Hopefuls (Book 1): The Private Life of Jane Maxwell

by Jenn Gott

  “Jane? What’s—I’m sorry, but what’s going on? Where are we going?”

  “We need to get the others,” Jane said, still not stopping. “If we’re very, very lucky . . . I may have just figured out how we’re going to beat UltraViolet.”

  “I’m sorry, you want to do what?”

  Jane looked around the table of the command room, all the skeptical faces staring back at her. She adjusted her glasses, steadying herself. “I want to go back to my world, in order to retrieve Clair’s journal.”

  Keisha raised an eyebrow. Devin frowned. Marie scowled. Tony looked on, amused. Cal just watched. This meeting wasn’t going exactly how Jane had pictured it.

  “Wait, I’m confused,” Keisha said. “Who’s Clair, again?”

  Amy raised a tentative hand. “That’s me. In the other world. Apparently, I hated the name ‘Amy.’ ”

  “The you that’s dead,” Keisha said, clarifying.

  “The you that’s a lesbian,” Tony added, a chuckle just off the side of his voice.

  Amy flushed as she looked away.

  It shouldn’t have surprised Jane, that neither of them were “out” in this world. Still, it had been weirder than weird, to stand there at the beginning of the meeting and explain about Clair, about their marriage. Several of the Heroes hadn’t quite been able to look Jane in the eye since.

  “Look, none of that’s the point,” Jane said. “Clair and Amy . . . I think they dreamed about each other’s lives. That’s how I got everything right when I started to draw the comics. Clair told me so many details, and we hashed out almost all the plots together.”

  “Okay . . . ,” Keisha started, “that’s all well and good, but what does that have to do with anything? Clair can’t exactly dream you a solution if she’s . . . I’m sorry, but if she’s dead.”

  “Unless she dreamed of your future,” Jane said.

  Keisha shook her head. “Right. Now you’ve lost me.”

  “Actually,” Marie said, “that kind of makes sense. Interdimensional travel has a slight time distortion anyway.”

  “It does?”

  Marie shrugged. “A couple of hours, usually. Maybe a day or so. But yeah.”

  “Sure, of course,” Devin said, chiming in. He tugged at his hair and sat up a little straighter, enthusiasm lending him buoyancy. “And if Clair had a low-level empathic sense—”

  “One that she likely wouldn’t even be aware of, if it’s that small—”

  “—then it’s not going to be refined. She could have been picking up pieces of Amy’s life, rippling back in time from the future—Oh! Amy wasn’t even aware of Clair until recently! Once she was, that would have strengthened the link!”

  “Making the connection even greater, and more accurate! Which then would have gone backward, right along the line of causality—”

  “—and given Clair a series of premonitions straight to her dreams! God, that’s so cool!”

  “Wicked cool,” Marie agreed. She turned to Jane. “How far into our future did she see, do you think?”

  Jane started, thrown by the shift in Marie and Devin’s attention. “Um . . . well, she definitely saw Doctor Demolition’s weapon test, so she got pretty close to now.”

  “But she didn’t say anything about you coming here?” Devin asked. “Not a word about UltraViolet?”

  “We knew UltraViolet was the real villain behind Doctor Demolition,” Jane said. “But . . . no, nothing about any of this. But she didn’t always tell me everything immediately. Which is why I want to get her journal. She wrote all of her dreams down, as soon as she woke up. Always has.”

  “But we already have a plan,” Tony said. “Cal said that you’d managed to focus your powers enough to access lower frequencies.”

  Jane sighed. “I did, but . . . Tony, that’s a long way from being able to stop UltraViolet. We don’t even know when she’s going to strike. We might not have time for me to improve. What we need is more information. Clair might be able to provide that.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Hang on,” Cal said. He’d raised his hand, interrupting, and now he looked heavily across the table at Jane. “Look, I’m not going to pretend to understand everything that’s been said here, but . . . all other issues aside, let’s focus on the most important question. You think there’s a chance it’ll work?”

  Silence hung in the air. Jane pressed her hand flat on the table, grounding herself.

