CHAPTER 2

Early the next morning, a willowy Psy female walked into a breakfast and dinner—no lunch—restaurant just south of San Diego, and sat down, placing her briefcase beside her. She was dressed in a dark gray suit, with a jacket that cinched at the waist, and tailored pants in the same material. Her shirt collar was crisp and white, her nails manicured so they were short and clean.

The waitress smiled, but didn’t expect a response. All Psy—well, except the ones who had defected recently—were emotionless robots. She’d heard rumors that they weren’t born that way, that they trained the emotion out of themselves. Damn fool thing if you asked her. What was life without love, without laughter? Yeah, there were a few tears along the way, but hey, that was life. To be lived.

But she said none of what was on her mind—Psy were emotionless, but they tipped exactly on the correct percentage. Which was better than some cheapskates who ran her off her feet then left a quarter behind. She’d serve a Psy ahead of them any day. “What’ll it be?” she asked, holding up the old-fashioned order pad. That was how this place stayed in business—folks came for the “ambience,” as the boss called it.

She laughed at him—the old flirt was her husband, she had to keep him on his toes—but he was right. People liked the checkered tablecloths over wooden tables, the real-people service as opposed to order pads built into tables, even the crackling old jukebox they cranked up at night. That’s why they got a lot of human and changeling traffic.

The few Psy who came in were mostly strays on their way to a meeting in the city. This one looked the type. Pretty, too, with those bright green eyes against skin that was a nice, pale bronze. Psy really were striking a lot of the time—probably messed with their genes in the womb, the waitress thought. “Honey?” she prompted when the woman didn’t respond.

The Psy female blinked, staring at her.

And the waitress could’ve sworn she saw desperation in those eyes.

Then the briefcase exploded.

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