They Promised Me the Gun Wasn't Loaded

by James Alan Gardner

  Shar narrows her eyes at the rest of us. “As soon as we decide on a group name, we’ll set up a secure website. Right? Right?”

  Miranda ignores her. “Speaking of security,” Miranda says to Grandfather and Invie, “what are you going to do about Diamond hacking our comm rings?”

  Grandfather says, “We’ve known about it for a while—Zircon sent word to us before Christmas. So Invie has had time to make improvements. Voilà! Rings 2.0.”

  Grandfather digs into a jacket pocket and pulls out four simple gold bands. They look like wedding rings—as if Grandfather is proposing to all four of us. “Not going to jinx things by claiming these are unhackable,” Grandfather says. “But even Diamond will have trouble beating these fellas. They’ve got a whole new type of encryption that even a super-duper genius won’t figure out soon.” He lays the rings on the bar. “Trade your old ones for these.”

  “Could we keep the old ones?” K asks. “We could use them to broadcast disinformation. Maybe fool Diamond into a trap.”

  Grandfather shakes his head. “He knows we’re onto him. He’ll be watching for tricks.” The old man eyes us shrewdly. “And maybe he can ID you by tracing the old rings’ signals. Do you really want to wear them when you aren’t in costume? Invie and me already know what you look like in real life, but you don’t want Diamond to know, too.” He taps one of the rings. “These are safer. Invie says they got antitracking gizmos.”

  “Which Diamond will eventually defeat,” Miranda says.

  “Sure,” Grandfather agrees, “but not tonight. This is the first time these have been used for anything. And by the time Diamond figures ’em out, Invie will make Rings 3.0. If we’re ridiculously lucky, maybe we or the All-Stars will capture Diamond in the meantime.”

  He nudges the rings toward us. I’m the first to pull off the ring I’m wearing and swap it for a new one. I slip the new ring on my right ring finger. For a moment after it’s on, the ring is way too big; then it reshapes itself into …

  Um.

  It’s slimewear.

  A strand of transparent bio gunk wraps around my finger. At least it’s not ugly; it’s barely visible. It resembles a strip of clear plastic like the smallest size of Band-Aid. But my previous ring was wonderful, a whacking great reproduction of the 1988 Stanley Cup ring, gold and diamonds and all. This new one is nothing. Like I’m not worth any precious metal.

  My friends have put theirs on. For them, the new rings look much like the old. Shar’s is barely different at all—a simple gold band that blends with all the other rings she wears. Miranda put the new ring on her right ring finger, just like I did … and the ring has turned into a ladylike signet bearing the crest of the University of Waterloo. K’s new ring is plain gold with a clear colorless crystal: it’s either diamond or cubic zirconia, but I’d need a good lens to tell which.

  And I get slimewear? This sucks.

  Except I know that these rings read our minds. When they reconfigure themselves, they base their new shapes on thoughts plucked straight from our heads. I don’t want to know what this says about my brain; so I think really hard, Change, you bastard!

  After a moment, it does. It becomes a set of golden links. Not loose like a necklace, but stiff and squeezing my finger. Inside my head I growl, I said “Change,” not “Chain”! But the ring maintains its shape and unpleasant tightness. The phrase “golden fetter” leaps unwelcome into my mind. I grab the ring and pull; it holds on fiercely, like how my father’s wedding ring is so embedded in his flesh, it’ll never ever come off in his lifetime.

  I scowl at the ring. It stays the way it is. Well, at least it looks like a ring. And it doesn’t clash with my outfit. So I let it be, despite its distracting grip on my finger. If I don’t get used to it soon, I’ll do some Mad Genius tinkering to loosen it up.

  « Now we can talk in private,» Grandfather says inside my head. “If we need to,” he says aloud. “But since we’re face-to-face, no sense in telepathy. You folks have a plan?”

  I say, “Nothing comes to mind except spreading out to watch for trouble.”

  Grandfather shrugs. “Not much of a strategy. But the All-Stars are doing the same, and they have experience dealing with Diamond.”

