My body begins to walk. I try to stop it, but no dice. My muscles have disconnected from my brain. I try to use my comm ring: « Zirc, can you hear me? » No answer. Radio silence.
This is going to be bad.
I suckered myself into thinking Calon Arang wasn’t evil. Oh, sure, she’s an Elder of the Dark, but that just means she’s smart and shrewd. As if smart and shrewd guarantees benevolence.
At least, whatever happens, Calon will break K’s blood bond. Right? Except who’s gonna force Calon to keep her promise? Nobody even knows about our deal. And even if someone did, who’s got the strength to hold an Elder’s feet to the fire?
I walk through the middle of the fight. No one attacks me. Why bother? I’m just a mortal in shredded stockings and a dress that used to be nice but now is tattered and dirty as hell from the crap I’ve gone through. Nobody even looks in my direction. Maybe Calon has used an ignorance spell to make me dismissible.
So I cross the room like some Jedi crossing a battlefield where blasts sizzle through the air but always miss. It takes me by surprise when I abruptly crouch behind an upturned table. I’m still Calon’s puppet, but I’ve reached a turning point: in position for Phase 2.
Robin Hood is to my right, and Lee to my left. Lee sends a wall of sleet in Robin’s direction. He produces an arrow of flame and nocks it on his bow. The arrow is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen him use. Perhaps he’s been holding back, but now he’s decided to escalate. Lee has proved she’s tough, so Robin is free to use his heaviest attacks.
He draws back his bow. My muscles tense, ready to leap into his line of fire. Damn, piss, and fuck, I understand now. If Robin kills an innocent human, even in the chaos of a firefight, his reputation will be tarnished. This isn’t even a noble cause—he’s trying to steal a terrible weapon. The Dark can spin this into a PR nightmare. Robin is about to prove he’s willing to kill a harmless girl, just to get his hands on a horrible gun.
Everything leading up to this makes it worse. I tried to arrange a truce. I showed the world I’m a mensch. Considering how I pumped up my charisma, I’ll come across great on TV.
Cuz Robin isn’t the only one who’s filming this fight. Calon will be, too. Maybe she’s even broadcasting it live. She wants the world to witness my terrible fate.
My body moves without my control. I rise and place myself between Robin and Lee, my arms outspread, as if I’m protecting Lee from what Robin will shoot at her.
Robin draws back his bow. Yes, I definitely must be hidden by an ignorance spell; it prevents him from noticing me, even though I’m standing right here. But I’ll bet the spell won’t affect the TV cameras. Someone watching this scene will see clear as day that Robin Hood intends to shoot me with a giant flaming arrow.
At the last instant, he smiles.
The fireball comes straight at me. Halfway along its path, a figure pops out of nowhere to intercept. Zircon zooms from microscopic to a size big enough to block the arrow. Since Zirc is literally made of stone, the arrow does far less damage to zir than it would to me. Still, the impact explodes into a fireball that knocks Zirc out of the air. Ze plummets like a meteor, smacking hard on the floor.
I want to dash forward to see if Zirc’s all right. But I still can’t control my body. Besides, I don’t have the time. There’s only a fraction of a second between when Zirc blocks the flame arrow from hitting me and when …
… I explode in a fireball anyway.
* * *
THAT STUPID DRESS FROM Calon Arang. I thought it was just a gown, but it’s a suicide vest. If all else failed, Calon wanted to make 100 percent sure I died at Robin Hood’s hands.
Zircon’s sacrifice meant nothing. I saw it because I was right up close and because my perceptions are fast. From other perspectives—especially from the cameras Calon must have set up at just the perfect angle to capture this the way Calon wants—I’m sure all you’ll see is a bloom of fire, then a girl engulfed in flames.
Me. Burning. Jesus.
I can smell my flesh as it bakes. I hear the hiss of me frying.
My perceptions are fast.
First extreme heat. Then extreme cold, as my cremated nerves go dead.
Fade far too slowly to black.
10
Pupation
I WAKE.
Well, that’s a surprise.
And it’s not a groggy completely-out-of-it awakening. One moment, I’m in nothing-nothing-land. The next, I’m fully conscious, though I can’t see or hear. I’m floating on my back in goopy fluid, but I barely feel it: it’s the same temperature I am and soft on my skin.
