The Mutant Prime Read Free Page B

earlobe. He plowed through the crowd until he was at dead center. Then he turned on the professional baritone voice that had made his fortune, first as a news anchor, then as a network executive.
    “Listen up, people. You’re paid to cover the news, not watch it. We’ve got to get on this, and fast.”
    Melanie held her breath.
    Camphill’s icy gray eyes swept the group. “Nesse, of course,” he said, giving the nod to their star. She grinned. Her bald head gleamed. “Benjamin, Saroya …”
    His gaze fell on Melanie, paused, moved on. “Richardson and Cross.” He nodded. “Get moving. I’ve got a shuttle scheduled for you in half an hour. You’ll find your mechanicals onboard.”
    He turned off the voice, turned back toward his office.
    Melanie followed him.
    “Mr. Camphill?”
    “What is it, Ryton?”
    Her heart pounded. “What about backup? Couldn’t they use someone else to help with background?”
    He nodded slowly. “You’re probably right. Good thinking, Ryton.” He looked over her shoulder to a stocky, dark-haired man in a blue suit. “Ferron, you go along to help with the transmission and research.” He disappeared into his office.
    Stunned, Melanie stared after him.
    “Tough break, Mel,” Ralph Ferron said. His tone was sympathetic, but his dark eyes twinkled. He brushed past her on his way to the door. “You know how Randy C. loves to bait and switch. Don’t feel bad. I’ll bring you back some Moon dust.”
    “Thanks.” Just what she needed. Melanie slammed the green acrylic cover of her deskscreen in frustration. Randall Camphill specialized in arbitrary decisions, like most petty tyrants. How could she catch his attention long enough to convince him she deserved a chance at the anchor spot? She’d been with Cable News for five years, working her way up from the research staff to reporting as a correspondent. She worked hard, long hours, weekends, whatever they asked, and enjoyed the work. But how much harder could she work? If she gave all her reports while standing on her head, would Camphill even notice?
    She dialed up Tri-Com on her deskpad. Might as well check out the competition. Her screen pulsed with yellow and green light. Then the image solidified into a blond-haired, green-eyed Brazilian, Tri-Com’s star reporter, Lucia Silva, interviewing a trim, brown-haired man in a purple Shuttle Corps uniform. A nameline ran beneath his image: Shuttle Commander Heyran Landon. Landon’s eyes were golden, glittering.
    A mutant shuttle commander. Melanie felt a surge of surprise.
    I didn’t know there were any mutants in the Corps, she thought. Interesting. And won’t Randall C. be pissed off when he sees how Tri-Com scooped us.
    Melanie pulled off her boots and sat cross-legged in her chair, a slim figure in a soft black jumpsuit.
    “Audio.”
    The screen volume rose to a comfortable level.
    “Commander Landon, why were the casualties so few?” Silva asked.
    The mutant shrugged. “I’d have to say that the timing of the explosion had something to do with it. Most of the Moonstation inhabitants and visitors were asleep, safe in their own pressurized quarters. When the dome went, there weren’t many people around. Most of the casualties were due to failures of safety door seals and related pressure leakage.”
    “And here’s the other half of the rescue team,” the reporter announced. “Captain Kelly McLeod.”
    A dark-haired woman in a purple uniform trimmed with gray stared steadily into the camera. Kelly McLeod? Her old friend from Piedmont High was on Moonstation, a hero of the disaster? Melanie twisted in her seat and grabbed her lapscreen. Maybe there was still a chance for her to get in on the action after all.
    “Did you hear about the Moonstation disaster, boss?”
    Michael Ryton looked up from his desk, his face bathed in amber screen-light. In front of him was a five-year comparison of third-quarter profits. For a moment, he stared at his secretary, Lari, without