  “I think that I have to try,” Jane said. “Because I’m going to say what everyone else is afraid to: there’s no guarantee that my powers are going to stop UltraViolet’s weapon. If there’s any chance that Clair’s dreams can show us what’s going to happen, then we need to take advantage of that.”

  The room went quiet again, as they considered this. Clearly, nobody wanted to hear what Jane had said, but—going by their ducked heads, the way that Devin picked at his fingernails, the way that Keisha frowned at her phone—neither were they willing to argue the point.

  Finally, Cal nodded. “All right,” he said, and Jane knew that the matter was settled. Despite the skepticism still visible on some of their faces, they would never argue with Cal once he’d made up his mind. “But I don’t want you going in there alone. Someone needs to be there to watch your back.”

  “I’ll do it,” Amy said.

  “Um, are you sure that’s such a good idea?” Marie asked. “I mean, if you’re supposed to be dead . . . ?”

  “I’ll go as Mindsight. I won’t get caught, I promise.”

  The table shared a look, clearly uncertain.

  Cal shrugged. “It’s fine by me. Jane?”

  Jane looked at Amy. An unspoken exchange took place between them; it wasn’t just Cal that was asking if this was all right.

  A part of Jane wanted to say “no,” of course she did. What would it be like, to bring Amy back there? For that matter, what would it be like to go in the first place?

  In the end, though, it didn’t really matter what it would be like, how hard it might prove to be. Because Cal was right: she shouldn’t go alone. And Amy was right: given the options . . . she really was the only choice.

  Jane nodded.

  “Then it’s settled,” Cal said. He slapped his palm on the table as he stood up, as if he was sealing the deal. “Good luck, you two. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  * * *

  Jane and Clair’s apartment, seen from above as if it was a model: the place is long and narrow (“Like a shoebox,” Jane sometimes muttered; “Like a train,” Clair countered), each room leading way to the next and then the next, so that by the time you reached the bedroom you’d already traversed the living room/dining room combo, the lithe strip of a kitchen, and the travel-sized bathroom. Space was not efficient. Walls jutted where they shouldn’t, and built-in shelves cut off huge swaths of otherwise usable floor space. The building had once been a townhouse for wealthy aristocrats, only to have been sold off and carved into tiny pieces at the turn of the last century. Jane and Clair’s landlord was the son of the man that bought the house from the last line of the oil tycoons and bankers and newspaper moguls that had been trading it back and forth for generations.

  The rooms were dark when Jane eased open the door. Pale moonlight spilled in through the high, north-facing windows that ran along one whole side of the apartment—their top-floor slice of the building was against the outside wall of the house, and during the day it was flooded with gorgeous, artistic light that bounced off of the pale walls and original wood flooring.

  “Watch your step,” Jane whispered as she moved through the door and stood aside for Amy, as Mindsight, to follow. It was decided that it would be best for this extraction to take place clandestinely, rather than have to take the time to explain Jane’s absence to anyone that she might encounter. She left the lights off, letting herself through the apartment on muscle memory. Plus, it was just as well that Jane couldn’t see all the details of her old life—her real life, Jane
corrected herself. The living room still had framed pictures of her and Clair on their wedding day, their graduations, the day that Jane started working at QZero. Jane shoved them out of her mind as she moved through to the kitchen.

  Her landlord hadn’t sold her possessions, then. Someone must have been in since she’d left, to pay the rent in her absence, to empty the fridge and clean the dishes in the sink. She could just picture her mother (her real mother, Jane thought with a pang of longing), rolling up her sleeves and making sure that, wherever her daughter was, her apartment would still be waiting for her when she got back. So at least Ms. Holloway hadn’t given up hope of seeing Jane again. Or maybe she was just in deep denial. That was also possible.

  The bedroom had received a similar treatment. Jane’s dirty laundry had been gathered up from the heaps on the floor, washed and folded and returned not quite to their proper places in her dresser, but close enough. The bed was made, one of the few times since Clair’s death. Jane ran her hand over the quilt, a gift that Clair’s great-aunt had made for them. The smells of Jane’s apartment, of her life with Clair, were thick in the air. Jane closed her eyes, breathing it in. Fabric softener and jasmine perfume, coconut shampoo and the faintest traces of turpentine. It filled Jane’s chest to bursting.

