Repercussions (Wearing the Cape Book 8)

by Marion G. Harmon

  She folded her arms. “Could you put me in costume, Shell? This feels a little awkward.”

  “You’re still wet,” Shell joked, but one of Hope’s formal skirted costumes swirled into existence on her and Shell became blue-chromed Galatea. “Here’s the relevant timestamp.” The scene skipped and then there were two fewer white coated techs and a new addition, a bearded man Hope recognized as one of the crushed bodies at the center of the attack. “Salvador Farre, Spanish telepath. One of the most powerful and versatile Mentalist-Types known, the EU uses him in national security-level interrogations.”

  “Okay. . . .” Hope shivered and wasn’t sure if it was from watching a dead man walking or remembering her own telepathic interrogation. “But the Green Man’s a plant.”

  “He still has a mind, and anyway Farre’d been practicing on plants.”

  “You’re kidding. What can a plant know?”

  Shell froze everything. “They’ve got no central nervous system, so not much, but they do respond to environmental stimulus. Farre’d gotten as far as being able to tap into those ‘plant senses.’ But the Green Man’s absolutely a mind, and somehow channels sensory information through plant fibers like they were nerves. That’s why Morrigan’s lightning-strike froze its whole expansion for a few minutes—beyond the sheer damage, it inflicted enough pain to shock the Green Man senseless. The GZSs are part of it’s ‘body’, so they hoped Farre could ‘hack’ into its weird nervous system and read or even attack its mind.”

  “Ambitious.” Hope was impressed.

  “Yup.” Shell started things up again, and they watched Farre talk to the techs—no sound, they’d probably been recording on an autonomous system—and then take off his glove and lay his hand on the bound GZS’s shoulder. Hope reached for him without thinking, forgetting she was the ghost in the scene.

  The GZS had been, well, corpselike until then, but now its eyes snapped open, staring at nothing. The techs froze but Farre didn’t flinch. A minute ticked by, then the zombie opened its mouth. “Hold on,” Shell said. “The cameras in this room are top-notch and I’ve got a trick.”

  “WhO aRe yoU?”

  Hope jumped. It sounded like the thing was ripping its vocal chords out to talk. “Neat, huh?” Shell laughed. “I’m reconstructing the sound from the micro-tremors sound waves make in the camera lenses. Not great for soft sound, but good enough for this.”

  Farre hadn’t been expecting that, but he recovered quickly. “I’m the man who can see you,” he answered it. “That’s all you need to know. What are your plans?”

  “NO.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “My pLanS aRe minE. I WilL tElL yOu yoUr FaTe.” The Green Man knew what to do, Hope realized. Telepaths couldn’t read a target like a book. They could only pick up surface thoughts and recalled memories, like watching a movie, so they pushed their targets in the direction they wanted them to think about with mental or vocal prods. If a target knew they were being read, they could control the movie by focusing on something hard.

  “My fate?” Farre smiled. “You don’t know me.”

  “YoU aRe mEat. FoOd for grAsS. It wilL gRoW oVer aLL of yOu.

  “That’s rather harsh.”

  “YoU kilL ThE wOrLd. NoW iT wiLL KiLL YOU!”

  “I don’t think so.” Farre didn’t move, not even his hand, but suddenly the GZS spasmed, teeth grinding. “Record note,” he said tonelessly, “the Green Man is thinking about dead green-choked cities, creeping vines and roaming green corpses, a few cannibals left hiding and scavenging in the ruins. I don’t know if this is its endgame, or just its fondest wish. I can direct it to nothing else, am now attempting deeper control.”

  “NO!”

  “Yes. You leave pieces of yourself everywhere. Your power is your weakness.”

  “NO! NO!”

  The thing began twisting in its restraints and the techs backed up. They were at least C Class-grade shackles, Hope could see, not that it— “No way!”

  It wasn’t just twisting, it was warping. The green life in its muscles, even its facial muscles, churned, changed, snapped bone as it reshaped into a form Hope recognized—not an unknown dead man possessed by vegetative life, but a face she’d seen many times though never twisted in hatred. And then it erupted, roots and vines shooting out, reaching for— Shell froze the image and vanished it, leaving Hope where she really was, hyperventilating in a luxurious shower with raindrops pouring down. “What should I do?” Her BF obviously wasn’t using any emotion filters.

