GUN SALAD

Roulette looked on in disbelief as the big man went down. He dropped to the beach with all the grace and immediacy of a felled tree, and her heart sank with him. The handle of Diallo’s knife–the knife she had failed to dislodge from his hand–protruded from Marka’s chest, stirring up those same old feelings of inadequacy that seemed to dog her every step.

It’s happening again! She opened fire on his assailant before she even knew what she was doing, taking aim at every splash or rogue swell of water she could see from her place on the darkened beach. I wasn’t strong enough… Wasn’t fast enough…

Her bullets vanished into the abyss of an uncaring sea. Any chance she might’ve had to score a hit on Diallo was stymied by the presence of a young girl quivering at the water’s edge: Beretta. An unwitting pawn in a rivalry she had no real part in. Roulette knew the feeling, and it tore her up inside to see the little lamb so terrified. She could hardly blame her for literally standing in the way of justice for her father, given all that had happened in the last half-minute.

So instead, Roulette blamed herself.

The girl cursed. “Morgan!” She waved a hand toward the gun lying half-buried in the sand. “Go after him!”

He jolted to attention. “Right!” he replied, rushing across the beach to take it into his hand. The man lingered there a moment, gauging the direction of Diallo’s escape, before taking off down the boardwalk in hot pursuit.

Roulette stayed behind, rushing to Marka’s side. There was little she could do for him, of course; she was no nurse, and his wound was too dire to benefit from medical attention anyhow. All she could hope to do was offer the man some comfort in his last moments.

Even so, she couldn’t help but chide Mimi on the way by. “Where were you with that pistol?” she snapped. “Did you forget which end of it does the shootin’?

“Oh, sorry! Maybe I should get myself a toy gun like yours?” Mimi sneered, joining her by the dying man. “I’m a Gunsmith, not a barbarian like you. I don’t spend all day shooting squirrels and tin cans–I chose to develop actual marketable skil–”

“Mimi,” Anua said, her tone low and frigid. “Enough.” To Roulette’s surprise, Mimi obeyed, and Anua beckoned Beretta over. The girl crossed the beach with faltering steps, her glazed eyes fixated on her father’s fallen form. She looked as if she was sleepwalking.

“Beretta…” Marka gurgled. His daughter knelt down and took his hand in hers, tears leaking from the corners of her big, brown eyes.

“Be strong…”

Her face crumpled. “Father… No…!” she sobbed. “H-How can I, without you?”

Roulette listened with her head bowed, struggling to fight back her own tears. It was all too much… It hit too close to home. What kind of world would allow such a thing? What kind of world would leave a little girl all alone like this?

“Little one,” Anua said, snapping her back to reality, “take this.” With a level of composure Roulette could hardly fathom, the woman reached into the folds of her dress and produced something familiar: the clear-framed water gun she had shown them earlier. Beretta looked up and reached out to take it, the grip fitting snugly between her tiny fingers…

…And, impossibly, the reservoir within began to fill immediately with pure water.

“Amazing,” Mimi breathed. “It was hers.”

Anua reached forward and, without hesitation, tugged the knife from Marka’s chest. Even as blood spurted from the wound, the master Gunsmith’s voice remained calm and measured; even hopeful, Roulette dared to imagine.

“Now, child, listen carefully,” she said. “You must press the tip of the weapon to your father’s wound and pull the trigger.”

Beretta met her eyes, incredulous. “B-But–”

“Do it!” Anua urged. “Your father’s life depends on it!”

The girl nodded quickly and moved to carry out Anua’s demands. Her hands shook as she squeezed the trigger, emptying a good portion of the gun’s contents directly into the gushing wound.

“More,” the woman commanded. “Keep squeezing until it is empty.”

Roulette watched with bated breath as Beretta carried out her grim task. Neither she, Mimi, or Beretta herself uttered a single syllable as the water flowed into Marka’s wound. Anua seemed so sure of herself that everyone else just… Fell in line. They all wanted to believe. 

They all wanted to witness a miracle coming to pass.

Only after several minutes of waiting–long after the last droplet of water had left the muzzle of Beretta’s water gun–did their resolve begin to crumble. Roulette and Mimi shot glances at each other, united in their growing doubt, and Anua’s look of determination gave way to a more restrained, world-weary expression. She looked as though she were readying herself to shatter Beretta’s hopes–hopes that she, herself, had cultivated in the girl’s heart.

For her part, Beretta continued watching her father’s chest with obvious concentration. Its rhythmic rise and fall had become almost imperceptible, and blood no longer flowed from the gouge in his torso. For all intents and purposes, the man looked to be slipping from the mortal coil. It came as no surprise that his own daughter would be the very last to admit it.

Anua was about to open her mouth to speak when the girl ripped open the man’s shirt, pointing excitedly at the bloody patch of flesh beneath it. “Look!” she squealed. Roulette leaned in close; she had to squint to see what the girl’s young eyes had discerned in the darkness, but when she did, she found herself whooping in jubilation.

The wound was gone. The caked-on blood was still all over his shirt and chest, of course, but the injury itself had utterly evaporated. It was like it had never existed in the first place! Mimi goggled right along with her, and none of them could keep the smile from their faces…

…Especially when Marka opened his eyes and smiled back.

—

Morgan cussed and flailed as he strained against the bounds of the fishing net, half-tempted to kick himself for what a fool he’d been. Newly reunited with Ricochet, he’d had a golden opportunity to put the gun to use on a man who truly deserved it… Only to get outfoxed in the eleventh hour. By spit-up seawater and an armful of fishing net, no less! It was enough to crater his confidence.

The revolver lay just beyond his reach–and the scope of the net–glistening in what little light he had to see by. The candle he’d been carrying had gone out, and Diallo had seen to the lanterns. So here he was, forced to figure his way out of this confounded tangle of a net in near-total darkness! He was sick to death of darkness. If I ever get out from under this thing, he resolved, I’m investing in one of those hip-lanterns. I don’t care how many funny looks I get!

Finally, and without any action on his part, a bright aura of light fell across his struggling form. “Much obliged!” he grunted, wriggling free of the net in short order now that he could make out its edges. He got to his feet and dusted himself off, well-pleased to be free of the thing. “Some psycho threw a net over me–can you believe that? He went up the stairs over yonder. If you’re quick, you might be able to–”

Morgan froze, suddenly, as the muzzle of a gun was pressed to his back.

“Hey, now… Weren’t you listenin’ to what I said?” he asked, suffering a visceral pang of regret as he looked down at Ricochet. “I’m not the criminal here. It’s the guy what netted me!”

“White hair,” said a voice from behind. The speaker had a thick Truvelan accent. “Wessoner. Early middle-age. Belligerent. I believe this is our man.”

“Excellent,” said another. “I will make a note in our logbook.”

“What the hell are you chuckleheads talkin’ about?” Morgan queried through gritted teeth. “I ain’t done a damn thing. I’m just a tourist! What’s it matter if I’ve got white hair or not?”

“Hands behind your head, Wessoner!” the man behind him barked. The other came around his side, stooping to pick up Ricochet. He wore a funny hat and a navy blue long coat over his uniform, and he had a bolt-action rifle strapped to his back.

Soldiers. What did soldiers want with him?

“Can I at least know what you’re bringin’ me in for?” he asked.

“You are under arrest for conspiracy to assassinate Czar Turu,” the man replied. “The Gun Czar himself is aware of your plans. He provided a detailed description of you to all in his service.”

“What?! How did you kn– Ahh, I mean, I don’t know anythin’ about that!”

The man jabbed his gun muzzle into Morgan’s back. “Save your lies for the tribunal, assassin. 

“Now, get moving.”