  « They’re scanning the area on multiple wavelengths,» says Invie inside our brains. « Their technical expert, Sensorium, is flying above the building. I’ve dealt with him before, and he’s admirably competent. He promises to alert me if he notices anything suspicious. »

  Okay: Sensorium. WikiJools tells me he’s a super-smart engineer just like Invie. He’s built himself a flying battle suit equipped with gazillions of sensors. Usually serves as the All-Stars’ eye in the sky.

  “Can he actually see the whole building?” K asks. “The last time we dealt with Darklings, they put up blinder walls that blocked remote sensing.”

  Invie pauses, then says, « Sensorium reports a blinder wall around the third floor. But the blinder spell is weak, and Sensorium is the best at what he does. He can see through the wall. »

  “What about ignorance spells?” K asks. “Magic that makes you ignore things in plain sight.”

  Invie pauses again. « Sensorium has experience with ignorance spells,» Invie informs us. « It’s the nature of such spells that you do not notice their effect on you. But Sensorium is aware of the possibility, and is trying not to be misdirected. »

  “This is weird,” K mutters. “No ignorance spells, and blinders so flimsy you can see through them? What are the Darklings up to?”

  “It’s a trap,” Miranda says. “For Diamond. Maybe for Robin Hood, too. The Dark have advertised the bazooka is here, and they want the place to seem wide open.”

  “They don’t mind endangering their own people?” Shar asks. She gestures at the Darklings around us. “Diamond killed dozens of Darklings at the Goblin Market. The Dark are basically tempting him to do it again.”

  “Now that I think of it,” Grandfather says, “I haven’t seen any heavy hitters here. Not the prime minister. Not even cabinet members. Nor any important CEOs. Just second-in-command folks and such.”

  “Ouch,” I say. “And remember what the Vandermeers told us? Their father couldn’t come because, air quotes, he had business.”

  Miranda looks scandalized. “He sent his children to a potential bloodbath but stayed away himself?”

  K says, “Mr. Vandermeer is not what you’d call a loving father.” The look on K’s face suggests ugly stories, but ze doesn’t give us specifics. Instead ze says, “Anyway, Nicholas and Elaine can take care of themselves. In terms of magical strength, they’re both more powerful than their father.”

  “That makes sense if their mother’s an Elder,” Shar says. “They’d stand to inherit her level of power.”

  “You really think Lee is an Elder?” K asks.

  “Stop calling her Lee,” Miranda says. “Memorize this phrase: ‘my ex-boyfriend’s bloodcurdling Precambrian mom. ’”

  “Not gonna touch that one,” Grandfather says. “But if there’s an Elder on the scene, she may be here to help fight Diamond. Or Robin Hood. Or both. Those two guys are pains in the Dark’s collective ass. Could be that the Elders have finally decided to sweep them off the board.”

  “That’s just great,” I say. I think of Calon Arang, probably an Elder herself, who must be lurking someplace in the fest hall. We’re standing in the dumpster where the Dark wants to light a fire.

  I grin and put my arms around K and Miranda. “This is going to be a disaster. I can’t hardly wait.”

  8

  Adaptive Coloration

  TIME TO CIRCULATE AND mingle. We spread around the fest hall, me and my roommates, plus Invie and Grandfather, covering all three floors and the basement.

  The Transylvania Club didn’t used to be so huge, but it’s expanded a lot in recent years, thanks to Darkling funds. Once upon a time, this building was just a social club for people of Transylvanian extraction, but because of the name, the TC has become a
go-to venue for the local Dark community. The resulting revenue has paid to upgrade the place considerably, especially on the third floor.

  When I came to the club for Oktoberfest, the third floor was off-limits, guarded by heavy steel doors, a burly man, and a huge stone gargoyle. The gargoyle showed no signs of coming to life—it might have been an ordinary statue, just used to intimidate drunks like me. But in my inebriated state, I could easily believe the gargoyle would wake if needed and bite me in half with its strong stone beak.

  Tonight, the gargoyle is right where I remember, and no more animate than before. The steel doors, however, have been thrown open wide, and the burly security dude has been replaced by an equally burly woman scowling at everyone who comes up the stairs. I recognize the woman as Gator Glaive, one of the Aussie All-Stars. As her name suggests, her skin is reptilian, as tough as an alligator’s. On top of that, she wears armor like the kind that riot police wear, except made from alligator hide.

