Ripple Effects

by Laura J. Mixon

  Up near the top of the stairs, as promised, she found the window, open just wide enough for a small person like her to wiggle through (check). She shoved her bag in, scrambled across the window’s threshold, and dropped to the floor with a loud thunk.

  “If you’re back there in the past watching, honey,” she said, “you really owe me.”

  She used her phone’s flashlight to locate the key card hanging over the supervisor’s desk, and slipped the lanyard around her neck. Then she exited the office onto the catwalk. The dirigible sat below.

  A sigh escaped her. “Oh, Rip. You didn’t tell me …”

  It was massive. It was glorious. In the rosy, predawn light entering through the hangar’s row of high-up windows, the airship gleamed like the world’s biggest Mylar balloon. Standing here, just above its tail, she could barely see over it. It was wider than it was tall, too, and all but filled the hangar, over a football field’s length down the way. It was a flattened cigar shape with fins on its tail, kind of like a submarine. In big powder-blue letters, below AeroLux Sky Cruises, was its name: GOSSAMER SPIRIT.

  Somehow, for all its mass, if she went down there to the bottom and gave it a push, she felt sure it’d float right up off the ground.

  The stairway to her left went only one direction: down. It had two intermediate stops on its way to the bottom. About fifteen feet below her was a landing with a gate, and a catwalk that ran alongside the cruiser. A second landing came about two thirds of the way down its back end, maybe forty feet above the floor. That was her destination.

  She descended to that second landing, and on impulse, farther down, nearly to floor level. Below the dirigible’s belly, between four squat legs, hung a long, sleek gondola. The gondola was enclosed, with big picture windows all around: a space big enough for at least a couple hundred people to sit and walk about comfortably. Through the windows, she could see a second, much smaller gondola, way at the front end of the dirigible, which must be the pilots’ gondola.

  And then, through the windows in the hangar door, she spotted a pickup, headed this way. Her heart jumped. She raced up the steps.

  Everything that came next felt like it was happening to someone else. Back to the cargo bay landing and open the door with the key card (check). Duck inside and close door (check). Find the machine room. Her phone flashlight showed her a door labeled Machine Room at the end of a short corridor. Before it was the T-shaped intersection Rip had told her about, with the storage unit she was supposed to hide in, a big foot-locker–type thing. She spotted a row of orange coveralls like the pair she had on, hanging on hooks above the locker. Across the way in the other nook stood the ladder with the hatch at its feet, which led down through the lower hold and into the passenger gondola.

  Now that she had the lay of the land, she headed down to the end of the corridor and tried the machine room door. It was unlocked (check). She slipped inside and left it ajar.

  The jet engine–looking machine squatted beside the big spherical tank. It had a big green diamond on it with numbers. Tiffani hurried over. The tank was up on a low platform, with big pipes coming out of it. She spotted the box Rip had told her to look for—it was on the corner of the platform, close to the jet engine machine.

  Swap out the part, she thought. But—damn it!—the key card lanyard brushed against her arm as she set down her bag. She’d forgotten to throw it onto the stairs.

  Too late for that now. She fumbled around in the bag for the part she’d brought. Her hands were shaking. Calm down, Megan. You big baby. She drew a breath, pulled out the part she’d brought, and shone her light on the original. The two versions looked identical. She picked up the original—and heard faint rhythmic clanging on the stairs, and muffled voices.

  Shit, shit, shit! She shut off her light. They were right outside the hold. She’d taken too long with her little detour earlier.

  In the dark, her hands held both boxes. And in that moment, she knew. Nope. Can’t. Ain’t gonna happen. She set the original box down where she’d found it and stuffed Rip’s phony one back into her bag.

  Then she turned on the faint light from her phone display and made it to the machine room door, scrambled past the ladder as the outer door clanked, and rolled onto the storage locker in the nook. The lights came up as she stood, oh-so-quietly, among the hanging coveralls. She eased one in front of her face. The other coveralls were much bigger than hers. They were also dirty. Ugh. They reeked of oil and dirt and body odor. The hold was air conditioned and she tried not to shiver, pinching her nose with her hand. Two men were talking. Their footsteps grew louder.

