Halfskin (9 page)

The sort of pressure Jonny loved.

He couldn't hear the crowd. The voices blended together in a blur of white noise. The whole world was watching. People were on the edges of their seats at home, on their feet in the bars across the nation, all of them ready to watch Jonny Miser close out the St. Louis Cardinals to win the division.

It was all up to Jonny.

He did hear one of the voices. The one in his head.

Don't blow this.

He toed the rubber, digging his cleats into the divot. He wedged the side of his foot against it and looked at the catcher. His arm dangled at his side, the surgically-repaired elbow tingling.

He shook off the first pitch. Took the next one.

The heat.

Jonny would propel his team into the playoffs by blowing a fastball past the batter. Put it all into this pitch, the last one of the season.

It would also be the last one of his career.

Jonny Miser went into his stretch, the crowd frenzied, the batter waving his bat, the umpire crouched behind the catcher.

He kicked his leg.

He threw the historic pitch.

The umpire never called it. He stumbled, eventually falling on his back. He never saw it.

The sound of the ball was described as a wet gunshot that shattered the catcher's hand. If it missed the glove, it would've ended his life.

It was later explained that the Tommy John surgery performed earlier that year utilized a small amount of biomites to repair tendons in Jonny Miser's arm. The low levels were monitored by the league and remained at less than 1%. However, it was later explained the biomites responded to elevated levels of cortisol and norepinephrine—stress hormones—and induced an immediate proliferation. In minutes, the biomite population had consumed his arm.

Impossible, said nanobiometric engineers.

The pitch was clocked at 204 mph.

14

Cali unpacked.

Avery's clothes were on top. She placed them in the empty drawers, all the shirts nicely folded and cleaned. All perfectly stacked. Next, she took hers out, placed them in the larger drawers, not so meticulous with them.

She dragged the large bag to the corner and unloaded the toiletries around the sink. The Chicago Marriott welcome kit was neatly arranged against the mirror. Cali took the time to unload the toothpaste and deodorant and brushes and soap and everything else to keep the bathroom area in order. They'd be staying in the suite for the next couple weeks and Cali hated a messy bathroom.

Avery jumped from bed to bed, giggling with each leap, crumpling the floral bedspreads in heaping wrinkles.

Cali wanted a smoke. It was too far to walk down to the street. She brushed her teeth, instead. They'd been in the car long enough to pound out a pack of cigarettes. Her chest wheezed. She hated the city—too big, too cold—but she hated not knowing even more. And she came to Chicago, not knowing if things would work.

They have to. They have to.

Cali dug a clot of clothes from the drawers and went to the bathroom.

"Going to take a shower, Mama?"

Cali mumbled something and closed the door. She missed the light switch and, in the dark, kicked the toilet. Pain seared her big toe, shooting over the top of her foot. She found the light and half a toenail on the floor, still covered with chipped orange polish from the last time Avery painted them.

Blood bubbled on the exposed nail bed.

She quickly ran the shower, undressed and stepped in to wash off the dirt, to wash away the emotions, to clean her mind. The steamy water covered the sobs hiccupping in her throat. Blood washed in diluted rivulets to the drain. Cali wondered how many of those red platelets were biomites just imitating blood.
How much of that is me?

She reached out and hit the light switch.

Showered in the dark.

"Stop jumping."

"Yes, Mama." Avery climbed off the bed nearest the window. "Do you feel better?"

Cali brushed her teeth again, decided to wear the robe instead of getting dressed. She found a Band-aid at the bottom of her bag and wrapped her toe. Avery was standing on the window frame, arms out, palms pressed against the glass. Cali cleaned the blood off the bathroom floor and retrieved the brittle toenail—that was the second time she'd cracked a nail in a week—before Avery saw it. Blood creeped her out, made her lose her breath.

"Everything's so
biiig
," Avery announced, smudging the glass with her lips. "The people look like ants."

Cali smiled. That's what she said when she was a little girl and her dad brought them along on a business trip and took her to the top of what was called the Sears Tower. She remembered her stomach lurching and the cars looked like toys.

"I want to spit." Avery had a very big smile. "What do you think would happen if we spit, Mama?"

"You'd get in trouble."

"No one would know it was us. There's like a million windows on this building, Mama. No one would know."

"How are you going to get the window open?"

Avery examined the glass. She ran her fingers along the edges. "How come it won't open?"

"They don't want anyone falling out."

"Oh, my." Avery covered her mouth, her eyes wide but smiling. "What would it feel like to fall?"

Cali wondered the same thing.
What would it feel like?

Would she feel anything in her empty stomach? Would she feel alive, for once? Or would it bring relief?

"I'm hungry." Avery stumbled into the office area of the suite. "When are we going to eat?"

Cali was still in her robe. There were two tablets and a laptop open and running on the desk. CNN was on the TV. She slouched in the chair, head resting on the back.

"You want to call up room service?"

"Yes!" Avery leaped and clapped. She scuttled into the bedroom and picked up the phone.

Cali kept an eye on her screens. The lights were off. The room shimmered data blue. CNN might pick up the story she was waiting for, but she knew she'd see it on her company's—BioMed—news feed first. She logged on with an encrypted connection and watched story after story of anything biomite-related scroll down the laptop screen.

