by Jim Butcher
“I have you now,” I said, as much like James Earl Jones as I could. I do a better Yul Brynner.
Molly’s strained face appeared at the window and she blinked. “Harry?”
“What’s with the come-hither, grasshopper?” I asked. “You practically vacuumed me in with the Corpsetaker.”
Molly narrowed her eyes and said, “What was I wearing the first time we met?”
I blinked at her, opened my mouth, closed it, thought about it, and then said, “Oh, come on, Moll. I have no idea. Clothes? You were, like, eight years old and your mom tried to shut the door in my face and I was there to see your dad.”
She nodded once, as if that was the answer she’d been looking for, and opened the door. “Come on.”
I went into the tree house with her.
The inside was bigger than the outside. You can do that sort of thing in your imagination. It’s kind of fun. I’ve got one closet of my castle that looks like a giant disco roller rink. The roller skaters come after you like juggernaut, the music makes heads explode, and the mirror ball distributes a killer laser beam.
Molly’s headquarters looked like the bridge of, I kid you not, the U.S.S. Enterprise. The old one. The one that was full of dials that obviously didn’t do anything and that had a high-pitched, echoing cricket chirp going off every five or six seconds.
There was an upside to that setting, though: Molly was wearing one of the old sixties miniskirt uniforms.
Look, I’m not interested in a relationship with the kid. I do love her tremendously. But that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t look fantastic. Anyone with eyes can see that, and I’ve always been the kind of person who can appreciate gorgeous scenery without feeling a need to go camping in it.
Actually, glancing around, there were about half a dozen Mollys, all of them wearing old sixties miniskirt uniforms, each of them manning a different station. The one who had opened the door had jet-black hair in a neat, almost mathematical, gamine-style cut and slightly pointed ears.
“Star Trek?” I asked her. “Really?”
“What?” she demanded, bending unnaturally black eyebrows together.
“There are two kinds of people in the universe, Molly,” I said. “Star Trek fans and Star Wars fans. This is shocking.”
She sniffed. “This is the post-nerd-closet world, Harry. It’s okay to like both.”
“Blasphemy and lies,” I said.
She arched an eyebrow at me with Nimoysian perfection and went back to her station.
Communications Officer Molly, in a red uniform with a curly black fro and a silver object the size of a toaster in her ear, said, “Quadrant four is below five percent, and the extra pressure is being directed at quadrant three.”
Captain Molly, in her gold outfit, with her hair in a precise Jacqueline Onassis do, spun the bridge chair toward Communications Molly and said, “Pull out everything and shift it to quadrant three ahead of them.” The chair spun back toward Science Officer Molly. “Set off the nukes in four.”
Science Molly arched an eyebrow, askance.
“Oh, hush. I’m the captain, you’re the first officer, and that’s that,” snapped Captain Molly. “We’re fighting a war here. So set off the nukes. Hi, Harry.”
“Molly,” I said. “Nukes?”
“I was saving them as a surprise,” she said.
There was a big TV screen at the front of the room—not a flat-screen. A big, slightly curved old CRT. It went bright white all of a sudden.
“Ensign,” Captain Molly said.
Ensign Molly, dressed in a red uniform, wearing braces on her teeth, and maybe ten years younger than Captain Molly, twiddled some of the dials that didn’t do anything, and the bright white light dimmed down.
From outside, there was a long scream. An enormous one. Like, Godzilla-sized, or maybe bigger.
Everyone on the bridge froze. A brass section from nowhere played an ominous sting: bahm-pahhhhhhhhhhm.
“You’re kidding,” I said, looking around. “A sound track?”
“I don’t mean to,” Ensign Molly said in a strained, teenager tone. She had a Russian accent that sounded exactly like Sanya. “I watched show too much when I was kid, okay?”
“Your brain is a very strange place,” I said. I meant it as a compliment, and it showed in my voice. Ensign Molly gave me a glowing grin and turned back to her station.
