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  Though his words carried their usual sarcastic edge, Normal’s tone did not, and she took small solace in the fact that even Normal—who saw himself as the model of stoicism—remained a little off balance.

  She stepped up next to Sketchy and stood quietly, her only response to her boss a barely audible, “Whatever.”

  Normal winced—apparently noting her atypical lack of wit—and picked up where he’d left off. “As I was saying, the police have finished their investigation and have said that we can reopen. So, today we’re starting over—starting anew.”

  They all looked at him, dead-eyed, saying nothing. Typical of Normal’s idea of a pep talk, it was long on talk and short on pep. Ignoring their indifference, he pressed on.

  “Looks like we’re going to be a little short-handed here for a while,” he said, with a glance at his clipboard, “and so there will be overtime for those that want it—nothing mandatory.”

  They all looked at each other in confusion. The words “mandatory” and “overtime” had always come out of Normal’s mouth as one long compound word. To hear him say that overtime wasn’t mandatory was the Pope casually stating that birth control was cool with him.

  The announcement seemed to trigger a mass short circuit among the messengers. They didn’t respond with an “All right!” or a “Yeah!”—they all just stared at their leader, numb.

  “That must be the good twin,” Sketchy said under his breath to Cindy, beside him.

  Cindy might have laughed at that, if the suggestion that the real Normal had been kidnapped hadn’t struck her as reasonable.

  “I’ll check the basement for a pod,” she whispered.

  “Anyway,” Normal was saying, “best way to keep your mind off the unpleasantness is to work hard. Do that, and we’ll all get through this together.”

  With that rather remarkably human comment from their usually tight-assed boss, life had started on the road back to the everyday.

  Now, on Wednesday, life at Jam Pony was mundane again, as if the past week’s events were nothing more than a bad dream. Standing alone in the locker area, Original Cindy—in black slacks, gray turtleneck, and orange quilted vest—looked over at Max’s locker. Her gaze held for only a few seconds before she had to look away.

  She felt she was letting her Boo down—and, in a way, that her Boo was short-changing her, as well. The idea was that Original Cindy would be working for Max and the besieged transgenics here on the outside . . . but no orders from Terminal City headquarters had been forthcoming.

  Sketchy came up, handed her a paper cup of coffee and gave her a big forced smile. Dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt, he looked all right from a distance, but closer examination revealed red-rimmed eyes, his blond and brown locks hanging weedlike in his face, like they hadn’t been combed since he’d left Terminal City.

  “Heard from her?” he asked quietly.

  Original Cindy shook her head. “You?”

  The phony smile faded. “Nope.”

  She saluted him with the coffee. “And what did I do to deserve this?”

  “Nothin’, just. . . . You look kinda lonely.”

  “Do I look lonely enough that I would need the company of a fool like you?”

  He thought about that, then said, “Yeah.”

  And Original Cindy did something she hadn’t done for days: she laughed.

  “I miss her too,” Sketchy said. “I wish to hell we’d hear from her—we were supposed to be out here, on this side of the fence, helping. . . .”

  “I know. I’m afraid maybe Max jus’ wanted us outta there, jus’ to protect our asses. I mean, we can’t hang around that toxic shit too long—Original Cindy don’t wanna grow no extra eyeballs or nothin’.”

  He let out a mirthless chuckle. “I was . . . I mean, she’s . . .”

  “Spit it out.”

  “You were right, Cin—what you said at Crash that night, after . . . you know . . . after I found out about her. That she was . . . special.”

  Original Cindy knew Sketchy was referring to that day in the not-too-distant past when he’d caught Cindy pilfering Max’s and Alec’s records from Normal’s files, to keep the documents out of the hands of government agents. Even Sketchy had been able to put together that Max and Alec were transgenics.

  Sketch said, “You know what? Max is the best person I know . . . and she is the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  Cindy nodded. “True that. Same for this one.”

  “You know, I been thinking back on all those lunches with you and Max, Herbal and me, and I . . .” He swallowed. “I just wanna say . . . well, I . . .”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “You said it nice and clear, Sketch.”

