Torch Song: A Kickass Heroine, A Post-Apocalyptic World: Book One Of The Blackjack Trilogy

by Shelley Singer

  But if they succeeded, they’d own the Bay Area, too, along with the rest of Redwood. Not like he could get away from his family by heading west. His head was beginning to hurt.

  East, then? No, certainly not to Rocky. North to Olympia? Seattle had more than a thousand people. That might work.

  Oh, who was he kidding. Who’d watch out for Lizzie? He had a duty to his mother, too. And to Samm. And, he guessed, Jo. She kept telling him he was a born leader, a man who would govern, like his mother.

  Maybe Rica would get tired of Jo, or Jo would get all tangled up in her head and forget about Rica. He hadn’t seen them together since that night. Maybe in a couple of years, Rica would see him as a man. He sighed. A couple of years.

  Running away like a dumb little kid… it still sounded appealing, he had to admit. But it wouldn’t solve anything.

  * * *

  I was there, at the back door, at seven that morning. Samm showed up a couple of minutes later. He was wearing the clothing I’d seen him in when I’d spied on the training. Heavy denim pants, khaki work shirt, boots. Nothing like his casino-dandy clothes. I noticed that there were dark roots at the base of his blond stripes, and wondered what he’d look like if his hair grew out. I had for some reason always seen him as a blond man with olive skin, even though I knew it wasn’t the case.

  He looked me over. I was wearing tough, protective clothing, too. He nodded his approval. Did he think I’d come in a sequined dress? He put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a quick hug. Would he have done that if I were under suspicion? Maybe he was a better actor than I was.

  Zack walked up, carrying a sack that clanked. Guns, probably. “We ready?”

  “Drew’s coming with us.” And as Samm said it, Drew, his arm still wrapped in bandages but swinging freely, strode toward us. He was looking very serious. Older, somehow. He nodded.

  “Good morning, Rica.”

  “Good morning, Drew.” Wow. He was getting more formal with me all the time. I caught myself hoping it wouldn’t be too long before we could be comfortable with each other again, and realized that might never happen. Now I also had to worry whether his stiffness came from his crush on me or from knowing that I was a spy.

  Drew, Zack and I went out the door after Samm, following him to his floater. Zack and Samm seemed cheerful, eager. Drew sat silently beside me, looking out the window.

  “How’s your arm, Drew?”

  “Good.” He seemed to gather himself up, make his shoulders broader. “I was surprised when Samm said you’d be going with us today.”

  “Well, those Rockies… we’re awfully close to their border here.”

  Zack looked back at us from his seat beside Samm. “At least that bunch that came to town is out of here, now.”

  I’d heard that from Fredo the day before. “Good thing,” I said.

  He nodded. “Frank told them if they talked, he’d take them to the border instead of kill them. So they talked.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “All I heard is that they admitted they were spies and that Rocky was planning an invasion. And that it’ll all be in the paper today.” He grinned. “Iggy even interviewed Samm about it. Prominent citizen Samm Bakar…”

  My stomach sank. Was this true? An invasion? Oh shit. Why did Zack look so cheerful about it?

  “I don’t understand why he’d let them go then,” I said.

  Drew shrugged. “We try not to kill people here.” That was reassuring. Was it true? And what did “try” mean?

  “Besides,” Zack added, “trials cost money and take time and we never execute anyone without a trial.”

  Abruptly, then, Drew changed the subject.

  “Isn’t it going to be tough on you, Rica, doing this? You work so late every night.”

  “Waldo says he’ll take me off the second shift in a couple of days. As soon as they can schedule the replacement. Then I’ll be doing two shows and finishing earlier.” Not much earlier. Probably by midnight.

  Waldo had told me he’d found a server himself this time. Said it with a sneer. Guess he decided he didn’t want to work with another one of Judith’s choices, like me.

  “Good. That’s good.” Drew turned to look out the window again.

  * * *

  “So, Jo. What are we going to do about our singing spy?” The sisters were having breakfast together in Judith’s office.

  “Good question.”

  Judith shook her head, her striped curls bobbing. “The chief should tell her what you said.”

