Velveteen vs. The Multiverse

by Seanan McGuire

  She realized as she walked that crowds were starting to form around her. Lifting her head, she discovered that she had reached the Strip—and more, that her destination was not that far ahead of her. She picked up the pace, very nearly trotting to the building surrounded by animatronic pirates. Then she stopped, looking at them dubiously. This was where she was supposedly meeting her contact. She just hadn’t expected it to be so…Vegas.

  The animatronic pirates ignored her judgmental stare as they continued in their sanitized piratical ways, which consisted mainly of hoisting empty tankards and plundering the ships of their fellow buccaneers. “Fucked-up times five thousand,” she finally declared, before opening the casino door and stepping inside.

  Entering the Jolly Roger Casino was something like stepping into the hybrid offspring of a Renaissance Faire and a strip club, only with more slot machines and less class. Busty barmaids wearing slutty pirate costumes that were probably purchased at a Halloween store clearance sale worked the crowd, distributing complementary cocktails to the high rollers and snubbing the tourists at the nickel slots. Velveteen froze in the doorway, realizing that for once in her life, her formal “work attire” didn’t stand out even in what should have been a mundane locale. No one looked at her twice. It was almost as disorienting as the casino’s carefully-controlled artificial twilight.

  Then a hand was at her elbow, and a redheaded woman with a sunny smile and an outfit that consisted almost entirely of sequins was tugging her gently out of the flow of traffic. “Velveteen?” she asked.

  Normally, Velveteen would have responded with something snarky about “how many women in bunny suits do you have around this place?” Under the circumstances, she was slightly worried about the answer she’d receive. “That’s me.” She pulled her arm free, eyeing the woman. “You are?”

  “Showgirl,” said the woman, in a tone that made it clear that she was giving her name, not her profession. “I know you were expecting Dame Fortuna, but I was the one sent to watch for you. Will you come with me? Fortunate Son would very much like to have a word with you before you’re allowed to meet with his mother.”

  Velveteen considered asking for the woman’s credentials, but dismissed the idea as unnecessary. Given the number of stuffed pirates and cuddly plush pirate ships scattered around the room, she could re-enact the siege of the Spanish Main if she had to. Short of FAO Schwarz, this was the last place on Earth she needed to worry about an ambush.

  “I’m always happy to meet new people,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Getting to Fortunate Son’s office required a brief tour of the Jolly Roger Casino, which Showgirl delivered with the smoothly practiced ease of a long-time guide. Gift shops, slot machines, and small theatres were pointed out with the same cheerful, seemingly automatic blandness. Velveteen did her best not to pay any attention at all. She was just enjoying being inside, where the blazing desert sun wasn’t.

  “…and this is the private elevator leading to the quarters of Dame Fortuna and family,” said Showgirl blissfully, pulling aside a curtain to reveal a golden cage. “Anyone caught beyond this point without invitation is subject to seven years of abysmally bad luck. No take-backs, no lucky charms. Going up.”

  “Wait—what?” But it was too late. Velveteen found herself hustled into the elevator, and then immediately back out again. The cage hadn’t moved.

  The casino had completely changed.

  Gone was the floor of beeping slot machines and dead-eyed tourists, replaced by a sleek, modern-looking security room, the walls lined with monitors that showed the casino Velveteen had so abruptly left behind. A pool table sat dead center in the middle of the room.

  The man who leaned against it was barely six feet tall, with desertsand hair and eyes the blue of ten-dollar poker chips. He leaned against the pool table as Showgirl led Velveteen forward, his eyes raking her up and down and making her wish she’d thought to wear the lead-lined underwear. His power profile didn’t say anything about Xray vision, but with the Vegas heroes, you never knew.

  “Fortunate Son, I presume?” she said.

  “Velveteen,” he said, after an uncomfortably long silence. “I expected something fluffier.”

  Vel bristled. “I expected something taller, so I guess we’re even.”

  Showgirl looked alarmed. To Fortunate Son’s credit, he laughed, shaking his head. “Girl, you are a piece of work. You know you’re in the temple of fortunes, don’t you? Any one of us could trash your world with a snap of our fingers, and you’d never get it back to where it was before you angered us.”

