Busted Flush

Political Science 101

Ian Tregillis & Walton Simons

THIS WAS NO PLACE for a thirteen-year-old kid.

He didn’t remember how he got to the hospital, or even why he was there in the first place. His room smelled funny and the walls were painted a color so bland it didn’t even register in Drake’s mind. He was sick of being stuck with needles and hooked up to machines all the time. The gown they’d given him to wear did a lousy job of covering his chubby body.

The nurse had that fake friendly look on her face. She was middle-aged and skinny and she wasn’t going to tell him anything. Drake was going to ask anyway, though. So far, all he’d found out since his blackout was that he was at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio. Which was hell and gone from his dad’s ranch outside Pyote.

“I want my mom and dad. Where are they? Where are my brother Bob and my sister Sareena? Why can’t I go home?” He crossed his arms across his hefty stomach like a pouty, underaged sumo wrestler.

“By now you should know better than to ask, young man. You know what’s going to happen if you keep this up.”

Drake knew exactly what would happen. “I don’t want to sleep anymore. I have nightmares. I’ve told you that.”

“A new doctor is coming here later on today, to ask you some questions. Are you going to be a good, cooperative little boy, or not?”

Drake shook his head and gave the nurse his coldest stare.

She sighed. “I’m asking you nicely, son. Please try to help us.”

Drake wasn’t interested in cooperating. Maybe if he caused enough trouble they’d kick him out. “Go away. Leave me alone.” He pulled the pillow from behind his head and threw it at her.

She caught it with one hand and used the other to open the door. “Orderly. I need assistance in here.”

He put up a decent fight, but the orderly was a big guy who didn’t play games. Eventually they got the needle into him. Seconds later, he felt like his body was an empty shell; his skin made of brittle clay that shattered and collapsed in onto itself. Darkness came, but it wouldn’t last.

He was naked and curled up in a ball on the ground. Something was wrong with the ground, though. It was hot and his feet hurt. Drake saw small fires here and there. There was a big fire, too, behind him and to his right. He could feel the heat on his back and legs. He stood up and started walking away from it.

He started shuffling forward, feeling with his toes for anything he might be able to cover himself with or use as a weapon. Unfortunately, if there was anything on the hot ground, Drake didn’t find it. His legs began to hurt and he collapsed to the ground, crying.

After sobbing until his tears were gone he stood back up and wiped his runny nose.

He continued shuffling slowly forward. The fire he was heading away from still seemed close, or maybe it was the other fires. There was no way to tell. Drake felt the ground rising slowly beneath him. It was a small hill, but by the time he made it to the top, his sides were burning and he was gasping for breath.

In spite of the fact that Drake was scared and uncomfortably naked, he lay down and closed his eyes.

Waking up from the drug was like swimming up from the bottom of a very deep pool. His hospital room came slowly into focus. Drake rubbed his eyes. The good nurse was there. Gerald, that was his name, was friendly and would talk to Drake about video games.

“Hungry, buddy?”

Drake’s senses were coming back online. His stomach was empty enough it hurt. “Is it breakfast or dinner time?”

“Foodwise, it’s whatever time you want it to be,” Gerald said with a smile. “But timewise we’re talking late lunch. I can get you a sandwich or a burger with fries. Maybe some ice cream.”

“Oh, snap. A burger and fries would be killer.” Drake’s mind was now firmly focused on food and wasn’t turning loose until he was comfortably full.

Gerald gave him a high-five. “I’m on it. You may have a visitor before I get back, or so they tell me.”

“Another doctor?” Drake asked.

Gerald laughed. “I expect so. There’s not much of anyone else around here.” He ducked out the door with a wave.

Drake was annoyed when the new doctor showed up before Gerald got back with his burger. Drake had been expecting a mad scientist type, mostly because this all seemed like a bad movie. Instead, the man was younger than Drake’s dad, maybe in his mid-thirties, had all his hair, and didn’t wear glasses. He did have a white coat and a clipboard, but that was standard issue for this place.

“Hello, Drake. I’m Dr. Fitzhugh.” He extended a hand. Drake shook it warily. “I understand you’ve been having bad dreams.”

“Yes. It’s because they give me this stuff to make me sleep.” He looked straight at the doctor. “Can you make them stop giving it to me?” Although Drake’s first idea was to find his parents and go home, he was also sick of being put to sleep.

The doctor nodded and scribbled on his clipboard. “I see. That medication is a nonopiate, but it can turn loose the subconscious in an uncomfortable way. I’ll make a note of it.”

Drake smiled. “Okay. Can I go home soon?”

“I’m also recommending that you be transferred to another facility.” He put a hand on Drake’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, son, but we have to figure out exactly what happened to you, and we don’t seem able to do that here.”

“Will my folks be at this place?” “Just remember everyone is trying to help you. Have a good trip.” The doctor stood and left the room with a rustle of his white coat and no further explanation.

Mom? I don’t feel real good.

Niobe Winslow felt her oldest child dying, felt him melting away like so much ice cream dropped on a summer sidewalk. Soon there would be nothing left of Xerxes but memories. And another hole in her heart.

Through their bond she felt the warming lamps perched over his incubator; needles squirting filtered blood and synthetic proteins into his forearm; plush swaddling.

Hang in there, kiddo. Momma’s coming.

Month-old Xerxes was the longest-lived of Niobe’s seventy-six children. Xue-Ming had lived nineteen days, thirteen hours. Xander, eleven days and change. Xerxes’s breakthrough longevity had slipped through her defenses, bolstered her with vain and foolish hopes.

He’d been so strong. So healthy.

Her chair clattered to the floor as she jumped to her feet. The joker to whom she’d been reading rocked back and forth on his bed. His head, a featureless extrusion of flesh and bone, knocked against a white-spackled patch on the wall. The orderlies had given up on repainting it.

She righted the chair with her tail as she yanked the door open. “Sorry, Mick. Gotta go. Back tomorrow.”

Knock. Knock. Knock. Little flakes of plaster rained down on Mick’s sheets. The door slammed behind her.

