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Ripple Effects

Page 3

by Laura J. Mixon


  The Candle … now there was a guy who knew how to put his little head to good use.

  I do mean, she thought with a sigh. Not that she herself had partaken of his charms, but most everybody else on the set had, seemed like. If they exhibited signs of life, and were into him, he’d been into them. Male, female, nonbinary, genderfluid; joker, ace, nat. It made no never mind. And a lot of guys like that are players, but not John. She didn’t know how he pulled off sleeping with so many people in such close quarters without anybody wanting to throttle him, but he just had the knack. He’d been sweet, like a puppy. A large, terrifyingly powerful puppy.

  Frankly, she thought, Rip could usefully have some of that attitude rub off on him.

  Well, push was obviously coming to shove with Titus-the-Rippler, here. She’d driven the dumb-bunny buggy about as far as it’d go. You don’t owe the Candle anything, she reminded herself, and this guy is tilting toward being a hazard to your health.

  Still … Rip wouldn’t be spending all this time and money on a fancy-ass ocean cruise, days and days of his mirror-reconnaissance, and all this note-taking and map-marking, if it wasn’t going to be a big haul. Starlight Jewels in Miami had just dropped Tiffani’s modeling contract and no one else had picked her up yet; she needed the money. Maybe she should just play ball. But she wanted to know what she was getting into before she jumped.

  She crawled onto the bed again, giving him a little “insight” into her décolletage. “Rip, honey?”

  He looked up, irritated, so she dialed the sweet-thing routine down several notches. “Look. I know you have been frustrated with me not giving what you need to beat the Candle’s flame powers. It’s just … I feel sure I could help you better, if I knew just a little bit more about exactly what you’re looking for—what kind of a job you’re planning.”

  “So you can remember, but only if I tell you my plans. That it?”

  “Now, don’t be that way. How well do you remember events from ten years ago?” She could tell that one landed. “It’d give me more to work with. Help me visualize his fighting style, you know, if I had some situations I could picture him in to help me along.”

  “I thought you’d never seen him fight.”

  “Not in person, no. But I watched the show and I heard the other contestants talking. I’m sure all that would come back to me, with your help. And as you saw, I have my own ace powers. Sure, they’re not offensive, but I excel at defense. I’m hard to harm. You must have seen me on American Hero, back in oh-seven.”

  He burst out laughing. “What you excelled at, darling, was betrayal.”

  Tiffani bit her lower lip. She had betrayed Bubbles, her teammate, who’d had the sweetest crush on her. The memory still burned. “You have to vote people off in those shows. And I couldn’t afford to lose. My family was counting on me. I did what it took.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll give you that. The fat chick never saw you coming.”

  “Don’t disrespect her!”

  His eyes widened at her flare of anger. Then he rubbed his face with a sigh.

  “All right, fine. I presume this is an attempt to renegotiate our deal. What do you want? A cut of the profits, or what?”

  “Oh, I’m just glad to help out,” she said, letting her Appalachian drawl creep back in. “Of course, if I did more to help out than just give you information, and you were satisfied with my performance, cutting me in would be nice. I mean, I’d be purely flattered …” She examined her nails. She quite liked the crystalline pink she’d glammed over them. “I have many talents.”

  “Uh huh …”

  His dismissive tone irritated her. “Well, you think it over and let me know, hon.” She returned to the chair and snatched up her tablet, making a big show of swiping between articles.

  He watched her. After a pause, he walked over and pulled the outer door open. Warm, muggy summer air flowed in. “Walk with me.”

  “In this?” The diaphanous micro-mini nightie she wore had quite the décolletage. Not to mention the matching thong, faintly visible underneath it.

  “Relax. You look fine. No one’s going to care. Those that do …” He gave her a little smile, “Will enjoy the view.”

  She eyed him, skeptical and still a bit miffed, but the compliment seemed genuine. Tiffani felt her cheeks warm, despite herself. She’d brought her best wardrobe with her but this was the first time he seemed to notice . “Oh, all right.” She slipped on her sandals and pulled on a sarong over her lingerie, and followed him up the outer stairs to the promenade deck.

