Shelter by Susan Palwick Page B

pilot wouldn't fly in dangerous conditions."
        Rescue pilots always fly in dangerous conditions, you idiot. "Can you use your helicopter to check on my clients?"
        "Oh, hell, Roberta! I wish I could." He really did sound upset; Sergei, unlike Roberta, was good at faking it. "The cops and relief agencies are doing the best they can. I hope your clients are okay. I really do."
        "Sure," she said, watching Mr. Clean drag himself into the living room.
        He was still limping. "What's the current number of dead baggies, Sergei?"
        She expected him not to know, expected him to say it wasn't his department. "Ten," he said. He sounded unhappy. "Most of them are down in the Marina District, though, or down by the Embarcadero. Do any of your people hang out down there?" Roberta felt her eyes rolling. They hang out wherever they can get food and shelter, asshole. "Listen, Roberta, if you give me identifying characteristics, I'll try to wangle access to the reports to find out. Is there anyone you're particularly worried about?"
        Don't do this, she thought. I'm trying to hate you. Stop being decent, even if it's easy decency, decency that doesn't cost you anything. Which was the only acceptable kind, these days. She looked at Mr. Clean, trailing three frozen legs as he doggedly dragged himself across the carpet, and thought, Now there's another one who's excessively altruistic. Too bad he's just metal and circuitry. No gene therapy for you, little friend.
        "Yeah, there is," she told Sergei. "A guy named Mason in a rickety old mechanical wheelchair. Double amputee above the knee, and he's missing part of his left ear too. And a woman named Camilla, she's got a million shopping bags"—well, who didn't, on the street?—"and, uh, she feeds all the birds, so the bags are usually full of bread crumbs, and she always wears this ancient embroidered sweatshirt with teddy bears on it. And Leon Mifflin, who's covered with tattoos every place except his palms."
        "Okay," Sergei said, and damned if she couldn't hear scribbling in the background. He was taking notes. "I'll check on them and get back to you."
        "Thanks," she said, just as the woman on the couch let out a shriek. Sweet heaven, Roberta thought, and clamped her hand over the mouthpiece. It didn't block anything: the woman on the couch was still squawking, and Sergei was making almost as much noise himself "Roberta? Roberta, what's going on? Are you all right?"
        Her guest quieted down, finally. So much for sealed lips. Roberta uncovered the mouthpiece and said as calmly as she could, "Sorry, Sergei. That wasn't me." Think fast: if he knew she'd brought home a friend of Zephyr's, he'd reevalute her case even if she didn't leave the building. "I, um, when I got back home some woman had come into the building to get out of the storm, and, she, um ... oh. I see. I think she's spooked by my cleaning bot. Hang on a sec, okay? I'll be right back. Better yet, can I talk to you tomorrow?"
        "Who is this woman? What do you know about her?"
        "Sergei, I don't know who she is yet. I didn't get a chance to talk to her before you called."
        "You took someone you don't know into your apartment? Roberta, that's exactly—"
        The whimpering was rising in pitch. Well, actually, Sergei, I think I do know her, and I think I hate her guts. Would that help, or not? She couldn't work it out; exhaustion kept unraveling her efforts at logic. Best to play it safe? No, I don't know her? "Sergei, this lady looks like a drowned rat, okay? She can't possibly be dangerous"—ha!—"and right now she's scared. It's no skin off my nose to let her sleep on my couch. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
        "But she could be—"
        "Good-bye," Roberta said firmly, and hung up. Sergei wouldn't like that, but at this point she was probably screwed anyway. She couldn't deal with him and Meredith at the same time. Deal with