Carmine: Rise of the Warrior Queen

by Alan Janney

  Also I need new sheets. Mine are dusty and grey. What Queen has old grey sheets? Actually, hush up, Carmine. You’re not a Queen.

  I’m so tired.

  My phone buzzes.

  >> My new jail cell is much nicer. How about a conjugal visit?

  You have your cell phone with you?

  >> And a charger.

  You’re the worst prisoner ever.

  - Fourteen -

  I get up at five in the morning and finish the paper by seven. Suck it, Stanford. I can pass your classes and take over the world.

  I’m eating a celebratory pear when Becky knocks and enters the office. She quietly sits in the corner and dips apple slices into a jar of peanut butter.

  “I’m fine,” she says, answering the question on my lips. “Only a bad dream. I was going to proofread your paper but you already submitted it.”

  I nod. She’s creepy sometimes. How does she do that.

  “Two Night Guardians are missing,” she says.

  “How do you know?”

  She lifts a dainty shoulder. “That’s the gossip.”

  “Hmm. Who is the Guardian Overseer?”

  “You? I don’t know. The Guardians don’t have a proper Overseer. But we’ve been taking care of ourselves.”

  “Where—”

  “North. The two missing Guardians were last seen near San Fernando.”

  “Becky, just because you correctly guess what I’m going to say doesn’t—”

  “Doesn’t mean I should interrupt you. I know.”

  Hmphf. She can sleep on the floor during her next nightmare.

  She says, “He’s out there.”

  I stand and go to the door. I need answers. “Who?”

  “Walter. He’s close.”

  “How do—”

  “I just know. Even if the Guardians can’t express it, they feel him. He’s here.”

  “Becky.” I open the door. “Try to be less creepy.”

  She grins.

  I call Mason on my way to the War Department. On the fifth ring, he answers and says, “Just cause you’re the queen doesn’t mean you should wake people at seven.”

  “Do you know anything about two missing Night Guardians?”

  He yawns loudly into the receiver. “Only rumors. I was out last night and heard those two weren’t in position.”

  “We need a Guardian Overseer. Select a candidate and pass along his or her name.”

  “Me.”

  “No. You’re a Falcon. I don’t want you bogged down with details. Pick someone else. Someone responsible with a stentorian voice.”

  General Brown is in the War Department. The man doesn’t sleep. He’s sipping coffee and reading reports on his iPad. Sleepy technicians sit at computers. I glare at maps a few minutes, absorbing information.

  I ask Brown, “Have you heard anything unusual from our northern boundary?”

  “Such as?”

  “I think we may have intruders. Or perhaps runaways.”

  “Negative. All stations still reporting. I hear anything, you’ll know.”

  “Update me on Walter’s forces. And any nearby Herder groups.”

  “Thought you were a nineteen year-old girl who doesn’t like planning.” He’s smiling into his mug.

  “I don’t. So make it quick. Use small words.”

  “There’s increased activity at Castaic Lake. About twenty miles past our border. Fifty-five total miles from here. Resistance guesses it may be a staging area.” He stands like he’s stiff, walks to the map on the wall, and points to a body of water north of our Kingdom.

  “Staging area? Like a temporary base?” Our enemies gather, I bet.

  “Affirmative. For Walter. And his Variant army. And complicit Herders, and perhaps mercenaries hired out of Las Vegas. Hell, who knows, maybe even some Federal Government soldiers. We’ve sent a small recon team to rendezvous with Resistance soldiers…here.”

  “They’re rendezvousing at Six Flags?”

  He nods and rests hands on his hips. “It’s convenient. And good cover.”

  “Is that area abandoned?”

  “Everything is abandoned within a hundred miles.”

  “We’re alone.”

  “Affirmative. Only brave interlopers out there, though some highways are still safe for travel.”

  We’re quiet a few minutes, staring at the geography and lost within our thoughts. New LA is an island surrounded by unsafe waters. And somewhere in the surf is a shark. A nasty one named Walter. Brown switches maps a few times, including live satellite feed. Eventually I ask, “Are we too vulnerable?”

