by Graeme Smith
CG shrugged. again “That's the problem, M. Or rather, you are. See, you're supposed to be dead now too. Or gone. Or never here. One of those. But we can fix that.” His gun came up.
They say you never hear the one that kills you. CG must have been using sub-sonic loads, because I almost did. Then the bullet ploughed into my hea…
Chapter Nineteen
Dead girl talking
Washington D.C. - 350 And Down
So let's recap. I was dead. Twice. Because my mother killed me. Or had me killed. Twice. Which, apparently, didn't stop me being tied to a chair in a room with a shapeshifting piano player who could stick her fingers in my head, and a guy who was just as dead as I was, because I’d killed him. And I wasn't sure which I was supposed to be more worried about. That I remembered killing him, even if it hadn't happened yet, or that he remembered. Because that didn't just mean he was like me. It meant it had happened. To him. It meant I was going to kill him some time in his past - and he wasn't putting a bullet in my head right now to make sure I didn't.
Time travel. It definitely had its down sides. I was having a real bad day, and I was starting to think maybe it wasn't the first time I'd had it. I could feel the headache coming, and it wasn't the two slugs Mom put in my head.
But if I had no idea why I wasn't dead, one thing I was sure of. I was pissed. “She killed me! I mean, she killed me again!”
The piano player's fingers eased out of my skull. The man in black leather said nothing.
“My mother! She fucking killed me! Twice! OK. It was CG. But he wouldn't have unless... My mother! She fucking killed me!”
The guy the piano player called Jack shrugged. “I see. So your Mom – we really should talk about that – your Mom killed you. Then she killed you again, because she didn’t kill you the first time. Which is why you’re here. Talking. Because you’re dead. Right?”
“No. That’s not it. Well, it is, but…”
“But?”
If this was a movie, about then I'd have been doing a backflip in the chair and the chair would break. Then I'd slip the cuffs and beat the crap out of everyone in the room. Of course if this was a movie the Bad Guy with the gun would be so busy watching me, he'd forget to pull the trigger and kill me. Or in this case, kill me again. Or even, counting Mom's two tries, again-again. But it wasn't a movie. It wasn't a movie, and the guy in black leather had that look. The look that said he knew the chair thing, and he knew I could do it, and he didn't give a shit. Because if I tried it he wasn't going to forget he had a gun in his hand and he wasn't going to miss. I knew that look, because it's exactly the look I'd have had if he was the one cuffed to the chair. And I knew he wouldn't miss because I knew in his place I wouldn't miss – and if I didn't know why that was important, I knew it was.
The guy in black leather shrugged. “Thing is, she didn't.”
“What?” If this had been a movie, I'd have been calling my agent to sue the script writer for assault-with-a-crappy-script. But it even though it still wasn't a movie, somehow I seemed to have the shitty end of the script stick.
“Your Mom. She didn't kill you.”
“Well since I'm the one with a bullet in her skull – actually, make that two...” I wasn't going to remind anyone with a gun about the one I'd put in his own head in a hurry “... I'm pretty sure she did.” As snappy repartee went, it wasn't going to win any Academy Awards. But I figured maybe I'd let the script writer live. Especially as he didn't exist.
The guy in black leather shrugged again. “Oh, she killed you. She just didn't kill you.”
I wondered if any of CG's files might have addresses for non-existent script writers. Of course, if they did, it would give me a problem. Like, whether to kill CG before or after I smoked the guy with a keyboard. I raised one eyebrow. It was only fair – leather guy had done it enough to deserve some competition. “Right. So my Mom killed me – twice – but it's OK. Because she didn't kill me, she killed – well. Me.” I raised my other eyebrow, in case the first one was getting lonely. And to stop it twitching from the headache I was getting. “Oh. And I remember her killing me because I'm still alive. Or something like that.” I looked over at the piano player. “Is he always like this?”
The piano player didn't miss a note, but she shrugged. I guess it was her turn. “Well, there was the time he raped a Countess.”
“He what?”
“Well, to be fair Jack didn't know. If he was a virgin, I mean.”
