by J. A. Dauber
With Mom in it.
You must have felt so, so clever. You had finally figured out that the override control was in the helmet.
Which meant that I could see Mom’s face, horrified, furious, as her body and arms went after me and Dad.
I flipped around, hunched over Dad, protecting him, and took the first barrage of gunfire on the backplate, but I knew I was in trouble right away. The Mayhem suit—the real one—was faster, stronger, better in every way than the one I was wearing.
You weren’t nearly as experienced with it as I was, though, Leonard. That was my one advantage.
I turned over the table, scattering pizza boxes and slices everywhere, and dumped Dad behind it. That wouldn’t save him from, say, a missile, but I was hoping you would get too invested in the spectacle of a Mayhem vs. Mayhem cage match to focus on finishing him off. I didn’t have a lot of options—I had to focus on Mom, who was now trying to fricassee me with the thermal generators.
“Shift defenses to full, Bailey!” she shouted. Her mouth and her brain were still her own, of course. And without the helmet, you couldn’t block her voice from coming through the speakers. I could hear her.
But I couldn’t listen. If I did what she said, I’d be playing defense until the battery drained. And then I’d be toast. I had to go on offense.
I flew in toward Mom, and I heard you laugh. It was more of a gasp than a laugh, I suppose. Those ribs must have hurt. Am I right? And then you said something about doing this low-tech, and I had less than a second to wonder what that meant before Mom’s arm slammed into my side.
I knew from personal experience what it was like to hit something as Mayhem, but I’d never been on the other side. I can’t recommend it. Mom’s technology held, and my suit kept my ribs from vaporizing, but I’m going to have bruises for weeks.
On both sides, since you followed it up with her other arm. And then again. And again. She had gotten in close, and we were like boxers at the end of a fight, huddling against each other.
Right when our faces were almost touching, when you couldn’t hear us over the banging and clanging and the sound of your own smug ego, Mom whispered, “Put your arms around me. Give me a hug.”
I looked at her, confused.
And then she whispered, “And fly backward. Then magic ride.”
And I got it.
When I was little, long before Dad disap—I mean, before you kidnapped him—Mom insisted I go to gymnastics. Which I bitterly objected to at the time, but the truth is, I kind of liked it. I was terrible, but I kind of liked it. The thing I was the worst at was somersaults. Clearly, I did not get very far. But mom tried to work with me on them. She did this thing that she called a two-person forward roll but I insisted on calling a magic ride. I was terrible at it then, and I’m terrible at it now. And to do it in midair…
We didn’t need to land pretty, though. In fact, that was kind of the point.
This is probably what you remember. Me, jetting backward toward you at top speed, bringing Mayhem with me. You, doing the smart thing under the circumstances, which was to try to fly Mayhem in the opposite direction. But I grabbed hold of Mom even harder, and then I started our magic ride.
I don’t know what it looked like coming toward you. A wheel of fate? Something symbolic like that? Probably just a big, messy whirl of metal and flame moving fast and out of control.
You tried to run, but I had managed to aim us well enough to crush the tablet against the wall. Unfortunately, you were holding on to it at the time.
I heard you scream as your hand, well, went, along with your control over Mom’s suit.
But then you got away.
I mean, we let you go. We had to. When you told us about the self-destruct sequence…
Not in the mountain. That would have been too corny, even for you. You’re not a go-down-with-the-ship kind of guy. No, you looked us straight in the eye and told us that the destruction of the tablet had triggered a countdown that would lead to the self-destruction of seven of your facilities storing nuclear and biological material. Each of them located within fifteen miles of a major urban center. If you weren’t at one of your safe houses within sixty minutes to deactivate the sequence, then, well, boom.
My mom said you were bluffing. You said she was welcome to find out, but that there was something she should know: each of those cities had been carefully selected because they held the highest concentration of her friends and associates.
And then here was the funny thing. You named names. And I hadn’t heard of any of the people that you mentioned. Not one.
But they were important to Mom, based on her reaction.
Does that mean you know her better than I do? So what if it does, right?
She thought about it for ten seconds. Which is a long time, if you’re standing there, in the middle of a battle zone that is also on fire, facing someone who has recently tried to kill you and your family. And then she punched you in the stomach. Not hard enough to disable you—she was always calculating, and she knew you’d need to be able to get to your escape pod or whatever—but hard. And then she told you to get the hell out of there. Which you did.
And then so did we.
* * *
Flying is nice, as I’ve said before. It’s particularly nice when you do it as a family. And since Mom’s instruments didn’t indicate any nearby threats, we took our time.
About halfway home, Dad woke up. Mom was carrying him like a child in her metal arms, and he looked up at her, and then he looked at me, and said, “Is this a dream?”
“NO,” Mom said with a smile. And then she dearmorized her visor, just the visor—I didn’t know you could do that…I guess I still have a lot to learn about the suit—and repeated, “No.”
And Dad said, “That’s good,” and fell asleep again. I was worried about a concussion, but Mom said he was fine. I wonder if she’s a doctor in addition to the other stuff.
Nothing would surprise me anymore.
NOW. SATURDAY. 10:36 P.M.
Time to go. Sushi’s here. And the story’s done.
It’s just…
There’s something left to say. Something I need to tell them. Mom. And Dad. And I need to tell them right now.
