Happiness in Numbers

by Nicole Field

  Rebecca had to agree. It was a nice sofa, but the cluster of five pairs of arms and legs hanging off of it every which way wasn't exactly comfortable.

  "What we need is a bed," said Kate.

  "We have a bed, a very, very nice bed," Michaela replied. "It's just been taken over by invaders."

  The children had passed out in a post-party food coma and refused to be moved.

  "You need a bigger bed too," Grant said after a moment. "Not as dire as the couch situation, but you definitely need a bigger bed."

  "I told you," said Michaela, "they don't get bigger than a California king. I keep telling you that."

  "I know you do. It's false, it has to be false."

  "It's not though."

  "Well, when you're doing the hotel gig, maybe talk to the people who supply the beds, see if someone can fix that nonsense."

  "Yeah, I'll get right on that. In the meantime, all of you just continue to ruin this beautiful leather couch my mother gifted us with."

  "I can't be held responsible for ruining it," Rebecca stated. "I wanted to stay dry."

  Kate scoffed. "Nope. You never want to be the only dry one in this group."

  "Speaking of," said Grant, perking up. "We had a deal, did we not?"

  "I don't have space enough to lift my arm, let alone lose my top."

  "Some things are important. We make space for those things."

  "Also, you promised me dinner," Kate said, reaching for Michaela's hand and nearly hitting Grant's eye in the process.

  "I know. And I will, babe, I'm just all kinds of tired right now."

  "Tired," repeated Elizabeth with a laugh. "The one who said she could handle all of us every night is tired."

  "I don't even have the space to do anything right now, so that's irrelevant."

  "See this?" said Kate "This is why I have to stray outside our marriage to seek fulfillment."

  "Oh, go read about one of your dead Greeks and their magic tongues that turn people into stone," Michaela said, poking out her tongue.

  Before Kate could answer, Grant shook his head. "None of this is okay. We must make space for certain things."

  Rebecca closed her eyes as she rested against Elizabeth, didn't see him do it but he must've pulled a handle somewhere. The back of the couch disappeared while the front of it shot up, reclining. There were jolts and curses, everyone's balance was thrown off, there was laughing and gentle hitting.

  "See?" Grant asked, his voice rough from catching Michaela's elbow to his chest. "We know how to make space around here."

  Sundown, Holiday, Beacon

  K.L. NOONE

  For Kelly, for sharing all the terrible puns

  The Sinister Sorcerer's cape caught the wind. Fluttered. Wreathed his flying form with imposing eerie green. That well-practiced supervillain laugh rattled buildings and sent a matching shiver down Ryan's spine. The two of them hovered across from the Golden Gate Bridge and watched each other, trapped in a mutual mid-air stand-off.

  The Sorcerer waved a hand. Stormclouds gathered. Rain pelted the world. A screech of threatened metal rose up from below.

  "Don't you dare," Ryan told him, "there're people on that bridge—" and caught his balance amid wind and pointed a finger. Lightning flashed. Electric as his current, pun intended, superhero name. Beacon. He was having second thoughts about that one. Too on the nose. Better than being the former Lightning Kid, Captain Justice's teenage sidekick, though.

  "Ow," said the Sinister Sorcerer, who at home went by Holiday Jones or Holly or occasionally That person who left yesterday's dishes in the sink; he jerked a foot out of the way, and glared. "You're not supposed to actually shoot me!"

  "It's verisimilitude!"

  "Big words from a former sidekick—"

  "Getting a little too into the role, aren't you, did you forget who tied you up yesterday—"

  "Both of you behave," said John's calm voice across their earpieces, "or no one's getting to tie anyone up tonight. Holly, menace people without hurting them, please. Ryan, don't shoot Holly in the foot, that's either obviously purposeful or ridiculously awful bad aim. And let's wrap this up soon, because the other Masters of Terror are starting to wonder whether they should leave the Terrible Tower and help. I'm hearing the calls out to henchmen, and I'm not out there to even the odds."

  Strategic. Experienced. Practical. John always had been the best, or at least most traditionally trained, among them. Good at plans and staging fake-but-believable battle scenes.

  "Sorry," Holly said immediately. He even visibly meant it. Sincerity behind the curling green and silver of his mask. In that elegant English accent. In those big anxious hazel eyes.