I walked to the right-hand side of the captain’s chair and folded my arms. The screen came up to light again, showing a devastated section of the city grid. No, not decimated. Had that part of the city been decimated, one out of every ten buildings would be destroyed. That’s what decimated means. Personally, I think some early-years, respected television personality got decimated and devastated confused at some point, and no one wanted to point it out to him, so everyone started using them interchangeably. But dammit, words mean what they mean, even if everyone thinks they ought to mean something else.
Science Molly spoke in a grim voice. “Nuclear detonation confirmed. Enemy forces in quadrant four have been decimated, Captain.”
I pressed my lips firmly together.
“Thank you, Number One,” Captain Molly said, spinning back to face the front. “Harry, um. Help?”
“Not sure what I can do, grasshopper,” I told her seriously. “I barely managed to steal a bathroom rug from some rubble and whip up a flying carpet. Her stuff goes right through me, and vice versa.”
She looked at me for a moment, and I saw the same look of fear flicker over every face on the bridge. Then she took a deep breath, nodded, and turned to face the front. She started giving smooth orders, and her other selves replied in calm, steady voices.
After a few moments, Captain Molly said, “If you aren’t here to . . . I mean, if you can’t help, why are you here?”
“Because you’re here,” I said calmly. “Least I can do is stand with you.”
“If she wins . . .” Captain Molly swallowed. “You’ll die.”
I snorted and flashed her a grin. “Best thing about being a spook, grasshopper. I’m already dead.”
“Quadrant three is collapsing,” Communications Officer Molly reported. “Quadrant two is at twenty percent.”
Captain Molly bit her lip.
“How many quadrants?” I asked her.
“Four,” she said. “Since, you know. Quadrants.”
I wanted to say something about decimated, but I didn’t. “We’re in quadrant one?”
Captain Molly nodded. “I . . . don’t think I can stop her, Harry.”
“Fight’s not over until it’s over, kid,” I said. “Don’t let her beat you. Make her work for it.”
Science Molly said, in a firm tone, “Death is not the only consequence here. Should the Corpsetaker prevail, she will have full access to our talents, abilities, memories, and knowledge. Even though we have spent the last months distancing ourselves from others to insulate against a situation such as this one, the Corpsetaker could still inflict considerable damage on not only our friends and family, but on complete innocents. That is unacceptable, Captain.”
Captain Molly looked from Science Molly to me and then said, “The fight isn’t over yet. Prepare the Omega Bomb, but do not deploy.”
“Aye, aye,” said Science Molly, and she stood up and strode to the other side of the bridge—and an old wooden cabinet beside an old wooden door.
I blinked at it. “Wow. That’s . . . kind of out of theme.”
Captain Molly coughed loudly. “That? That’s nothing to worry about. Pay it no mind.”
I watched Science Molly get a device the size of a small microwave out of the old cabinet and push one button on it. Then she set it on the console next to her.
“Um,” I said. “Omega Bomb?”
“The Corpsetaker doesn’t get me,” Captain Molly said in a firm tone. “Ever.”
“And it’s in that old wooden cabinet because . . . ?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Cap
tain Molly dismissively. “Ensign, bring up the screen for quadrant two.”
I eased away from Captain Molly as she kept commanding the battle, and went over to stand next to Science Molly. “Um. The captain doesn’t seem to want me to know about that door.”
“Definitely not,” said Science Molly, also in confidential tones. “It’s a need-to-know door.”
“Why?”
“Because if you know about it, you’re one of the ones who needs to know about it,” she replied calmly. “And if you don’t, it’s better that you not know. The captain feels you’ve suffered enough.”
“Suffered enough?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“I have nothing further to say on the subject,” said Science Molly.
“It’s my fault,” Ensign Molly said. “Sorry. Look, I don’t mean to, with the cabinet and the door, okay? But I can’t help it.”
You ever get that feeling you’re standing in a room full of crazy people?
I got that feeling. It isn’t a very nice feeling.
