FREAKS IN THE CITY

By Maree Anderson

CHAPTER TWO

The bell blared. Sixer observed the final group of students scurrying toward their classrooms. He—his physical shell was male, so "he" was a logical label—scanned the manicured grounds of Hillside Preparatory School. The groundsman had mowed the lawns yesterday and was currently replanting the flowerbeds outside the administration office. The caretaker was fixing a leaking pipe. All clear.

Sixer exited the storage shed, headed for the Technology block, and swarmed up the drainpipe, onto the roof. It was highly unlikely he would be spotted but he kept low, crawling across the roof on his belly. While he crawled, he accessed the information he'd unearthed on one Michael James Davidson, former employee of Goodkind Electronics.

Michael Davidson, AKA Michael White, had been one of a select few with access to the "hush-hush" Experimental Research and Development Department known as E-R-Double-D. Sixer had been covertly observing the Davidsons for the past three days, and had conducted a thorough search of their house two nights ago when they'd gone out for dinner with their daughter.

He had discovered nothing to suggest either Michael or Marissa Davidson were in direct contact with the cyborg unit designated Gamma-Dash-One.

Marissa had recently been promoted to paralegal at the Snapperton Law Office. Her old superior had resigned, and the new man hired in his place had been quick to recognize Marissa's skills and qualifications were under-utilized. Marissa's skill set was of no use to Sixer, however.

He was still investigating the scope of Michael's skills.

Sixer had not been made privy to the qualities or abilities that had first brought Michael Davidson to Caine's attention but he knew Caine had resorted to blackmail to forcibly recruit Michael. That was but one of the reasons Sixer had decided to dig into the man's past. A more compelling reason was that Davidson had been the only human to successfully track Gamma down—not once, but twice.

Michael was what humans termed a computer genius. At the age of nine, he'd hacked into the United States Air Force GPS satellite tracking system, and reconfigured it so that for one day only—the day of his ninth birthday, in fact—all GPS locations were set to his parents' house.... which had been the only reason the authorities had tracked him down. When asked why he'd done it and what he'd hoped to achieve, Michael had answered, "I just wanted to see if I could do it. Turns out I could. Cool, huh?"

The stunt had earned him a tour of the Pentagon courtesy of the U.S. Air Force's Chief of Staff, who had prudently decided to treat the precocious boy's unique skill set as an asset rather than attempt to shut him down. From what Sixer had been able to discover, Michael had thought this covert "spy stuff" was "awesome". But as he matured, he'd become disillusioned. In his early twenties he cut a deal. As yet Sixer had been unable to discover the exact terms, but the gist was that he'd remain a free man provided he kept a low profile.

Michael had chosen Snapperton as his new home. He'd met Marissa, they'd gotten married, and Michael had earned a modest income as computer science teacher. His life from that point on had been unremarkable until he'd been forcibly recruited by Evan Caine. Michael was currently employed here at Hillside, an exclusive private school one county over from Snapperton.

Sixer inched nearer to the roof's edge to take full advantage of the classroom's slightly ajar window. He evaluated the lecture Michael was currently giving his students and concluded Michael had an excellent grasp on the subject of computer science. For a human.

Michael could prove useful in the future—useful to Sixer, not to Evan Caine, the man who erroneously believed he controlled Sixer.

Decision made, Sixer shimmied back the way he'd come. He leaped from the roof, sprinted toward the fence and vaulted it. The bus that would return him to Snapperton was due in six-point-four minutes. Sixer did not increase his walking speed. He'd quickly discovered that although humans felt compelled to devise detailed schedules for public transport, such schedules were invariably so inaccurate as to be worthless.

When the bus pulled over to let him on, he handed over the exact adult fare. He was scanning the interior to ascertain the most advantageous seat when the driver said, "Student ID?"

Sixer considered appropriate responses and chose one. "No."

The driver shrugged. "Could have given you some change."

Sixer couldn't fathom why the driver would make an issue of this when his passenger had already paid the adult fare, but humans were frequently illogical. He cut short the likelihood the man would feel compelled to pursue the subject by heading for a seat at the rear of the bus.

As his torso swayed with the motion of the vehicle, Sixer reviewed Michael and Marissa Davidson's interactions thus far. He'd detected obvious tension that centered around their son's girlfriend, one Jaime Smythson, but neither Marissa nor Michael seemed inclined to discuss the issue openly. Sixer had been unable to unearth anything detailed about the girl thus far, and he was forced to concluded that until new data came to light it would be a waste of resources to continue observing the adult Davidsons.

