Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change (4 page)

The other looked calm and slapped a hand against the front window as her dark hair blew around her. “Is that …?” Tara blinked, staring out into the darkness above the Milwaukee skyline. “… Sienna Nealon?”

“I think so?” Neil Ericson sounded like he’d fully crapped himself at last. He was just not up to the strain he’d been put under. “And is that a … who is that with her?”

“It’s a pilot,” Tara said, the first breath of hope coming into her lungs.

“Open … the … door,” Sienna Nealon said, rapping on the thick glass of the windshield, her voice inaudible.

Tara jumped out of her seat and headed for the first exit she could find. paused, feeling scared witless, about to do something she’d never had to do before—

Open the hatch mid-flight, five thousand feet above the world below—and save her plane from certain destruction.

I will never fly again
, Tara thought as she unlocked the hatch but did not open it, instead moving back and anchoring herself in the hallway.
I will take the damned bus, even if I need to travel from Seattle to Miami.
That European vacation I wanted to take? Hell, they make cruise ships for that
.

The hatch opened and the breeze blew hard into the cabin, not enough altitude difference to depressurize at this point. The lady captain was heaved in first, and Sienna Nealon came in second, wearing a dress barely hanging on by two shoulder straps.

Sienna grabbed the hatch and pulled it hard, ripping it shut against the wind resistance. Tara rushed forward to help her lock it back into place, looking breathlessly at the woman who looked like she was dressed for a fancy dinner out rather than a bit of superheroism.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sienna yelled, adjusting her voice, looking a little shocked at how loud it came out. Tara could sympathize; the wind blowing as she’d come into the cabin had been deafening. “Dave Grohl wasn’t available,” Sienna went on, sounding surprisingly relaxed given the circumstances, “so I hope this nice, scared lady captain will land the plane well enough for you.”

“Oh shit, oh shit,” the captain said, getting back to her feet. Her blond hair was blown back behind her shoulders. “When you said you needed help landing a plane, I thought you meant a Cessna—and that I’d do it from a nice, warm tower somewhere …”

“Yeah, no hero points for that,” Sienna said casually, unflappable. Her eyes fell on Tara. “I don’t know if she’s going to be able to find the cockpit in her current condition; you mind showing her the way?”

“I know where the damned cockpit is,” the blond pilot groused, making her way forward on the DC-9. “Get everyone ready for landing. Crosscheck and all-call.” She disappeared down the hall and slammed the door to the cockpit. Tara heard muffled swearing from beyond it before swiveling back to Sienna Nealon.

“You just saved everyone on this plane,” Tara said, looking at her in awe.

“Yeah, well, we’re not on the ground yet,” Sienna said, adjusting the straps on her dress uncomfortably as she peeked around into the first-class section. “Got any extra seats or am I standing for landing?”

“Uhm …” Tara said, thinking quickly. “You can sit up front with me. The, uh, captain and co-pilot are both strapped in in first class, the last two empty seats we had before—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sienna said, eyeing the jump seats next to the door. “Okay, then. Gives me an easy exit if I have to jump out and guide the plane down anyway.”

“Uh … in that?” Tara asked, pointing at the dress. It looked nice, like maybe she’d been out for the evening, but it didn’t go so well with the hair, which was windblown, to say the least.

“I could do it naked, I guess,” Sienna said, “I’m getting kinda used to that at this point, unfortunately—”

“Can I get you anything?” Tara asked as the plane swept wide around, under professional control feeling once more like it was—well, like it was under control.

“I could use a drink,” Sienna said, settling back into the first seat with a thud. “It’s been a day—or actually, a night.”

“That makes two of us,” Tara said and grabbed a half dozen of the little bottles out of the storage case, using her skirt to hold them like a parachute as she made her way over to strap herself in for landing, handing the other woman three to start with and watching her chug them lightning fast. “That makes two of us.”

The red-haired homeless-looking guy had come out of nowhere and killed both the Bruces so fast that she hadn’t seen anything but a flash of blood as it sprayed across her white suit. Kat Forrest had seen death—up close and personal, in ways that most people couldn’t even imagine, so when the red-haired guy grabbed her by the wrist and twisted it down, her first instinct wasn’t to just go along with it. He had a good grip, though, and locked her in place until he could throw her down.

