by Mur Lafferty
“I’ve got him!” Light of Mornings flew past Keepsie and Peter into the portal.
“Oh no,” Keepsie said. Some of the creatures swiped at the girl, and she eradicated them easily. Others continued to run toward the portal.
Peter pulled Keepsie back and she fell to the ground, sobbing. She didn’t see him close the portal, only heard a whoosh of air.
40
Keepsie had remembered the bar in much worse shape than it turned out to be. But aside from the broken glass in the front room, the several dishes from the meals they had eaten, and the broken pint glasses in the kitchen, the cleanup was remarkably similar to cleaning up after a rowdy Saturday night.
Pallas had helped out with smoothing some of the hairier questions out, from the vigilante groups to the missing toe on the frozen body in her bar. The meeting with Pallas had gone better than she had hoped, as everything she had promised had been true. Timson had been trying to work with a handful of the heroes to make the Academy stronger in the city, to thus increase tax revenue. Her hero cronies as well as Clever Jack and Doodad were in a hero jail in New York awaiting trial. Ghostheart and Timson were still missing, and The Crane was under house arrest under Pallas, pardoned because of his full agreement to testify against Timson.
A main issue of contention was Light of Mornings. Since she had caused so much damage after waking up, Pallas was ready to condemn, but Keepsie tried to explain how Clever Jack manipulated her. Without the actual accused, Pallas decided to reserve judgment until she sent some heroes to the demon dimension to see if Ian and Light of Mornings survived.
Pallas and The Crane and the younger teens of the Academy worked out of a warehouse as they fought for revenue to rebuild. Keepsie had offered some of her friends’ unique talents to help clean up and rebuild the Academy, and Pallas offered their hero with healing powers to patch up Keepsie’s friends. Their meetings had been frequent; some of them tense, some friendly.
Keepsie’s Bar stayed closed for a week, mourning Ian and Alex. They held a wake the next Saturday night.
Keepsie’s black dress was modest, but she covered it with her leather jacket.
When Peter had seen her, he frowned. She scowled at him. “Do you really think Ian wants me to be dowdy at his wake?”
“I see your point,” he said. He bent to kiss her.
He had told her of his loss a couple of nights before. They had been in bed, exploring each other as new lovers do, when she asked him why their intimate contact wasn’t shutting him down. He admitted what had happened to him. She comforted him, trying to focus on the positive, but it had felt hollow. The look in his eyes when he told her hurt her, and she didn’t know how to fix that hurt.
He wore a dark suit. His tie, however, was a Hawaiian print. She tugged at it and grinned. “Yeah. You’re all proper.”
Colette had outdone herself for the wake. She and Keepsie had had a very long argument about the food for the wake, and finally capitulated when Colette had pulled the superpower card. Keepsie couldn’t argue with Colette’s superpower.
So when Colette served demon canapés, demon soup, and demon pie during the wake, everyone remarked on how delicious it was. Peter knew, and Keepsie noticed how he kept to the veggie platter and punch bowl.
Everyone wore something brightly colored along with their black clothing, and the brightest of all was Michelle. Dressed in a bright red dress, she chatted and laughed at the wake with Barry and Tomas. Although she easily swapped stories with them, she refused to speak of him as if he were dead. She had accepted Ian’s disappearance with a stoic determination that Keepsie feared was denial.
“Was he alive when you saw him?”
“Yes, but—”
“And did you tell him he was your friend, your friend, before the portal went down?”
“Yes, but—”
“And Pallas is working to understand how to work it?”
“Yes, but—”
“And if she can’t, Doodad is still alive to work on another one?”
“Yes, but—”
“And the most powerful human alive is in there with him, and she’s on our side?”
“Well, yes—”
“Then he’ll be back.”
She would talk no more about it.
Keepsie was chatting with Pallas about the new direction of the Academy when Peter came up to talk to her.
