The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl

by Tim Pratt

  “Do we need to know anything about the plan?” Ray asked.

  “When we get to the Outlaw, draw your guns, and cover him. Leave the rest to me.” She paused. “And if I should die or something . . . use your best judgment.”

  “If you die, Marzi, we’re going to be up against an earthquake with a score to settle,” Ray said. “So don’t die.”

  “She won’t,” Lindsay said.

  “One question,” Jonathan said. “What guns? I don’t have guns.”

  “Your weapons will come back,” Marzi said. “Don’t worry.” Her toy gun was tucked in her pocket, waiting to become real and lethal again. “Once we get close to the Outlaw, into his . . . charged field . . . our guns will reappear.”

  “And your pistol will be able to kill him,” Ray said. “Jesus. You think you’ll get a shot?”

  Marzi knew she’d get a shot. She just didn’t like thinking about what she’d have to do to get it. “Let me worry about that. We should get something to eat before we go.”

  “Last meal?” Ray said.

  “They’ve got bagels just down the street,” Lindsay said.

  “Beats dirt sandwiches and date wine, I guess,” Ray said.

  They walked down the block to the Bagelry, Ray and Lindsay walking ahead and arguing about something, Jonathan and Marzi walking together. Inside, Lindsay and Ray went to the counter to order, and Marzi hung back with Jonathan. The people working behind the counter were talking about terrorists, fires, deaths. Marzi didn’t want to hear that now. There was too much still undone for her to dwell on consequences. Jonathan touched her shoulder, lightly, and she turned to him.

  “You saved me,” he said, a little stiffly, and Marzi knew he was thinking about her wandering around loose in the halls of his soul. She wondered if the possibility of sweetness was spoiled, now—if a desert had spread out between them. Only time would tell. He was still here, standing with her, part of the posse. For now, that was all that mattered. Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Marzi wasn’t surprised he had a headache. She was a little surprised that she didn’t. “I’m sorry for my part in this, for opening the door. I didn’t know . . . that’s no excuse. But I didn’t.”

  “It’s okay,” Marzi said. “If you hadn’t let the Outlaw escape, we wouldn’t have freed Ray, I wouldn’t have learned to use my powers, I wouldn’t have met the oracle . . . my mind would still be fraying into a million pieces, and the Outlaw would still be hammering away, whispering through the door, trying to get free. This way . . . it’s more decisive. I don’t have to live with that gnawing fear that I’m going crazy. We can just get this done. One way or another.” By any means necessary, she thought. “Let’s get something to eat,” she said. “Then we’ll take Lindsay’s car up into the hills. This will all be over by this afternoon, one way or another.”

  “Why don’t you stay and keep watch by the road, Jane?” the godlet said. Jane nodded and took up a sentry position. The godlet was keeping her busy, for which Denis was grateful. After they firebombed the surfing museum, she’d taken him in two of her arms and embraced him, whispering in his ear about the palace of mud they’d dwell in forever, once the goddess transformed him into an avatar of Earth like herself. He didn’t want to have another conversation like that.

  “Walk with me, Denis,” the godlet said. He was wholly a rugged gunslinger now, with battered boots, a leather vest, and a surprisingly pristine—but still misshapen—white hat. There was still a sense of size to him, as if he extended beyond the borders of his own body, but Denis had met ordinary people with that kind of charisma. It was remarkable, but not necessarily supernatural.

  On the other hand, the ground cracked and split with dozens of tiny fissures with the godlet’s every step, so his true nature wasn’t that deeply suppressed.

  “Do you know why I brought us here?” the godlet said. They entered the little clearing, where Jane’s car was still parked, doors and hatchback open to the elements. The blanket, knife, and picnic basket were still inside the car, though some animal had carried off the loaf of bread. The godlet walked over to Jane’s car and propped his boot on the bumper, looking thoughtfully into the back, where Jane had suffocated. “There’s lots of reasons. Jane’s strongest here, for one thing, and she’s my ace in the hole, my hidden derringer, if I need her. I don’t think I will—I think I’ve got a pretty good solution to this whole mess, actually. The only drawback is that it doesn’t involve me getting violent and ripping Marzi to pieces, but I can show restraint. The other reason is . . . it’s a good place for a last stand. Somebody else took her last stand here, didn’t she?” He grinned at Denis, and his teeth were disgusting, the color of wet pine boards. “I want you to keep in mind who your friends are. I’m your friend, because I’m not telling your other friend that you left her to die under a heap of mud. And her body’s here, Denis. I can show it to her any time—I can let her see it.” He made a peculiar, delicate gesture with his fingers, and the mound of mud that covered Jane’s body groaned and shifted, then settled again.

