by Lou Anders
“And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you,” she said. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he had a feeling she’d winked at him.
Ari refused to let himself get distracted. “The people in the bank not remembering anything. The tapes blank. That’s because you looked into their eyes and they became instantly paralyzed, and you looked straight into the camera and paralyzed the guard in the security room who was monitoring it. Then you just went in and erased the tape—”
“Magnetized it, actually,” she said. “Same result.”
“And then walked out with the money. When everyone came around, they didn’t even realize what had happened.”
“How masterful of me.”
“You need to return it.”
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Why?”
“Because it was a robbery. Because it was wrong. And it’s not like you need the money.”
“That’s true,” she sighed. “I am stinking rich. Still… money can’t buy everything, now, can it. Or… can it?”
She reached over and placed her hand upon his again.
Behind his reflective glasses, he closed his eyes in pain. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Ari, darrrrh-ling—”
“That’s what this is about? Hooking up with me again?”
“Well, someone is sorely full of himself. Couldn’t it be that I was simply bored and decided to shake things up a bit and see the result?”
“Zola… come on! You’re dangerous! And you’re, y’know, an ancient evil! Greek warriors made a point of killing people like you!”
“Are you endorsing racism now, darling?”
He moaned. “Zola—”
“Fine, fine, fine,” she said in annoyance. “The police will find a nice package waiting for them on their doorstep. It will be there by six this evening. Will that make you happy, Ari?”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. No strings. No—”
A snake suddenly stuck its head out from under her hat. Thin and black, it hissed at him, its tongue whipping out. Zola reached up in annoyance and slapped at it. “Stop it. Behave.” The snake cast one final resentful glance at Ari and withdrew.
“No strings,” she repeated, sounding wistful. “Consider it… a magnanimous gesture.”
She still hadn’t removed her hand from his. He noticed it was starting to get warmer.
Ari rolled his eyes. “Pick you up at seven.”
“Seven-thirty.”
“You were going to add half an hour to it no matter what time I said, weren’t you.”
Her thin green lips spread even wider. “No one knows me the way you do, darling.”
“Yeah. I wonder why that is.”
He got up and returned to the other table. Vikki had returned with her drink for Simon, who was nursing it more than he was drinking it. He looked questioningly at Ari. “’S’up?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s up.”
“You’re lying,” said Vikki. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”
“Yeah, his lips are moving,” said Simon.
“Okay, fine. I have a… thing… tonight.”
“A thing. You mean like a date thing? With…” Vikki’s eyes widened. “With Zola ?”
Across the way, Zola raised her glass of ouzo to her in a mocking salute.
“Could’ja keep your voice down, please?” said Ari pleadingly.
Simon grinned. “Dude. Back to living life on the edge, huh?”
“It’s just… y’know… dinner or something. I’m thanking her.”
“For what?”
“Because she’s doing the right thing.”
“What right thing?”
“It doesn’t matter. The specifics don’t matter. It’s just this thing she’s doing, and it’s right, and I figured that I’d do the right thing and thank her for it.”
“She doesn’t want your thanks,” said Vikki. “She wants… y’know…”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I don’t know, Vik. I don’t know what I’m okay with. All I know for sure is that I’m trying to figure all that out and I’m still not nearly there.”
“When do you think you’re going to be?”
“C’mon, Vik, it’s not like I can put it into Mapquest and get an ETA. It is what it is.”
“There you are!”
No one had seen Captain Quikk enter the DMZ. No one ever did. He was simply not there, and then he was. Ari noted that Quikk was in his hero pose, his arms akimbo, his mouth in a broad grin. “Greetings, all!” he called out. The response was half-hearted waves followed by everyone going right back to their drinks. “Darling! I was looking all over town for you!”
“Yeah?” said Simon. “How long did that take?”
“Thirty-seven seconds, but I had a lot on my mind. Come on, Vikki. We have a photo op!”
“A photo op?” she echoed.
“That’s right! I just saved a jumper from falling to certain death! There’s photographers galore! So I figured, what could be better than some nice big pictures of me next to my best girl!”
