Love for the Cold-Blooded. Or

by Alex Gabriel

  “Sure, Dad. It’s cool.” Hey, Pat had known this was coming, and he really didn’t mind. “I have no problems being a Serpent Slut.”

  Serpentissima had always been one of those challengers who kept scantily clad members of the appropriate gender by her side. It made for a properly impressive visual tableau, and boosted media coverage besides. Plus, Pat wasn’t qualified to be a right hand, his recent rise through the ranks of Sir Toby’s campaign notwithstanding. He was still firmly at minion level, and would only have slowed his sisters down while they were, say, disabling and reprogramming security networks, hacking into the hoagie communication system, or leading minions into conflict in a strategically and tactically sound manner. Hell, Cea and Zen did that kind of stuff practically in their sleep, while Pat was hopeless at it even wide awake.

  Whatever. None of his sisters could rebuild an aqueduct or plan a park. There was nothing wrong with being a Serpent Slut — Dad had been one too. That was how he’d met Pat’s mother in the first place.

  Pat wasn’t worried about being a Serpent Slut, it was time that was the issue. He had exams coming up, and if this ascendancy lasted as long as the last one, Pat had no idea when he’d be able to get back to studying. There was no point to voicing these concerns to anyone but Mom, though. Dad couldn’t change the plan, and his sisters would just tell him to suck it up and lose a semester or six. Hell would, anyway, and even Cea and Zen would probably agree, now that it was Mom who was making a bid for power rather than just any challenger.

  Dad ruffled Pat’s hair fondly. “You’ve always been such a sweet and good-natured boy, Patpat. Alright, kids, who wants to try a home-made veggie sausage spiced with the secret herbs of the jungle’s dark and vengeful heart? I can throw some on the grill with the next round of tofu burgers.”

  Needless to say, everyone wanted to try the jungle’s dark and vengeful heart. It tasted amazing, just like everything else. Pat stuffed himself until he could hardly move, and didn’t wonder how Nick would like Dad’s cooking more than once or twice.

  For dessert, Pat brought out the hazelnut and white chocolate cake he’d made because Dad and Cea loved hazelnuts and Zen and Hell had a thing for white chocolate. In all truth, he was a little nervous; his baking skills were still evolving. It worked out well, though. Zen contemplated the lopsided cake briefly before cutting herself one thin slice from the fluffy end and one from the compact one, declaring it a cunning composition of consistencies. Good marketing made all the difference. Turned out the cake tasted pretty great, too. Sir Toby had the best recipes.

  “I’ll go first, shall I?” Dad paused to take another bite of cunningly composed cake. “This is really interesting, Patpat. You’ll have to tell me how you get the cake to rise diagonally. But as for the interesting thing I have done this week: Most of my time was spent traveling through the jungle, of course, and then there was the flight here. But I did air out the old lair by the river, set up some heating lamps, and bring in the contractors to make the necessary alterations. Tomorrow I’m going to mow the lawn and prune the trees, and after that I’ll cook some stews and casseroles to put in the freezer. We’ll be glad of them when we’re busy gaining dominion over the world, and can’t find time to cook.”

  Great, so they were still doing the ‘one interesting thing I did this week’ thing, and Dad was still an abject failure at it. That wasn’t one interesting thing but about a dozen, plus some plans for the future thrown in for extra credit.

  “I helped Sir Toby find a new power source to replace the Crystal of Power, which was stolen by Bitterfly,” Hell said, unprompted. “I located —”

  “Butterfly!”

  Hell broke off to stare at him. Everyone else was staring at him, too. Pat made a ‘what?’ grimace at his sisters, making sure to cross his eyes for emphasis. “She’s called Butterfly, dudes. Like, I talked to her the other day, and she’s cool. Kick-ass wings, and she’s a total drag-down dirty brawler, which you gotta admit is a neat contrast with that floaty ethereal image she’s got going on. Anyway, the whole Bitterfly thing? That was a mix-up. Which isn’t that surprising when you think about it. Who’d want to be called Bitterfly?”