  They entered the machine room and the machine room door latched shut. She peeked out. No sign of them in the corridor. She slid down off the locker, opened it, and climbed inside.

  Shoot the bolt, Rip had said, before closing it. That way the lid would fit over the rim of the locker rim, but wouldn’t latch, so she could breathe and get out later. She dug out her cardigan and put it on to stave off the chill, and then hunched over her knees in the dark.

  It had been too dark in the machine room for Rip to see that she’d defied him. Could he know what she’d done? How could he know? There was no way.

  Either way, though, she was dead. She’d known that for the past two weeks, since he’d told her what Plan B was.

  She’d pretended this whole time—even to herself—that she believed him. That as long as she followed his instructions today, she’d be OK, and so would everybody else. It wasn’t true. He wanted to bring the airship down tonight. He wasn’t just out to steal the golden trumpet—though he surely wanted that, too. He wanted to draw the eyes of the world to New Liberty Island, with the Candle in the center. He wanted to utterly destroy him. To lay him so low before so many that he’d never be able to get back up.

  And if Rip wanted her to stay aboard so bad, his intent there was clear, too. Tiffani had served her purpose. He was wrapping up loose ends.

  Well, she’d foiled that part of his plan, at least. She’d saved the airship. But now she had no escape—she had to stay here till it was time to leave, per Rip’s instructions; if not, he’d have seen it and would have laid a different trap for her. Whether she liked it or not, she’d have to spend the day a mile aboveground until the show tonight.

  She couldn’t even warn her family about him, even if she’d had cell phone coverage—which she did not, out here in the boonies inside this little metal box. If she contacted them now, past-Rip, again, would’ve long since seen it, and set up one of his little traps for them. She couldn’t let him see now that she was defying him, or that she knew what he was up to. Otherwise, by the time she could call her family they’d already be dead.

  But one possibility sprang to mind. She’d had a chance to look at his plans that night he’d left them out. She had one single thread of hope—if not of saving herself, at least of saving them. At 11:52 a.m. today, he planned to meet the Candle near the Staten Island Ferry terminal in Manhattan. He’d had the time and date marked in one of his temporal maps. For some reason he had to be there precisely at that time. And he’d had two probability paths mapped out from there. One he’d use if he decided it was necessary to tell his old lover what his ace power was, to force his cooperation; the other, if it turned out to be unnecessary.

  According to his notes, the discussion would take less than ten minutes. In that time window, he’d have to make a decision. And he’d told her himself that he couldn’t see past a decision point till after his temporal blind spot resolved.

  So from 11:57 at the earliest and 12:02 at the latest to about an hour after that, a time shadow would be cast over his future-vision. And within that shadow, she had a chance to warn her family without him ever knowing. But to pull it off, she’d have to time it perfectly.

  Guess he’s right, as always. Timing is everything.

  * * *

  John spotted Rip standing at a corner in Battery Park, just east of the Staten Island Ferry terminal. A sign on a building
across the street had a time-and-temperature display, and the time changed to 11:52 a.m. as he walked up.

  “Right on time. Good.” Rip looked John over. His hands went to his waist. “Wow, you must not have slept a wink. Something eating at you? Your conscience, perhaps?”

  “In your dreams, Titus.”

  John had slept, but not nearly enough. He’d had to get up early to deal with the cleanup of the cabin he’d damaged the night before, and then he’d run through his company’s various investigative databases to dig up whatever he could about Titus Maguire.

  “The name is Rip,” the other man said.

  “And my name is John. John Julius Montaño.”

  “Have it your way, ‘John.’” Rip made air quotes. “Down to business.” The walk light at the intersection turned green and he stepped into the street. John followed. “I asked you out here so we could talk in private. What with your security team crawling all over the Queen and your surveillance equipment on board …” They’d reached the other side; he stepped up onto the curb. “Easier to arrange for a tête-à-tête outside the ring of security.” He broke off and looked to the south, across the bay. John looked, too, and saw the dirigible rising into the air across the river in Jersey, beyond the Golden Lady and the wharfs of Jersey City.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Rip said. “They’re pulling out all the stops. Tonight should be quite a show.”