  “Uh, hello, have we met? The name’s Velveteen. You may remember me from the 10 o’clock News. I’m as close as a hero comes to being excommunicated. If The Super Patriots catch me outside Oregon, I’m under arrest, the Governor of Oregon gave me back my heroing license purely to piss them off—and PS, it worked—and my roommate is from an alternate Victorian England that doesn’t exist anymore. My parents just sold their life story to the Pow Network for six figures, while I’m counting quarters for a trip to Starbucks. How are you going to trash my world? Give me bad hair?” She folded her arms, glaring at him. “Bring it on. I have conditioner.”

  “If you’re not allowed outside of Oregon, how did you even get here?” asked Showgirl.

  “I told the Princess I needed a lift, and she dropped me off at the edge of town.” Velveteen didn’t have to feign her shudder. “Flying carpet rides from Portland to Las Vegas are so very not fun. But I’ll still call her for my ride home. It’s better than the alternative.” She turned her attention back to Fortunate Son. “I contacted you because I wanted to make a deal. As far as I’m aware, you usually do those remotely. So what was so important about this deal that it meant you had to call me out of my home territory, and why do I care?”

  “You must care, or you wouldn’t have come,” he noted reasonably. “As for what’s so important…we’ve got ourselves a leprechaun infestation.”

  Velveteen snorted. “I’ve been to the Spring Country. Leprechauns don’t exist outside of the seasonal worlds.”

  “Sorry to contradict you, missy, but they exist. At least if Lucky Charms is back in town.”

  “Lucky…oh, that fucker.” Vel groaned. “I thought he was dead.”

  “Guess he had one more four-leafed clover to deploy. Anyway, they’ve infiltrated the casino, and things are going wrong a heck of a lot faster than Mama likes. Leprechauns bend probability just enough to make it hard for us to see them clear. They’re about the size of our mascots, so we figure they’re playing dolly, and—”

  “You want me to call the toys and see what doesn’t respond.” Velveteen eyed him skeptically. “Why am I going to do you this favor? You haven’t even agreed to help me yet.”

  “Because there weren’t three original heroes,” said a voice behind her. It was one of those impossible old-style movie star voices, the kind that promised sin and salvation at the same time. Vel turned to see an elegant blonde woman who could have been cloned from Rita Hayworth herself come gliding up to the group. She was wearing a floor-length green satin sheath dress, and a small smile painted her cupid’s-bow lips. “There were four, darling, and I’m the one that got left off the books when they decided to go public.”

  “What?” Velveteen blinked. “That’s not possible.”

  “Oh, it is. If you’re lucky enough.” Dame Fortuna smiled. “Luck’s always been my specialty.”

  Velveteen’s mouth went dry. “You mean you—”

  “All the dirt, darling, all the petty little back-room deals and nasty little lies, I’ve got it all on paper. You want to take down The Super Patriots? I can’t say I have any desire to stop you, but there are a few things you’ll need.”

  “Jolly Roger,” whispered Velveteen.

  Dame Fortuna nodded. “Exactly that, my sweet little poker chip. You want to find Jolly Roger? This is where you start looking. All you need to do is one tiny little service for the heroes of Vegas, and our
files are yours.”

  If she could find Jolly Roger—the last of the Big Three, the only one whose death had never been confirmed—she could give Marketing something to worry about beyond the activities of one middle-grade animator who’d decided she wanted out. Something even bigger than a runaway photon manipulator. The Super Patriots, Inc. would leave them all alone forever if she showed up knowing how to find Jolly Roger.

  “Right.” Vel sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

  There were approximately two thousand, seven hundred, and eight toys of one description or another within the confines of the Jolly Roger Casino, not counting the ones who were attached to specific children. Velveteen couldn’t have explained how she knew the attached toys from the ones who would be happy to help her; she just knew, the same way that she knew all the toys would answer her call if it were truly an emergency. She stood in the middle of the main casino floor with her eyes closed and her hands raised in front of her chest, concentrating.