  Denis didn’t speak, though he wanted to shout, wanted to tell this one-time robot cowboy to shut up; he’d made his point. Denis had firebombed an old woman; didn’t that prove his coerced loyalty well enough? Did the bullying and threats have to continue? But he knew such an outburst would be pointless. The godlet didn’t have a lot of flexibility, really. He had to say the lines prepared for him.

  “So be sure to do what you’re told,” the godlet went on. “You’re going to suck a little gas out of the tank of Janey’s car, take those empty bottles out of her floorboard, and make a couple more Molotov cocktails. When Marzi and her crew of merry miscreants arrive, I want you looking serious, like you’re going to bomb them. But don’t throw the bottles. We’re not going for a massacre, here. Not by the direct route, anyway. You think you can handle that?”

  “Yes,” Denis said, his voice a dead monotone. This was tremendously stressful. Being so close to Jane’s corpse, the reminder of the life-shattering break that had followed his first visit to this place . . . it was horrible. The godlet knew that, too. All the talk of last stands and giving Jane strength, it was bullshit—this was really all about hurting Denis, humiliating him, and probably killing him, in good time.

  Denis stood by the hatchback while the godlet went back to the road to get Jane. Denis had been waiting for the right moment, for an opportunity to escape, strike back, do something . . . but it occurred to him that there weren’t going to be any opportunities—not clear, unambiguous ones, anyway. You had to make your own opportunities. But would he be strong enough to do that?

  “Here,” Marzi said, leaning out of the passenger window. “Pull over here.” They were up in the hills, all trees and steep slopes and curving roads.

  Lindsay pulled off to the shoulder. Her clothing flickered, from skirt and Mary Janes to jeans and boots and back again.

  “We’re close,” Marzi said. “Is everyone ready?”

  “No,” Ray said. “But let’s do it anyway.”

  “Just give me a minute to get my head straight,” Marzi said. She thought about the Outlaw, about what it would do when confronted by Marzi—or by Rangergirl, rather—and her posse. The Outlaw would do just what its fictional counterpart had done, when the identical situation arose in issue number five of The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl, “Showdowns.”

  The Outlaw would surrender, throw down his guns, and give himself up. In the comic, Rangergirl had lowered her own weapon, confused. She’d expected things to end in a gunfight, after all, and instead the Outlaw was smiling and saying she’d won. Rangergirl escorted the company of Wild Rangers who took the Outlaw into custody, and she watched as the sorcerer was locked up. She knew it was a trick, but what choice did she have? The Outlaw had surrendered. She couldn’t very well gun him down after that, could she? Rangergirl was a force for law, justice, order, mercy—everything the Outlaw was not. She had to play by the rules.

&
nbsp; That first night in jail, the Outlaw’s gang—a razor-wielding polyglot orangutan with a human brain, a mad scientific rainmaker, a woman with snake venom for blood—had busted their leader out, and killed all the Rangers. The Outlaw was no match for Rangergirl, and would have died in a showdown, so he’d surrendered instead, knowing Rangergirl wouldn’t shoot, knowing no jail cell was secure enough to prevent his escape. Since then, Rangergirl had been trying to pursue the Outlaw into a situation where surrender wasn’t an option.

  Marzi was sure the Outlaw would pull that same trick again today, anticipating a similar result, sure that Marzi would escort him back to Genius Loci and lock him up again. Of course that would happen—the story demanded it.

  But Marzi had other plans.

  She wasn’t Rangergirl. Marzi wasn’t a hero, and she didn’t have to play by a hero’s rules. She was just Marzi, and even if she had trouble living with herself later, she would do what she had to; what Rangergirl was too honorable to do in the same situation.

  “Mount up,” she said, and the four of them got out of the car.