  Which meant he was perilously close to dropping the whole supervillain persona that kept them informed about the Masters of Terror and secret plans to be foiled. Ryan sighed. Holly, at nineteen, was nine years younger than his own twenty-eight, twenty-five years younger than John, and arguably more clever than both of them, but far less experienced as far as actual on-the-ground strategy. And more emotional, particularly when afraid he might've done something wrong.

  There were reasons for that, of course.

  Holly, continuing to apologize, went on, "Never mind, Ryan, you can shoot me, it's fine, I heal fast—"

  "I'm not going to seriously shoot you! I love you, you moron." Ryan considered this phrasing, added, "You know what I mean. Sorry, John. And I love you too." The rain got into his hair. Flattened it in black spikes over his face and the corner of his mask. He still wasn't sure about the gold and dark grey color scheme, but at least he'd successfully argued for sleek and simple and functional over fanciful and ornate. He liked sleek and simple and functional.

  He spared a second to glare at Holly, who was managing to float serenely between raindrops and stay dry. Definitely a Sinister Sorcerer. Charming his own personal weather.

  "You're both idiots," John said, "but you're my idiots. I'm making lasagna for dinner. We could all use the comfort after this. Ryan, shoot Holly, please."

  "I'm not—" An invisible hand, courtesy of one of Holly's mystic rings of power, flipped Ryan upside down. The hand dangled him over rain-pummeled waters, out above the bay. This was not a good feeling. "Thank you very much, now I feel extra menaced—"

  "I do have a plan," John observed mildly. "If you both would shut up and accept the benefit of my age and wisdom. Holiday, you're supposed to be attacking the bridge and demonstrating your utter rage at the foolish complacency of humanity, not wasting time on a former sidekick who should be beneath your notice—sorry, Ryan, you know I don't mean that—"

  "I know," Ryan said, doing a flip back upright with the aid of a lightning-bolt and momentum. The reminder would've stung, and from someone else it still would, but John trusted him. In his bones. In his soul. "And also, for the record, your age and wisdom are what got you stuck at home recovering from a lungful of Doctor Dread's poison compound. Are you using the inhaler we got you from Moon Labs? Go lie down. Don't make dinner. We can pick something up after this."

  Holly had started throwing cars off the bridge, being careful to select only the abandoned ones. Fleeing citizens, not privy to this information, shrieked and scurried and dropped belongings.

  "I've got a blanket. And the inhaler. I'm fine. Holly, your fatal weakness is your arrogance, right? So let's use that and make this quick. You're thinking you've disposed of Beacon for good. The old Lightning Kid. Someone's sidekick. Easy. Not a challenge. You can turn your back on him and let that be your undoing. Ryan, speaking of, go shoot Holly in the back."

  "I'm not that much of a dick!" Ryan said.

  "I really don't mind," Holly said, which made both his partners wince.

  Ryan didn't have to say anything to know that John would be having the exact same thoughts. As much as they all three enjoyed Holly's genuinely submissive tendencies in bed, there was a line that got unhealthy, and that line hovered right around the need to keep on proving himself and his own redemption vi
a martyrdom.

  Holly, who knew perfectly well what they'd be thinking but hadn't quite accepted the extent of his partners' genuine concern over his own well-being, added, "I'd trust you not to hit anything vital, and we've got to make it convincing, haven't we?"

  "Holiday," John said, "I didn't mean you couldn't put up a personal force field as a shield!"

  "Oh. Right."

  "Tell me when," Ryan said, sneaking up around a bridge pylon. He wanted good footing for this; he didn't want to miss. When he landed his boot slipped briefly on rain-slick metal; he grabbed a piece of bridge and held on.

  John paused to cough. Ryan and Holly paused to worry.

  Down below, a few civilians pointed and called out Ryan's code name. Their superhero, or at least half the local team. Electricity and flight and light in the darkness. Metaphoric and literal. A beacon, as it were.

  Normally John would've been out here with him. Much better at crowd control. Big and kind and comforting. Super-soldier strength and minor telepathic illusions, which was always nice for dealing with magical threats or facades thereof.

  John Trent, aka Sundown, had been a recognizable force for good for over fifteen years. People tended to like him.

