All Those Explosions Were Someone Else's Fault

by James Alan Gardner

  The alley was so quiet I could hear the faint pop when Lilith plucked the dart from her eye.

  Then she erupted. Since my first sight of Lilith, she had hissed, howled, shrieked, and gone through a zoo’s worth of noise. What was left? A terrifying bellow, like the T. rex in Jurassic Park.

  It was answered by a screech at the top of human hearing. The were-bat, woken by the clamor, lurched to his feet.

  I snatched another dart from the box.

  LILITH WHIRLED TO FACE THE WERE-BAT

  But even in her bestial state, she recognized the bat wasn’t a target. Vampires say fellow Darklings don’t smell like food—Darkling blood doesn’t have the “vitality” to keep vampires alive.

  Make of that what you will.

  Lilith turned away from the were-bat. Gooey fluid dribbled out of her punctured eye. Lilith’s face had been rasped by her impacts with the pavement. Her wounds had no blood to shed, but her skin was tattered and her nose cocked sideways; when she bared her teeth, I could see that several had broken off. The fangs, however, were still intact. A vampire’s canines are almost impossible to damage.

  Lilith stalked toward Jools and Miranda. No running now: Lilith had precious little energy left. But she still had enough to rip out a jugular. Jools and Miranda looked too tired to resist.

  BEHIND LILITH’S BACK, VIOLET LIGHT CLAMPED AROUND THE WERE-BAT’S HEAD

  It encased his skull like a helmet. His eyelids fluttered; he leapt.

  THE BAT SLAMMED HIS CLAWS INTO LILITH’S BACK

  He raked down, tearing deeply into her flesh. The violet glow that encompassed his head never wavered.

  Lilith wheeled, all teeth and talons. The next few seconds were like a cartoon fight, where all you see is a roiling cloud: Once in a while, a hand or a foot pokes briefly out of the cloud, and strings of $%&! curse words appear. As soon as the fight was raging, the glow around the bat’s head vanished, but by then, the bat had to keep fighting or die.

  I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  I DIDN’T CATCH THE MOMENT WHEN LILITH WENT CATATONIC

  The bat missed it too. He kept fighting for several seconds after she went limp. He bit, slashed, and buffeted her with his wings. At last, he realized she was no longer conscious. He stepped back and Lilith crumpled, a sad tumble of flesh.

  She was completely burned out. She wouldn’t wake until someone forced blood down her throat.

  As the bat stood panting and bewildered at what just happened, I put one foot against the box of remaining tranq darts and gave it a shove. The box slid down the alley. The sound of it scraping along the asphalt attracted everyone’s attention.

  “Tranq darts,” I said.

  I’d loaded a dart into my gun. I shot the were-bat in the belly.

  Half a dozen violet tendrils reached toward the box. Each grabbed a dart. Together they rose like cooperating snakes and slammed all six darts into the were-bat’s chest. His mouth plopped open as if he wanted to speak; then he teetered and collapsed.

  Tendrils caught him before he smacked into the ground. They lowered him gently to the pavement.

  I LEANED WEARILY AGAINST THE WALL OF THE ALLEY

  Miranda leaned against the van. She said, “Fuck.”

  Jools said, “Fuck,” or at least she tried. Her lips were too torn to manage the “F.” She pushed the flap of her face back into position. “Fuck.”

  Shar sat up. She said something in Sinhalese. I imagine it was basically, “Fuck,” but she likes to pretend she’s genteel.

  From atop the E3 building came a round of slow applause. Clap. Clap. Clap.

  6

  Rapid Uplift

  ON THE ROOF STOOD A MAN DRESSED AS ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  He had the stovepipe hat and a black old-fashioned suit, with a starched white shirt and a black bow tie. The man himself, however, seemed the physical opposite of Lincoln: short rather than tall, dark-skinned rather than white, round-faced rather than gaunt, and grinning broadly unlike the familiar deadpan photos of Honest Abe. If not for the clothes, I might have compared him to Gandhi rather than Lincoln. He had that birdlike stature, with an air that blended cheerfulness and gravitas.

  The man’s face was painted with patterns of small dots. White dots made spirals on each cheek, while black and red dots surrounded his eyes like a mask. The overall look suggested an octogenarian wise man dressed for some formal occasion—but a happy occasion, not a somber one.