“He didn't know if he was a virgin. So he raped a Countess.” I made a mental note to check the Organisation stores for extra eyebrows when I got back. Times like this, a girl needed more than two. Then I made another note – because after what Mom had done, maybe going back wasn't such a good idea.
The piano player shrugged again. “You had to be there.” she shuddered – but she still didn't miss a note.
“Nope. Nothing like that.” Probably-Jack put his gun down. I wondered if it was time for a backflip.
“Jack! Do we have to? There’s got to be another way…” The piano player sounded scared.
Pretty-Certainly-Jack “shrugged. “Only two, P. Only two.”
The piano player sighed. “You’re a bastard, Jack. I hate it when you’re right.”
I didn't know what worried me more. A scared piano player – or that Pretty-Certainly-Jack didn't think he needed his gun. Either way it was time to buy some time, and I was kind of short on negotiable currency. “Look. Let's not rush anything. I know you kidnapped me, but we can...”
“No I didn't.”
“What do you mean? I sure as hell didn't volunteer. And I'm here, aren't I?”
“No. you're not.” People who try to sound scary don't scare me. Whoever – or whatever – Jack was, he wasn't trying. And that scared the shit out of me. “You can't be. After all, you don't exist. See, it was like this...”
Chapter Twenty
Beta-Jacked
Washington D.C. - 350 And Down
Shadows don't have eyebrows. So the shadow didn't raise the ones it didn't have. “I guess you'd better make sure someone who can tell you, tells you Jack. After they find out, of course.”
Jack sighed. “Crap. Oh, well. And then there's the kid.”
“Yes, Jack. There's the kid.”
“That's one of her names isn't it? Thief?”
“Stealer? Yes.”
“So that's where he came from. I guess I'm going to have to fix that. But that means he's got a soul. So if he can... well, if he can, I'd know he'd have to...”
The shadow rod tapped the wall. The shadow waited. Nothing creaked. “Yes. Er, I mean, yes you would, Jack.”
“And that would really, really hurt. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Jack's voice was cold. “And he'd have to have something to put it...”
“Yes.”
“And I bet they wouldn't...”
“No. They didn't. Right up to their last breaths.”
Jack's eyes got colder. “Right.” The shadow that had never been there faded. Jack slipped the last round into his gun. He waited. After a while, the door opened. The two men in leather dusters looked at each other. Both men grinned, and lowered their guns. The man in the doorway raised an eyebrow. “I thought you'd be taller.” Jack raised his own brow. “Me too.” The man in the doorway reached slowly into the pocket of his duster, and pulled out a small notebook. He dropped it on the floor. “Let's not do this again, huh Jack?” He pulled a flask from his pocket, and the smell of Unicorn Horn filled the air.
Jack picked up the notebook, and began to read. Eyes that were never warm turned slowly to ice. Prowess looked up. “So... so what are you going to do about it, Jack?”
The man in the black leather duster unloaded his gun. Then he reloaded it. His eyes were ice. “What I do best, P. I'm gonna kill someone.”
A tentacle flew over Prowess' piano, wrapping tight on Jack's gun hand. “Jack! You can't! She's just a girl!”
�
�She's a bit more than that, P.” Jack didn't seem worried about the tentacle. “She did kill me, after all.”
“Yes. She did. How did she do that, Jack?” Prowess sounded thoughtful, but her tentacle never left Jack's gun.
Jack's finger tapped idly on the notebook in his hand. “Because she's more than she should be. And less than she has to be.”
“Jack, you're not making sense. Not that that's particularly unusual. What do you mean?”
“I mean its time.”
“Time?”
“Time we asked her who she wants to be.”
“So you're not going to kill her then?”
“Nope. Well, not unless she doesn't.”
“What?”
“It's like this, P. And hold on – it's going to get kind of bumpy...”
* * *
Washington D.C. - 350 And Down
“So is this the real was it happened Jack? This time, I mean?”
“They’re all real, P. It’s just this one’s the one that going to stay real.”
