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Chapter 8 - Beyond the Fields We Know

The streets were filled with shouting, screaming people who were fleeing the flames, smoke and chaos. We were able to hire a jet-taxi to drop us off a block from the impact site. The guy charged us an outrageous sum, but we were lucky to have found him at all.

Between Wanda's and Teepee's infrared vision, Les and I were able to navigate through the rubble of what only an hour before had been one of Chi-town's oldest buildings to have survived the Ka-boom. We found Head Librarian Pixell pinned under two 19th century card catalogs; she'd dived under her desk when she heard the whistle of a missile. The desk had been blown out the front door in the initial blast, but the two catalogs had collapsed in a V-shape, shielding her from further harm.

Strangely, Chicago PD and CFD were snail-slow in responding, with only two trucks attempting to put out the flames. Pixell clandestinely passed me a small case. I put it in my inside pocket. It was a case meant to hold 20 ultra memory pins – exceedingly rare, absurdly expensive, and well beyond the salary of even an extraordinary woman like Pixell Mumford.

"You're that rich?" I ask her. Her eyebrows arch, and there's a definite twinkle.

"You have a son who's a cybe?" she responds, and points north towards the stairs, where my 9-year-old charge is standing holding Sunny from the Zippy Mart in his skinny arms, "because that's the only thing that explains the little guy's strength."

I have to stop myself from saying 'No, he's not my son' because he is now, and forever shall be, my son. And he's a cyborg. I still don't know which parts of him are robotic, and which are flesh. It doesn't matter. Off in the distance, a dog howls. Or perhaps it's Coyote, lonely old trickster calling out for company, or help, or a quickie.

It turns out to be Holly Graham, dragging her bloodied leg, her ankle now a stump, a tourniquet around it made hastily from Les' shirtsleeve. "I'm an old lady, you fat muthafrickuh! Be careful wi' me! Aah!"

Teepee lays Sunny down. She's been pierced by a dagger-shaped shard of glass. One side of it says, "Zippy Dogs – 1 credit." It went right through her upper shoulder. Through clenched teeth, she says, "he says you're his dad, Danny. I thought you didn't like kids. Can someone get this prison-quality glass knife outta me? Please?"

I look at my kid, and damned if there isn't a sympathetic tear falling down his cheek. I bend close and whisper, "Hey, son. You've got a steadier hand than I do. Just grab one end of that glass, and carefully pull it straight out. Stay still and keep the shard still too."

His eyes get real big. "I'm scared I'll hurt her."

"Don't worry. Don't even think about it. Let the robot arm do the work. I'm thinking your Professor gave it independent motion. Did he?" Teepee nods. I try to imagine myself at his age and having a robotic arm. Suddenly it's clear. An image of a coyote's tail wagging, and him being startled by it.

"It freaks you out, doesn't it – seeing it move without you doing anything?" Again, he nods. "Trust your arm. Do you trust your Professor? Good. Just do it." (I know, it's an ancient ad slogan unearthed in a 20th Century urban dig, but it fits, okay?)

The shard is removed without a drop of blood being spilled, smoothly and quickly. Sunny faints and that's good, because as I'm bandaging the shoulder it starts bleeding again. Holly needs a medic, and soon, if there's hope that her foot can be regrown or cybernetically attached.

Pixell is talking to a black screen, which then goes dark. "All right, none of you are safe here. We've been granted permission to enter the Underground Skyway. I'm figuring you're the one to blame for all this destruction, Crow Feather."

"What?" everyone shouts, much to my pride and amazement.

"Pixie, what have you been hiding? Who are you?" I slyly ask. My mother used to warn me about the silent types. Librarians in particular.