“I appreciate the offer to enroll us, but I don’t think we’re ready. There’s too much bitterness, I’m sorry to say.”
Pallas nodded. “The offer remains. Please let your friends know.”
“Keepsie, may I interrupt?”
Keepsie smiled at Pallas and followed Peter to an unoccupied corner of the bar.
“This is hard for me, Keepsie,” he began.
“Shit. You’re dumping me,” Keepsie blurted, her stomach sinking.
His put an arm around her. “No, not at all. Keepsie, I’ve been in love with you for longer than even I know. I could no more leave you than step out of my own skin.”
“Then what?”
“Well. I have to leave you.”
She blinked at him.
“Timson is still at large. No one can find her except me, and I know she’s not in Seventh City anymore. She’s mad, volatile, harmful, and, on a selfish note, she may have the answer to why my powers are gone. She took them, after all.”
Keepsie swallowed. “So, where are you going?”
“Wherever my nose takes me. I can sense her pretty well, it’s all I can sense now.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I…don’t know that part. I am sorry. But I will be back. I promise.”
He took her hand and kissed it. She clung to his hand for a moment, then withdrew it. “Leave tonight. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back.” She turned her back on him, gritting her teeth against the tears that sprang to her eyes, and bumped into someone rather unexpected.
“Ah, Mr. Mayor, I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, wiping her eyes. Pallas stood at Mayor Bell’s elbow, her creased face in an unfamiliar smile.
“Ms. Branson, I wanted to come and offer my condolences about the loss of two heroes who helped the city during a very dark time,” Mayor Bell said. He was a tall, African American man with gray eyes and a politician’s smile. Keepsie was suddenly very aware of her splinted nose.
“Yes, they did a lot for us. Alex kept us alive, and Ian got rid of that thing.”
Mayor Bell frowned and took her hand, half-intimately, half-shaking. “I understand you were close to both men. I am so sorry for your loss. We are giving both of them posthumous medals in their honor, to be granted in a ceremony two weeks from tomorrow. Will you honor us by attending?”
“Oh, uh, sure, I’d be glad to. They deserve some recognition.”
“I wanted to include you in the ceremony, but Pallas has recommended I do this sooner than later. You will be honored as well, but I wanted to give you this now.”
He handed her a leather case about as long as her forearm.
She clicked the case open and saw a large, brass key sitting in a velvet bed. “To Keepsie Branson,” it said along the length. “For service to Seventh City.”
“The key to the city. Huh.” Keepsie hefted it into her hands and then turned and grinned at the mayor.
“My city. Mayor Bell, I accept. Thank you.”
EPILOGUE
“Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”
“What’s on your mind, Keepsie?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. So much has changed.”
“Ian and Peter are gone, most of Seventh City’s heroes are gone and you’re a hero now—in reality if not in name. Saying a lot has changed is an understatement.”
“I know that, Pallas, but I mean within me. The drugs changed me. It terrifies me.”
“Do you want training?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. Oh come on, don’t look at me like that.”
<
br /> “Training would give you control and teach you ethics.”
“Like it did Heretic and Tattoo Devil and White Lightning?”
“That was uncalled for.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just, my powers scare me. I don’t want to be associated with the Academy, even now. Not yet. But I don’t want to scare myself.”
“Every hero goes through this. It’s frightening knowing you can kill someone with a thought or break into a house by walking through walls or stop time. Or cripple everyone who breathes your air. Think about the training.”
“That’s twice you’ve called me a hero.”
“It fits.”
“I still won’t join.”
“I know.”
“See you tonight at the bar?”
“You couldn’t keep me away.”
“Actually, I could. Quite easily.”
Pause.
“You know, Pallas, maybe I will take some training. Off the books.”
