How to Repair a Mechanical Heart

for the record, YES, we will still have a spy (spies plural) at the Atlanta CastieCon today. they’re already there, and they are READY FOR ACTION as soon as brandon and abel walk in.

and BFC update = plots are thickening. as we speak. there’s still time to join us, IF you dare.

ta-ta.

:-)

We just stand there and blink.

“You guys.” Abel taps the screen fast. “That is a personal photo.”

“Did you post it anywhere before?” says Bec.

“Facebook, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Any enemies? Besides the Cadsim shippers?”

“No. I love everyone,” Abel shrugs. “Except if they suck. But most people don’t‌—‌What is he doing?”

I’m already in the back room, unzipping the canvas storage chest under the bed. I find them right away, under a couple fla

Abel says to Bec, “What are those?”

“How would I know?”

“I thought you knew every inch of this place.”

I shrug. “Tell him it’s like the vests they wore in Episode 4-23,” I tell Bec. “When they’re rescuing Dutchie from the tentacle robots? Tell him he should wear one too.”

“Did you get that?” Bec asks Abel.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s like a costume,” I say. “But not so obvious.”

“Tell Brandon,” says Abel, “that I think he’s full of shit, and that those are bulletproof vests, and if he thinks I’m wearing one of those he’s one hundred percent demented.”

“Tell Abel that they’re bulletblocker panels, and when your enemies are stalking you and other people are calling them psychotic, it’s actually a fairly intelligent idea.”

“Tell Paranoid Android he’s officially out of his skull, and that no one in the history of fandom has gotten shot over a ship war.”

“I bet that’s not true.”

“And plus there’s no way Cadmus would wear one of those.”

“Tell him we don’t have writers to save our asses.”

“Ask Brandon how come he’s such a puss all of a sudden.”

“Tell Abel to‌—‌”

“Shut it!” yells Bec.

I turn around. She’s standing in the kitchen nook in a pink bra with red circles, the one that’s always hanging damp from her shower rod when I use her bathroom at home.

“Listen, bozos.” She tosses her sleep shirt on the counter and starts yanking on her green v-neck. “Do it or don’t do it. Fight or don’t fight. Love each other or hate each other. Just leave me out of it. Understood?”

I sneak a look at Abel. He crosses his arms.

“Yeah,” we mutter.

“You have anything to say to each other?”

“Nope,” I shrug.

“Not really,” says Abel.

Bec sighs. She shoves Plastic Sim at me. Plastic Cadmus at Abel. Putting on her best Zara Lagarde sneer, she stalks to the door and wrenches it open, flooding the Sunseeker with heat and the sooty gray smell of exhaust. She quotes Lagarde in Episode 2-11, two seconds after I know she’s going to: “Get it together, men. Or die.”

Chapter Nine

Crystal Ballroom, 10:52 a.m. Eight minutes to the Tom Shandley Q&A. Gold tickets stamped, blue wristbands snapped on. The redheaded girl at the check-in booth gives us a cute gun-finger and says “Have a blast, guys!”

You’re taking chances, bud.

I reach in my SAFE-U vest, squeeze Plastic Sim.

“Let’s go.” Abel shoves rudely at my back. “Seven minutes!”

Inside it’s packed. Much more than Cleveland. The booths are swamped and the line for the Shandley Q&A is twice as long as Bree LaRue’s, wrapped all the way around the draped table where two of Xaarg’s Henchmen are signing a stack of promo shots. We’ll have to tromp through an army of strangers to get in line.

I adjust my vest, scan faces. No one looks crazy. But how would I know?

“Help me look for Dave, okay?” Bec says. “He said he’d meet me at the Q&A.”

Abel high-fives her. “Woohoo! Get it, baby.”

I don’t know how they’re calm. All I can think of is hey_mamacita. Plots are thickening. We have spies. I straighten my back like Sim but it doesn’t help; a camera flash pops, a toy laser gun goes brrrzzapp and I think this is it, this is how I die, face down on a stretch of paisley carpet by a rack of collectible Christmas balls that say DON’T MESS WITH XAARG.

The doors to the Q&A room slide open. Everyone struggles forward. I shuffle behind Abel, keep my eyes on his dumb yellow rubber watch. I try to look anonymous, which is pretty impossible when the six-foot-two person in front of you has a neon sweatband around his forehead and hair that could signal ships lost at sea.

Abel settles on a space in the center of the crowd. The room feels airless and reeks of floral shampoos and failing deodorants, snack-stand onion rings and popcorn. I’m four inches from the back of some sweaty guy’s novelty t-shirt. Cartoon Jesus aims two machine guns straight at my face. The guy’s talking to a girl in a candy-red wig with dangly earrings shaped like the Starsetter: “True, but that’s a critical part of Cadmus’s backstory. If they retcon it now it’ll be a disaster.”

“He’s coming he’s coming!” I think Abel’s talking to me, but then he pokes the stocky lady standing next to him. She’s dressed in leather pants and a ripped gray tank top like Zara Lagarde, and homemade replicas of Lagarde’s gun and machete are slung across her back. “Oh my God oh my Goddddd how excited are you?”

Lagarde Lady grins. “Totally!”

Bec’s waving Dave through the crowd. Hugging him. His hair looks even stupider than before and he’s brought her a plastic-wrapped cookie from the snack bar.

Abel rocks on his heels. “I may vomit,” he tells Lagarde Lady.

Me too.

The backstage curtains rustle and part and the crowd goes bananas till they see who it is. Just a guy dressed up like one of the Henchmen. Black cloak, ghost-white face, creepy red contact lenses.

He holds a finger to his lips and the room zaps quiet. He reaches in his cloak. Pulls out a wreath of metal brambles with five bright silver bells attached. He shakes the wreath and they cling-clang, the spoon-in-a-teacup sound of the bells I used to ring on the altar at the Consecration. My tongue puckers, bracing for the bitterness of wafers and wine.

The lights cut out.

Bec says, “What the‌—‌?” My insides jump.

Giggles.

Nervous whispers.

A voice in the dark: Um, hellooo?

The lights flicker on but stay dim. There’s a loud wheezy *poof*, like an old-time camera, and a thick cloud of Xaarg’s purple smoke engulfs the stage. Red lasers stutter. Xaarg’s theme blares: three descending cello notes sawed on a sinister loop. People clap and stomp like it’s a monster truck rally and Abel’s bouncing up and down, fist-pumping and shouting YEAH WOOO-HOOOO and I look for the nearest exit, just to know it’s there.

When the smoke clears, Tom Shandley stands alone onstage, filing his nails with a small silver dagger. He wears his red-and-purple ceremonial robe, a black stole embroidered with gold skulls and swords, and a two-foot-tall red velvet hat.

He cups a hand to one ear.

Cheers. Decibel level: new pope at balcony.

Nothing’s left of the Henchman. Just a heap of black robe, a wisp of steam escaping it. Shandley bends down and pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, dangles it like a rotten sardine.

“That’s what the little beast gets,” Shandley vamps, “for ringing my bells.”

Abel hoots and whistles. My vest is unbearable; I unzip it a centimeter, let out some heat.