She came from nowhere. She has no friends.
She had at least two friends now. Artemis had taken to joining Holly on her visits and often would sit silently beside her, which was very unusual for him.
The clone’s official designation was Unauthorized Experiment 14, but one of the clinic’s wits had named her Nopal, which was a cruel play on the name Opal and the words no pal. Cruel or not, the name stuck; and now even Holly used it, though with tenderness.
Argon assured her that Unauthorized Experiment 14 had no mental faculties, but Holly was certain that sometimes Nopal’s milky eyes reacted when she visited. Could the clone actually recognize her?
Holly gazed at Nopal’s delicate features and was inevitably reminded of the clone’s gene donor.
That pixie is poison, she thought bitterly. Whatever she touches withers and dies.
Artemis entered the room and stood beside Holly, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder.
“They’re wrong about Nopal,” said Holly. “She feels things. She understands.”
Artemis knelt down. “I know. I taught her something last week. Watch.”
He placed his hand on the glass, tapping his fingers in sequence slowly, building up a rhythm. “It is an exercise developed by Cuba’s Dr. Parnassus. He uses it to generate a response from infants, even chimpanzees.”
Artemis continued to tap, and slowly Nopal responded, raising her hand laboriously to Artemis’s, slapping the glass clumsily in an attempt to copy his rhythm.
“There, you see?” said Artemis. “Intelligence.”
Holly bumped him gently, shoulder to shoulder, which was her version of a hug. “I knew your brains would eventually come in handy.”
The acorn cluster on the breast of Holly’s LEP jumpsuit vibrated, and Holly touched her wi-tech earring, accepting the call. A quick glance at her wrist computer told her that the call was from LEP technical consultant Foaly, and that the centaur had labeled it urgent.
“Foaly. What is it? I’m at the clinic, babysitting Artemis.”
The centaur’s voice was crystal clear over the Haven City wireless network.
“I need you back at Police Plaza, right now. Bring the Mud Boy.”
The centaur sounded theatrical, but then Foaly would play the drama queen if his carrot soufflé collapsed.
“That’s not how it works, Foaly. Consultants don’t give orders to captains.”
“We have a Koboi sighting coming through on a satellite. It’s a live feed,” countered the technical consultant.
“We’re on our way,” said Holly, severing the connection.
They picked up Butler in the corridor. Artemis, Holly, and Butler were three allies who had weathered battlefields, rebellions, and conspiracy together and had developed their own crisis shorthand.
Butler saw that Holly was wearing her business face.
“Situation?”
Holly strode past, forcing the others to follow.
“Opal,” she said in English.
Butler’s face hardened. “Eyes on?”
“Satellite link.”
“Origin?” asked the bodyguard.
“Unknown.”
They hurried down the retro corridor toward the clinic’s courtyard. Butler outstripped the group and held open the old-fashioned hinged door with its stained window depicting a thoughtful doctor comforting a weeping patient.
“Are we taking the Stick?” asked the bodyguard, his tone suggesting that he would rather not take the Stick.
Holly walked through the doorway. “Sorry, big man. Stick time.”
Artemis had never been one for public transport, human or fairy, and so asked, “What’s the stick?”
The Stick was the street name for a series of conveyor belts that ran in parallel strips along Haven City’s network of blocks. It was an ancient and reliable mode of transport from a less litigious time, which operated on a hop-on/hop-off basis similar to certain human airport-walkway systems. There were platforms throughout the city, and all a person had to do was step onto a belt and grab hold of one of the carbon-fiber stalks that sprouted from it. Hence the name Stick.
Artemis and Butler had of course seen the Stick before, but Artemis had never planned to use such an undignified mode of transport and so had never even bothered to find out its name. Artemis knew that, with his famous lack of coordination, any attempt to hop casually onto the belt would result in a humiliating tumble. For Butler, the problem was not one of coordination or lack of it. He knew that, with his bulk, it would be difficult just to fit his feet within the belt’s width.
“Ah, yes,” said Artemis. “The Stick. Surely a green cab would be faster?”
“Nope,” said Holly, hustling Artemis up the ramp to the platform, then poking him in the kidneys at just the right time so that he stepped unconsciously onto the belt, his hand landing on a stick’s bulbous grip.