They Promised Me the Gun Wasn't Loaded

by James Alan Gardner

  “Please,” Calon says. “Polluting my hands with low-rent liquor would be more trouble than you’re worth.”

  “So why I am worth any trouble at all?”

  Calon looks at me in silence. I meet her eyes for several seconds before I remember that’s a bad idea. If you make eye contact with certain kinds of Darkling, you might wake up ten days later as a toad. But since I’m already deep in the shit, and since Glenfiddich is pleasingly scratchy in my throat, I decide, Oh, fuck it, and hold her gaze.

  She smiles. “That’s why.” She sips her Scotch. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “Uhh…” After a moment, I pull my jaw off the ground and say, “No plans at the moment. What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s an event,” Calon says. “I assume you’ve heard about the Darklings who recently died at the Goblin Market?”

  I say, “Sure, it was on the news.” I do not say, I was there myself and nearly got blown to pieces.

  “Well,” says Calon, “the Darkling community has arranged a memorial service. Not somber—more like a wake than a funeral. I’ve been invited. And I can bring a guest.”

  “Uh-hunh.” I stare into her eyes again. “Just as a clarification, I’m straight. Totally into penises, and vice versa. But if you’re looking for a date, I have a roommate who’s obsessed with Darklings and … no, actually, I don’t know what Kim’s preferences are, but I’ll bet they’re more fluid than mine. I could see if she’d like to set up a meeting—”

  Calon interrupts me with a laugh: a genuine laugh. I can’t remember hearing a Darkling laugh before. They’re more into smirks and gloating bwa-ha-has. “Oh, honey,” Calon says, “if I truly wanted your memek, your taste for penises wouldn’t stop me. But that’s not what this is about.”

  “So tell me,” I say.

  She’s still smiling broadly. “Superficially, it’s about position. If everyone else brings a guest and I don’t, ill-bred oafs would sneer that I couldn’t find a companion. I would then be forced to put those oafs in their place, and unpleasantness would ensue. It’s better that I attend with a presentable plus-one, thereby avoiding the need to defend my position with aggression.”

  “You need an entourage,” I summarize, “or people will talk. And you really think I’ll impress people as arm candy?”

  “You’re young, you’re attractive, and you’re one in more than a million when it comes to withstanding Darkling Shadows. That makes you a rare treasure. Most other mortals who attend the event will have to wear protective talismans.” Calon rolled her eyes. “Admittedly, some members of the Dark enjoy making their companions wear talismans—the more ostentatious, the better. Fetishes made from decapitated chicken heads. Medicine bags filled with reeking herbs. Slave collars.” She makes a disgusted sound. “But those of us who’ve outgrown such displays place a high value on aesthetics. When people see I’m accompanied by a human wearing no talisman at all … well, I won’t deny it, Jools, you’re a status symbol. People will envy me.”

  I say, “So, what, you’re showing me off like a girl you can fuck without a condom?”

  For a moment, Calon looks shocked. Then she gives a belly laugh. “Yes, Jools, essentially. Fucking will not be involved, but you don’t need an amulet to tolerate my company. You’ll make many Darklings quite wistful.”

  “Huh,” I say. I drum my fingers on the bar. “Now why do really need me?”

  Calon’s laugh dries up. She gives me an appraising look. “You are one in more than a million, Jools.”

  “So tell me the truth.”

  “Not until you say yes.”

  I take a sip of Scotch … where sip is closer to gulp than etiquette dictates. Mmm: peaty with overtones of pepper, pears, and privilege.

  I’m tempted to go for it. I really am. Because no one else I know would do something so rash. I almost laugh at the thought of my roommates’ faces when I tell them. Anything for a reaction, right? When it comes to manic pixie dream girls, I ain’t no pixie, but I got manic down cold.

  But then Calon says, “I’ll get you a suitable gown. Something fine that will fit you to perfection. Jewelry, too. It’s a Darkling event, so you’ll have to look the part.”

  Just like that, the mood is broken. I know I have nothing good enough for a Darkling gala. Even that nice green dress I wore to Science Ball will look like cheap trash. But I won’t let Calon buy me clothes and jewels. That’s just too tawdry for words.

