They Promised Me the Gun Wasn't Loaded

by James Alan Gardner

  * * *

  EVEN WITH THE LOCK broken, the door takes serious muscle to open. It’s steel, thick enough to withstand high pressures. The room on the other side is the size of an elevator cab, but with extremely solid metal walls. The room’s exit is another steel door identical to the one I just opened … so basically, this place screams “Air lock!” on the off chance I haven’t yet got the message that I’m breaking into Pandora’s box. I should probably be wearing a biohazard suit; either that, or pristine white coveralls, with a puffy plastic hat to cover my hair and frost-colored makeup to finish the look. But my Willow Scarlet suit will have to do. I’ll burn the fucking clothes when I finally get out of here.

  Oh, wait, the costume is flameproof. Well, that just makes it a challenge. Mad Genius time!

  I push a blue button that closes the outer air-lock door. Time passes as fans whir. La-la-la. I think of all the movies I’ve seen where someone’s being chased by monsters or dying from loss of blood and has to wait while some mechanical door takes for-fucking-ever to open or close.

  La-la-la.

  But at last the inner air-lock door swings open. The room beyond is appropriately white, all the better to see any schmutz I might shed from my clothes or unsterile body.

  The furnishings are sparse: just two heavy steel tables, one in the center of the room and another up against a wall. The surface of the central table has a network of grooves designed to channel fluids to a drainage hole at the foot. Not ominous at all. The side table has tools laid out on a pad of gauze—scalpels, clamps, etc.—plus an autoclave machine and a dozen glass containers that might be used for tissue samples.

  Ooo-kay. Strong Dr. Mengele vibes. But maybe I’m judging too harshly. The labs I’m used to are for undergrad biology classes. They’re cramped and chronically underequipped, with everything scuffed and a few years behind the times. I shouldn’t label Marian as a Nazi just because her lab is squeaky clean and state of the art.

  But where the hell is my comm ring? I survey the room and finally realize that one of the walls is slightly different than the others. It’s the same white color, and at first glance has the same texture. But it’s made of a different material—smooth metal as opposed to ceramic tile.

  I walk over for a better look. For the sake of experiment, I give the wall a light little push. Something goes click, and one side of the wall swings outward a few centimeters. Aha: a door in disguise. I slip my fingers around the edge and swing the door open on its hinges.

  Behind is a second door, as big as a walk-in refrigerator. Embedded in the door’s surface are two numeric keypads (both hexadecimal), plus a trackball, four display screens, fifteen levers, six USB ports, and a docking slot for a cell phone.

  Cape Tech. Nothing else could possibly need such a complex interface. But what are all the bells and whistles supposed to do? This can’t just be a plain old storage vault. That would be too easy. And it wouldn’t be “fun.” When you use Cape Tech, your keywords are “weird,” “overcomplicated,” and “disastrously unsafe.”

  So what’s the craziest shit I can imagine?

  This door in the wall leads to other times and places.

  I hate to say it, but that makes sense. If you enter the proper coordinates on the keypads, you can toss your toxic trash into the sun. Different coordinates, and you can store your valuables in some postapocalyptic desert so far into the future that you don’t have to worry about people or even bacteria messing with your stuff. Or maybe you’d prefer to keep your goodies on the moon where there’s nothing but hard vacuum. For sheer joy in life, you could deposit your stash in some alternate universe that has completely different laws of physics. True, that’d be a crapshoot, since there’s no telling what happens to terrestrial substances when the fine-structure constant of the universe becomes something radically different. But that’s the sort of dickery a Mad Genius loves.

  Marian could have made an ordinary vault and a garden-variety incinerator for dangerous waste. But no. That’s boring. Isn’t it more entertaining to dump stuff in the distant past, and take the chance of completely changing the course of evolution? Besides, if you steal some magical doodad from the Darklings, do you really want to keep it close at hand? Or would you rather plop it onto an airless ice world five galaxies away, so that if it summons Cthulhu, nobody cares?

  I’ll bet that Marian is pissed off she can’t bring the bazooka here to her sanctum. If Robin and the others didn’t want to drape themselves all over it, Marian could keep the gun on ice just by typing some numbers into—

  Zap.

