Of course, I don’t really know, either. This is only the second time I’ve summoned the stick, so I have no idea what powers it has. Being a hockey stick, it probably can’t shoot fire or read minds—the Light prefers form to match function. But I know that my stick can whack things really hard, and I hope it’s tough enough to ward off Jane’s fancy knives.
First things first. I vault onto the nearest lab desk and start taking slap shots with the components strewn across the desktop. They’re the bits and pieces I pulled out of the robot shell while I was trying to make a survival suit: chunks of steel and silicon that can be flicked at high speed straight at Ninja Jane’s head.
I’m the best in the world at making slap shots … and maybe it’s my imagination, but I could swear each hunk of metal that I shoot accelerates after it leaves the blade of the stick.
Each shot is a bull’s-eye, targeted at the middle of Jane’s face. But Jane is faster than any goalie. Her knives cut the air so fast I see them as a blur. She deflects my shots with ease, sending shattered electronics in all directions.
Some pieces even ricochet back at me. I knock most aside with my stick. The rest smack harmlessly into my Willow Scarlet costume. Bulletproof is good.
I’m not discouraged that Jane shrugged off everything I aimed at her. I didn’t expect to beat her in the first few seconds. Maybe I won’t win at all, but the longer I keep Jane busy, the longer Vernon has to get Zircon to the clean room. Also, the more likely—
Everything lurches. I’m thrown off the lab desk, but I somersault in the air and land lightly on my feet.
Something goes bang in the distance. Someone returns fire with a rattle of bullets.
The assault on Sherwood has begun.
* * *
THE FLOOR TILTS.
It only tips a little, but glassware rattles and things slide across the lab tables. Behind me, something clatters to the floor. I’m not stupid enough to turn and see what it was, but the noise still grabs my attention for a moment. Jane takes the opportunity to hurtle toward me, leapfrogging on top of a workbench and using the height to plunge down toward me.
She must hope I’ll hesitate in surprise. Not a chance. In fact, she only slows herself down.
Because gravity. It’s a well-known fly in the ointment for superfast-moving Sparks. As long as they stay on the ground, they can travel at ridiculous speeds; as soon as they jump, however, they’re ballistic projectiles. They can only fall with the usual acceleration of nine point eight meters per second squared. The result is a lot less velocity than Jane can produce with muscle power.
Translation: when you’re super speedy, running is fast but falling is slow. Or at least slower. Which is why I have no problem batting Jane out of the air with my hockey stick.
The glowing green stick leaves a scorch mark on Jane’s white lab coat. It reminds me of the first time K tried to do zir own ironing.
But one whack isn’t nearly enough to put Jane down. In fact, she might have planned on me doing exactly what I did. At the same time I hit her, she lashes out with a dagger, slashing at the hockey stick’s shaft. I feel the impact in my hands, the way that you feel a sting when you hit a baseball with an aluminum bat. If my stick were a normal stick, Jane’s knife might have cut clean through. My fancy green stick is stronger than that, but green sparks splash from the point of contact, like when a blacksmith hits molten metal with a hammer.
Jane lands on her feet several meters away. My eyes meet hers. I want to yell, “We’re wasting time, let’s just leave.” But the moment I inhale in order to speak, Jane comes at me again, a Cuisinart of Cape Tech daggers moving at superhuman speed.
My only advantage is reach—the hockey stick is longer than her knives. As she drives toward me, I jab at her face. My move is high enough that she can duck her head to one side to avoid the thrust. She does exactly that … whereupon I snap the stick downward like an ax on her shoulder, then slap it sideways to cuff her on the ear.
The flat of the blade makes solid contact. It might well have ruptured her eardrum. The pain doesn’t stop Jane’s attack completely, but it throws off her balance and timing. I can tell she meant to plunge straight in and stab me. Instead, she wobbles enough that she steps on a sharp metal rheostat that fell when I was taking slap shots. For Jane, it must be like stepping on a piece of Lego, especially since she’s only wearing Marian’s flimsy flip- flops. She twists awkwardly as she tries to avoid putting down her full weight.
It gives me time to dodge behind the nearest lab desk. As I move, I flail at Jane with my hockey stick. I don’t connect, but Jane dips back to avoid getting hit. In a moment, we’re standing with the lab desk between us like a waist-high parapet.
