a mouthful. Wolf and Murphy were still arguing about it, and I was keeping my mouth shut. Murphy knew my opinion about what had happened. He also thought I should be on the back of the bus most of the time. I would have sworn Murphy hated monsters only slightly more than he did non-whites. Fucking asshole.
What stopped everyone’s bitching was McGann walking into the room. The woman looked tired, and while I had had to put up with one prima donna, Romejinoff, McGann had a half dozen fuckin’ stupid assholes demanding she pull a miracle out of her ass and find out what had happened. Those assholes were also known as Trustees, the ones who ran our merry band of monster killers.
The Trust was founded sometime after World War II when America and the rest of the world figured out that Hitler had been making deals with things that weren’t human, monsters that lived in places humans couldn’t, things that hated us and were not entirely of this world, pretty much the shit we now hunted full-time to keep the FELICITAS IVEY
44
rest of humanity safe. America had decided it was going to clean up those monsters along with the rest of the mess from the war.
Our “cover” was that we were a mercenary group, Global International, which actually paid most of the bills. Two-thirds of the guys on the payroll had no clue what we really did. If the public knew what the fuck we were doing, there would be a bigger stink than even I wanted to think about. It would make some of the shit that went down over cloning look like a fuckin’ tea party.
“I have the reports on the ten survivors,” McGann announced wearily.
“And?” Murphy asked.
I shrugged and went to get her a cup of coffee. Not that I usually gave a flying fuck about being nice, but Romejinoff had her claws into Wolf, and he was the gentleman of our partnership.
McGann flashed me a tired smile. She knew the score, since she also was one of the better telepaths the organization had―or at least one of the saner ones―besides being head honcho at Boylston Street and the local shrink for us. She didn’t have much of a life outside this place, but a lot of us didn’t.
She knew I was being nice because Wolf couldn’t be. She was slightly shorter than the ice bitch, a lighter blonde and skinnier.
Someone that most of America thought a woman should look like―a clothes hanger―because her talent took a lot of energy. I thought she was hot, though, because she definitely had a better personality than the ice bitch. I wasn’t just a tit man like most people thought I was.
“While there are the usual psychiatric reports, the Trustees thought that this was serious enough that the telepaths at Waltham should do brain dives,” McGann said.
Waltham, our nuthouse, had their own ’paths who got stuck with these types of shitty jobs. They also were usually only a couple of baby steps from being in the nuthouse instead of working at it. While ’paths were rare, they also burned out fast because they couldn’t handle half the shit they picked up―their brains were like radios on loud all the 45
DREAMLANDS
time around other human beings. You were good enough, though, you could turn down the noise and save your sanity. About one in ten thousand human beings, according to the gossip I heard, could be a
’path.
“And?” Romejinoff demanded.
“Yeah, how did the gook do it?” Murphy demanded.
Wolf’s fists tightened at that comment. McGann glared at Murphy. Hell, I didn’t know what she was pissed about. We all knew that Murphy was a racist, but she was one of the white folk, and he’d never say something like that about her. Or he might because she was a
’path. I hadn’t been surprised to find out he didn’t like them either. I wasn’t too fond of them myself, but it wasn’t something they could help, just like skin color.
“It wasn’t Keno,” McGann said softly.
Wolf relaxed, and I felt a weight lifted off me. Not that I had thought he’d done it,
What stopped everyone’s bitching was McGann walking into the room. The woman looked tired, and while I had had to put up with one prima donna, Romejinoff, McGann had a half dozen fuckin’ stupid assholes demanding she pull a miracle out of her ass and find out what had happened. Those assholes were also known as Trustees, the ones who ran our merry band of monster killers.
The Trust was founded sometime after World War II when America and the rest of the world figured out that Hitler had been making deals with things that weren’t human, monsters that lived in places humans couldn’t, things that hated us and were not entirely of this world, pretty much the shit we now hunted full-time to keep the FELICITAS IVEY
44
rest of humanity safe. America had decided it was going to clean up those monsters along with the rest of the mess from the war.
Our “cover” was that we were a mercenary group, Global International, which actually paid most of the bills. Two-thirds of the guys on the payroll had no clue what we really did. If the public knew what the fuck we were doing, there would be a bigger stink than even I wanted to think about. It would make some of the shit that went down over cloning look like a fuckin’ tea party.
“I have the reports on the ten survivors,” McGann announced wearily.
“And?” Murphy asked.
I shrugged and went to get her a cup of coffee. Not that I usually gave a flying fuck about being nice, but Romejinoff had her claws into Wolf, and he was the gentleman of our partnership.
McGann flashed me a tired smile. She knew the score, since she also was one of the better telepaths the organization had―or at least one of the saner ones―besides being head honcho at Boylston Street and the local shrink for us. She didn’t have much of a life outside this place, but a lot of us didn’t.
She knew I was being nice because Wolf couldn’t be. She was slightly shorter than the ice bitch, a lighter blonde and skinnier.
Someone that most of America thought a woman should look like―a clothes hanger―because her talent took a lot of energy. I thought she was hot, though, because she definitely had a better personality than the ice bitch. I wasn’t just a tit man like most people thought I was.
“While there are the usual psychiatric reports, the Trustees thought that this was serious enough that the telepaths at Waltham should do brain dives,” McGann said.
Waltham, our nuthouse, had their own ’paths who got stuck with these types of shitty jobs. They also were usually only a couple of baby steps from being in the nuthouse instead of working at it. While ’paths were rare, they also burned out fast because they couldn’t handle half the shit they picked up―their brains were like radios on loud all the 45
DREAMLANDS
time around other human beings. You were good enough, though, you could turn down the noise and save your sanity. About one in ten thousand human beings, according to the gossip I heard, could be a
’path.
“And?” Romejinoff demanded.
“Yeah, how did the gook do it?” Murphy demanded.
Wolf’s fists tightened at that comment. McGann glared at Murphy. Hell, I didn’t know what she was pissed about. We all knew that Murphy was a racist, but she was one of the white folk, and he’d never say something like that about her. Or he might because she was a
’path. I hadn’t been surprised to find out he didn’t like them either. I wasn’t too fond of them myself, but it wasn’t something they could help, just like skin color.
“It wasn’t Keno,” McGann said softly.
Wolf relaxed, and I felt a weight lifted off me. Not that I had thought he’d done it,
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