  Jo knew what Judith meant. They’d always thought Graybel was a good cop. If Rica was hers and Scorsi’s, the decent thing for the chief to do was let Rica know the Colemans knew she was a spy. “If she tells her, she tells her. If Rica disappears, well, that’s that.” She didn’t want her to leave.

  “I’m not sure I’m thinking clearly enough about all this, Judith. I have to admit, I like Rica.”

  “I do, too, but I suspect you mean a different kind of ‘like’ than I do.” Judith smiled. “Here’s some clearer thinking, then: She’s a merc. That means she’s not ideologically opposed to what we’re doing, she’s just in it for the reals. Which means she can, possibly, be turned. A better solution than shooting her, given your feelings.” Not so much a smile as a smirking challenge, Jo thought. Still the irritating big sister.

  “The hell with my feelings. She’d be an asset.”

  “You don’t have to convince me.”

  “Samm says she came to him about joining the army. He took her with them today. I told him, spy or not, we don’t have much hope of keeping the army a secret after Hannah, anyway. So I said let’s give her a little field test as a soldier. Just don’t give her a gun.”

  Judith laughed. “It might be best, for now, not to mention any of this to the kids. Lizzie’s been pretty emotional lately.”

  Lizzie, yes, but Drew? “I can’t help but think Drew should know, Judith. He’s taking on a lot of adult jobs these days. He seems to be friends with Rica, too.”

  “Well… I’ll think about it.” Judith tapped her index finger nail on the Blackjack snow globe. The white stuff swirled. “She’s smart, Jo. Even if the chief says nothing, I think she’s going to figure it out.”

  * * *

  The ride in Samm’s floater was a lot smoother than the one I’d taken in my own ground car to this same spot a week ago. Samm pulled into the trees. We all climbed out and he tarped the floater. I could see other cars tucked into the foliage here and there, some across the road. I caught myself before I started marching down the path. I wasn’t supposed to know where I was going. Samm led the way, Zack after him, then Drew, then me, at the rear. Fitting behavior for a newcomer, bringing up the rear.

  The few dozen people I’d seen in this clearing the last time were all there already— except for Hannah, of course, and a couple of dealers who showed up right behind us. Samm walked around talking to people, slapping a few backs. Monte, looking pale and depressed, as usual, pawed through the bag of guns, as he had the first time, nodded something that looked like approval, and handed them back to Zack, who passed them out. He didn’t give me one. Either guns had to be earned or word had been passed down that I couldn’t be trusted with firepower. Then it occurred to me that this would be a really good way to get rid of a spy: an “accident” on the mock battlefield. I pushed that thought away. What was I going to do, spend the whole day hiding behind a tree?

  * * *

  Drew stood chatting with the two dealers. One of them, the blond-and-red-striped young woman with swimmer’s shoulders and an athletic stance— Emmy, that was her name— was looking at him, I thought, with something more than camaraderie. I was thinking about joining them when I noticed he seemed to be flirting back, and decided not to cramp his style. Although I thought she was a little old for him. She must have been twenty-five.

  Zack was folding the now-empty weapons bag. I was about to approach him, see if I could get him into a chat, when Samm saunte
red to the middle of the clearing and held up his hands.

  “Let’s start with a little easy hand-to-hand. Half an hour. Pick an opponent. After that, we’ll do some shooting. Then we’ll split into teams for the war games. I’ve got a detailed plan here for orange team. Black team will have to deal with that, find a way to outmaneuver them. So—” He grinned “—black will be competing against orange— and me. The scarves are in the hut. We’ll pass them out after target practice.”

  He was just starting to say something about the hand-to-hand when the woods behind him erupted into screams, howls, yells, ululations and a mob broke through into the clearing, men and women waving guns, knives, and clubs, and knocking down everyone in their path. At first I thought it might be a surprise part of Samm’s game plan.

  But it definitely was not. Near the front of this mob, or army, or whatever it was, Hannah Karlow ran, waving a gun in her left hand and a sword in her right, heading straight for Samm. Newt had said she was planning to kill me, but Samm seemed to be first on her list.

  I ran toward Samm as he turned to face her, but veered off and looked for someone else to help when I saw that Zack was already at his side.

