Behind the Mask

by Link, Kelly; Rambo, Cat; Vaughn, Carrie

  “Hell, I’ll even try the health food thing,” said Lieutenant Tremaine. “There’s a new vegan café down on Broadway, if you happen to be free one evening this week.”

  • • •

  “Spirited little pipsqueak, wasn’t he?” QED said, still glowing with post-battle exhilaration. “I’ll give him credit. Lot of heart. He acquitted himself well.”

  Jaleesa quickly tucked the wad of cash inside her blouse when QED’s head was turned. The Q-Power was rising from him like steam, working overtime to heal his wounds; the cut on his face was already gone. “You did great,” she said, trying not mom it up too much. He could be so boyish that sometimes she found herself slipping into that dynamic.

  Uptonville’s Finest, on their lieutenant’s orders, lined up to shake QED’s hand with all the enthusiasm of a losing little league team. “I hope I didn’t pique them too badly,” he said. “I’d hate to squander the goodwill we’ve built up so far with an internal squabble.”

  Jaleesa patted him on the arm. “Hey,” she said, “in all sincerity, and I mean this, fuck those jealous motherfuckers. Fuck ’em right in the ear.”

  QED stared at her. “How did one so young acquire such worldly wisdom?”

  “Gramma, mainly. She had that one embroidered on a throw pillow.”

  “A highly quotable woman,” he admitted.

  “Come on, let’s go before Delilah Currie shows up to ask if Quenton Quatermain hates the Vice President.”

  “I’ve never discussed it with him,” QED said entirely too quickly. “Here, give me the keys, I’ll drive.”

  She let her shocked silence hang there theatrically. “I can drive,” he said. “I just tend to fly more, that’s all.”

  “Thank you again, QED,” Lieutenant Tremaine said. “You as well, Miss.”

  “I’ll follow up with you on that other matter,” Jaleesa said. “We appreciate your interest.”

  QED conspicuously said nothing as they approached the car. He conspicuously said nothing as he started the car and pulled out into traffic. They drove in silence for five blocks before she told him to shut up.

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Quiet as a church mouse here,” he insisted.

  “Just so long as we’re clear,” she said. “So. Where are we going?”

  6:22PM - 124 QUINCANNON AVENUE, EAST UPTONVILLE.

  QED took his hands from Jaleesa’s eyes. The first thing she saw was the giant Q of the dilapidated storefront.

  “Of course,” she said. QUIC ST P M RKET, it read. “Pat, I’d like to solve the puzzle.”

  “I know it’s a bit squalid,” QED said. “And I suspect the electrical wiring is on the antiquated side. But overall, it was something of a bargain.”

  “Yeah, but look at this place,” Jaleesa said. “There’s a reason this store went under, they obviously rerouted the highway away.” She paused. “Was. Was something of a bargain? Was that past tense?”

  QED nodded. There was no containing his excitement at this point. “I’ll be eating a lot of ramen this quarter, probably, but I’ve saved enough during my time with JGB that I was able to make it happen. I signed the paperwork and acquired this property as of yesterday.”

  Jaleesa’s stomach lurched. “Tell me you can still back out. Tell me you can cancel your check.”

  QED crossed his arms. His posture was equal parts apologetic and triumphant. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Quod scripsi, scripsi.”

  She held her face in her hands. “Q, come on, you can not just blow your entire savings on a money pit like this. It’d be easier to close your bank account and burn the cashier’s check. Being broke is better than being in debt up to your eyeballs.”

  “So you don’t think I’m qualified for this?” he asked. There was something different in his voice.

  “I can’t even believe you’re interested in this, honestly,” she said. “I never figured you for the type. I’ve seen those before, you know. Second-stringers who decide to retire at thirty-five and live on sneaker endorsements, who end up funneling all that Nike money into a restaurant and a car wash and a mini-mall—or worse, buying a slice of a vapor-ware casino or hotel, some floundering business deal brokered by their brother-in-law or a jerkoff cousin, and what happens? What happens?” His bemused smile just pissed her off more. “Broke at forty-five! And it’s either out on the speaker’s circuit, trying to peddle the same book that twenty other guys already wrote, or it’s back in the tights. Trying to make a comeback with a spare tire and shot knees. It’s pathetic.”

