All Those Explosions Were Someone Else's Fault

by James Alan Gardner

  SHAR TELEKINETICALLY DUG THE CAR KEYS OUT OF RICHARD’S POCKET

  She handed the keys to Miranda because experience had proved that this was the path of least resistance. Miranda was too well-bred to criticize other people’s driving, but if she wasn’t driving herself, she sat bolt upright with her fists clenched as if expecting a crash any moment. It was very distracting. Jools got shotgun because she always got shotgun, so the rest of us piled into the back.

  Shar used her powers to slide Richard into the van’s middle seat, leaning him against the windows on the far side, then buckling him into place with the seat belt. She showed no qualms at slinging him around like a human-size backpack. I decided I was offended on Richard’s behalf, but really I was just disposed to take offense at anything Shar did.

  I hadn’t forgotten how she’d messed with my mind. During the fight, I’d had more pressing things to think about, but now that the life-or-death was over, I had ample opportunity to brood. Kim, Kimmi, or Kimberley, I’ve always been a first-class brooder.

  What Shar had done was horrific. Unforgivable! And so typically I’m-the-only-real-adult-here Shar.

  Curdling with resentment, I got into the rearmost seat of the van and felt hard done by. I wished I could have huddled there, enveloped in sullen shadows, but my damned Spark-o-Vision made the van’s interior look like a beaming summer’s day. Despite my sunny surroundings, I did my best to glower.

  NO ONE SPOKE AS MIRANDA BACKED THE VAN OUT OF THE ALLEY

  For some reason, we stayed silent until we’d finally left the campus and got out to the city streets.

  Jools let out a noisy sigh. “So that happened.”

  “Yes,” Miranda said. “Why yes, it did.”

  “Fuck,” Jools said.

  “Well put,” Miranda agreed.

  “And,” said Jools, “we’re all going to be thirty-six triple-Ds.”

  I said, “That’ll ruin my mystique.”

  “Also your nose,” Miranda said, “when you fall over on your face.”

  “I’ll fall over,” I said, “but my face won’t touch the ground.”

  “I shall find it most annoying,” Shar said, “if I have to buy a whole new wardrobe.”

  Without even thinking, I said, “You know what annoys me? When someone stomps around in my brain!”

  A moment later, I literally stared at myself in surprise. (I can do that now.) Non-super Kim hated confrontation, but Kim 2.0 apparently wasn’t as repressed.

  Shar sighed. “I’m sorry you were upset, Kim, but it was necessary. You were losing your head in a dangerous situation. I did what was needed to keep you steady.”

  “You made me an inhuman machine! Don’t you know—”

  I stopped myself; I couldn’t explain. When you grow up as a studious Chinese girl, do you know how often “machine” is whispered behind your back? How often you’re brought to tears, thinking maybe it’s true?

  One reason I became Kimmi was to demolish my image as a mark-maximizing robot. She was a calculated effort to make myself un-bookish. Now that I was Kim, I felt more genuine, but I’d still assembled my current persona carefully: the look, the style, the trimmings. Going away to university was my chance to get myself right.

  I knew that I planned my identities in ways other people didn’t. I prepared, I made choices, where others couldn’t imagine conscious decisions. When you stop following well-trodden paths, you have to make your own.

  But I wasn’t cold. Never that. “Deliberate” is not “detached.”

  “Kim,” said Shar, “you know I didn’t mean any harm. If I went too far in calming you, I just hadn’t grasped the strength of my powers.”

  “Doing anything was going too far,” I said. “You can’t just manipulate someone’s emotions.”

  “The thing is,” Shar said, “I can.”

  “But you shouldn’t. It’s the sort of thing supervillains do.”

  Shar didn’t answer. Perhaps because I was sitting behind her, she thought I couldn’t see her face. But I’d shifted my viewpoint to the front of the van, so I’d have a clear view of everyone. The look on Shar’s face was resentful; I could almost hear her saying, I did it for your own good.

  WITH ARTIFICIAL BREEZINESS, JOOLS SAID, “SO HAS ANYONE PICKED OUT A NAME?”

  Miranda groaned. “Do we have to?”