I stared at the door and the old wooden cabinet. It wasn’t a particularly outstanding door in any way—a standard hanging door, if rather old and battered. Ditto the cabinet. Both had been stained a medium brown, apparently a very long time ago. Both were covered with dings and dents, not as though something had tried to break them down, but simply from years and years of use.
They looked sort of familiar.
I studied the door and the cabinet thoughtfully, glancing occasionally at the big old CRT as quadrant two buckled under the Corpsetaker’s assault. The fighting had been fierce, but she still hadn’t revealed herself, and Molly hadn’t managed to kill her with the nukes or the assault would have ended with her. Another quadrant went, and Captain Molly detonated another set of massive nuke constructs. Then a third, and more nukes. Neither of the second pair of detonations was followed by a massive scream, the way the first one had been. Molly had bloodied the Corpsetaker, presumably, but it hadn’t been enough.
“Dammit,” Captain Molly said, clenching one fist and staring at the screen. “She’s got to be near now. But where?”
The streets outside were so full of battling constructs that they were literally piling up with bodies, slowing the progress of the enemy—but not stopping it.
Dammit, I felt helpless. Just standing next to the kid wasn’t going to do her any good, but I was holding on to the world by a thread. I just didn’t have the ability to make things happen, either here or in the real world. All I could do was . . .
. . . was use my freaking brain. Duh.
“Wait,” I said. “Molly, I’ve got an idea.”
All the Mollys turned to look at me.
I turned to Captain Molly. “Slow her down,” I said. “You’ve got to slow the Corpsetaker down. Whatever you have to do, you need to buy some time. Go!”
Captain Molly blinked at me. Then she turned and started snapping orders. The bridge Mollys started twisting dials and punching keys.
I turned to Communications Molly. “Hey, you do communications, right?”
She looked baffled. “Right.”
“We need to communicate,” I said. “You need to make a long-distance call.”
“Now?” Communications Molly said, her eyes widening.
“Right the hell now,” I corrected her. I leaned down and explained what I needed in terse tones.
“That’s going to be tricky,” she said. “We’re already at one hundred percent on the reactor.”
I put on my best Sean Connery voice. “Then go to a hundred and ten pershent.”
Science Molly arched an eyebrow at me and punched a button. “Engineering, Bridge.”
“Aye!” screamed a furious Scottish-accented Molly. “What do ye want now?”
“More power, Engineer.”
The answer was a furious rush of pure profanity—but the deep engine-hum in the background around us went upward a bit, and the floor started to vibrate.
Science Molly pointed at Communications Molly and said, “Go.”
“Mayday,” Communications Molly said into her console. “This is a mayday. Emergency transmission. We urgently require assistance. . . .”
Suddenly everything lurched to one side and we all staggered.
“Oh, I don’t believe this crap,” I muttered.
“She’s found us, Captain,” said Science Molly. “Shields at seventy percent.”
“Hit her with everything!” Captain Molly snapped.
“Finally,” growled Tactical Molly, who sat next to Ensign Molly, wearing a gold uniform almost identical to Captain Molly’s. She’d been sitting there doing absolutely nothing and looking bored the entire time I’d been there. Now she turned and started jabbing buttons, and cheesy sound effects filled the bridge.
“Minimal damage,” reported Science Molly.
The bridge rocked again and we staggered. One of the panels exploded in a shower of sparks. Some Molly in a red uniform who hadn’t spoken crashed limply to the deck.
“Not real,” Ensign Molly said. “Sorry; my bad. Some things you just can’t get rid of.”
Damage alarms started wailing. They sounded like a badly distorted version of a young woman screaming.
“Shields have failed, Captain!” Science Molly reported.
And she reached for the Omega Bomb.
“No!” I snapped. “Stop her!”
Captain Molly took one look at me and then leapt at Science Molly. She seized the Omega Bomb. “Stop!” she ordered.
“There is no room for emotion here,” snapped Science Molly. “It’s over. This is all you can do to protect them.”