  Gross. When you’re basically a gator, should you wear the flayed skins of your cousins? But as always, Spark ethics dance to a different didgeridoo.

  As for the other part of GG’s name, WikiJools tells me that a glaive is a honking great sword blade on the end of a two-meter pole. Gator Glaive has no such weapon at the moment, but she can pull one out of thin air whenever she wants. Ka-ching, you’re facing an angry alligator armed with a sword on a stick.

  I want to bump fists with her cuz I do something similar: I can summon a glowing green hockey stick made of pure sizzling energy. But Gator gal gives me a cold-blooded stare that doesn’t say, “Hey, let’s chat.” She likely thinks I’m here as some rich dude’s penthouse pet, or else I’ve come on the hunt for Darkling dick. Anyway, it’s no wonder she’s in a bad mood. Who could be happy, standing half a world away from home and waiting for your most notorious enemy to start a massacre?

  I feel for you, babe.

  Past the Gator and the gargoyle stands a sheet of unwavering blackness. A blinder wall. Unless you’re Sensorium, blinder walls prevent you from seeing what’s on the other side. Not even Zircon’s Spark-o-Vision can penetrate a blinder …

  … but now that I think of it, Invie’s rings transmit just fine through such walls. That doesn’t make sense: if a blinder wall doesn’t stop radio waves, then it’s not impervious, is it? Then again, the comm rings probably don’t use plain old radio. And I shouldn’t expect consistency from either magic or Cape Tech. Both have a huge because-I-say-so factor; they work by “it makes a good story” more than rigorous principles.

  I pass through the blinder and enter the club’s Darkling sanctum. Or should I say “swank-tum”? I’m looking at a ballroom out of Pride and Prejudice: candles and crystal and even a zombie or two. Plus spiders and, for some reason, a skeleton laid across a pentagram drawn on the floor. Then again, the skeleton might just be a Darkling who’s passed out from carousing … and drawing a pentagram around him might be the demonic version of tucking him under a cozy blanket and letting him sleep it off.

  But the centerpiece of the room is a glass case containing Diamond’s bazooka. The case looks like it was originally designed for showing off the British crown jewels: it has a solid mahogany base with inlaid marquetry, and under the glass, a bed of red velvet on which the gun reclines.

  I take it for granted the case is enchanted with vicious spells to fend off thieves. But I could be wrong. A were-boar is shoving his huge wet nose against the glass for a better look at the gun, and he’s not getting electrocuted. He hasn’t even set off any alarms.

  Perhaps the case is a decoy, and the gun inside is a mirage. The real bazooka may have been shipped to a secret vault in Inuvik. But if the gun is fake, the powers that be have gone all in to back up the ruse—Reaper and Stevens & Stephens stand close by the case, looking like hair-trigger attack poodles ready to nip anyone who swipes their bone.

  I wave at the three of them. They pretend I don’t exist. How rude. Then again, they’re busy keeping an eye on Mr. Were-Boar. The cost of cleaning pig snot off the glass likely comes out of their pay.

  While I’m watching the three estúpidos, Calon Arang swishes up to greet me. She’s wearing white, and I think it’s couture—a simple gown that’s not daring, but obscenely well made. It’s like something a famous opera diva would wear for her eightieth birthday. And for once, WikiJools fails to tell me the gown’s designer. That means the couturier is so ultrachic, his or her stuff isn’t a matter of public record.

  Then again, someone like Calon may be able to extrude elegant clothing by magic. Anything to avoid buying retail.

  “Jools,” she says, “so glad you’ve arrived.” She looks me over with approval … but her gaze lingers on my gold-chain ring, as if picking out the single flaw in my appearance. She makes no comment, however. I guess I’m allowed that minimal gleam of personalization.

  Calon looks at the whisky in my hands and sniffs disdainfully. She takes the glass away from me and sets it on a nearby table. “That’s from the downstairs bar,” she says. “You can do better.”

  “It was Glenfiddich,” I say.

  “Ordinary Glenfiddich,” she says. “A mere twelve years old. Never ask a child to do a fifty-year-old’s job. Besides, this is a special occasion.”