A bell chimed the hour. She ignored it.

I feel funny. My tummy hurts.

Almost there, kiddo. Just hang in there, ’kay?

She ran through the corridors of the Biological Isolation and Containment Center, a facility carved into the caverns of an old salt mine deep under southeastern New Mexico. The corridors glowed with light from fiber-optic skylights connected to an array of heliostats on the surface. The skylights shone brightly; one could forget that the desert was half a kilometer overhead.

As both a voluntary committal and a trusty, Niobe had the run of the place. It was the nation’s foremost biological research center, where an army of doctors and scientists struggled to cure hundreds of patients of their afflictions. The facility resembled a wagon wheel tipped on its side: a central hub, with radial spokes connecting it to an outer ring. In places, the outer ring connected to the original warren of mine tunnels, some large enough to swallow a freight train. The pie sections of the wheel were color-coded, like a Trivial Pursuit piece.

Niobe ran around the rim of the wheel. This wing (minimum security, voluntary committals) was decorated in shades of green, complete with oil paintings of forests and verdant hillsides. The corridors turned orange and red as she approached one of the medical wings.

Her tail caught an orderly’s medicine cart as she skidded around the corner toward the infirmary. The cart flipped. Hundreds of pills skittered along the floor.

Over her shoulder, she yelled, “Sorry!”

“Damn it, Genetrix . . .”

Half the staff thought that was her real name. Genetrix. The Brood Mother.

The connection to Xerxes strengthened when she entered the infirmary. But still their telepathic link felt staticky, like a radio tuned slightly off-station.

Niobe weaved through a maze of EEGs, EKGs, respirators, dialysis machines, and still other devices constructed specifically for her children. Doctors and nurses surrounded the oversized infant incubator where Xerxes lay, working frantically to keep him alive.

A tangle of tubes and wires snaked from Xerxes’s body to the machines. His skin, smooth and rosy-pink just this morning, hung waxy and sallow from sunken cheeks. Rheumy cataracts leaked sour-milk tears down his face. Even the thick black head of hair he’d styled into a little Elvis pompadour to make her laugh was coming out in clumps.

She had promised to take him to Las Vegas.

Mom? I’m scared.

“I’m here now,” she said. “Don’t be scared, okay?”

“Mom . . .”

“Hush, kiddo.”

A single thought, through a blizzard of psychic static: I love you, Mom.

And then Xerxes was gone. The blanket sagged, empty but for a slurry of organic molecules. The ammonia-and-hay odor of dead homunculus wafted out of the incubator. Niobe sobbed. One nurse hugged her tightly, patting her on the back and murmuring encouragements, while another collected the dead child’s remains in a sample jar.

The chimes sounded again, louder this time. A low voice on the PA system. “Genetrix to therapy two. Genetrix to therapy two, please.”

She didn’t want to go. But Xerxes’s death had slipped a knife into her gut, and every secret, selfish thought gave it a vicious twist. Regularity was crucial. Generations yet unborn—but cherished no less—would drop like mayflies, if not for BICC’s rigid methodologies. And so she went, for the sake of her future family.

Therapy room two mimicked the layout of Niobe’s own quarters, except for the larger bed (a California king-size mattress) and the curtains along one wall.

Christian was seated on the edge of the bed. He looked up when she walked in. “Where were you? They’re going nuts in there.” He gestured at the curtains with the long, knobby fingers that always felt warm and strong on her hips.

“With Xerxes.” She wiped her eyes. “He passed. Just now.”

He grunted, pulling the shirt of his BICC uniform over his head. The soft blond hair on his body didn’t catch the lights, so his chest looked slick and bare.

“He was scared,” she said, walking behind a bamboo privacy screen in the corner. Niobe had insisted on the screen. As she draped her sweatshirt over the top of the screen, she added, “He would have liked it if you visited.”

“Who?”

“Xerxes.”

“Oh.”

The bristly hairs at the base of her tail snagged the waistband on her sweatpants. As she worked them free, she added, “You could come, next time.” Christian said nothing.

She scooted under the covers while Christian had his back turned. The linens made scratchy noises as she pulled the sheets around her. She wished she had shaved her legs, wished the wild card hadn’t given her pig hair.

The nightstand clunked as Christian dropped a prescription bottle into the drawer. He popped a pill in his mouth. She pretended not to see any of it. The pills made her feel ugly. Uglier.

She lifted the covers for him, but he paused to draw the curtains, revealing a long mirror along the far wall.

“Maybe we can leave the curtains closed, just once.”

The mattress bobbed as he climbed in next to her. “They go ape-shit when we do that.” As he plumped a pillow under his head, he added, “Besides, it’s all for the kids.”

A cotton tent raised itself farther down the bed, below Christian’s waist, as he laced his fingers behind his head. The pill had worked, whatever it was.

She leaned over to kiss him, but he pulled away.

“C’mon, Niobe. They’re waiting.”

No warmth between her legs, no tingling desire. Not that it mattered.

Niobe sighed. She took care not to glimpse the mirror as she straddled Christian, not to see her shapeless, doughy body; her tail; her acne.

Christian laid his hands on her waist, strong fingers wrapping around her hips. He never touched her stomach, or her back, or her breasts. She wanted his arms around her, but resigned herself to holding his shoulders. His fingertips dimpled her flesh as they found a rhythm.

Her tail convulsed. Niobe groaned. The ovipositor widened for peristalsis with a tearing pain that robbed her of breath. The first egg in a clutch was always the worst.

Christian finished with a little convulsion of his own, but not before she was already climbing down. She wanted to hide behind the privacy screen, but Pendergast and the others were adamant about recording every detail of the birth process. At least the sheets made a passable toga; Niobe had a lot of practice.

Christian rolled off the bed. He pulled his boxers on.

The first egg formed at the base of her tail. Through clenched teeth, she said, “Won’t you . . . unhhh . . . stay?”

He pulled his shirt back over his head. “What?”

“Don’t you want to”—another burst of pain as the first egg passed midway along her tail and the second formed—“meet the little ones?”