  “I don’t care if it’s classified information we’re not supposed to have. Send it to Blackstone—he’ll know who needs to know. Shelly knows?”

  “Duh.”

  “Then the Ouroboros know, that’s good.” She put her back to the graphite tile wall and slid to the shower floor. “The Future Files really never saw this coming?”

  “Not a hint, in any potential future. I wonder what changed her trajectory. Also, get up. You can’t stay in here till you prune.”

  “Why not? I’m comfortable.”

  “Because your ex is outside with your clothes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I saw thee in a vision of the night

  Transfigured; for it seemed that on thy brows

  The heavens did rest with all their stars, like boughs

  Laden with blossoms; round thy feet the bright

  Green waves like grass ran rippling, strewn with white.”

  John Barlis, Love Sonnets XLVI.

  “I hate being right.” Grendel lowered the binoculars. The “birds” approaching in V formations, sweeping south over the hills, had two arms, two legs, long tails, and a lot of body hair.

  “They look like red howler monkeys,” the Platoon observed beside him. “Sound like them, too.” Deep, guttural, barking howls drifted on the air, getting louder. “The helmets and spears are a nice touch. What’s in the pouches?”

  “Heavy iron darts. Six in each? Ozma said they can’t carry a lot.”

  “Why would they serve the Nome King?”

  Grendel grunted. “They have to. According to Ozma they’re a nasty bunch. They used to attack any towns and farms near their jungles, kill the smaller livestock and children by aerial bombardment, and fly off with them. It’s how they hunted. A witch-queen of Gilli—this is before Oz became an empire—made the Golden Cap, and its wearer controls them.” Raising the binoculars, he watched them drop lower in the sky and wondered how good their aim was.

  “Baum wrote that the cap’s limited to three wishes, but it’s not, and after Dorothy got it from the Wicked Witch of the West she used it to get back to the Emerald City and then Glinda owned it. She used it to just order the winged monkeys to stick to their jungle homes and not hunt people and left them alone.”

  He shrugged massively, dropping the binocs to watch the Platoons around him ready themselves. “When Mombi took out Glinda she got the Golden Cap—the monkeys were in the army that attacked the city. Break out the ballistic shields. Ozma says they never close to melee with armed and armored enemies—they’re not suicidal and even the Golden Cap can’t push them that hard.”

  The Platoon nodded. “Yes, sir. At what range should we engage?”

  “The closest we can before they’re above us. Pepperball rounds only. Unless they brought something nasty that can get through or around the shields, and Ozma thinks it’s unlikely, we’re not massacring an army of magically mind-controlled slaves. They’ll run out of ammunition before we do. Same instructions outside the cave.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sandbag-concrete fort filled with the clunks, thuds, clacks and hollow catches of a platoon of Platoons raising and positioning shields and unracking powder-ball guns. The Platoon beside him grinned. “Let them eat hot capsicum.”

  Shell was right. A bellhop had delivered her freshly cleaned and pressed costume to the suite, and stayed. He sat working the metal parts with a nose-stinging formula to remove the last of the splattered sap like i
t was a shoe-shine job, and she smelled Kitsune-scent under the cleaner. He stood as she stepped out in her bathrobe.

  “We’ll have you ready for the photographer in a moment, madam,” he said in French-accented English.

  “Thank you.” Hope accepted the body of her uniform suit and returned to the bathroom to dress, slipped it on and put her back to the bathroom door. “Shell! What’s he been doing?”

  “Besides earning tips? If you find out, tell me. All but one of the times I’ve been able to verify it’s him he’s been talking to Guard officials as Yoshi.”

  “What was the one time?”

  “He was one of the two techs that left when Farres arrived.”

  “He was in the room—” Hope sank nails into her scalp, barely keeping from grabbing her still-wet hair. “Why?”

  “Easiest way to get a Green Man sample after all the GZS bits were swept up? The rest were being kept under close watch in case they made any sudden moves. Now they’re probably ash or will be soon.”