“What indeed?” said Ari.
“Okay, well, sure,” said Vikki.
“Vikki,” Simon began to say, “I—there’s something we need to discuss.” He was glaring up at Captain Quikk and Ari noticed a warning look in the Captain’s eyes. Ari had a feeling that he knew what Simon was going to say, and he further had a feeling that the Captain also knew.
“Can it wait, Simon? I think”—she squeezed Quikk’s hand—“the Captain needs me right now.”
Simon hesitated for what seemed an age. When he spoke, he was glaring at Ari but addressing Vikki. “Yeah. Sure. Wouldn’t want to, y’know… get in between you guys.”
“Oh, you’d never do something like that, Simon,” said Vikki. “I know you better than th—”
“Time to go,” said Captain Quikk, and just like that, he was gone. So was she. The only trace left was a surge of air that blew napkins all over the place. Selkie muttered a curse in her native tongue and started cleaning them up.
“Tell me he gets his,” said Simon.
“I’m sure that somehow he—”
“Not you, man,” Simon interrupted Ari. He was now looking at Xander. “Tell me. Tell me he gets his.”
Slowly Xander nodded.
“I mean that he gets his in this life, not the next one. And this—I dunno—this particular reality instead of some other dimension or something. That that guy, right there”—he pointed toward the door—“who just left with Vikki… that it doesn’t end well for him. And that it doesn’t end well in my lifetime and I get to see it.”
“You’re responsible for it,” said Xander.
Simon grinned. “Out-freaking-standing.” He picked up his beer.
“You don’t want to know the details?”
“Don’t need to, dude. Let it be a surprise. Sometimes just knowing is enough, y’know?”
“Like knowing what’s right?” said Ari.
“Whatever.” He sighed. “Women. They mess with your head.”
“Everyone messes with your head. That’s what friends are for: to help you keep it on straight.”
Zola stopped by the table. She was wavering slightly; apparently she’d had a bit more ouzo than was typical for her. “Make it seven forty-five, all right, darling? Give me another fifteen minutes to be at my best,” she said to Ari.
“Yeah, okay.” Ari was suddenly very intent on staring down into his glass. He realized he’d neglected to return the sunglasses to Vikki, and then decided that it was a fortunate memory lapse.
“Simon”—she smiled sweetly at him—“I couldn’t help but listen in before. I think you handled that ghastly speedster with admirable restraint.”
“Thanks, Zola.”
She ruffled his fur. “Honestly, I thought you were just going to throw feces at him.” And she sashayed out the door.
“Yeah,” sighed Simon, “that joke just never gets old.”
Joseph Mallozzi is best known as writer and executive producer of the Stargate SG-1, Stargate: Atlantis, and Stargate Universe television series. Other television credits include Big Wolf on Campus, Student Bodies, and The Busy World of Richard Scarry, among many others. He also runs a science fiction and fantasy book-of-the-month discussion group on his blog (http://josephmallozzi.wordpress.com), which invites genre authors to participate in group Q & A sessions. A veteran of numerous teleplays, this is his first ever work of straight prose. I am supremely confident that the universe would be a poorer place if it proved to be his last.
Downfall
JOSEPH MALLOZZI
He was pummeling the fourth one into submission, raining a barrage of bare-fisted blows down on the combat suit’s delightfully malleable helm, when he realized that a large section of the bank’s west wall had collapsed, allowing onlookers an unobstructed view of the proceedings. From their vantage across the street, he reasoned, any cell phone videos would prove spotty at best. Still, the optics were bad and he couldn’t chance a fresh YouTube fiasco. His publicist would have another meltdown and that would mean one more round of morning show apologies and children’s hospital visits. The very thought made him ill.
