Free Mutant Legacy by Karen Haber Page A

only one I can turn to. Now will you—goddammit—come and see me?”
    For a moment her eyes widened in surprise at my vehemence. Otherwise, her implacable mask didn’t shift. But the urgency of my request seemed to have gotten through to her. “All right, Julian. All right. I’ll come.”
    We agreed upon neutral territory: the private conference room at the old Albuquerque Inn on the edge of Old Town. I could shake off Barsi’s faithful watchdog protectiveness for a trip to the Old Town antique shops as long as I promised to check in regularly.
    I went with misgivings, with irritation and fear simmering: a volatile stew. Alone, I blinked in the sunlight, as disconcerted as a vampire caught far from his coffin at daybreak.
    The traffic whizzed past, far too noisy and much too fast. The shrieks of children playing set off a steady, throbbing ache above my left ear. Yes, it was the messy, discordant, uncontrolled world running its rampaging course around me. Momentarily I longed for my B.W. hideaway and its thick, protective walls.
    I reserved the room—using a pseudonym, of course. It would never do for word to get around that one of the elders of Better World had emerged into the realm of lesser mortals without his handlers.
    The room was cozy as conference rooms go: a domed adobe fireplace with holo fire tape and carefully concealed forced-air heater, Navajo eye-dazzler rugs in reds, greens, and browns, and a rough-hewn table surrounded by chairs with thick woven cushions.
    I took the head seat, the only chair with arms, at the long oval table. I couldn’t decide if it wa Kcidn’t s real wood or merely a clever facsimile and was saddened that I could no longer tell. The chair was deceptively comfortable despite its rustic look and I leaned back gratefully.
    “A small glass of Scotch with some ice,” I told the tablemech. Hypos had lost their appeal for me long ago and now I preferred to imbibe the old-fashioned way.
    A mech waiter brought my cup of cheer, ice tinkling, in a sturdy, hand-blown glass.
    “Happy days.” I toasted my brother’s ghost.
    The Scotch was cool at first then warm as it went down, depositing strength and even a bit of courage. A good thing, too, because Alanna was suddenly in the room, her boot heels ringing loudly against the floor.
    She wore emerald-green silk robes that whispered when she moved and she had two young nonmutant men with her. Between them stood a secmech.
    “I thought we agreed to meet alone,” I said.
    She glared at me, a flash of gold. “Wait outside, boys.”
    “Take that mechanical secretary with you,” I said.
    The secmech rolled out behind Alanna’s henchmen and Alanna joined me at the oval table. Oh, so carefully did we avoid each other’s eyes, until she tired of the standoff.
    “You broke years of silence. Begged for this meeting,” she said. “I made a special trip. Now will you deign to tell me just what the emergency is?”
    I looked at my sister, envying her eerie youthfulness—was she using antigeriatric treatments? I have turned silvery and pale, neither fleshy nor spare. But she was smooth-skinned, elegant, almost unchanged. Her hair was dark save for a spray of silver at the temple.
    I gave her a grudging compliment. “Aging well may be the best revenge.”
    “I certainly hope so,” she said. “How are you feeling these days?”
    “Who feels all right when they’re seventy?”
    “No complaints?”
    “None that matter.”
    “Well, then, what is the matter? I thought you were on your deathbed.”
    “Is that why you raced out here? To gloat?”
    “Don’t be silly.” She paused, eyeing me suspiciously. “I swore years ago that I would never speak to you again.”
    “Understandable.”
    “You’d know that more than most.”
    “Touché.” I stared at her. She was ageless, magnificent even when poised in opposition against me. “I can’t get over it, Alanna. You really look fine.”
    “You’ve already said that, and with the same