  The night was humid and overcast. Tiffani brushed a damp curl off her forehead. Their cabin was near the stern, and she caught sight of the great liner’s wake roiling the water behind them. Beyond the circle of the Queen Margaret’s deck lighting, the ocean was black as pitch. She couldn’t see much of anything out there, other than sparse flecks of light on the far shore.

  “Let’s check out the view from the bow,” Rip said. He led the way. She followed, hurrying to match his much longer stride, wondering what he was up to.

  At the front of the ship was an open area where you could look out ahead. It was close to midnight. Not many people were out. One couple sat on a bench, engaged in some serious PDA; one or two others strolled by. On the top deck by the bridge, a couple crewmembers were chatting. A jazz tune drifted out into the night from the showroom.

  Rip leaned on the rail. “I’m trying to decide how far I can trust you, Megan. We both know you’re not nearly as dumb as you act. You have your charms and your ace talent, which could be useful for what I have in mind. And I know you can be ruthless, when need be. All good. The question is … how loyal are you? Nobody gets onto my team who I can’t count on, one hundred percent.”

  She laid a hand on his arm and brought all the sincerity she had in her to show. “Rip, honey, if we can come to an agreement, you can totally count on me.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” Rip checked his watch, and turned around to look at something. She turned, too. The necking couple had just gotten up and were walking away, fingers interlaced, eyes only for each other, leaving Rip and Tiffani along on the bow deck.

  “I’ve never told you what my ace does, have I?” he asked. She shook her head. “Well then, I’m going to let you in on my secret.”

  She leaned backward on the rail, propped by her elbows. “I feel flattered! Please, do tell.”

  His lips quirked up in a smile. “Let’s just say the virus gave me an unlimited lifetime subscription to streaming videos from the future.”

  “How handy! So is it like cable? A zillion channels on and nothing good to watch?”

  He chuckled. “I begin to like you, Megan. I can see into the future. Fu-tures, to be exact. There are a lot of them. And I can visit them, any one I choose, and see what might happen at any point along the way.”

  “Sounds useful.” Tiffani kept her tone and posture casual, though a sense of foreboding nudged at her. With that kind of ability, he would not be easy to fool. Not that she would do that, of course. Not unless she absolutely needed to …

  “It’s not as great as it sounds. For one thing, I can only see future events in the vicinity of where I’m at when I enter the mirror.” Ah … so that was why they were here. She’d snooped around among his notes the other day, and found a reference to an upcoming cruise on this very ship: a cruise that the Candle would take later in the summer. Rip must need to be on the Queen Margaret now, so he could spy on the Candle’s actions here in the future. She looked at Rip with new appreciation. This here was some world class sneakiness. “I can’t directly affect anything while I’m up there poking around,” Rip was saying, “And none of it is set in stone. They’re all probable outcomes. Possible futures. Many different timelines, each with their own turning points and individual outcomes. There are an impossibly large number of them, and I can only guess which ones are more likely than the rest. It’s rather maddening, actually.”

  “I can imagine.�
� This was the first time he’d ever opened up like this. She got a feeling he was a lonely man, under all that obsessive grumpiness.

  “And I can only see scenes that I’m not part of. If I try to look at any future event with me actually there? Ka-BOOM.” He expanded his hands rapidly, mimicking an explosion. “It blows up the whole causal chain. Or if I make a decision here in the present that changes that future moment?” He clapped his hands together. “Implosion. Timeline collapse. Schrödinger’s cat croaks and I go time-blind till the ripple effects finish their belly roll through the multiverse. I call them causality shadows.

  “Honestly,” he sighed. “It’s a huge pain. You have no idea.”

  “Poor dear … ”

  “What this boils down to is, I can see all these possibilities the future might hold, but I can’t be sure how likely each future is, I can’t see anything with me in it, and I can only see up to the point where I make a decision beforehand that affects that moment in the future. So I’m very careful about the decisions I make.”

