Specimen Days

The doorman took the wailing girl, started to speak. Simon was gone already. He grabbed Catareen's elbow.

"We have to move very quickly," he said.

They took off down Seventy-fifth Street, headed west. She was a good runner. Flight was prominent on the list of Nadian talents.

They got to the subway stop at West Seventy-second and ran down the stairs. Simon whizzed them in with his card. A handful of players huddled in clumps on the platform. The subways were not popular with tourists. Tourists had their hoverpods for getting from place to place. Only a few sticklers and historical nuts wanted subway rides, and then only for short distances. The overwhelming majority of riders were players going to and from the residential complexes.

Simon and Catareen stood panting on the platform. He said, "We're on the uptown side."

She said nothing. He implored her silently not to go catatonic.

"We should go up into the Nineties, I think," he said. "They keep the cars up there. We'll need a car."

Still nothing from the Nadian. Her lizard eyes stared straight ahead at the empty tracks.

"We should be able to get across the George Washington Bridge. Once we're on the Jersey side, we're out of Infmidot's jurisdiction."

He would be illegal in New Jersey, too, but the Council's enforcement system didn't interface well with Infmidot's. And Catareen might not have committed a New Jersey crime at all. It was impossible to know the variations from state to state.

The train arrived. Its clatter was always shocking. The doors rumbled open, and Simon nudged Catareen forward. She moved. He was grateful for that.

The car was mostly empty. There were four other people, all players. Two dreadlocked bicycle messengers; an Orthodox, also dreadlocked; a homeless man in a Mets cap, two sweaters, and flip-flops all headed home for the night.

They clustered at the far end of the car. They looked tense. Simon wondered for a moment if they knew, if some kind of instantaneous bulletin about him and Catareen had gone out from Infmidot and reached the citizenry at large. Which was unlikely. Then he remembered. He was with a Nadian.

"Sit," he told Catareen. She sat. He sat beside her.

He said, "We can get off at Ninety-sixth Street. Are you okay?"

Her nostrils dilated. The orange orbs of her eyes blinked twice.

"I'm going to assume you're okay," he said. "I'm going to assume you'll tell me if you're not okay. I'm going to assume that when it's time to move, you'll be able to move."

From the far end of the car he felt the homeward-bound players not looking at him and Catareen. When the train started up again, the two messengers and the Orthodox got up and changed cars.

Simon saw the homeless player struggle with a decision. Should he switch cars, too? He half rose, then settled back down again. Nadians were harmless, after all. It was just that they were oily. It was just that they smelled.

Simon saw a drone flash by the subway window after the train had passed the Seventy-ninth Street station. It was a blur of golden wings.

They had sent a drone into the tunnels. It would be waiting at the next stop.

He said to Catareen, "The malformed limbs are tied to the anatomist's table, what is removed drops horribly in a pail."

She blinked. She breathed.

He tried again. He said, "A drone just went by."

"I have see."

"It'll be waiting at Ninety-sixth Street," he said. "It'll probably follow the train to the end of the line. We are now probably fucked."

She said, "Wait here."

She stood. She walked quickly to the opposite end of the car, where the homeless player sat not looking at her.

She stood before him. He kept his eyes on the floor, hoping she wouldn't hit him up for a yen, as Nadians sometimes did. She bent forward slightly to get into his line of vision. She opened her mouth and showed two rows of small serrated teeth. She hissed. Simon had never heard a sound like that. It was sharp and urgent catlike but more guttural.

She raised both her hands and held them before the player's face. She extended her talons. Her skin glowed molten green. She seemed to get larger and brighter.

The player shrieked. She said to him, "Be quiet. Give your clothes."

The player looked desperately in Simon's direction. Simon shrugged. This bit of unappreciated, nonrecreational violence was jerking his circuits a little, even though he wasn't the assailant. His gut felt numb, and a fizziness started up behind his eyes.

Catareen took the player's face in one clawed emerald hand and turned it to look at her.

She hissed, "Take off clothes and give to me. Now."

The player obeyed. He removed his cap and both sweaters. He kicked off his flip-flops.

She said, "Pants."

He rose and struggled out of his greasy work pants. He gave them to her. He stood plumply terrified in his underwear.

Catareen threw the clothes to Simon. She said, "Put on. Quickly."

He did as he was told. As he was pulling one of the sweaters on, she crouched, catlike, and put a lethal-looking finger claw to the quivering player's throat.