the alley, watching and waiting, trying to calm down, but the sun moved higher, and plenty of people passed by.
She came alert when a sleek hovercar pulled up in front of Justin’s door. The car was expensive, if Deanna were any judge, barely making any noise as it rocked on its cushion of air.
The car had a driver’s compartment separate from the passenger’s—the type of car its owner would never drive herself. A highborn woman lurked behind those tinted windows in the back, Deanna was certain, a chauffeur in the front.
After about five minutes, the door to Justin’s apartment opened. Justin strolled out, cool and collected, his sunblocking robes pulled over his head and across the lower half of his face. The back passenger door opened politely for him, and Justin slid inside.
The door closed, and the car slid forward, heading straight for Deanna.
Deanna ducked back into the shadows of the alley. As soon as the car passed, she came out of hiding and followed.
The streets down here were full of people, slowing the hovercar, so Deanna easily kept up with it, and the driver didn’t seem to be in a hurry. The car wove patiently through the pedestrian traffic and didn’t pick up speed until it found a main thoroughfare. Deanna stepped back as the car turned the last corner and darted into the stream of traffic flowing uphill.
“Damn him,” she said out loud, the vestiges of her longing washed away by anger.
The thoroughfare was the direct route to the Vistara, the hill upon which upper middleclass and aspiring upper-class women bought homes, raised children to be as snobbish as they were, and dreamed someday of moving on to the Serestine Quarter.
Growling in rage, Deanna sprinted back down the street, never minding the heat. She used her badge that she carried on duty or off to rush past the turnstile at the nearest station, and leapt onto the first train heading up to the Vistara.
Chapter Six
Justin barely made it. He stayed well under the shadows of the passage across the street from the coffeehouse, and looked over at the four girls at their usual table inside.
The other three young women were daughters of local well-off families, and they all went to the nearby university graduate school with Sybellie. Sybellie was studying techno-finance, he’d had Elisa look up. He was proud of how smart she was.
As Justin watched, Sybellie lifted her coffee to her lips then threw her head back and laughed at something one of her friends said.
She robbed him of breath every time he saw her. She looked much like her mother, Lillian, but Sybellie had also gotten Justin’s genes, which had been engineered to produce strength, physical beauty, stamina, and robust health.
Sybellie glowed with beauty. Her hair was soft brown, her eyes brown—happily Lillian’s dominant Bor Nargan gene had not betrayed Sybellie by giving her blue eyes. The young woman laughed readily, her pink cheeks matching the rose-colored veils she liked to wear.
In short, she was a twenty-something-year-old woman, happy with her friends, poised to take on life.
Justin had never met her and had never spoken to her. He could only stand here day after day and gaze at her, wishing like hell he could walk to her, take her hand, sit down next to her and say, “Hello, Sybellie. I’m your dad.”
He never could. Shareem in theory, weren’t able to reproduce. But Justin had managed it with Lillian. A fluke, a lucky shot.
A beautiful lucky shot, there with her friends, so happy.
Someone punched him in the ass. No, not punched, shoved a pistol onto his right butt cheek.
“I told you what I’d do if I found you up here again.”
Deanna had a bedroom voice even when she was threatening him. She was still wearing the silk veil too.
Justin turned abruptly, grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the pistol, and flattened Deanna to the wall.
“Shut up,” he said in a low, fierce voice.
Deanna’s eyes widened, but in fury, not fear. “Let go of
She came alert when a sleek hovercar pulled up in front of Justin’s door. The car was expensive, if Deanna were any judge, barely making any noise as it rocked on its cushion of air.
The car had a driver’s compartment separate from the passenger’s—the type of car its owner would never drive herself. A highborn woman lurked behind those tinted windows in the back, Deanna was certain, a chauffeur in the front.
After about five minutes, the door to Justin’s apartment opened. Justin strolled out, cool and collected, his sunblocking robes pulled over his head and across the lower half of his face. The back passenger door opened politely for him, and Justin slid inside.
The door closed, and the car slid forward, heading straight for Deanna.
Deanna ducked back into the shadows of the alley. As soon as the car passed, she came out of hiding and followed.
The streets down here were full of people, slowing the hovercar, so Deanna easily kept up with it, and the driver didn’t seem to be in a hurry. The car wove patiently through the pedestrian traffic and didn’t pick up speed until it found a main thoroughfare. Deanna stepped back as the car turned the last corner and darted into the stream of traffic flowing uphill.
“Damn him,” she said out loud, the vestiges of her longing washed away by anger.
The thoroughfare was the direct route to the Vistara, the hill upon which upper middleclass and aspiring upper-class women bought homes, raised children to be as snobbish as they were, and dreamed someday of moving on to the Serestine Quarter.
Growling in rage, Deanna sprinted back down the street, never minding the heat. She used her badge that she carried on duty or off to rush past the turnstile at the nearest station, and leapt onto the first train heading up to the Vistara.
Chapter Six
Justin barely made it. He stayed well under the shadows of the passage across the street from the coffeehouse, and looked over at the four girls at their usual table inside.
The other three young women were daughters of local well-off families, and they all went to the nearby university graduate school with Sybellie. Sybellie was studying techno-finance, he’d had Elisa look up. He was proud of how smart she was.
As Justin watched, Sybellie lifted her coffee to her lips then threw her head back and laughed at something one of her friends said.
She robbed him of breath every time he saw her. She looked much like her mother, Lillian, but Sybellie had also gotten Justin’s genes, which had been engineered to produce strength, physical beauty, stamina, and robust health.
Sybellie glowed with beauty. Her hair was soft brown, her eyes brown—happily Lillian’s dominant Bor Nargan gene had not betrayed Sybellie by giving her blue eyes. The young woman laughed readily, her pink cheeks matching the rose-colored veils she liked to wear.
In short, she was a twenty-something-year-old woman, happy with her friends, poised to take on life.
Justin had never met her and had never spoken to her. He could only stand here day after day and gaze at her, wishing like hell he could walk to her, take her hand, sit down next to her and say, “Hello, Sybellie. I’m your dad.”
He never could. Shareem in theory, weren’t able to reproduce. But Justin had managed it with Lillian. A fluke, a lucky shot.
A beautiful lucky shot, there with her friends, so happy.
Someone punched him in the ass. No, not punched, shoved a pistol onto his right butt cheek.
“I told you what I’d do if I found you up here again.”
Deanna had a bedroom voice even when she was threatening him. She was still wearing the silk veil too.
Justin turned abruptly, grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the pistol, and flattened Deanna to the wall.
“Shut up,” he said in a low, fierce voice.
Deanna’s eyes widened, but in fury, not fear. “Let go of
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