  “Yes and no. No strike force of significant size can get in without us being alerted. But we’re stretched thin.”

  I say, “The Guardians are antsy. Itchy and eager for a fight. If Walter’s forces punch through then they’ll have a war on their hands with four thousand angry mutants.”

  He switches maps to our southern boundary. “If we’re vulnerable, it’s here. South.”

  “Huntington Beach? Santa Ana?”

  “We’re utilizing our resources north. To the south, we’re much less crenelated.”

  “But our enemies are to the north.”

  “So far,” he nods.

  “What should we do? About Walter and the gathering forces to our north?”

  “Right now, let’s wait to hear what the recon team says.”

  “Waiting sucks, General.”

  * * *

  That evening, Kayla, Becky, and I eat dinner in the 8th Street cafeteria. Becky and Kayla tentatively respect one another, even if they’re incompatible. Becky is moody and quirky, while Kayla effervesces. Becky can read people, while Kayla changes them.

  Becky says, “So Walter is sitting there. Within striking distance. Let’s kick his ass.”

  Kayla repeats herself. “Maybe he’s there. Maybe he’s not. There are—”

  “There are no visual confirmations, but he’s here.” Becky leans across the table toward us. “He’s here.”

  Kayla shudders and rubs at goosebumps. Sitting at the next table across from us are three members of the Falcons. I assigned them to be Kayla’s security detail. She’s the only person other than me that Walter directly threatened, and therefore she receives extra protection. With Walter so close, I’d rather be safe than sorry. Dalton sits adjacent to the Guardians.

  Becky observes Kayla’s discomfort and backs down. She blows hair from her face and mumbles, “Sorry. I forgot he…you know.”

  Kayla tilts her head to the side. “You know, Becky, you could see better if I gave you a haircut. Your hair is always in your eyes.”

  “General Brown advises we wait instead of rushing to attack,” I say. “And I trust him. He’s a grownup after all, and I’m just pretending.”

  Becky eats a fried potato off Kayla’s plate. “Grownups are the worst.”

  Kayla continues, “It wouldn’t have to be drastic, like bangs. We could…hmm, are you opposed to hair clips?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about—”

  “No. Not even side-swept bangs.”

  “But—”

  “No. Kayla, hot stuff, no. I like my hair. I don’t want yours. I don’t want to look like Blue-Eyes. I like me.”

  Kayla shakes her head and tsk’s in frustration. “I still can’t find her. No one can.”

  “Find who?”

  “Blue-Eyes.”

  I pause, a bite of beans forgotten in my mouth. “She’s missing?”

  “Gross, Carmine, chew your food. You’re a Queen.”

  “No I’m not. She’s missing?”

  “She’s been missing for three days. Not even PuckDaddy knows where.”

  Becky snorts, “So? Good riddance. We have bigger problems to worry about.”

  “A bigger problem than Blue-Eyes? Like what?”

  “The Queen loves the Outlaw.”

  My eyes about pop from my head. “I do not. And keep your voice down.”

 
“You’re always thinking about him.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “Yes I do.” Becky smiles, a mischievous impish smile. “I can tell.”

  “That doesn’t mean I love him. He’s a giant annoyance. No one is in love.”

  “He is. He’s bonkers for you.”

  I growl, “If you don’t close your mouth I’m going to stuff it with potatoes.”

  Kayla stares stonily at me, arms crossed. She smells like a rainstorm. “You promised you wouldn’t fall for him.”

  “I promised no such thing, and I haven’t.”

  “The Governess forbade it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Forbade? No one says forbade. And I don’t care what the Governess forbids, I do what I want.”

  “Like going to visit him tonight?” Becky asks. “In his cell?”

  “No. But I can if I want. And it’s none of your business.”

  “You’re going.”

  Kayla groans. “Forbidden love is hot, but I’m so mad at you.”

  “Okay.” I stand with my plate. “You two are juvenile mouth-breathers and I’m leaving. To get away from you.”

