Five minutes later, Otto had dropped White in his driveway and sped away. He’d driven aimlessly for a couple of hours before winding up here, at Discovery Park. Now he wondered if he dared go home. And if he didn’t go home, where could he go?
Suddenly, Otto Gottlieb realized he was a man without a country. He needed to tell someone something. He just didn’t know who to talk to or what the hell he would say that wouldn’t make him sound like a lunatic.
Clemente suddenly seemed like too small a fish to do battle with a shark like White. Then Otto thought of the one thing that White seemed to hate as much as the transgenics: Eyes Only!
Otto needed to get to Eyes Only. They’d tried to track the hacker down for months, and though they’d narrowly missed him once, that was the only time they’d gotten even a sniff of the guy. Now that he needed help immediately, Otto wondered how exactly one contacted an underground cyber journalist. Smoke signals, maybe?
Maybe he should just let White do whatever it was he was going to do at Terminal City and stay out of it. They were only transgenics, after all...
Only transgenics.
The phrase chilled Otto. He remembered seeing historical videos where one racist after another had used the same defense to cover his own stupidity and rage. “They’re only Negroes.” “They’re only Jews.” “They’re only Mexicans.”
And now words had formed in his own brain: They’re only transgenics.
Otto stared out at the sound and thought about his life, why he’d chosen government service in the first place, and as he made up his mind about what he would do, he heard himself saying, “With liberty and justice for all.”
And as he thought that for the first time in his adult life, he actually knew what those words meant.
He put the gun that had been in his lap back in its shoulder holster and drove home, with a reason to live.
Chapter nine
Crash landings
Original Cindy missed Max.
Things seemed to be slipping back into numbing regularity at Jam Pony. Where the bike messengers were concerned, Normal was pretty much back to normal — which was to say, obnoxiously pushing them on and putting them down — and neither he nor anyone else seemed to want to talk at all about what had happened here just five days ago.
It was as if not talking about it made the hostage crisis never have happened — though the shellshocked look in everyone’s eyes said otherwise.
Original Cindy hadn’t spoken to Max, her best friend, her sister, since they’d parted company Saturday evening; and, though she was going through the motions at work, Cindy was on edge, worry boiling in her stomach, like an untended pot of greens on a back burner.
Sunday had been spent curled up in the apartment, trying to withdraw into herself, seeking sleep as refuge; instead, she found herself watching mental movies of her recollections of Max.
Everywhere she looked, something set off another flood of memories — the kitchen, the sofa, the table where they ate — even the damn bathroom triggered another torrent of emotion. It was as if she were eulogizing her friend, and she kept telling herself to stop thinking of Max in the past tense. Max wasn’t dead... but Cindy couldn’t keep from adding yet.
And when Cindy did manage to drift off to sleep, Terminal City invaded her dreams, the siege turning into a pitched battle that — as the dreams became more and more nightmarish — always ended with Max lying lifeless...
Monday had come as a relief. Jam Pony held Max memories, of course — good and bad — but being around Sketchy and the others seemed better than being alone at home.
Bullet holes still pocked the exterior, and crime scene tape sagged around the door like ghastly prom decorations still hanging the day after. Entering, Original Cindy walked past where CeCe died — the floor scrubbed too clean in that spot — and wandered back to where the messengers were gathered in the slapdash employee’s lounge. Normal stood in front of the group, a clipboard clasped in both hands like a life buoy he was clinging to.
“Come on in, missy,” Normal said. “Just show up whenever you’re ready. It’s not like we keep regular business hours here.”
A few messengers sat in the scattered chairs, while most stood, their eyes bouncing back and forth between Original Cindy and Normal.
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?”