Dark Lightning (Thunder and Lightning) (24 page)

It wasn’t complicated. The whole show moved at about five miles per hour, maybe less. The showgirl step was a sort of strut, throwing hips side to side, arms held out and turning in a circular motion. I figured I was going to be okay; and then we turned the corner and the music changed to some thumping dance music, and all the girls started to shake their booties.

Booties was about all we could shake. I think I’m a pretty good dancer, but you try getting down with a fifteen-pound electric chandelier upside down on your head. Not to mention that pesky fan. One of those plumes kept getting hooked under my beak and making me sneeze. I finally pulled it out and tossed the darn feather to a girl in the crowd.

The crowd was not enormous, but most places it was four or five deep. Most of the park lights were turned off, so the only light came from the floats and our headdresses. That was going to help out later on.

So I dipped and turned and kicked. I decided I could handle this though my feet were already hurting.

Our getting-off point was about halfway through the parade route, which wound around many of the attractions. The casino was our goal, and it was on the far end of the park from the entrance we came in. I almost missed it. The path leading off the park proper and into the casino was marked by a huge, flashy arch, but it was turned off, and I was concentrating so hard on my dips and didos I was startled to see it off to my right. I moved to my left and got close to the girl over there.

“I’m feeling sick to my stomach,” I told her. She glanced at me, her wide toothsome smile never wavering.

“Well, don’t ruin the costume,” she said. “Leave the headdress on the float. There’s a restroom over there on the left.”

I’d already spotted it. I hurried back to the float and hung the headdress on one of the giant slot machines that spewed gold-foil-covered chocolate coins every few minutes. Then I pushed my way through the crowd and toward the restroom.

Once away from the parade, I had to walk carefully, as it was very dark back there. I was grateful for not having the darn light show on my head, but my tail feathers kept getting snagged on the low shrubbery lining the path to the lonely lights at the restroom doors. So I yanked the fan off and tossed it aside. I kicked off the torture devices on my feet.
Much
better. I had a ten-minute wait while several more floats rolled by.

Finally, send in the clowns.

They were capering around the circus float, where more skilled performers were doing a trapeze act above a “lion tamer.” This was a woman in a red cutaway coat and white riding pants and black top hat, holding a lightweight chair and sort of poking it at a full-grown male lion. I happened to know the lion. His name was Metro, and we had made his acquaintance when we were ten, at a little show at school. He was tame as a kitten, and would lick your face with his sandpaper tongue. I have a picture of me with him, somewhere. He was now halfheartedly roaring and pawing at the chair, for which he would be rewarded with lion treats after the show.

My thoughts had been wandering. I was very tired, and didn’t see where I’d have a chance to rest, ever again. Then a clown separated himself from the group, came through the spectators, and hurried down the path. Halfway to me, he tripped and fell on his face. He said a dirty word.

It was easy to see why he had tripped. He was wearing cherry-red shoes long enough to go canoeing in. His costume consisted of a shirt that looked like old-fashioned pink flannel long underwear and a pair of britches like an inverted hoopskirt, held up by a pair of elastic suspenders. The pants tapered down to his ankles, so he couldn’t even see his feet. When he got up, some mechanism in the suspenders caused the pants to fall down almost to his knees, then bounce back up again.

“Damn,” he muttered as he came near. His shoes made a honking sound with every step. “That’s not supposed to happen until I squeeze the little trigger.” He looked up at me under a thundercloud brow and raised a fist. “If you laugh, I’ll knock you right to the other end of the ship.”

I had been practically strangling in my attempt not to laugh, and of course that set it off explosively. The tension we had been under was enormous, and I was powerless to stop its partial release in laughter. He glowered at me for a bit, then started laughing himself.

“We have to stop this,” I choked out. “We’re not out of the woods.”

“I know,” he said, looking solemn. Then he cracked up again.

“Stop it!”

“I will if you will.”

We recovered a little, and he beckoned me closer.

“Look at my shoe,” he said.

“I don’t see anything.”

“You have to bend down and get closer to see it.”