“Can’t. Docs gotta examine me.” Christian combed his hair in the mirror. “I’ve explained this before.”

She wondered why they couldn’t examine him before each session, but couldn’t catch her breath enough to ask. The tip of her tail tore open to pass a sticky, pineapple-sized egg. She deposited it in the square marked on the floor, where the cameras on the other side of the wall and in the ceiling could film the hatching from multiple angles.

Christian opened the door.

“Maybe you could come by and see them later?”

“Maybe,” he said. And then he was gone.

Niobe dressed while the trio of eggs wobbled, shuddered, and expanded. The first disintegrated with a little pop, overlaying a talcum-powder smell on the odors of antiseptic and sex. In its place stood a three-foot-tall homunculus: stocky, bald, but with a bushy, fiery red beard.

He rubbed his scalp and looked around the room with wide, coal-colored eyes. “Mommy?”

Niobe smiled. She opened her arms. “C’mere, Yves.”

They hugged, her son strong and healthy in her arms. She tried not to dwell on that. He felt the twinge through their bond, though, and said, “Look what I can do!”

He ran up the wall on two feet. She watched him dance upside down on the ceiling while the second egg hatched.

Yvette was tall and lithe—or would have been, were she of normal size—with waist-length auburn hair, sharp cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes. Stunning.

Thanks, Momma. The girl kissed Niobe on the cheek, then settled in her lap. She smelled like summer rain.

“Mom!” Yves kept dancing overhead. He moved on to an Irish jig, complaining, “Mom, you’re not LOOK-ing!”

“That’s fantastic, kiddo! We should sign you up for Riverdance.” Better yet, Niobe imagined, a trip to Ireland.

The third hatchling, Yectli, had pale, nearly translucent skin, a shock of white hair, and eyes like the wide, bright New Mexico sky. Albinism as a mild form of jokerism? The kid got off lucky.

“Better than that, even,” he said, reading her thoughts. He swelled his chest and cocked a thumb at himself. “Watch what I can do.”

Yectli turned toward the mirror and held his arms out. Ten little lightning bolts crackled from his fingertips to the mirror. Through the wall Niobe heard a crash, then somebody yelling for a fire extinguisher.

“I did it for you, Mom,” said Yectli. “I zapped that camera good!”

The room smelled like ozone.

Drake was securely belted into a helicopter seat with a soldier on either side of him. This was so nuts it almost made him laugh, but he was too miserable for that. He wondered why he needed to go someplace else in the first place. The doctors and soldiers scared him, but he wasn’t going to show it. And he wasn’t going to let them make him cry.

The helicopter was flying over desert scrub and they were headed more or less toward the setting sun, so Drake figured they were headed west. They might be flying over Pyote. Hell, it could be New Mexico or Arizona for all Drake knew. Desert didn’t look like much from the air. The soldiers spoke to each other every now and then in some kind of military talk that didn’t make much sense to him, but most of the time they were quiet.

Drake was already tired when they took off, and by this point he could barely keep his eyes open. The seat hurt his butt, but the discomfort didn’t keep him from sliding off into sleep. He couldn’t tell when the dream started.

He was naked in the middle of a landscape covered with fires. His feet burned. His ass hurt. Even his nose and eyes hurt. The whoop-whoop-whoop of helicopter blades caught his attention and he began waving his arms. The chopper door opened and something silvery fell heavily to the scorched earth.

“Pick up the garment and put it on,” boomed a voice. The helicopter settled to the ground, sending a cloud of dust into Drake’s nose and eyes.

Coughing, Drake unfolded the silvery suit. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before, one-piece, but zippered everywhere, and he struggled to get his arms and legs inside. He was relieved to have something to cover himself with, but this was bulky and he’d sweat like a pig in it. There was a hood with dark plastic where his eyes would go, but Drake didn’t pull it over his head.

A person dressed in a suit like the one Drake had just put on beckoned to him from an open door. Drake squinted and ducked down as he moved toward the helicopter

“Hey, kid. You okay?” The soldier on his right side was nudging Drake in the ribs.

Drake sat up straight, straining his belly against the confines of the safety belt. He was still having the dreams, even without the medication. Maybe there was still some left in his system. That must be it. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The helicopter slowed and descended rapidly. Drake craned his neck and peered through the window plate. The chopper was kicking up a bunch of sand around the small, asphalt landing area that was ringed with a few blinking lights. There were more soldiers, or guards of some kind, waiting when he stepped outside.

One of the soldiers from the helicopter held Drake aside while the other one talked to a uniformed man who’d been waiting for them. The man was young, Hispanic, and built like an athlete. His uniform was sharp and pressed, but it wasn’t the same as the soldiers’ outfits. Drake squinted and made out the letters “BICC” on a badge he was wearing. The soldiers got back into the helicopter and the BICC man walked over to him. Drake felt a powerful hand on his shoulder.

“Hello, Drake,” he said. “Welcome to your new home.” He headed down a concrete ramp with Drake in tow.

“I don’t need a new home,” Drake puffed. “I want to go back to Pyote, where my family is.”

They reached a large, metal double door with guards on either side. One of them waved Drake and the BICC man through. The door opened into an elevator. The man guided Drake in and waited for the doors to close, then inserted a key and turned it. They began to descend. It took a long time. In fact, it was probably the longest elevator ride of Drake’s life.

“Who are you?” Drake tried unsuccessfully to push the hand off his shoulder.

“You can call me Antonio,” the man said. “Or you can call me Justice. It’s up to you, but use a respectful tone in either case. That goes for how you speak to everyone here.”

“Yes, sir.” Drake almost choked on the words. The doors opened into a reception area with more guards and a couple of people sitting behind their desks, typing or maybe just trying to look busy. They all stopped what they were doing when they saw Drake.

Justice guided Drake over to the nearest desk. There was a woman sitting behind it. Her pinched face and ugly-ass hair made Drake think she hadn’t had any fun in her entire life. “Show Drake Thomas as arrived.”