  The blond dealer was standing wide-eyed near the hut, her focus shifting all over the place, a sword dangling from her limp hand. She looked confused, as I’d been for a moment, and she was acting like she thought this was, truly, a war game and nobody had given her the rules. An ugly muscle-bound hairball of a man was galloping right at her, in his hand a club studded with spikes.

  Drew was running toward her, but he was farther away than I was.

  “Emmy!” He was yelling. “Emmy! This is real! Run!” I heard gunshots, laser-hisses, and one shot burned close by my right ear. Weaponless, I grabbed a spear I spotted leaning against a tree and aimed myself at the attacking toxie. I’d never held a spear in my hand before and I knew I couldn’t throw one hard enough or accurately enough to kill him even at close range. So I ran between him and Emmy, hoping he’d be slower with that club than I was with the spear, and shoved it through his chest, blood gushing and drenching my right arm and shoulder.

  The club came down when he did, the spikes tearing at the flesh of my left forearm. Too much blood. Way too much blood. But it was my left arm, so I could still fight.

  I turned and saw one of our other dealers splayed in the choking dust. He was holding a laser pistol in what I could only assume, from the bullet hole in his forehead, was a dead hand. Now there was a weapon I could use. I knelt, pried his fingers away, and swung around in a crouch. Where was that bitch Hannah? There, taking aim at someone— Zack? Drew? No— she was arcing the gun toward me! I squeezed my pistol’s button just as someone crashed into me from behind. My aim was knocked to the side and I barely winged her right hand. Good enough to stop her for a minute anyway. She dropped to her knees, trying to grab her laser with her left. How good was she? Could she shoot with either hand?

  I glanced behind me. Nothing to deal with there. The blow to my back had come from a grappling pair and Blackjack’s guy, a cashier I recognized, name of Quinn, definitely had the upper hand, as well as a knife to the throat of a thick blond woman who looked like she’d spent her life swallowing too much alcohol and seeing too much ugliness.

  I’d lost track of Samm— there he was. Crouched behind a shrub shooting at Hannah, who had recovered, scrambled to her feet, and was now shooting back, left-handed, from behind a tree at the head of the trail from the road. A dozen dead lay sprawled on the ground, some ours, some theirs, and Hannah’s remaining army was in retreat, falling back under a roaring charge and heavy fire from our troops, led by Zack, Drew, and Samm, and now Emmy, who had finally recognized that this was no game. Probably when she noticed the dead guys. I revised my estimate of her age downwards. More like twenty-one.

  I ran to join them, firing at everything human and semi-human that moved ahead of us. We were still taking fire ourselves. Samm, at my right, fell into the crackling brush at the edge of the trees with a wound to the leg. I heard a grunt and a cry somewhere near me on the left, but was too busy to look. We tore through the woods in pursuit and broke out onto the road. The enemy was already stirring up the brown dust with their escape cars.

  God damn Hannah got away.

  It took a while to find everyone in the woods and in the clearing who needed help or could be helped. We’d lost five soldiers, including poor Monte and the cashier whose pistol I’d taken. Hannah’s troops had carried off all of their wounded, nothing left of them but the dead. No one to take prisoner. Emmy was laser-burned in the side, but would be okay. Samm’s leg wound looked pretty bad. I saw a pool of vomit near his head. Zack tied a tourniquet around his thigh and Drew got through to the doctor on a small sys he was carrying— almost as small as mine. Doc was on his way to us now, he said. Drew had blood on the side of his head but didn’t seem to notice, several others were limping or bleeding or both. I was in the process of binding Emmy’s wound when she looked at my arm and did a double take.

  “Rica, your arm looks worse than my side.” Bullshit, I thought, you were shot. I was just—

  I glanced down at my arm and like Emmy, looked again.

  I wasn’t thrilled with the sight. The forearm was swollen with bruises, deeply punctured, and the ugly merc had also managed in his death drop to inflict two four-inch gashes. And now that I was looking at them, the wounds were starting to hurt really badly.

  For some reason the reality of those marks of battle focused me enough to make me realize where my mind had been through the fight.