  Sketchy’s face turned a lovely shade of fuchsia.

  Normal strolled up to them. “You leaving the sisters of Sappho for this lump, Cynthia?”

  Turning to their boss, Original Cindy said, “I’m not turning to the dark side, no—but if I did—” And she ran her fingers through Sketchy’s hair. “—my brother Sketch here would not be the worst catch.”

  Brightening, the lanky messenger seemed to grow a couple of inches, in at least one direction.

  “I’ll do my best to form no mental images,” Normal said. “Enough banter.”

  He handed an envelope to her and a package to Sketchy.

  “Bip bip bip,” he said.

  Normal flashed the pair a quick grin, then put on a frown and went off to hassle the short-timers.

  “Hmmm,” Sketchy said. “Is it my imagination, or does Normal seem to be softening here?”

  Original Cindy shook her head and made a tsk-tsk noise. “That’s some scary shit, ain’t it?”

  “More than my tender nerves can take.” Sketchy held up the package. “Well, I better get bip-bip-bipping. . . . If you hear from our girl, you’ll let me know?”

  “Bet your pasty white ass.”

  “You know, you liking me doesn’t seem that different from when I sickened you.”

  “It’s a fine line,” Cindy admitted.

  Sketch smiled, shook his head, and headed outside to his bike.

  Turning back to glance at Max’s locker one last time, Original Cindy looked farther down the aisle and saw that kid no one ever seemed to notice. What was his name? Bobby Suzuki? Tommy Nagasaki? Kid had less personality than Normal in his sleep.

  Sitting in front of his locker, the kid glanced around, and apparently didn’t catch her watching as he pulled a bottle of pills out and unscrewed the lid. It looked identical to the bottle of Tryptophan pills that Max kept in her locker to control her seizures.

  Slowly moving closer, careful not to be spotted, Original Cindy watched as he shook two pills out into his hand. He screwed the lid back on the bottle and stuck it in the pocket of his vest. She caught only a glimpse of the pills in the kid’s hand as they headed to his mouth, but that was enough for her to see the pills were just like the ones Max took.

  Sliding up next to him, she asked, “Hey, Tommy boy—you stealin’ my girl’s meds?”

  The kid shook his head emphatically. “No, no. I’d never hurt Max. . . . And it’s Bobby.”

  “So, if I check my main girl’s locker I’m gonna find her meds still in there?”

  Now the kid nodded with equal enthusiasm. “Go ahead and look. I swear I didn’t take anything!”

  Eyeballing the guy—God, what a nonentity!—Original Cindy moved over in front of Max’s locker and dialed the combination lock.

  Opening the door, she looked inside and saw Max’s bottle perched on the top shelf, where it always sat, safe and sound. She picked it up, shook it, found it to be maybe three-quarters full. That seemed about right.

  “All right, Robby,” she said. “My bad.”

  “It’s Bobby. . . . Can I go now?”

  “No—not till you tell me why you’re takin’ Tryptophan.”

  “It just relaxes me. It’s over-the-counter med.”

  “Not in that quantity. Listen, Timmy�
��maybe you weren’t around durin’ the party we had the other day. . . .”

  “The hostage crisis? I was here. Don’t you remember?”

  “Yeah, sure. Anyway—if you was here, you should know where I stand on a certain controversial issue.”

  “I do. You’re Max’s friend.”

  “And you’re . . .”

  They both looked around to make sure no one was watching.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked.

  Normal strolled by, like a hall monitor trolling for trouble. “You two still here? This is not Club Med, people. There’s work to do—get moving.”

  They walked outside together and mounted their bicycles. She looked at the kid in the morning sunshine. For some reason, she felt like this was the first time she’d really seen him.

  Why did she think of him as a kid? He could be twenty . . . or thirty . . . or . . . ? Whatever, he was of indeterminate race, with full lips and black curly hair that reminded her a little of her own. Like Max, he appeared to be a mixture of all people, only his features seemed almost blurred compared to Max’s well-defined face.