  * * *

  I WAKE UP FEELING like crap.

  I mean seriously. Exactly like that coiled-up-turd emoji.

  Worse than a cold. Worse than a hangover. Worse than when I got mononucleosis, and could barely rub two brain cells together.

  Wha’ hoppen?

  A head appears in front of my blurry eyes. I squeeze my eyelids shut, then open and try to focus.

  It’s the kid. Friar Tuck. Nana is here, too. She licks my face.

  I go, “What the fuck just happened?”

  “You triggered a defense system,” Tuck says. “It shot you with a taser. You’ve been unconscious a long time. Hours.”

  Fuck. I’ve come back from fatal injuries in a matter of minutes. That taser must be one bad-ass weapon.

  But it would have to be, wouldn’t it? Gotta be designed to knock out a Spark or Darkling with a single shot.

  Fierce.

  Tuck goes, “Marian’s super mad at you. You broke into her special lab. You might have released something awful. Like, extinction-of-life-on-Earth awful.”

  “Why is Marian working with stuff that could kill all life on Earth?”

  Tuck shrugs. “Sometimes we fight villains and capture their equipment. Marian takes it apart to see how it works. She likes knowing things. And sometimes she does research, trying to make extra-good inventions. Not normal Cape Tech, but even crazier. She says that one tiny mistake, and instead of a cure for cancer, you get a sentient cancer life-form that wants to replace humanity.”

  I’m like, “Tell Marian I’m sorry. But you know why I was there. I wanted my ring.”

  The boy actually does the Awkward Turtle thing with his hands. Wow. I thought that was an internet hoax. Tuck goes, “Marian looked at your ring. She says it’s actually a Cape Tech communicator. That made her really mad. Ninja Jane–level mad. So she…”

  Tuck doesn’t finish his sentence. He looks down at his hands and keeps turtling. Nana licks me again, but this time slurps my ear instead of my face. I may be super, but wet willies are my kryptonite. I jerk away from the dog, and finally sit up to see where I am.

  I’m on a cheap couch in a tiny living room. The place is just big enough to hold the couch and two big-screen TVs, one on the end wall and one on the side. The end screen has an Xbox One X attached and the side one a PlayStation 4.

  There’s something around my neck. A metal collar. It’s lightweight enough that I didn’t notice it with my muddy head. But now I grab hold of the collar and try to pull it off.

  Immediate stabbing headache. Like, super vicious.

  Tuck goes, “Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  I let go of the collar. The headache fades but the muddiness doesn’t.

  Tucks turtles some more. “The collar, umm, it’s a neutralizer. To suppress your powers. So you don’t cause any more trouble.”

  I stare at Tuck a moment, then start to cry.

  * * *

  IT’S AN UGLY CRY, I know that. And I hate it. I hate being a crier.

  I hate all the bullshit about crying and not crying. I hate how when I cry I think, Don’t be a baby, then I think, Crying is okay, who told you otherwise? Then I think, People will call you a hysterical bitch, but then there’s, Fuck those people, and Fuck everyone, and Fuck me most of all.

  I can’t cry without thinking I’m bad. I can’t cry without thinking I’m bad for thinking I’m bad. I can’t cry wi
thout thoughts of You’re stronger than this heaping up on top of why I’m crying in the first place.

  I wish I could just cry. I wish I were really as stupid as I feel. Then I wouldn’t have the spare brainpower for hating myself at the same time that I’m bawling my ass off.

  So be proud of yourself, Jools! Even without superpowers, you’re not dumb enough to cry unselfconsciously.

  And yeah, my powers are truly gone. I try to rhyme off π, and I only get as far as 3.14159. WikiJools doesn’t come to my rescue. I can’t even remember who played Elsa in Frozen. If I tried to sing now, I’d break the Auto-Tuner.

  I hug Nana as if I’m drowning. That’s what Newfoundlands are for: they rescue people who’ve fallen into cold deep waters. But Nana’s not going to rescue me from the collar. She’s on Marian’s team, not mine.

  * * *

  WHEN I’VE CRIED MYSELF out, I wipe my nose on my sleeve. With my other sleeve, I wipe my eyes.