  Beside him stood a basset hound, exceptionally mournful even by basset standards. Its tail drooped; its ears almost touched the ground. It was brown, black, and white, with mottled freckles on its snout. It wore an oversize collar that glowed with a soft orange light in my Spark-o-Vision. The collar was a band of interlocking metal plates, each the size of a postage stamp. Each plate had a different color and luster: some shiny, some dull, some textured like woven fabric.

  The collar had the look of Cape Tech: a super-science gadget made by a Spark. I wondered what the collar did, and why you’d put it on a dog. Then again, why not? The man was likely a Spark—his odd clothes and painted mask were strong hints, not to mention him being on the roof instead of the ground. If you were a Spark, why wouldn’t you trick out your pet with a superpowered collar? At the very least, you’d want something to keep the dog safe in a firefight.

  And maybe a weapon or two. Because Sparks.

  THE MAN CROUCHED AND PUT AN ARM AROUND THE DOG

  A moment later, both man and hound stood beside us in the alley. The teleportation had been silent and instantaneous. I hadn’t even seen a glow.

  “You folks okay?” the man asked. He glanced at the fallen Darklings. “Looks like you had quite the party.”

  “A real bash,” Jools said, but the “B” sounded like a “V.” She pressed harder on the flap of skin that Lilith had slashed loose. Her face was slick with blood, but the wound was slowly knitting itself shut. “How much did you see?” she asked.

  “Only the last few seconds,” the man said. “Otherwise, I would have helped.”

  “Helped us?” Miranda asked. “Or them?”

  “Don’t get snippy,” the man said. “I’m with the Light, not the Dark.”

  “You’re a Spark?” Miranda asked.

  “He’s Grandfather,” Jools said. “Don’t you recognize him?”

  “He’s your grandfather?” Shar asked in surprise.

  “No, he’s everyone’s grandfather,” Jools said. “The Y-chromosomal Adam. The last common ancestor of all Homo sapiens.”

  “Nonsense,” Miranda said. “Our last common ancestor was, what, a hundred thousand years ago?”

  “Can’t say exactly,” the man, Grandfather, said. “We didn’t count years back then, considering none of us could count past five. But yes, you’re all my great-great-granddaughters.” He looked at me. “Or whatever.”

  “Then you can’t be a Spark,” Miranda said. “They’ve only been around since July 2000.”

  “Wrong,” Grandfather said. “Sparks might have come out of the closet in 2000, but think of the Darklings—they went public in ’82, but the Elders had been around for umpteen centuries. Same with the Light. Us old folk stayed under the radar till Big Blue let the cat out of the bag.”

  “So you claim,” Miranda said.

  “That I do,” Grandfather agreed. “On the other hand, I might be a delusional old coot driven crazy by going super. Who knows?”

  He grinned. The grin was exactly like my own two grandfathers’. When I was little, both loved to string me along with outlandish lies. I’ve often wondered if they competed, seeing which could make me believe the wildest stories.

  The man in front of me radiated a similar mischief. That feeling undoubtedly came from a superpower, and a devilishly potent one.

  IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I’D FELT A SPARK’S HALO

  Halos are similar to Darkling Shadows: supernatural auras that induce emotions. But Shadows always broadcast fear. It’s a constant ingredient, whether the Darkling creat
es a sense of subtle disquiet or outright terror.

  Halos are more varied. One Spark may fill you with hope; another inspires you to improve the world; a third makes you feel guilty for every selfish deed you’ve done. Some Sparks can suppress their Halos temporarily, which is useful if you specialize in disguise or invisibility. But once a Spark is noticed, the effect of the Halo kicks in.

  Grandfather filled me with amiable reassurance. I just naturally liked and trusted him.

  So another part of me didn’t trust him at all.

  THE BASSET HOUND PADDED TOWARD THE WERE-BAT

  Miranda said, “Whoa, boy, better stay back.”

  “Yeah,” Jools said, “when you get too close, that’s always when the monster wakes up.”

  Jools’s words were less slurred than before. Her face was healing quickly. But the dog ignored her.

  “Grandfather,” Shar said, “you really should call your dog back.”

  “He’s not my dog, and I don’t give him orders,” Grandfather replied. “He hates that.”

