Ripple Effects

by Laura J. Mixon

  “John.” Ras stood five foot ten, but John was a good head taller at six foot three, which gave him the edge in a stare-down. But she wasn’t his second for nothing, and he felt his fib fraying before her don’t-fuck-with-me gaze. “What gives?”

  He glowered.

  “As your second, I have a right to know if something could be putting the operation at risk. And this”—she encompassed the room in a gesture—“qualifies. Especially if you suspect an intrusion.”

  “It’s just a precaution!”

  She folded her arms. Tapped her foot. John sighed. “All right, fine! Sometimes I have … vivid dreams. I’m partially awake when they happen. It’s a sleep disorder. It’s called hypnopompia.”

  He caught her suppressing a smile. “Hypno-what?”

  Ordinarily he’d share the joke, but right now, not so much. “It’s perfectly normal. I mean—it’s normal for me. But it’s never been this bad. In fact, I’ve never manifested my ace during an episode before.” He paused. “Er, except the once.”

  “Oh?”

  “When it first manifested.”

  “‘It.’ You mean your flames? When your card first turned?” He nodded. “Hmmm. I don’t think you’ve ever told me your origin story.”

  Damn straight. “I don’t like to talk about it. Bad memories.”

  She punched him in the arm. “Why didn’t you say so, dummy? But that still doesn’t explain why you want me to do a read on the room.”

  He shook his head with a frown. “I don’t know, Ras … I’ve been jumpy as a cat since we left Cuba. Or … look, I was sure someone was in the cabin with me.” He thought about that tornado made of glass shards. “I just need to be sure that it was only a dream.”

  “It couldn’t possibly be that we’re transporting a priceless historical artifact on an ocean liner with obsolete, appallingly bad security and trotting it out nightly for hundreds of tourists’ entertainment?”

  “Oh yeah …” He snapped his fingers. “Whose idea was this, anyway?”

  They looked at each other, morose. “Triple hazard-duty pay!” they said in unison. Ras removed and pocketed her hoops, bracelet, and rings, and looked around. “Any spots you’re particularly interested in?”

  “Over there. On the left side of the bed.” That was where his attacker had come from, in his dream. “I know I’m being paranoid,” he said again.

  She waved him off. “Relax. I’ve got this.” Rashida crouched. Her clothing collapsed onto the carpet as corporeal became particulate, and a cloud of shiny motes slid out of the gaps with a sandy swo-o-osh! They amassed before him, dense and glittering, and shaped Ras’s face long enough to whisper, “Be right back …”

  The cloud drifted over to the far side of the bed and divided in three. One portion settled onto the carpet, mattress, and duvet; another gathered where the wall and ceiling shared an intersection; and the third clump settled onto the wall, headboard, lamp, papers, and bedside table.

  Ras’s ace handle was Patina. She could transform at will to inorganic matter. Usually particles: sand, dust motes, glitter, pebbles, glass or porcelain beads, metal shards; things like that—though with effort she could form larger objects for short periods of time. If it didn’t have carbon in it, she was your ace—though John had observed over the two years they’d known each other that she had a pronounced preference for shiny over dull and round over spiky.

  A trick she’d discovered recently was that while in a metallic form, she could pick up impressions from certain surfaces—visual flashes or auditory impressions, and sometimes both—of prior events that had occurred within arm’s reach.

  Her awareness didn’t extend far, only a few hours back and a few feet away from the spots where she settled. And it only worked if she was in contact metallic or crystalline surfaces. She’d theorized to John that perhaps the molecules she came in contact with while in her inorganic state formed some kind of bond that held onto traces of the interactions she was detecting: she said it felt like shifts in lattice energies—tiny dislocations. Perhaps sound vibrations that had reordered the solid matrix and briefly lingered there, too faint for human instruments to measure, or some such thing. Molecular memories.

  Whatever. It all sounded like New Age bullshit to him, but she’d nailed at least one criminal mastermind with it to date. Besides, who was he to judge? He spent his time harvesting power from a massive trans-dimensional cropland, in a land of hyperplex, Brobdingnagian horrors so immense and hideous he couldn’t bear to even perceive them.