  “I’ve been checking my mental database,” Jools said. “So far as I can tell, any Spark who gets a name, mask, and costume … it’s just ridiculous how thoroughly they maintain their secret identities. Some of these people are like seven feet tall and made of muscle; they must stand out in a crowd like Goliath surrounded by Davids. And what about ultra-hotties like Tigresse? Every guy I’ve ever met has her poster taped up in his room. Even the guys who are gay.”

  “Especially the guys who are gay,” I said.

  “Truth. So how come she’s never recognized? When she walks down the street, it should be all over Twitter. But nothing.”

  “Actually,” Shar said, “Tigresse sightings are all over Twitter. People are constantly spotting her in their local McDonalds.”

  “Yeah, having lunch with Elvis,” Jools said. “But there are hundreds of Sparks in the world, and most are so distinctive you’d spot them from miles away. They never get outed as long as they keep on their masks. What does that tell you?”

  “Look,” Miranda said, “I have a mask—that one from Halloween, remember?”

  “Oh yes,” Shar said. “It’s lovely.”

  “But everyone’s seen it,” said Miranda. “I wore it to that party in Fed Hall. What will happen if I wear it as a Spark? Hey look, that superheroine is wearing the same mask as Miranda. And she’s built the same as Miranda, and her hair is the same color.”

  “That’s not how it works,” Jools said. “Nobody puts two and two together. Like Grandfather said, it’s a superpower: The mask clouds everyone’s mind.”

  Miranda grimaced. “I hate when things don’t make sense.”

  “Dude, you fly by singing,” Jools said. “And Kim’s omnimorphic, which we all know isn’t a real thing. And—”

  “Okay, I get it!” Miranda snapped. “We’ve switched from the real world to Dungeons and Dragons. Fine! But I don’t have to like it.”

  “What’s not to like? You can fucking fly!” Jools grinned broadly. I noticed that her teeth looked straighter. “I know it won’t all be ponies and teddy bears. The things that pop into my head—I see bad things as well as good. All the horrible, grisly shit Sparks have gone through since they appeared. You want a list of atrocities, I can talk for hours on end. But at least let’s enjoy the fun parts. Like picking out names.”

  Shar said, “Have you chosen a name?”

  “Ninety-Nine,” Jools answered immediately.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ninety-Nine,” Jools repeated. “Wayne Gretzky’s number.”

  “Who’s Wayne Gretzky?” Shar asked.

  Jools gaped. “You are never going to be granted Canadian citizenship.”

  “Wayne Gretzky,” I told Shar disdainfully, “is the greatest hockey player ever. One hundred percent Albertan, even if he made the mistake of being born in Ontario.”

  Miranda said, “Gretzky won’t be pleased if some Spark pretends she’s him.”

  “I’m just borrowing his number,” Jools said. “Like a tribute band.”

  “But for your costume,” Miranda said, “I’ll bet you’re planning to wear your Edmonton Oilers jersey: the one with the big ninety-nine on the back.”

  “Look,” Jools said, “I’ve thought this through. You and Shar have force fields. Kim gets so small no one can find her. But what do I have? I heal quickly, but it hurts getting my throat crushed and my face sliced off. So I’m gonna wear my hockey equipment. That way I’ll have some padding between me and the bad guys. Hockey gear, hockey jersey, hockey name.”

  “The Oilers will sue you,” Miranda said. “Gretzky will sue you. The NHL will sue you.”

  “Oh all
right,” Jools grumbled. “I’ve got more than one jersey. I’ll wear the solid black one. Ninja Ninety-Nine.”

  “And for my costume,” Miranda said, “I’ll get a T-shirt that reads I’M NOT WITH THE DWEEB.”

  SHAR SAID, “I INTEND TO CALL MYSELF DAKINI.”

  “What does that mean?” Miranda asked.

  “Dakinis are spirits. Goddesses. They’re similar to the Muses in Greek mythology, except they inspire you to enlightenment rather than the arts.”

  “Actually,” Jools said, glowing green, “dakinis play different roles in different traditions…”

  “I’ve said what role I shall play,” Shar replied. “Calling myself Dakini will remind me to act for the betterment of others. Not to be irresponsible.”

  She gave me a look. I ignored it.

  “WHAT ABOUT YOU, KIM?” JOOLS ASKED

  “Have you picked a name?”

  “Diamond,” I said. That surprised me when it came out—it hadn’t been in my mind at all. But once I thought of the way my skin went hard and faceted when I shrank, Diamond was actually quite good.