  The dog had reached the were-bat. He licked the bat’s face; the dog’s metal collar flared bright orange.

  “The dog is using a power,” I said.

  “You can tell?” Grandfather asked. “Useful talent.”

  “What’s he doing?” I asked.

  “Erasing Mr. Bat’s short-term memory.” The basset continued licking the bat in long even strokes, methodically covering the Darkling’s head. The light from the collar shone so brightly, it made my brain hurt. I shifted my viewpoint back to a less painful distance. “When Invie’s through,” Grandfather said, “that bat won’t remember anything from the past half hour.”

  “Your dog’s name is Invie?” Shar asked.

  “He’s not my dog, he’s my partner.”

  “Oh, shit,” Jools said, with a flash of green. “He’s the Inventor.”

  THE HOUND LOOKED IN JOOLS’S DIRECTION FOR A MOMENT, THEN WENT BACK TO WORK

  “Yep, he’s the Inventor,” Grandfather said. “How did you know?”

  Jools tapped her head. “I know things.”

  “Oh,” Grandfather said. “One of those.”

  “Didn’t the Inventor graduate from Waterloo Engineering?” Miranda asked. “I know engineers aren’t picky, but they generally don’t give degrees to basset hounds.”

  “Invie’s a Spark,” Grandfather said. “This kind of shit happens. You grow horns, turn purple, become a dog … occupational hazards. He’ll revert to human eventually. Maybe. Except Invie likes being a dog. It means he doesn’t have to make small talk.”

  “He’s erasing that creature’s memories?” Shar asked. She was watching Invie closely, as if taking notes.

  “Just cleaning off the top layer, so Mr. Bat won’t remember what you look like.” Grandfather waggled a finger at us. “Next time, you four better get masks.”

  Miranda made a face. “There won’t be a next time. And I refuse to wear a mask.”

  “You’re new at this, aren’t you?” Grandfather said. “Guess I’d best explain some facts.”

  “Such as?”

  “Secret identities. Can’t let out who you actually are, or Darklings and villains’ll make your lives hell. Threatening your loved ones and whatnot.”

  “Oh, I get that,” Miranda said. “I just don’t understand how masks can make a difference. On Halloween, I always recognize people in costume if I know them. Even if they completely cover their faces, I recognize their voice or the way they walk. What good is a silly mask? And by the way, I notice you don’t wear one.”

  “I got my paint,” Grandfather said, pointing to the dots on his face. “That’s good enough. I know one guy, all he does is take off his glasses. It’s the thought that counts. I mean that literally.”

  Inside my head, a nasal voice said, «Anonymity is a projective psionic power possessed by all Sparks. However, it requires an activating focus.»

  I looked around for the source of the voice. Grandfather slapped his knee in delight. “Hey, Invie likes you. Not often he talks to strangers.”

  «They are Sparks,» the nasal voice said. «With remarkably high liminality quotients. They must be informed of their new state of being.»

  “What’s a liminality quotient?” Shar asked.

  “Fancy way to say ‘power level,’” Grandfather replied. “Which explains why Invie’s willing to talk to you. He thinks you four got mojo.”

  “Liminality means being in some either-or/neither-nor state between possibilities,” Jools said. (Yes, she glowed green.) “What does that have to do with power level?”

  Grandfather looked to Invie, clearly waiting for the dog to answer. Invie didn’t respond; he gave the were-bat a final lick, then headed for the skeleton. Grandfather sighed. “Here’s how I understand it, but I’m no expert. Not like some people present.” He gave the basset a reproachful look. “Dark and Light powers, they’re both channeled from other universes. Places where physical rules are more negotiable.”

  “What do you mean, negotiable?” Miranda asked.

  “Open to persuasion. Invie says there’s a spectrum of universes. At one end, you got ones totally ruled by physical laws. The laws differ from one universe to another—different physical constants, that sort of thing—but the laws are cast iron, and you don’t get a whisker of wiggle room.”

  “And the other end of the spectrum?” Shar asked.

  “Willpower,” Grandfather said. “Mind over matter, and to hell with rules. You want to win? Be hungrier than the other guy. Nothing counts except ego and drive.”

  “The Darkling ideal,” Miranda said.

  “Bingo. Dark powers come from that end of the spectrum. Darklings are conduits between such universes and our own. They channel power from there to here according to their liminality quotients.”