The Davidson's daughter, Caroline-who-preferred-to-be-called-Caro, was also useless for Sixer's purposes. Caro Davidson was involved with her boyfriend and her studies to the exclusion of almost everything else. She had not visited her brother at his apartment. Their encounters were limited to texts and meeting up at their parents' house over holiday periods.

Gamma-Dash-One had formed an attachment to the young female, but after analyzing all the data Sixer had concluded the rogue cyborg's attachment to Caro's twin, Tyler, was far more significant.

Those same anomalies in Gamma's creation that had forced her to evolve, made the probability of her keeping a watchful eye over Tyler extremely high. The probabilities skewed still higher once Sixer factored in that all records pertaining to Tyler Davidson's attendance at Appleton Performing Arts School had been wiped around the same time Tyler had moved out of the apartment he'd shared with another student. And higher still when cross-referenced to T. Michael Rowen, a current student at Wasserman College of Fine Arts. Rowen had been Marissa Davidson's maiden name. Sixer sensed Gamma's hand in this.

Conclusion: Tyler Davidson was the key to locating Gamma. But Sixer did not deem it strategically sound to make direct contact with Tyler Davidson—not when Gamma could have the young human under close surveillance. The risk of revealing himself before he was ready to confront Gamma was unacceptably high.

Sixer got off at his stop. He purchased a newspaper at the nearest newsstand before heading for the park to wait for his next subject.

Shawn Evans was the son of Snapperton's former mayor. The scandal that had left Shawn's reputation in tatters had compelled his father to make a substantial donation to Greenfield High School to "encourage" the school board not to expel his son. Wesley Evans had then prudently bowed out of the next mayoral election. Upon his graduation from Greenfield High School, Shawn Evans had immediately been enrolled in a business course by his father. All evidence pointed to Shawn's future career path being to join his father's vending machine franchise—whether Shawn liked it or not.

Sixer chose a bench near the public basketball court and pretended to read the newspaper for the next three hours. No one questioned him.

A red Miata screeched into a parking space. Shawn got out, his cell phone glued to his ear. He rang off, stowed the phone in the back pocket of his jeans, and sauntered over to a group of young men shooting hoops.

Sixer watched the young humans play a truncated version of a basketball game while he reviewed footage of Greenfield High Raiders' games he'd accessed and stored in his databanks.

Shawn, then the Raiders' captain, had been described in one brutally honest article as a "ball hog" with a reputation as a "chucker"—a player who took frequent and imprudent shots at the basket. Conclusion: Shawn had directly contributed to the Raiders' many losses on the court. This conclusion was borne out by the fact that after Shawn had been dropped from the team, the Raiders' win ratio had dramatically improved.

Sixer abandoned all pretense of reading the newspaper, folding it up and placing it on the bench. He rose from his seat and walked over to the mesh fence enclosing the court. He hooked his fingertips into the mesh, leaning into it as he observed the game.

For the third time in a row Shawn's shot hit the backboard and missed the hoop. He scooped up the ball and in a fit of temper, heaved it at one of his teammates.

The young man ducked and the ball just missed smacking him in the side of the head. He made a rude gesture at Shawn, and tossed the ball to his friends.

Shawn abruptly realized he had an audience. "What's your problem, asshole?"

Sixer selected an appropriate response from his databanks. "I'm not the one shooting bricks."

Shawn's friends snickered.

"Think you can do better, douche-bag?" Shawn's stiff-bodied stance and outthrust jaw shrieked the challenge as clearly as his words.

Sixer unhooked his fingers from the wire mesh and walked through the entrance, onto the court.

The young male with the ball heaved it in Sixer's direction and he snatched it from the air. He did not bounce the ball to gauge its current level of inflation and get a "feel" for it. He already knew how he would adjust the trajectory to make the shot.

Fixing his gaze on Shawn, Sixer tossed the ball one-handed at the hoop. "It wouldn't be difficult to do better than you," he said as he turned on his heel and walked off the court.

He did not bother to glance over his shoulder to verify whether the ball had gone through the hoop. He knew with one hundred percent certainty he had made the shot. The whoops of the young humans only confirmed it. "Hey, dude," one of them called. "You wanna play?"

"No. Basketball doesn't interest me." Sixer resumed his seat on the bench. Shawn was useless to him. The young human was not intelligent enough to suit his purposes.

A female approached the court.

Sixer didn't need to access any of Snapperton's online databases to discover her identity. He already knew of her because she'd dated both Tyler and Shawn.