I did that, and the upper opened like a clamshell. A little critter that looked like a chipmunk popped out with a tiny fire hose, swiveled to point it at me, and squirted me in the face with water. I was so startled that this time I was the one who landed on my butt. This set Patrick off again. He offered his hand to pull me up. I knew a judo move that would have thrown him into the shrubbery, but enough was enough.

“The kids love it. You want to see what’s in the other shoe?”

“I’m incredibly curious, but we have to get moving. You know where we’re going, so lead the way.”

We started off, both of us still giggling. I was a few feet behind him when the suspenders did their thing again. I got a view of the back of the long johns, which had a drop seat that was hanging down, exposing an enormous pair of hairy, rubber butt cheeks. I had to stifle a howl of laughter and almost doubled over with the effort.

“That’s enough of that,” he said, and shrugged out of the suspenders. The pants dropped to the ground, and he stepped out of the shoes. He kicked it all to the side of the path, followed by the fake butt. I saw not his own bottom, but a tight pair of jockey shorts.

“Insurance, in case the butt falls off,” he said. “At least that’s what the head clown told me. Come on, the parade is almost past us. This path won’t be private for long.”

As the music faded behind us, we groped our way through one of the few relatively empty spaces in the park, a few acres of trees and grass that lay between the amusements and the casino. We could see the flashing lights ahead of us, and our progress became easier as we neared it.

It also became slower, because we had to be on the lookout in case the mutineers had staked it out.

—

Patrick took us around the casino to a private entrance to the living quarters above. The only people we encountered as we skirted the building were three pairs of lovers who had sought out some darkness for purposes of billing and cooing. One couple had passed quite beyond the bills and coos and into more serious business, with clothing strewn about, her legs in the air, and . . . well, this isn’t porno. All I could really see were two pale shapes in the gloom. Maybe it was a judo hold. None of them took any notice of us.

There was a small, porchlike structure set into the side of the building. We hunkered down in the shadows and waited to see if there was any movement. After five minutes by my clock, I’d seen nothing.

“I say we do it,” I said.

“Maybe another few minutes.”

I realized he was scared again. Well, so was I. I reached behind me and drew out the pistol from the small of my back, where I had concealed it while changing clothes. He looked alarmed when he saw it.

“I won’t hurt anyone unless I have to,” I assured him. “But we’re not playing games here, Patrick. This is for keeps.”

“You’re right. Okay, let’s go.”

I followed him, walking backwards and keeping my eyes on the many shadows around us. Nothing moved. Then came the scary part, as he stepped into the light. Patrick put his palm to the door, which opened into a small foyer. We both scrambled in and closed the door behind us. I was facing the elevator door when it opened, with my pistol in my hand. It was empty. Patrick glanced at the gun as we entered.

“Do you think that’s really necessary? If someone had entered without permission, there would have been an alert on the screen.”

“I’d rather have it pointed in the right direction if I need it.”

“Whatever.”

I didn’t like his tone of voice, but I let it go. And I didn’t let it stop me from aiming at the door when it opened into Patrick’s home above.

It was dark, with just a few night-lights around the floor. Patrick turned to a security panel in the wall beside the elevator. He pressed a few switches, and there was a quiet tone and voice.

“High alert. Siege protocols enabled.”

We had the same thing in our house and had been drilled in its use. There was a short pause, and then the AI spoke again.

“I detect a nonresident female, tentatively identified as either Cassandra or Pollyanna Broussard. Please verify.”

I pressed my palm to the ID plate.

“She’s here with my permission,” Patrick said.

“Verified,” said the AI. “Patrick, there have been attempts to hack the security systems. None have been successful thus far. Is there anything I should know that will help me evaluate potential threats?”

“It seems there is an attempt to take over the ship,” Patrick said.

“Mutiny,” I prompted him. “Piracy. Kidnapping.”

“Yes, all those things. My mother and father have . . .” For a moment he couldn’t go on. I put my arm around him and squeezed. He got himself back under control. “Mother and Father, Polly’s mother, and a lot of others, including Captain Broussard.”

“I’m consulting my protocols,” the AI said. “I am putting the house on a war footing. I will monitor all outside activity and alert you to anything suspicious.”