“I thought you might.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mur Lafferty is a podcaster and writer. She has produced award-winning audio content to over 20,000 listeners since 2004, and has written for over 15 RPGs. Her work has appeared in Suicide Girls, Knights of the Dinner Table magazine, PC Gamer, Computer Games, Scrye, and SciFi magazine. Her short fiction has appeared in Hub, Escape Pod, and Scrybe. She is the co-author of the Amazon.com 2006 #3 Research Book, Tricks of the Podcasting Masters. She lives in Durham, NC with her husband and daughter.
Enjoyed Playing for Keeps? Then you might enjoy another superhero novel, James Maxey’s Nobody Gets the Girl. Richard Rogers is an ordinary man until he wakes up one morning invisible, intangible, forgotten by everyone in the world. When the telepathic scientist Dr. Know learns of Richard’s ghostly condition, he offers him a new life as the world’s ultimate spy, codenamed Nobody. Richard is soon swept into the frontlines of an ongoing war with superpowered terrorists who threaten the existence of all mankind. As cities crumble beneath the boots of godlike forces of good and evil, who can save us from the looming apocalypse? Nobody!
NOBODY GETS THE GIRL
CHAPTER ONE
NOBODY HOME
"YEAH, ALL MY life I've been lucky," Richard said, transitioning from driving jokes into current events jokes. "Lucky I don't live in D.C., for one thing. You been following this? The Dome?"
There were maybe twelve people in the audience now. A few were still laughing from the last punch line. A handful nodded their heads at the mention of the Dome.
"I mean, talk about a waste of money," said Richard. "Seventeen billion dollars this thing's costing. Gonna put a big old dome over the entire city. Climate control year round. There's, what? Two million people living under this thing? Three million? You could buy umbrellas for everybody for a lot less than seventeen billion. Or maybe not, if the Pentagon was in charge of it. Then we'd be buying the XJ-11 combat ready umbrella. Not only rainproof but bulletproof. They'd weigh forty-five pounds each."
He wielded the mike-stand like a very heavy umbrella and staggered a few feet across the stage, grunting under its weight. The audience laughed hard. One of the first lessons Richard had learned about stand-up comedy was that he could make anything seem funny if he attached it to a silly walk.
He straightened up and put the mike back into the stand. "Thanks! You've been a great audience! I'm Richard Rogers! I'll be back here next month!"
He bounded from the stage and shook a few hands. He felt wired, buzzing, full of the same manic energy that always hit him after a set. The charge was the same with twelve people in the audience as with a hundred. This is why he'd drive four hours on a weeknight to perform at the Stokesville Ramada's comedy club’s open mike.
Making his way through the small crowd, he arrived at the bar.
"Good set," said Billy the bartender, who was already filling a glass with Richard's usual beer.
"Thanks," said Richard as he took the glass. "Small crowd though."
"Eh," said Billy. "It's raining. Never a big crowd when it's nasty out."
"Maybe I'll start driving to D.C.," said Richard. "Not many nasty nights there anymore."
"Thought you didn't like the Dome," said Billy.
"Ah, who cares. It's too weird to get really worked up about. Every day I watch the news and think, 'They're just making this stuff up.' They've got a bunch of ex–comic book writers sitting in the back room cranking out these crazy stories. Probably cheaper than hiring reporters. I mean, right now the government is telling us that the most wanted terrorist in the world is somebody named Rex Monday. Excuse me, but didn't he fight Dick Tracey?"
Richard grew aware of a presence behind him stepping a little too much into his personal space. He looked over his shoulder. It was a woman. She’d caught his eye a few times when he was onstage. She was tall, good looking, maybe a few years older than him, but very attractive.
"You were good up there," she said, taking the stool next to him. "My name's Rose."
"Thanks," he said. "I'm Richard."
"So what are you doing here on an open mike night?" she asked. "You're better than most of the pros I've seen in here. You should be paid for this."
"Thanks again," said Richard. "I don't suppose you'd happen to be an agent, would you?"
"No. I'm the district sales rep for Oxford Financial. I travel a lot. When I'm in town I usually come here. Really, I've seen a lot of comedians, and you're very talented."
