Ripple Effects

by Laura J. Mixon

  They hadn’t dared brief Arry about Rip’s plans, nor Gil or Horace, nor the Queen Margaret security staff, nor the park rangers, nor the police—that causality shadow had long since passed, and they couldn’t risk it. John paced in the darkness offstage till the stage manager’s voice came through on his radio handset, amid a wash of static.

  His walkie-talked crackled. “Angel now at standby position.” (“Angel” was the code name they’d agreed on for the trumpet.) John acknowledged, and said into his security mic, “Bring Angel on up, Patina. Stand by, Beef. Leads acknowledge.”

  “Roger that,” Arry said. “Approaches all clear from the east.”

  “Roger,” Rashida said. “Angel and saints now leaving secured area.”

  The seconds ticked by. John’s neck hairs were bristling again: Rip had to be watching, both at this moment and through some window from the past.

  A clanking came from below. Rashida said, “Angel in the pit.”

  The amphitheater’s lights shut off and a hush fell across the crowd. Onstage, a pool of light appeared, and within its triple circle stood Peregrine. Her gown of red sequins and stiletto heels of crystal tossed sparkles across the faces of the crowd as she turned to acknowledge their applause. Well into her sixties now, maturity had inflected her lifelong charisma with a commanding calm. Her hair, chestnut brown with a white streak at the temple, brushed her shoulders.

  Peregrine unfurled her feathered wings with a snap and soared into the air. People gasped as she swooped over their heads, and a flurry of camera flashes chased her into the darkening sky. There she joined the searchlights’ pirouettes, and then returned and alighted, silk-soft, in the pool of light onstage. “Hello, New York City!” she said into her hand mic. The crowd sprang to their feet with applause, shouts, and whistles.

  By the time Peregrine had finished her grand entrance, the security team had reached the top of the stairs and were approaching. John couldn’t read Rashida’s face, but her posture was as tense as violin wire. “Angel arriving at offstage left,” he reported into his handset. Rashida gave him a querying look. Any sign of trouble? He shook his head. Nothing yet.

  “All right,” he said. “Patina, you’re running back. Horace, Gil, you’re the linemen. I want you all to stay alert. You make damn sure to cover her.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Roger.”

  “And I want you to draw your weapons,” John told the two men. “Got it?”

  Ras grimaced at him. Really? He scowled back. Yes, really.

  Gil looked surprised. “That violates protocol, boss.”

  “Not when I’ve got probable cause to worry about a breach,” Candle replied. Horace and Gil exchanged worried looks. Then Horace elbowed his junior partner. “Best not argue. The Candle has a hunch.” He drew his gun and removed the safety. “At least out here there’s less of a chance you’ll incinerate the bedding, boss.”

  “Haha, very funny. As a matter of fact, I do have a hunch. And it’s a bad one. I’d just as soon not lose anybody tonight. That goes for you, too, Beef.”

  The Beef was leaning on her mace at the far side of the pit, at offstage right, in partial shadow. She rumbled, “Oh, you know I’m always up for a bit of a melee, dear. But I’ll be mindful.”

  John acknowledged Arry’s wave and then headed around the corner with the other three. They’d decided move the horn move the horn into place by going around the outside, away from the stage crew, and taking it in through the rear entrance. This was in essence an invitation to Rip; John wanted to make it easy for him to make his move before the performance, under conditions that put the fewest people at risk. They’d have a crunch getting the trumpet back inside and into Winston’s hands on the stage director’s timetable, but taking the interior route inside the enclosure would have put dozens of people at all manner of risks: the place was crisscrossed and hung with lighting and weights and equipment; collapsing stage sets and panels; trap doors; wiring, ductwork, and cables. The area surrounding the back end of the amphitheater was restricted access, and the grounds were clear of anything Rip could use to cause “accidental” harm.

  They’d also have much more room to maneuver in a fight. Down the hill to the south, behind the stage, were a concrete pad, a strip of grass, and a seawall with a gravel shoreline. There was no way Rip could pen them in here. Other than his future-vision, Rip was a nat. With no need to worry about hostages, they should be able to defend against most physical attacks.

