Free Mutant Star by Karen Haber

the ground behind him occasionally. You couldn’t do that with a skimmer. And he could always retract the wheels and use the jets when he needed to get someplace in a hurry.
    The wind blew his hair back and filled his leather jacket until he looked twice as big—almost as big as Skerry.
    Skerry. Don’t want to think about him now. Nor that entire dinner—what an agony. Not to mention what followed right after. Still, it had all ended surprisingly well once he and Alanna had kissed and made up. And luckily, nobody had been home when he took her back to collect her clothing. Alanna had left a message on the screen—so long, folks—and slipped away with him.
    That had been almost two weeks ago. He grinned. The image of her floated at the back of his mind. Pale flesh, dark hair, shining eyes. So he hadn’t been her first lover. That didn’t really matter to him. He was surprised, sure, but also relieved that he didn’t have to teach her everything. In fact, she’d taught him. He had to admit that telekinesis had its uses. Oh, my, yes. He was looking forward to suggesting some uses for it that very evening.
    So, Mr. Maximum Freedom, he thought, are you really in love?
    He shook away the question. Either you wanted to be with somebody or you didn’t. And either they wanted you or they didn’t. Save love for vidsongs and poetry: that was Alanna’s department.
    “My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun …” An old line from his English screen-reader danced through his head. “Nothing like the sun,” he repeated. But weren’t they? Golden, glowing, filled with warmth …
    “A nice haul this time, by God! You’ve got the gift, bright eyes, I must say that!”
    A snaggle-toothed crone grinned at him over a pile of glittering baubles: golden neckbobs set with blue and red faceted stones, silver rings, a diamond and emerald bracelet. The contents of Mrs. Jonathan Reddington’s jewel box, left unguarded at the wrong moment. With a little help.
    Old Lucy would give him a good price for it, he knew. Best in Back Bay. And he deserved no less. How many would be so bold as to wait by the window until the right moment, then, using the Gift, spill some crockery down the hall? And didn’t milady leap up and scurry away to see what the problem was? And didn’t that leave the jewel box all unattended, and the window latch an easy mark for one with the Gift? Snip-snap. Up and over the sash, a quick blink, and Mrs. Reddington’s jewel box was glittering in his grasp. Thankee, ma’am. A tip of the hat, and into the leather pouch, into the pocket. Up and over the cold, painted window sash—not forgetting to close and lock the window behind him—we wouldn’t want to leave a draft, and milady to catch the grippe, now, would we?—and back out into the safety of the night, straightaway to Old Lucy’s. He was the best of the light fingers in Back Bay, and maybe all of old Boston. Let anybody try and put the lie to that statement.
    “Huh?”
    Rick blinked. A twelve-wheeled tanker roared past, rocking the cycle—and him—in its wake. The road was in front of him, wheels whining beneath him. Old Lucy? Boston? What the hell was that? Falling asleep on the road would get him killed fast. He shook his head to clear it. His arms tingled and he felt strange: dizzy, almost hungover. Stop for coffee or a stim hypo soon. He was up too late last night. Maybe he was getting old. Or crazy.
    ***
    Julian was floating, turning end over end in a timeless space as coruscating rainbows danced in his vision field. Red purple green. Blue yellow orange. Wait—he saw form. Movement. Depth and dimension. A figure in antiquated dress peered through a many-paned window at a woman sitting by a dressing table. It was just like some old-fashioned play: the man wore a long coat, a hat and scarf. The woman wore sumptuous green velvet, low-cut, and her hair was pulled back, caught at the neck by a shining green ribbon that sat above fat black