  John made an impatient circling motion with his hand. “Get to the point, Titus. I haven’t got all day.”

  “As you wish. I’m going to steal Armstrong’s fancy gold trumpet tonight, and you are going to help me do it.”

  “I figured as much. And if I refuse, you’ll reveal your ‘evidence’ of my criminal youth. Mustache-twirl, evil laugh, yada yada.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, tough break. I’m not about to lift a pinkie to help you. See, I’ve been doing some checking on you. You’ve amassed quite a fortune over the years. There is no way in hell you did that legally.”

  Rip smiled widely. “All too true. But proving it … there’s the rub.”

  “I don’t need to prove it. All I need to do is plant seeds of doubt in the right places. I know a lot of people in law enforcement. If word gets out of my youthful indiscretions, what’s to stop me from revealing yours? Maybe the IRS or the SEC would like to have me as a cooperating witness about where you got your start. Maybe they’ll take a closer look at your activities. You’re on the board of directors for three Fortune 100 companies, I noticed. I imagine they wouldn’t be thrilled if you ended up under investigation.”

  “I’d sue your ass for defamation. And my pockets are a hell of a lot deeper than yours, Juanma. I guarantee it.”

  The light changed and a truck honked. Diesel fumes cloaked them both as the truck splashed through a water-filled pothole nearby. The dirty water spattered John but not Rip, who had stepped back just outside its reach.

  “Sue me all you want,” John said. “Hard to get blood from a stone. Either way, I’m sure the attention would be unwelcome.”

  “Maybe. But I haven’t assumed a false identity. I bought my way out of Fagan’s grasp, fair and square. He has no beef with me anymore. Everything’s been on the up-and-up for my adult life, best anyone can tell.”

  John scoffed. “No way you could’ve bought Fagan off. He wouldn’t let you out of his grip. We knew too much.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.” Rip checked his watch and glanced at the bank sign across the way. He’s waiting for something, John thought. “I’ve been debating just how much I should tell you. But the timing seems to be working out, and you know? I really want you to know. So I’m going to let you in on my biggest secret.” He leaned close. “Turns out, I’m an ace, too.”

  John folded his arms. “What a remarkable coincidence.”

  “Funny you should say that. Because it’s all about coincidence. I call it future-vision. I can manipulate events to get whatever I want. Hence my ace handle. Ripple Effect.” He spread his arms. “Cool handle, huh?”

  John gave him a bored look. “Is that supposed to worry me? When I can fry you in a heartbeat?”

  Rip glanced at his watch. “You know, I never had you pegged as someone with no imagination. Observe. I stand here.” He pointed at his feet. “Someone lives. I stand there?” He pointed at the edge of the curb. “Someone dies. That’s all it takes.”

  “Uh … I hate to break it to you, Ripples, but we were standing right there just a second ago, and”—John cupped his hand and stage whispered—“no one died.”

  “True. But timing”—Rip stepped into the gutter at the intersection—“is everything”—just as a cyclist shot out from behind the building. The cyclist shouted and swerved—“Hey!”—and barely missed Rip, veering into the intersection as Rip stepped back onto the curb.

  “That’s Ripple Effect,” he said. “As in, ‘cause and.’”

  John pushed past him with a gasp—a white pickup had entered the intersection as the cyclist swerved, and caught him on its front bumper. The cyclist flipped up. Rip didn’t bother to look behind him. “You g—”

  But John had already twisted away. Red to block traffic. Green to heal. Purple to dull pain. For the second time, as John returned to the threshold of his own body, trailing fire, he caught that flickering of mirrors around its edge again. He didn’t spare a glance this time, only dove back into his body, pulling strands of fire in with him, as fast and hard as he could, batch by batch.

  “—et it?” Rip finished.

  The cyclist’s head hit the hood before John could blast a shield, and he went under the wheels. Tires squealed and blue smoke went up. John ran into the street.