  As Peregrine alighted, the stage manager’s voice came over John’s handset. “Security, ready for Angel backstage in sixty; acknowledge.”

  “Roger that,” John said into his handset. He gave the trumpet bearers the hand signal and they set out along the walkway outside the amphitheater stage: Gil and Horace in the lead with guns drawn, pointed at the ground, fingers off their triggers, and Rashida carrying the horn. John faced southwest, away from the stage, toward the shadowed stretch of land and the waters beyond. The trumpet escort trio rounded the curve toward the backstage door.

  “Tonight,” Peregrine said, “we celebrate the era of jazz, and the life of a legend …”

  A roar of applause rose and as it swelled to a deafening roar, John heard several pops in succession. He started running even before it registered that the sounds were gunshots, and reached the backstage door in time to see a scene playing out in silhouette against the faint light reflecting off the Golden Lady. Rip stood behind the backstage wall, on the concrete pad above the retaining wall. He was taking aim at Rashida as Gil crumpled. Horace was already down.

  “No!” John yelled. Rip fired.

  But Patina was already changing—a cloud of metal shards burst outward as the bullets reached her. Bullets ricocheted off the stage wall at her back and clattered onto the pavement. Some of Patina’s shards struck Rip and he threw an arm up belatedly to protect his face. The golden trumpet in its polishing cloth landed in the pile of her shoes and clothes.

  “Ah—so we’re on that track,” Rip said, and then screamed as the shards that had struck his face, arms, and torso tore free and followed the rest of the Patina-shards into the dark sky above the theater.

  Peregrine continued, “One of our greatest musical stars of the past century was the dean of jazz, wild card ace Louis Armstrong, also known as Satchmo, or Pops. Born near the turn of the twentieth century, his career spanned over five decades …”

  John heard Arry’s voice in his ear. “What’s going on, boss? Everyone OK?”

  “Beef, keep station!” John yelled, his voice hoarse. If she responded to the scene now, she was dead. Rip would have planned for it. John twisted to inferno-world to gather green and purple for his team, and a crackling blast of black for Rip, which he would stuff down that fucker’s throat. The spinning reflections at the threshold caught his attention again, and he paused for the barest second to focus on the other world beyond the gap.

  This time he saw a shadow moving in front of the mirrored scenes: a two-dimensional figure of shades of black, white, and gray, in the size and shape of a man. A cardboard cutout, in effect, of Rip. The scene beyond that figure in the mirrors was from up on the stands at amphitheater’s top, looking down at the stage where Peregrine had stood seconds ago. To the right in that future-image was Arry, who stood guard with her mace, facing northwest. At the left side of the stage, he saw himself keeping watch, facing southeast. And Rashida was there with the security detail, nearing the backstage entrance.

  So that’s how it works.

  He twisted back into his own body—where the flames tore free from his control and ripped through him, searing nerve endings, blood vessels, skin, and flesh, outside the channels he’d trained to contain them. John buckled in agony. The flames, intermingled, shot out from him every which way.

  He forced himself to his hands and knees, and saw Rip’s entry, lit by his own green-and-black-bright incandescence. It was just as Tiffani had described: a man-shaped thing—all sheets and edges of mirrored glas
s, rippling around a center of gravity, turning from a hall of horrors into a man. Ripple Effect stood on something shiny. From the way his feet rumpled it, Mylar. Blood streamed from Rip’s face and arms. He dodged a wild bolt of John’s black flame, and another—and dove into a rampant green blast that issued from John’s mouth. The green engulfed him and the gashes on his face, chest, and arms began to heal as he tumbled.

  At the instant Rip became flesh again, John regained control of his flames. Rip dashed toward his Mylar sheet—John twisted back to pull more green in for himself and the guards. But once more, the tourmaline-green fire spewed out as if he were a sieve, from every pore and orifice. And again, he saw, Rip had turned into a spinning set of mirrored future-vision blades.

  Our fates are entwined, eh? he thought. When he transforms near me, my flames go berserk. And when I go to inferno-world, his future-vision goes haywire.

  Rip had re-embodied yet again. He wiped blood from his mouth with a grin at him. John launched himself at Rip—summoned black en route—and stumbled through air as the other man vanished into the Mylar at his feet. John rolled onto the pavement; his back arched, racked with seizures as the black energy slipped from his control and attacked his nervous system.