Caroline.
Now that it’s all over, now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, this is what’s left. And it’s burning the back of my throat and clawing at my guts—and that’s when I’m not actually paying attention. When I really think about it, it gets hard to breathe.
I left my best friend lying there—
I chickened out. I didn’t tell Mom before. I should have, but I didn’t. It was in the middle of everything and I had just found out she was Mayhem and my mind was blown and overwhelmed and I couldn’t, but that’s no excuse. That was…weakness.
But I can do it now. I can be strong. I can go down the hall and sit down and say, Mom, Dad, this is what happened, and just tell them.
And Mom will tell me that there was nothing I could have done and that it was a tragedy, but it was unavoidable, and Dad will say—well, I don’t know what he’ll say, but he’ll say something—and it won’t make me feel better. But I need to do it. It’s the first step. To what exactly, I don’t know, but it is.
And maybe they can help me figure out what to say to Caroline’s parents. Because I have to tell them. Tell them what, I don’t know, but I have to tell them something.
I owe her that—
Hold it. What’s that sound?
It’s coming from my laptop.
My chat program is pinging.
It’s Rebecca. And…it looks like she’s tried me ten times, maybe more, already.
Oh, man.
So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, I haven’t focused on the fact that I stood up the love of my life for the winter formal dance.
; Not that that’s even close to the most important thing that’s happened in that time. Getting Dad back. Finding out about Mom. Caroline. It’s not even in the same universe.
But…
It’s still pinging.
Ten times. She must be furious. Which I get, but to be honest, I assume she’ll go back to never having anything to do with me again. It’s not like I can give her much of an explanation.
She’s asking for video. Why not just text me? She wants to curse me out to my face?
I’ll talk to her after dinner. I’ll call her back.
But what if…
All right. I’m going to answer.
I’m going to.
I’m answering.
“Rebecca?”
“Bailey! Are you all right? What happened to you? I tried to text, a lot, but it says your phone’s out of service or something!”
The SIM card, I forgot about the SIM card out the window! “What?”
“Uh, nothing. Yeah, my phone broke. Listen, Rebecca, I’m—”
“Bailey, we have to talk.”
“I know, and I’m so, so sorry, but can we—”
“Right now, Bailey. You know what it’s about.”
“I know, and I can explain—”
“The bracelet, Bailey. You have to tell me about the diamond bracelet.”
“The—what?”
“I knew there had to be a story, but—Bailey. The FBI just left my house. And they wanted to know where I got it.”
Was this you?
“What?”
“No, Rebecca, sorry. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“You weren’t—”
“Did you tell them? Where you got it?”
“I told them I needed to talk to a lawyer. But Bailey, my parents told them. They’re on their way.”
“Your parents?”
“The FBI, Bailey. They left about ten minutes ago.”
“Rebecca, I have to go.”
“Bail—”
Someone’s knocking at the door now.
I’d better delete this.
And go downstairs and tell my parents that it’s probably not over.
Not yet.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is not a comic book. But in the comic books, there was a well-known character with a big red S on his chest who could squeeze a lump of coal and, through unremitting effort, turn it into a diamond. Sally Morgridge is just such a superhero: an editor who can take a manuscript and give it facets undreamed of by its originator, along with a high shine. I can’t thank her enough for her tireless work and her brilliant suggestions.
My gratitude to Sally is only matched by my thankfulness to my agent, Alec Shane, who took a chance on a new writer of fiction. Alec is a remarkable reader, thinker, and advocate, and I am extraordinarily lucky to be able to benefit from his sage advice and good humor. Whatever else I am or may be, from now on, I am also a novelist, and for that, I cannot thank him enough.
I am also grateful to the prodigiously talented team who has worked on the book’s production: Levente Szabo, for somehow sneaking into my dreams and bringing Mayhem to life with his beautiful cover art, and Chandra Wohleber, for her rigorous and yet simultaneously sensitive copyediting.
My wife, Miri, is nothing like Bailey’s mom, except for her genius. And her strength. And her devotion to her children and family. Well, she doesn’t have a robot suit hidden away in a secret basement. At least, I don’t think she does. It is one of the great gifts of my life that we get to make our lives together.
And our family: Eli, Ezra, and Talia are all a little too young to read this book now, but they are a part of it—from asking if I “worked on the robot book today” to trying to type the manuscript for me. (Sally edited those parts out. Probably for the best.) I love them more than anything.
My brothers, sisters-in-law, and in-laws are as warm and caring as anyone could possibly wish for, and I’m grateful to them—Noah, Andrew, Sara, Rachel, Bob, and Sherry—for all their support. To my nieces and nephews—Boaz, Jordana, Moses, and Delilah—you’ll get your copies soon: try not to stay up too late reading, your parents will kill me.
Finally: Mom and Dad.
This book will come out right around your fiftieth anniversary. An awe-inspiring achievement by any measure, but the way the two of you have spent that half century—in love with each other, in dedication to family, in friendship, and in community, working hard to care for others in so many ways, and having so much fun and adventure doing it—evokes something like pure delight on the part of your children, and your grandchildren, who love you so much and wish you every happiness for so many years to come. This book—which, it should be noted for those still reading, is not autobiographical in any way—is for you.