Fix (6 page)

A
liyah had never seen
Daddy this distraught before. He stumbled back from the broach, his face so gaunt Aliyah worried maybe she
had
given him an aneurysm.

The flux tried to latch onto that thought. She clamped it down.

“Mrs T,” Valentine said.

“This isn't your fault, Paul.” Mommy had to guide Daddy to the car because Daddy refused to take his gaze off that horrible blotch. “The locals, they got scared. They stopped you when they shouldn't have…”

“Mrs
T
!”

Mommy eased Daddy inside the van, kissed his forehead – and then slammed the door shut hard enough to make Aliyah flinch. As Mommy whirled on Valentine, Aliyah realized just how furious Mom was – at the townsfolk, at the 'mancy, at everything.

“First off, it's
Ms Dawson
.” She ticked off the things Valentine did wrong. “Not ‘Mrs T.' Second, Paul is traumatized, so if you'd keep your voice down–”

Valentine squeezed her eye shut, breathing in through her nose. Aliyah had never seen Aunt Valentine
avoid
a fight with Mommy before. “The van's broken.”

“What?”

“Check the tires.”

The van sagged sideways, the four tires flattened. Mommy catalogued the damage, squeezing her fists into balls. “How did
that
happen?”

“I bled off some flux.”

“By crippling our
getaway vehicle
?”

“I thought I'd go
Grand Theft Auto
and hijack us a new car!” Valentine yelled, finally losing control. “How was
I
supposed to know I'd wind up in a no-'mancy zone?”

“…In a
what
?” Mommy was so competent, everyone forgot she had no 'mancy – how could she have known what the blotch overhead meant? She couldn't feel the slimy softness that threatened to rip open into another broach.

“You mean you can't do any 'mancy at
all
?” Mommy spluttered, jabbing her fingers towards the sirens.

“
Ixnay on the ancy-may-ot-at-all-nay
,” Valentine hissed. But Savannah and her father stood behind them – Savannah's face smeared with mud, her daddy clutching the gun.

He could shoot them all, and none of them could do a damn thing about it.

What worried Aliyah was Savannah. She looked as traumatized as Daddy – and why not? Nobody in Morehead had seen 'mancy before. Now they'd witnessed the worst nightmares magic could summon.

Her gaze demanded answers Aliyah could not provide.

Mommy stepped forward, ready to play the host – and then hesitated. She settled for discreetly placing herself between Aliyah and the gun.

But Savannah's father worked his mouth as if trying to make introductions. Eventually, he nudged Savannah, who nodded as though she'd expected this.

“Daddy says you can have our car. To escape. For saving us.” She looked up at the broach. “Or trying to.”

Savannah's father crept forward to drop an Ale-8-One Ginger Ale keychain into Aliyah's palm.

“That's–”

“It's generous.” Mommy stepped in front of Valentine before she said anything stupid. “Is there any way we can repay you?”

“Yeah.” Savannah glared at Aliyah. “Show me your face.”

Aliyah was looking right at Savannah. What could she–

“Your
real
face,” Savannah clarified.

Oh.

Under normal circumstances, Aliyah would have ducked into the van and changed out of her pseudoskin. Yet even that trivial 'mancy would rip open another broach here.

She reached up with her fire-painted nails and peeled off her artificial skin.

She uncovered the ragged widow's peak above her forehead where the fire had melted her scalp to the bone.

She revealed her cheeks, which had been reconstructed, but her left lip still tugged to one side where the flesh had puckered.

She bared the glossy keloid scars on her neck.

I'm not a burn
, she had told Aunt Valentine long ago. And in truth, her scars were barely noticeable at a distance. Nothing, her father had told her, could dampen her radiant smile.

Savannah traced Aliyah's deformities with a combination of glacial fury and bottomless pity, examining Aliyah as if trying to understand her.

Aliyah did not cry. Not in front of people.

But when she ripped the pseudoflesh from her eyelids, tears spattered.

She met Savannah's gaze, refusing to be ashamed, yet refusing to pretend she was normal anymore. Which hurt most of all; seeing Savannah scrutinize all the ways they were not alike, after having cherished all the things they had in common back at the Wendy's.