“I gave you an order!” snapped Captain Molly.
“You’re letting your fear control you,” replied Science Molly coldly. “This is the only logical way.”
Captain Molly screamed in incoherent rage and slugged Science Molly in the face.
Science Molly screamed back, and swung a fist into Captain Molly’s stomach.
Music started playing. Loud. High-pitched. Strident. Most would recognize it.
“Sorry!” Ensign Molly called, cringing.
I hurried forward to grab at the struggling Mollys—and my hands went right through them. Right. I was an observer here. Welcome, sure, but if I wanted to control what was going on, I had to do it the hard way, like Corpsetaker was doing.
I turned to Ensign Molly and said, “Dammit, do something!”
“There’s nothing I can do,” she said, her eyes uncertain and full of sadness. “They’ve been like that ever since they killed you.”
I stared at Molly and felt my mouth fall open.
Time stopped.
The door. The old wooden door.
The cabinet where Molly had kept her suicide device.
I turned toward them.
My godmother’s voice echoed in my head.
You are currently freed of the shackles of mortality. Your limited brain no longer impedes access to that record. The only blocks to your memory are those you allow to be.
I remembered the door. The cabinet.
I remembered the past.
Sanya had insisted that they keep me on the backboard when they carried me into St. Mary of the Angels, after my apartment burned down. The dark-skinned Knight of the Cross carried me from his minivan and into the church alone, toting the board and my couple of hundred pounds and change on one shoulder, as if I’d been a big sack of doggy chow.
Molly had gone ahead of him, worried, speaking rapidly to someone. I wasn’t sure who—one of the priests, I guessed. I hurt everywhere I could feel. And in the places I couldn’t feel, I only wished I could hurt.
My body, from the waist down, had stopped talking to me altogether.
I’d fallen off a ladder while trying to get some of my elderly neighbors out of the burning building and landed on a stone planter. Landed bad, and on my back. I’ve gotten lucky occasionally. This time I hadn’t. I knew what the fall, the point of impact, and the lack of sen
sation in my lower body meant.
I’d broken my back.
The Red King had my daughter. I was the only one who was going to do anything about it. And I’d fallen and broken my back.
Sanya carried me into the utility room that was mostly used for storage—particularly for storing a battered wizard and his friends when they needed the refuge the church offered. There were a number of folding cots in the room, stored for use. Sanya set me down, rolled out a cot, put some sheets on it, and then placed me on the cot, backboard and all.
“Might as well leave me on the floor,” I told him. “I’m lying on a board either way.”
“Pffft,” Sanya said, his dark, handsome face lighting up with a white grin. “I do not care to clean the floor after you leave. Someone else can do the sheets.”
“Says you,” I said. “You smell like burning hair.”
“Some of it was on fire,” he said cheerfully. His eyes, though, were less jovial. He put a hand on my chest and said, “You are badly hurt.”
“Yeah.”
“You want a drink?” he asked. One hand hovered near his jacket’s breast pocket, where I knew he kept his flask.
“Pass. Maybe I’ll just cope instead.”
He made another disgusted noise and produced said flask, took a swig from it, and winked at me. “I was never clear on the difference. Da?”
Molly appeared in the doorway, and Sanya looked at her.
“He’s on the way,” Molly said. Her voice was strained. Her day hadn’t been as bad as mine, but she still looked shaken.
Sanya offered Molly a pull from the flask. She shook her head. “Very good,” the big Russian said. “I will talk to Forthill, tell him what is happening.”
“Sanya,” Molly said, putting a hand on his arm. “Thank you.”
He gave her a wide grin. “Perhaps it was just a coincidence I arrived when I did.”
Molly rolled her eyes and gave him a faint shove toward the door. It didn’t move the big man, but he went, and Molly flicked on a little lamp and shut the door behind him. She walked over to me and took a couple of KFC wet wipes from her bag. She knelt down next to the cot, opened them, and started cleaning my face.