  “No, thanks,” I say, “I don’t think so. It’s not my kind of thing.”

  Calon shrugs. She twitches her fingers and a white business card appears in her hand. “If you change your mind, give me a call. And if not tomorrow night, there’ll be other events. If you get bored.” She lifts her glass of Scotch. “Or thirsty for finer things.”

  She dangles the card in front of me. Well, what can it hurt if I take it?

  So I do. I hold it in my hand and read CALON ARANG in plain block letters. Nothing else on the front or back except a phone number.

  When I look up from the card, I’m not in the lounge anymore. I’m standing in the Arrivals baggage pickup area.

  The whole place is full of smoke.

  * * *

  THE AREA HAS BEEN evacuated—no surprise considering the smoke in the air and the racket of alarms going off. The ceiling has a sprinkler system, and there’s a slick of water on the floor. But nothing is sprinkling now. Either the danger has passed, or something has destroyed the pipes that are supposed to bring in water.

  My luggage sits alone in the middle of the room. Everybody else on my flight had plenty of time to pick up their bags and leave. The porter assigned to watch my stuff must have run when everything went to hell. I can’t blame him, but I’m docking him marks for not taking my luggage with him.

  Or maybe the porter left my bags cuz he was helping actual people get to safety. Which I should have been doing, too.

  Except now that I think about it, I should have been helping people after they’d been rescued. I’m a world-class paramedic. Doctor. Surgeon. All those things. I could have been saving lives.

  Should have thought of that sooner. Instead, I dawdled away, drinking Scotch with Calon Arang.

  I’m just so accustomed to being useless and stupid. Shit. Another straw on my haystack of shame.

  No one’s around, so I scream. The sound is barely audible above the fire alarms. Before I lose control and break down crying, I give my face a hefty smack and use my comm ring.

  « Hey,» I transmit, «I’m finally awake. Where should I be? »

  « Home in bed,» replies Aria. « Do you know how burned you looked? »

  « I’m fine now,» I say. « I could model for Elle. Or at least Horse and Rider. Now how can I make myself useful? »

  « We’ve cleared all the buildings near the fire,» says Zircon. « I search, Aria rescues, it’s all good. »

  « Do we know what caused the explosion? » I ask. « And please don’t tell me it was one of you. »

  « It’s never our fault! » Zircon snaps. « I think it was Wrecking Ball. She yelled something that sounded like Latin, then started to glow. »

  WikiJools does a fetch-and-serve. « She was likely calling Friar Tuck,» I say. « He’s another of Robin Hood’s outlaws. He has weird powers based on summoning super-animals. Number one in Tuck’s menagerie is a horse that can teleport. Robin’s gang always uses it for escapes. »

  « Then Reaper must have known about the horse,» Zircon says. « When he heard Wrecking Ball yell, Reaper tried to take her down before she got away. He charged straight at her, waving his scythe. They were right beside that airplane. Next thing I knew, whack-a-boom. »

  « Let this be a lesson, kids,» I say. « No roughhousing near jet fuel. »

  « You say that now,» Aria grumbles, «but how soon before we catch you fighting on top of an oil tanker? »

  « It’s on my bucket list,» I say. But truth to tell, I hate getting cremated. My face hurts like hell, even though
it’s fully healed. My throat is raw from screaming in a smoke-filled room. My shoulders are bare and my top still wants to fall down. Good thing I don’t actually need to rescue anyone or I’d end up on YouPorn.

  I say, « So are we done? »

  « Wrecking Ball has disappeared,» Zircon reports. « Ditto for Reaper and his flunkies. Fire trucks have arrived and my skill set sucks for putting out flames. »

  « Let’s get out of here,» Aria says. « Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up. »

  * * *

  IT TAKES ARIA ALL of ten seconds to reach me. The smoke whips into a frenzy as she flies in, a beautiful blond prima donna in a Venetian bird mask and a lacy gold dress.

  When I say “beautiful,” I mean it. Just as Zircon’s Halo says “force of nature,” Aria’s says “elegant beauty.” Or maybe it just says “queen.” Her aura grabs my brain and squeezes out words like “gracious” and “glorious.” Also “dignified” and “reserved”: there’s a distance between Aria and the rest of the world, just as there’s a distance between a queen and scruffy old commoners like me. I love Aria, and I love Miranda, and the two of us joke around … but Aria-slash-Miranda guards herself with walls of steel.