I’m not moving—not even breathing. The fluid covers my face. I can feel my heart pumping, but no movement anywhere else. When I try to wiggle a finger, nothing happens. I’m not frozen, I’m just limp.
But I’m alive. So there’s that.
This isn’t my first resurrection. Since becoming a Spark, I’ve gone down hard several times. Injuries on the edge of being lethal, maybe even over the edge. And each of those times, I came back with a lurch into the light, like leaping out of the penalty box the instant the clock runs down.
This time … no light. I don’t want to think what that means.
My sister Jamie is a good Catholic girl. She believes in the classic heaven and hell. Sistine Chapel stuff—clouds and rainbows in one direction, fire and brimstone in the other.
My sister Jen is Catholic, too, but more progressive. Heaven is connection with God; hell is separation. It’s a self-chosen thing: if you want to be stubborn and proud, you’ll suffer, but it’s still your choice. It hurts when you choose to wall yourself off. God will wait till you change your mind.
My sister Jill refuses to label herself, but says she believes in rebirth. No heaven, no hell, just a trip to the memory-eraser. Then out again for another kick at the can.
And finally, sister Jo is a militant atheist. She was a dick this past Christmas, going out of her way to pick fights. She demanded I tell her what exactly I believe, and was quick to put words in my mouth.
Before I became a Spark, I didn’t know what to believe. My four older sisters said four different things, and I was just, “Why do I have to decide?” But now that I’m the world’s best authority on everything, I’ve got a thousand religions in my head. They’re all going at it with each other: the Vatican’s best theologians, Hindu swamis, Taoist sages, and shamans galore.
You want to argue points of the Talmud? I’m your girl. You want to navigate the niceties of Santería, candomblé, Obeah, and all their cousins? Just say the word. I’ve got the Mormon president on speed dial, plus a couple of ayatollahs.
I’m up to the gills in conflicting narratives. But do any of them apply, now that I’m a Spark? For superheroes, death is a colander. Sparks always leak back eventually.
Hope it happens soon. I may not be able to see or hear, but I hurt like a son of a bitch. That exploding dress literally blew off my tits.
Fucking Calon Arang. She set me up.
She hooked me with a spell that co-opted my body and positioned me so Robin Hood would shoot me. Then the dress blew me to shreds, making Robin look like a killer.
Shit. I died for that?
No. I died to save K from the blood bond. If Calon frees K, then burning my snoobies will be worth it.
But I’mma kick Calon’s ass when I’m back in the land of the living.
* * *
TIME PASSES. I ACHE. Then the goop that surrounds me begins to seep away. I still can’t make myself move, but my lungs start breathing on their own. As the fluid level subsides, I settle downward, ending up with my back on a cushioned surface.
A crack of light appears above me. A soft female voice says, “You’ll want to close your eyes. You’ll find it bright until your vision adjusts.”
The woman has an English accent: Received Pronunciation, like Calon Arang’s. The softness in her tone is like somebody speaking to a child—gentle and warm, but also a bit fake. It makes me wa
nt to keep my eyes open, just to be contrary. But as the crack of light widens, my retinas feel like they’re being smashed with hammers.
Grudgingly, I shut my eyelids. Even with my eyes closed tight, the reddish brightness hurts.
“What’s going on?” I croak. My throat feels raw. Cold air settles down on me. Oh, crap, I’m naked.
“You were seriously injured,” says the woman. She’s standing close above me. “To be honest, I’m surprised you survived. I was certain you were dead. But Robin persuaded Friar Tuck to transport you here anyway.”
“Where is here?” I ask through my raspy throat.
“The sick bay of Sherwood Forest. For the last fifty minutes, you’ve been in a medi-tank. I thought you’d be in there for hours or days, but apparently, you weren’t as badly wounded as I thought.”
The woman slips her arm under my shoulders and helps me sit up. Her arm is much cooler than I am … or perhaps I’m much hotter than normal. That makes sense: a medi-tank must be a machine that accelerates healing, and one way to do that would be by increasing my metabolic rate.
“I’ll get you clothes in a jiffy,” the woman tells me. “But first I want to check that you’re fully recovered.”