  She takes my arm and leads me to the bar. I notice she swerves me around a wispy strand in the air. It’s some ghost who’s almost invisible, one of the baffled dead who’s no longer easy to see, thanks to the “good” invitation cards. I say to Calon, “Those ghosts … the people who died … you know about them?”

  “I see them clearly,” she answers. “But I’m surprised you know they’re here. I arranged for your invitation to have extra-strong concealer spells.”

  “The invitations got mixed up,” I say. “The problem was eventually sorted out; but why are the ghosts here? I mean here here. If they died in the Goblin Market, shouldn’t they be there? Or some other place they feel connected to: their home, their favorite squash club, or whatever.”

  Calon squeezes my arm. “I knew you were special—you understand ghosts. And you’re right: spirits are usually tethered to their place of death, or to some other spot they find meaningful. It took a great deal of magic to fetter them here instead. You can see how disoriented they are. Well, no, you can’t see that, can you? But they are. Like fish out of water.”

  “Because someone brought them here?” I ask.

  “A committee of sorcerers,” Calon says. “It wouldn’t be much of a memorial without the guests of honor, would it? At midnight, we’ll hold a cleansing ritual to sever the dead from this world: to propel them on to the next stage of existence. Darklings believe in practical funerals. We like to get the job done.”

  This might be kindly intentioned—freeing the dead from whatever holds them back. But Calon makes it sound like scraping off barnacles. I guess if you’re an Elder, you’ve seen a lot of ghosts stumbling miserably through the world. Maybe you consider them flies to swat if they’re a nuisance; otherwise, you simply let them bumble around till they vanish on their own. Flies don’t live very long, do they?

  We’ve almost reached the bar when Calon stiffens. She snaps her head around and stares at the doorway. I turn to look. A moment later, K enters the room with Lee. Or should I say, K enters with zir ex-boyfriend’s bloodcurdling Precambrian mom.

  K and Lee are arm in arm. Considering that I’m arm in arm with Calon, I shouldn’t judge …

  … but whoa.

  I wonder if K sought out Lee, or vice versa. Or if Fate simply brought them together with neither making an effort.

  “You know Lee?” I ask Calon.

  “Which one’s Lee?” Calon replies.

  “The Darkling. The other is K, my roommate.”

  “Lee.” Calon laughs. “She’s calling herself Lee? How economical.”

  “What’s her real name?” I ask.

  “Speaking it aloud could provoke the apocalypse.”

  I look at Calon. I decide she’s jok
ing. Yes. That’s definitely the most reassuring way to take it.

  I say, “How bad is it that Lee is interested in my roommate? Is she going to devour K’s soul or something?”

  “I have no idea,” Calon says. “She’s an unpredictable entity.”

  “Ouch,” I say. “Anything called an entity isn’t a good dating prospect.”

  I take a step toward K and Lee, but Calon yanks me back. “Do not get between them,” Calon whispers harshly.

  I try to shake her off. Calon tightens her grip. “Leave this alone,” she says. “I need you in one piece.”

  “So comforting,” I say. “I am now thoroughly convinced my friend is safe. By the way, that’s the same friend who has the blood bond with Elaine. The bond you promised to break? Remember that?”

  “I remember,” Calon says. “And I will keep my promise.”

  She pulls me toward the bar again. We have to pass the bazooka where the were-boar still has his nose pressed against the case. Dude is black-and-white with shovel-sized ears that shift back and forth as he gapes. He smells like he’s recently rolled in manure, which is weird—I thought pigs were actually quite clean. Then again, this guy isn’t a real pig; he’s a Darkling. Resembling a pig is no guarantee he’s piglike. For all I know, the dude eats steel and breathes fire … which may be why Reaper and his Renfields keep their distance from him, and why Calon gives the pig a wide berth as she leads me to the bar.

  I finally notice the bartender. It’s the Goblin from the Goblin Market, a little purple guy with big pointed ears. Like if Yoda fell into a wine vat. He has “cuddle me” written all over; when I was a kid, I would have loved a dozen of him arranged on my bed. Now that he gives away free liquor, he’s pretty much my perfect man.

  “Hello,” he says shyly. He’s standing on a stool to let him see above the bar. “What would you like?”

  “Your best Scotch,” says Calon Arang. “The best best.”

  “Goblin brand?” he asks in a hopeful tone.