  John somehow fought his way back into inferno-world and dragged more green to himself, enough sheer volume to block the black energy waves’ destructive force. Then he returned to the world and—keeping the entryway open at his crown—blazing green, with no control whatsoever—he crawled back to his fallen men. Blazing green, he ran his hands over them, trying with the misfiring flames to give them enough to heal. Not enough! So he used his whole body. He lay across Horace, who was nearer. Next Gil. The flames slowly poured into each. But they both had bullet holes in their heads and were unresponsive.

  Rip walked over and picked up the trumpet from Rashida’s clothes pile, pulled out his own polishing cloth, and wiped the blood off the horn. He slid it into a messenger bag he wore. Then he walked over and looked down at John, still lying between Horace and Gil’s bodies, spewing green flames.

  “Give it up, Juanma,” he said. “They were dead before you got here.”

  In the background, Peregrine was saying, “… has come to stand for freedom. Equality. Justice. Courage and resilience.”

  John’s handset had fallen off his belt and lay on the sidewalk nearby. The stage manager’s voice was saying, “Repeat, cue Angel onstage. Security lead, acknowledge! Where are you guys?”

  John released the last of his green flames, spent, and rocked onto his heels as Rip knelt near him. John felt a pressure in his palm and looked down. Rip had pressed the gun into it. He also saw the sticky fluid all over his white shirt and his hands—his men’s blood, black in the ebbing green pools of flame. He shook his head to clear it.

  I’m supposed to do something. I’m waiting for a cue. But half his team was dead on the ground, and he couldn’t think.

  “Oh, don’t torment yourself. I made sure you couldn’t save them.” Rip pointed a finger at John’s forehead and mimicked pulling a trigger. “One shot to the head for each. And I researched their body armor, of course, and chose the weapon and ammo needed to penetrate it. Plugged them each a couple times in the chest, too. Hollow-point bullets. Not much left of the crucial organs but jelly. You really should have had them in stronger armor, Juanma. Of course …” He shrugged. “In that case I would have used a full-auto rifle and larger-gauge bullets. I admit that would have been more of a hassle, though.”

  Rage carried John to his feet. He was still clutching the handgun; he examined it. A semi-automatic; a Glock of some kind. He glanced from it to Rip, who chuckled. “By all means.” Rip spread his arms. “Let’s see you try.”

  Rashida’s voice came to his ear. “John, I’ve briefed Arry and I’m in position. We’re a go for Phase Two on your signal.”

  John ignored her. He checked the safety; it was still off. He took aim at Rip through the sight. He’d never shot anyone before, but he’d trained on guns and was a decent shot. It was a requirement for his investigator’s license, with annual recertification. He’d never needed to carry one, though, much less fire it.

  More to the point, John had never killed. Fagan had been grooming them for it. But John had gotten out before he’d crossed that line. He still had the nightmares.

  He also remembered Tiffani’s words from earlier: You’ll have to end him. The thought made him sick. He ejected the gun’s magazine and the chambered bullet, then locked the slide back and tossed it all to the ground.

  He caught the flicker of disappointment in Rip’s gaze. Interesting. Suicide-by-ex-lover? Maybe the guy was getting tired of being an evil fuckhat.

  “Let’s see you step away from that Mylar.”

  Rip smiled. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “That’s debatable.” John gestured at the bodies on the pavement behind him. “Why, Titus? What’s the point of killing my men? They were no threat to you.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “I repeat,” came Rashida’s voice in his ear, “We’re a go for Phase Two, over here. What the hell are you waiting for, John?”

  “Who’s dead?” Arry demanded. “What’s going on? Is that our cue?”

  “Hold fast, Beef,” Rashida said.

  “Oh?” John said to Rip. “Enlighten me.”

  “By all means. First of all”—Rip pointed at him—“you don’t decide who lives and who dies, Juanma.” He jerked a thumb at his own chest. “I do.”

  “And tonight we have a very special treat for you,” Peregrine was saying. “To play Satchmo’s own golden trumpet, we have another music legend with us. In fact, we have four!”