  While he waited, John called up the app for their on-call scene documentation and cleanup, Vigilant Response, and filled out the form.

  He opened the picklist for Response Type and chose “Site cleanup,” then, with a wince, “Damage documentation.” More expensive, and he hoped the insurance company wouldn’t deny the claim as a result but … well … it was best to be sure.

  Task Summary:

  Satchmo art transport detail: clean up fire damage on Queen M.

  Location:

  Cabin 4.045, RMS Queen Margaret

  at sea, Atlantic Ocean, N 39º35′40.30", W 73º32′34.44"

  Account No.:

  544-0772322-01

  Priority:

  03 – Medium (respond in 12–24 hours)

  Damage Assessment:

  Size: ∼200 sq. ft.

  Severity: 05 – Low (est. <$5k damage)

  Contact:

  John Montaño / 212-555-0062

  Description:

  Burned bedding. Scorch marks on bed & carpet & dresser. Soot stains on carpet & mirror.

  He sniffed, grimaced, and added, Residual smell.

  John shot pictures with his phone of the bedding, bed, and carpet, and took a couple of the curtains and chairs, as well. He uploaded them and noted under special instructions: Replace mattress and bedding; clean carpet and furniture. Inspect walls and ceiling to confirm no further action needed. Meet ship at Pier 88 Manhattan at 6:00 a.m. Match cabin decor as closely as possible.

  By the time he had finished uploading the photos and submitted the cleanup request, tendrils of Ras-glamour were rising up from where they had settled. They all coalesced into a single metallic cloud, which swooped over and slipped back into her clothing through the various openings. She reformed, stood, and shook out her tight black curls, which lengthened and braided themselves into a neat, beaded knot at her nape.

  She grimaced. “Yuck. I’m going to have to shower again.” She tucked her silk cami into her capris, straightened her linen jacket, and slipped her patent leather pumps back on.

  “Well?”

  “Nothing much,” she replied. “I picked up a visit by ship maintenance to check the HVAC system. You called them?” He nodded. “This morning. It went on the fritz.”

  “And an argument out in the hall a while ago, but it had nothing to do with us.” She paused. “It was—well, blurry—around the headboard and on the mirror. I had a hard time getting a read.”

  “What do you make of that?” Smooth surfaces were where she usually got her best information. She shrugged. “I’ve encountered it before, once or twice. Sometimes I can’t get anything.” She hesitated, then stopped herself from saying more.

  “What?”

  “Well … the other times I’ve encountered this effect were around you, actually. I think it may have something to do with your ace. It feels like …” She paused. “Like something goes out of focus in your vicinity. Echoes of some kind.” She laced her fingers together. “It’s like there’s an interference pattern of some kind. I don’t know.” She dropped her hands. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

  “Hmmm.” John kept his expression still, but wished now he hadn’t asked her to check. He couldn’t help but wonder if his journey to the other place, or the energy he brought back with him, created those echoes. He hadn’t told anyone about where he went to harvest his flame powers. He didn’t want people getting too curious; he often had the feeling he shouldn’t be ther
e. Someone might try to make him stop, if they knew.

  “Well, thanks. I owe you.”

  “I’ll find a way to cash my chips in later, Candle-man. When you least expect it.” She paused at the door. “Leave a giant tip.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up. She flashed him a big, gorgeous grin and left.

  * * *

  Six weeks earlier, ace art thief Titus “Ripple Effect” Maguire (“call me Rip”) and his newly minted accomplice, Megan “Tiffani” McKnee (actress/model, ace, and former American Hero contestant), boarded the Queen Margaret at Havana.

  For Tiffani, this cruise had mostly been just a big old romp, thus far. She’d seen little of Rip since they’d boarded. He spent his days doing “reconnaissance,” as he called it, using his weird ace power, while she went on tours and visited local food fairs and craft shows. She had a spa treatment every day. With her complexion there was no point in trying to tan—all she did was turn the color of boiled lobster and get more freckles. She did enjoy sitting out on deck in her beribboned hat and bikini, though, glammed up with her own ace version of sunscreen: a diamond layer no thicker than a hair, but with enough crystalline microfractures in it to bounce the UV rays right back out. Added bonus: it made her skin sparkle like diamond dust. She would sit sipping sweetened ice tea while watching yachts and fishing skiffs float past, while gulls and herons skimmed the surface waters of the ports.