“Affirmative, sir.” She pushed a button on her desk and another door opened with a faint hiss.

Drake followed Justice into a huge, brightly lit area. The illumination came through a glassed-in ceiling at least twenty feet above the floor and looked like natural sunlight. Drake didn’t see how that could be the case given how far down they’d come. Corridors radiated out from the center in several directions, like the spokes of a bicycle. There was a kiosk in the very center with a couple more guards. Drake could see they were carrying automatic weapons and heavy batons. Again, no one was smiling. This was feeling more and more like a prison to him.

“Follow me,” Justice said. Drake did as he was told. His footsteps echoed noisily off the metallic flooring. Justice paused about fifteen feet down the hallway at a doorway. He inserted his BICC badge. The mechanism beeped, and he pushed open the heavy door. “This wing of the facility is the taupe area. All the sections are color-coded based on the type of guest who’s staying there.”

“What kind of guest am I?” he asked.

“The kind who isn’t going to be any trouble, I’m sure,” Justice replied. His tone wasn’t mean or taunting, just instructive.

I just want to go home. Someone get me home, Drake thought.

The walls were painted a soft tan. The hallway itself branched in several different directions from the main corridor, reminding Drake of an ant farm. This place was bigger, much bigger, than he’d imagined. Halfway down the hall, Justice opened a door, this one leading to a small room. There was a single bed, a half-open door leading to a bathroom, and a television bolted to the wall. Drake brightened at the sight of the TV. He hadn’t had access to one since things went all to hell.

“At least you gave me a TV. That’s something.” Drake looked around for a remote.

“Right. All you can watch right now are the DVDs. There’s only a few but we’ll try to get you some more,” Justice said. “I’ll give you a tour of some of the facility later on, but for now you’ll be required to stay in your room. We also need you to take that.” He pointed to a pill in a plastic cup, sitting next to a glass of water on the end table.

“I’m sick of pills and stuff.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Drake shrugged and took the pill. They’d only force him if he didn’t, and he was curious about the payoff.

Justice walked over to a paper bag on the floor and fished out a T-shirt, which he tossed over to Drake. “Just so you know we’re not the bad guys.” He gave Drake an unconvincing smile and left, locking the door behind him.

Drake unfolded the shirt, which had the familiar Joker Plague logo on it. He tossed his other shirt and pulled it on, stretching it tightly over his belly. Score one for me, he thought, wondering how long it would be before he could get full access to the TV. He’d worry about that later. Right now he was getting sleepy.

Dr. Pendergast leaned forward in his easy chair, scratching the salt-and-pepper Vandyke on his chin. “It’s healthy to grieve,” he said.

Niobe wiped away a tear. She looked around the room, looking for words. Diplomas on the walls documented Pendergast’s extensive medical pedigree. The photo on his desk showed Pendergast in a tuxedo, smiling, with his arm around the shoulders of a centaur. Niobe gathered that the horse guy was some famous doctor. Pendergast often spoke fondly of his time at the Jokertown Clinic.

“They’re scared,” she said. “But if I’m strong, if they feel that, it gives them hope, you know?”

“It isn’t healthy to ignore your feelings.”

“I’m not. But I need time.” She glared at the doctor, twisting the tissue paper in her hands. “You called me for another session even before Xerxes had died. I can’t do it that often. It was too soon.”

Pendergast nodded. “Unfortunate timing. I am sorry about that. But consistency is crucial to our work.”

She exhaled through pursed lips, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked away.

“You’ve grown much self-awareness since you came here. You should take comfort in that, Genetrix.” She’d lost the name battle long ago. The new identity was his idea. “You’ve come a long way. Do you remember how you first came to BICC from your parents’ estate?”

Of course she did. She remembered lots of yelling, lots of blood, an empty bottle of scotch, a straight razor. If one of the maids hadn’t found her in time, she might have bled out right there on the floor of the master bath.

Her tail still had the scars. Little ridges of skin where the ugly pig hair wouldn’t grow.

Quietly, so he wouldn’t press the issue: “Yeah. I remember.”

“You’re a different person now. I’m proud of you.”

Niobe lowered her eyes, nodded. She sniffed again. “It helps having people who care about the kids. Like you. And Christian.”

“And we’re making progress. Two years ago, a full month would have been unthinkable. We’ll beat this thing. The important thing, Genetrix, is not giving up.”

Niobe didn’t say anything. More tears came. The room went out of focus.

Pendergast stood. He paced over to his desk and picked up the candy jar. In a lighter, more jovial tone, he said, “Quite a trio in this clutch!”

He offered her a chocolate. Niobe declined. Sweets made her break out even worse than normal.

“Yectli certainly was a shock.”

One corner of her mouth curled up in a half-smile at the pun. She snorted. Then she looked up, worried.

“Was anybody hurt? He didn’t mean to. He just wanted to impress me. Kids are like that.”

Pendergast waved away her concerns. “No worries. He frightened the technicians, and fried an expensive camera, but otherwise no harm done. I found it funny, myself.”

“Do you think he’s a joker? The albinism, I mean?”

He shrugged. “Who can say? Your hatchlings vary so greatly from one to the next . . .” He trailed off. “Do you think he’s a joker?” He narrowed his eyes and scratched his beard again. “Were you thinking about jokerism when you were with Christian?”

“No. Why?”

“I want to show you something.” Pendergast opened a wooden cabinet to reveal a flat-screen television and a DVD player. He pressed a button and the static blinked into a view of therapy room two from behind the mirror.

She watched herself saying, “Maybe we can leave the curtains closed, just once.”

Then Pendergast fast-forwarded until Yectli hatched. Yves’s head kept bobbing into the frame as he danced on the ceiling. “Watch what I can do,” boasted Yectli.

Zap! The image returned to static.

“Quite a coincidence,” said the doctor. “You expressed unhappiness with the camera, and then poof! A manikin with the power to address your unease.”

“You think I did that on purpose somehow?”

“Perhaps your mental state during copulation determined Yectli’s power.”