  “Why not just buy lottery tickets?” she asked. “Why all this art-thievery rigmarole?” She waved her hand. She had no idea what he was planning to steal, but he’d mentioned it had to do with a painting or something that the Candle would be in charge of guarding, sometime soon. “Just check out the lotto, hon. Get the winning numbers and make a mint that way.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Wow, thanks. I never thought of that. That was the very first thing I did, and I’ve socked away quite a lovely nest egg over the years. But there are organizations out there that keep an eye on newsworthy events. Like lottery winnings and repeat offenders at casinos and the like. Too many lucky coincidences and you might get black-bagged and locked away under the desert by SCARE.” A pause. “And … you know? The life of the idle rich gets boring, especially if you’ve got an ace talent like mine. You want to do something with your life. You want a challenge. Me, I like to mix things up. Get creative. And, well, I’ve always been an art lover, so …”

  Tiffani was feeling that urge to throttle him again. What she’d give to live a life of ease, spend all her days on the beach or shopping on Madison Avenue. Men and their adrenaline highs. Such a waste. But Mama always said there’s no point fighting with the lightning about where it wants to strike.

  “Anyway, my gift has all these devilish constraints,” Rip was saying, “and I’ve had to learn how to work it in ways that help me find the best path to my goals.

  “So, there you go. I’m laying my cards down, right here. Right now. In some futures, you become my ally, and you could be a real help. In others, you betray me. I need to know which future we’re headed to.” She started to reply, and he gripped her arm again, hard. “Shh! Listen, for once. I can offer you a future you can’t even begin to imagine. Inconceivable wealth. Fame and fortune. The world at your feet. You’ll be worshipped by the masses.”

  He checked his watch again. “Come on. Let’s head back,” he said, and continued as they walked. “You’d be able to help your family members. Help your mama get the best possible care for her diabetes. Maybe even a liver and pancreas transplant. Your Mamaw and Pampaw could get into a quality assisted-living facility. And there’s Uncle Bertie and Auntie Tamara, right? Annabelle? Charlie and Jess and the triplets.” She looked at him, suppressing a spike of fear. “Everyone you care about can join you in a life of luxury. But, as I said … first I have to know how far I can trust you.”

  They’d reached their cabin.

  “Can I trust you, Tiffani?” Rip asked. “Can I trust you to keep your mouth shut and do what I say?”

  He opened the door. She’d left her phone on the dresser, and it was ringing.

  “That ‘ll be Annabelle. Here.” Rip handed her a crisp new five-hundred-dollar bill. “Her boyfriend got picked up for drunk-and-disorderly and she needs help with bail money. You’d better pick up.”

  She gave him a look of alarm, and hurried over and accepted the call.

  “Hey babe, it’s me,” Annabelle said, voice tense and breathy. “Listen, can you spare five hundred bucks? Tommy got in some trouble …”

  Tiffani went numb. She felt Rip’s gaze on her. “Sure, Belle. I’ll wire it to your account right away. No, it’s no trouble. No, I won’t tell Mama, I promise. OK, call you tomorrow. Gotta-go-love-you-bye.”

  She hung up and looked over at Rip. He smiled at her. Yeah, she thought. Message received.

  She drew a long, deep breath, stuffed all her thundering rage down and locked it away. She leaned against the dresser and smiled back at him, with full sincerity and not a jot of goodwill. “Of course you can count on me, Rip honey. I’ll do everything you ask.”

  * * *

  Two hours after setting his bed on fire, the Candle had finished dealing with the fire’s aftermath, gotten moved to a different cabin, showered and changed (Chubb security detail dress: black suit, tailored and, like all his clothing, made of specialty fabrics impervious to his flames; white or light shirt. He accessorized with a few of his own touches: a fire-opal bolo and his favorite cowboy boots, black with blackened silver studs and a subtle rainbow glaze that matched the colors of his flames). Last, he strapped on his radio, tucked the speaker into his ear, and headed up to the main deck.