I know she’s going to come at me over the desk. I move my eyes right, then dodge left—the best I can do for a feint. She’s not taken in, and she’s faster than me. Jane nicks my arm with a dagger before I get clear.
Note to self: the bulletproof costume ain’t proof against Jane’s knives.
It’s not a serious cut, but it burns like fire—far worse than it should, considering it’s just a shallow gash on my forearm. Maybe her daggers are poisoned. After all, she’s Ninja Jane. Poison is a ninja thing.
Even worse, she’s smiling. Not pressing her attack. As if that one little prick was all she needed. Now she’ll wait till I start to slow down.
Regeneration powers, now would be a good time to show your stuff.
But the cut just keeps burning. Getting worse. Shit, shit, shit.
I retreat. Jane follows. She doesn’t try to close the gap between us, but she stays close enough that I’m forced to focus my attention on her. If she wanted, she could reach me in a fraction of a second. I keep the blade of my hockey stick ready to meet an attack. She doesn’t try, but when I edge toward the door that leads to the clean room, she darts around to block me.
Okay, then. New plan. I plant the end of my hockey stick on the floor and use it as a vaulting pole to jump the lab desk behind me. Two more steps take me to the medi-tank. I drop my stick, throw myself inside the tank, and pull the lid shut on top of me.
It whirs. My brain’s getting muddy. Familiar feeling: like the slave collar, starting to suppress my powers. This raises an interesting question of timing:
A: My regeneration is trying to fight off Jane’s poison.
B: The tank is trying to shut off my regeneration.
C: The tank must also be trying to neutralize the poison from Ninja Jane’s knife.
And D: The poison is trying to kill me.
So which competitor will win the race? And will I be alive at the finish line?
But there’s a fifth contestant in the mix. I don’t believe Jane will just leave me in here.
She’s a crazy blood-spilling killer. She won’t shrug and walk away. She’ll run straight up to the tank and heave it open.
I can picture her doing it. A normal person might be wary, using one hand to lift the lid while keeping her other hand free, dagger at the ready in case I try something tricky. But Jane isn’t normal. She’s a hacky-slashy Spark, and she’s furious that the tank might save me from her poison. I’m as good at psychological prediction as I am at everything else; my guess is that Jane will yank open the tank as fast as possible, using both hands.
Wait for it …
Yank.
For a moment, Jane has both hands on the lid, like a funeral director opening a coffin. She still holds her daggers—she’s not an idiot—but she’s grappling with the lid and the knives, so she’s not in good position to attack. Also, I’m ready: the tank hasn’t totally suppressed my skills yet. And opening the lid shoots me back to full strength.
I grab her wrists and pull her inside on top of me.
Jane thrashes against my grip, and she’s way too strong for me to rein in completely. Luckily, her instinct is to pull away rather than drive the daggers through me. It gives me the time I need to twist her wrists sideways. The knives stab into the sides of the tank, embedding their blade
tips deep.
Jane knees me in the groin—another standard fighting instinct. Too bad, booboo: I’ve got a codpiece. Jane’s knee goes in like getting swallowed by a pillow, and it doesn’t hurt at all. In fact, with her knee half buried in my crotch, it leaves one of my legs free. I kick out with my foot, hitting the medi-tank’s lid. The lid bounces up, then down, slamming home and squeezing us both into darkness.
* * *
JANE STRUGGLES BUT DOESN’T have room for drastic maneuvers. I still have hold of her wrists, and the daggers are too deeply impaled in the medi-tank wall for her to pull them free. She doesn’t have space or leverage; after a moment, she’s short on strength, too. The tank is sapping her powers.
Once we get down to my normal muscles against hers, I’ll win. I’m bigger than her, I’m stronger, and I haven’t spent years relying on superpowers to pull me through fights.
Still, it’s not an easy victory. Jane tries a head butt, but she’s out of position—her forehead is level with my chin so it’s her hard skull against my hard mandibular prominence. Call it a tie.
