Free Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect by Michael Bailey Page B

the suit’s
power source: A pair of nuclear micro-cells. They’re strictly regulated by the
federal government (because, duh, nuclear ), which means there is no way
an average guy like Marvin could get his hands on them legally. He’s in
neck-deep doo-doo, as is whoever was stupid enough to sell that kind of tech to
a civilian for use in his giant robo-suit.
    That, however, is a mystery
for another time, and not my most immediate concern, because there’s a naked little
boy sitting in the back of a police cruiser I need to get home.
    I don’t think the Quentins
are going to ask me to babysit again.
     
    The Quentins return, as
promised, at eleven on the nose, and the first words out of Dr. Quentin’s mouth
are, “Carrie, do you know what happened at the ice cream shop?”
    I slide out from underneath
Farley, who fell asleep in my lap as Bilbo and the dwarves arrived in Lake-town
in their barrels. There’s no sense in trying to cover it up, so I lay out the sequence
of events in detail, then brace for the fallout.
    The conversation does not go
as I expected. “You mean Farley didn’t try to eat you?” Kilroy asks.
    “Eat me?” I say.
    “Kilroy. Farley has never
eaten anyone,” Dr. Quentin says. “My son is not a cannibal.”
    “What about that one time he
—?” Kilroy begins.
    “You know bloody well Farley
only bit him...and he spit him right back out.”
    They’re messing with me.
They have to be.
    “As long as both of you are
okay,” Joe says, moving past me to scoop Farley up in his hands. The boy never
stirs. “Why don’t you settle up with Carrie, hon, I’ll get Farley to bed.”
    “I think bedtime is in order
all around,” Dr. Quentin says. Taking the hint, Kilroy and Meg wish me
goodnight and shuffle off to bed.
    “G’night, Carrie,” Joe says
on his way out. “Thanks for everything.”
    “Yes, thank you, Carrie, we
appreciate your time — as do the police, I’m sure,” Dr. Quentin says. “Would a
check be all right? Or do you use PayPal?”
    “Uh, check’s fine,” I say.
Dr. Quentin fishes her checkbook out of her purse. I know I’m tempting fate by
asking, but, “You’re not upset about what happened tonight?”
    “Why would I be upset? It
was hardly your fault some imbecile nearly destroyed the ice cream shop with
his experimental battlesuit,” she says with a complete lack of interest, as
though such things were normal, everyday occurrences...which, in our world, I
suppose it is. “If I’m to reprimand anyone, it will be Farley. You told him to
go home, he disobeyed you...”
    “Don’t be too hard on him.
He did save my butt, after all.”
    “Nevertheless, he will be
spoken to. Children need to know that rules cannot be broken without
consequences, regardless of whatever noble intentions drove their decision.”
She rips off a check and hands it to me. “Again, thank you for caring for
Farley this evening. I hope I can call on you again in the future.”
    “Absolutely. Farley was a
total delight. Maybe next time we can get through the rest of The Hobbit .”
    “Oh, he had you read The
Hobbit with him? He does like you,” Dr. Quentin says. “Normally he
makes his babysitters read The Silmarillion .”
    She has to be messing
with me.
    Dr. Quentin escorts me out
to the landing pad. I lift off, and for the return trip, I decide to break the
sound barrier a few times over in the name of getting home quickly. The
evening’s catching up to me and I want nothing more than to crawl into bed.
    Mom is still up when I get
home, reading on the couch — no surprises there, but it takes a second for it
to hit me: She’s home, and alone. Hmm.
    “Hi, honey, how did the
babysitting go?” she says.
    “Fine. Nothing exciting to
report,” I say, the lie coming easily. You know what the funny part is? I
really have had worse babysitting jobs. “Didn’t expect to see you home
tonight.”
    She rolls a shoulder, a lazy
shrug. “Dad was worried Ben and I have been moving too