  No sign of Tuck anymore. The kid’s only fourteen. He likely stayed in the room as long as he could stand listening to me, but eventually he convinced himself that leaving me to cry in private was doing me a favor.

  Can’t blame him. I’ve done the same. Once I walked in on my hockey teammate Zaynab while she was crying in the locker room. I stood in the doorway a long, long time, wondering what I should do. Then I backed off into the hall and went to sit in the bleachers until I was sure she’d be gone.

  Never found out why Zaynab was crying. No way I could ever ask.

  What a fine human being I am.

  I tell myself I’d be different now. I’m a Spark, and Sparks don’t hold back when people are suffering. A lot of Sparks literally can’t—they’re driven to get involved.

  Besides, I’d be an Olympic-level therapist. The best hotline counselor ever. The best at emergency psych. I would have known exactly what to say to Zaynab and everyone else who’s hurting.

  But I’m not a Spark anymore. Not while I’m wearing this collar. I’m stupid hide-from-people Jools. Nothing but a waste of biomass.

  If my tear ducts had juice left, I’d start crying again. But unlike dry heaving, there’s no such thing as dry crying.

  At least I don’t think so. Without WikiJools, I don’t know for sure.

  Nana huffs and licks my nose. She likes the taste. She licks some more. Whoopee, my tears are good for something: providing Nana with salt.

  But there’s only so long I can stand a canine tongue bath. I pull back and hold Nana at bay when she tries to keep licking. She gives me a reproachful look. Then she pads out of the room.

  I prop myself up on the couch and feel like shit for a minute or two. In a sudden burst of anger, I try to rip off the slave collar. The pain almost makes me puke. Even poking at the collar with the tip of one finger turns my stomach. When I actually grab the metal, my guts do a flip-flop. I do it again, promising myself I’ll hold on no matter what …

  I wake up, covered in vomit. My brain hurts so bad, it’s like I’ve had the concussion my sisters warned me about ever since I started playing hockey.

  The collar is as tight as ever. It’s not going anywhere.

  With nauseating dabs of my finger, I map out the collar, checking for weak points. There’s a hinge in the back and a seam in front where the two halves lock together. Nothing that feels like a keyhole. If I were still super-smart, maybe I could figure out how to get the collar off. But dumb old Jools has no ideas except using brute strength.

  I try that again.

  I pass out again.

  I wonder how often I can do this before I get permanent brain damage.

  Smart Jools would know. I don’t.

  * * *

  EVENTUALLY I GIVE UP.

  I brush half-dried puke off my clothes. Good news! The Willow Scarlet outfit cleans up pretty well. Resists vomit as much as bullets.

  But that V down the front where the costume exposes my skin … it’s crusty and totally disgusting.

  * * *

  IT TAKES ME TWO tries to get off the couch. Is this what life was like when I was unsuper? Clumsy as a hog, and three-quarters drained of energy?

  Shit, no, I refuse. I’m still a jock, aren’t I? Even without powers, I’m healthier than, like, 95 percent of the population. This has to be left over from getting whazzed by Marian’s taser. It stomped my nervous system with hobnailed boots.

  But in a while, I’ll be back to my hockey-goon self …

  Shut up, Jools. You aren’t fooling anyone.

  17

  Junk DNA

  I HAVE TO PSYCH myself up just to leave the room. I’m useless compared to the superpowered outlaws. I feel like a mouse surrounded by tigers.

  Fuck, Jools, get your act together!

  But it’s hard. I remember how cocky I was before I got superpowers. I always thought I was the strongest one in the room. Tougher than all the other girls. Even most guys. As for the few guys bigger than me … well, I had equalizers and knew how to use them.

  But in Sherwood Forest, I’m roadkill. After only two weeks of being super, I know how much Sparks outpower normal human beings. Even a kid like Tuck could destroy me.

  I feel timid as hell. But eventually, I scrape up the nerve to stick my nose out the door.

  No one in sight. I sneak farther, always on tiptoe and listening hard.

  I’m in a barracks for Robin’s outlaws. Looks like each of them has a suite made up of little rooms. It makes me think of stories I’ve heard about tiny apartments in London or Manhattan, where you get a kitchen, bathroom, and bedsitter with the floor space of a postage stamp.