“Very good,” he said.

“I have unlocked the weapons locker. Is there anything else you would like me to do?”

He looked at me. I shook my head. I noted that he seemed much more confident than he had been since the moment we dived into the lake. Clearly he felt more secure in his own home. Most of us would, I imagine.

“I would advise you not to linger here. I have indications that you are being searched for by park security, and possibly others.”

Patrick didn’t look happy to hear that. I already had known that we didn’t dare linger.

“Let’s get to it,” I said. “Who showers first?”

First, we located flashlights in the kitchen and Uncle Mike’s den. Then Patrick showed me to his mother’s bedroom, where I rummaged through her closets and underwear for something to replace the ridiculous showgirl outfit. We were similar in size, me being maybe two inches taller. I peeled out of the costume as I moved quickly through the hanging outfits. She tended to fancy dresses, gowns, dress suits, but she had some stuff suitable for outdoor activities. I wanted dark clothes. I took some things into the bedroom. Silk knickers, black sweatshirt, a dark fishing vest with lots of pockets, black jeans. Shoes might be a problem. Marlee had tiny feet, and I couldn’t get my size forties into them without resorting to Cinderella’s sisters’ solution for fitting into the glass slipper.

Back into the shower for a quick scrubbing. Shampoo was a necessity because the extreme rattiness of my hair would stand out if we mixed with people. Dirt poured out of my mop as I rinsed.

I dried as quickly as I could, put on the clothes I had laid out, and hurried from the room in my bare feet and with my hair wrapped in a towel. Patrick was still where I’d left him, at the side of one of the windows, looking out cautiously. Neither of us had felt it would be a good idea to shower at the same time, both of us out of our clothes and at our most vulnerable if anyone should force their way into the apartment.

“Your turn,” I said. “Before you get in there, do you think you would have any footwear I could borrow?” He glanced at my feet. “The sturdier the better. Boots?”

“I’ve got something.” He hurried down the hallway to his own room and his own shower, and in a moment he was back, tossing a pair of lace-up high-top black boots at me. They seemed at least in the right range. I sat down and found a pair of woolen socks in each boot.

The boots were a wee bit too long, but that was no problem. I laced them up tight. They would do nicely, and in fact were better than anything in my own closet. They would be suitable for going to war, long marches in the infantry. I wondered what Patrick wore them for.

He had told me where the armory was. I went down a hallway and made a left into a storage room. There were no windows, so I eased the door almost shut and turned on the lights. Directly in front of me a concealed door had opened. I went through it.

It was not an arsenal like Travis’s, but it was respectable. There were four handguns, all modern weapons like my own pistols. There was ammo. There was a long rifle and a shotgun. I couldn’t see myself skulking around with any of them. There were shoulder holsters and belt holsters. I picked one of each and strapped myself with a pistol in the small of my back, and one under my right arm, handy to my left-handed draw.

I located two dark canvas backpacks and started filling them with stuff. Extra ammunition, flashlight, a few lightsticks, a basic first-aid kit, two good knives, a multitool. What else? A card that reputedly would open most non-palmprint-enabled doors in the ship. An all-purpose lighter. There were smoke grenades and real grenades. I stuffed several into our packs.

Food? Well, maybe a little. Some energy bars and a little candy and some jerky. Water? Joggers usually carried a water bottle, so that wouldn’t mark us a fugitives. I set aside two sealed bottles.

I had it all laid out on a wide shelf when Patrick came into the room, giving me a start. He was wearing jeans and boots, with a shirt in his hand. He also had some clothing draped over his other arm.

“Here,” he said, handing me what turned out to be a dark brown jacket from a man’s suit. “I figured that you’d be carrying a gun, and I thought this would hide it.”

“Thanks.” I held it up and didn’t much care for it. I’d look a little like a butch pop musician. But this wasn’t the time for fashion sense.

We finished dressing. I tossed the towel away and fluffed my hair halfheartedly. Call me crazy, but I somehow wasn’t wild about the idea of going out to face possible death with hair like a sick dandelion. Oh, forget it, girl. No one cares what you look like in the morgue photo. We turned off the light and made our way back to the main room.