  Fortunate Son and Showgirl stood nearby, leaning up against a bank of slot machines that had started to return jackpots slightly more often than was statistically likely, and watched her work. “So that’s an animus,” said Fortunate Son. “I’m not impressed.”

  The doors of the casino opened as the animatronic pirates from outside came marching in, still singing their jaunty pirate songs.

  Showgirl hid a smile behind her hand. “How about now?” she asked. “Are you impressed now?”

  “…I suppose I am,” Fortunate Son allowed, his attention swinging from the pirates back to Velveteen.

  She was still standing with her hands raised, but she had started to shake, and a fine sheen of sweat had appeared on her forehead and her upper lip. Toys all over the building started to get up of their own accord, running to reach her. The animatronic pirates moved to form a circle around her, their swords at the ready. Fortunate Son didn’t remember them looking quite so sharp, or the pirates looking quite so bloodthirsty.

  Velveteen lowered her hands. Eyes still closed, she smiled, and spoke the first words to leave her lips since she stepped back onto the casino floor: “Go get ’em.”

  The leprechauns, who had been enjoying their anonymity, never knew what hit them. Final count and analysis of the security recordings would show that there had been exactly nine hundred and two leprechauns within the confines of the Jolly Roger Casino when Velveteen cried havoc and let slip the dolls of war. The number dwindled quickly after that.

  First blood went to an “I Love Las Vegas” teddy bear that had been sharing its owner’s purse with a leprechaun for hours. It whirled on the unsuspecting psychic projection, suddenly showing teeth and claws before ripping the little green man’s head clean off his little green shoulders. The leprechaun dissolved in a puff of whiskey-scented smoke, and the teddy bear went seeking new prey.

  Casino customers screamed and fled in droves, some pursued by toys bent on taking their leprechaun hitchhikers away. Fortunate Son and Showgirl did not move to intervene. Losing a little business was bad. Acquiring a reputation as a casino that couldn’t crack down on pickpockets and cheats was worse. Through it all, Velveteen remained frozen at the center of the floor, the sweat beginning to stand out more and visibly on her face. Her cheeks were starting to redden, and the shaking was getting worse.

  The toys battled on, until finally, the last leprechaun’s head had been sundered from its shoulders. Velveteen wobbled. Velveteen trembled. And finally, without another word spoken, Velveteen fell, landing on a cushion of suddenly inanimate plush pirates, random Beanie Babies, and “I Love Las Vegas” teddy bears.

  Everything was silent.

  “I think she’s dead.” The voice was Fortunate Son’s. He didn’t sound particularly upset about the idea of having a dead woman in a bunny costume lying on his casino floor. Then again, this was Las Vegas. Things like that probably happened every day.

  “Be nice,” said an unfamiliar woman’s voice. It had the same syrupy accent as Dame Fortuna, but it was lighter, sweeter, and somehow more capricious, all at once. “She came here because we asked her to, and she did us a big favor. There’s no cause to go wishing her death happen any faster than it’s already coming.”

  “You think the best of everyone, sweetheart.”

  “That’s my job, just like it’s your job to think the worst of everyone who isn’t family.” A cool hand stroked Velveteen’s cheek. “Poor little thing. She’s burning up, and for what? A few files that Mama should have burned years ago? It’s not worth it.”

  “She’s the one who decided to play after we told her what the game was.” Fortunate Son sounded almost defensive now. Velveteen, who was only just coming to realize that she wasn’t dead, decided that she liked the woman who was scolding him. “It’s not my fault if she went and pushed herself all the way into burnout.”

  “That’s the thing. She shouldn’t have pushed herself into burnout. I remember the betting pools with her in them, back when she was with that awful junior team. She managed situations much larger than this one without any sign of strain.”

  “Maybe she’s out of practice.”

  “Or maybe something’s draining her.” This voice was familiar: Dame Fortuna herself. “I know you’re awake, little girl, even if you aren’t completely sure one way or another. It’s time to open your eyes, get off your back, and have a little talk with Mama.”