She hit the pavement hard, went sprawling, heard him say something about showing the world what she was, but Kat was too busy trying to not die to pay much attention. Though she might not have anyway, because the dude was a creepy bum with unwashed hair and—let’s face it—some B.O. like he’d come straight out of Topanga Canyon. Kat rolled hard, her meta strength carrying her away as the bum’s hand descended to the pavement—

And passed right through it like it wasn’t even there.

Kat rolled and spun back to her feet, not nearly as gracefully as Sienna would have, but enough to get the job done. The redhead looked up in surprise at her fast motion, blinking away his surprise with dark eyes.

A concentrated spray of water hit him in the side of the face, stunning him for a second. Then his washed-out features suddenly took on an even more washed-out look, like smoke dissipating in the wind as Scott’s attack went right through his face, a stream of liquid that tapered off quickly.

Kat shot a look at Scott, his finger extended, the water blast he’d directed at the redhead dropping off to the intensity of a water pistol. “Why are you stopping?” she asked.

“There’s a drought,” Scott said. “I can’t pull water out of the air when there’s no water in the air—”

“You’re all scheming against me!” The redhead erupted, causing Kat to take a few more steps back. His hair fell in front of his eyes, still ragged and disheveled, though now a little damp from the squirting Scott had given him.

“Dude, I don’t even know who you are,” Scott said.

“Neither do I,” Kat said, holding up both her hands, her Fiji water bottle still clenched tightly in one of them. “I’ve never even seen you before in my life—”

“Of course you don’t know me,” he said, his face twitching. “You don’t even notice the little people as you step on them, do you? You’re just like the others—”

“Other whats?” Scott asked, holding his own hands up now, matching her non-offensive posture. “Metahuman reality TV stars? Because there are very, very few of those, pretty much just the one right now—”

“Leeches,” the redhead pronounced, brushing shaggy, stray hairs out of his eyes with a hand. He blew out of his lips, stirring the wild mustache on his upper lip. “That’s what you are.”

“Listen, Red Lebowski,” Scott said, “I don’t know what she’s done to offend you, but I’m sure it was really bad—”

“I didn’t do anything—” Kat protested.

“You just tried to frame me as your stalker,” Scott said, glancing sideways. Kat followed his gaze. The cameraman was there, filming, Mike the sound guy had his boom mic extended toward them, catching the whole exchange.

This was going to be great TV. Ratings gold.

If she survived.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, shrugging at the camera since she’d already broken the fourth wall without thinking about it. It was a crisis; these things were understandable. She’d just had some crazy man jump out and assault her, after all.

“You know what, angry ginger homeless guy?” Scott said, exasperated. “Whatever she’s done to you, you can’t have her.”

“That’s really not very nice,” Kat said.

“Which part?” Scott snapped. “Angry, ginger or homeless?”

“The part where you just act like you can decide what I get to do, like I’m property or some kind of gift you’d deign to hand out—”

“You’re the worst gift I could imagine giving, like a whoopee cushion filled with nerve gas or—”

“SHUT UP!” the redhead screamed. “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!” He shook in the middle of the street like he was about to explode. He extended a finger right at Kat. “I’m telling you this now—you live your life in the spotlight, sucking dry every dramatic bone you can get your grubby hands on—”

Scott frowned at her. “Is this metaphorical or is he talking about—”

“I’M SPEAKING NOW!” the redhead exploded again, jabbing his finger in her direction again. “You live in the spotlight, you’ll die in the spotlight—and no one—not your manager,” he gestured to Taggert, who was trying his hardest to blend into the crowd of paparazzi next to the SUV, “not your little friend with his little squirtgun action—” He waved at Scott.

“Usually it’s a powerful torrent, okay?” Scott said, annoyed. “It’s not my fault you people live in the middle of the damned desert.”

“—none of your little friends can save you,” the man said, shaking with rage. “You’re going to die, and the world is going to watch it happen.” He waved a hand at her again and then sprinted off in the other direction, passing through the crowd like he was made of smoke itself, people gasping as he ghosted his way through them.

