Steampunk! Part 23

She looks at the floor but says nothing.

"I thought Steam Girl hated guns. I thought she never used them. It is a gun, isn't it?" I ask.

"It's the Reality Gun," she says quietly.

"What the h.e.l.l is a Reality Gun?" I say.

"It kills reality."

And then she takes the notebook from my hand and puts it in her bag.

After school, she's waiting at the gate, just like that first time. She looks very alone as the crowd flows by. Kids point and laugh.

We walk together to the first intersection. She seems tired.

"I have one more thing to tell you," she says.

"OK," I say.

"You know how I told you Steam Girl and her father went through the door?" she says.

I nod.

"Well, it took them to Earth," she says, "just like her mother told them it would. But it wasn't their Earth - it was a different world, a different universe. The wrong universe. This world was . . . grayer. Sadder. And the rules were different. Her gadgets didn't work the same. Technology wasn't magic anymore. Even people were different there. Less courageous, less beautiful and clever. And so they changed, too . . ."

She sounds so sad, I look to see if she's crying. Her face is pale, like chalk.

"Couldn't they go back?" I say. "Back through the door?"

"No," she says. "Because after they went through, the door disappeared. It was a trap, you see - the whole thing had been a trap. Steam Girl's mother had planned it all along - to trick them into going through the wormhole to this totally different universe, where they could no longer mess up her plans. She wanted them out of her life completely."

"So . . . what happened next?"

"That's it," she says. "That's all there is."

"You mean that's the end of the story?" I can't believe it.

She says nothing. We wait at the lights till the red man turns green.

"Bye," she says, and she crosses the road.

She's not in English on Friday.

Michael's not there either. But Amanda is, and she smiles at me. A warm, genuine smile.

When I hand in my story, Mrs. Hendricks seems impressed. "Looks like you were quite inspired," she says.

"I was inspired," I say. "By Steam Girl."

Mrs. Hendricks looks confused; of course she won't know about Steam Girl. "I mean - the new girl. Wears a flying helmet and goggles?"

"Oh!" she says, surprised. "You mean Shanaia Swift? I didn't know you were friends."

"Um - kind of," I say. "She's a little weird, but the thing is, she tells the most amazing stories - all about this really smart inventor called Steam Girl, who travels the universe in an airs.h.i.+p, having adventures with her father and . . ." I realize I'm blus.h.i.+ng and stop talking.

Mrs. Hendricks frowns, flicking through my story. "I had no idea," she says. "She's always so quiet in cla.s.s. And she hasn't handed in a single piece of work. Listen, Redmond, if you talk to her over the weekend, could you ask her to come see me first thing on Monday? I'd really like to give her a chance to hand something in for this a.s.signment, even if it's late. Sounds like it would be worth the wait. . . ."

"I will," I say.

At lunchtime I go to the incinerator, just in case.

After five minutes, I'm getting ready to go when Michael Carmichael appears.

"Where is she?" he says.

"Who?" I say.

"Your freakish girlfriend," he says. "Obviously."

I pick up my bag and try to walk to the safety of the library. But Michael puts a hand on my chest to stop me.

"I want you to give her a message," he says. "From me to her."

"Let me go," I say as clearly as I can. My voice is shaking.

"Tell her this is from me," he says, his hand still on my s.h.i.+rt. "For yesterday."

And then he hits me in the face.

I stay on my hands and knees till he's gone, watching blood drip from my face onto the dusty asphalt. Then I sit on the ground by the concrete wall with a wad of tissues pressed against the cut in my mouth. I can feel it swelling up. I should go to the nurse and get some ice. But I don't.

When the bell rings, I get up and head for cla.s.s. The bleeding has stopped, but my whole face is throbbing with pain. As I enter the science block, someone steps out of the shadows and grabs my arm.

It's her. Shanaia. "I've got something to show you," she says, guiding me out into the thin sunlight. She seems nervous, distracted. "I finished it. It's ready."

"Why weren't you in English?" I say. My voice is m.u.f.fled. It hurts to talk. "Mrs. Hendricks wants to see you. . . ."

"Never mind that," she says, reaching for her bag. "I brought the -"

And then she sees my face and stops. "Oh!" she says. "What happened?"

"What do you think happened?" I'm annoyed all of a sudden. I don't want to be, but I am. "It's a message for you. From Michael Carmichael. For yesterday."

She lifts a hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry. . . ."

"That's OK," I say, sounding more sarcastic than I mean to. "Everyone thinks you're my girlfriend anyway. It's not the first time I've been pushed around because I hang out with you."

She takes a step back, both hands held up as if I might hit her. Her neck is turning red, but this time it doesn't make me feel good.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, shaking my head. "I just . . ."

But she's already gone, half walking, half running across the asphalt, and I'm too tired and sore to go after her. Maybe I don't want to. I don't know what I want anymore. I just stand there, heavy and alone, until the next bell tells me I'm late for cla.s.s. My head hurts. I take a deep breath and go back to school.

The world feels cheap this afternoon. The sky is pale and empty; colors are faded. Everything's dirty and ugly and falling apart. I sit in science cla.s.s with my head on my desk. The teacher is talking about vacuums, which pretty much sums up how I feel. After a while I close my eyes and let my mind drift. I imagine I'm lying on a warm sand dune, beside a girl. Stroking her soft white neck.

Not her, this time. Just a girl. An imaginary girl.

By home time, I'm sleepy and numb. I head for the main gate, staring at the ground in front of my feet. But there's something going on - a crowd in the way. Then I hear her voice and I start pus.h.i.+ng my way to the front so I can see.