  It was 9:40 p.m. and the showroom was packed. Beauteous Maximus was on stage in the bar, warming up the crowd with some decent blues on harmonica, piano, and drums. A big sign next to the stage announced, “Last Onboard Performance: Tungsten Paradox, starring Pulitzer-winning jazz master Winston Marcus on Satchmo’s golden trumpet! All proceeds go to charity!”

  John spotted Horace and Gil, his nat detail, covering the rear entrance. The Queen Margaret had provided their own security as well; two crew members each guarded the side entrances between restaurant and bar. In the long room’s center, below the big chandelier, stood Louis Armstrong’s instrument, encased in glass on a black base replete with hidden, deadly tech.

  The trumpet seemed suspended in air within the lit sphere, flooded in a pool of light, as though it truly had the mystic powers of Gabriel’s horn. No one was looking at it at the moment, however; the passengers had all had plenty of chances to view it by now and no day visitors were around, not while they were at sea. Arry and Ras stood guard in the shadows behind the exhibit.

  “Security lead on site,” he said. “Give me a comms check, everyone.” The security team all turned to look at him—Arry quite slowly (the first night onboard, she’d accidentally taken out the chandelier above the display). Their voices came through his earpiece, confirming. As they spoke, John made his way amid the crowd to the display to Rashida and Ariadne.

  Rashida wore her black suit jacket with a midi skirt, a cream silk top, a single strand of pearls, and several pearl-and-diamond studs in her ears. Her hair was tied back in a braided knot. Classy and formal, but with her badge, gun, and radio as well.

  And as for Ariadne, well … what can you do about dress codes for a two-ton minotaur? Arry was the size of an Asian elephant, and all ruminant from the waist down, with reversed knee joints, tail, cloven hooves, and luxuriant auburn fur in loose curls. The showroom’s ceilings were high enough that Arry could stand upright—just barely—without hunching over, as long as she avoided the ceiling fixtures. When she moved, the air currents shifted. When she laughed, the dishes rattled. You couldn’t ignore the Beef.

  Chubb had of course cut her slack on clothing requirements: her black suit jacket was more like a jacket-tunic covering most of her torso. Beneath it she wore a black midi spandex skort, with alterations to allow her tail out. Her face, as super-sized as the rest of her, was lightly furred, with a broadened brow and nose and bovine nostrils, but her eyes and mouth were fully human. With her oversized reading glasses and her inquisitive expressions, she looked as if she’d be as comfortable in a library, surrounded by books, as on the battlefield. Her horns, though, were all warrior. They curved outward, sweeping an area six feet in diameter, and ended in metal-shielded tips. He
r dark chestnut locks, a luxuriant mane, streaked with silver, tumbled down between her ears and horns, framing her face, and across her shoulders. The musculature in her shoulders, back, and chest, and her massive, elongated arms, were the envy of linebackers everywhere. She wore wrist- and hand-guards that enabled her to walk on all fours if necessary: i.e., in most nat-adapted spaces, but her hands were human. And she had a musky, pleasant herbivore scent.

  Per company regulation, as were the rest of them, Arry was armed, Her battle mace jutted up at her left shoulders, harnessed against her back. When on duty Gil and Horace were also armed with handguns and tasers. John didn’t carry a weapon; his flames sufficed. The ship security team had no sidearms but had flashlight batons and radios.

  John reached his two seconds. “How went the watch?” he asked Arry.

  “Long! But uneventful,” she whispered, in a near-subsonic rumble. She had had to cover for John after the flaming pillows incident, which meant she’d been on duty for almost fifteen hours straight now. Her stiff posture and the shadows under her eyes told him how weary she was. Probably hungry, too; she needed to eat often to sustain her metabolism, and that could be challenging for a ruminant on duty.

  “Patina told me about your exciting wake-up, dear,” she went on, in a rumble intended to be inaudible. “How did our hosts take it?”

  He grimaced. “You can probably imagine,” he replied. “But we got the initial details settled. They’ve moved me to a different cabin and a cleanup crew comes in when we dock. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see our backsides tomorrow.”

  “Speak of the devil.” Ras elbowed him and gestured with her chin. The musicians had just entered, with Captain Leemans escorting them.

 

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