  Looking closer, though, he might have some Afro blood in him. . . .

  Together, they rode away slowly, her envelope stuck inside her vest, his package in a bag over his shoulder.

  “I never told Max,” he said, “but, yes, I’m a transgenic, too.”

  They rode side by side in the street.

  “How long you been passin’?” she asked.

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Since Max got us out of Manticore.”

  “That’s not all that long. . . . You seem to be fitting in okay.”

  “That’s no problem for me.”

  “You and Max are friends?” Funny, she thought, that Max would have a friend at Jam Pony that Cindy didn’t also know.

  He nodded. “If it wasn’t for Max, I’d still be there. At Manticore.”

  “But Manticore was burned.”

  “I’d just be some more ashes.”

  “I gotta say, man, you seem so regular, I woulda thought you were on the outside as long as Max.”

  They paused at a light.

  He shook his head. “I’m supposed to seem regular—that’s what I do.”

  She shook her head. “It’s still not safe for you out here by yourself.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” he said with a sad smile. “But they’re all in Terminal City and I’m stuck here. What am I gonna do—march up to the gate and ask to be let in?”

  Cindy thought about that. “There’s other ways.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m here, ain’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you saw what went down Friday.”

  “Sure.”

  The light changed.

  “I was with her when she left, right? And we all ended up in Terminal City.”

  “And you got out?”

  “What do you think, chump? Do I look like a mirage to you?”

  “Come to think of it, Sketchy went along with you and Max, too, didn’t he?”

  She nodded.

  “And that friend of Max’s—Logan?”

  “You know him?” she asked, a little puzzled now.

  “Seen him with Max before. Stops by Jam Pony sometimes.”

  That was true.

  “Yeah,” she said, “Logan went, too.”

  “Did all of you leave?”

  They were riding slowly through the light traffic.

  “Well . . . you saw Sketch at work, right?”

  “What about Logan?”

  She frowned. “Why are you so interested in Logan?”

  “Well, it’s just . . . I wondered if he was transgenic, too—’cause that’s the only way he could stay in Terminal City, right? I mean, ordinaries get sick if they stay too long.”

  “Well . . . you’re right about that. That’s why Max got us out of there—me and Sketch and Logan.”

  “If she got you out, could you get me in, the same way?”

  Something felt way whack about this to her. If this mouth-breather was a transgenic, why hadn’t Max or Alec ever pointed him out? And why in the hell was he so worried about the three ordinaries? Last, but not least, she reminded herself, was the fact that now he suddenly wanted to know the route she’d used to get in and out of Terminal City. . . .

  They were at another light.

  “Look, Teddy,” she said slowly. “It’s not that I don’t trust you—it’s just that I need some kind of . . .”

  “Proof,” he said. “I’ve been a human the whole time you’ve known me . . . with no sign of transgenic ability . . . then I start in with all these questions.”

  She nodded, liking the fact that he got it so fast. “That’s a big bingo, Barney. Why don’t you whip up a little super somethin’ for me?”

  “Can’t do it,” he said, almost sadly. “The drug—the Tryptophan you saw me taking earlier?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s an inhibitor. It works to keep my abilities from taking over my life.”

  “That’s not how it affects Max . . .”

  “We’re all different. You know what an X5 is? I’m not an X5. I’m more like Joshua.”

  “You ain’t no dog boy.”

  “No—and I can show you what I am, later . . . when the dose has worn off. But not now.”

  “Works for me,” she said, suddenly nervous. “Look, I better get my shit in gear—Normal’ll fire my ass.”

  “I want your help, Cindy.”

  “Maybe we could hook up at Crash later, Benny, and when nobody’s lookin’, you could show me your stuff, then.”

  “Sure.”

  Original Cindy nodded at the guy and pedaled away.

  That weirdo was way too interested in Max. . . . Cindy felt like she’d nearly, if accidentally, betrayed her best friend. No way in freakin’ hell would she show that strange character—soul brother or not—the tunnel into Terminal City.