  Shar said, “Liminality quotient is bandwidth?”

  “Close enough,” Grandfather said. “Invie seems to think you folks got it in spades.”

  “Where do Sparks channel power from?” Miranda asked. “The physics end of the spectrum?”

  “Nah, Sparks are bang in the middle,” Grandfather said. “Mind over matter is part of it: Wishing makes it so. But we need scientific mumbo jumbo to cover the physics requirement. We can’t just fly because we want to—we need boots that shoot jets of flame. Or maybe we have dinky little wings on our ankles, never mind that they’re too small to lift a sparrow. Sparks don’t fly by aerodynamics; we fly by wish fulfillment dressed in rocket boots.”

  “Pseudoscience bullshit,” Miranda said.

  “Yeah, basically,” Grandfather said. “Except you can’t ever say so. Like this: I can speak and read and write every language in human history. That’s one of my powers. And it makes perfect sense, because I’m the ancestor of every human ever, so naturally I know everybody’s language.” He winked. “Now if I got all analytical on that rationale, I’d end up losing the power. It only works if you don’t look too close.”

  Grandfather grinned another grin so charming it could smooth over anything. In a low voice, he said, “I can get away with saying shit like that, because one of my powers is getting away with outrageous stuff. But you folks better not question how powers work. This universe where we live—this one right here, right now—it’s 80 percent toward the physics-only end of the spectrum. There’s room for slack, but the laws of nature impose a friction you have to overcome before you can do anything super. The way you beat the friction is plausible deniability.”

  Miranda opened her mouth, but Grandfather put his finger to her lips with superhuman speed. “Before you talk, girl, think twice. The moment you say a thing’s impossible, it becomes impossible for you. Is that what you want?”

  Miranda glowered but didn’t speak. Grandfather lowered his hand. “Better.”

  Still glowering, Miranda said, “Explain about masks.”

  “Plausible deniability,” Grandfather said. “Masks don’t provide much disguise for normal folks, but for Spark
s, they let you channel the superpower of anonymization. Costumes kick it up a notch, and so do codenames. Create a distinctive Spark identity—mask, costume, name—and no one’ll recognize you. Guaranteed.”

  “So it’s magic?” Shar asked.

  Grandfather waved dismissively. “Magic is Darkling stuff. Sparks do Science with a capital S. In this case, psionic projection: clouding folks’ minds. Look at my war paint.” He pointed to the dots on his face. “It’s not a disguise, it’s a focus for the power to work through. Like a magnifying glass that turns sunlight into a heat beam. People who know me in civilian life just don’t recognize me with the paint on.”

  He held up his hands and waggled his fingers. “You want to hear something even crazier? When I’m in costume, my fingerprints change. I’ve watched it happen. I dabbed on paint with one hand while watching the other. My fingerprints rearranged themselves. It was the damnedest thing.”

  “That really happens?” Jools asked. “If I put on a mask and rob a bank, my fingerprints won’t be the same?”

  “Don’t go robbing banks, young lady.” Grandfather gave her a stern look, then turned it into a grin. “But yeah, that’s how it works. And not just fingerprints: DNA, your blood type, the works. Make up a strong Spark ID, and no human, no sniffer dog, no digital face recognition, no magic spell, will ever connect your super-self with your everyday.”

  «Except,» Invie said, «through negligence or betrayal.»

  I’D FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE DOG

  The basset hound had finished purging the skeleton’s memories and had moved on to Lilith. Slurp, slurp. I said, “Negligence? Betrayal?”

  “Getting sloppy,” Grandfather said. “Like using your powers outside of costume.” He gave us an accusatory stare. “Or if you spill your secret to someone. Suppose you got a sweetheart, and you tell ’em you’re super. Bad idea: It opens a hole in your protection. Makes you vulnerable.”

  I couldn’t help it. I glanced at Richard, still unconscious on the pavement.

  “You four knowing about each other, that’s no problem,” Grandfather said. “You’re Sparks; you got joint immunity. But if you tell who you are to non-Sparks, what if their minds get read by enemies? What if a Darkling makes ’em into Renfields? That kind of shit happens. We Sparks are magnets for weirdness, both in and out of costume. The people you hang with get caught in the craziness, and confiding your secret makes it worse.”