Subsistemas

Steel

Aaron Rosenberg

She’s pretty, I can tell that even from up here. Dark blond hair cropped and mussed from the chase, big scared eyes behind narrow, steel-frame glasses, full un- varnished lips currently in that little ‘O’ of shock and fear, nice chest heaving from having tried to run, good body clad in disheveled gray blouse and darker gray slacks and what was left of a matching blazer that had torn when she’d pulled free from them the first time. Yes, very pretty.

But pretty don’t mean much to the two who’d been chasing her and now have her pinned against the wall. They don’t hunt for pleasure — well, not strictly, any- way. And when unleashed, it ain’t to go after “pretty.”

Which’s got me intrigued. Which explains why I’m here, crouching overhead, watching to see what happens.

The one in the lead has her by the throat now, though. And his other hand he’s arced back, claws out, ready to strike.

So much for watching.

Drop down from my perch, letting momentum add to my already considerable weight — and land on the first one’s head. He goes down beneath the impact like a cardboard box under a truck, hitting the sidewalk with an audible thud. As hoped, his hand flies open as he falls, and she slides down the wall, gasping for air but otherwise unharmed.

For the moment.

The second one shakes off his surprise and comes at me, but I’m ready for him. Block his downward strike with my left forearm, drive my right fist into his gut. The brass knuckles add some extra oomph, enough to double him over. A knee to his head and he topples completely, curled up in a ball beside his partner, who’s already

starting to groan and try to right himself. These two are tough. Should finish them off now, while I’ve the chance — my friend and sometime-sparring partner Killian Deathfollows’d go for my throat if he knew I left ’em breathing, but then he’s Get, they always go for the kill, especially Ahrouns like him — but there’s a chance they could hold their own now the element of surprise’s gone, and that happens the girl’s right back where she started. And I’m a whole lot worse off, myself. So I opt for Flight instead.

“Come on!” I tell her, holding out my hand — the left, sans armament. She hes- itates a second, but another moan and a curse from the pair on the ground convince her and she accepts my grasp, biting back a squeal as I tug her forward. Out of the alley, down the block, around the corner to where I’d left Flight. Practically haul her onto the back of the seat, throw a leg over myself, then hit the gas. We take off down the street in a screech of tires and a roar of engine, and in my mirrors I see the pair stumbling from the alley too late to do anything but shake fists and bellow insults in our wake.

Safe. For now.

Next question — what to do with her now? Can’t take her to my place — can’t or at least won’t, don’t know her at all and wouldn’t help any to be boxed in right now, just in case they can follow her scent. I could, in their place. Won’t take her home, not yet — if this wasn’t random they might be waiting there, not about to send her walking into a trap after just saving her from one. Public place? Maybe, some safety offered there but perhaps not enough since I don’t know why they want her or how desperate they are to get her. Places like that can get sticky, so many people around, hard to see everywhere at once, easy to be blocked off. No.

So take her to the park. Of course.

Roar down the main drag, then pull off onto one of the bike paths — not strict- ly meant for Flight but this time of night only a few intrepid joggers and the odd mugger left to argue. And none of them’re likely to get in my face about it. Throttle down and coast under the nearest footbridge, then brake and drop the kickstand. Feel her tense up when the engine cuts off, the arms she’d instinctively wrapped around me coming loose in a hurry as she slides off Flight’s back and takes two quick steps away, those same arms now tight across her own chest.

“Who are you?” she demands. Nice voice, throaty but not rough, warm and rich like a good dark ale. “What do you want?” Then, a little softer: “Why did you help me back there?”

“Help,” not “save.” She’s not sure of my intentions — did I rescue her, or just want her for myself? “Back there” — acknowledging I got her out of a tough situa- tion but not sure she hasn’t just landed in one worse. I don’t bother to hold back the chuckle that rolls out of me. She’s good, doesn’t miss a trick.

Already starting to like her.

“Name’s Gryphon,” I tell her, swinging my leg over and sitting sideways now, facing her, legs crossed, boot heels on the ground. I shrug. “Looked like you were in trouble. Figured you needed a hand.”

She studies me, eyes narrowing — less afraid now, but still wary, still careful. Good. I know what she sees isn’t helping her relax — a big guy, tall and broad-shoul- dered but lean in black motorcycle leathers, dark hair falling across his face but not enough to hide the ink there, the radiating spikes cupping one cheek, the up- side-down comma curling up the other. I don’t smile — showing her my teeth won’t exactly help matters — but try not to glare or sneer either. Just sit there and wait.

After a few seconds, since she hasn’t bolted, I start my own line of questioning. “Your turn — who’re you, and why’d they go for you?”

“I — ” almost an accusation, definitely an argument, but it dies after that one syllable. A shake of her head, hair whipping about her face, a deep breath, and she starts over. “Lindsey Harper — I’m Lindsey Harper. They — what do you mean, why did they — ?” A flash of outrage — the automatic response of a pretty lady who knows she’s pretty, has accepted that a long time ago, enough so she’s genu- inely offended at the thought that someone can’t see it, not so much arrogant as just acknowledging her good fortune — mixed with confusion — isn’t it obvious what they wanted?