“Don’t you ever get headaches, Jack?”
“Not really. Mostly I give them to other people. Permanently.”
“Are you going to give her a headache Jack?”
“I guess so, P. Or I guess not. One of those. Or maybe neither. That’s her choice, P. Or it will be...”
October 18th, 1797. Ash Farm, between Porlock and Linton.
The man in the black leather duster clapped his hand over a mouth for the eighth time. A twist, and bone snapped. The kid hadn't done a bad job on the team covering the door, but he figured she was supposed to. She'd missed the cover team – also like, it looked, she was supposed to. Jack dropped the body, and dug the dull red gem fragment from its forehead. He'd seen that trick before. Jack slipped the gem fragment into his pocket to join the other seven, and picked his way through the six dead bodies of the decoy team.
The door to the farmhouse was open. He wrapped Shadow even tighter round himself. The Shadow Tunnel back to 350 stretched away behind him. This was going to be tricky. He checked the loads in his gun again, and the thing in his pocket. Then he stepped through the door. The two of them were where they were supposed to be. He concentrated. “You ready P?”
“You know this is impossible, right Jack?” Prowess' voice was faint, but clear enough. “And I'll need a new piece. Let me think a while – I hate composing in a hurry. Oh – and you're going to need something powerful to...”
Jack reached into his pocket, and pulled something out. He shook his head. “It's the last one. I knew I'd need it one day.”
In a place that didn't actually exist, an old man in a blinding white vest and red overalls chuckled. The shadow hanging on a wall that wasn't actually there - didn't. “What the...? The Idiot! Was this your idea? Is he going to...? But he can't do that! I mean, I couldn't do... It's impossible!”
The old man shrugged. “Ah. Impossible. So if he does it then, that's, like, a Paradox?”
The shadow not hanging on the wall that wasn't there sighed. “You know, you really are a bastard.”
The old man shrugged again. “Well, someone has to be.”
Shadows don't smile. So the shadow that wasn't really there didn't. Widely. “Idiot.”
The old man grinned. “Always.”
The shadow sighed. “So? Are we going to help?”
The old man raised one eyebrow. “You mean cheat?”
The grin the shadow didn't have got even wider. “I won't tell anyone if you don't.”
The old man's grin couldn't have been wider. “That's my girl.”
Shadows don't blush. So this one didn't – bright pink.
Jack took the emerald out of his pocket and concentrated, wrapping Shadow round the two figures in front of him. Then he gently touched the back of the girl's head with the emerald. “Now, P!” The Shadow Tunnel echoed with the sound of a soaring piano, and an impossible surge of power ran through it. As the power pulsed, the emerald glowed bright green. Jack let the Shadow Tunnel collapse, pulling him back to 350. He put the emerald on the empty chair in the middle of the room. “OK, P. She'll need a memory if she's not going to flip before we're ready.”
Sonata
Ricapitolazione – Secondo Movimento
Washington D.C. - 350 And Down
“I'm a copy?” The emerald on the chair pulsed bright green.
Jack shrugged. “You pretty much know the rest. Well, apart from the not-being-real thing. But...”
“I'm a fucking COPY?” The girl shackled to the chair struggled, wavering between girl and emerald.
Jack shrugged again. “OK.”
The emerald pulsed. If green could be angry, it was one pissed off gem. “OK? O-fucking-K? Up until ten minutes ago, I was a highly trained, gorgeous, drop-dead or I'll kill you assassin-chick. Now I'm a lump of fucking beryl, with traces of, like, chromium. Or maybe vanadium. Either way...”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Beryl? And – what was the other thing, P?”
“She said – well, the, er, lump of – can I say a bad word, Jack?”
“Well, you're not really saying it, P. Just quoting her. Well, quoting the lump of fucking beryl. So I don't think it counts, P.”
“Ah. That's alright then. Well, the lump of fucking beryl said she had bits of chromium in her. Oh, or possibly vanadium.”
“Right. Beryl and...”
The emerald pulsed. “I am still here, you know.”