  “Diamond,” Miranda said. “I should have known it would be a rock.”

  “Diamond isn’t a rock, it’s a mineral.”

  Jools glowed green. “You can’t call yourself Diamond, Kim. The name is taken.”

  “By whom?”

  “A Mad Genius in Australia. Total douchewad. He shows up every few months, kills hundreds of people with his latest crazy scheme, then escapes without getting caught. He’s so bad, whenever he comes out of hiding, the Dark and the Light work together to beat him. Even then, it’s always a close call.”

  “So what if there’s another Diamond?” The more I thought about it, calling myself Diamond would be perfect. “This douche guy is on the other side of the world. There ought to be room for two of us.”

  “What if this Diamond guy gets pissed off?” Miranda asked. “What if the next time he goes on a rampage, he decides to hit Waterloo because somebody stole his name?”

  I had no answer. It was insane to kill people halfway around the world just because of a name, but Mad Geniuses are called mad for a reason.

  Grudgingly I set the name “Diamond” aside. Too bad. Remember, my true name is Kimberlite: the rock that most often contains diamonds. I’ve never gone by Kimberlite, but I like having it in reserve—a special fallback identity in case I screw everything else up.

  I had only told my true name to two people in my life: Nicholas and Hannah.

  I SAID, “WHAT ABOUT ZIRCON? IS THAT OKAY?”

  Jools glowed green. “Nobody named Zircon,” she reported.

  “Do you really want that name?” Shar asked me. “Zircons have a reputation for being tawdry. You shouldn’t pick a name that will make you feel that way, Kim.”

  “If you’re thinking of the fake diamonds,” I said, “they’re cubic zirconia—zirconium dioxide. Totally different from zircons, which are zirconium silicate. Real zircons are amazing: the oldest things on Earth we can put a date on. We’ve found zircons 4.3 billion years old. They’re tough as hell, resistant to physical and chemical changes, and they’re great for radioactive dating. Geologists love ’em.”

  Shar looked at me a few seconds longer, then shrugged. “All right. Zircon.”

  “THAT LEAVES YOU,” JOOLS SAID TO MIRANDA

  “Gotta be Valkyrie,” I said.

  “Definitely,” Shar agreed.

  Jools shook her head. “Do you know how many Sparks call themselves Valkyrie? One in Stockholm, one in Berlin, one in Osaka … oh fuck, you do not want to know what the one in Osaka wears.”

  “I don’t want to be Valkyrie,” Miranda said. “Honestly, if you’re a blond soprano, do you know how often you get called a valkyrie? I’m sick of it.”

  “What do you prefer?” Shar asked.

  “What about something to do with birds?” Miranda asked. “I sing, I fly…”

  “Yeah,” Jools said, “but I don’t see you as Lark or Nightingale. None of those songbird types. What do you think of Screech Owl?”

  Miranda glared.

  “Screaming Eagle?”

  Glare.

  “Howler Monkey?”

  “All right, forget wildlife!” Miranda said. “What about Aria?”

  Jools glowed green. “Hmm. No Arias.”

  “Aria is nice,” Shar said. “Sophisticated.”

  “Like farting champagne bubbles,” Jools said.

  Miranda gave Jools one last glare, but she said, “Aria will do unless I think of something better. And we’re home.”

  WE HAD REACHED OUR TOWNHOUSE’S PARKING LOT

  It was practically empty. Almost every student with a car had already gone home for Christmas. Most of the townhouses were probably empty too, but how could I tell? To Spark-o-Vision, every house looked like it had all its lights on, as if twenty separate parties were going full swing.

  They weren’t. The place was quiet. The van’s dashboard clock said midnight.

  MIRANDA PARKED THE VAN BEHIND OUR UNIT

  It was a typical student townhouse, but I’d been spoiled by a much better model: the townhouse where Nicholas stayed while at “finishing school” in Banff. He’d described his townhouse as “cozy,” but I called it “posh” … and that was before I understood how much money you can spend on something as prosaic as a wastebasket.

  (Let me add, I’m ignoring the expense of refitting the townhouse to accommodate Nicholas’s wheelchair. Then again, the house’s most important accessibility feature was the formidable Ms. Bain: a mute and muscular woman who drank the blood of Nicholas’s father once a month, and could therefore carry both Nicholas and his chair as if they were as light as a laundry hamper.)