  “You’re not my mother,” said Velveteen, and opened her eyes…

  …only to find herself looking up at the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Her eyes were the color of new felt on the finest card table ever made, and her hair was the gold of top-shelf whiskey poured in a smoky room where old men bet on ponies and young men bet on souls. She was plainly dressed, T-shirt and jeans, but on her, they were finer than any designer gowns or jewels could possibly have been. Velveteen stared.

  The woman sighed and snapped her fingers. Something about the sound changed the picture. She was still blonde, yes, still curvy and soft with big green eyes, but she was only a woman, not the embodiment of all feminine desire. “Sorry,” she said. “I came straight from work, and as long as you didn’t have your eyes open, I didn’t have to dial it back.”

  “My poor put-upon darling,” said Fortunate Son, stepping up behind her and putting his arms around her waist.

  Velveteen wracked her mind, despite the pounding headache she had somehow acquired, to remember the family connections of the Vegas heroes. “Lady Luck, I presume?” she ventured. She sat up, or tried to, anyway. Her headache got worse. She allowed herself to flop back down.

  “Guilty as charged,” said the younger blonde. She leaned back against Fortunate Son, clearly comfortable. “You gave us quite a fright when you collapsed in the casino like that. There was nothing in any of your files to indicate that you’d burn out so quickly.”

  “I’ve been tired lately,” Velveteen admitted. “I think it’s stress.”

  “Best friend finally escapes The Super Patriots, Inc., you wind up with a roommate from another dimension, and three holidays are jockeying for your hand—I can see where that might get stressful,” said Dame Fortuna, stepping up next to her daughter. Seen like this, side by side, the family resemblance was more than just unmistakable: it was absolute. Lady Luck looked like Dame Fortuna twenty years younger, before the casinos took a maiden and turned her into a mother. Dame Fortuna smiled at Velveteen’s expression. “My Luckygirl doesn’t have a father. Just me, the night wind, and a roll of the dice. It’s no wonder we look so much like each other.”

  “No wonder,” said Velveteen faintly.

  “It’ll be different for me,” said Lady Luck. “I think it’s important for my babies to know their father. Don’t you agree, dear?”

  “As long as they have your disposition and not mine,” said Fortunate Son.

  “How are you feeling?” Dame Fortuna stepped away from her daughter and son-in-law, moving to peer into Velveteen’s eyes. “You were out for a good lo
ng time.”

  “It’s probably sunstroke,” said Velveteen. “I walked from the city limits to your casino. That can’t be good for me.” Part of her knew that answer was too easy. She pushed that part aside. There were some things it was better to let go.

  “It’s probably sunstroke,” said Velveteen. “I walked from the city limits to your casino. That can’t be good for me.” Part of her knew that answer was too easy. She pushed that part aside. There were some things it was better to let go.

  “You walked?” Dame Fortuna turned a glare on Fortunate Son, who had the sense to look abashed. “There’s no reason you should have needed to do that. We have a shuttle.”

  “She didn’t call,” protested Fortunate Son weakly. “If she’d called, I would’ve sent Showgirl to pick her up.”

  “The Princess doesn’t have flight clearance for her carpet in Vegas,” said Velveteen, trying to prevent a full-scale family brawl. “I didn’t realize you had a shuttle.”

  “Fortunate Son, get temporary clearance for the Princess to fly her carpet in here. I won’t have anyone saying that we mistreat our guests, especially after they’ve publically collapsed doing favors for us.”

  “On it,” said Fortunate Son, and disentangled himself from Lady Luck before walking quickly out of the room.

  Dame Fortuna nodded, looking satisfied, and turned back to Velveteen. “Now you, me, and Lady, we’re going to have a nice lunch, and we’re going to talk about what you need from me. Vegas may stack the odds, but we always, always pay our debts, when we incur them.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Velveteen. She wasn’t so sure about anything that involved getting off whatever she was currently lying on—what was she lying on? She turned her head just enough to see the green felt underneath her. Ah. The pool table.

  “But first, let’s get you a little hair of the dog that bit you.” Dame Fortuna leaned in and kissed Velveteen’s forehead. Her headache popped like a soap bubble, fading almost instantly into nothingness.