Her name was Vanessa Ward, but she went by the name "Nessa". She wore a fitted black short-sleeved t-shirt, tight denim shorts, and scuffed black canvas sneakers. Shawn pretended not to notice her as she took a seat on the bench next to Sixer.

"Hi Shawn," she called out, just as her ex-boyfriend attempted another shot.

Shawn botched the shot. Nessa's lips twitched upward.

Sixer noted Shawn's clenched fists and set jaw as his teammates rolled their eyes. The opposition high-fived each other. One of them whistled at Nessa, and although she affected not to notice, she tossed her head.

Shawn sneered. "Hey," he said to his friends. "Check it out. The Time-Out whore is having some time out. Can't have that. Who's in? One of you losers gotta be desperate for some action."

Time-Out was a truck-stop on the outskirts of Snapperton where Nessa was currently employed as a waitress. The establishment was popular with truckies, down on their luck locals, and visitors passing through who were unaware of its dubious reputation. Nessa had been working at Time-Out ever since she'd been expelled from Greenfield High and her parents had kicked her out of their house. She currently shared a dwelling with two other Time-Out waitresses in what was deemed to be an undesirable part of town.

Nessa had flushed at Shawn's jibe, and Sixer noted a vein throbbing at her temple. "Asshole," she muttered. Then, pasting a friendly smile on her face, she stuck out her right hand. "Nessa."

Sixer shook it, careful not to grip too tight and bruise her. "Sixer."

"Unusual name."

Sixer hadn't found himself in a social situation that had required him to give his name before, so he hadn't given any thought as to whether "Sixer" would be deemed unusual. "I was named by a Philadelphia 76ers fan," he said.

Nessa laughed. "Could be worse."

"Yes," he said, agreeing despite not comprehending what constituted "worse". A name was merely a combination of letters—a label that could be shed at will. It was neither good nor bad. It was just a name.

"Found another sucker, huh, Nessa?" Shawn jeered. "You're off your game, babe. Chances that loser has cash to throw around are sub-zero."

An expected observation, given that Sixer wore jeans, an old brown t-shirt and a pair of boots he'd liberated from a used clothing bin. Appearances were frequently deceiving, however. Sixer had never literally thrown cash around, but he had plenty at his disposal.

Nessa slanted a mutely pleading gaze at Sixer from beneath her lashes. "Ignore him. He's full of crap."

"He's not a particularly talented basketball player," Sixer said.

Her smile this time appeared more genuine. Good. His efforts to build rapport were working.

"You got that right," she said. "Shawn's always been nothing more than a legend in his own mind."

Sixer indicated the coffee shop across the street. "Would you like to join me for coffee?"

She glanced at her wristwatch. "I have to be at work in a little over an hour. I was visiting my parents but they wouldn't—" She swallowed, ducking her head so her hair fell across her face and hid her expression. "They weren't, uh, home. So I thought I'd hang here for a bit and wait for the bus."

Sixer sought the correct slang term. "My shout? And I can drop you off at your work if you like."

Nessa peeked out at him from beneath the curtain of her hair. "Okay. Thanks. That'd be really nice."

Based on her relationship with Tyler Davidson, this young female was Sixer's best option. She would be easily controlled. She would suit his purposes admirably.

~~~

Sixer leaned over the seat and instructed the taxi driver to wait while he escorted Nessa to the door of her workplace. He draped an arm across her back and dug his fingertips into her waist. A shudder wracked her body.

He inhaled and could taste the sourness of fear leaking from her pores. "Remember, I'll be watching you."

Her breathing hitched as he pressed the cash he'd promised in the interim into her hand.

He shouldered open the main doors. Rank air smacked him like a physical blow. If he'd been a human, and cared about such things, he might have been revolted by the noise and the grime, the mingled odors of unwashed bodies and overcooked food.

She ducked beneath his arm and darted inside, heading straight for the ladies' room.

Sixer debated following her—not into the ladies' room, of course—but taking a table inside and ordering a meal. In the next three-point-two hours he would need to refuel in order to maintain his body's optimum physical performance, and this place was as good as any to meet that requirement.

A heavyset waitress, the dimpled skin of her fleshy thighs bulging over the confines of her shorts, placed her order on the table and dropped him a wink. Her lashes were so coated with layers of mascara that they stuck together when she blinked. It required some effort for her to pry open her eyelids again. "You comin' in, cutie-pie?"

Sixer backed away, pivoted on his heel, and headed for the taxi. He did not wish to draw unwanted attention from the locals. He'd discovered all he needed to know and it was time to leave Snapperton.

~~~

Copyright 2012 Maree Anderson

www.mareeanderson.com