“Jesus, Doc! If I had any control over their abilities, don’t you think not dying would come first?” Niobe threw up her arms. “God!”

He raised his hands, palm out. “Fair enough.” As he closed the cabinet, he said, almost as an aside, “Has Yvette demonstrated her power to you yet? We’re still unclear on whether she’s an ace or a deuce.”

“Nope. She’s a quiet one.” Aren’t you, sweetheart?

Better to be thought a fool, Mom.

After a happy but bittersweet lunch with Yectli, Yvette, and Yves, Niobe loaded up one of the kitchen carts with books, magazines, and a cooler of ice cream. She promised to rejoin the children for a movie night as soon as she finished her rounds.

Mick absorbed ice cream through his fingertips while Niobe read another chapter of The Catcher in the Rye to him. She always let him have a little extra. His body contained the cure for cystic fibrosis; the wild card had cured him even as it rendered him a joker at age eight. By studying Mick, BICC researchers would one day save thousands of kids.

When she tugged the empty bowl from his fingers, he grabbed Niobe’s wrist. He tapped the book with his free hand while bobbing his head at her. Tap, tap. Nod, nod.

“Mick, I don’t understand. What? What’s wrong?”

He’s saying you’re like that catcher in the field of rye, said Yvette.

Because I remind him of Holden Caulfield?

No. Because you care so much.

Oh.

Niobe smiled. “Thank you, Mick. I like you, too.”

He let go. Plaster dust rained down on his sheets once again as he went back to knocking his head against the wall, just as he’d been doing when Niobe arrived.

“See ya tomorrow, Mick.”

In addition to voluntary residents like Niobe and Mick, the low-security wing housed a library, cafeteria, gym, and television lounge. The lounge also contained a computer with Internet access. Niobe swung through during her rounds to check her e-mail. She watched a few minutes of a football game, socializing with the patients and off-duty orderlies, while waiting for a turn at the computer.

Nothing from her parents, of course, but she did find a new e-mail from Bubbles, who was in New York. Another city on Niobe’s list of places to visit someday. Niobe decided to respond with a note about Xerxes’s death—Bubbles had met him and would want to know.

Moans went up around the lounge. The game had disappeared, to be replaced with the words “Special Report.” Niobe kept one ear on the TV while she typed. Several people threw things at the screen when President Kennedy announced a new gasoline rationing program. Niobe finished up the e-mail to Bubbles and resumed her rounds.

The earth-toned medium-security wing (brown, taupe) housed patients moderately dangerous to themselves and others. Some were here voluntarily; others at the behest of family, or the courts. Niobe’s first room had been in this wing. There were no voluntary committals in the yellow high-security wing.

Powder blue Q Sector, BICC’s maximum security wing, housed the worst of the worst. It was also the reason Niobe never let her children accompany her on the rounds.

The wing had been built into one of the spurs off the outer ring. Each cell required special construction tailored to the particular occupant, and the old salt caverns offered the space to do so. If you wanted to lock somebody up and lose the key, this was the place to do it.

Niobe hurried past the cell housing the joker woman covered in dozens of baby mouths. The active soundproofing never completely nullified their combined wailing. She also passed a lead-lined cell that housed a glowing, mummylike figure, and a watertight cell filled floor to ceiling with glycerin to prevent its occupant’s skin from igniting.

One denizen of Q Sector she didn’t skip, though she might have liked to, was known as the Racist. She tapped on the Plexiglas window of his cell. She never met his eyes when he looked at her; their darkness, their intensity, unsettled her. Prison gang tattoos covered most of his skin not covered by his jumpsuit.

“Bookmobile.”

“You still here, kike?” At some point in the past, he’d decided she was Jewish.

She slid his requested book—a dog-eared copy of The Turner Diaries —through the lazy Susan. It was originally his own copy, found on him when he was captured.

“How many times are you going to read this crap?” she asked. “Why don’t you read something educational instead?”

“How long until Uncle Shylock takes you back to Jew York City so I don’t have to see your ugly face no more?”

“I’ve told you,” she said, wheeling the cart away, “I’m not from New York.” She left the Racist to his solitude.

“Nibble they toes, nibble they fingers . . . ”

Her last stop was outside the cell of Terrence Wayne Cottle, aka Sharky, in reference to his gray skin and the serrated, triangular teeth that filled a mouth extending halfway around his head. Cottle embraced the identity enthusiastically. He’d eaten his victims to death.

“. . . chew they skin, chew they guts . . .” Featureless black eyes popped open when Niobe pushed her squeaking cart to a halt outside his cell.

“. . . chomp they tail and all them kiddies!”

“Something to read, Terrence?”

“Not bored. Hungry.” Thin lips pulled back from his teeth as he said this. “So hungry.” He licked his lips.

A single scoop of butter brickle sat at the bottom of her cooler, but of course she couldn’t give it to him. Pendergast and the security techs were adamant that Cottle could never receive any utensil. Even a plastic spork.

“Can’t help you there, Terrence.” Niobe held up a few magazines. “How ’bout a National Geographic?” Even staple-bound magazines were off-limits.

“What I’d really like, Genetrix, is a copy of Modern Gourmet.”

“Sorry, Sharky, no such luck.”

Cottle shook his head. “Shame. Been looking for a good recipe for roast joker tail.” He laughed. “Something that’ll tell me how to debone that thing.”

His shouts followed her back up the hallway. “. . . or a marinade for fat little kiddies?”

Yves, Yvette, and Yectli were extra quiet. But she knew how to cheer them up.

Hey, you kids ever been to Disneyland?

Yectli clapped. Of course not! said Yves.

Well, let’s fix that, thought Niobe. And this time, no putting the trip off until it was too late.

All they needed was a few days. She’d let Pendergast know they’d be gone, and then find some tickets online. The oil crisis guaranteed that she’d have to pay a king’s ransom to get all four of them to California and back, but she hadn’t touched her trust fund in a long time. It might have taken a hit, thanks to market craziness brought on by the crisis, but odds were that her parents’ goodbye-and-go-away-forever gift was still pretty hefty.

