Continuance (31 page)

Now, the panels
were gone, but the new photoscreens – evenly distributed at points in space
around the bar and above the tables – still showed the same dizzying array of
sports and stats. She’d expected most of them to be tuned to the fight, but none
of the feeds resembled a cage match. And none of the faces resembled Robert.

She pulled her
computer from her pocket and checked the time. Maybe she was early. She walked
up to the bartender, a short blond with cornrows and a mid-drift Rams t-shirt. “Do
you know what time the fight starts?”

“I don’t think
any are playing tonight.” The bartender’s eyes widened. “Hey! Michelle!” Her
face suddenly seemed familiar, but a name wouldn’t come. “Rachael,” the woman
smiled when Michelle hesitated. “We used to come in here all the time to get
hit on, remember? Then you started hanging out with that Peter guy.”

“Patrick.”

“Right. Patrick.”
She said in that slow drawl Michelle remembered. “Can I get you something?”

“No thanks. I
just came in looking for my husband. Tall guy, mid-forties. Sharp dresser. Seen
anyone like that?”

“Rob? Like our
regular, Rob? I didn’t know he was yours. Not tonight. I think he was in last
night though.”

Michelle
suppressed a scowl.
That conniving jerk.
He’d probably made up the work
thing just so he didn’t have to leave town. She forced her lips into a smile.
“Thanks, Rachael. Good seeing you again.”

“Come back in
with Rob sometime. We need to catch up.”

She used the
ride home thinking of the perfect line to tear into her husband when she saw
him. Coming up with and discarding half a dozen proved more than enough to pass
the time, chewing through minutes like an angry dog. But when the garage closed
behind her, she still hadn’t settled on the one to use. Content to wing it, she
strode through the door into the kitchen, searching for Robert.

The smell of alcohol
filled her nose, and she spotted an empty wine glass on the coffee table. Storming
past, she headed for the bedroom. Then she froze, slowly turning back around.

Two.
Two
wine glasses.

Sitting at the
other edge of the table near the sofa, she’d missed the other one at first. A
dread settled over her, a sort of sickening chill that banished coherent
thought. She could only stare at the other glass like some horror from a nightmare.
The beat of her heart intensified as it slammed her chest from the inside in a rhythmic
assault.

And as she stood
there, another sound reached her ears – steady and percussive, like a poor copy
of the first. Her ears sought the source, and she turned her head to look down
the hall.

Creeping closer,
she watched her own hand grasp the knob of the bedroom door like some a distant
observer inside her own skull. The sound was louder now, the tempo a little
faster. Beneath it now, she could make out human voices, wordless and low. She
opened the door.

The sight of
them, tangled together in her own bed, absorbed and oblivious in their ecstasy
struck her like a physical blow. It seeped inside, stretching her out until her
soul felt like spent elastic. She wanted to turn away, to have never opened the
door in the first place. But her feet were rooted in place, and her eyes stayed
locked on the impossible scene in front of her.

The woman saw
her first. Eyes wide, she clawed at the sheets in a vain attempt to cover
herself. Robert took several moments longer. “Bree! Oh, God! Like that!” Finally,
he seemed to realize the frantic squirming of the woman beneath him had nothing
to do with his efforts. He turned, gaping at Michelle in the doorway.

All the clever
and abrasive things she’d so carefully planned to say melted away. She stood
there, mouth open, but empty of all words. Some other part of her noted she
didn’t recognize the slim redhead in bed with her husband. She was young. Much
younger than herself.

“Chelle,” Robert
managed. “Chelle, I’m so sorry.”

The words were
acid in her ears. No, not the words – his voice. Her eyes clouded behind wet
curtains as memories played back in her mind. Robert telling her he had to stay
and work on his project. Robert laughing with her as little Mandy played,
making dolls from coloring book holos. Robert telling her he was the luckiest
man alive on their wedding day. With each, she heard that voice in her mind,
and with each, the acid ate further into her skull, until she thought she’d
scream from the pain.

Robert had
rolled off the bed and pulled on a pair of boxers. Bree had fled – to the
closet, to the bathroom, out of the house completely? Michelle didn’t know.

“Chelle, I never
meant for this to happen.” Robert reached out to touch her arm.

She ran.

As she burst
through the living room, her shin caught the coffee table, and both wine glasses
shattered on the floor. She never paused. Ignoring the pain, she dashed to the
garage, slamming the door of her Nissan as she fumbled for her keys with shaky
hands.

Robert’s shouts
followed close behind. “Chelle! Wait!”

She popped the
locks just as he bounded into the garage on bare feet. Ignoring the pounding
beside her head as Robert slammed his hand against the window, she pushed the
start button and revved the engine. The car lurched backward into the street,
Robert stumbling behind the hood. With a screech of tires on pavement, she left
him behind. She had no idea where she was going, and she didn’t care as long as
the car took her further away with each second. Away from what had been her
home.

After how many
miles, how many minutes, she didn’t know, but finally, her breathing slowed. Her
hands relaxed their death grip on the steering wheel, and she pulled the car
over at a small park, empty at this time of night. Before she came to a
complete stop, she’d activated the comm system. She had to punch in the contact
code manually. She’d never stored it for fear someone might find it, but by
now, she knew it from memory.

“Hello.” The
voice on the other end carried a mixture of warmth and puzzlement. She hadn’t
spoken to Patrick much in recent months. Not since she’d distanced herself,
putting an end to their meetings when she realized where they’d ultimately lead.
Patrick had understood. He hadn’t been happy, but he’d let her have the space.

“Remember…”
Michelle cleared her throat to control the quaver in her voice. “Remember that
day you asked if I’d have wanted things to be different? If your stasis thing
worked out?”

“I remember. You
said you didn’t like the idea of stasis. Have you changed your mind?”