Jane tries to bite but can’t reach any of my vulnerable bits. Her mouth is pressed against my shoulder, so all she can chew on is Willow Scarlet’s jacket. I don’t think the jacket is bulletproof anymore—the proofness comes from Cape Tech, which the tank detechifies. But the jacket is still good leather, tough enough to stand up to Jane’s teeth.
After ten seconds of tussling, Jane gives up. I don’t let her go—this might be a ruse. More seconds pass. The weight on me suddenly increases, from Jane’s weight to Marian’s.
“All right, Jools,” she says. “You win.”
I say, “Marian?”
“Yes, Jools. Can we get out of here, please? I find this unpleasant.”
“Let go of the daggers,” I say.
She does. I ease my grip on her wrists; when she doesn’t attack, I let go completely and push upward to open the tank.
Marian gingerly peels herself off my chest, trying to minimize the amount of contact she makes with me. She clambers out; I follow. My brain still feels muddy and the gash on my arm is still burning. Even so, getting out of the tank is literally a breath of fresh air.
Gunfire erupts in the distance. “We have to get out of here,” Marian says.
“How about the clean room?” I ask. “It has that Cape Tech disposal chute. The chute can go anywhere, right?”
“Not anywhere,” Marian says. “But a great many places safer than here.”
“Can you send us to Waterloo?”
“Certainly.”
“Then go,” I say. “Punch in the proper coordinates.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” she asks.
“In a minute,” I say. “But…” I jerk my thumb toward the medi-tank. “I need that for my friend.”
20
Immune Responses
MARIAN WANTS TO STAY and help me with the tank. I order her to git—she’s the only one who knows how to work the disposal chute. If she gets caught by the people attacking Sherwood, we’re all screwed. On the other hand, if I get caught … well, it’s bad if I can’t put Zircon into the medi-tank, but if I don’t show up in the clean room, Marian can at least deliver Zirc to a hospital. I’m pretty sure Marian will do that, if only because Vernon will insist.
Marian is indispensable. Me and the medi-tank aren’t. Besides, if I get caught on my way to the clean room, I can talk my way out of trouble. I’m the innocent bystander, right? Supposedly killed by Robin Hood. It looks bad that I’m wearing Willow Scarlet’s costume, but thanks to WikiJools and being an Olympic-level actor, I can totally fake Stockholm syndrome.
The medi-tank has casters, so getting it mobile is no big deal—I just have to detach it from Sherwood’s electrical grid. The tank is directly connected to a funky Cape Tech power box, but after a few seconds arguing with myself about red wire/blue wire, I open the tank, use all my strength to pull one of Jane’s daggers from the medi-tank’s wall, and slash the connection cable. The dagger cuts the cord like a Ginsu knife, and bonus, I don’t even get electrocuted. (I consider claiming both Jane’s weapons for my own, but Zircon has a scary set of daggers, too, and I don’t want to steal zir schtick.)
I take a moment to examine the severed cable. It’s just a bundle of normal wires. I probably can’t just connect it to a household outlet, but at least I don’t have to find a source of upsilon particles and a feed of helium-3. When the time comes, being an Olympic-level electrician and a Mad Genius will have to be good enough.
I can hook up the tank and save Zircon. All I need is a power supply.
I drape the severed cable over the tank, lay the dagger beside it, and start rolling the whole shebang toward the clean room. The medi-tank rolls slowly, and the casters are for shit. Marian obviously didn’t foresee she might need to move this puppy at emergency speed. I’m only halfway across the lab when I hear a shout behind me: “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
I recognize the voice—my long-lost ghoul-friend, Staff Sergeant Barbara L. Stevens.
Shit.
I stop pushing the tank. I remember that the Willow Scarlet mask is still in my jacket pocket. I pull it out and slap it onto my face.
The mask sticks. Hallelujah! So when things get kung-fuey, as I’m sure they will, Staff Sergeant Barbara L. Stevens won’t recognize me as the once and future Julietta Walsh.
“Last warning!” Stevens snaps. “Freeze!”
I have to give her credit. Since I couldn’t hear her over the rolling medi-tank, Stevens could have shot me in the back without any warning. That would have been her safest play. After all, I look like a Merry Man, i.e. an outlaw Spark. Even if Stevens is a more-than-human Renfield, she’d be better off hosing me down with bullets than giving me a chance to surrender.