  But in my current condition, any bathroom is better than none. As a Spark, I could go all day without a bladder break. Didn’t even think how unusual that was. Being super has all kinds of perks nobody ever talks about it. But now that I’m mortal, biology is a bitch.

  Fine. Whatever.

  Afterward, I stare at myself in the mirror over the sink. I look like hell. Puke all over me. I’m still wearing the Willow Scarlet mask. I reach up to take it off, but then stop. I don’t really want to look at myself.

  Makes no difference. I’m not super, so the mask is just a mask, not a separate identity. I look like Jools with something big and red and stupid on my face. I can see my bloodshot eyes through the mask’s eyeholes.

  So I do take off the mask. I’m tempted to toss it in the garbage, but decide it might be useful later on. Maybe a time will come when I need to pretend I’m super. I won’t have a Halo, but I can still try to fake it.

  I’ve had practice trying to fake being better than I am.

  I tuck the mask in a pocket of my jacket, then use the sink to wash myself. The process takes a while, but it makes me feel more human.

  As if human is a thing I want to feel.

  * * *

  I WANDER THROUGH THE barracks another few minutes, but most of the doors are locked. Nobody’s home, not even Tuck’s animals. It’s strange that I’m not locked up if Marian is so peeved with me. I guess the collar is considered enough of a jail.

  Anyway, I’m sure none of the outlaws want to waste their time guarding me. They’re either still drinking in the mead hall or else they’ve passed out.

  I still can’t believe they’d give me free run of their base. So I look around hard, and eventually spot a pebble-sized fleck hovering close to the ceiling. It’s silent and neutral gray. When I reach toward it, the thing backs off. But when I move away it follows, as if it’s programmed to stay at a specific distance.

  Must be a spy drone the size of a peppercorn. Cape Tech, of course. You couldn’t make something that small with real science. It’ll have a camera and microphone to watch me … something to raise an alarm if I get out of line … an engine that lets it fly, and a battery to run the show. No way conventional technology could cram so much into something the size of a piece of snot.

  I show the drone my middle finger. That’s the limit of what I can do. How can nonsuper people defy Cape Tech? I’ve got nothi
ng. Nothing at all.

  I can’t stand this. Time to find Marian. I’ll get down on my knees if I have to: “For fuck’s sake, just wipe my brain and send me home.”

  There’s no reason to keep me anymore. They’ve brought the damned gun back to Sherwood. Now Marian has all the time in the world to erase my memory. Hell, if she makes me forget what I did to Stretchkin, I’ll name my firstborn Marian. Or Robin. Or whatever these fuckers bloody well want, so long as they let me leave.

  * * *

  I BLUNDER THROUGH THE barracks till I find an exit. Out I go.

  But when I get outside, I have no clue where I am. I’m still in Sherwood Forest—the trees are just a few steps away. But this is my first time at the barracks, and I don’t know how to get from here to anywhere else.

  Overhead, the Milky Way smears across the night like a photo from National Geographic. Maybe I’m being stupid, but the sky looks real, not like the fake sun or fake night that was simulated earlier. It’s like Marian has turned Sherwood’s roof transparent so we can see what the universe really looks like from the stratosphere.

  No clouds at all. So little air, the stars don’t twinkle. Just hard cold points of light with galactic dust around them.

  Miranda would love the view.

  I miss Miranda.

  I look around for any sign of how to get out of here. The barracks building resembles Robin’s house: Tudoresque. Lots of windows made from diamond-shaped panes of glass. It could be a copy of some famous historic building, but how would I know? Without WikiJools, I’m a bumpkin who knows fuck all about her own country, let alone England.

  Screw it. I just want to leave.

  The night is crazy dark—the kind of dark you never get in cities, where streetlights shoo the darkness away. Despite the stars, I can barely see anything. The moon is nowhere in sight, and the trees will block the starshine as soon as I enter the forest.

  I stumble around for a while and finally find a trail leading into the woods. It starts a few paces from the barracks’ front door, and thank God, it’s not too hard to follow. With people like Wrecking Ball using the path on a regular basis, the dirt gets stomped down hard and undergrowth doesn’t have a chance to grow.