Richard shrugged. "I've thought about turning pro, but it's not likely to happen."
"Why not?"
"Oh, you know. I didn't really discover I enjoyed doing this until I was already neck deep in something else. I head a tech support unit at FirstSouth. I can't afford to quit that and hit the circuits in hope of some big break. For the time being, the Stokesville Ramada's as far as I travel."
"I wish this was as far as I traveled," said Rose. "My counterpart in the Carolinas quit so I'm covering four states now. But it's not all bad. Some parts of life on the road I really like."
"Such as?"
"Meeting new people," said Rose, moving even closer to Richard. "I feel more like who I want to be when I'm talking to someone for the first time."
"Hmm," said Richard.
"You must understand," said Rose, lightly touching his arm. "You're a different person when you're onstage? On the road, you can be anyone you want to be."
Richard nodded. "Yeah. I do feel like a different person up there. Only it's not really different. It's like who I really am. It's everywhere else in my life I feel a bit out of place."
She touched his arm again. "So you do understand. Funny people are often the most insightful."
Richard looked at her hand which was lingering on his arm. He suddenly felt rather warm.
"So," she said. "Do you have a room here?"
"Um," said Richard. "No. Actually I have to work in the morning. I'm driving home tonight."
"In this weather?" she asked. "Wouldn't you rather spend the night in a warm bed than out in that mess?"
Richard placed his left hand on the bar, making sure his wedding ring was visible. "My wife would be worried," he said.
"Call her and tell you you're staying over because of the weather," said Rose.
"I'd never hear the end of it. You don't know my wife," said Richard.
"And you don't know my husband," said Rose with a sly grin, leaning closer. "Isn't it marvelous we have so much in common?"
She was looking directly into his eyes. Richard had a strong sense of déjà vu. This was a fantasy he'd played in his head many times over, being approached by a beautiful woman after he'd finished a set, a woman who found him sexy based purely on his ten minute routine. Now here his fantasy was, in the very attractive flesh.
He looked down at his wedding ring.
OUT ON THE interstate, Richard kept thinking he should turn the car around. Maybe Rose would still be at the bar. Maybe she’d find it charming that he’d changed his mind a
nd come back.
He kept driving. He did have to work tomorrow. And Veronica, well, Veronica already hated his late nights. Affair or no, she would hold it over his head for a month if he didn't come home. A month if he was lucky.
When it's pouring rain and you're the only car on the interstate, it's difficult not to feel a little introspective. Was his life so terrible? He had a good job, a nice house, a devoted wife. Why did he feel this craving to throw all that away and live on the road, traveling state to state, bar to bar, just to have people laugh at him?
As he got off the exit near his house he kept thinking he should turn back. Rose would be gone by now, but what did that matter? He didn't think he could take another day of watching the clock at work. He knew he would snap if Veronica complained about his being out an hour later than he’d promised.
He’d made his decision by the time he pulled into his driveway. He would go inside and write Veronica a letter. He'd been composing it in his head for some time now. "I'm sorry," it would start. "I'm not happy anymore. I'm living the life I wanted five years ago, but five years ago I was an idiot." He would pack his toothbrush and hit the road.
"Never look back," he whispered as he closed the door behind him and stepped into his darkened living room.
But he knew that 3 in the morning is a terrible time to contemplate such things. He tossed his coat on the couch. Not hanging it up was a minor act of rebellion. He looked around at the carefully groomed living room, with the throw pillows thrown to millimeter accuracy and the single large art magazine sitting on the coffee table at a carefully calculated angle to convey casual intellectualism. He sighed, picked up his coat, and placed it in the closet. He pulled off his shoes and crept into the bedroom. He undressed by the dim LED light of his alarm clock. He could still get four hours sleep. Four and half if he went to work unshaved and slightly rumpled. Or, he could put his clothes back on and