  After pumping a few times, Original Cindy glanced back and he waved. She faked a smile and waved herself. Then, once she’d gone two blocks, she looked back again and he was gone.

  She heaved a sigh of relief, the whole exchange with that kid having weirded her out completely. She made a mental note to call Sketch as soon as possible and warn him—right after she warned Max. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her cell phone.

  Glancing to her left, she saw the kid riding easily right next to her. In her surprise, the phone slipped from her hand, crashed to the street, and shattered.

  “Even on my meds,” he said calmly, “I still have my transgenic speed.”

  Her mouth dropping open, Original Cindy veered right, trying to get away from the guy; but her wheel clipped a crack in the pavement and she went down hard, the bike tumbling over her, her head smacking hard off the pavement.

  As things slowed and grew very quiet, she felt a dull throb in her head, the bike seeming to fly away from her unbidden, and she looked up to see the strangely unformed face of her fellow Jam Pony bike messenger, looking down at her just as her world turned colorless, then dark gray, then black.

  “And it’s ‘Bobby,’ ” she heard him say, just before all consciousness left her. “For now, anyway. . . .”

  Less than forty-eight hours to negotiate a settlement before the tanks rolled in . . . and the residents of Terminal City weren’t any closer now than they’d been when the police followed them into the parking garage last week.

  Sitting in the media center, exhaustion weighing her down like her bones were made of lead, Max rubbed a hand over her face and wondered what she and her mutant band could do to stave off a full-scale army invasion.

  Dix and his crew sat arrayed around the monitors, the room quiet, almost funereal, as they went about their business. Rubbing her forehead with the tips of her fingers, Max pondered her missing friends.

  Alec and Joshua remained incommunicado in Clemente’s custody, assuming the pair was still alive. Thinking back
to her own hospital adventure—she’d been shot trying to save a kid’s life, only to have a nurse try to administer a prescription of poison—Max wondered if Ames White had gotten to them yet.

  She knew Logan could find out what hospital they were in; but even so, the risks of a rescue would be great. If White had located them, Alec and Joshua might already be dead, or moved, or simply used as bait for a trap to lure her. And if Max left Terminal City to go break them out, she would break faith with Clemente and put everything and everyone at risk.

  If the only risk were her safety, she’d already be on her way. But now she had to take into consideration the effects of her actions on others.

  Damn leadership, anyway—a pair of handcuffs.

  Mole strode in, dropped his shotgun on the table and lit a cigar. He shook out the match and sat down across the table from her. “You okay, kiddo?”

  “Peachy. Anything going on out there?”

  He shook his lizard head. “Ever see them old war movies? ‘Quiet—too quiet.’ ” He took a long drag on the cigar, then blew so much smoke out, it was like fog rolling in. “Cops ain’t movin’. They seem content to just wait for the big boys to get here with their tanks and shit.”

  “Yeah—won’t be long now. The whole damn circus will be in town.”

  “Our people, though . . .” His voice trailed off ominously.

  “What?” she asked, sitting up.

  “Mood’s changing. They’re worried out there, Max—maybe even scared. Look at the compound monitors.”

  Dix turned from his monitor. “Yeah, we got little pockets of somethin’ or other, all over the place.”

  Max and Mole went up and looked over his shoulder. Almost every camera showed cliques of transgenics around the compound. Three or four, sometimes six or eight to a group, they all just seemed to be talking among themselves.

  “What are they jawin’ about, anyway?” Dix asked.

  “They’re planning,” Max said. “In case we’re not.”

  Mole puffed on his cigar. “Why? Don’t we have a plan for when the Army gets here?”

  She wished she had a good answer to that; but all she could give him was: “I’m still hoping it won’t come to that.”

  “Yeah, I’m kinda hopin’ my complexion clears up, too,” he said, rubbing his reptilian cheek. “But just in case our dreams don’t come true—” He waited for Max’s eyes to meet his. “—might also make sense to have a plan in place.”