“So someone will take their place?”
“Of course. Which does not mean that we should not catch or kill as many of these monsters as we can—any act which lessens the suffering of others is loved by God.” His smile returned. “But these are much too heavy matters for tonight!”
After that it was a contest of comparing Chicago and Moscow winters, toasts to international cooperation, and more dancing until Shell finally pulled me away with our pre-arranged “errand” excuse and I flew home. I’d have to be back to the Dome in the morning, but going home had become the thing I just did after every public fight unless there was unfinished business that kept me away.
The house was dark, the parentals already asleep; I’d called before news of the fight had been broadcast so they’d known not to worry and that I’d see them in the morning. Changing for bed while Shell briefed me on the Oroboros’ and Shelly’s take on what our win today likely meant for the near future, I let Graymalkin in my room. Just before I turned out the light I remembered the one question I’d saved to ask later.
“Devochka moya?”
“It means ‘My little girl.’ He thinks you’re just so cute.”
“Great. Now I’m going to have to kick his butt before he goes home to Mother Russia. Goodnight, Shell.”
“’Night, Hope.”
Chapter Three
One of the most corrosive beliefs given new life by The Event is Ontological Nihilism, the belief that reality itself is arbitrary, illusory. And indeed, what are we to make of the impossibilities around us? In the face of breakthrough powers that give reality to every religious belief, folk superstition, and speculative “science,” can the universe possibly be rational? And if it is irrational, how can it contain any true meaning?
Doctor Mendell, Nihilism and the Age of Uncertainty.
* * *
An easy breeze stirred the flowering tree, plucking white cherry blossoms away to fall like snow and pushing the long grass surrounding the hill into green waves punctuated by bright spring flowers nodding in the sun. Alone, I decided to explore and my path took me away from the tree and through the lower hills where the seasons changed from one wooded hill to the next. Stepping along the stream, I wandered into autumn to enjoy the jewel-like red maples and yellow gingko trees. Kicking the leaves and breathing their spicy scent, I kept going until I found a little glade by the stream where I could lie down to listen to the water.
When the lazy laughter of the stream turned into my chiming alarm clock and the spot of warm sunlight through leaves turned into Graymalkin sleeping across my leg, I stretched and brushed leaves—my hair, really—away from my face and sat up with a sigh.
“Morning!”
Shell popped into virtual existence by my bed, looked the scene over. “Aww. Wish I could give him a good scratching.”
“After-mass dinner on Sunday, you’ll be here with your shell on.” I scratched Gray’s ears for her; his flipping tail told me he was awake, but he played asleep, too lazy to do anything but imitate a furry lump until I removed the leg that was part of his bed. “So what’s up?” She didn’t usually pop up until I was headed back to the Dome.
“Did you dream again?”
“Yeah.” I ran fingers through my bobbed hair.
It had been as clear as the others and, just like with the rest, so peaceful that I couldn’t even panic about it when my eyes opened. At least I was thinking more while in the dreams, even if I still fell into the same Zen-like acceptance while I was there.
Was that a bad thing, or a good thing?
“Aaaand?”
“And that’s it. Still no sneaky white fox.” Sliding my legs out from under Graymalkin earned me an aggravated look. I scratched his ears in apology and when I didn’t say anything else, Shell shrugged and told me what I didn’t want to hear.
“Blackstone got you the appointment with Doctor Cornelius, for this afternoon. He wants you to take Ozma with you after our publicity photo shoot with the team and Svyatogor.”
“Joy.” I kept scratching Gray, and under my working fingers he rolled over on his back for a quivering morning cat-stretch that doubled his paw-to-paw length. Curling in to tuck his nose under his tail, he went back to sleep. I wished I could. “Talk on the way?”
“Sure. And I got you that training match you didn’t say you wanted with the big guy. After the photo shoot. You know, just in case. Hope?”
Swinging my legs off the bed and standing, I did a vertical imitation of Gray’s stretch. “Yeah?”
“I’m glad you told Blackstone.”
* * *
The parentals were waiting in the kitchen when I came downstairs, Dad dressed for work, Mom dressed for a morning deadheading the roses that surrounded Corrigan Manor—her name for our old Oak Park Victorian whenever she got exasperated with how big a money-pit of a house Dad had talked her into moving the family into. That had been twenty years ago; she’d gone into labor with me in this house.
Being only one year shy of being able to legally drink meant that my parents didn’t wait up for me anymore. No, they just waited patiently for me in the morning after nights when I came home; thumping down the stairs in t-shirt and shorts—I’d be flying out later but I never wore the uniform at home—I gave them a smile that felt real because it was. Eggs, sausage, toast, fruit, orange juice and coffee, Mom’s start-the-day breakfast never changed and just the smells made my morning good.