Abandoning his long-unconscious opponent, he threw a look to the remaining three as they crawled out from under the rubble. In their diamond-thread virinium-reinforced battle armor, they were more than a match for any hero. But, unfortunately for them, he wasn’t just any hero. He was The Imperial, “Vanguard of Justice,” “The People’s Protector,” and the only reason they were still standing was because he’d been holding back, toying with them, partly out of a desire to deliver a powerful lesson (Stay in school, kids! Don’t rob banks!) and partly in the hope that an extended skirmish would help snap him out of his present funk, an inexplicable lassitude that had descended on him that morning like some ponderous blanket sodden with ennui and the lingering odor of last night’s chicken shawarma. However, six minutes into the fray and some considerable structural damage later, he still wasn’t feeling any better. That fact, coupled with their ever-growing audience, simply curdled his already sour mood. As much as he would have enjoyed the cathartic release of an elaborate beatdown, he knew that present circumstances would not allow it. Time to wrap things up.
His adversaries seemed to come to the same conclusion and simultaneously launched into action. One spearheaded the attack, vaulting over the information desk and coming in with a driving double-legged strike, while the other two moved to close. They may as well have been moving in slow motion. The Imperial pivoted, rolling the lead blow off one shoulder, and followed through, clapping his hand around a booted ankle and swinging his opponent round, sweeping the area clear of obstructions: a deposit station, some promotional displays, and one of the other battle-suited thugs. Their helms connected with a resounding clang, and a piece of someone’s faceplate ricocheted off a teller’s window, nicking a silver dollar-sized chip out of the thick plastic surface.
The first attacker went cartwheeling across the room, obliterating an enormous placard depicting a happy couple and an equally happy malamute taking possession of their first home. The other simply folded in on himself, buckling to a cross-legged sitting position, head bowed, looking as though he’d grown suddenly weary of the skirmish and decided on a meditative interlude. You guys go ahead. I’ll sit this one out.
The last one demonstrated an impressive burst of speed, covering the distance between where he’d been standing and the exit in less than half a second. But The Imperial was already there, intercepting him with an outstretched hand that stopped him dead, collapsed his chest plate, and broke almost every one of his ribs. Then, before gravity could lay claim, the Vanguard of Justice swept him up and slammed him down, one-handed, in a thunderous finishing move that shattered the concrete floor, shook the building, and, more important, set the bystanders buzzing. Upload THAT, bitches!
He opted for the more theatrical exit through the hole in the west wall, striding over the debris to take full advantage of the photo op presented by the local press who had finally arrived on the scene. Shouts were raised. Photos snapped. The Imperial acknowledged his many fans with a wave and his trademark self-effacing grin. A quick scan of the crowd revealed Eliana Herrera, KDVB Action News reporter and host of the top-rated Herrera’s Heroes, desperately trying to draw his attention. She was one of his favorites: smart, syndicated, and a spitfire in the bedroom. Acknowledging her with a nod that let her know she’d just landed herself an exclusive, he started toward her.
At which point the nausea struck. He held up, his stomach roiling, his head swimming with the enormity of what he was experiencing. He was feeling sick. Sick! How the hell was that possible? His enhanced constitution ensured this sort of thing didn’t happen. He’d never had so much as a cold in his life. His body metabolized alcohol as fast as he could down it. And yet, here he was, in full view of his adoring public, suddenly as queasy and lightheaded as a post-prom princess.
Nightly News segment be damned. He couldn’t let them see him like this.
Without so much as a parting sound byte, he abruptly spun on his heels, away from a surprised Eliana Herrera, took a running start and jumped, clearing a row of parked cars and a high-end chocolate shop before initiating his jet boots and shooting skyward. Up and away.
Two seconds later, he passed out.
On the other side of town, having concluded their high school presentation on the joys of abstinence, the cybernetic duo known as Twin Atomica powered up their nuclear cores and took flight. They left St. Ignatius at 10:03 a.m., headed west toward their Inner Sanctum Headquarters in Little Italy.
While an unconscious Imperial streaked north at a little under the speed of sound.
Their paths crossed approximately two and a half miles over Midtown.
The ensuing explosion and fallout forced the evacuation of twelve city blocks.