  Of course, normally John hadn't run into a poison-filled trap in order to defuse a deadly bioweapon three days earlier. Self-sacrificial idiot. Giant martyr, arguably worse than Holiday. All muscles and good intentions.

  Ryan adored him. Which meant scolding was in order. "If you don't sound any better by tomorrow I'm calling my mother."

  "Come on, last time your mother threatened to sedate me for a week, that's not fair—"

  "You had two broken legs!"

  Ryan's mother adored John, too. Both Ryan's parents did; both Doctors Yamamoto, the physicist and the trauma surgeon, had immediately adopted their son's partner and enveloped him in love and expensive holiday gifts and cooking of his favorite foods. They fussed over John's birthday and even the anniversary of his first partner's death. If they knew John was unwell, they'd show up at Clifftop armed with medical knowledge, laboratory supplies, and at least three kinds of soup.

  Ryan occasionally suspected his parents liked John better than they liked him. All of John's old-fashioned, respectful politeness. Irresistible. Which he himself knew all too well. Head over heels, right from the start. That first-ever leap into side-by-side battle. Taking down a robot army, falling in love.

  "I can still shoot with broken legs," John argued. "Which you need to do. Soon, please, there's chatter happening on the radio."

  "I'll go and be theatrical at people," Holly said. "And pretend I'm not paying attention to you, so you can shoot me." His cape rippled majestically. His mask caught storm-light and glinted. His rings hummed; he spread his arms and descended toward huddled humans.

  Ryan couldn't not roll his eyes.

  Holiday Fortune Lyndsay Jones—the last surviving Sinister Sorcerer—gestured grandly at his audience. Intoned, switching to the external channel, "You are naught but earthworms before the power of my magic! Tremble before your rightful leader! Quake upon the sight of true power! Kneel!"

  "Earthworms?" Ryan said.

  "He's having fun," John said. "You know he loves Shakespeare. Though I'm not sure about the earthworms, either."

  "Would you hurry up," Holly said, switching back, "I can only shout at them for so long before they realize I'm not in fact going to harm anyone."

  Ryan shoved wet hair out of his face again, made a mental note to ask whether his father could do something about a weatherproof cowl, and lifted a hand. "Got shields up?"

  "Yes, Ryan," Holly said.

  Thunder clamored. Waves crashed across the bay. The bridge swayed. Ryan shouted, "We'll never kneel before you!"—and yes, okay, he was having fun too—then summoned up white-hot electric bolts, arcs that flew from his hand and struck the Sinister Sorcerer squarely between the shoulders.

  Holly flung up both arms, staggered, fell to both knees. Tried to get up. Fell back onto the bridge. Waved a feeble hand and made faint shimmers in the air. "This cannot be!"

  "Don't overact or anything," John said, laughing, coughing, finally getting breath back.

  Ryan jumped down from the swoop of the bridge. Landed next to him. "Had enough?"

  Holly gave him a supercilious glare. Every bit of that aristocratic heritage thrown in. Effective as hell, even on his knees. Maybe especially then. Ryan had an absurd flash of memory: The week before, Holiday Jones on both knees then too, bound in leather.

  Holly announced, "Never, hero!" and tried to open a hole in the bridge under Ryan's feet.

  Ryan wrapped lightning around his ankles. Yanked. Knocked him sprawling. "How about now?" Privately, he flipped back to their shared channel and added through the earpiece they shared, "You okay?"

  "Fine. You know how much I love it when you're rough with me." Those sunlit forest-path eyes sparkled. "I mean—You may have vanquished me this day, but we'll meet again!"

  Green and gold streaks spun into a circle. The Sinister Sorcerer's Mysterium, that den of obscure and wicked secrets, hovered on the other side. Holly moved the Mysterium around on an irregular schedule; at the moment it was hanging out in Canada, near Vancouver, by the bay. Holly liked water and rain.

  "Can I go," Holly said to them, "or should I let myself be thrown around a bit more?"

  "No, go on, you've already done the big exit line—"

  "Your days of heroism are numbered, Beacon!" Holly said over him, and jumped to both feet and dove through the portal in a flare of jade and tourmaline light. He somehow managed to make even retreat appear as weightless as a cloud.

