THE STALL NEAREST THE DOOR HAD DAGGERS FOR SALE
Three slender knives lay on a purple velvet cloth: one gold, one silver, one bronze. The stall held nothing else except the three weapons, but they were so beautiful, they didn’t need window dressing. Each gleamed brightly, made of solid metal; no ornamentation, just plain unmarked blades. The hilts were bleached white bone. (Don’t ask the obvious question.) Beside each knife lay an unadorned belt sheath of scaly black leather—possibly from some kind of lizard, but the unspoken words “dragon hide” hung in the air.
No one staffed the stall. The weapons sat unattended.
“Want!” Ninety-Nine said. She reached toward the knives, but Aria caught her wrist.
“You don’t just fondle magical weapons, especially when you can’t afford them.”
“How do you know I can’t afford them? They don’t have prices on them.”
“That’s how I know.”
“But…”
Aria said, “What do you have in the bank? A few hundred dollars?”
“Um,” said Ninety-Nine. “Yeah, let’s pretend that.”
“This market is aimed at Darklings,” Aria told her. “Even if it was selling, like, off-the-shelf bottled water, the prices would be mega-inflated. A magic dagger is completely out of your league.”
“Can’t I just hold one?”
“That would be unwise,” Dakini said. “Taking up a magical weapon is dangerous. You create a connection with something designed to kill. Perhaps these weapons enjoy killing. And notice the lack of a salesperson. Does that not suggest magical defenses to keep the daggers safe?”
Ninety-Nine pouted and made little puppy whimpers.
“Oh hell,” Aria said. “If you really want one, I’ll buy it for you.”
Ninety-Nine stopped whimpering. “What?”
“You heard me,” Aria said. “I’ve got a platinum card. I’ll buy it.”
“You’ll buy me something that costs a zillion dollars? What’s the catch?”
Aria turned away and tried to speak breezily. “No catch. We’re Sparks. Everyone keeps saying we’ll get into fights, and all you have to fight with are fists and feet. With a magic weapon, you’ll have more to contribute. Guard my back, that sort of thing.”
Ninety-Nine stared at her. “This is a trick, right? You’re using psychology to … I don’t know, but it won’t work. You can’t use your platinum card, cuz it would give away who you are. Welcome to the world of cold hard cash, missy.”
Aria was still turned away. “So you don’t want a magic weapon?”
“Of course I want a magic weapon. I’ll just get one on my own.”
“How?”
“I’ll go Mad Genius and make one. Or steal it. Or extrude it from an orifice like any respectable superhuman.”
Ninety-Nine turned her back on the daggers and flounced down the aisle. As much as one can flounce in a hockey uniform.
FOURTH STALL ON THE LEFT: ADAM POPIGAI’S
The dominant feature of the stall was a box the size of a refrigerator. It had a brushed steel surface and REPLICATOR stamped into the front face.
The only other thing in the stall was a rough wooden sales counter with its top painted white. Every stall in the Market had a similar counter, where the usual Market vendors would display their onions, doilies, and plaques with bible quotes. Tonight the Goblin had covered most of those counters with purple velvet, but Popigai’s stall hadn’t been nice-ified. Popigai had just laid a small chapbook on the ugly white counter, then called it a day.
The chapbook was a catalog of what the replicator could make. Each entry had a code number followed by an astronomical price. The craziest part was that the prices seemed fair. I mean, seriously: What would you pay for an honest-to-God light saber? A working one, like in Star Wars? Lop off the hands of your enemies, said the catalog entry. Color determined by your moral alignment.
“That must be a joke,” Dakini said.
“George Lucas won’t be laughing,” Aria said. “No way these are legally licensed.”
“Awesome swag,” Ninety-Nine said, flipping through the catalog. “A Back to the Future hoverboard … thirteen different sonic screwdrivers … a voice-activated Chemex coffeemaker robot…”
“How much?” Aria snapped, like a drowning woman offered a lifeline.
“You can’t afford it,” Ninety-Nine said.
“Yes, I can.”
“Can’t use credit, only cash.”
“Fuck.”
