Carrie Vaughn - Discord's Apple

“About what?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“What’s going on?” She was surprised at how angry she sounded. “This all has to do with the basement, and I don’t understand—and don’t tell me I will !”

“Evie, I can’t explain. It’s impossible to explain.”

He started to climb up the stairs, wincing. Thoughts of the Storeroom and the confrontation at the door left Evie’s mind entirely, and she wanted to rush to his side to help him, but she didn’t dare. He’d push her away, and they’d fight.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just a sore back. I’ll lie down, rest a bit. It’ll pass.”

A factoid from her Internet research presented itself: If the cancer has metastasized to the spine, spinal cord compression along with back pain can ensue.

“How long has this been happening?”

“A while now.” He moved slowly, taking each step like he was afraid of jostling himself.

Mab, wagging her tail madly, pushed past Evie and trotted to him, nudging him, ducking her head, whining. “Oh, hey there, I’m fine, girl. I’m fine.” His voice brightened as he scratched the dog’s ears. He seemed to stand a little straighter and wince a little less with Mab at his side. He could lean on her without looking like he needed help.

Thanks, Mab.

“I’ll make you some tea,” Evie said, turning away before he could argue.

Bruce had faced deadlines worse than this. He’d drawn a twenty-page book in two days, once. It hadn’t been his best work by any stretch, and he’d slept for twelve straight hours when he finished. But it could be done.

He didn’t want to have to work like that on Eagle Eyes. Drawing a good explosion took time. But at the start, he and Evie had decided to acknowledge current events in the storylines, to make the book as relevant as possible, raising it above the level of a military fetishist’s dream.

Maybe that was why he was procrastinating. It wasn’t like Evie hadn’t done her part and not sent him enough script to work with. But he wanted more time. He wasn’t going to get it. So he didn’t work at all.

It certainly wasn’t that he lacked for inspiration. All he had to do was look out his window.

In the years since its creation, Homeland Security had authorized local militias in every major city, then promptly lost control of many of them to local politics, gangs, and organized crime. Gang warfare and underworld conflicts now had a veneer of government approval. When the tribalistic skirmishes got out of hand, the National Guard had to come in to sort out the situation. It had happened two or three times in L.A., but never this close to home.

The Pasadena Militia had taken offense at some territorial insult offered by the Glendale Militia. The Guard instituted a security lockdown. Bruce hadn’t been able to leave Glendale in two days. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but his girlfriend Callie had gotten stuck outside, at her job at a Los Feliz hair salon. She was staying with her cousin, so at least she was safe. Bruce would have felt better if they’d been together, safe.

Evie, who lived a quarter mile closer to Pasadena, was lucky she got out of the city when she did. He couldn’t imagine having a sick father three states away and not being able to leave the house.

His apartment was just a couple of blocks off Colorado Boulevard. He could see a sliver of the intersection and an armored troop carrier zipping by on the empty road. He wondered if he could get them to pose for a drawing. He wondered if any of them even read Eagle Eye Commandos, and if they’d be impressed with him.

The TV offered a counterpoint. He’d left it on all day, switching back and forth between a local news station for better coverage of the Glendale and Pasadena lockdown, and a national news network for updates on the situation in Russia. Evie was going to be pissed off. The situation there was deteriorating so rapidly, the revised script was already in danger of becoming obsolete. They kept setting storylines in Russia because it was exciting, rife with plot potential. A little too rife, unfortunately.

The news anchors’ voices faded to an insect chatter in his consciousness. He sat by his apartment window and stared out. The sun was setting, turning the polluted sky a shade of neon orange he’d only ever seen in L.A.

He ought to get back to work on the book, but he kept waiting to see if the Guard turned up his street, soldiers marching with their rifles in hand.

Finally, he called Evie’s mobile phone. It rang half a dozen times; then her voice mail picked up. He didn’t leave a message. She probably just hadn’t found the phone in time.

A minute later, his own mobile rang. He answered, “Yeah?”

“Sorry, I had to dig in my bag for the phone.”

He smiled. Ah, predictability.

“What’s up?” Evie said.

“What do you want, local or global?”

“Geez, global I guess, to start with.”

She sounded exhausted. He resisted the urge to ask how she was doing, how her father was doing, how bad was it really. Not that she’d tell him, one way or the other.

“Let’s see. Russia and India have declared war on China.”

“God, that was fast,” she said.

“Don’t tell me you saw it coming.”

“No, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Russia’s claiming the Chinese government backed the Mongolians who dropped the plane on Red Square. I think it’s just an excuse, but never mind. Congress is debating about who to side with. The U.S. has got aid treaties with all of them still on the books. That’s what we get for making friends with everyone, eh? We can’t side with the terrorists, but we can’t side against our largest trade market, can we? It’s a mess.”

She didn’t say anything, and for a moment he wondered if they were still connected.

“Evie?”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired.”

He didn’t buy it, but let it slide. “How are we going to spin this in the story?”

“Until we know who the President and Congress are going to back, we won’t know. Maybe we should get the Eagle Eyes out of Siberia and send them to . . . Peru or someplace. Are there any wars in Peru right now?”

“The way things have been going lately, it’s probably sunk into the ocean.” She laughed, which encouraged him to broach the difficult question. “How’s your dad?”

A beat passed before she said, “You know he got a dog? This huge Irish wolfhound. She’s great—I’ll have to send you pictures.”

The misdirection meant the situation there was bad. As terrible as it was being stranded in a security lockdown across town from Callie, he wouldn’t want to trade places with Evie.

“That’d be cool,” he said, not really interested in the dog but wanting to be supportive. “I should get going. We’ve got work to do, right?”

“Right.”

Work always gave them something to hide behind.

They signed off, and Bruce didn’t feel any better after the conversation than he had before it. It seemed like all their lives were blowing up at the same time.

The sunset’s orange faded to brown.

The woman shed her coat and pulled off her gloves, tossing them over the back of the desk chair in the matchbox that passed for a hotel room in this village. The carpet was brown, worn; the bedspread a garish paisley in shades of red and orange; the cheap paneling was coming off the walls. The place smelled of mice. So unsuitable. In her own mind, she was still the Queen, though she hadn’t worn a crown in centuries. The day would come again, and she had suffered far worse conditions than this over the years. She had spent the last three thousand years crawling out of ruin.