  And the only way Shell could have spotted him then was if he was using the physical “tells” he’d developed so Hope could spot him. So he’d assumed Shell would see what he was doing. So he’d wanted Hope to know.

  “Why can’t he do anything without games?”

  “Hey,” Shell laughed. “You married him.”

  Which says just what about me? She was grinding her teeth. The sneaky fox actually made her grind her teeth. “Fine.” She threw open the door, marched back into the bedroom—keeping her eyes off the bed—and poked Mssr. Roche in the chest. Carefully. “Why are you here?”

  His polite expression didn’t change a millimeter. “You didn’t tell me to leave.” He blinked. “Was that the wrong answer, madam?”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You’re growling.”

  “I’m not— Arrrh! Show me your face!”

  And then he was Yoshi. It didn’t help, and Hope almost asked him to choose another, less familiar one. She folded her arms. “Why are you here?” Her voice was steady, anyway.

  “You didn’t tell me to leave.”

  “Yes I—”

  “No, Amai-chan,” he said patiently. “You asked for a divorce.”

  “So you could go!”

  “So I could be free. I am.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “You didn’t tell me to leave.”

  “I’m going to hit you so hard—”

  “Stop.” The fiend was laughing, even his eyes. “I’m sorry, Amai-chan.” Reaching out, he took her hand. “I’m going to tell you a story. An old samurai story.”

  She let him tug her over to sit beside him on the bed. “Yours?”

  “No. You already know my stories. Once upon a time . . .”

  “That’s fairy-tale talk.”

  “Quiet. Once upon a time, in the days when the shogun had lost all power over his lords and they fought amongst themselves in endless wars for power and position, a samurai woman lost her husband to battle and had to set out across Japan to distant family. In her journey across a land torn by battles between samurai, rebels, even warrior-monks fighting for their temples, she came across a ronin fighting ragged bandits who’d set upon him. She came to his aid. A ronin was a fellow samurai after all, even if fallen low, and samurai women were tough as their men, trained in women’s weapons like the deadly naginata. Together they won, but she was injured, a club to her head that laid her in the dust of the road.” He stopped. “You know, we’re in the middle of all that.” He started to stand, waving in the general direction of the city outside. “I can finish this later.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Hope refused to let go of his hand, so of course he didn’t go anywhere but fell back laughing.

  “Your wish is my command.” He gave her a smile she itched to slap. “The ronin found an abandoned shrine and tended her there, and in three days she opened her eyes and called him husband, her mind scrambled by the blow she’d taken. And so he was. For you see, the ronin was a kitsune, one of my kin, and she had saved his life. In her debt, he answered to her husband’s name and they journeyed together through the perilous land and many adventures to the home of her kin. When she first saw her aunt, the woman flung her arms around her neck and wept. She’d thought her niece, with all of her sister’s family, had died. And she marveled, for the last letter she had received had told her that her nephew-in-law had also died.”

  Yoshi stroked his thumb over the back of Hope’s small hand. “Then the samurai woman remembered, and knew the ronin who’d accepted her husband’s name and face to travel with her must be a kami. But when she opened her mouth to speak the truth, he stopped her. He said ‘I owed you a debt, which is now repaid. But we have fought and adventured together, and your spirit shines like none I have ever seen. Call me your husband, and I am.’ And so he was until her death.”

  Sighing, he set her hand on the bed. “Do you understand?”

  Hope nodded. It was all she could do.

  “And now a joke.”

  “Wha—what?”

  “So Harry Houdini died. You know, the world-famous magician and escape artist?”

  “What?”

  “Harry Houdini died. Do keep up. And at his funeral, as they’re carrying his casket from the service to the grave, one of his pallbearers looks at another. Can you guess what he says?”

  “I really have no idea.”

  “‘I bet you a hundred bucks he ain’t in here.’”

  She blinked. “What? What does that even—”

  “It’s okay to hope for a final trick, Hope.”

  “I— You could have died. You could have died again here.”

  “I would have died for love.”

  “How— Who talks like that? You drive me crazy!”

  “I try.”

  She sniffed, impatiently wiped the moisture from her eyes, and sighed. “Stupid fox. I love you.”

  “I know, you said last night.”