Ninety-Nine patted her arm. “Next time we meet Grandfather and Invie, we’ll ask how they buy big-ticket items. They likely route purchases through anonymous bank accounts…” She stopped. Glowed green. “Oh.”
“Oh what?”
“I just realized how to route purchases through anonymous bank accounts.” Ninety-Nine grinned. “Which tax haven do you like? Grand Cayman? Isle of Man?”
Dakini said, “Olympic-level money laundering?”
Ninety-Nine shook her head. “Mad Genius–level money laundering.” She whistled softly. “Fuck.”
WHILE THE OTHERS TALKED, I PERUSED POPIGAI’S CATALOG
I couldn’t turn the pages, but I didn’t have to: I could position my Spark-o-Vision between pages, and read what was written on them. Like X-rays, only better. Everything was clear, like reading under perfect light.
The catalog had only thirty-two pages, but I’ve already described what kind of stuff it offered—simultaneously astounding and trivial. Take light sabers. If Popigai could actually make thin energy fields that cut through solids, then producing toys for the idle rich was a criminal waste of technology. Why not create equipment for factories, or mining, or rescue work, or any of the other beneficial applications you could come up with, given a few seconds to think?
I’m hardly the first person outraged by the gap between Cape Tech’s potential and its actual use. You invent an ultrapowerful, ultraefficient energy source and the first thing you do with it is fly around and shoot lightning? What are you, three years old?
But Sparks had tunnel vision—focused on fighting, never on more productive aspects of life.
What was wrong with us?
THE REPLICATOR GAVE A LOUD CHUG, THEN REVVED UP INTO A HUM
Aria turned to Ninety-Nine. “What did you do?”
“Nothing! It started on its own.”
“Voice-activated?” Dakini suggested. “You were talking about light sabers.”
“The machine can’t be that stupid,” Aria said. “At the very least, it should start by asking, ‘Do you really want a light saber, yes or no?’”
The replicator added a descant whine to its ongoing hum. “This makes me uneasy,” Dakini said.
Ninety-Nine said, “Is that ordinary nerves, or a full-on premonition?”
“Premonitions would be in keeping with my powers,” Dakini replied.
“Fuck,” Aria said. “What if the machine is a Trojan horse?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it,” Aria said. “Popigai plants a device in the middle of the Market—a box that supposedly makes wonderful things. But actually, it’s a weapon of mass destruction.”
“What would he gain from that?” Dakini asked.
“Carnage,” Aria said. “Popigai has Mad Genius written all over him. He may get off on destruction for its own sake.”
Ninety-Nine glowed green with incoming knowledge. “Historically, Mad Geniuses love to target Darkling events. No point in murdering mere humans—they’re nobodies. But Darklings have money and power. Kill them, and you’ll make the front page of Reddit.”
Aria looked at the humming replicator. “We have to turn this off.”
“It’s likely booby-trapped,” Dakini said. “Remember how Popigai rigged his office door? Tamper with this replicator, and you may set off a bomb.”
“Or worse,” Aria said.
“What’s worse than a bomb?” asked Dakini.
“A pandemic virus,” Aria replied. �
��Self-replicating nanites. Something that creates a mini black hole. Stop me when you’ve heard enough.”
“I could deactivate it,” Ninety-Nine said. “I’m an Olympic-level deactivator person.” She stopped. “Wouldn’t that be an awesome Olympic event? Give every competitor a bomb to defuse. Fastest time wins, so you encourage people to rush…”
Aria said, “Can we focus? We have a problem.”
“We may have a problem,” Ninety-Nine corrected. “We don’t know for sure this machine is dangerous. Maybe it just runs automatically once in a while, like a refrigerator. It looks like a refrigerator. Maybe it’s harmless.”
“Then feel free to keep standing in front of it,” Aria said. “I’m going to find the Goblin and tell him he might have a disaster on his hands.”
“For cripes’ sake, we’re superheroes,” Ninety-Nine said. “If something is about to go kablooey, we don’t run crying to Dad.”
“This isn’t running, it’s going through channels,” Aria said. “This is demonstrating to Darkling witnesses that Sparks can behave with respect, rather than acting precipitously. Zircon?” She looked around for a moment, trying to find me. Wasp-sized, I flew in front of her eyes. “Ah, there you are. Where’s the Goblin?”