  QED said nothing. Still smiled that curious little smile. That— quirky grin.

  Jaleesa sighed. “I know, I know. Overstepping my bounds. Your money, your life. I guess I just . . . just never figured you would . . .” The word stuck in her throat. She opted for the ellipsis this time.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Quit,” she blurted out. “And it disappoints the shit out of me.” She wiped her hands. “There. That’s it, I’m done. You do what you want.”

  “Well.” QED put his arms behind his back and faced the crumbling store. “What I don’t want to do is open a grocery store. Or a restaurant. Or a car wash.”

  “You don’t,” she said, feeling a little numb. Opening up like this wasn’t her thing.

  “No.” QED turned to face her. “I’m in the justice business. Just like you.” He waved his hand at his new not-a-store-after-all. “I’m leaving the JGB, you’re quite right about that. It’s just . . . it’s time. Too much bureaucratic quagmire, too much squad room politics. I’m tired of needing a quorum to pass any team resolutions. I’m tired of having to squash teammates’ feuds. I’m tired of boutique justice. This shouldn’t be a non-stop public relations exercise. I want to help real people, not actors paid to recognize me.”

  She felt her face burn. “I wasn’t sure if you knew about that. You never said anything.”

  He nodded, “I actually thought you might not know either, so I kept quiet. But that’s what I’m talking about. I’ve been in a quandary over this for a while now,” he said. “It’s time to be my own hero. It’s time to leave the JGB and establish my Q-Quarters, here on . . . here on the Quadrangle of Justice.”

  Jaleesa braced herself to stifle her laughter.

  And was surprised when no laughter came.

  “Hmm,” she said.

  QED waited.

  “I’ve heard worse ideas,” Jaleesa finally said, to both of their surprise.

  “Chief of staff,” he pounced before she could talk herself back to earth. “That’s your title, but really we’ll be equals.”

  “I can’t really be a chief of staff before there’s any other staff,” she demurred.

  “Chief of staff-designate, then. Your first assignment is to find people of quality to staff the Q-Quarters. We’ll need logistics personnel, security, a communications director . . . definitely want our own R&D division at some point . . .”

  “No, first we need to secure funding, then we can start hiring,” Jaleesa argued.

  QED laughed. “I hired you, didn’t I? The money will come from somewhere. And if doesn’t, the right people will do it for nothing. The way we superheroes used to do it.”

  “Q, come on,” she said. “I’m no super—” He stopped her, closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

  “Quenton,” he blurted out.

  “Whaaaaaat?” she gasped.

  “Don’t be sarcastic. I know you’ve probably had your occasional suspicions,” he said.

  “But . . . the Mole,” she said, pointing insistently. QED cringed a little, then plucked it off his cheek. “Ohhhh,” she said, “yes, now I totally see it.”

  “Right!” he said, breathing deeply. “I just thought there shouldn’t be any secrets between partners.” He carefully pressed the mole application back onto his cheek and pressed down hard. “What a relief to finally have the truth out in the open.”

  “I knew the entire time, dumbass,” Jaleesa said. �
�Most of North America knows. See, this is the kind of ridiculous thing that I’m not going to allow you to do anymore. If we’re gonna be partners and all.”

  “Sure, but . . . I don’t know,” QED said. “I just thought maybe I could part my hair on this side when I’m Quenton, and like this when—”

  “No. Nuh-uh. Done with this foolishness. If you insist on keeping this ‘double life’ nonsense, then you’re gonna be wearing a helmet with a faceplate, or a masque that covers more than 60 percent of your facial features. End of discussion, no arguments. This is Q-Quarters Communiqué 0001. Cover that face.”

  “Alright, alright,” said the Quixotic Master of Q-Power, grinning. “Quit critiquing me.”