She reached out and tapped Nix's name with one hand. The news feed spit out past stories regarding his initial seedings and development, including confidential data. She punched in a date to limit the stories to current ones.

The information stopped.

So she waited.

She kept her eyes on the empty screen, waiting for a story. Waiting to hear anything on her brother while her stomach turned and her eyes grew heavy and reporters droned on the TV.

She waited.

She waited.

The room was dark, lit only by the television's flare.

The computers were asleep.

Cali wiped the spittle from her mouth. The other room was silent and dark, as well. She sat up and tapped the space bar.

The screen was full of words.

Full of stories.

All containing Nix's name.

...Nixon Richards is en route to Northwestern Memorial Hospital's biomite wing...

She scrolled the mouse wheel, her eyes racing over the words, looking and looking. She clicked the next story describing more details.

...his condition critical...

Cali flopped in her chair, eyes stuck on those two words. Condition critical.
Critical
.

But he's alive.

He's out.

It worked. He’s out of the Center.

And he was at Northwestern Memorial, in the nation’s most advanced biomite technology wing only two blocks from where she was sitting. She let out a breath. A long stale one. Perhaps one she'd been holding for several months.

Avery was lying on the bed, the iPod inches from her face. Electric shadows stretched over her cheeks. Cali looked around.

"I thought you ordered room service?"

"I didn't know what you wanted," she said, dully. She did not look up. "And you were sleeping."

Cali lay next to her, stroking her daughter's hair. They watched a few minutes of a movie.

"Did you get good news?" Avery asked.

Cali kissed her cheek. "Yes."

15

George needed a victory. Something. Anything.

All he had was this place, this job.

He had no life outside of it.

It wasn't always like that. He used to be somebody. He was starting left guard for an AA state champion football team. He had an Associate’s degree in Criminal Justice. And he was eight years from retiring to Florida where he'd find a trailer and fish until the sun went down.

Some people had it worse than old George, but, still, he needed a victory. He needed something to remind him he was worth something.

This little...
chess game
... it was nothing to Nix. That kid had nothing else but time to think about it. George had responsibilities, he had alimony and child support, he had a sick mother and an asshole father. He had all sorts of things occupying his mind, but he was damned if he'd use that as an excuse. He was better than that.

He was better than a machine.

And that's just what Nix was. He was damn near 50% biomite, something like 49.9%. One-tenth of a percent didn't make you human. You were half human—half machine. No way around it.

George, on the other hand, was only 10% biomite. That wasn't much. And he didn't choose to get seeded. He was diabetic and alcoholic and those were treatable diseases with biomite technology. The doctors assured him he was seeded with suppressed varieties that doubled in population once every 15 years. That meant he would be dead before he redlined. If a little seeding made his life a little less miserable, then praise the Lord.

He rested his elbows on his knees. He decided last time there was too much chit-chat. Nix threw him off-balance with all the talk. He needed to concentrate. Besides, his act of confession about the last time was just a decoy. He downloaded some chess code and had the doctor seed his brain. It was only a 1% biomite boost, but guaranteed to make him remember more and analyze faster.

And it was working, he could tell.

It used to be he only had one or two moves planned, but now he was planning five or six. He felt good, felt right. Felt like today was his day. He could even see a way to checkmate this snotnose in seven moves.

George felt his scalp tingle. He wiped the sweat with his sleeve. The hallway was getting warm, the A/C was down. No matter, he was on a roll.

George lifted the knight with two fingers, placed it on C-6 and studied the board. If he had things figured right, Nix would take the bait and swipe his bishop, which would leave him open to get his queen in position.

He lifted his hand. Move made. He looked up.

On the other side of the glass...

Sitting in a chair on the other side the glass... door...

He wiped his eyes. They were blurry with sweat. He needed a drink, he was parched. His throat was scratchy and hot. He wiped his forehead again.

"You all right?" Nix asked.

George waved the kid off. "Shut up and move."

The kid watched him. George looked away, irritated. But then he moved exactly where he wanted him. The little dummy took his bishop, just like he planned.

Good God!

George could hardly keep calm. He forced himself to sit still, forced himself to refrain from moving too quickly. He pretended to think for a full minute while sweat ran down his temples and his brain quivered with excitement.

He made his move.

Queen to F-3.

He refused to look up, he couldn't be distracted. Not again. Not like last time. Whatever the hell brought that weird thing up a minute ago was... it was nothing. He focused.

Focus. And never look up from the board.

He executed every move, just like he planned. Nix castled his king into safety. Or so he thought. George pushed his pawn up a square. All he needed was one more move and it was a done-deal. The rook would slide up to C-2 and he could accept the kid's submission—

"Bishop to G-8."

George shuddered.

His head was vibrating on the inside, like someone jammed a vibrator between his ears. His eyes stung from the heat.
Will somebody turn up the goddamn air-conditioning?

He reached for the black bishop. His hand moved like a sandbag, dropping on the pointed end and sliding it across the board.

He didn't see that coming.