  At this moment, she’s also guarding herself with a force field, a luminous golden sphere that protects her from the elements as well as the super-crap that Sparks face on the regular. As soon as she lands, she extends her force field around me too. It’s as warm as a hug, and somehow full of clean air devoid of smoke.

  “Ready to go?” she asks.

  I wrap my arms around her neck. Her body goes stiff for a heartbeat, then she scoops me up in her arms. I’m not a lightweight—last time I checked, I weigh in at a hundred and fifty pounds. But Aria lifts me as easily as a kitten, and holds me as she takes off into the air.

  The lace of her dress is scratchy. And as soon as we get outside, the warmth inside the force field drops considerably. The field still blocks the brunt of the wind, but my bare shoulders pucker in the cold.

  It gets worse as Aria heads higher. She doesn’t like flying too close to the ground for fear that drivers will gawk and get into accidents. She also likes the quiet, peaceful feel of soaring high in a sealed glowing bubble. I get that: off on your own, away from the world, too far up to see any people. But it’s bloody fucking freezing at three thousand meters. Brass monkeys are bereft, and I don’t even want to think about witches’ tits.

  Seriously. No witches’ tits! Get out of my head, Calon Arang!

  « What was that? » Aria asks. « Did you think something at me? »

  « Not hardly,» I say. « I’m utterly devoid of thought. »

  Surprisingly, she doesn’t give me snark. Then again, when you’re jetting along at the speed of sound, maybe you need to concentrate on flying.

  But she holds me a tiny bit tighter. She can probably tell I’m cold.

  3

  Mutualism

  HOME IS OUR TOWN house, toasty and warm. I damn well hope.

  Aria does a low-altitude flyby and neither of us sees anyone who’ll notice us sneaking into the house. Then again, why should there be anyone watching the skies above our town house complex? It’s eight thirty on a Friday night and classes don’t start until Monday. Half the students who live here have gone out to pubs, and the rest aren’t back yet from holidays.

  Still, we have to be careful. Aria lands behind the gas station that’s a short way down the street. As stealthy as the best ninja in the world, I slip over the fence and make my way to our unit’s back patio. Once I get the door open, Aria zooms inside so fast she’s a blur. She doesn’t quite break the sound barrier, but she sure rattles its teeth.

  Moving that fast ought to stir up a hurricane; it doesn’t. I’ve stopped scratching my head for a logical explanation. Sometimes the best you can say is, If superpowers had natural side effects, they’d be a lot less useful. So they don’t.

  It’s enough of a pain in the ass that we all have to sneak around. But so far, we’ve had it easy. We got our powers on December 21 when most students had already left the city for Christmas. All our neighbors will be back by Monday when the University of Waterloo starts its winter term. After that, people will be awake at all hours. If somebody pulling an all-nighter glances out the window, we really don’t want to be seen creeping in our back door while dressed in super costumes.

  How do other Sparks do it? Do they dig tunnels between their basements and abandoned lots? Or maybe Old Navy has a secret super section, selling Cape Tech clothes that make you invisible.

  No, forget Old Navy. If I’m such a super smarty-pants, why can’t I make my own damned invisible clothes?

  Not a cloak of invisibility—that’s too passé. Toe socks of invisibility!

  No, I can’t see a way to do it. But it might be possible to generate an invisibility field with two anklets, two bracelets, and some ear cuffs.

  No, stop! Bad Jools! Constructing super fashion accessories is the first step down a slippery slope toward Mad Genius.

  And Mad Genius is bad. Super-intelligence tends to make people go, “Surrender, mortals, and bow down before me!” A handful of super-smart inventor types have managed to stay sane, but dozens of others spend their time prancing about in jackboots and building armies of giant zombie dinosaurs. Whenever I tell myself I’m strong enough to resist that temptation, a voice in my head says, “You can’t resist Cheezies. You think you’re gonna resist going evil?”

  So, whoops, I have voices in my head. Not a sign of mental stability.