You guys are gonna love Space Mountain.

Returning through the medium-security wing, Niobe found one of the cells open. The cot had been stripped, and a pile of new linens rested at the foot of the mattress.

“Get a move on, Genetrix.”

She turned to find Tom, one of the BICC orderlies, standing next to her.

“Oh, hiya, Tom. What’s going on? New guest?”

“I’m not kidding. Beat it.”

“What? I’m just asking.”

Tom shrugged. “I got my orders.” He pointed down the corridor. “Scram.” He glared until she turned the corner.

She waited a moment before peeking back.

Justice—the head of BICC security—escorted a boy down the corridor and into the cell. Young, based on his height, and a little pudgy.

The boy turned just as Justice slammed the cell door behind him.

He looked terrified.

The interrogation room was cramped and dim. Drake was sitting on one side of a metal table; facing him from the other side were a doctor, or so he guessed from the man’s white coat, and another BICC guy. Justice was behind Drake, but he was letting the others ask the questions.

“Mr. Thomas, you’re aware of your medical condition, are you not?” The doctor leaned forward and adjusted his glasses.

Drake shook his head. “No, no one’s told me anything.”

The BICC man, wearing a badge that said “Smitty,” opened a folder. “Well, it’s time you learned why you’re here. Let’s start with exactly what you remember?”

“Nothing,” Drake said defensively. This was going to be just like the army hospital, nothing but questions. “Why don’t you tell me something for a change. Like where my family is or why I can’t see them, for instance.”

“Well, there is a bit of information I can provide you with about your medical condition.” The doctor had a really nasty look on his face, reminding Drake of his fourth-grade math teacher. His badge read “Dr. Pendergast,” which sounded like something made-up. “You’ve been infected with xenovirus Takis-A, the wild card. As for your family, they’re all presumed dead.”

“Doctor,” Justice said, a serious look on his face, “are you sure . . .”

“Yes,” Pendergast interrupted. “This young man needs to come to grips with the situation he’s in. It might help overcome his memory suppression.”

Drake went numb. “You’re lying about my folks.” He had a feeling, deep down, that it was true. “Tell me you’re lying.” He’d been afraid they were dead, but until someone said it Drake wasn’t going to believe it. Now, someone had said it.

“What did you think happened to them, Drake?” Smitty asked. “Did you think they survived a nuclear explosion?”

“I didn’t even know there was an explosion.” Drake was holding back the tears with everything he had. “How did it happen?”

“That’s what your government wants to know, Drake.” Smitty gave Drake a cold stare that momentarily replaced his grief with fear. “It’s possible that your parents were part of a terrorist plot, and something went wrong.”

“My mom and dad terrorists?” Drake shook his head in disbelief. How could these people be such morons? “That’s stupid. They sat outside almost every night watching the sky for aliens as part of the ‘Watch the Skies’ volunteers. They would never hurt anyone.” Drake was telling them the truth. His folks had joined the volunteer program after the Swarm invasion, which happened before he was even born.

“Try to see things from our point of view, Drake.” Smitty looked like he was trying to force his face into something like a sympathetic look. It was ugly. “There’s a small nuclear detonation in a largely unpopulated area. The size of the explosion is consistent with a suitcase nuke, something a terrorist might use. The location suggests it was an accident, except for the fact that there was a little boy in the middle of it. An ace who survived the blast and is immune to radiation. Does that seem like a coincidence to you?”

It was too much for Drake to take in all at once, but these asshats wanted answers, and they expected them from him. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” Drake said. Skeptical stares greeted his response. “Maybe the explosion did something to my memory. I’ll try.”

“It would be worth your while to do so,” Smitty said. He nodded to Justice. “Take him back to his room. Keep him on the medication.”

Drake felt his chair sliding backward and he quickly stood. “I’m doing the best I can.”

During the short walk back to his prison, Drake’s fear gave way to despair. His family was dead. Even the few people who cared about him, like his aunt Tammy in Austin, must think he was dead, too.

Once alone in his room, Drake fell on the bed and pulled the pillow over his face. He could hear Justice’s footfalls echoing away down the hall. Only then did the tears come, and he couldn’t stop them for a long time.

He wasn’t sure what time it was when Justice showed up again, knocking at his locked door. “What do you say we take a walk and get some exercise?” Justice stepped out into the hall and gave Drake a look that made him understand this was not a suggestion.

“whatever you say.” Drake popped up from the bed. He’d never been very big on exercise, but stretching his legs beat the hell out of rotting in his crappy little room.

“Excellent.” Justice led him down the corridor and into the central area. The vast room was still mostly deserted except for the guards at the kiosk, who were talking and laughing about something. “We’re cleared for green section today,” Justice told the men.

Along the way Drake paid attention to where the surveillance cameras were. He’d counted at least five. Once inside, though, Drake almost felt relieved. He hadn’t had any idea what to expect from “green section,” but the first room they came to was a big one with couches and a couple of TVs, one of which was turned on. It wasn’t like a real living room, but was still lots nicer than anything Drake had seen here so far. His eyes tracked like radar to the TV set. A couple of people were watching American Hero, and it was the end of the show where the contestants had the cards in front of them and someone got voted off.

Justice quickly guided him away from the TV and into another hallway. Only then did Drake notice the walls were like classroom green, only brighter and friendlier.

“Maybe we’ll stop back here on the way back,” Justice said, grabbing Drake more gingerly than usual by the shoulder and ushering him out. “Right now, I’ve got something else in mind.”

They continued down a long hallway. Most of the doors here were closed, although one that was open led to a room with Ping-Pong tables and an old quarter-gobbling arcade game, as well as candy and drink machines. Two young women were going at each other in Ping-Pong.

“Keep moving, Drake,” Justice said. “We’re almost there.”

The next door opened into a cafeteria, which was even bigger than the one at his school. It was mostly empty, although a few tables had two or three people sitting at them.

“This is where your meals come from, just in case you wondered.”