  As soon as they stepped into the trees, their Western clothes and weapons returned, as substantial as they’d been beyond the door. Marzi stopped and turned to face her friends. “This is it. Your last chance to back out—”

  “C’mon, Marzi,” Lindsay said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t think this is necessary.”

  “True,” Ray said, checking to make sure his rifle was loaded.

  Jonathan just nodded. There was a smudge of cream cheese on his chin. Marzi wondered if he was going to die like that.

  “Good enough,” Marzi said. She led them into the clearing, guns drawn and ready.

  The Outlaw leaned against the side of Jane’s mud-spattered car. The god looked like a grizzled character actor, all rotten teeth and menace, and the only trace of the supernatural left in the Outlaw was that long shadow, stretching out on the ground despite the high noonday sun. Marzi was gratified to see how human her enemy looked, how mortal. The Outlaw in her comic was a wily, long-lived sorcerer, but he could die, unlike an immortal spirit of destruction. Now the thing with the wasteland face was the Outlaw, and therefore mortal.

  Jane, however, was no longer human at all: She was a multi-armed mud-monster with a ghost white clay face. She stood at the Outlaw’s side, like a loyal attack dog. Denis stood on the Outlaw’s other side, near the car’s open hatchback, keeping himself a little apart, looking miserable and holding a bottle with a rag stuck in the top. Beej had said Denis didn’t want to be here, and looking at him, Marzi believed it.

  “So,” she said, her gun pointed at the Outlaw. “Here we are.”

  “Yup,” the Outlaw said, and spat. It grinned at her. “Guess you had to kill Beej to get out of the canyon.”

  “No,” Marzi said. “He betrayed you.”

  The Outlaw sighed. “It’s so hard to get decent help nowadays. I bet you didn’t even reward him with a roll in the hay, poor bastard. Oh, well.” The Outlaw tipped its ugly hat to Ray. “Garamond. I see a young hotshot came and took your badge away.”

  “No, friend,” Ray said. “I passed it on. I’m just a deputy now.”

  “Moving down in the world. How nice. I see you got your mail-order cowboy back, too, Marzi. I’m impressed.”

  “Are we gonna jaw or slap leather?” Marzi said. It was exactly what Rangergirl said in issue number five. “I’m calling you out for the deaths you’ve caused.”

  The Outlaw looked at her for a long moment, and Marzi pushed with her mind, her imagination, exerting the full weight of her narrative imperative on the god.

  “Reckon you found your fat manager’s body, then,” the Outlaw said. “And heard about the wild rumpus we threw downtown. We’ve killed lots of folks today, and I ain’t hit my limit yet. I suppose I’ve got a lot to pay for.” The last sentence was what the Outlaw said in the comic, and Marzi suppressed a grin. This was going to work.

  “I reckon I know when I’m outgunned,” the Outlaw said meditatively. “Drop your weapons, boys.” The god slowly took his long-barreled Colt .45 Warmakers from their holsters and tossed them at Marzi’s feet. Denis gently set down his bottle, and Jane crossed all six of her arms.

  “Pick up his guns,” Marzi said to her friends, and Jonathan did so.

  The Outlaw stepped forward, hands outspread. “I give myself up, Rangergirl. Let’s start the rehabilitation process.”

  Marzi still had her gun pointed at the god. This was the point where fiction and reality would diverge, where it would become clear that life didn’t imitate art, that this wasn’t a comic book.

  In the largely fictional code of the West, there was only one thing worse than shooting an armed man in the back . . . and that was shooting an unarmed man in the face.

  That was exactly what Marzi intended to do.

  Rangergirl would never do something so cowardly. Such an act would have violated everything she believed in, everything she stood for.

  But Marzi wasn’t Rangergirl, and she didn’t have to play by Rangergirl’s rules. She tightened her finger on the trigger.

  Then she hesitated. Not out of mercy, but because a terrible thought had suddenly occurred to her. If she wasn’t Rangergirl—more accurately, if she stopped being Rangergirl—would her enemy stop being the Outlaw? If she violated the laws of her own narrative, if she broke with her character so fundamentally, wouldn’t that break everything, the whole elaborate framework that constrained the thing with the wasteland face? What if Marzi was about to set her enemy free, let it throw off the bounds of Marzi’s Old West perceptions and become its true self, unencumbered, immaterial, unstoppable?