  Outside, the sun is almost gone. Fewer prying eyes. Maybe I should visit Chase’s cell just to spite those two…

  * * *

  I stand in front of the mirror, inspecting my outfit with a critical eye. This skirt is short. So immodest I’m blushing. It’d look fine if I wasn’t tall. Short girls are so lucky.

  I’m not tall. Am I tall? I don’t think so.

  Chase wants to play a game? Fine. We can play. I’ll make him beg and leave him unsatisfied. I’ll show him what he can’t have.

  But this skirt though…

  I rip it off and somehow I look less indecent. I mutter, “I’m just not a tiny skirt girl. Some girls are, some girls aren’t.” I’m talking to no one as I tunnel deeper through the clothing pile. Shorts? No, I look twelve. A dress? No, I’m nineteen, not a grandparent. Well, maybe this sexy sheer maxi dress, I think that’s what Kayla called it…good gosh it’s see-through. Wow, girls wear these out in public? No way. What about khakis? No, I’m not going to a job interview.

  Jeans. I settle on jeans. I’m a jeans girl. And a white, loose Hoffman top. The tag says draped front, with a surplice neckline. I don’t know what that means, but he should have a hard time not staring. I’m not going to simply win his game, I’m going to crush it.

  Wow. I look…wow. He’ll notice.

  My joints hurt without the comfort of compression, but I’m not wearing the red silk ribbons tonight. My hair looks…meh. I rake my fingers through. Whatever, it’s fine, I don’t care what he thinks. But maybe I should brush my teeth. And when was my last shower?

  * * *

  I Leap to the Ritz-Carlton on Olympic. The Night Guardians are rousing so I move quickly, careful to attract no attention. New Los Angeles is beautiful at night seen from four hundred feet and leaping between towers. Small fires leave trails across my vision. The Ritz looks like a magnificent shard of glass erupted from the ground, soaring high above the Staples Center. Very few of the windows have lights within. I find Chase on the fourth floor. The hallway is dark except for two candles resting on carpet at his doorway. He reclines against the doorframe, novel propped open in his hand. Two sentries sit next to the door, like little boys listening to him read. So rapt is their attention they don’t notice my arrival.

  He reads, “‘But it was not the trolls that had filled the Elf with terror. The ranks of orcs had opened and they crowded away, as if they themselves were afraid. Something was coming up behind them. What it was could not be seen; it was like a great shadow, in the middle of which was a dark form, of man-shape maybe, yet great; and a power and terror seemed to be in it and to go before it. It came to the edge of the fire and the light faded as if a cloud had bent over it. Then with a rush it leaped across the fissure. The flames roared up to greet it, and wreathed about it; and a black smoke swirled in the air. Its streaming mane kindled, and blazed behind it. In its right hand was a blade like a stabbing tongue of fire; in its left hand it held a whip of many thongs.’”

  “Boo,” I say.

  Both sentries are so startled that for an instant I worry about being shot. Upon recognition, blood drains from their face and they fall over themselves apologizing.

  “Aw, Katie, we just got to the Balrog.” Chase is unfazed by my arrival, and I suspect he saw me the whole time. “Come back in twenty minutes.”

  “You two,” I say. “Go get yourselves dinner. Come back in thirty minutes and wait in the stairwell.”

  “Don’t worry, fellas,” Chase says. “I’m marking my spot. We’re good.”

  The two sentries depart, deeply ashamed and hangdog.

  “The coast is clear,” I tell Chase. “Make a run for it.”

  “No way. Aaron and Jonathan would never find out what happens to the Fellowship. Aaron can’t read, you know.”

  I peer beyond him. His comfortable room is filled with baskets of food and gifts, such as books, clothing, and flowers. “So your cell has a breath-taking corner view. No bars. Not even a closed door. And apparently groupies bring you presents.”

  “My life is hard. And they’re fans, not groupies. Also, I’m aggressively fond of your shirt. Are you missing some of it? If you bend over, I think it’ll fall off.”

  He noticed. He always does.