She closed her eyes, listing what they had in common:
You love nail art. You love Steven Universe. You love YouTube karaoke, and–

“You didn't choose to be a 'mancer.” Savannah gestured towards the smoking soccer goal and the murky smear overhead. “This isn't your fault.”

Aliyah sagged in relief. Savannah understood. Her daddy understood. Maybe
Morehead
understood. If they could find a way to–

“But you can't ever come back.” Savannah turned away.

Aliyah did not cry. Not when Savannah's father whispered in her ear to “Go with God, child.” Not when Mommy turned on the car and gospel music blasted from the speakers. Not when she looked out the rear window to see Savannah standing beneath that glimmering blotch as the cop cars screeched into the soccer field.

Aliyah did not cry. She peeled away the remaining strips of pseudoflesh, feeling the rashes grow as she ripped them off like Band-Aids, relishing the pain as she uncovered herself inch by inch.

She bled until she felt nothing at all.

I
mani was a patient woman
. She had tolerated a decade of Paul's withdrawn silence before filing for divorce. (All it had taken was Paul's death, Aliyah's enslavement, and a war that imploded several skyscrapers to get them married again.) She had endured three years of Aliyah's inexplicable outbursts before Paul had let her in on the deadly secret that their daughter was a videogamemancer. Imani, in fact, prided herself on her forbearance: her mother had taught her to be ladylike above all things.

But if Valentine planned to play “I Spy” for the next two hours, she was going to strangle that bitch.

“I spy, with my little eye,” Valentine said – and here, she always tapped her right cheekbone merrily to accentuate the fact she had one eye – “Sooooomething beginning with ‘R'.”

Nobody answered. Nobody
had
answered, ever since they'd fled Morehead an hour ago. Paul sat stricken in the SUV's passenger seat, wheezing and clutching his broken ribs. Aliyah slumped against the window, hugging a soccer ball to her chest.

Imani cruised down the freeway, glad Valentine had stolen a trick from
Grand Theft Auto
and pulled their stolen car into an empty garage, then backed out an instant later with a different paint job, tinted windows, and a magical field that shielded them from cops.

That stabilized their situation as they headed for a safehouse in the Appalachians. She'd memorized the route to the closest 'mancer-friendly harbor before heading to Morehead – a decision that seemed positively prescient after they'd channeled away Paul's excess flux by shorting out the GPS. She'd get them somewhere to plan their next move.

But Paul and Aliyah were imploding here, in this stolen SUV, and Imani didn't know how to help them.

The back roads here wound around mountains; some of the signs had been shot off their posts. Still, she kept glancing at Aliyah in the rear view mirror: Aliyah never lifted her eyes from the car's floor, examining dried McDonald's French fries with dull disinterest.

She squeezed Paul's hand; he returned Imani's affection reflexively, but his other hand drew on an imaginary whiteboard, trying to map out what had gone wrong at Morehead.

This would have been easier if they weren't 'mancers, Imani thought.

Paul and Aliyah had always held this bizarre delusion that perfect efforts equaled perfect results. God forbid Aliyah lost, as she'd scour the replays of her videogames, hunting for the frame where she'd input the wrong command.

Imani had worked in corporate law for too long to hold onto such fragile illusions. Sometimes, you laid out a perfect case, and your company panicked and settled out of court. Sometimes your star expert had a fatal heart attack. Sometimes your legal documentation was flawless, but the opposition found a sneaky way to buy the judge a vacation villa.

Sometimes, no matter how smart you were, you lost.

Yet Paul and Aliyah's 'mancy ran on certainty. Imani found videogames so distasteful simply because they promised consistent results: play long enough, and eventually you'd beat the big boss.

And yet… her daughter's delusions fueled potent magic.

Aliyah's 'mancy allowed her to face down armies
because
she could not comprehend losing. Just as Paul could not comprehend a world where filing legal documents would not produce justice. Their 'mancy was, in a weird way, a magical incarnation of the American Dream: hard work guaranteed rewards.

Now Aliyah had lost her friend despite her best efforts, and she was crumpling inside. Just as Paul was freaking out because there was a Broach he wasn't allowed to heal, and–

“…No?” Valentine peered around eagerly, as though anyone had answered. “Well, just so you know, the answer was ‘road.' And why, yes,” she said, straightening with magnanimous pride, “I
did
give you an easy one.” She thumped the seat. “But this next ‘I Spy' will
test your vocabulary to its limits
!”