«Upstairs at the auction,» I said.
Aria headed for the stairs. Ninety-Nine and Dakini exchanged looks, then followed on her heels. “What do you think the Goblin is going to do?” Ninety-Nine asked Aria’s back. “He doesn’t know you. Why should he listen?”
“Because I’m a fucking Spark,” Aria said. She flared golden, so bright that Ninety-Nine and Dakini had to avert their eyes. “My powers include an overwhelming presence,” Aria continued, “because I want them to. And because I am goddamned used to people staring at me. I am perfectly comfortable raising my voice, and my voice is good at being raised. I will make the Goblin see that action is required.”
“And he’s going to do what?”
“This building is full of magic. There must be something that can handle a Trojan horse. Even if we just teleport it into the parking lot, that’s better than nothing.”
“I thought you were worried about pandemic viruses,” Ninety-Nine said. “Should we teleport a bioweapon out where it’s open to the wind?”
“It wouldn’t be safer in this drafty old building,” Aria said. “Anyway, we don’t know it’s a bioweapon. It could be plain old dynamite. Or something we can’t imagine. One way or another, if it activates in here, a hundred people get hit immediately. Outside is better.”
“And if the replicator is just a replicator, everybody labels us as paranoid wingnuts.”
“My dear Ninety-Nine,” Aria said, “paranoia is our friend. Paranoia is our sunscreen, our condom, our duct tape. Paranoia tells the truth nine times out of ten, and the tenth time is when you weren’t paranoid enough. We will never correctly anticipate what flavor of shit will hit the fan, but we can calculate the trajectory and attempt to avoid the splatter.”
“Wow,” said Ninety-Nine. “Can I get all that on a T-shirt?”
“Fuck off,” Aria said. “And that you can get on a T-shirt.”
OUR GROUP ATTRACTED A LOT OF ATTENTION AS WE HEADED TOWARD THE STAIRS
Darklings dominate the public eye: Most world leaders belong to the Dark, as do financial bigwigs and A-list celebrities. The people you see in the news today are disproportionately Dark because they’re the ones with national and international clout. (In the old days, it was harder to notice how much the media fawned on the rich. Now, when the rich stand out because of their fangs or fur, it’s more obvious who gets to frame social narratives.)
By contrast, most Sparks stay out of the limelight. They don’t do press conferences. They appear out of nowhere and fly off posthaste. Apart from Tigresse and a few others who’ve appointed themselves as “speakers for the Light,” Sparks are mostly seen in blurry cell-phone photos snapped by people with fast reflexes.
That meant we were novelties: possibly the first Sparks anyone here had seen firsthand. Even the Darklings found us exotic. They were taking pictures, trying to start conversations. Aria ignored them—as Miranda, she’d had abundant practice giving people the brush-off.
But Darklings don’t take no for an answer, and they weren’t as cowed by her “overwhelming presence” as ordinary humans would be. Aria could have taken to the air, but that might have looked like she was running from the crowd; uh-uh. So she excuse-me’d as assertively as she could without actually picking people up and throwing them against walls. Even with Ninety-Nine and Dakini helping to wedge the way forward, our progress toward the stairs was slow.
I MADE MYSELF USEFUL BY PLAYING SCOUT
I nestled in Ninety-Nine’s hair so I wouldn’t have to fly while my eyes were elsewhere. Then I shifted my viewpoint back to the replicator to see what it was up to.
Nothing noticeable. Humming? Warming up? Whatever the machine intended, nothing had happened yet. So I moved my Spark-o-Vision upstairs to check out the auction.
The healing potion had sold. Bidding had moved on to a gadget that looked like a TV remote control. I saw no sign explaining what it was—just a card saying LOT 49. But I also saw the Widow sitting rigid with attention. This gizmo was clearly what she hoped to buy.
The Goblin, as auctioneer, said a few words. (I could only see, not hear. Memo to self: Learn to lip-read!) He held a dainty brass hammer above the podium. This looked like the “Going once, going twice” part of the auction. Nobody in the audience showed any interest except the Widow.