  Katie is nearly delirious. She thinks the empty hallway and candlelight are romantic. Katie does, not me.

  “Wanna come in?”

  “Into your jail cell? Better not. People will get ideas.” I sit down next to him, separated only by the doorframe. “I don’t think prisoners are supposed to read books to their guards.”

  “Aaron and Jonathan have been stuck here for twelve hours. They’re bored to tears. It’s the least I could do.”

  I ask, “Why are you still here?”

  He dog-ears a page and closes the novel. “I’m in jail. No means to escape.”

  “Be serious. Why this farce?”

  He nudges me with his shoulder. He’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I bet the Outlaw outfit got hot. “You’re making this more complicated than it has to be. Getting thrown into jail is the easiest way to remain in New L.A. And to see you.”

  I give my head a little shake and tilt my face towards the ceiling. “You believe I’ll suddenly remember. That I’ll morph into Katie Lopez, and everything will snap back in focus. But I don’t think that’ll happen.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He holds his hand out and I take it on reflex. Our fingers intertwine, and the joy and comfort released is more than enough to subdue my headache and joint pain. Like magic. “I’ll take whatever version of you I can get. But I have hope.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you keep showing up. I’m a lunatic in a mask, but you’re drawn to me for reasons you can’t explain. Right?”

  My world shrinks. Already forgotten are the cares outside this hallway. Soon the entire universe will fit inside our candlelight. “What if this is all you get, though? It’s only me, Chase. Nothing more. What if you have all this hope and you never get Katie back? What if I’m all there is?” For whatever reason, my words come out in whispers.

  “I worry the same thing. What if Katie or Carmine realizes there’s nothing more substantive hidden underneath my surface? I don’t know how to answer your question. I’m just running on blind faith. Making it up as I go. Besides, I always wanted to stay at the Ritz. Dad and I were poor.”

  “Katie’s family was poor too, right? Just her and her mom? I mean…me and my mom?”

  He snickers, a soft sound through his nose. “Yeah, kinda. You called her mamá or mamí. Both our families had enough. Usually.”

  “Was Katie happy? Was I happy?”

  “Very.”

  “Are you happy?”

  The pressure on my fingers increases. “Yeah. I’m very happy.”

  “I feel…lost.”

  He asks, “Because you lack m
emories?”

  “And because I lack a future. To borrow your phrase, I’m making it up as I go. I bail water as fast as I can but the ship is still sinking. You know? And there’s a shark in the water.”

  “You should let me handle Walter.”

  “You’d win that fight? You’re positive?”

  He shrugs and holds his palm up, like Who Knows? “Maybe. I’ve beaten him before. Twice. Three times? No, the second fight was a tie.”

  “I can’t just launch you at him, like you exist purely as a missile. Besides, I’m the leader. The warrior Queen. If I let someone else fight that battle, I wouldn’t be worth following.”

  “You created a community with only the strength of your will. People follow you without even knowing why, like it’s your destiny. It’s magic, and it’s your gift. You’re too valuable to face him alone.”

  The door at the end of the hallway opens. Two women with a flashlight push in, grinning. I catch the scent of alcohol immediately. They’re shushing each other and stumbling. Dressed provocatively, and wearing makeup and jewelry. Here to entice the fabled war hero. Finally their flashlight lands on me.

  “Oh…shhhhhhhh,” one girl stammers. Her eyes are wide. “He—hello…”

  I arch an imperial eyebrow.

  She says, “We were…we’re looking for…”

  “Somebody else. Not here,” her friend says. They turn and flee through the door, which slams after them.

  Chase, never getting a glimpse, asks, “Company?”

  “Do you often receive female visitors?”

  “How old were they?” He grins like a fool, enjoying my irritation.

  “Maybe thirty? And quite pretty. Clearly benefitting from plastic surgery.”

  “Thirty-year-olds love me. I dunno why. They usually don’t run like that.”

  I ask, “Shall I fetch them?”

  “Nah. I’m a one-woman kinda guy.”

  “You think I’m that one? You’re delusional.”