  Jane forced her eyes open. In the darkness of her bedroom, she moved around to Clair’s side and opened the top drawer of the nightstand.

  Nothing had been packed away since Clair died. Not a single sock thrown out, nor a single jacket donated to charity, nor a single keepsake tucked into a box of mementos. Clair’s hand lotion still sat beside the lamp, the book that she was reading still bookmarked as if she’d be right back to it. This stubborn hold was the biggest point of contention between Jane and her mother, and the one thing that Jane would not budge about with her grief counselor. No matter how many times she was told it was unhealthy, obsessive, wallowing—it didn’t matter. Jane left her apartment untouched, a shrine to a better life. Her existence in the eighteen months since then was carved out in tiny corners, taking up as little space as possible, as if disturbing anything would break the spell.

  She hadn’t even opened this drawer, until today.

  Clair’s journal was right on top. Clair had a thing for notebooks, though she wasn’t a casual hoarder. Each one that she added to her collection was carefully chosen. Novelty notebooks from Barnes & Noble or the stationery aisle at Walmart wouldn’t do, oh no. Nor, either, would Clair accept Moleskines, or the latest trend for bullet journals or day planners. She never ordered them online. Each book was selected by hand, in back-corner shops or used bookstores or pilfered from estate sales. Clair needed to hold them, to breathe in the smell of them, to feel the texture of the paper. To see if they spoke to her. Jane had learned a long time ago not to buy them for her as gifts.

  And yet, that’s exactly what this one was, Clair’s last journal. Jane’s hands trembled as she lifted it out, remembering the day that she’d spotted it. She was on her way to meet up with Clair for lunch when the sky opened up and a downpour rushed the city, sending everyone scurrying for shelter. Jane had ducked into a novelty shop, the bell tinkling overhead to announce her arrival.

  “Fierce out there, isn’t it?” the shopkeeper had said. Jane had only nodded, not even turning around. She was staring out of the window, watching the streaks of rain, tempted to dig out her sketchbook and copy the patterns.

  When Jane spotted the notebook a few minutes later—browsing through racks of scented candles and dream catchers and beaded necklaces, because it seemed rude not to at least pretend that she might buy something while she waited out the rain—she didn’t even question it. There was something familiar about the book, and for a while Jane worried that maybe Clair had already bought herself a copy, maybe this exact book was sitting back in their apartment right now. Still, Jane paid for it, and by the time she was done the rain had stopped, the clouds pulling back as suddenly as they’d appeared. The street outside was sparkling in the fresh sunshine, as if diamonds hung from the leaves and rimmed the overhang of apartments and restaurants.

  She gave it to Clair at lunch that very day. Sitting out on the sidewalk, at a table mopped dry by the proprietor. Clair smiled as she drew it out of the bag, but then she saw it and her face froze as if someone had pressed pause on her.

  “I can return it if it’s not right for you,” Jane said, knowing how Clair felt about this sort of thing. “It’s no big deal.” She was already reaching across the table for it, when Clair drew back.

  “No,” Clair said. The force of her voice surprised Jane. Clair clutched the notebook to her chest. “Don’t return it. I love it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Clair nodded, her smile returning. “I’m sure. It’s perfect.”

  Perfect. Jane opened the notebook now, in her darkened bedroom. A paper fluttered to the floor, which Jane retrieved and tucked absently into a pocket on her uniform. Even in the dim light, she could see the inscription that she’d added to the notebook that day in the café, after she’d made sure that Clair had liked it. Clair’s great-aunt had instilled the idea that you should never give someone a book without making it personal, and so Jane had pulled out her favorite drawing pen from her bag and cracked open the spine. She doodled a quick pigeon on the inside cover, and then across from that: To my perfect Clair, with love. May all your dreams come true.

  * * *

  Mindsight was sitting on the couch when Jane returned to the living room.

  “All right, let’s get out of—” Jane started, but cut herself off as she spotted the look on Mindsight’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  Mindsight just sat there, rooted in place. Her eyes, tucked behind her mask, were wide as if trying to tell Jane a thousand things at once, none of which Jane understood.