Jack pulled up another chair, and swung it round so it's back was to the emerald. He sat in it, facing the gem. “I guess that's the question, isn't it?”
“Question?” Green is a colour. It can't be curious, and it can't be pissed off. So whatever colour the gem pulsed, it was neither. Which didn't stop it being both.
“Yeah. The question. Like another question.”
“What's that?” The pissed off the green of the emerald couldn't be was losing out to the curiosity it couldn't be either.
“Well, maybe it's 'how do you know emerald is beryl?'”
“It's not just beryl. You need the chromium. Or vanadium. Or it isn't green. And even I listened sometimes in...”
“In what?” Jack wasn't raising any eyebrows and he wasn't shrugging
“OK. So whoever I'm a copy of listened sometimes. In, like, class.”
Jack sighed. “OK. Whatever. Isn't that what kids say? Whatever? When someone's being stupid, and doesn't get it? OK, P. I guess we're done here.” Jack started to get up.
“Fuck you!” The girl shackled in the chair did a back flip. The chair flew backwards, and shattered. She slipped the cuffs, and launched herself at Jack, one leg swinging in a roundhouse kick.
Jack grinned. Then stepped to one side, and swept the girl's braced leg from under her, dropping her flat on her back. He leaned over her. “You know, that's a pretty good trick, even for a... what was it, P?”
The piano player looked up. “A highly trained, gorgeous, drop-dead or I'll kill you assassin-chick. I think that was it.”
Jack grinned wider. “Right. Yeah, that was it.” He looked down at the girl. “So if it was a pretty good trick for a highly trained, gorgeous, drop dead or I'll kill you assassin chick – what kind of trick was it for a lump of fucking beryl?”
The girl looked up at him. “I...”
Jack put his hand over her mouth. “Right. You just stop there. 'I'. Because right now, you got a choice. You got a choice because right up until I told you different, you were a girl. Because you believed it. So you can either be a lump of rock, or you can be you. You can be real. Because this room we're in? It's special. In this room, you're whatever you decide to be. Whatever you believe. So what's it gonna be? Rock or a hard case?”
* * *
I was flat on my back. I was flat on my back, and a guy who put me down without raising a sweat was asking me what I wanted to be, and telling me it's my choice. Now normally I'd roll to my feet and kick his ass, or maybe pull a knife and check the colour of his blood. Or better
yet, let my Glock do the talking. But the thing was, I didn't have my Glock, and I didn't have a knife, and I was pretty sure if I tried to kick his ass I'd lose. Which was bad, because I'm not used to losing. But it wasn't the baddest. Because the baddest thing was? Well, apart from the guy in the leather duster, the baddest thing was, he might be right. I mean, when I came round, I knew I was, well, me. I was me, and he'd snatched me and he'd killed Sammy C and I was locked in a chair. And even if all those memories were for shit, I for sure wasn't an emerald. And I wasn't an emerald, right up until he told me I was. And then? Then I was a lump of green rock. As bad days went this one was right up there. But unless I was figuring on changing my name to Balboa, it looked like I had a decision to make. And if the choice really was mine, Sly wasn't getting a look in.
I looked up at Jack. “So you wanna give a gorgeous hard-ass assassin-chick a hand up?” He reached down, and I reached up. I took his hand, and he pulled – not that it seemed like any effort. I figured he wasn't bad, not for an old guy at least. Then as he was pulling me up, I looked closer. I looked closer, and I thought how maybe he wasn't so old. Or at least – not too old. It wasn't the muscles – though he had those. It was the eyes. Eyes that seemed to say, 'whatever it is? Forget it. It's fixed.' And I had no idea how I got there, but I was up against his chest, and my heart was pounding like not even Sven made it pound.
“Some things never change.” Behind me, the piano player snickered. I wondered if I should kill her. I looked up, and Jack was blushing. I had a feeling he didn't do it much. I mean, I knew for sure he wasn't a virgin – not after the Countess thing. There had to be a story there. I made a note to myself to get him to tell me sometime – ideally over some rumpled bed sheets. Because he really wasn't that old.