  “Marry me again?”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  Her eyes dropped to his lips, about level with her forehead, and then she was reaching up, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck as his elegant hands rose to trace the lines of her jaw and chin, lifting her face. His lips touched hers, brushing gently as petals and then more firmly, inviting a response she was happy to give. Then his arms were around her, laying her down, his lips still moving over hers. Her fingers rose to play in his hair and she gasped as they separated. “Then—” She was so tightly wound she almost shrieked at the polite knock on the door.

  “And that would be your dinner.” Yoshi leapt lightly to his feet, Mssr. Roche again. “One moment, madam.”

  Her mouth opened and shut. “I’m going crazy. You really are driving me crazy.”

  “It will be a lovely trip, the scenery is delightful. And you do need to eat.” She sat up as he opened the door, ushering in . . . himself. Hope groaned.

  “Of course you mimicked someone on the staff.”

  Kitsune shrugged. “He fit. Right over there, please. Thank you.” The young man stared at himself for only a moment before nodding to Hope.

  “Fresh from the kitchen with Chef’s compliments, madam. And about this person, should I inform the police?”

  She shook her head. “No, he’s—”

  “Everyone!” Shell broke in. “As good a gag as this is turning into, Hope you’ve got a call from Brian. Operation Healing Flight just launched.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Then she read the following words, engraved upon the copper plates of the man’s body:

  SMITH & TINKER’S

  Patent Double-Action, Extra-Responsive,

  Thought-Creating, Perfect-Talking

  MECHANICAL MAN

  Fitted with our Special Clockwork Attachment.

  Thinks, Speaks, Acts, and

  Does Everything but Live.

  N. B.—This Mechanism is guaranteed to

  work perfectly for a th
ousand years.

  “Isn’t he wonderful!” exclaimed the Princess.

  “If he’s guaranteed for a thousand years,” said Polychrome, “he ought to work yet.”

  L. Frank Baum, Tik-Tok of Oz.

  The big-ass tick-tock clumped across the field towards Brian, axe bigger than he was in its metal grip. The earth trembled with its steps and the army behind it cheered. The ugly-ass nomes cheered, anyway. The ranks of tick-tocks stood silent, and so did the Emerils in their old-fashioned green uniforms.

  I can’t believe it worked.

  The Wizard, looking much better fed than when Brian had last seen him, had arrived the day before with a party of Quadlings who had all knelt to Ozma. They’d brought word that all of Quadling Country was now officially in revolt, from the Cascades to the Great Sandy Waste, and that a Usurper Army marched from the City Lands. The Royal Wizard had a full reporting of the types of tick-tocks coming with that army. After all, he’d helped design them himself. At dawn they’d seen the army itself. The tick-tocks looked almost comical, with their brass and tin bodies, but the Wizard had warned they’d been magically toughened. The nomes looked . . . less comical. Sure they were half-sized people, but they were thick, built like fireplugs, and looked like they’d been hacked right out of a mountainside. Their pikes stood twice their height and their heavy muskets would fire slow but knock any Platoon they hit on his ass if he was lucky.

  The tick-tocks were the biggest worry; some of them carried field guns. And the winged monkeys were back.

  And Ozma wanted to spare the Emerils if she possibly could. They’d just sent the first full boxes of vaccine through to Portland, but they couldn’t abandon the Ruby Cave yet and so now she stood on the fort’s wall, in the open, in full regalia where all her once-and-future-subjects could see her. It was going to get bloody, and that’s when Brian’d had his brilliant idea; get Homeric.

  He sure hoped none of the Platoons had recorded it. I am Grendel! Champion of Her Imperial Majesty, Princess Ozma the Sixth, Empress of Oz! Let any who challenge her right to these lands send their champion to face me! Inspired by the Winged Monkeys, he’d worked on his throat to give his voice a boom that raised the dust around him. Walking out to the middle of the field wearing just his Quadling clothes—loose black trousers tucked into his boots, red leather vest over fancy embroidered white shirt Ozma seemed to love so much—and big iron staff in his hand to do it, had made it even more of a dare; he wasn’t even dressed for the occasion. But he’d just stood there while the officer-types in the weird magic and gear-punk army yelled at each other. Then they’d sent out that.