“Holy hell,” Taggert said, stepping back up now, his eyes locked on the place where the redhead disappeared into the crowd.

“Kat,” Scott said, easing over to her, cautious. “You okay?”

“Tell me we got that.” Taggert tossed a look at the cameraman, who gave him a nod before receiving a thumbs up. Taggert grinned. “We got it.”

“Your bodyguards are dead,” Scott said, wide-eyed, kneeling down next to one of the Bruces. “That guy just killed them—and he said he’s going to kill you.”

Kat blinked, not sure what to say. There was a faint screaming sensation somewhere in her throat, clawing to get out.

“Kitten, baby,” Taggert said, still grinning, “this is ratings diamonds. You’ll go up by—”

“Are you kidding me?” Scott stood up. “Kat! Wake up! Your life is in danger. That guy can pass through people, probably through walls—he just ripped your bodyguards’ hearts out.” He put both hands on her thin shoulders and shook her. She locked her eyes on him, the faint memory of the Bruces’ dying gasps echoing somewhere inside her head. “He’s going to kill you.”

“You can’t stop him, can you?” Kat asked faintly, her voice coming back at last. She blinked at him, suddenly acutely aware that her glasses were gone. She felt as brittle as she realized, dimly, that she needed to feel. No awards for this, but it wasn’t really hard at the moment, either …

Scott looked in the direction the redhead had run, shaking his head. “Not me alone, no.” He held up a hand and it spritzed faintly, causing her to jerk away from him. “I think you know who you need to call.”

“No,” Kat said, staring into space. “You think she’d come?”

“Your life is in danger,” Scott said, looking a little torn himself. “Yeah. I think she would. Old loyalties and all that.”

“I can see it now,” Taggert said behind her, voice low, the paparazzi closing in and shouting questions she couldn’t hear over the sound of silence in her head. “‘Special Guest Star—Sienna Ne—”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Scott bellowed.

Kat for her part, just kept staring, trying to feel the look on her face, and knowing that however it looked, it wasn’t composed, it wasn’t produced, it wasn’t stage-managed. It was the horror of knowing that someone out there wanted to kill her, truly and immediately—and that the only person who might be able to stop them was someone who probably never wanted to so much as hear from her ever again.

I breezed back in through the back exit of the restaurant, my hair a FEMA-certified disaster area, smoothing my dress as I went. I was a little fuzzy on how long I’d been gone. I mean, I’d flown straight to Milwaukee at supersonic speed, but I’d had to stop and retrieve my dress the first time it blew off, then I’d had to find the captain, which basically entailed pissing off airport security by overflying their security checkpoints and finding someone dressed like a pilot, then I had to zoom up to find the actual plane—that one was easy, it was the one circling the airport, looking like a drunken monkey was at the helm. Then I had to get on board, yadda yadda yadda, and then I got drunk with that really cool flight attendant.

Now, however many minutes later, I was staggering back into the rear door of one of the classiest seafood places in Minneapolis, walking unsteadily on my flats, which I’d conveniently left just outside the exit (who needs shoes when they’re flying?), and I found Wendy just about where I’d left her at the bar.

“Hey,” I chirruped, a little sing-songy.

“Oh,” Wendy said, eyes widening, “you came back. Wow.”

“Yeah,” I said, motioning to Branch or whatever his name was behind the bar. “I need another.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking me over. “You, uh … don’t look, uh …”

“She’ll have another,” Wendy said smoothly, saving the bartender from a drunken punch to the face. “Your date’s, uhm … still here.”

“Really?” I giggled. “I’m so surprised. Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a little amusement, “I’ve been kind of … avoiding him. I expect that’ll affect my tip, but I’m finding it really, really hard to care.”

“God, I’m starving,” I said, straightening my dress—probably futilely—for about the ten thousandth time. It flew off again on the way back to Minneapolis, did you know that? And one of the straps was torn, so my bra was showing. The first person who designed a clothing line for unplanned supersonic flight was going to get all my clothing-budget dollars, I can tell you that. I could talk to NASA about it, maybe. “You think Dick will still buy me dinner?”

Wendy turned and I followed her gaze to where Dick-o was still sitting, his back to the bar, an empty glass in front of him. “Only one way to find out.”