  “Oh, don’t mind her,” a voice said from behind Jane. Digitized, its tone obscured. Nonetheless, it was unmistakable. “She’s been instructed that if either of you say a word, you’ll both be killed.”

  Jane whirled. A shimmering haze stood behind her, woman-shaped and vaguely purple. UltraViolet’s face, as usual, was obstructed, as if Jane’s eyes couldn’t quite bring themselves into focus. Still, Jane tried. There was something maddening about UltraViolet, something that gnawed on Jane’s subconscious. If she only had more light—though of course Jane knew from experience that due to whatever tricks UltraViolet used, light didn’t help the matter.

  UltraViolet held out her hand. A purple glove resolved itself, the only clear part of her appearance.

  “I’m not going to waste time,” UltraViolet said. “Give me the book, and you can both walk out of here alive.”

  Jane’s grip tightened as a fierceness in her chest stirred. “No.”

  “Ah-ah-ah.” UltraViolet stuck up a finger and tipped it back and forth like a metronome. “What did I say about talking? Now, let’s try this again: Give me the book.”

  Her palm turned back up, flattening out. Open and waiting.

  Jane knew what the real Captain Lumen would do: strike first, while UltraViolet felt that she still had the upper hand. Of course, the real Captain Lumen would have also brought backup with her, in case this very thing happened. Because the real Captain Lumen would have thought ahead. The real Captain Lumen would have never cut herself off from help like this, literally worlds away from everything that kept them safe.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Jane asked. She spoke in a rush, in case UltraViolet decided to actually follow through on her threat.

  UltraViolet shrugged. “I’m in a reading slump, and this one has such stellar reviews.”

  Jane blinked. “Uh . . .”

  “Wow, you really are bad at this, aren’t you?” UltraViolet said. “Look, what part of this don’t you understand? Last chance: the book, or your lives. I’m taking one. Be glad I’m letting you choose which.”

  Mindsight’s voice, strong behind Jane: “Don’t do it, Captain.”

  “Shut up!�
� UltraViolet snapped, as she leaned over to see the couch. “Did I ask you?”

  It was all the distraction Jane needed.

  She threw the journal high into the air. The motion drew UltraViolet’s attention back, giving Mindsight the opening that she needed to leap to her feet and whip her revolver out. Jane ducked, as Mindsight fired through where Jane’s head had been only moments earlier.

  Jane’s heart pounded as loud as the gunshot, as UltraViolet staggered back and swore. The journal had hit the floor beside Jane, its pages falling open somewhere in the middle. Jane scrambled to retrieve it as Mindsight rushed to her side, firing off another round at UltraViolet.

  It happened so fast. One moment they were in a standoff, the next Jane and Mindsight were barreling down the staircase at the heart of the old townhouse. Occasionally, a door would begin to crack open as someone peeped out to see what the hell was making all that racket, and Jane would throw a burst of light in their direction like a camera flash. Just enough.

  They saw no sign of UltraViolet as they fled the house. “This way!” Mindsight shouted when they hit the streets. She dragged on Jane’s arm, and Jane followed without question.

  A crackle of purple lightning shot past them as they rounded the first corner. Jane yelped, but Mindsight was already on it: she dragged Jane down, ducking them behind a dumpster. Another crackle struck, the metal sparking at their backs.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” Loose gravel bit into Jane’s hand as she scrambled away from the dumpster. Her knuckles scraped the pavement, the journal still clutched tightly in her fist. “How did she know where to find us?”

  “Never mind that!” Mindsight said. She whipped up, peering over the dumpster just long enough to fire off three quick rounds from her revolver before crouching back down beside Jane. Her chin jerked in the direction of Clair’s journal. “Just what the hell is in that thing?”

  It was a fair question. Jane looked down at the journal as another crackle of purple lightning shot overhead. Even streaked with dirt, the cover was so familiar, and so ordinary. It seemed hard to believe that anything dangerous could be tucked between its covers, but if UltraViolet wanted it . . .