  The townhouse I shared in Waterloo was nothing like the one in Banff. It wasn’t out-and-out awful: We’d spackled the holes made by previous tenants and put on fresh coats of paint; we also had a brand-new fridge and stove, thanks to Shar bribing the landlord with cookies. In lieu of cute animal pictures and posters of firefighters, our living room had something we could all enjoy—a wall-size chart of the periodic table. And the boring white broadloom could barely be seen under all the throw rugs plus a Persian carpet provided by Miranda. (That carpet was likely worth a fortune, but I’d never asked the price. Miranda already thought I was obsessed with money, and I didn’t want to give her more ammunition.)

  THE MOST IMPORTANT THING ABOUT OUR HOUSEHOLD IS ALMOST INVISIBLE

  That night, it could only be seen as two coffee mugs in the sink, left by Miranda and me after drinking post-dinner chai. Those mugs were a sign that Miranda and I (and Jools and Shar) all shared the same level of Clean. We were neither neat freaks nor slobs. We could leave mugs in the sink and no one would have a seizure, but we didn’t let too much mess accumulate.

  That was what truly kept us together. Jools and Miranda might snipe at each other, Shar might treat us like children, and I might run off to look at rocks because I was less than great at socializing. But we were on the same page for housework, and that was precious.

  We’d lived together peaceably since the start of our second year. Superpowers are nothing compared to compatible standards of tidiness.

  AS SOON AS WE GOT INSIDE, JOOLS RAN UP TO HER ROOM

  I suspected she was going for booze, but I resisted sending my Spark-o-Vision to spy on her. I refused to be as intrusive as Shar.

  Speaking of Shar, she said, “Cookies are on the counter. Help yourselves.” She headed up to her room too. Richard was in tow behind her, still unconscious on that violet platform.

  Miranda and I were left alone. She rolled her eyes and said, “Costumes. Sigh.” Then she brightened. “Do you need help?”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. “I used to be good at dress-up.”

  But I’d never talked about Kimmi with Miranda or anyone else in Waterloo. To avoid the threat of a real conversation, I shrank and flew up to my room.

  MY ROOM … OH, MY ROOM

  I’d hun
g the walls with geological maps: one showing the region around Banff; one showing the whole of Alberta; one of southern Ontario (I’d been forced to buy that map for a course); and one covering all of Canada, from coast to coast to coast.

  Much as I love geology, I knew the maps were my way of avoiding more personal decorations. Jools had hockey stuff, including a life-size poster of Wayne Gretzky; Shar had two Buddha statues and dozens of photos of Sri Lanka; Miranda had genuine prints by Matisse and Lichtenstein; but I just had maps.

  They were placeholders. I’d never figured out what Kim would want to see first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

  “COSTUME,” I MUTTERED. “GOTTA MAKE A COSTUME.”

  I opened my closet and stared, half hoping that Spark-o-Vision would come to my rescue. If it gave me laser sights when I aimed a gun, why couldn’t it point to an ideal outfit? But my eyes refused to rescue me. If anything, they made things worse—they displayed my wardrobe bright and shadow-free, mercilessly revealing that I had nothing “super” to wear.

  When it came to clothes, Kim was the anti-Kimmi. Kimmi had always dressed in deliberate costumes; Kim strove to avoid the tiniest costume-y whiff.

  Usually, I wore shapeless bib overalls … not the cute girly kind, but ones in blue denim made for small fat men. Mario overalls. I mostly wore single-color work shirts, but I also had a supply of T-shirts acquired at various campus events. (Students can measure their time on campus by the number of T-shirts they have. T-shirts build up like sedimentary strata on closet shelves.)

  I had no “dressy” clothes. I sure as hell didn’t own spandex. And not a single cape! What an oversight.

  As for masks, Kimmi had been big into Halloween, so Kim wasn’t. Zero in the mask department. I did own a decent quantity of makeup—it’s useful when you want to keep people guessing. But a “mask” made of makeup would be a pain to apply and clean off, so that was a last resort.

  I was still staring morosely at my closet’s lack of potential when someone knocked on my door. Without thinking, I shifted my viewpoint out into the hall.

  My jaw dropped. Ninety-Nine. An honest-to-goodness superhero.