TITLE: "Higher Purpose"
AUTHOR: Anthony J Fuchs
SUMMARY: Lydecker-POV.
RATING: G
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
Why can't she see that she doesn't belong here.
She was the most promising subject Manticore had ever seen. That I, in seven years of preparation and screening, had ever encountered. Agile, intelligent, strong both in mind and body. Instincts that put most fully-seasoned field operatives to shame.
The chaos of this urban landscape is not where she was meant to be. These ragged citizens were not meant to be her companions. This was not the life she was meant to lead; running from her past, living day to day, hoping that no one learns her secrets. She was meant to be with others like herself, with her gifts and abilities. Others who knew what she knew and could help her understand her place in this world.
We can't she understand that she was designed for a higher purpose.
And now I wait. It's all I can do, when I'm trying to find someone I specifically trained with the abilities to stay hidden. I wait in the back of this stale, stuffy, stifling IonLink truck, hoping she'll eventually surface long enough for me to find her and bring her in from the cold.
The sterile equipment stares at me lifelessly, a glimmer of the technology we used to have, and my stomach clenches at the sound of the ringing telephone. I convince myself it's someone else, that Max is too smart to make contact with a line she knew was being monitored. I'd been hoping she wouldn't call, that at least I'd taught her that much.
Vogelsang answers, "Yeah."
And then a female voice, "This is your punk-ass client." It's her. No mistaking the sound of your own daughter's voice, even if you haven't heard it in a decade, "I need you to trace a number for me."
The monitor tracing the call locks onto the origin. Yum Yum Tree Motel in Loyal Heights, right on the bay. God only knows what she was doing there, and if He does, He better not tell me.
"You sure you want to have this conversation on the phone?" I repress a smile. He may be a small-time PI, but he's smart.
"Just do it," she orders. She has her father's authoritative gene. Some perverse strain of pride twists inside me as she skitters off the numbers, "20655...5018728..."
"Hold on a minute, okay? 72...what was it?"
"72892."
No, Max, what are you doing. I thought I taught you better than to give out vital information on a unsecured line. I'd rather not be able to track you than find you because of a mistake like that. Vogelsang taps at his keyboard for a moment, then spits out an address.
"17495 Euclid."
"I'm on my way." So are we, Max. I only hope they can bring you in without killing you.
END.
AUTHOR: Anthony J Fuchs
SUMMARY: Lydecker-POV.
RATING: G
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
Why can't she see that she doesn't belong here.
She was the most promising subject Manticore had ever seen. That I, in seven years of preparation and screening, had ever encountered. Agile, intelligent, strong both in mind and body. Instincts that put most fully-seasoned field operatives to shame.
The chaos of this urban landscape is not where she was meant to be. These ragged citizens were not meant to be her companions. This was not the life she was meant to lead; running from her past, living day to day, hoping that no one learns her secrets. She was meant to be with others like herself, with her gifts and abilities. Others who knew what she knew and could help her understand her place in this world.
We can't she understand that she was designed for a higher purpose.
And now I wait. It's all I can do, when I'm trying to find someone I specifically trained with the abilities to stay hidden. I wait in the back of this stale, stuffy, stifling IonLink truck, hoping she'll eventually surface long enough for me to find her and bring her in from the cold.
The sterile equipment stares at me lifelessly, a glimmer of the technology we used to have, and my stomach clenches at the sound of the ringing telephone. I convince myself it's someone else, that Max is too smart to make contact with a line she knew was being monitored. I'd been hoping she wouldn't call, that at least I'd taught her that much.
Vogelsang answers, "Yeah."
And then a female voice, "This is your punk-ass client." It's her. No mistaking the sound of your own daughter's voice, even if you haven't heard it in a decade, "I need you to trace a number for me."
The monitor tracing the call locks onto the origin. Yum Yum Tree Motel in Loyal Heights, right on the bay. God only knows what she was doing there, and if He does, He better not tell me.
"You sure you want to have this conversation on the phone?" I repress a smile. He may be a small-time PI, but he's smart.
"Just do it," she orders. She has her father's authoritative gene. Some perverse strain of pride twists inside me as she skitters off the numbers, "20655...5018728..."
"Hold on a minute, okay? 72...what was it?"
"72892."
No, Max, what are you doing. I thought I taught you better than to give out vital information on a unsecured line. I'd rather not be able to track you than find you because of a mistake like that. Vogelsang taps at his keyboard for a moment, then spits out an address.
"17495 Euclid."
"I'm on my way." So are we, Max. I only hope they can bring you in without killing you.
END.