And Elaine.
THE GOBLIN SAID, “SOLD!”
Even I could lip-read that. An assistant wearing purple gloves carried the gadget to the Widow. The assistant held the device in both hands, as if it were an ancient and holy relic. He bowed and presented it to the Widow like handing a queen her crown.
The Widow took it and mashed her thumb on the power button.
BANG, THEN BOOM, THEN SHUDDER
The bang was as sharp as a rifle shot. Delicate champagne flutes shattered as if hit with bricks.
The boom was even louder, but it was a blunt instrument: a lead pipe in the hands of Colonel Mustard, bludgeoning our eardrums in the conservatory. The sonic impact ripped me from my perch in Ninety-Nine’s hair and sent me skittering. I felt myself spinning, but my vision still centered on the Widow and Elaine, as stable as a gyroscope. I saw the two of them stagger as the market building lurched like the Titanic becoming a metaphor.
Then I smacked into something hard and crunchy. Ow.
My viewpoint snapped back home. I found myself embedded in the wooden wall of the building, like a pellet of buckshot blasted from a shotgun. I started to crawl out of the hole that I’d made, then decided to reconnoiter first. I peered out to see what the Widow had unleashed.
OH, LOOK: ANOTHER RIFT
It was downstairs, projected by Popigai’s replicator. Or should I say “rifticator”? Either way, the machine had ripped the universe a new one.
Except that the new one was actually the old one. My view through the rift was the same as before: the brown vapor atmosphere, the multicolored fireballs swarming like angry bees, and the same six Darklings floating weightless inside the hole.
But something had changed. The were-beasts were stirring.
THE WERE-PANTHER WAS FIRST
She twitched, then stretched. She was in half-human feroform, but still looked like a cat waking up. I could tell the moment she became fully conscious, because she suddenly thrashed her arms like someone trying to balance on ice. The rift universe didn’t have solid ground, or any apparent gravity. The panther drifted in a world with nothing but flame-bees and coppery vapor. She flailed for several seconds before getting her bearings and beginning to “swim” toward the portal that led back to our reality.
The moment the panther’s head crowned through the gap, she plunged forward, either pushed by the world she was leaving or sucked through by our own. She’d barely touched the floor before she
was up on her feet, mouth snarling, claws extended. Her eyes were bloodshot from immersion in the caustic brown gas, her sclerae like pools of red surrounded by black fur. Were-beasts are tough, but the damage must have stung like the smoke from a hundred campfires. The panther seethed with fury as she stood in our world once more.
She coughed and brown vapor gushed from her lungs. It surrounded her like a nimbus … but no, that wasn’t vapor, it was some kind of energy of exactly the same color. The nimbus flared brighter in my Spark-o-Vision, and suddenly the panther was ten meters away from where she’d been. The move wasn’t teleportation; it left a vapor trail between its start and ending point, as the panther ran through clouds of gas that spilled from the rift.
“Faster than a speeding bullet.” It’s a cliché, but how else can I describe how she moved? It was my first sight of true super-speed: faster even than Lilith’s blood-augmented speed at the loading dock. I barely had time to register just how scary fast it was before the panther demonstrated why terror was the right response.
She zipped across the floor to a man lying on the ground. Darkling, mortal, I never found out—he was just some guy who’d been too close when the replicator opened the rift. The man had been knocked off his feet by the bang-boom-shudder and thrown into one of the wooden pillars that held the building up. The panther raced toward him and gouged her claws into his belly with .44-caliber velocity. She pawed internal organs out of the way until she found the man’s liver, then buried her muzzle in the cavity and began chowing down.
I puked my guts all over my white costume.
«DUDE,» NINETY-NINE SAID INSIDE MY BRAIN, «WHAT’S WRONG?»
The comm ring must have transmitted my retching. I said, «Popigai’s machine has opened a rift. Same rift, same Darklings. The panther just came out and disemboweled a guy.»
«On it,» Aria said. She took to the air.
«Stop!» I said. «It’s too late to help the victim, and the panther has super-speed. Spark-speedster fast. She’s quicker than you are, Aria—you’re better than humans, but speed isn’t your major thing.»
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