  He’s every bit as dangerous as Tiffani said. “And it gives you a big, juicy boner, doesn’t it,” he asked, “to play God with people’s lives? I bet you even take pictures and jerk off to them later. You always had a bit of trouble getting it up, as I recall. Is this what it takes for you, now?”

  “Awww, you used to like my boner. Oh!” Rip snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. The cyclist you saved earlier? Dead. Fluke accident at the hospital. Someone gave him a transfusion of the wrong drug. Medication labeling error. A few other patients died too, alas. And after all the trouble you went to.”

  John’s hands spasmed into fists and yellow fire, unbidden, engulfed them. Rip said, “Careful there,” gesturing with his chin at John’s hands. “You wouldn’t want someone to get hurt.”

  John shoved the yellow back and the flames guttered out.

  “Still waiting for our cue, Candle,” Rashida said in his ear. He shook his head hard.

  Rip glanced at his watch. “And the cop? Died, too. A few minutes ago. A buddy called in sick and he took a second shift for him. Got called in on an armed robbery and … bang! Rotten luck.”

  Up on stage, Peregrine was saying, “… personal heroes. He made his first professional recording at age eleven. He had his first platinum hit at seventeen. He has won a record-breaking ten Grammys, and is the first black musician—and the only jazz musician, ever—to win the Pulitzer Prize for music. Ladies and gentleman, please welcome Winston Marcus, performing with his Grammy-winning siblings, Ellie, Jake, and Lou Marcus, of Tungsten Paradox!”

  A rising wave of applause.

  “As for the driver—” Rip held up a hand at John’s start. “Relax. Her I’ve kept alive. For the moment. See? I could tell you liked her.”

  John flexed his hands and forced himself to look away, out at the skyline to the east. Calm down. Stick to the plan. “You know, that’s the one thing I didn’t expect,” he told Rip. “I didn’t expect you to become a death merchant.”

  “Death merchant” was the phrase they’d agreed on to trigger Phase Two.

  “Confirming, Patina go for Phase Two,” Rashida said in his ear in a clipped tone. “One minute out. Hang tight.”

  “Confirming, the Beef standing by,” Arry said. “Ready on your order, Candle.”

  “I was a terrible inf
luence on you, wasn’t I?” John told Rip. “I was the one who got you tangled up with Fagan. I figured once I was out of your life, you’d get out, too. The last thing I expected was that’d you’d become a bigger dickwad than he ever was.”

  Rip started laughing. “Oh, dear. Oh no. That’s rich.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  Rip straightened and wiped away tears. “Someday I’ll have to tell you.”

  “Whatever.” John stepped toward Rip at an angle. Rip pivoted, watching him warily. “What I don’t get is all this.” John swept a hand back toward his dead team members. “It all seems so crude. Unworthy of your talent.”

  John took another step and caught a glimpse of movement beneath the Golden Lady. He summoned yellow fire and held it back in inferno-world, at a safe distance. Rip, frowning, converted to spinning mirrors anyway.

  “Whoa—paranoid, much? Settle down there, cowboy.” John turned his hands over for Rip to examine and gave him a peek inside his suit cuffs. “See? Nothing up my sleeves. We’re just having a conversation.”

  Rip returned to human form and opened his mouth to reply—and John snapped a yellow fireball right at his mouth. Eat heat, fucker!

  But it passed through Rip with a hiss as he transformed back to mirror-fans—in the nick of time—and John shoved the rest of the stream back into the other world, barely in time to avoid getting cooked himself. He wiped at the sweat on his lip and forehead with his sleeve.

  But he’d seen fear in Rip’s eyes. You haven’t forgotten the yellow, have you?

  “You’re only hurting yourself,” Rip replied, “trying to fight me. I’m keeping count. Each act of defiance will result in someone else you care about dying. Starting with that woman, I think: the driver of the pickup. And maybe your mother after that. Or your little sister; how does that sound?

  “Or how about your lieutenant instead, Patina? Or that ridiculous minotaur with the granny glasses. The Beef, is it? Ariadne. Yes, Ariadne Cerigo.”

  John gritted his teeth. Hurry up, guys. A dark shape wafted down toward them from the direction of the Golden Lady. Only another few seconds …