  Marzi saw the Outlaw’s smirk, and knew she was right—moreover, she knew that the Outlaw knew, that he had antici-pated her plan and played along without resistance, knowing one dishonorable bullet from her would set him free.

  She lowered her gun.

  “Ah, fuck,” the Outlaw said. “Well, plan B, then.” He turned and hurried back to the car, and Jane stepped in front of her god, a living shield. She spread out her arms, and claws popped from her fingertips.

  “Burn them, Denis!” the Outlaw shouted.

  Marzi looked at Denis—and saw another possibility. In planning future plotlines for her comic, she’d had the idea of making the Outlaw’s razor-wielding orangutan turn on his master; wouldn’t Denis serve that function just as well? After all, outlaws weren’t exclusively killed in showdowns. Some-times they were betrayed, murdered by their own disgruntled henchmen, and Beej said that Denis had been recruited against his will. But Marzi couldn’t just imagine a razor into Denis’s hand—pure illusion wouldn’t be enough to kill the Outlaw. For a weapon to kill the god, it had to have some spine of reality, even something as objectively harmless as Marzi’s toy pistol.

  Then she saw Denis drawing a butcher knife, a real knife, from his waistband. She stared at him, even as Jane roared and started toward them, Lindsay firing uselessly into Jane’s clay body with the tommy gun. The Outlaw was grinning—he loved killing, he loved gunfire. Marzi watched Denis step forward, his face twisted with hate, and she thought, Am I making him do this, or is he doing it on his own?

  Denis stabbed the Outlaw in the back, between the shoulder blades, then pulled out the knife and stabbed again, and again, hitting three times as the Outlaw fell, mouth open, expression stupid and stunned. Marzi wondered if the god had ever felt pain before, real physical pain, and she suspected not. Marzi concentrated hard on keeping the Outlaw mortal, and he fell, facedown. His long shadow snapped back into his body like a broken rubber band, and still Denis drove the knife down, kneeling on the Outlaw’s back, ramming the blade in seven, eight, nine times. Then he stopped abruptly, as if deciding the Outlaw was finally dead enough. He remained kneeling on the god’s back, his head hanging down, his breath ragged and loud.

  Marzi turned, no time for relief, because Jane was still coming at them. Jonathan and Lindsay had stepped in front of Marzi, and they were
shooting at Jane, but the bullets passed through her body, barely slowing her. Ray, standing back, fired one careful shot after another at Jane’s head, but while chunks of clay flew away with each bullet, she didn’t slow.

  Then an engine growled, and a huge motorcycle roared into the clearing. Alice Belle was riding it, a Valkyrie in black leather and sunglasses, howling, whirling lit firepots on chains over her head with one hand, steering her bike with the other. Alice flung the firepots like a bolo, and they whirled straight for Jane, striking her near the throat. The chains wound around Jane’s neck and spiraled down her body, severing her head, slicing through her arms, and then Alice’s motorcycle struck Jane’s falling body and drove over her, tires churning her into a pile of mud. The motorcycle stopped, miraculously still upright, and Alice cut the engine. The sudden silence was resounding.

  “That was . . . improbable,” Ray said. “The cavalry riding in.”

  “Damn, baby,” Alice said to Lindsay. “That bitch nearly had you.”

  Lindsay dropped her tommy gun, which dissolved before it hit the ground. The medicine here was broken, the magic fading, and their old clothes were coming back. Jane was just mud, and Marzi supposed Jane was dying even before Alice stopped her—otherwise, she’d be re-forming now.

  The Outlaw was still solid, though. Marzi had made him so mortal that he even left a corpse behind.

  Lindsay ran to Alice, arms outstretched . . . and then Alice dissolved, faded into dust motes and airy spaces, her motorcycle ghosting away into nothing, until both bike and rider were entirely gone.

  Lindsay stopped. “Alice? Alice!”

  “She wasn’t real,” Ray said. “She was real enough, she was the cavalry, but Marzi made her.”

  “Not me,” Marzi said. “I didn’t. But Lindsay’s an artist, too.”

  “I really believed she’d come back,” Lindsay said, sitting on the ground, near where Alice had been. “That she’d come and save me.”