  Pat had told Sir Toby about his adventure at the Nymph, of course, although he’d glossed over some bits slightly — he didn’t think a dignified older gentleman like Sir Toby really needed to hear about the groping. Plus, that whole thing where Pat was careless and got zapped just got in the way of the tale’s message, which was that Silver Paladin had taken Butterfly into custody and gained possession of the Crystal. But Pat had definitely mentioned that Butterfly had never wanted to be called Bitterfly, so there was no excuse for Hell to keep using the wrong name.

  “I found a new power source for Sir Toby,” Hell amended, giving Pat the utterly unimpressed look that only older sisters could ever master. “It’s called the Battery of Bounty, and we’ve nearly completed the adjustments to the MCR that it necessitates.”

  It was Cea’s turn, but she only shrugged, breaking off a bit of cake. “I’ve been coding a database for the challenger network. Nothing too exciting, really.”

  “I set up some spare false identities, bank accounts and shadow companies for all of us, just in case,” Zen reported, and winked at Pat. “You never know when that kind of thing will come in handy.”

  Now it was Pat’s turn, and he still didn’t know what to say. As was his usual modus operandi when in doubt, he opened his mouth and blurted out the first thing that occurred to him. “I’m working on a paper on socio-spatial changes which is super cool. But even more interesting is that I went to the opera the other night and got back together with my… boyfriend.”

  Pat hesitated over the word ‘boyfriend’, because really, he wasn’t certain that it fit. But what else was he going to call Nick? Ex-employer and accidental hook-up? That sounded all wrong, for all that it was technically accurate. Friend? Well, yeah, that worked except for the part where Pat wanted to sex him up, and do totally sappy shit with him besides, like making him tell him about the things he thought were awesome about Pat and listen to all of Nick’s favorite albums (except for freaking Ghost Matter), and go on dates to frat parties and the opera and a bunch of other places. Have a bunch of silly anniversaries. That kind of thing.

  Lover? Well. Maybe someday — someday soon. But not just yet.

  The snake around Pat’s neck wriggled restively and tried to slide down one sleeve of his shirt. He caught it carefully and set it on the table, where it picked a curious, winding way in between the dishes and silverware. Everyone was staring at Pat again when he looked back up.

  “What?” he said.

  “Your boyfriend?” said Dad, carefully.

  Oh. Right. Pat probably should have led into that a bit, shouldn’t he.

  Dad’s face was carefully blank in studied parental neutrality. Pat couldn’t tell what he was thinking at all.

  He looked a plea for assistance at Hell, Cea and Zen, but none of them seemed about to jump in. Zen did widen her eyes at him meaningfully, but that wasn’t much help, considering that Pat had no clue what she was trying to tell him.

  “Yeah, uh, about that,” Pat said at last. “I probably shouldn’t call him my boyfriend yet. I mean, we haven’t talked about it. We’ll definitely be getting to the boyfriend stage at some point, though. What kind of measuring criteria are there for boyfriendhood anyway? I figure, a lot of heavy shit went down and he’s still around, and he asked me out on an opera date and got all stressed about whether I like fancy restaurants in the right way or something freaky like that —”

  “Pat.” Dad might have been the only person in Pat’s life who could unerringly head off a swell of babbling before it was too late. “This is the person you mentioned on the phone, the one you weren’t sure about yet?”

  What exactly had he said? “Yeah,” he mumbled, uncertain. “It started off kinda weird with him, so. Not bad weird, just weird weird.” To think they hadn’t even gotten to the hoagie part yet, a
nd Pat was already in over his head, explaining-wise.

  The moment of awkward stretched painfully, to be broken at long last by Dad’s decisive nod. “I’d like to meet this young man.”

  Pat stared at his dad in horror. He couldn’t even count the ways in which that would be a spectacularly bad idea. The only way it could possibly be worse would be if Mom were in on it, as well.

  “Pretty sure they’re not at the ‘meeting the parents’ stage yet, Dad.” That was Zen — sweet, lovely Zen, Pat’s most favorite sister, forever and always. “It’s always a mistake to jump the gun there. Imagine only just having resigned yourself to going out with our little Patpat here, and then being dragged to meet his family next thing. You couldn’t blame the poor man if he ran for the hills.”

  “Would not,” Pat muttered down at the tablecloth, grumpily and very quietly. He suspected only the snake — which was inspecting Pat’s dessert fork with some interest — heard him at all. Just as well, really.