Valentine had no phone to play games on, Imani knew; she and Aliyah had shorted their handheld devices to pay down their flux loads.

Still, Imani wondered whether Valentine could fit a dead cell phone into her mouth.

They were headed for safer territory… or so Imani hoped. Without cell phones, they couldn't be sure the Appalachian safehouse hadn't been busted. SMASH had contributed to ripping open a broach during a battle with Paul – and that error had been so unforgiveable, New York had barred them from operating within state boundaries for two years.

That was what they did to
good
guys who ripped open a broach that had been healed. Whereas the four of them had scurried away, leaving a wavering tear in reality, hovering ominously over a beautiful Kentucky lake.

Imani shuddered, thinking how that must look on the news.

She squeezed his hand again; no answer. He looked over at Aliyah, trying to coax a smile out of her. Except the grim expression he bore would never produce any cheer.

Ordinarily, he'd haul out the stuff he'd packed to cheer her up – a fresh box of Dunkin' Donuts to check in with Uncle Kit, a new videogame. But they'd lost everything back at Morehead.

Valentine harrumphed, then craned her neck around, looking for the next target.

“
Got it!
I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with ‘B'.”

Valentine paused before arcing her index finger up, then planting it firmly on Aliyah's head.

“‘Burned Kid,'” Valentine said. “I see a burned kid.”

Had she fucking said that?

Imani's head snapped up, ready to chew Valentine's face off. Paul whipped around then groaned in anguish, clutching his ribs.

Yet Valentine held their gaze coolly in the rear view mirror – an arch look that said
Trust me, I know what I'm doing
.

The thing of it was, Imani did trust Valentine – even if she hated her for
needing
that trust. Paul had often remarked how Valentine and Aliyah spoke their own language; part of it was they were both videogamemancers, of course.

But Aliyah had always been wilder than Imani had meant her to be. And so was Valentine.

Aliyah's eyes narrowed. “
What
did you call me?”

“I spied something beginning with ‘B,'” Valentine shot back. “
You
did not answer. So
I
saw a Burned Kid.”

“I am
not
a burned kid! And you have
never
made fun of my scars–”

“Then what do
you
see when you look at you?”

“I see a badass who's gonna kick your ass in–”

“–
language
–” Imani said.

“I,” Aliyah said stiffly, “am a
badass
. Which is… It's not a bad word, Mom, they use it in
Borderlands
. It means a big boss.”

“Then why not say ‘Big Boss', Aliyah?”

“Because it's… it's not as
badass
.”

Imani decided the moral lesson wasn't worth the energy of arguing. “Fine. Badass.”

Aliyah jabbed her finger into Valentine's belly. “I see a badass who will
shred
you if you ever –
ever
– make fun of me that way again.”

“Fine,” Valentine said. “Your turn.”

Aliyah scowled, sensing a trick – but she still wanted to know what happened next. “Fine. I spy, with my
two
little eyes–” and here, she poked her fingers underneath both of them “–something beginning with ‘I'.”

Valentine spread her fingers across her cleavage in a dainty motion. “'Ignoramus'? ‘Imbecile'? ‘Idiot'?”

A sly grin crept across Aliyah's face. “I was thinking more ‘Irritating Player of I-Spy.' That game's for six year-olds.”

“Fine. What do you want to play next?”

“I don't want to play anyt… Ooh!
Punch buggy
!”

Valentine grabbed her injured bicep. “There was no buggy! You just wanted to punch me!”

“It was
super
fast. I guess you didn't see it out of your right eye… oh, sorry, your
only
eye.”

“My single eye sees just fine when it whips your ass at
Destiny
, kid.”

Aliyah bopped her with a soccer ball. Imani would have guessed they were about to brawl, if it wasn't for Aliyah's goofy grin.

“
You kids play careful!
I
will
pull over the car!
” Imani barely got the words out through her laughter. She shot a grin over at Paul, hoping the tickle fight in the back seat would draw him out of his funk…

Paul had fished out a pair of earphones from underneath his seat, and had plugged them into the car's headphone jack.

“Turn on the radio,” he whispered.

Imani knew Paul could have turned on the radio by himself. He was seeking permission – like an injured junkie asking someone he trusted whether it was OK to take this Oxycontin.