  She fancied she still looked good in a bikini, even at twenty-eight. She still had it. She could tell by the way men’s heads still turned. Not as many as when she was younger, maybe, but she figured she could enjoy herself for a bit longer before landing a good catch and settling down to start a family.

  She loved to lean out over the railing, showing as much of her cleavage as possible, and wave with her sun hat, shouting a friendly Yoohoo! Hi, y’all! at the smaller boats as they passed, water piling up on their bows. They’d even blow their horns at her sometimes. Boop-boop!

  So all in all, good times on the old Queen Margaret. All she had to do to earn her keep was act like Rip’s girlfriend and when he returned from his daily “reconnaissance,” answer his questions about the Candle. He assumed she must know a lot about the Candle from their time on set way back when, competing in the first season of American Hero. That was ages ago, and she couldn’t see why it mattered now, but it did to Rip. Meanwhile, he would pull out maps and diagrams and mark them up, and scribble notes in his journal, scowling like a guy who couldn’t figure out what 64-down on the crossword was.

  Granted, the questions got to be a bore. He’d kept at it, night after night. Tiffani knew herself to be a patient woman, but today, day five of this, she lost her cool. He hadn’t shown up for dinner so she went by herself, and when she returned to the cabin he still wasn’t back. So she set the carry-out she’d gotten for him on the desk, curled up on the bed with a pile of pillows, and picked up her tablet to get caught up on all the juicy celebrity gossip.

  A while later she looked up. He was doing that thing he did: standing there inside the mirror—or a reverse image of him, anyway—staring at her and looking weird, because people’s faces always look kind of weird when they’re reversed. She let out a shriek and put a hand on her chest. “Rip, honey, don’t do that! You scared me half to death.”

  His mirror image was rippling. Then for a second it was like she could see a hundred reflective panes all at once, each with a flat version of him in it. The tumbling panes spilled out from the mirror and shiny reflections spun around like an aluminum disco ball, only cylindrical—vaguely human shaped—scattering the room’s light. In a flash he was back. He strode over and unlocked his briefcase, then flipped through the papers in there. He seemed agitated.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. No answer. He wouldn’t look at her, despite her efforts to catch his gaze. “I brought you some food.” She waved a hand. “It’s over there on the desk. You should have a bite.”

  “Quiet!”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  She picked up her tablet and pretended to read while watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was a piece of work, this one. At the start, he’d been so sweet that sugar wouldn’t melt on his tongue. He’d been a real charmer. But something had changed after that first night, when he came back from one of his “outings.” Ever since, he’d been surly as a dog with hemorrhoids.

  He spread his materials out on the bed, nudging her foot out of the way. She oh-so-slowly put her foot back where it had been, and rubbed his thumb with her big toe. Finally he looked at her. She wiggled her eyebrows and patted the mattress next to her. But he only frowned. Here we go again, she thought, and suppressed a sigh.

  He said, “This time I want real answers. Details. Tell me what you observed about how he used the different flame colors. Why does he use more red, blue, and yellow? What about the other three? What exactly do they do?”

  She sighed. “I told you. He uses the yellow for heat, the red to build things, and the blue to freeze things.”

  “I know that. Everybody knows that. I need to know why. How they work. And what do the other colors do? Why is there no public record of him ever using the others? Did you ever see him use them on people or things? What do they do? What are their limits?”

  “For Christ’s sake!” she burst out. “Rip, you’ve asked me a hundred times. It was ten years ago! He wasn’t even on my team on the show! I was a Diamond; he was a Spade. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  He stared at her, leaning on his hands.

  Maybe I pushed him too far, she thought. Rip was a lot bigger than she was, with his muscular chest and big arms. She said, in an even tone, “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” A flare of defiance slipped out, despite herself. “And anyway, the episodes are all on YouTube. You can see for your own self.” She’d been going to say your own damn self, but thought better of it. Then she looked down at her tablet, trying to get her breathing back under control.