Her face is red, with tears in her eyes. Michael Carmichael looks angrier than ever before. At first I think he's wearing some kind of makeup, but then I realize he's bleeding from his lip, and his T-s.h.i.+rt is torn at the neck. He steps forward and pushes her shoulder, sending her back against the circle of onlookers, who spread out like a school of fish.

"You stupid fat freak," Michael says in a shaky voice. "Stupid fat little b.i.t.c.h!"

He backhands her across the face, so hard she spins around, gla.s.ses flying, ending up on one knee a few feet from me. The crowd almost moans.

Michael is still advancing on her. Without thinking, I step forward and raise my hand.

"Leave her alone," I say. It comes out as a kind of squeak.

Next thing I know I'm on the ground and Michael's looming over me, shouting something I can't hear.

Behind him, I can see Shanaia pulling something out of her bag, something awkward and heavy, metallic and long. Then she stands up, pointing it straight at him, holding tightly with both hands.

It's a gun. Covered in her usual gears and rusting dials and stuff, but still unmistakably a gun. The Reality Gun. I can't tell if it's a toy gun underneath or the real thing - and from the look on his face, neither can Michael. He freezes and then starts slowly backing away.

"Jesus Christ! What the h.e.l.l is that?" He tries to laugh, but the sound he makes is broken and small.

No one speaks or moves for what seems like a really long time. Then she reaches up with one hand and pulls her goggles down over her eyes. There's shouting back near the administration block; teachers are coming.

And then she pulls the trigger. There's a bang and a flash and smoke and sparks. No, not smoke: steam. The air is full of steam, like a thick billowing cloud of warm, wet fog. Kids scream and people start running and someone knocks me flat. When I manage to get up again, the steam is slowly clearing and the crowd has scattered. Shanaia is gone. Her flying helmet and goggles lie abandoned on the ground. The Reality Gun is there, too, still steaming, broken and split. Michael stands in the center of it all, hands at his side, mouth open, eyes wide.

"Are . . . are you OK?" I say, moving closer.

Michael turns and looks at me like he doesn't know who I am.

"s.h.i.+t," he breathes out slowly, and then he shakes himself and looks down at his hands. "s.h.i.+t."

He's fine. I grab Steam Girl's helmet and goggles and shove them in my bag; then I run through the school gates and down the road before anyone can stop me.

I run most of the way home. When I open the door, my hands are shaking so much I almost drop the keys.

Inside, it's dark and quiet. I throw my bag into my room and hit the light switch, but nothing happens. I find Mom in the garden, reading a book.

"There's been a power cut," she says. "No computer or TV, I'm afraid. . . ."

"When - I mean, how long has it been out?"

"About fifteen minutes, I guess." She closes her book and covers a yawn. "Do you want me to get you a sandwich?"

I shake my head and run back out to the street. No lights are on anywhere. The air is eerily quiet: no cars driving past or planes flying overhead. No one's mowing the lawn or listening to music. Nothing. I start to run again, along the empty road, listening to the buzzing in my head.

I remember Amanda said something about Shanaia living in a trailer park. For all I know, it's just a rumor, but it's all I've got. I think there's something like that down by the estuary, so that's where I go. The sign outside says SUNNY STREAM TRAILER PARK, but it's actually a wide, dusty field with rows of shabby trailers and huts, rusting cars, and sagging wires. At the entrance, I'm almost run over by a noisy old Ford. The driver gives me the finger as he drives away.

I walk down the central path, between trailers and caravans, all flaking paint and rusted metal. A little boy in green shorts stares at me, and an old man standing in his doorway raises his hand h.e.l.lo. Then, painted on the side of a faded pink trailer, I see THE MARTIAN ROSE.

It's tiny, not much bigger than an SUV. One wheel's been taken off, leaving it propped up on a pile of bricks and pieces of wood. All kinds of junk lie in the dirt outside: broken appliances, bits of wrecked cars, sc.r.a.ps of tin, broken toys, rotting planks. A basic workbench leans against one wall, scattered with springs and broken cogs and half-a.s.sembled gadgets.

As I stand there, wondering what to do, the door opens and out steps a skinny unshaven man in dirty jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt. He looks at me with watery eyes.

"Uh - h.e.l.lo," I say.

He says nothing. His hair is long and tangled and streaked with gray. He rubs his chin with a shaky hand.

"Is - um - is your daughter here?" I ask.

He turns back to the trailer and calls out, "Shanaia!"

There's no response, and after a moment he sits on an overturned beer crate and seems to forget I'm there. I walk up to the caravan and open the door.

Inside, it's small and dark and smells like a garage.

"Shanaia?" I say. A thin strip of light spreads out from the open door. And there she is, sitting in the corner, hugging her knees. Her gla.s.ses are cracked, and she's taken off the leather jacket. Without the flying helmet, her hair hangs down across her shoulders. It's the color of polished bra.s.s.

I sit next to her. "Are you OK?"

She looks away.

"It didn't work," she says in a tiny voice.

"You know the power's down?" I say. "Nothing's working, all over town. Nothing electric. Nothing modern." Then I hesitate. "No, wait. There - there was a car coming out of the driveway. So actually, some things are working. . . ." I trail off, suddenly unsure of myself.

She's watching me intently.

"I - I thought maybe the Reality Gun . . ." I begin to feel pretty stupid.

And then she reaches over and curls her hand around mine.

"Well, it scared the h.e.l.l out of Michael Carmichael," I say. "So that's something. . . ."

"I didn't mean to do that," she says. "I just . . . He was . . ."

We sit there a while, holding hands. She leans her head on my shoulder.

"Shanaia -" I say.

She rolls her eyes. "Don't," she says. "I hate that name."

"You know, you're in pretty big trouble," I say. "They'll have called the police."