Attack the Geek (3 page)

“You can grab any seat you like,” Ree said to the remaining customers. “I’ll bring you some drinks, on the house.”

She wove her way through the bar, relying on memory and touch to avoid the tables and chairs. She rummaged around behind the bar until she found several gas lanterns. Then, giving herself some light, she drew several pints of Critical Hit and headed back to the table. The customers left behind were Uncle Joe; Patricia Talon, the sword-maker; and Abigail Wickham. But Wickham accepted the draft with a nod, saving her biting wit for once. The trio started chatting about the interrupted games, and Ree headed back to the office to check on the door.

“Any luck?” she asked, a Maglite flashlight in hand.

“Nada,” said Grognard. “I’ll set out the rest of the lights. Sort the drawer into the safe and hang tight.” At least she’d be able to catch up on her sleep this way.

“Got it,” Ree said.

She’d just opened the drawer when pounding started at the door.

“Help us!” someone shouted.

Double fucksticks,
Ree thought, hopping the desk and barreling for the door.

Chapter Three

Repeat Customers

Ree deactivated the wards on the door locks as fast as she could, while the sounds of pounding, scratching, and shouting came through loud and clear.

“Boss, we’ve got trouble out here!” Ree shouted back across the room as she grabbed the door handle, her other hand on her lightsaber.

Ree threw open the door and thumbed on the weapon, the blue blade leaping to life as she tapped into the collective nostalgia for lightsabers’ awesomeness, transforming the prop into a fully functional elegant weapon from a more civilized age.

She kept the blade behind her as customers came streaming in, pushing past her to escape . . . what?

Ree looked past everyone into the dark of the sewers. As she looked down to the concrete pathways at the side of the tunnels, she saw them: Gnomes. Lots of gnomes. There were dozens of the scrawny bearded things, tearing at Grognard’s patrons with yellowed claws and jagged teeth. Several customers were pinned by the gnomes, so Ree jumped out into the tunnel and laid into the nasty little biters, chopping limbs and heads off while trying very hard to make sure none of her customers got the vorpal treatment.

I wonder if this will get me employee of the month? Or at least some hazard pay,
she thought. As she Cuisinart™-ed her way through the crowd, pushing the creatures off of a bloodied Shade, she realized that there were too many to run off.

“Close the door as soon as I’m in, okay?” she yelled, hoping someone inside was holding on to their wits instead of their asses.

Ree cut a leaping gnome in half, then caught another one with a crescent kick. Bastards could jump, that was for sure. She stepped back toward the doorway, holding the lightsaber low to fend off the creatures.

“Shade, you hear me?” she asked, feeling the Cyberpunk behind her.

“Uhhn” was his response.

“Someone get Shade inside!” Ree said, spinning the blade and catching another pair of gnomes. There were too many. A third dodged away from her swings and took a swipe at her leg, its tiny claws tearing through her jeans like a set of X-acto knives. The pain dropped her to a knee.

She kept her sword up by sheer fucking determination fueled by her desire to not be eaten alive by creatures that shared a name with a beloved children’s cartoon.

When she clocked out, it wasn’t going to be to these things. She could accept a heroic final stand, saving the lives of dozens from unspeakable creatures or, preferably, a painless death at the age of ninety-something, surrounded by family and adoring fans. But not in a stanky-ass sewer, eaten alive by gnomes while making ten bucks an hour plus tips.

Ree reached into her apron and pulled out a
Magic: The Gathering
card, a
Circle of Protection: Black
. She guessed that the creatures would count as Black, being scavenger-y and half-dead-looking. She tore the card in half, hoping for a reprieve.

A small globe leapt up, pushing the creatures back. Ree whooped internally, taking the opportunity to flip her lightsaber off and grab Shade. She dragged the injured man along the concrete floor until she reached the edge of the circle. There were about two yards between the edge of her circle and the threshold of the store, and Shade was not a small man.

“Little help?” she asked.

Drake Winters strode through the door, his rifle flashing with bolts of green energy that ripped into the gnomes, covering her retreat.

“Did you ever know that you’re my hero?” Ree said as she dragged Shade back inside.

