Page 9 of Rarely Pure and Never Simple
"Blaze?"
Surprised at the sudden use of his chosen first name, he turned to cock an eyebrow at Hazelwood. "What now?"
"I'm sorry. About the thing. About your mother."
"You're not the first." The bay doors opened to reveal his selection, a Raptor 400 in gleaming black. "And if you keep apologizing this whole trip, I may have to kick you in the head."
"S— I'll try to stop. It's sort of a reflex."
"So is kicking people in the head."
Holy shit, was that a laugh? It was more of a strangled snort but, yes, Blaze did believe that sad little sound was supposed to be laughter.
"So. Starting at the Academy?"
Hazelwood nodded, his gaze fixed on something clearly not in the physical world. "I need a starting point. So far, everything's muddy."
"Would you get reads on all of them at once? Like light ribbons leading out for each one or something?"
"Only if I want to go insane."
There was that strange smile again. It was so sad it made Blaze want to punch something. "Get in the damn car, Hazelwood."
They took the elevated zipway into Santa Rosa, the click and hum as the auto lane grabbed hold of the car's magnetic hitch annoying the hell out of him, but it was the fastest route. Temporarily robbed of his job as driver, Blaze fiddled with the console, searching for something to watch.
A news broadcast showed a political rally in Denver. Red, white, and blue bunting hung around the stage. The signs read "Real Rights For Real Humans" and "Lawson for Humanity." The moron at the podium blathered on about how variants were trying to take the country away from "decent, hardworking normal folks."
"Yeah. That's what I do every morning first thing," Blaze growled. "I plot how to steal your sorry-ass life."
Hazelwood sighed. "What more do they want? To have us all micro-collared?"
In fact, the man was suggesting just that. The Variant Registration Act wasn't enough, he said. He proposed that variants be fitted with trackers so that the government could better monitor their subversive activities.
"Douchebag." Blaze reached to change the channel, but Hazelwood held up a hand.
"Hold on. Something's happening."
Blaze had something scathing just itching to be said when the vid cameras began to shake. People screamed, lurching drunkenly as they tried to clear the square. Aides pulled the candidate from the stage, the earthquake sending them all into a graceless heap at the bottom of the stairs. Suspicion nagged at Blaze. He watched the screen through narrowed eyes and wasn't surprised at all when a lanky figure in a brown duster rushed in front of the cameras. He rode the waves of rolling ground surfer style and leaped onto the ruined stage.
"Him. Of course it's him."
"Who?" Hazelwood asked.
"You live in a cave or something?"
"No. Cabin in the woods."
"Same thing."
Hazelwood shot him one of those unfathomable stares, like his eyes could bore into soul matter. "I live off-grid and offline about ninety percent of the time. So, no, I don't get a lot of news. Who's the man who rides earthquakes?"
"Shudder McKenzie. That idiot."
Up on the half-collapsed stage, McKenzie had ripped down the "Rights for Real Humans" banner and replaced it with one that read, "Lawson Parties On Your Tax Dollars." The grainy print of a photo showed the politician in question surrounded by busty, topless girls.
Blond curls flying in the wind, McKenzie pointed to the poster as he shouted, "This is your future senator? This debauched degenerate? This is the man whose words you follow?"
Sirens wailed in the distance. McKenzie hurried his speech along.