  “What kind of man is this, anyway?” Dad asked suspiciously. “You’re still very young, Patpat, and you know you tend to leap before you look. I just don’t want you to fall for some bounder and get your heart broken.”

  Bounder? Wow, Dad had skipped being stuck in the last century to go right back to the middle ages or something. “He’s not like that,” Pat mumbled. “Seriously, he’s not boundy at all. In fact he’s freakishly serious and reliable. It’s sickening, is what it is.”

  “Pat’s not that young anymore, either,” Hell jumped in unexpectedly. “He’s been looking for someone for a long time, Dad, and from what I can tell, he hasn’t made a horrible choice. I got a brief look at Pat’s friend and rather liked what I saw.”

  Pat stared at her in blank incomprehension. Not that he didn’t appreciate the support, but what did she mean, she’d gotten a look at Nick? She’d never met him! Unless — oh no. No way. Surely she didn’t mean the battle in front of City Hall, where she’d led Sir Toby’s minions into the fray against Silver Paladin and Nexus.

  Hell’s grin was a wicked, razor-sharp thing. “He seemed very dedicated and hard-working. Very busy, too. He rushed off after barely a moment.”

  “Of course he’s busy,” Cea jumped in, an evil sparkle in her eye. “Pat’s honey is a successful entrepreneur, Dad. A real catch.”

  Dad hummed noncommittally. “Let’s let Patrick speak for himself, girls. Tell me about your young man, son. What’s his name? What does he do? How did the two of you meet?”

  “His name is Nick,” Pat mumbled at the crumbs of condensed cake left on his plate. The snake on the table looked at him curiously, tongue flickering as it scented the air (and probably his despair, which at least rhymed). “He just, you know. And I guess we just ran into each other, or whatever.”

  “Pat made a big impression right off the bat!” Cea’s entire being seemed alight with unholy glee. “Didn’t you, Pat? Nick was really eager to meet him again. Must have done something right, Patpat.”

  “One of these days you’ll have to give us a blow by blow,” said Zen, with an absolutely obscene smirk. Pat knew better than to hope she hadn’t made that pun deliberately. His sisters were evil. One and all.

  “Okay, okay,” Dad said, shaking his head with a laugh. “Leave Patpat alone, girls, he’s red as a tomato. I’ve never known you to be shy, Pat, so I guess it must be serious. We’ll arrange for dinner with your… Nick once your mother arrives, alright? She’ll definitely want to meet him.”

  Yeah, sure. Pat would put it on his schedule right after ‘jump off a bridge’ and/or ‘win the Bonelle prize for astrophysics’. He was beginning to suspect he should have stopped to think this whole thing through at some point.

  Had Nick been any other guy — okay, had Nick been any other guy who was bright and respectable, entirely non-bounding, had a good job and treated Pat right, and who was emphatically not a hoagie… had his parents been someone other than the original Serpent Slut sidekick and Serpentissima herself… if everybody involved had been an entirely different person, in other words. Sure, then it would have been a different story, and they might all have gotten on like a house on fire. As it was, the house on fire seemed likely to be way more literal than Pat could handle.

  “Uhm. He’s real busy. Like Hell said. And uhm, I’m not sure. I mean.”

  “Son, if this man is important to you, then your mother and I want to meet him. If he cares about you the way he should, he’ll want to know your family, too.”