  He left the rain pouring down. Ryan, standing on the bridge and dripping wet, sighed.

  The civilians gazed at him. One or two cautiously applauded. Ragged cheers ventured up. A few people peeked down at their cars, floating in the bay, in dismay.

  "That's our Lightning Kid!" someone said.

  Someone else said, "No, he goes by Beacon now, remember? Hooray for Beacon!"

  Ryan gritted teeth, felt water squish inside his left boot, and gave them all a halfhearted not-exactly-salute. Then gathered up electric threads of life, felt the humming of the world in his hands, and launched himself back into the air.

  Several hands waved as he passed overhead. John set down a mug of tea—from the noise, probably on one of the monitor screens—and said, "Hey, at least they remembered your name eventually."

  "I hate people."

  "No you don't. You rescue people, Beacon."

  "I'm the one who's supposed to hate people," Holly put in. He must've arrived at the Mysterium safely; Ryan could picture him, slim and lovely and smiling under a shoved-up wild mask. "You're the hero. Heroes. Both of you."

  "I'm thinking about a name change. I sound like architecture. A lighthouse." Ryan stretched out senses, rode currents, felt the crackle of life as it sang through his body. He raced Holly's stupid storm toward Clifftop; he thought he'd make it home first, but only barely.

  "You don't want to go through five names in two years," John said. "No one'll be able to keep track. Looks like everyone's fine, by the way, no casualties, nothing worse than a few skinned knees and bruises. Nicely done."

  "As long as we were convincing." The cliffs of Clifftop loomed up and beckoned Ryan in, green and grey and foggy and, to the average gaze, uninhabited. The island sat unplotted and unmapped out in the Pacific Ocean, not too distant from the coast of California. It'd been John's base first, back when he and Robbie Rivers had stood side by side and hand in hand and carved it out of stone.

  Ryan had only met John's first partner once, years ago. They'd been finishing some mop-up work, collecting tiny resurrected dinosaurs before New York City could be overrun. After locking away a mad scientist or two, both Sundown and Mercury had dropped by to talk to Captain Justice.

  The two of them stood framed in sunlight like legends, made of square jaws and straight shoulders and matching military bearing, John
's fawn-brown hair and pale grey eyes a perfect dark mirror of Robbie's brilliant gold and sapphire blue. They'd laughed, and made jokes with Tim about the shiny scales on the Captain Justice uniform, and shaken hands. They'd held press conferences. They'd saved the world with confidence and dazzling smiles and kissed each other in public and made jokes about that too, how they'd always known, from Army basic training to voluntary top-secret experiments to fighting baby lizard monsters, that nothing would ever come between them.

  Robbie Rivers, despite golden strength and telekinetic powers and shining laughter, had died preventing a stolen nuclear weapon from taking out half the planet. John, locked in hand-to-hand battle with the mastermind responsible for the launch, had heard him die.

  Ryan couldn't even imagine that moment. Hearing that. Living with that. He hoped he'd never have to. And he knew, the way they all knew, the risks of what they did.

  That'd been over a decade ago. John might've quit fighting, then. Might've succumbed to vigilante vengeance and gone on a murderous rampage. He hadn't, because he was John. He'd simply thrown himself back into work, tense and devastated and rigidly determined to follow all the rules and take all the villains into custody and save as many lives as he could.

  Ryan dove through clouds and a waterfall, wondered why they had so much water and specifically why it kept landing on his head tonight, and slipped through the gossamer ripple of the hidden entrance next to their jet's concealed landing pad. Clifftop tucked itself around him, snug and cavernous, sprawling into the mountain but made of curves and friendly rock-falls, artistic and cozy as home.

  At the moment, home smelled of lasagna and fireplace heat.

  Ryan grinned, shouted, "We told you not to bother!" and kicked off wet boots in the entryway. They tipped over, yellow lightning-designs flopping onto each other.

  John yelled back, "Too late, I already bothered!" and came out from the kitchen to meet him.

  Knitted blanket over shoulders. Slight hint of grey in that baby-owl hair. Tall and commanding and present as ever, even wearing sweatpants and a time-worn white shirt with paint on the hem from when they'd refinished the cabinets. Home, in every sense. Yes.