  For security reasons, Patrick Flanagan writes from one of several undisclosed locations; either—

  1) A Top Secret-classified government laboratory which studies genetic aberrations and unexplained phenomena;

  2) A sophisticated compound hidden in plain sight behind an electromagnetic cloaking shield;

  3) A decaying Victorian mansion, long plagued by reports of terrifying paranormal activity; or

  4) The subterranean ruins of a once-proud empire which ruled the Earth before recorded history, and whose inbred descendants linger on in clans of cannibalistic rabble

  —all of which are conveniently accessible from exits 106 or 108 of the Garden State Parkway. Our intelligence reports that his paranoid ravings have been previously documented by Grand Mal Press, Evil Jester Press, and Sam’s Dot Publishing. In our assessment he should be taken seriously, but not literally. (Note: Do NOT make any sudden movements within a 50' radius.)

  The Fall of the Jade Sword

  Stephanie Lai

  “NEW HERO OF MELBOURNE” the Times announces—tales of a man stopping runaway airships and helping people burned by wayward pipes. He sounds magical: flying from airship to anchor and onto roofs, unscathed.

  There is a little more information to be gleaned from a single page Chinese broadsheet. It’s pasted up in teahouses and slipped under the doors of certain homes. They call their hero the Jade Sword for the green band on both arms and the character one old auntie swears she saw.

  Mok-Seung isn’t so sure of the name. She pushes the paper aside and allows it to wrinkle on the floor where Auntie Hong will frown at it later. She rises to her feet and sinks into the opening form of the Tai Gik—imagines the knife, or the wheel.

  How useful can a jade sword be? It would shatter upon impact. She prefers fast sword or jade spirit. Sturdier, stronger names. Names of which one can be proud.

  • • •

  Mok-Seung watches a young boy ride on one of the new augmented bicycles, which are so popular in this place. He cruises past the window, his feet still but for the occasional push, steam billowing from the pipes at the back. She longs for such a vehicle, fast as a horse but much more useful, and far less likely to bite her.

  “Mok-Seung,” she hears, and turns back to Auntie Hong.

  “I wager I could ride a bike,” Mok-Seung says, hinting. Auntie Hong shakes her head.

  “I wager you could fall off. They’re not as easy as you think they are.”

  Mok-Seung latches on. “Have you—” she starts, but Auntie Hong shakes her head again.

  Mok-Seung could try suggesting that Auntie let her go outside, but she knows her own schedule perfectly well and knows Auntie Hong is firm, like bamboo. Resisting the urge to sigh dramatically, MokSeung picks up her brush and tries again to focus, to get the flow of the ink and the shape of the characters right.

  Outside, the sounds of the augmented bicycle fade into the street noise and the sound of birds at dusk. She thinks she hears the cry of a kookaburra in the distance, and she frowns that it would laugh at her.

  • • •

  Jade Sword’s form is fast and expert. There are rumors of Jade Sword carrying children to safety, Jade Sword stopping robbers in their tracks, Jade Sword rescuing the crew of an airship as it tangled on one of the new skyscrapers in Melbourne.

  The Times reports him as a hero; it draws sketches of him tall and lean and white, with a full brown beard and a long, gwailo face. The Times declares he is there to assist the civilized people of Melbourne; from the Chinese, they mean, and from the Indigenous, those not yet sickened or stolen or pushed away.

  In the teahouses, the huaren know a practitioner of wushu when they see one; they claim Jade Sword as one of their own, and they are proud.

  • • •

  Mok-Seung trails behind Mama as they step from the tram onto the cobblestones. The stones are rough beneath her feet, and as she glances down alleys and keeps her eyes peeled for augmented bicycles and other new technologies, she falls farther and farther behind. Mama snaps when she notices, and Mok-Seung has to hurry to catch up.

  The white ladies frown disapprovingly at her as she dashes past them.

  She’s grateful they’re so far away from home, that her feet are her own, and she can dart as she sees fit, despite Mama’s frown.

  Mok-Seung grins, and Mama’s frown widens.

  “Be calm of face, little flower,” Mama says. “You will give yourself away.”

  • • •

  Mok-Seung sits by the window, a book in her lap. She’s reading The Art of War, a highly suitable text for a young woman growing up in a foreign land. Though she understands its benefit, she finds her mind drifting, and the book, newly printed for use outside the Middle Kingdom’s wide borders, drops from her hand.