Their walk along the foot trails of the arboretum took them all the way around Lancaster Lake, by the bird sanctuary, then circling back past the school and the rec center still under construction. Remy stayed close, occasionally straying to sniff a suspicious bush or mark his territory, but the second they passed the tree line bordering Miller Park, he was off, tearing across the open field toward the playground. By the time a breathless Marshall caught up, the black lab was sprawled on his back, basking in the attention of a group of children.
“Bad dog,” scolded Marshall in a face-saving gesture that convinced no one. “Get over here.” His bad dog responded by scrambling up and bounding off, much to the delight of the kids who hooted, hollered, and gave chase.
“Now you’re never getting him back,” offered Jennifer Hollins from one of the park benches where she sat alongside some of the other neighborhood parents. In her faded blue jeans and halter top, the pretty, raven-haired former model was the unabashed standard for the term “hot mommy” as it applied in most erotic fiction. Her husband, by contrast, a former shortstop for the local Triple-A affiliate whose one and only call-up to the majors was cut short by a line-drive nut shot that had made ESPN’s Not Top 10 Plays of that year, was the quintessential lout. How he’d managed to land her was a mystery that had haunted the town for years.
“If I go back home without Remy, I’ll be the one sleeping in the doghouse,” Marshall informed her, watching the merry pursuit.
“You and Allison coming Saturday?” asked single father Ramesh Dosanjh, the only male in the group. “I hear Tony is bringing his new girlfriend.” Recently-divorced Tony Salazar was reputed to be dating a stripper from Sweet and Sassy, a gentlemen’s club in nearby Fielding County, positively scandalizing the local community. Durham Falls hadn’t been rocked this hard since that time Mrs. Obershon, the town librarian, had had her secret Hustler subscription inadvertently delivered to her place of work.
“We’ll be there,” Marshall assured him. “Here’s hoping
she brings her tassels.”
Jennifer threw him a look of mock disapproval. He smiled and watched Remy fake out the fast-closing kids, feinting left then darting right. Devon, Marcie Krutzen’s eldest, pounced and came up short, hitting the ground face-first. A sharp gasp from one of the mothers and, as if on cue, all the parents rose as one. But Devon was quickly back on his feet, spitting up grass and resuming the chase undaunted. Relieved, the adults exchanged smiles and headshakes, retaking their seats, catastrophe averted.
And suddenly, Marshall felt acutely self-conscious standing there, the outsider in their midst playing at fatherhood, doting over his four-legged fur baby while they good-naturedly humored his paternal affectation. Mid-thirties, married, yet childless. Did they ever wonder? Did they even care? Or was he simply allowing his own self-doubt to fuel paranoid imaginings of them, gathered at the local Starbucks, speculating about the relative strength of his swimmers over macchiatos and carrot cake? He tried to dismiss the thought but, once considered, it ate at him like some shameful secret.
In truth, the decision to not have children had been a mutual one, a logical and ultimately difficult sacrifice, and yet, while he had been able to make peace with the situation, he wasn’t so sure about Allison. It wasn’t anything she ever said or did but more the notable omissions—her increasing disinterest in neighborhood get-togethers, her self-imposed exile from family events. Doubtless his wife already had an excuse in mind for why she wouldn’t be able to attend the Dosanjh barbecue.
“Remy!” he snapped. The tone of his voice instantly commanded the lab’s attention, let it know he was no longer kidding around. Remy trotted over, tail down, chastened. Marshall gave the dog a pat on the head. “Time to go, buddy.” Buoyed, Remy bounded off again, this time toward the boxwood-lined sidewalk of Sumac Avenue. Marshall followed.
“See you Saturday!” Ramesh called after him.
“See you then.” And they headed home.
Marshall spotted the black SUV in the driveway as he turned down Spruce Crescent. Black, tinted windows, government plates. They may as well have landed a helicopter on his front lawn. As he approached, he was suddenly seized by the urge to turn and retrace his steps, wait out the day at the park, and come back after dinner once they’d left. But he knew they weren’t going anywhere.