Poor thing, she has no idea.

“They took your purse?” She nods. “And kept coming?” Another nod, this one just an angry jerk of her head. She had them all figured out — a pair of muggers who got lucky, found a target they wanted more from than just her cash, an easy spiral downward from mere crime into true depravity.

She thinks they were muggers. That’s almost adorable.

Her angle, the shadows in that alley, she never saw their claws. Probably wouldn’t have, anyway — would have seen a knife, more likely, or a razor, some- thing sharp and dangerous but not the truth. Rarely the truth. Most people can’t see it, don’t want to see it, train themselves not to see it.

Luckily for her, I’m not most people.

“You a lawyer?” I ask. Mind like hers, fast and sharp, attention to detail, wary of strangers, plus the confidence starting to shine back out of her now she’s over her earlier fear and beginning to think she’s out of danger — a belief I know I’ll have to break her of, and soon, but let her have for the moment, a sop to help her recover — that’s my first guess. Quick shake of the head, hint of a smile — no, but it’s a path she’d considered once. “Reporter?” Startled laugh, smile broadens — thought about that too, once upon a time, but decided against it. Her eyes sparkle a little behind those chilled frames — she’s enjoying this game.

Problem is, I’m not sure what to guess next. She’s someone they want dead, and not the bottom-feeders I just pulled off her. No, they were under orders, their kind always is. So why’s Pentex want her gone? Got to be either she is somebody, or she knows somebody, or she knows something. Lawyers’re always poking into things those creeps want to keep buried, same with reporters. If she’s neither, and there’s no way she’s law enforcement, not with those soft hands and well-kept nails — crap, she probably just stumbled onto something she shouldn’t, something they’ll kill to keep quiet.

She could be anybody, just looked the wrong way at the wrong time.

All that flashes through at once, she’s still waiting on me to continue, to try again, third strike’s the killer. I frown, give it some serious thought. Smart, definite- ly. Decent clothes but not fancy, not all dolled up either — sensible shoes, kind you could stand in all day. Hands soft, well tended, not dry, except — something tickles the back of my mind, something I noticed but filed away, a sense memory, a smell that I caught and saved for later. Dry, cool, powdery — I glance down at my jacket. Even in the near dark I can pick out faint white smudges to either side, and I’m care- ful to keep my lips closed when I smile.

“Teacher?”

Those pretty eyes — gray, like her blouse — widen, skin pales a touch, mouth slackens, feet stutter back a little farther. Damn, spooked her — she’s wondering am I stalker posing as hero? I gesture to the marks that gave her away. “Chalk dust.”

Some of the tension fades back from her gaze, her posture. She chalks it up — hah! — to a lucky guess.

I’m okay with that.

Now comes the hard part. “Those guys — they weren’t muggers,” I tell her. “They were after you. Why?”

“What?” She shakes her head, can’t believe that, won’t — the leap from random victim to deliberate target’s one she’s not ready to make, a whole chasm of terror yawing before her, no clear landing in sight on the other side. “No, no — they wanted my purse. And. . . . I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me. I just… it happens, it’s… no…”

I let her trail off before trying again. “I saw them,” I admit this time. “Saw them spot you, chase you. Saw you pull free, them go after you. A few others went by before you. They wanted you.” That’s what caught my attention in the first place, a glimpse of the pair lurking in the shadows, clearly in wait for someone. Poachers on my territory, my pack’s, an unwelcome presence in our domain but one we knew we couldn’t fight off completely, too many of them and too few of us so most of the time we steered clear unless directly involved. But this time, the way they were scanning all who passed, I knew they were up to something. And I couldn’t just let it go.

She’s quiet, absorbing what I said. Mind that sharp, she can’t discount it, much as she’d like to. “Why?” she asks finally. “Why would they want me? I’m just a teacher, I teach high school science, chemistry” — unbidden I see her in her class- room, etching the board with her precise writing, all the students gazing adoringly, the boys all smitten, the girls all envious, everyone hanging on her every word, enough so’s they actually take in the knowledge she imparts, a good teacher who gets through to her students, firm but fair, loved but respected — “what could I possibly have done for them to…?” Eyes that’d been gazing off into space while she searched her memory now leap back to me, latching onto me with laser focus. “Who do they work for?”

Gaia, she’s sharp! Took that leap after all, worked out mid-flight her assail- ants’re nothing but the hired help. Question is, how much should I tell her? “Big business,” is what I choose. “They’re errand boys. Thugs. Question is, what’d you do to draw their attention?”

“I— ” There’s almost a tangible sense of release as the pressure comes off me, that glance no longer spearing me, thoughts turning inward again instead. But she shakes her head, shivers. “I don’t know, I can’t think — god, it’s cold out! Sorry, could we… would you… the least I could do… could I buy you a cup of coffee?” Cold’s not the only thing bringing a blush to her cheeks. I’m guessing she’s never had to be the one doing the asking.