  I’m pretty sure it’s safe to invent stuff that uses genuine science. No harm in being brilliant, as long as I color inside the lines. But the moment I mess with upsilon waves and transdimensional quasi neutrinos, it’s a fast downhill slalom to calling myself Queen Sadista and skanking around in clothes that require Boob Glue.

  Ooh, I’ve just thought of how to make an awesome new Boob Glue! I could cook some up with barnacle cement glands and hyperaxions.

  No, no, no! Gotta anesthetize my brain before it gets me in trouble. I wonder if there’s anything in the house that could do that. Perhaps something in the form of a tasty beverage.

  I announce, “I’m going to my room.” Hastily I add, “I need to change. Out of these burned clothes.” I silence my babbling lips before they can add, I’m definitely not going to drink my entire stock of vodka.

  “Are you getting into costume?” Aria asks.

  “Why? Do we expect trouble?”

  Aria shrugs. “We should maybe look around. If Wrecking Ball is in the area, the rest of Robin Hood’s gang might be, too.”

  “Sounds like you want an excuse to break someone’s face.”

  Aria shrugs again. “There’s nothing to do here at home. Not till classes start. And I really like flying. It’s exhilarating.”

  I look at her in surprise. Aria-slash-Miranda isn’t usually “exhilarated” by physical experiences. She gets off on opera and physics, but she isn’t a bodily person. Her most vigorous activity is yoga … and while she goes to classes several times a week, she treats it as maintenance, not pleasure. Like brushing her teeth, only in downward dog.

  “We can go out if you want,” I say. “Just let me get changed. And where’s Zircon?”

  “Don’t know. Zircon has the gun, so ze is probably putting it someplace safe.”

  “Huh,” I say. “Zirc wants to be called ‘ze’ now?”

  “Yeah, ‘ze’ and ‘zir,’” Aria replies. “Maybe partly because the pronouns match with Zircon—you know, they all start with zed. And out of costume, ze doesn’t want to be Kim anymore. Just K.”

  I nod. WikiJools helpfully informs me that gaining superpowers often precipitates personal changes. It kind of shakes things loose. And I’m not referring to Sparks who go through complete mental transformations, the ones who become raging monsters or homicidal stalkers. But if you’re blocked up and spinning your wheels in life, acquiring new abilities is a smack upside the head. It breaks you out of yo
ur rut. Gives you confidence to take the next step.

  So I shouldn’t be surprised that Kim is upping her game. Oops, sorry: K is upping zir game. K’s been leaning in that direction for quite some time. I guess now ze’s taking the leap.

  “Okay,” I say to Aria. “I know I’ll fuck this up at first, but I’ll try to get the pronouns right.”

  “You and me both,” Aria says.

  * * *

  I HEAD UP TO my room. I’m glad K isn’t in the house, since ze (I’ll have to get used to that) can see through walls and might check up on me. K isn’t the type to spy—all four of us roommates are good at respecting boundaries, which is why we haven’t murdered one another after a year and half together. But K has started worrying I get drunk too often … and the number-one psychological change in people who gain superpowers is a heightened tendency to intervene in problematic situations.

  Translation: even polite roommates end up saying, “What the fuck, Jools? Put down the bottle and get some help.”

  Or maybe I’m putting my own words in someone else’s mouth. Good thing I know how to shut myself up.

  I do so. Using vodka.

  It’s vodka-tasting vodka, not that berry-flavored shit. Then I play my own striptease drinking game: take a shot … take off some clothes … take another shot … dal segno.

  But I run out of booze before I’m all the way naked. Good thing I wasn’t with a guy or I’d be embarrassed.

  And I really had intended to keep clothes and booze in sync. You’re such a screwup, Jools! Plenty smart enough to calculate how big each drink should be to make the timing work. But here I am, still in my undies and nothing to drink.

  Pouting, I go in reverse: alternating between putting on parts of my superhero costume and eating raw mouthfuls of toothpaste to cover the smell of alcohol.

  I end up fully dressed but with toothpaste left over. Is that a loss or a win? I’m too drunk to decide.

  But at least I’m geared up and ready to go. For the first time since I retreated into my room, I’m willing to look in the mirror. No longer Jools: I’m Ninety-Nine. And I look damned good if I say so myself.