  The truck was screeching to a halt. Other vehicle brakes squealed too. More car crashes. Horns blared, burnt rubber and blue smoke filled the air. The cyclist rolled out from underneath the truck in mid-intersection, broken and bloody.

  John whirled in the middle of the intersection, throwing up a blazing crimson barrier. Nothing fancy—no time. The red flames stacked up in mounds and pillars, like the world’s most garish stalagmites, in a sloppy L-shape, blocking all oncoming lanes. An instant later, a car slammed into the barrier less than a foot from the cyclist’s head, destroying it. John shot more red flame into the gap to repair it. Then he skidded to a halt by the young man and went to his knees, pulling the green from his lymph system.

  The cyclist was white, with a long neat braid extending from under his helmet. His condition? Not good. Eyes half open, pupils blown. Right side of chest caved in. Blood was spreading across his orange jersey and mingling with the oily water on the asphalt.

  John had never used fire on an injury this bad. But if even a single heartbeat remained—a single breath or brain wave—the green should work. It must.

  Healing tendrils sailed out from John’s hands and settled onto the cyclist, while John pulled more green in through the entryway at his crown—and yet more. No response. He kept it up, weaving and casting, till fire jetted from beneath the cyclist’s skin and clothes, turning the young man’s body into a shamrock-bright torch. In a second or two the cyclist began to twitch. A low moan came. His voice rose in pitch, and he arched his back, keening. John could hear the bones crackling.

  “Sorry, kid. Believe me, I get it.” He exhaled a swirling cloud of purple fire into his hands and spread it across the cyclist’s face. The haze soaked into his eye sockets, his ears, nostrils, and mouth, and the man slumped with a billowy, lavender-tinged sigh.

  “Oh, my God. What is that?” a woman asked. John looked up to see a middle-aged Black woman, dressed in slacks and heels, by the tailgate. The truck’s left cab door stood open; she must be the driver, and she was staring in alarm at the green inferno lighting up the cyclist’s torso.

  John sat back on his heels and wiped grit and sweat from his forehead. “It won’t hurt him. The green fire heals.”

  “Does that green flame heal broken vertebrae? Look there.” She pointed
at the cyclist’s helmet, which was cracked and holding his head at an angle that couldn’t be good for his neck. “I’m a nurse,” she said at John’s startled glance. “Got any more of that red stuff we can use to brace him?”

  “Good idea! When I give the signal, lift him up.” John twisted away to harvest more red, then returned. She knelt behind the cyclist’s head. “I’m ready.”

  “All right … now!” She lifted the cyclist’s head and shoulders as he spun out the red in a saddle shape—but flinched as flame filled the gap beneath her arms. “Don’t move! Red doesn’t burn.”

  Once the cyclist was braced, she levered her arms carefully out and stood. She bit her lip, looking down at the cyclist. “He came out of nowhere.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I saw what happened. He veered right into you.”

  The cyclist started making warbling noises and waved his hands languidly.

  “I’m the Candle,” he told the woman. “My friends call me John.”

  “Yes, I recognized you.” She laid a hand on her chest. “Samiyah Morretty.”

  He smiled at her. “Glad to meet you.”

  The young man opened his eyes and blinked at them, bleary-eyed. Samiyah knelt.

  “Lie still, son.” Lavender fireflies sparkled in his eyes and swirled in and out with his breath. John knelt on his other side and gave him a second dose. “Lie still. You’ve been in an accident.”,

  The cyclist broke into a drunken smile. “Cool … ”

  The woman gave John a worried look. “Concussion?”

  “No, thank you,” the cyclist said.

  John replied, “I think it’s just the happy juice I gave him. It should wear off in a bit.”

  Samiyah got a medkit from her truck, took the cyclist’s vitals and jotted some info on his chest with a black Sharpie. Meanwhile, parts of the red-flame traffic barrier were beginning to collapse and cars were creeping cautiously past through burning red puddles. On the sidewalks and along the pier, a crowd had gathered. People were taking snapshots and selfies and videos. Rip, of course, was nowhere to be seen. John added smaller red-flame lumps as flares. Samiyah pulled the smashed bike out from under her truck’s wheels, then pulled her truck into a nearby lot.