I go easy on her. “Sure.” I swivel back around, nudge Flight back to life. “Hop on.”

She does, more gingerly now her life’s not at stake, Flight’s bulk intimidating her, hesitating a second before her arms wrap around me again, but I hear a small sound like a sigh or a hidden laugh as I coax Flight back down the path and then open her up again once we hit the street proper.

She may not want to admit it, but Lindsey Harper is enjoying the ride.

• • •

“Wait.” I hold up a hand, stopping her mid-stream. “Say that again.”

She frowns, annoyed at the interruption, though not terminally so. Her chatter’s filled our booth these past ten minutes, since we sat down, paused only to give orders and then accept the outcome, the steaming cup of coffee wrapped tight in her hands more of a prop and a source of heat than something to be consumed. Me, I’d tucked into my slice of apple pie with all the enthusiasm of a starving man, and my coffee with the glee of a dedicated addict long denied his drug of choice. Normally take mine to go, of course — diners’re too closed in for me, all narrow aisles and cramped booths and packed bodies, better to drink from somewhere high up, a bridge or a cor- nice somewhere, wind in my face, city laid out before me, people just a background hum too low to distract. Yet here we are.

Now she repeats her last statement, a little slower than breakneck: “I said I’ve still got papers to grade, and a lab to plan, and then there’s our field trip coming up — ”

“That.” I wave my fork, bits of crust and filling still clinging to it, catching her eye and teasing a smile to her lips. “Field trip. Where?”

“Oh, we’re going to the new recycling center so we can see how they process everything and talk about biodegradable materials.” Her eyes shine at the thought, a real academic, loving the idea of learning and imparting, mixed with a hint of hippie, all excited about cleaning the Earth and making Her better.

Our Theurge’d love her.

But she’s frowning now. “That is, assuming we get permission.” Gray eyes go as steely as the glasses surrounding them. “I’ve been getting the runaround.”

“Yeah?” Take another sip of coffee, make the mistake of grinning at the waitress as she glides over to refill it, steaming carafe rock-steady in long-callused hands. She gasps a little, seen-it-all façade cracking from the pressure, backs off quick as she can. Damn. Got to be more careful. Lindsey doesn’t notice, though. “Who’s jerking you around?”

“It’s the company that built the place,” she tells me. “Night Soil. I thought they’d be thrilled to have students see what they’re doing, but they’ve been putting me off, claiming there might be safety issues, suggesting I try one of the older recycling centers instead.” That frown’s threatening to take up permanent residence. “It’s like they don’t want people to appreciate what they’re doing!”

Probably because they don’t. Haven’t heard of Night Soil, but that don’t mean much. The name, though — sounds like a good thing, soil and plants and fertilizer, unless you know what it comes from.

Shit.

Gotta be a Pentex company. Why they’re after her. She was threatening to poke around their “recycling center.” Might’ve uncovered something they didn’t want anybody seeing. Tried shooing her away, didn’t work so they stepped it up to scaring her off. Or just dispatching her altogether.

Odd, though. Normally Pentex’d be subtler than this, least at first. From excuses to killing? Big leap, even for them.

“You coming from school tonight?” I ask then, just as she’s taking a sip of her coffee, maybe her first. Wait till she’s done swallowing, then she nods. “And before that? You go by this recycling center today?”

Another nod. “Yes, I wanted to speak to the manager directly, since he hasn’t been answering my calls. But the door was locked, and the guard said everyone was in a meeting.” Quick shake of her head. “Strange way to run a recycling center!”

Picture’s coming clearer now. She went by there, the guard told someone, they sent those two to tail her, maybe shake her up a bit, scare her off. They got into it, though, went for a more permanent solution — not strictly authorized, maybe, but slaps on the wrist small price for a little fun. “Got their number?” I ask, draining my cup in one long swallow. Ah, have to admit, even better without the usual fibrous aftertaste from the takeout cup leeching into it.

“The center? Of course.” She pulls out her phone, a solid, reasonably new type, not flashy but gets the job done — never did get the hang of those things, buttons too darn small — and after a second shows the screen. I push it back toward her.

“Call, tell ’em you’ve changed your mind, you’re going somewhere else.” She’s studying me like maybe I’m kidding. “Now.”

She starts to argue, then decides against it. I saved her life, what’s the harm in humor- ing me on this? Seems simple enough. So she dials, and I sit there wishing I hadn’t scared off the waitress. Can hear the message on the other end, then the beep. “Yes, hi, this is Lindsey Harper from Auerbach High,” she says, voice clicking into that bright, enunciated mode of someone who’s left a lot of messages over the years. “I just wanted to let you know that since it seems to be such an imposition on you I’ll be taking my students elsewhere for their field trip. Good day.” Impressive how she can make it clear she’s pissed at them even while admitting defeat. “Do you really think that will help?” she asks after she’s hung up, same time as she’s waving the waitress back over for refills, Gaia bless her.

I savor the renewal of life-giving caffeine — there’s got to be a sacred Rite for it somewhere, I just know it — before answering. “Yeah, they wanted you to steer