The adventurer failed to respond to her song reference, though she doubted it had even registered. Ree and Drake got on smashingly, but when she went to the pop culture reference place with him, she might as well have been speaking Swahili. Unless she went Victorian or older—those he got.

But he didn’t need to appreciate the joke to cover her ass, so Ree dropped Shade inside the store in front of maddeningly useless customers. Her second-best friend, adrenaline, helped her move on the injured leg, but it was going to hurt like the thousand-and-one Chinese hells when this was all done.

“That everyone?” Ree asked, moving up to Drake’s side to scan the tunnel.

“It appears so.”

Satisfied, Ree stepped back on her good leg and started pulling the door closed. This, at least, seemed safe enough for the other customers to help, save Wickham, who sat at the table like she was sipping a Piña Colada on the beach.

“So nice of you to help, Lieutenant,” Ree said as the door settled closed. Ree activated all of the locks, then exhaled and slumped against the door.

“You appeared to have everything in hand. And it is not my responsibility as a customer to protect the other patrons.”

Ree restrained an eye roll.

Drake crossed to the bar and leaned his rifle against a table. “The welfare of other humans has never been the concern of the fair Lieutenant. Her concerns are greater, to hear her tell of it.”

Wickham gave a nasty smile. “He can be taught. Or was that insight delivered to you by Providence, the same way you get everything else?”

Drake crossed his arms, leaning back into a defensive position. “And now you doubt even that I have insights of my own?”

Wickham threw her arms open. “Why not? Everything else just falls into place for you. Your jury-rigged contraptions make MacGyver look like a paragon of humanist engineering.”

She pulled a small firearm off her belt. “This weapon shoots stunning darts using a pneumatic system. But unlike your geegaws, it works because of science. My friend Dr. Einsteinium spent seven months refining the design and testing it until it was safe.”

Wickham waved dismissively at Drake’s belt. “That Hellboy gun of yours? It’s not scientifically possible. It flaunts the laws of physics like a teenager on Rumspringa, and you cobbled it together in, what, a weekend? You’re a magician, Drake, nothing more. You can dress it up with technobabble, but at the end of the day, you’re no more a scientist than Ree or the rest of them.”

Drake’s sharp intake cut across the silent room. Ree’s vision went hot on his behalf.

The adventurer’s voice shook, but he kept his tone level, his words measured. “How many worlds have you been to, Wickham? Based on what cross-dimensional scientific tradition and scientific analysis are you making such an unequivocal statement demeaning my work?”

“We’re on Earth, the only world I care about. And here, your inventions are not science. Your crap is dragging Steampunk down from its progressive potential, prompting the masses to treat it as just another bit of fluff with impossible devices and idiotic names. Every time you use one of your artifacts, it undercuts the market for real science. Leave the movement to the actual scholars and actual, real engineers helping point a way forward by reclaiming a personal relationship to technology.”

Ree looked to Drake. The corner of his lips had curled into a snarl, and he looked like he was holding an explosion in, refusing to come down to her level.

That’s fine,
Ree thought. She was more than happy to play in the gutter on his behalf. “Fuck off, Wickham. Who died and made you queen arbiter of what is and isn’t Steampunk? K. W. Jeter is still around and kicking, and unless you’re much older than you look and have been writing under a pseudonym, you don’t have the right to tell anyone what they can or can’t call Steampunk. Seriously, why don’t you go home and circle-jerk your awesome friends and their artisanal bespoke hoojabs and leave Priya and Drake alone,” Ree said, completely out of patience.

“Enough, children,” Eastwood said, lit in profile by the lantern.

Where were you a second ago?
Ree wondered.

There were a half-dozen customers in the bar now, including Shade. That left another eight or nine that hadn’t come back or hadn’t made it back.

“We only got two turns out when we saw them,” said Chandra, a
Warhammer 40K
specialist with a red-and-blue Mohawk and vintage punk attire. She walked over to the table and picked up Uncle Joe’s pint glass, taking a long swig before setting it down. Uncle Joe just shrugged as Chandra leaned against a chair, obviously pained.

