I scrabble up and Aislin yells, “Look out!”
Just in time, I realize I’m about to jam my head into one of the “branches.”
It’s high up here, really high.
But it’s nothing like the height Solo and I rappelled together.
“Get that guy!” Aislin orders Adam.
But Adam, I notice with a sort of distant awareness, is frozen.
Oh. Courage. I gave him everything else. I guess I forgot that.
Tommy has had enough of the chaos. He pushes the barrel of the gun into my mother’s chest, and I know what she’s thinking: huge dry-cleaning bill.
“Die, you cold bitch,” Tommy says.
Adam shrinks back, but Aislin yells, “Get your hands off the cold bitch, asshole.”
I reach the uppermost part of the steel redwood. I turn, my ankle twists, and I half-fall, half-leap onto the fat end of the thunderbolt.
“Mom!” I cry.
The lightning bolt swings forward. The point will hit my mother right in the back of her head.
The jagged point arcs forward. Inches from spearing the back of my mother’s head, right through her carefully coiffed hair.
At the last possible second, she simply tilts her head to the side.
The bolt shoots past her and stops.
It stops when the point enters Tommy’s forehead, just beneath the Pixies tattoo.
Great band. But not armor.
Tommy drops like a sack of rocks. The gun skitters across the floor.
Adam bends and picks it up. He considers it for a moment, then hands it to Aislin.
The rest of Tommy’s gang is about to rush her when Aislin levels the gun and says, “There’s a reason he handed me the gun. I will totally shoot you.”
I swing back and forth on the thunderbolt for a while. I don’t much like the idea of dropping while it’s still moving. I’ve had enough trouble with leg injuries lately.
My mother—who has not broken a sweat, or even so much as caused a hair to move out of its assigned place—snaps her fingers at Adam. “Get her down.”
Adam does. I slide to the ground along the length of his perfect body and come to rest with my mouth just inches from his perfect mouth.
He’s perfect.
“Solo,” I say. “We need to find Solo.”
– 43 –
While the security guards handcuff Tommy’s group, I glance at his body sprawled on the floor.
I saw a bit of gore when I was at the hospital, so I’m a little less squeamish than I used to be. Still, seeing brains on the floor isn’t easy.
Adam takes one look and practically swoons. Aislin holds him up and gives me a look.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t focus on physical bravery all that much,” I admit. “But he’ll be kind and nice and gentle.”
“Could be worse,” Aislin says.
“We still need to deal with the Maddox mess,” I say.
“I’m going to need this carpet replaced,” my mother mutters. “Kashmir silk, hand-knotted. What a waste.”
“Maybe now’s not the best time,” Aislin whispers.
“First things first: Solo,” I say.
“I know where they must have him,” my mother says.
She leads the way—because she always leads the way—and Aislin and Adam and I fall into step behind her.
The room is dark. My mother flicks several switches, and there he is, floating in the tank Adam had once occupied.
“Solo,” I whisper.
He’s fully clothed, obviously unconscious, tangled in a web of wires.
My mother checks a glowing monitor.
“The readouts show heartbeat and brain activity all normal,” she reports. “He’s alive. We can decant him.”
“Thank God,” I say.
“I used to live here,” Adam tells Aislin in a chirpy voice.
She pats his arm. “I know, sweetie.”
My mother has her hand on a lever. “You know, Evening,” she says, a gleam in her eye, “this would be an opportunity to … tweak.”
Aislin rubs her palms together. “He’s all hooked up. You could make some minor changes. Right?”
“Psychological,” my mother suggests.
“Physical,” Aislin says. “You know. In the name of science and all.”
“With just a few hours and a few adjustments, you could make him more agreeable,” my mother points out. “Men can be so … uncooperative.”
I shake my head. “Let’s get him out. Now.”
“Last chance,” my mother offers. “You know how picky you can be.”
“Now.”
It takes an hour to get Solo out and detached. He doesn’t wake up until we have him returned to his room. He’s covered in a clear viscous goo from the vat.
I place a blanket over him, just as his quite beautiful eyes flutter open.
“I’m alive,” he observes.
“Yes. You seem to be,” I say.
His eyes go to my mother and they widen in fear. Then he looks away. “Damn.”
“Yes,” my mother says dryly. “I’m still here.”
“Not what I meant,” he says in a subdued voice. “I…”
“You set out to destroy me,” Mom says.
“I didn’t,” he says simply. “I was ready to. I could have.”
I say, “Why didn’t you?”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t just her and me anymore. It was you, too. I could take her down. Not you.”