Page 3 of Rarely Pure and Never Simple
Variance. The most astounding miracle of all.
The image swirled, evoking smoke and fire with glimpses of children's silhouettes here and there.
Researchers believe the first instances of variant children were recorded during the 2070s, but so many records from the time of the States' Wars and the Food Riots are incomplete or have been lost.These instances are impossible to confirm. In the late 2140s, the United Federal Territories recorded the first confirmed variant children and quickly recognized their unique and astounding potential. The best, the brightest, the strongest of these special children were recruited and trained as a new kind of first-responder. The Guild…
The picture cut to glossy vids of people Blaze knew, most of whom he couldn't stand, doing heroic things. Muscles straining, Sledge lifted a truck off the stricken biker trapped underneath. Asbesta dashed into the inferno of an apartment fire only to emerge a moment later shielding a baby, both of them unscathed. Putty held the collapsing wall of a building together with his mind while the people inside escaped.
It was all flashy and showy, all done in their skintight black-and-gold Guild uniforms that proclaimed,Look!We're the good guys!
Blaze muttered at the screen. "Tell the tourists and the school kids all about the damn side effects. Tell them about the variant kids who're born so deformed they can't survive. Tell them about the twitches and the weird disorders. Tell them the fuckingtruth."
A woman with a bunch of kids nearby, presumably a teacher, turned to glare at him. Blaze realized he'd raised his voice, but he glared right back.
She marched over to him, her whisper sharp and hissing. "Do you mind watching the language around the kids?"
Her perfume engulfed him in an evil cloud. Blaze held up one finger, turned away from her, and sneezed violently. "God, woman! Do you bathe in that shit?"
An offended sniff joined the glare as she added, "What are you doing, anyway, shouting things like that? Are you some sort of variaphobe?"
He sneezed again, three times in succession, and nearly choked on a laugh. "No,ma'am. I am a variant."
She narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about? You're not Guild."
"No, you twit." Blaze backed a step so he could breathe. "Not all of us want to run around in precious matching outfits. Open your goddamn eyes and learn something besides sound bites."
The vid ended on a scene of Guild variants in uniform, smiling, holding kids and small animals. Ten-foot high letters declared, "We're Guild and We're Here To Help."
He stalked off toward the elevators, drawing in slow, measured breaths to wrestle his anger down. No, he wasn't a fucking Guild dog. He liked his freedom too much.
Funny how you always come running when they call, though.
Shut up. The money's damn good, is all.
He swept out of the elevators on the fifty-ninth floor, still angry but in control. He nodded to the girls behind the receptionist's desk, calling out, "Blaze Emerson. I'm expected."
They made no move to stop him, simply watched like frightened rabbits as he stalked past. He did catch the whisper behind his back, though.
"He killed his mother."
Some things just didn't have any smart-ass rejoinders.
The conference room looked as it always did, same drab blue-gray chairs, same huge-ass granite table, same projection holo on the back wall. Of course, Sledge was there, golden boy extraordinaire, leaning against the wall with what he probably thought was a fierce frown. Dr. Parma occupied the chair at the head of the table. A man in a sheepskin coat stood by the window, staring out intently enough that Blaze expected burn holes in the safety glass. He looked rough, like he had wandered out of some backwoods hovel, his hair disheveled, his face splotched by a patchy beard, a sharp contrast to the otherwise sparkling-clean room.
Blaze stopped just in the doorway and cocked his head. There was something odd about the room. Every unoccupied chair sat aligned exactly with the table, spaced at precise, equal intervals. The pens that usually lay scattered about the polished black surface were all lined up next to the speakerphone, little platoons of writing-implement soldiers at parade rest.
Interesting. Deciding to test a possibility regarding the room's carefully placed items, Blaze yanked out a chair, made certain to position it at an odd angle to the table and threw himself in it, setting his boots up on the granite with a thud. The pens shivered and scattered under the impact. The man at the window twitched.
Got it. One of those. OCD was common in variants, and this man, in this company, most likely was vari. Informant? Messenger? Someone with a problem he couldn't solve? It bothered Blaze that he couldn't place this cipher. Didn't know him.
"Most people consider a meeting at ten something that starts at ten," Sledge snapped. "Not eleven fifteen."
Blaze flipped him off. "Hey, Sludge. Morning, Dr. Parma. What've you got for me today?"
"Hello, Blaze." The sunlight made a halo of Dr. Parma's short, white curls and warmed her skin to copper. She laced her pencil-thin fingers together, the deep lines around her eyes crinkling, and her mouth set in a carefully serious line. "You do like your entrances, dear. How are you?"
"Good, Doc. I'm good. But this better not be another fucking babysitting gig."
Sledge surged toward him, fists clenched. "Show some respect, you lowlife!"