I force my eyes open a crack. The light still hurts, but hell, if I can survive getting blown up, I can tolerate a little eyestrain. Besides, my eyes adjust within seconds. They focus and let me see a fiftyish woman examining my stomach with a magnifying glass.
She’s big. Close to three hundred pounds, even though she’s considerably shorter than me. Her face has a million freckles, and her plain brown hair … it’s like she invented a hair-cutting machine, then couldn’t decide how to program it. Eventually, she went with default settings: medium length, straight, and shapeless. She wears safety goggles, the kind we all had to buy for Chemistry 120. But somehow I know they aren’t really for safety; they’re actually this woman’s version of a mask.
Cuz she’s a Spark. I can feel her Halo working on me. It soothes me, making me want to talk in the same soft voice the woman uses herself. A nursery-room voice, reassuring and slightly removed from reality. You’re safe now, Nanny will protect you.
The woman wears an unbuttoned white lab coat. Underneath is an orange muumuu, embroidered with a multicolor pattern around the bodice. It’s the dress a woman might wear around the house when she wants to be comfortable and isn’t expecting anyone to drop by. Also when she doesn’t give a fuck who sees her. Just to complete the effect, she’s wearing orange rubber flip-flops. But of course, the lab coat, muumuu, and flip-flops are really a costume: the woman’s Spark identity. In civilian ID, she probably wears jeans or yoga pants just like anyone else.
I’m guessing she’s Maid Marian. I have no mental picture of Marian—Robin Hood and his gang often mention her in their videos, but she never makes appearances on-screen. Clearly, she likes to be cautious … as evidenced by the fact that she’s hiding her true identity from me, even here in Robin Hood’s stronghold.
“Maid Marian?” I ask.
“Just call me Marian,” she says. “I’m nobody’s maid.”
I ask, “Did your crew get the bazooka?”
She finally looks up from examining me. She shakes her head. “When you got hurt, Robin called for an immediate retreat. He’s quite upset about what happened. I had Wrecking Ball drag him away a few minutes ago, so I could open your medi-tank in peace. Otherwise, he’d be falling all over you to say he’s sorry.”
That would be awkward. I can fantasize scenarios where I wouldn’t mind Robin seeing me naked, but not when I’m covered with goo and lying in a hospital bed.
Of course, it’s not a bed at all. It’s an immersion tank raised off the floor to Marian’s waist height. It’s like a bathtub with a lid and exotic built-in gadgets. Nozzles and arms and needle-tipped cables sprout from the bathtub’s walls. No doubt while I lay unconscious, I was injected, debrided, and heaven knows what else. My skin feels sticky; the goo that I lay in must have been designed to heal my crispy singed flesh.
I wonder how much healing was necessary. Would my powers have healed me without the tank’s help? Or did the tank keep me alive through something I wouldn’t have survived?
One thing for sure: the tank has preserved my secret identity. Marian will think my recovery is due to her wondrous invention, not to my miraculous regenerative abilities. Marian has no reason to suspect I’m a Spark.
Then again, Marian says, “I must be smarter than I thought.” She straightens up and sets aside her magnifying glass. “You don’t even have scars. My most recent improvements to the tank turned out better than expected.”
“Well, thanks then,” I say.
I look down and see I’m completely intact. Undamaged Jools wherever I look.
Uh, wait. My tattoos are gone. Shit, I paid good money for those: two sleeves from my shoulders to my elbows! Dozens of beautiful plants and animals … wiped out completely, like a mass extinction.
I’m missing my hair extensions, too. And my nail polish: the pretty little birds Miranda painted.
I must have lost all my makeup. It saves me the trouble of washing off the gunk I slathered on for the party, but wearing no makeup at all … well, fine, since becoming a Spark I don’t look too bad without makeup, but it’s still not how I’d choose to meet new people.
Especially somebody hot like Robin Hood. He’s hanging around here somewhere, right?
Oh, fuck, something else is missing: my slimewear. No cnidarian undies. The explosion must have vaporized both halves of the bikini. Either that or the medi-tank purged them, just like it blotted away my ink. Whatever the cause, my jellyfish are gone. So is my Ninety-Nine costume. On top of that …
I blurt out, “Where’s my ring?” I wave my bare hand. Belatedly I add, “And my earrings and all. They were, uhh, keepsakes from my mother.”