But she didn’t. She’s playing it straight. Which is why I don’t reach for the dagger that lies on the tank. Instead I raise my hands without turning around. I step away from the tank so it doesn’t get damaged when shots inevitably get fired.
Only then do I turn. Stevens has her gun propped against the frame of the lab’s outer doorway. Her head is visible, but the rest of her body is out of sight around the edge of the door. Unsurprisingly, her partner Stephens has propped himself and his gun on the doorway’s other side. And look, there’s Reaper emerging from the forest behind them, his ugly-ass scythe moaning like a porn star.
“Well, this sucks,” I say.
I keep my hands in the air as Reaper moves to the doorway. He stares with his empty eye sockets. “Who are you?” he says. “You aren’t in our files.”
“Willow Scarlet,” I say. “I’m new.”
Reaper tells Stevens & Stephens, “Then no reward for bringing her in alive. Kill her.”
* * *
BY THE TIME HE finishes his speech, I’ve taken cover behind a lab desk. During the time when I was moving, Stevens & Stephens could have peppered me with lead, but neither one fired. Being Renfields, they have trouble making decisions on their own. They literally couldn’t pull their triggers until Reaper said, “Kill.”
As soon as Reaper gives the order, both Renfields shoot. But by then I’m out of sight behind the desk.
Not that I’m safe. Two thunderous shots blow cannonball-sized holes through the cupboards below the desk. But Stevens & Stephens aren’t shooting actual cannonballs. All I can see hurtling past me are blobs of black energy without anything solid inside them.
The blobs are still fucking lethal. To hammer that message home, the two blasts punch through the desk behind me, and partly through a third.
Magical weapons, whipped up by Darkling sorcerers. And these aren’t the pissy little blasters Stevens & Stephens brought to the great train robbery. The Renfields and the others were never supposed to win the fight at the train—they just had to mount a credible opposition until Robin escaped with the bazooka. So Stevens & Stephens were packing second-rate heat; they didn’t want to be too effective.
Now, though, th
ey’ve brought their A game. It’s the grand finale, the final boss fight. Stevens & Stephens are going all in with their nastiest weapons, and John Woo is about to yell, “Action!”
My bulletproof costume no longer matters. We’ve gone light-years beyond bullets. If any shot hits me, I’ll be splattered.
In a moment, Stevens & Stephens will fire again. So I dive, cartwheel, somersault, slide. I stay low behind desks so I won’t be an easy target, but I never slow down. If I can reach the pressure suit I was making, it can give me some badly needed protection. It’s the shell of a battle robot, designed to withstand damage better than unarmed laboratory furniture.
Shots keep banging, but the Renfields can’t see me behind the desks. They’re firing blind. It also seems the pistols can’t shoot very quickly: they need a second or two to build up power between each discharge. Maybe they’re literally summoning vaporizing energies from hell.
No, wait: the pistols aren’t firing as quickly as I expect because only one Renfield is shooting. Shit! While one cop provides cover, the other must be tiptoeing in to get closer.
Stephens appears around the edge of the desk where I’m hiding. He has an unimpeded shot, and I can’t get out of the way before his finger squeezes the trigger.
I close my eyes just before I hear the bang.
* * *
I DON’T GET SHOT.
I open one eye.
There’s a wall of energy between me and the bad guy. Violet energy. Dakini’s color.
Stephens fires again. The gout of blackness that emerges from his pistol smacks the violet barrier. The barrier shudders but holds.
A golden voice I know and love shouts, “Everybody chill!”
Aria’s here. I’ve been rescued.
* * *
I YELL, “I SURRENDER!”
It doesn’t work. Stephens fires at me again. The violet barrier goes wobbada-wobbada but stays intact.
Near the doorway, a second gun goes off. The other Stevens is firing at someone I can’t see.
Chilling ain’t gonna happen. I say, “Okay, fuck this noise.”
With the violet shield still protecting me, I take a moment to concentrate. My lovely green hockey stick must have ceased to exist when the medi-tank neutralized my powers. But now I squinch my brain till the stick reappears in my hands. Then I hop the violet wall like jumping out of the penalty box, and I smack Mr. Stephens a good one upside the face.
They Promised Me the Gun Wasn't Loaded Page 33