“No. Not about
that.” She pulled the butterfly charm from her blouse, spinning it back and
forth as it dangled from its gold chain. “What if it didn’t matter anymore? What
if we didn’t need to wait for some future fantasy life?”

“What’s this all
about, Michelle? Are you okay?”

“I need to see
you.”

Patrick
hesitated. The last time they’d talked, she’d made it clear she
didn’t
want to see him. It was too dangerous, for both of them.

“Okay.” Caution
was plain in his voice. “When?”

“Now.”

She cut off the
call and started the engine, slamming the pedal to the floor.

2089

           
The starting lights
flashed green, and Jason slammed the pedal to the floor.
The M3’s engine
roared to life, a powerful bass counterpoint to the whine and crackle of seven electric
motors. The reach of the stadium lights faded in moments, but the track around
and ahead of him stayed brightly lit, the hoverfloods keeping position over
each of the four pairs of cars as they picked up speed.

Quick taps on
the paddle shifter took the him through the first five gears in seconds. Knight
had started on his inside left, but quickly jumped ahead three car lengths. The
two drivers behind Jason pulled even, jockeying for position on the outside. He
kept his focus ahead, mentally in tune with the data on the HUD, letting the
perks tell him the precise moment to shift, the exact line to take into the
first turn.

Pushing the car
hard out of turn one, he managed to stay a few inches ahead of the bumper of
the emerald Mazda on his right, keeping it from nosing down in front. Side-by-side,
they headed down a straightaway, and Jason felt the M3 hit the power band where
his car had an advantage over the plug-ins. The Mazda fell back, slowly at
first, then faster. Jason was on Knight’s bumper again as they slowed into the
approach to turn three – a sharp left followed by a quick S.

A digital chirp
in his helmet signaled a comm request. He eyeclicked to open an encrypted audio
channel as he floored the M3 down the straightaway.

“Darren,” he
said.

“Dr. Fairchild,
actually. Darren’s on the comm with me. Thanks to him, we’ve got a VIP box up
top.”

Jason smiled at
the thought of Dr. Fairchild taking in a car race. “Glad you’re enjoying
yourself, professor.” Hearing her voice made him feel less alone.
Neal’s not
the only one with agents to back him up
.
I’ve got my own. And my Grieves
is better than his.
He pushed the car through turn five, losing ground to
Knight again. “The DIA’s here. We spotted them on the way in.”

“We?”

Jason grimaced. He
hadn’t intended to tell them he’d brought Chaela along. “Never mind. Grieves is
with them.” Back on Knight’s bumper again, he drafted a moment before pulling
out wide to overtake.

“We know,”
Darren’s voice came through the channel. “I can see him watching you three
boxes over.”

“Good.” Jason
said. “Are we all set?” He pulled even with Knight, the M3’s engine screaming,
close to the red line.

“Yes,” Dr.
Fairchild said. “We’re tracking telemetry on both you and Knight. The numbers will
show any deviations that aren’t caused by driver behavior or track conditions. Did
you find the inhibitor? Is it inside the car?”

The straightaway
leading to turn six – the corkscrew – dwindled fast ahead, but Knight made no
move to slow down. Neither did Jason.

“Hang on,” he
said. The straightaway gone, he forced himself to brake into the corkscrew. The
car got light –
998 pounds relative weight
– and understeered down the
curve. He felt a flash of panic as his mind skipped back to his skid through
the same turn a few days earlier. The right side tires left the track,
crunching and skidding through gravel. But then Jason felt them grip, and he brought
the car back in line. Knight mirrored his moves to the inside, but kept his
position, pulling away again on the exit.

“Yeah,” Jason
said. “It’s in the car, but there’s no way they’ve activated it yet. This guy’s
still way too fast.”

“Not
surprising,” Darren said. “They’ll probably wait for the two of you distance
yourselves from the field a bit. You do realize we won’t get the evidence we
need if Knight doesn’t end up being the one to finish right behind you.”

“It’ll be him,”
Jason said.
And if they wait too long, he may just cross the line ahead of
me.
In spite of his claims about Knight not having the amps to win, Jason
had to admit – the guy could drive.

“You’re getting
a good signal from the device?” Fingering the bandage at his throat, Lindsay
looked out the box window along the stretch of track that fronted the stands. With
the field of cars on the back side of the track, the straightaway below was empty
for the moment. He shifted his attention to the photoscreen feed inside the box
just in time to watch Craig Knight’s white car streak into a curve, side-by-side
with Jason Day’s black.

“Clear and
strong.” Costilla patted the datapad in front of him, his smug smile a perfect
fit with the neatly groomed stubble on his face.    

“Good. They
should be finishing lap one soon. Be ready to activate it whey start lap
three.”

“You’re the
boss. You know, I didn’t think she was gonna come through for us. We didn’t get
a lock until just before Knight rolled onto the track.”

“Neal said she’d
deliver.”

And why not? Katelynn
Perez had been motivated, eager to make up for overlooking Day in the first
place. She’d been on assignment from Central, tasked with screening the drivers
for perks. Before that, they’d had her canvassing the tennis circuit, looking
for too many aces or blowout matches. Neal said the retreads had a hard time
keeping their perks under wraps, especially when it was so easy to excel at the
things they’d always dreamed of. Whatever pursuits they chose, they usually
bubbled to the top – athletes, musicians, executives – but never very high
profile. No retreads wanted to be on national TV or in the Fortune 100.

Day had been
careful enough to keep his races close, hadn’t tipped his hand, and so Perez
had missed him. That was bad enough, but once she’d become convinced he wasn’t
a retread – just gifted in the classroom and behind the wheel – she’d indulged
in her undercover role a little longer, and a lot deeper than necessary.
I
guess she thought he was gifted in other ways too.