  “If I can get everything I need from YouTube, remind me again why I need you? You seem to be trying awfully hard to talk yourself out of your fee.”

  OK, definitely went too far.

  “Let’s not fight.” She crawled off the bed and went over to give him a hug from behind, but he turned and gripped her arms, and dug his fingers deep into her biceps.

  “I’m running out of patience, Megan.”

  “Ow!” she yelped. “Hey!” She tried to jerk loose, but he merely tightened his grip. So she summoned her ace, and with a crack, turned crystalline, two inches deep. A flawless, faceted, diamond-like shell coated her from head to toe.

  His grip slipped, throwing her off-balance, and her diamond-coated heels hit the floor with a thud. She found her footing, and straightened with her crystalline fists on her hips. Squeeze me now, asshole. “Hands off the merch, please.”

  Rip laughed and slow-clapped. “So she has a backbone.” The sound carried through the crystalline coat over her ears, albeit muffled. Sort of like a bad case of swimmer’s ear. “I wondered how far I’d have to push you.” He looked her up and down. “Quite striking, I must say—much more impressive than it looked on TV.”

  Way to neg a lady, jerk. She reverted to flesh and rubbed at her arms where he’d grabbed her. He returned to his plans on the foot of the bed. She quelled the urge to recrystallize her arms choke the fucker till he begged for mercy. Not a good idea. Especially not with how much she stood to make on this gig, if she kept her cool.

  With a noisy sigh, she snatched her tablet up and sat down in the chair at the desk—facing him, of course; you don’t turn your back on a man with a temper. She tucked a leg under herself and scrolling in a slow progression, trying to calm herself down.

  If she was honest, this gig was turning out to be a much bigger headache than she’d expected. She’d figured, you know, a nice cruise, earn some cash, give Rip a few inside tidbits on the Candle—nothing too damaging, of course; she had nothing against John—and get the hell out, a couple stacks richer.
The man was easy on the eyes and had been quite charming when they first met. Normally she didn’t jump in the sack with a man right away, but that first night Rip had gotten a bit weird and scary, and she’d decided she’d be better if she seduced him, to get a better handle on the situation, so to speak. Unfortunately, that hadn’t worked out all that well. Most men, you could count on them giving more attention to their little head than they ever did to their big one. Not this guy.

  Oh, they’d had sex. She’d pulled out all the stops: fancy lingerie, butt plugs, the works. And he’d seem to enjoy it well enough, but he sure wasn’t all gah-gah over her all the time. The minute he got out of bed his mind would turn to other things. This whole trip, he’d seemed distracted or wound up. And on a short fuse, to boot.

  He also had bad burn marks on his chest and abdomen, and along the underside of his left arm. She’d asked, once, but he hadn’t answered. Maybe he was traumatized. Or maybe you’re losing your touch, that nasty little voice in her head said. Maybe he’s just not that into you.

  Tiffani hadn’t gotten to know John Montaño on the show except to say hi to on set once in a while, and to pass him in the halls in the Discard Pile. They hadn’t run into each other much on-camera, either—no big encounters—which had made it easier to sell Rip on her lack of knowledge. But truth to tell, this ignorance of his powers was, well, a bit of a fabrication. She’d watched the rushes every day to keep up on who was who and what was what, and had paid careful attention to everyone’s abilities—including the gossip. So she had a pretty damn good idea what the Candle could do.

  Once she’d seen him enter the bathroom limping, his face and arms cut up pretty good. She saw a green glow under the door, and a few minutes later when he came back out the injuries were gone and he was walking normally.

  And then there was that evening Pop Tart had come out of his room so stoned she couldn’t find the door to the lounge, exhaling lavender lightning bugs out her mouth and nose. So Tiffani had her suspicions about that flame’s nature, too. As for the black fire, well. She didn’t know what it did, but after seeing how the Candle totally lost his shit at Spasm and Stuntman when they’d teased him so mercilessly that one time about being afraid to show them what it could do—and the look on his face when he turned away—whatever it did, the mere thought of using it scared the fuck out of him.