walked along the alleyway, glancing up occasionally at the filthy windows. Suddenly one of the men breathed in sharply. "Security guard coming toward us," he said quietly.
Asha made an instantaneous decision. "Back to the van. Both of you, now. I'll handle this. Call for help if I'm not back out in two hours." The men nodded and turned back down street. The security guard approached her, a confrontational look on his face.
"I'll have to ask you to leave, ma'am," he said not too politely.
Asha stared back at him calmly. "I don't think you want to do that."
The security guard laughed. "Sure I do."
"Not when I tell you I think I have a source for you. A very good source." The guard hesitated and Asha took a step forward. "Well? Don't you want to go tell your boss?"
"Wait here." The guard backed up a step or two, keeping his eye on Asha. He pulled a radio from his jacket pocket and spoke into it. He said nothing more to Asha.
A few seconds later, something hit her from behind, hard. She fell sideways, striking her cheek painfully on one of the dumpsters. A young Asian man in a black hooded sweatshirt roughly pinned her arms behind her back and pulled her toward the warehouse.
Healthcorp offices, downtown Seattle
Kathryn Birman walked into Healthcorp's presidential office with an air of importance. Dressed in a thousand-dollar couture suit and high-heeled patent leather shoes, she had the presence of a woman who commanded attention. She placed her briefcase on Jeffrey Stevenson's desk and sat down in the polished leather chair facing him.
Stevenson looked up and smiled. "You're looking well, Kathryn."
"So are you," Kathryn smiled, only a hint of coolness in her expression. "How long has it been?"
"Twenty years."
"Twenty years. Has it been that long?" Kathryn sighed, but there was no indication of surprise in her voice. "The last time we spoke, you were expecting your third child. He must be in college now."
"Yes, M.I.T., graduating next month," Stevenson replied, his pride clearly evident. "And yours?"
"Harvard law," Kathryn replied, calm confidence in her voice. She turned to look around the office appreciatively. "You've done well for yourself. Your father would be proud."
"He provided a solid foundation for the company's growth, but I must admit our success has been gratifying," Stevenson smiled. "How about yourself, Kathryn? I was expecting you to be at the forefront of our field, but you seem to have dropped out of the industry."
"I prefer to keep a lower profile," Kathryn said simply.
"So what brings you here today?" Stevenson's voice took on a more businesslike tone.
"In fact, I'm here on business. You could say it's in a consulting capacity. I have a question for you," she replied.
"Yes?"
"I'm wondering why, after your considerable success, you've chosen this time to put all you have built at risk?"
"What are you getting at?" Stevenson asked sharply.
"Come now, Jeffrey, we both know what I am talking about." Kathryn's eyes turned cold. "The group I represent is not pleased with your renewed interest in transgenic technology."
"Times have changed, Kathryn," Stevenson replied, his voice hard. "We both know that there is vast potential in genetic technology. It's time that Healthcorp took its rightful place in the field."
"Your father was a very intelligent man. He knew when it was more prudent to pursue other opportunities." Kathryn stared at Stevenson. "It would be a shame to see his legacy go to waste."
"I'm not one to rest on my laurels, Kathryn. This is an opportunity to develop a new legacy," Stevenson said pointedly. "Despite the risks involved."
Her face hardened. "I'm only telling you this one time, Jeffrey. Shut down your backstreet operations and withdraw the lawsuit."
Stevenson stood up and stared across his desk. "Kathryn, you can tell your group to shove it. I'm not withdrawing from anything. I think you'd better leave."
Kathryn Birman stood up, her smile cold. "Think about what I said, Jeffrey. It would be a terrible shame to miss your son's graduation." She picked up her briefcase, turned on her heel and walked out smartly.
A warehouse, Sector 7
Asha stepped into the dark, narrow hallway of an abandoned warehouse, her hands cuffed behind her back. She winced at the painful bruise on her left cheekbone as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A muscular Asian man walked behind her, prodding her with his gun to walk faster. Through a door at the end of the hall, he shoved her into a room that was empty except for a table and two chairs standing in the middle and a mirror on one side of the wall.
"The boss wants to meet you," he said, pushing Asha into one of the chairs.
Asha stared at the mirror in front of her. "I thought I was gonna meet your boss."
"You are. I didn't say you were gonna see him." The man left the room and Asha heard the lock click into place.
"Glad you could join us," came a voice from behind the mirror.
Asha faced the mirror confidently. "I don't make deals with people I can't see."
"You do know you're not in any position to do anything about it."
"Oh, I believe I am. I can provide you with a supply of willing donors...if we agree on the terms. With all the media attention your operation is getting, it must be hard getting donors these days."
"We manage."
Asha stood up, nodding. "For how long?" She gave the man a few seconds of silence to think this over.
"Can't say I've heard of any mutants willing to give us their blood before," the voice said cagily.
Asha shrugged, "Can't say they're a generous lot."
"But you think you can change that?"
"Many of them would be more than willing to assist in your endeavors...for the right price."
"And I may not be too willing to share my profits. Besides, what makes you think you can give me something I don't already have? My men are very loyal and our tasers have proven very effective."
Asha paused for moment. "But I can guarantee you a consistent supply."
"And what places you in such an enviable position?"
"Let's say I have a close relationship with X5s 452 and 494. You gain their cooperation and the others will fall into place."
"Sounds very promising..." the voice said thoughtfully, then turned cold. "But I have my own method for gaining their cooperation."
Just then, the door opened and the Asian man reentered. He stepped toward Asha and tried to cuff her. Asha grabbed and twisted his wrist, pulling him toward her and slamming the palm of her hand into the man's nose. His head snapped back on impact, sending him crashing to the floor. Asha kicked the man in the stomach and bent over him, reaching for his keys. Suddenly, two guards entered the room and tased Asha until she fell, convulsing on the floor.
Logan's Apartment
Logan and Max sat with Bennett and Marianne at Logan's table, the remnants of a just completed meal in front of them.
"I did some research on Healthcorp." Logan looked at Max and Marianne. "They've got their hands into everything medical. They started as Pacific Northwest Healthcare, a research firm, here in the Pacific Northwest in the 1980s. It was founded by a James Stevenson. His son took over in 2005. They have since expanded throughout North America. They droppe
