Spacer Furies 55
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    This has not been a good couple of days for me. Still, I feel better for having told him. I expect he'll have some more questions when he's had time to think about it; right now he's probably too surprised to have started wondering other things, like how many of us are there and why we were made, and whether or not I'm to be trusted. I hope I'll be able to answer them.
    The mundane details of life remained as a welcome distraction. Scott and I went into town and talked to some realtors. Having a six-foot-plus liquid metal companion, I found, means that you get quoted some quite reasonable prices, and we found Dr. Scott a place that afternoon. It's a little way outside the city, fully wheelchair-accessible and rather nicely appointed. High ceilings. Mission accomplished, we headed home.
    Apparently in celebration, Lucky has purchased a pool table. I still have no idea how she got it out here, but there it is. Scott indulged in his usual multimedia activities while she set it up. I settled down to read for a while, bothered by a sense of foreboding.
    I wish I could stop thinking about yesterday morning. Probably a good thing he'll be out of town for a while. I'd like to be wrong, more than anything else in the world. But whenever I think of it, I think of that phone call. And of waking up in Chandler's house, seeing the look on Lucky's face. The smell of burning flesh from the man in the flying armor. Whatever their ultimate goal, they don't care who dies along the way. I couldn't live with myself.
    I have moments when I wish they'd get on with it. They could always make a new one. Hardly anyone would know the difference anyway. At times, my life seems a very cruel joke. Or, well, actually a criminal plot in which I am, after all, only a tool.
    Hm. Looking over those last few sentences, maybe Ellis had a point. I suppose I could check the Yellow Pages. Or give Trent a call, maybe he does referrals.
    God, I can just imagine what Lucky would say.
    I have to stop thinking like this. Otherwise they won't need to come after me, I'll wind up doing it myself. Not an option, Sasha.
    Anway, we've got bigger problems right now. Despite the unexpectedly pleasant outcome, the trial bothers me. In conjunction with Aliese's rather spectacular exit—well, I don't like the pattern that seems to be forming. If it is Vincent, hospitalized and on the verge of being hauled into court himself, he's showing far too much power for my taste.
    And Reilly's leaving town. It'll be good for him, no doubt, and make my life a little easier, but I'm surprised he didn't mention it yesterday. Odd.
    Then again I am, as he noted, a bit paranoid these days, and maybe I'm giving Vincent too much credit. Or maybe I'm not paranoid enough—maybe something entirely other is going on. We haven't heard a peep out of TECH these past few days—with any luck, they've decided to seek less exciting climes, but maybe we're not that fortunate. Maybe it's them at last. One of us ought to talk to Washington, see if we can coax him into pointing a finger. Not likely, I suppose, but he's the only lead we've got right now.

    Ellis is dead. They found him a little while ago, outside his office. Someone shot him. Supposed to be some lunatic gone off their medication. None of us believes that for a second, or that this was something random.
    My first, horrible thought was that it was somehow my fault, hard on the heels as it came of my somewhat morbid musings. My second was pattern confirmed. Somewhere in between the two I started crying.
    I had been sitting in the armchair in the living room, not paying much attention to anything but my own thoughts. I didn't hear the TV at first; instead I noticed that Lucky wasn't moving at all, her eyes fixed on the screen, and only then did the words start to penetrate.
    I still don't know what to think or to feel, other than this sense of loss. We weren't exactly personally close, obviously, but I did like him, and he did a good deal for me, more than he was ever aware of. He was a good person, with a cause he cared about, and he—
    I am not writing a eulogy. Not here. Dammit. How dare they.
    Who are they?
    I ruined his last afternoon on earth.
    I don't understand. He was a state senator, for God's sake—there are so many more important people out there to kill. Start with the damn president, for crying out loud. What's the point?

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© 1999 Rebecca J. Stevenson