Drake’s enthusiasm level dipped a bit. He wasn’t wild about the bland food he’d gotten, but maybe they had something good he hadn’t seen yet.

Justice pointed to a woman standing behind a glassed-in corner counter. “Interest you in some ice cream, son?”

Drake hustled over as fast as his heavy, out-of-shape legs would carry him. There were over a dozen flavors, some of which were dangerously low in their containers. He walked around behind the counter and looked up at the middle-aged woman. “Can I get a free taste or two?”

She shook her head, then smiled. If she was surprised to see a kid in the cafeteria, she didn’t show it. “Sure, son. Just show me what you want to try.”

Drake quickly pointed out a couple of chocolates, French vanilla, and some rainbow sherbet. “Let’s start with those.” When the woman bent over, he noticed the badge attached to her pocket. Justice was directly on the other side, but wasn’t looking his way. Before he could do anything she turned around with a spoonful of ice cream.

“Here you go.”

Drake took the sherbet into his mouth but couldn’t focus on how it tasted. “Mmmm,” he said. “Vanilla next, please.”

The vanilla was in the front row of the ice cream display and the woman had to bend over for it. The chain holding the badge must have broken at some point and was now held on with tape. Drake leaned into the woman, as if trying to get a better look at the ice cream, and tugged the badge free. He held his breath and tucked it into the front of his pants.

“Our French vanilla is a big favorite.” She offered him a heaping spoonful.

Drake exhaled heavily and downed the ice cream. It was actually great, for vanilla. More important, neither the woman nor Justice had noticed him sneak the badge. “Oh, yeah, that’s what I want.”

The woman handed Drake a couple of small paper napkins and sent him on his way. He felt the cool plastic of the card against his belly and hoped it didn’t show under his clothing. Drake sat down across the table from Justice and gobbled his ice cream down so fast he got the cold thing in his forehead.

“Ate it too fast, didn’t you?” Justice didn’t say it in a smug way. “I’m sorry you found out about your family the way you did. The doctor is just trying to help you get your memory back. This place can be comfortable for you, Drake, if you just settle in and help us to help you.”

“I’m trying,” Drake said defensively. “How would you feel if your entire family was dead and somehow you were the only one left alive? And people stuck you in a place and asked you questions you didn’t know the answers to?”

Justice nodded silently and sat for a moment in thought. To Drake it almost seemed like Justice felt sorry for him. “I think I’d be pretty unhappy, but I also think I’d try to adapt to my new circumstances.” He held out an open hand. “Give me the card, Drake.”

The ice cream went sour in his mouth. Drake pulled the card out and dropped it into Justice’s large palm. “It was just a game.”

“Right. But we don’t want to get Alice”—he nodded toward the ice cream woman—“in trouble, do we?” He tucked the card into his pocket. “And this wouldn’t get you out anyway.”

“Like I said, it was just a game.”

“We’ll have to find you some different games, then. Make the best of your time here, Drake. Nobody wants you to be miserable.” Justice stood, straight and tall and solid as a brick wall. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

Drake got up and began trudging from the cafeteria, dragging his feet as he went. So they’d caught him. So what? No way was he giving up. Sooner or later they had to make a mistake, and that was when he’d make a break for it.

Pendergast’s office had no waiting room. Niobe stood next to a watercolor landscape of grama and piñon, shifting her feet often. Her tail made it impossible to rest her back against the wall, so she had to lean one shoulder against the hard concrete. It put an ache in her hips.

Muffled voices leaked into the corridor. She knew the doctor’s voice, and Justice’s, but the third was unfamiliar.

I was thinking. Maybe your dad would like to come to California with us. Perhaps Christian would be more eager to spend time with her children—their children—if he had the chance to vacation away from BICC for a while.

Yeah! thought Yectli. Yves liked the idea, too. But Yvette thought, Don’t trust him, Mom.

Why? He’s your dad and he loves you.

But he’s not—ouch.

Yvette, what’s wrong, honey? Niobe knew the answer but she asked anyway, hoping to be wrong.

Owey! Momma, it hurts.

Niobe found herself silently pleading with the virus. No. No, no, no. Just a few more days. Please. I promised them Disneyland. All three.

The door opened. Justice exited Pendergast’s office, pulling the new arrival—the boy—after him. The kid’s head hung low, and his face was flushed. Niobe wanted to give him a wink and a smile as they passed, but Justice pulled the kid in the opposite direction when he saw Niobe. The kid didn’t even look up.

She entered the office. Pendergast himself sat behind his desk, scribbling notes into a file.

The doctor looked up, saw her, and reared back in surprise. “Genetrix.” He shut the file folder, with his pen still inside. “This is a surprise.”

Niobe jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “New kid?”

“Hmmm? Oh. Yes.”

“Looks pretty unhappy.”

Pendergast fished his pen out of the file, saying distractedly, “He’s still adjusting to his new environment.” He looked pensive for a moment, then added nonchalantly, “Have your children said anything about him?”

Niobe had deflected several days of leading questions about Yvette. Clearly Pendergast suspected the girl was some kind of mentalist. But if her daughter wanted privacy, she’d have it. As much as could be had at BICC, anyway.

“No. Just wondering about him.”

He recapped the pen and opened a filing cabinet. “I have another appointment. Do you need something?”

“Nope. Just letting you know I’ll be on vacation for a few days.” She grinned. “Taking the kids to Disneyland.”

“Ah. I see,” he said quietly. He slid the file into a drawer filled with many others. “You’ll be leaving soon, I take it?” Niobe heard the cabinet lock click when he pushed the drawer shut.

“The sooner the better. Want to take them before . . .” She didn’t want to say it aloud; bad enough they already knew she was thinking it.

“Of course.” Pendergast nodded. He looked pensive again. “Tell you what. If you’ll do something for me first, I’ll personally see that your leave paperwork is expedited.”

“Great. Name it.”

“Drake. The new arrival. Introduce yourself; try to make him feel welcome. Let him know he has friends here.”

“Sure. I can do that. Why is he here, anyway?”