“It’s like they were waiting for us. Must have been fifty of them, falling over one another to attack. Juno was the first one out, they jumped her almost before we could move. We got back as soon as we could, but I was in the middle of the pack when we left, and . . .” Chandra turned, and Ree drew in a sharp breath through her teeth. The woman’s outfit was shredded. Her jacket, skirt, and fishnets had gone from the intentionally ripped-up of punk to honest-to-Johnny-Ramone torn to tatters.

“Holy crap. How are you still standing?”

Chandra indicated her dozen facial piercings—nose, lip, ear, and eyebrow. “I’ve got more than a dozen piercings and as many tattoos. That, plus a few years in the fetish scene, adds up to a pretty righteous pain tolerance.”

Ree pounded a fist against her chest. “Respect.”

Grognard walked back to the bar, rummaged around, set something on the counter, and pulled out the bottle of Macallan 18.

He poured three fingers and then returned with the fishing box first-aid kit to hand the tumbler of whiskey to Chandra. “Sit.”

Chandra sniffed the glass, cracked her neck, then took the drink all at once. She shook her head as she set the tumbler down, then lowered herself onto a chair with care.

Eastwood went to the door, Drake found himself a seat, and Ree rummaged through her apron for one of the healing potion tokens she’d started carrying. Grognard had his Cure Major Wounds Stout, but that one had 17.5% ABV, and the potion had nada.

Ree put the token in her teeth and twisted, tearing the cardboard. Warm energy hit her like a shower, and the pain in her leg vanished. She sighed, spitting the cardboard token into her hand and stretching the formerly injured foot.

“So, what now, boss?” Ree asked.

Grognard didn’t look up from his kit. His medic box dwarfed Ree’s magical sideboard, and between a couple of airplane bottles of Grognard’s ale and some bandages, Chandra’s wounds were downgraded from “Get thee to a hospital!” to “sleep it off” in a couple minutes flat.

When he was done, he looked up and addressed Ree’s question. “Now we gear up and kick those miniature sons of bitches off of my front door.”

Grognard turned to the group. “Load up, folks. If you didn’t bring weapons”—he paused—“like an idiot, you can borrow something from my armory. But unless you want Ree to ring you up when this is done,
borrow
is all you get to do.”

Most everyone nodded. Eastwood ignored him, checking his own weapons on an adjacent table. He had out his lightsaber, his Han Solo blaster, a bowie knife, his Green Lantern power ring, and several worn stacks of CCG cards held together with rubber bands. He’d be fine.

Uncle Joe, Talon, and the others made their way to the store section, bringing the lantern and their individual lights with them. Ree was reminded of the time her friendly local game store held a midnight party for the release of
D&D
3rd edition and had turned the shop into their best imitation of a classic medieval tavern, serving root beer in steins and providing flashlights for browsing. Since going to GenCon and seeing True Dungeon’s True Tavern, it had paled in comparison, but the preteen Ree had thought it was the shit.

Ree dumped the contents of her apron onto a table, checking what she’d actually brought with her and not just what she thought she’d tossed in. She’d been talking to her dad while getting ready for work, and he’d been cracking her up with stories of his last doomed date, this one with a life coach who had no degree and no experience, and as far as her dad could tell, just quoted
The Secret
to people. But hey, whatever works.

She had her lightsaber, a small CCG sideboard, two more healing potions (almost time to buy a new copy of
Descent
), a DS9-era phaser, and her most important tool, her phone. Rather than getting a separate iPod for media, Ree had just hollowed out the memory of games, apps, and music, and loaded it up with movies and film clips for an on-the-go Geekomantic grimoire.

So, what to watch? She probably wouldn’t have time for a full movie or even a TV episode, so she loaded her playlist and started scrolling—she’d retitled the videos for easier power sorting.

ALPHAS
—Superspeed—“The Quick and The Dead”

BUFFY
—Bruiser suite—“Chosen”

HARRY POTTER
—Wizarding—“Deathly Hallows animation”

SHERLOCK
—Sherlock-vision—“A Study in Pink”

SPIDER-MAN
—Whatever a Spider Can—
Spider-Man
and more.