  She contemplates the shape of the land she’s on instead, contemplates the Australians who own the building and the rumors of sandstorms in the desert; if the gwailo can be so wrong about the Chinese in their midst, she wonders, surely they are all wrong about those who have come before.

  She wonders how bikes work in the desert.

  She starts drafting a bike on the corner of a page, pauses when she realizes she’s going to need a closer look if she’s going to have any ideas.

  “Mok-Seung,” Auntie Hong says, and Mok-Seung looks up to meet her eyes with a guilty look.

  “I’m reading!” Mok-Seung says, and holds The Art of War up as evidence. Auntie Hong nods.

  “You will find that book very useful in the years to come,” Auntie says, hinting toward things they don’t talk about, “but for now, perhaps it is time for a break, and a different kind of training.”

  Mok-Seung allows herself to hope, follows Auntie Hong into the courtyard, and squints into the setting sun.

  They drop into the opening form and begin to breathe.

  • • •

  As Mama selects the tea for expected guests, Mok-Seung stands beside her. Yong Taitai likes an Oolong, but Ye Taitai prefers something more pungent, something you would never dream of serving an Australian guest. Mama’s hand hovers over a Pu-er, six months old, from a bush back home, as she says, “Auntie Hong tells me you seem restless. Is something wrong?”

  Mok-Seung presses her lips together. She knows this is her chance. “Melbourne is very interesting,” she says. “I thought if I had one of the new bikes, it would be easier to explore.”

  “Ah,” Mama says. “The technology could be better. What you have will do you adequately.” She wraps her hand around a tin and continues talking, doesn’t notice the face Mok-Seung pulls and quickly hides. “This Pu-er will go well, I think, but Can Sin-Man is always the most unknown of us.”

  “Can Sin-Man is coming?” Mok-Seung doesn’t know why Mama continues their association; Can Sin-Man is austere and serious, uninterested in what Australia has to offer, and always asks Mok-Seung detailed questions about her studies and her forms. She’s sure Can Sin-Man would never approve of the new bikes.

  Actually, maybe she does know why Mama has her over for tea.

  There’s a knock at the door, and Mok-Seung pulls a different face: she greets Yong Taitai with a smile.

  • • •

  The eucalyptus is old, and it takes her weight with ease. Mok-Seung crosses into its branches,
and after carefully closing her window and peering through the branches onto the street below, she scales its trunk to the top and onto the roof, disappearing into the dark.

  Clad in loose ku, her traditional pants, with a green band across her brow, she runs over the rooftops lining Little Bourke; she stretches herself to leap out over Exhibition Street and keeps running. MokSeung nearly misses a couple of jumps, but she’s getting better, and she makes it across town without too many mishaps.

  From atop the roof, she sights one of the new augmented bikes leaning against a terraced house. She jumps down to the road and drops to the ground inside the house’s high front gate. The generators beside the house are working overtime, pressing steam into the sky, so the house is still awake. She hopes they won’t notice that she longs for this contraption, sleeker than the new steam carriages with their gears and the constant need for fire, ceaseless in comparison with horses, which plod and clop through the streets. This one has red and white streamers tied to the handlebars and around the pipes. She wonders if, perhaps, that’s less than wise, but she wraps the streamers around her hand and admires them all the same.

  Mok-Seung sits on the bike, imagines cycling it through Little Bourke, imagines its potential when coupled with the airship technology.

  She blinks, suddenly awash in bright light. “Get off!” she hears. “Jeremy, there’s a Chinese on your bike!” She looks up in confusion, and the woman at the door screams. Mok-Seung reaches for the fence, balances on its pointiest peak as she reaches for the balcony of the townhouse, and then pulls herself onto the roof. She feels a scratch against her ankle, but doesn’t pause as she starts to run.

  She sprints across the roofs, hears a clatter as she jumps onto the English-style tiles. She curses them for their difference and keeps running, her footsteps not as light as she might hope. She sees the curve of an airship rising to her left and turns suddenly, making a leap like the photo captured by the local newspapers.