“The important thing,” said Pendergast, “is that he feels comfortable and relaxed.”

Don’t trust him, Yvette repeated.

The evasion wasn’t lost on Niobe. But poor Drake did look like he needed a pal. And if cheering him up would get the kids to Disneyland that much sooner, that was win-win.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Drake said, trying to get his brain working.

After being unbolted, the door opened a bit and a young woman poked her head in. “Can I come inside for a minute?” Something about her tone of voice was different than what he was used to around here. Then it clicked that she was being polite.

“Sure.” Drake swung his legs over the bedside and onto the floor, then stood up.

“Hi, my name is Niobe.”

“Holy crap.” Drake couldn’t keep himself from staring once all of her was inside. For the most part she was a normal woman, pretty young still, but there was something attached to her. It was like a big tube coming out from her lower back, almost like a third leg, but with no bones. Her clothes were the kind fat girls wore, all floppy and worn. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve never met anybody like you before.”

“You mean a joker?” If she was bothered by her appendage or Drake’s reaction to it, Niobe didn’t let on. “It’s okay. You must be pretty special yourself for them to ship you here.”

“Not really, just another little fat boy from West Texas.” Drake was suspicious, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Well, maybe a little bit special. You want to sit down?”

The corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk, and the thing stuck to her back wiggled over her shoulder, like it was waving at him. “Easier for me to stand. Have they turned on your TV yet?” She nodded to the set on the wall.

“Only the DVD player, and most of the movies are pretty lame.” They’d given him The Rescuers, SpongeBob SquarePants, and Dumbo. He hadn’t made it all the way through Dumbo, it was just too depressing. Drake slumped a little.

“That figures.” She pulled something from a large paper bag she was carrying. Drake had been so distracted by her tail, or whatever it was, that he hadn’t even noticed it. “Don’t tell anyone I gave you this. And keep it hidden.”

Drake immediately recognized the Game Boy and grabbed it from her with a grin. “Geez, thanks.”

“I thought you might like that. I’ve only got one cartridge, arcade classics, but I’ll try to get you a couple more and some extra batteries.” Niobe handed over the rest to Drake. “Like I said, though, keep it hidden or they’ll take it away and we’ll both be in trouble.”

Drake began to really relax. “You’re not one of them. I mean, you don’t work here.”

She shook her head. “Not exactly. They’re conducting, sort of, tests on me. You know how that goes.”

There was no reason to believe she was lying, although Drake thought she was holding something back. That was okay, so was he. “Yeah. I really appreciate this, Niobe. Trust me, I won’t get caught.”

“Good. Because if you do, they probably won’t let me visit again. One more thing. I heard you liked the ice cream, so . . .” She fished a moist carton out of the bag, and a plastic spoon. “Mint chocolate chip. Tastes incredible, believe me.”

“Oh, snap.” Drake’s appetite, which had been next to nothing, came back to life and he had the carton open in a flash. The ice cream was as good as she said. Maybe better. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Niobe shrugged. “I have a soft spot for kids.” Her expression went distant for a second, like she was listening to something only she could hear. Then she continued. “Er, handsome young men like yourself. Anyway, I know this isn’t the friendliest place in the world. You’re probably not happy with how they’re treating you, and I’ll bet you miss your family and friends, too. Am I wrong?”

He didn’t want to think about his family and friends right now. “No. It’s just that you’re the only nice one so far.” Drake took another extra-large mouthful of ice cream. His mouth was happier than any part of him had been in a long time. “I’m not complaining, though.”

Niobe smiled. It was a grown-up kind of smile, like she knew so much more than he did, but Drake didn’t care right now. “I’ve got to get back to my rounds,” she said. “Have fun with your Game Boy.”

“Oh, I will,” Drake said. Niobe opened the door and pulled her tail-thing through to the outside of the room. “My name’s Drake.”

Niobe nodded. “Hang in there, Drake. See you soon.” Then the door closed and she was gone.

Drake polished off the remainder of the ice cream and tossed the carton on the floor. He popped the Gameboy cartridge into the slot and powered the machine on. Moments later a menu of several games, most of them older than he was, showed up on the screen. Drake almost went for Missile Command, but decided Defender was more his speed. He paused a moment before starting the game. Niobe might be the person, the friend he needed, to get out of here. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but he had to hope for something or give up entirely. He’d think about it later. Right now there were aliens to kill.

Early-morning sunlight poured down through the skylights. Far above, Niobe knew, the sky would be a brilliant azure. Just wait ’til you see it with your own eyes, kiddos. There’s nothing like it.

Niobe found Pendergast coming out of the cafeteria. He held a cup of coffee in one hand and a foil-wrapped bundle in the other. She could smell the green chile and chorizo from his breakfast burrito, and the chicory in his coffee.

“All done,” she said.

He breezed past her. “What’s done?”

“I introduced myself to Drake, like you asked.” She walked backward, keeping abreast of him. “I think he was glad for the company. Seems like a nice kid. I’d be happy to visit him again.”

“Good.” Pendergast said nothing more.

“Meanwhile,” Niobe said, hoping to jar his memory, “the kids and I will be taking our leave this morning.”

Pendergast shook his head. “No. I’m afraid not.”

“What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“No, you’re not taking your children anywhere.”

She stepped in front of him, arm raised, blocking his path. Coffee sloshed over the brim of his cup. “I’m not asking your permission. I’m telling you as a courtesy.”

He sighed. “Niobe. Taking your children out of this facility—the only place where they can receive the specialized medical attention they need—is a reckless and irresponsible act. And so I’ve decided, for the sake of your children, to revoke your leave privileges.”

Anger made Niobe’s tail quiver against her back. “You forget. I have a key card for the elevator.”

“Which you’ll find quite useless. It hasn’t worked for many weeks, in point of fact.”

Her knees felt weak. Watery. “But . . . I promised them Disneyland . . .” She slumped against the wall. “Please don’t do this.”

“It’s for the good of your children,” Pendergast said. He stepped around her and was gone.

Don’t trust him, said Yvette. Either of them.