“Uh, well, Ninja Jane took them,” Marian says.
“She took them?” I think about how tightly the ring clung to my finger. Then I think about Ninja Jane’s knives.
Marian looks uncomfortable. “Look, you can’t be wearing anything in the tank. Otherwise, it throws off the calibration.” Marian turns away quickly, as if embarrassed. “I’ll see what I can do about your jewelry. Jane likes to take pretty things and stash them in secret hideaways. But Robin can usually persuade her to give them back. He just has to catch her in a good mood.”
Awesome. Insane-o Jane stole my comm ring. I can imagine her putting it on and admiring it. Next thing you know, it reshapes itself and screams, “Hey, I’m Cape Tech!” Or one of my friends says, « Ninety-Nine, is that you? »
I groan at the thought. Marian says, “What?” She lays a hand on my shoulder and stares keenly into my eyes. “Does something hurt?” She steps back and worriedly looks me up and down. “The healing process is as safe as I can make it, but Cape Tech is always an adventure. Nine times out of ten, it’s brilliant—works better than you could hope. But the tenth time … have you seen that movie The Fly?”
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling away from her. “And I’m not turning into a fly. I just … the truth of what happened is starting to sink in.”
“Yes, of course,” Marian says in her soft soothing voice. “I’m sure it’s a lot to handle.”
“Yeah,” I say. I take a deep breath, then hold out my hand. “Hi. I’m Jools.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve been completely naked before I got around to introducing myself. But it’s the first time I’ve only shaken hands.
* * *
MARIAN HELPS ME OUT of the medi-tank. My legs are wobbly, my throat still hurts, and my skin feels scoured too hard by a loofah. But I’m a fuck of a lot better than most people who slow-dance with a fireball.
As I try to stand upright, I peer at my surroundings. Marian called this the sick bay of Sherwood Forest. It’s actually a curtained-off area four paces long and the same distance wide, like the space around a bed in a hospital ward. The bed, of course, is the medi-ta
nk. There’s nothing else nearby except a metal chair with a green padded back and seat, much like the chairs at our town house’s kitchen table. It’s the sort of chair where anxious friends or family might sit while waiting for a loved one to come out of the tank.
Marian sweeps aside the curtain to reveal the rest of the room. It’s a lab the size of a basketball court, with twenty-some lab desks and tables, mostly covered by half-assembled machinery. By reputation, Maid Marian specializes in robotics, and that certainly seems to be true—I see numerous prototypes scattered around. Robotic arms with weapons instead of hands. Mobility devices: legs and wheels and tank treads. Artificial eyes. Power supplies of all kinds; I recognize batteries, fuel cells, photovoltaics, and Mr. Fusions, but there are unfamiliar others I immediately want to dissect.
Or maybe I should start by dissecting the guns. Weapons of all kinds, actually: energy blades and things that go boom, in addition to all the handheld firearms that shoot deadly things. The weapons sit shiny and new on workbenches or are clamped in vices as they await completion. Ammunition lies strewn about—not just conventional rockets and bullets, but loading-packs filled with toxic chemicals or alien microbes. (I know what the packs contain because some of them are labeled. Others aren’t. Russian roulette must be even more fun when you don’t know what the pistol will shoot. Ice? Gamma rays? Acid? Or a stream of plasma as hot as the heart of the sun?)
Maid Marian clearly spends a lot of her time devising new means of murder. Utterly typical of Mad Geniuses: not only do they build medi-tanks, they come up with a thousand new ways to make you need one.
Yet Marian looks nothing like a homicidal maniac. More like someone who works at a health clinic: the woman who asks, “Do you smoke?” and takes your weight before the actual doctor comes in. Or maybe I just get that impression because she’s inspecting me again. Circling around to check me out, front and back. “You’ve really recovered brilliantly,” she says. “Just look at your abs! When we first brought you in … no, shan’t go into details, you’d get upset. But it was bad, very bad.” She stares for a moment longer, then looks away. “Sorry, don’t want to embarrass you. But I have to ask: Did you have those muscles before, or did the medi-tank give them to you?”
They Promised Me the Gun Wasn't Loaded Page 19