“Paul, you can't listen to the news
now
,” she whispered. “Give yourself a while to heal before you pour that poison into your ear.”

“I gave myself precisely one hour to bathe in self-hatred.” Though he wore an old-fashioned clockwork Timex, he showed her the watch face as though his self-inflicted deadline was engraved on its surface. “Now we need information to keep Aliyah protected while we're on the run.”

He wouldn't be running anywhere, Imani thought. Paul had unbuttoned his shirt and removed his tie – a look that, for her dignified husband, was nearly naked. He peeled his shirt's sweat-soaked fabric away from his bruise-blackened ribs.

“She doesn't need to hear this.” Paul jerked his head back towards Aliyah. “Let me find out so she doesn't have to know.”

Imani nodded.

He snapped on the radio.

– the first unsealable broach on American soil, almost certainly a terrorist act –

Valentine and Aliyah froze as the announcer's voice boomed through the car. Paul scrabbled at the headphone jack, which was apparently broken–

–
or had it been working when they got the car, and this was someone's stray flux coming home to roost? Imani never could tell a genuine bad break from flux, which always unnerved her. After a while, it felt like the entire universe was out to get you.

“Sorry.” Paul flailed at the radio in an attempt to shut it off, accidentally switched the channel.

– I repeat, the President will be making a speech in a few minutes. In the meantime, she has called upon America to remain calm, stressing the need for stronger anti-'mancer laws to “conscript and retrain those who would do us harm” –

Imani smoothed her dress so she wouldn't punch the window. Under normal circumstances, turning on the radio would have blasted music – but even
the pop stations were interrupting the latest boy band's hit to explain that buzzsects were spilling out from the Morehead broach.

“Sorry,” Paul repeated, cranking the volume down. “Sorry.”

“No.” Aliyah leaned forward in her seat, the soccer ball slipping from her fingers. “It's OK.”

Valentine pressed the ball back into Aliyah's hands. “Come on, kid. It's just gonna be
blah blah blah
more funding for SMASH
blah blah blah
do we want to go the way of Europe
blah blah blah
'mancers aren't people. And that's… not something you wanna listen to right now.”

“You're people, baby.” Imani reached back to clutch her daughter's hand.

Valentine gave her a curt nod of approval, which worried Imani. Valentine's and Imani's goals for Aliyah generally overlapped for brief periods, like an eclipse – and like an eclipse, those periods presaged dark times.

Aliyah shrugged off her mother's touch. “I did this to Savannah. We should… we should hear what I did.”

– no statement from Paul Tsabo, who is rumored to have triggered at least two broaches before –

“I'd make a statement, if I could get to a
phone
,” Paul muttered.

Yet Imani had sat through enough PR meetings to realize what was happening. Paul had sealed broaches ripped open by the Unimancers – and yet he'd been fighting to protect his daughter, and so the press had gone easy on him.

Not anymore.

– the broach that consumed Europe at the climax of World War II continues to spread across the continent despite the efforts of a global squadron of Unimancers. Instabilities on the Belgium border last winter caused the broach to expand twenty miles closer to the Atlantic ocean, prompting fears of what might happen if the broach crosses the coast to expand into deep sea areas –

Valentine drew a finger across her throat. “Ix-nay on the otal destruction-tay oadcast-bray,” she whispered, glancing towards Aliyah, who hid behind her soccer ball.

A soccer ball with Savannah's name written upon it.

She wanted to tell Aliyah this wasn't her fault. But Aliyah had lost control on the soccer field. Not for the first time, Imani wished there was a place to get Aliyah's power under control – but the last school they'd taken her to had turned Aliyah into an assassin.

“Sssh,” Paul said. “The President's coming on.”

They hushed. As Imani passed a gas station, she noticed the parking lot filled with people who had pulled over to listen.

Good afternoon
, the President said, her voice somber.
A few hours ago, our country – our very dimension – came under attack thanks to a broach triggered in the sleepy town of Morehead, Kentucky.

Paul Tsabo ripped open this broach – Paul Tsabo, the criminal leader of a pro-'mancer political movement called, worryingly, “Project Mayhem.”

Already, Tsabo's defenders have claimed the act was in self-defense, that he was simply attempting to allow his daughter to play soccer, that he intended to bring no harm to the people of Kentucky.