  Wasn’t that a charming thought. Fuck, Pat was so screwed.

  ~~~~~

  “Moats are a fine thing, young Patrick, a fine thing indeed,” Sir Toby said, smiling benevolently as he put a hand on Pat’s shoulder. “If you have a castle, that is. I do not, you will notice. However, I believe that this might be a career goal to keep in mind for yourself, no?”

  Sir Toby’s scheme had taken off with breakneck speed after the enforced hiatus. The Battery of Bounty had an even sillier name than the Crystal of Power, in Pat’s considered opinion — who named these things, anyway? — but it got the job done. And once the Mind Control Ray was fully operational again, Sir Toby went full speed ahead, no quarter given.

  It was pretty awesome to watch the man in action. He was impressive as hell when he got going, all inexorable drive and determination, steely imperious gaze, ringing sonorous tones and ramrod-straight posture. Even the mustache suddenly made sense. There was a reason why Sir Toby was one of the most respected and feared challengers around, and this was it.

  That, and the android dolphins. Because, come on.

  Within a single week, the municipal government had been abolished, the entire city and environs had joined Sir Toby’s official fanclub (no joke, that was a thing), and Sir Toby had called out the independent city state of Tobyville, to great public enthusiasm. The spontaneous outbursts of celebration included dancing in the streets, flowers and streamers everywhere, and a great variety of supportive initiatives by the city’s businesses. (Happy Beans set up stands on the street, giving out free coffee and baked goods. None other than Malvolio sent Pat a friendly text inviting him to drop by for old time’s sake. If that wasn’t proof of the amazing mind-bending power of the MCR, nothing was.)

  But Pat didn’t drop by any of Happy Beans’ stands. He’d quit his job, too. There was no time in Tobyville for coffee breaks. General happiness made it a lot easier to get shit done. Sir Toby and Hell were putting down the groundwork for a new and better administration… a new and better everything. Accordingly, Pat, Cat and all the other minions were rushing around like crazy, bearing memos, setting up meetings, writing protocols, visiting power plants and schools and bookshops and all kinds of places where the potential for improvement or a deficit in municipal policy or urban planning might lurk.

  It was mad awesome. Pat had managed to sneak in a few vital suggestions of his own, too. The one regarding worthy bookshops had been well-received, and Sir Toby had also asked Pat to work out his proposal of a more efficient trash collection schedule into a concrete plan ready to be implemented.

  Unfortunately, Sir Toby was less on board with the idea of a moat around the downtown area (in lieu of a castle). Pat felt a little disappointed in the man as a person, to be honest. Moats were the shit. “How about a pond, then?” he suggested hopefully. “With trout? We could have a half-sunken bell tower in the middle for atmosphere, and also to provide a home for bats. They’re endangered, you know. Bats, not bell towers.”

  “Your future schemes will be remarkable to behold,” Sir Toby said, and turned to the next minion trying to get his attention.

  Pat was holding on to the half-sunken bell tower idea, just in case. He wasn’t going to be a challenger, but urban planners needed dreams and aspirations, too.

  ~~~~~

  Star Knight crashed through the City Hall’s wall in an explosion of plaster, bricks and mind-splitting noise. He landed squarely on the Mind Control Ray, the horrible shriek of tearing and breaking steel momentar
ily eclipsing even the deafening rumble of falling masonry outside.

  Discretion was definitely the better part of valor where superpowered alien hoagies with a penchant for smashing things were concerned. Accordingly, Pat ducked into the limited shelter afforded by a solid oaken bookcase, covering his ears and as much of the rest of his head as possible with his arms. He caught a glimpse of Cat and Nessa seeking refuge beneath Sir Toby’s desk, and was momentarily relieved. At least there hadn’t been anybody in the room who was stupid enough to think that attacking Star Knight was anything but a suicidally bad idea.

  When the brief shower of debris had ended, Pat risked a glance around the edge of the bookcase. Their own personal alien invader was now perching on the MCR’s ruined base, gripping the machine’s still-standing bent and twisted frame from the inside to pull it down hand over hand, as though taking down a sail. He folded the metal over his forearm as he worked, periodically pausing to compress it into a lump of misshapen metal. Black, acrid smoke rose around him, shot through by occasional showers of hissing sparks and the sullen white-orange glow of overheated steel. Pat coughed and blinked against his watering eyes, straining to see.

  The Battery of Bounty popped with a bright flare of multicolored sparks, like fireworks; a sudden roll of thunder and the sharp, grassy scent of chlorophyll filled the office. On the other side of the room, Nessa gasped, the small sound weirdly audible in the echoing silence after the thunderclap.

  When Star Knight was done with his work of destruction, he climbed on top of the half-molten metal lump and jumped up and down a few times, flattening it into an irregular oblong that reminded Pat of the ugly modern sculpture down by the river promenade near the opera. Hot steel and burnt plastic flavored the air so thickly Pat was almost glad of the gigantic hole in the wall, even if the air that blew in was laden with the scent of crushed concrete and something acrid and bitter. Oil and coolant ran in rivulets across the marble floor, pooling in the bootprint-shaped craters Star Knight had left.