  Our troops. We lost five… The Enemy.

  Unless Hannah was taking over, she was Newt’s. These soldiers were his.

  But even though he was supposedly still paying me, I clearly no longer thought of myself as his. I’d fought with Blackjack’s army. I’d killed for them. I had blood all over me. Ours. Theirs. Mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I guess you could call it bondage

  After he’d taken care of our most immediate medical needs— bandages, pressure dressings, painkillers— Doc followed us all back to the casino to finish the job. Samm couldn’t drive his floater; his leg was bad, burnt through at the calf by a laser. He was sweating with pain. Zack took the two of us back, and Emmy who offered to come along to help.

  My arm throbbed. Doc had packed it tight and said he’d do the stitches in a cleaner environment. He ordered both Samm and me to go immediately to our rooms, Samm accompanied by Zack, Emmy taking care of me until he got to us.

  I walked into Blackjack, woozy but upright; Emmy and Zack carried Samm. Doc came in right behind. The gasps and whispers followed us and I caught a few horrified stares and noticed several tourists heading for the doors. How many of these people had been around when the mercs invaded the place the week before? This could be one scare too many for them.

  Emmy was very nice to me, pushing the elevator button, asking me if it “hurt really bad.” Yes, I said. It did. I was tempted to tough it out, bullshit a little, but I suddenly realized I didn’t have the energy. I hadn’t lost a lot of blood but my legs felt weak and I was considering the need to curl up on the floor.

  In my room, she helped me take off my half-shredded shirt and wrapped another one around my shoulders, buttoning two buttons across my chest but leaving the wounded arm exposed.

  “Lie down. Right now.”

  I laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled back, barely. “Sorry. It makes me nervous and a little sick to see people get hurt.”

  “Won’t that make it hard to be a soldier?” The second I asked that, I was sorry. After all, my problem with blood didn’t exactly make it easy to be a merc. Yet I managed.

  “No.” She shook her head, hard, as if she were trying to convince herself. “It will not.”

  A protective wave swept over me. She was just a kid. Trying to do the right thing, or her version of it. Once again, it was clear the Colemans commanded a great deal of loyalty from
some of their people. I’d been trying, and had so far failed, to find a reason why they shouldn’t.

  “Good for you. I’m sure you’ll do fine.” I realized then how patronizing that sounded but she just nodded and I let it go. I didn’t think I could do better at the moment.

  She brought me water and sat down in the chair beside the bed, silent, waiting with me. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. She went to open it and Jo strode in, nodding to Emmy and not stopping until she was standing right beside me, looking down, her eyes strafing my body in a disturbingly asexual inspection. Well, screw you too, gorgeous.

  “I heard you were wounded.” She gazed at my bandaged arm. There was no need to answer; it certainly wasn’t a question. “Is it bad?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me the truth.” Was she worried I wouldn’t be able to work? Hoping I’d be incapacitated? “What exactly is wrong with it?”

  “A few punctures and a couple of gashes.”

  She nodded. “What’d they hit you with?”

  I described the club. There was no softness, no compassion in her face. She either made a habit of concealing emotion under difficult circumstances or she’d gotten over me really fast.

  “How is Samm?” I asked.

  “He’s fine,” she said, watching my reaction. Maybe she didn’t want to admit the general was in trouble.

  “No, he’s not,” I snapped. “I was there, remember? I came back here in the car with him. It’s your turn to tell me the truth.”

  She studied my face for a moment, trying, I thought, to decide how to react to what— my insubordination?

  A softening, then. She’d decided. “Not so good. It’s a bad wound. Doc is working on him now. He’ll be okay, but…” She shrugged. All the time she spoke, she watched me. Searching for some clue to my attitude. It wasn’t hard for me to look upset about Samm, and that seemed to satisfy her.

  Another knock on the door. I hoped it was Doc. I was ready to get past the stitching and whatever other misery he had in store for me. Again, Emmy went to open it. This time, Lizzie came rushing in, followed by the big limping black dog. Her cast was filthy. Lizzie’s name was scrawled on the side of it in black paint or ink. The dog wagged a couple of times and dropped in a furry heap on the floor.