I came home for the breakfasts, really.
Okay, that and to reassure my family that I was alive and well.
Dad looked me over before I got to the table, frowning at the white bandage wrapping my left calf. After a night to heal I’d had high-school sports injuries that felt worse and I didn’t really need the bandage, but the skin beneath it still presented an ugly mottled red and white.
He folded up his paper. “Good morning, daughter.”
“Good morning, father.” I slid into the chair beside him with a quick passing kiss. Mom took the cover off my eggs, nudging the toast plate towards me.
“And how are you feeling?” I hadn’t been limping, but he knew that didn’t mean anything since I could have walked across the kitchen carrying as much weight as the old floors could stand; I would never limp under my own negligible weight.
“Singed. A bit like Mom’s toast.” I snagged two slices and reached for the jam. I didn’t say anything stupid like I was never in any real danger. They wouldn’t buy it, and then they’d never believe me when I said it and actually meant it.
“I’m sure that you were careful,” Mom observed, scooping a knife full of strawberry jam and moving the jar where I could reach it.
“Shell would yell at me and then Lei Zi would rip my head off and ground me to the Dome for retraining if I wasn’t.”
Dad choked on his toast. “Shell would?”
“She says being a quantum-ghost means she has a decent chance of outliving the solar system, so she wants to make sure I do too—” Wincing on the last word, I crunched on my own toast and tried to pretend I hadn’t said it. “Anyway, it was the kind of fight Atlas liked. They never saw us coming, and we had them outnumbered three to one.”
Mom cooperated with my change of subject; it wasn’t like we could brainstorm a solution to my “problem” anyway. I’d had plenty of time to think about it since Doctor Beth had confirmed last month that, based on nearly two years of observation and measurement, I wasn’t aging anymore. Not a big surprise, stronger Atlas-Types just didn’t, but I was also the youngest known Atlas-Type and we’d been hoping that I would age—or at least continue to physically mature into fully developed adulthood before I stopped.
Nope. I hadn’t been doing much of that before my breakthrough, and I was doing zip now. If I didn’t die hard I was going to outlive almost everybody I knew, and I was devochka moya for life.
Just…yeah, no words.
“So, what are your plans today?” Mom asked.
“The usual after-action stuff. I get
to review and submit my action report. We did the team review yesterday, so we get our one-on-ones this morning. Quin wants to get some public relations pictures of us with Svyatogor before he goes back home. I get a sparring match with him before he goes.”
And then I slip away to California.
“Are you up to it, dear?”
“Sparring, yeah. Doctor Beth has to clear me for duty before I go back into the field, though. Even to just patrol.” I let them assume it was about the leg, or the hard hit they had to have seen last night, and the toast tasted way too dry in my mouth. Seeing them relax a little made me feel worse.
I’d thought this would get easier for them, and it didn’t look like it was ever going to. Swallowing, I smiled.
“So, what are you guys doing?”
* * *
Breakfast got better after those first awkward minutes. It always did. Dad owned his architectural practice and had no scheduled meetings, and Mom could deadhead the roses anytime, so we stayed in the kitchen until the last piece of bacon was eaten and I got them to laugh at my recounting of last night’s after-party.
Mom surprised me by handing over an engraved invitation to the Silver and Green Ball, Mrs. Lori’s annual charity ball and international art auction. She also passed on verbal instructions from the grande dame of Chicago society to show up as Hope Corrigan rather than Astra. Just in case I couldn’t read the name on the invite.
I loved Mrs. Lori, but I’d always had the completely unfounded fear that she would rap my knuckles or switch my hiney like an old fashioned parochial school nun (not that she’d ever threatened too—just because of the way she looked at errant young society girls). Now that I was infinitely stronger than her she made me a lot less nervous, but she remained convinced that I should train and fight crime less and do the charity-circuit more. Her argument was that there were “dozens” of Atlas-Types and only one Hope Corrigan Also-Known-As-Astra.
“Could you tell her I’ll try?”
Mom accepted that and I got away without further commitments. Trading kisses with the parentals, I headed back upstairs to “dress for work.”
“You will go to the ball, you know,” Shell giggled in my ear as I changed. “Blackstone’s afraid enough of Mrs. Lori that he won’t schedule anything conflicting for you.”
“Yeah, well maybe we’ll get lucky and aliens will invade.”
“They wouldn’t dare. The old dragon wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Be nice!” I swallowed my own laugh and clipped on my cape. Mrs. Lori was kind of a dragon, and not the cute kind like Kindrake’s flight of rainbow drakes.
Mmm. Kindrake and her friends at the ball… I shook the image out of my head; first, Mrs. Lori wouldn’t invite just any cape to her events—of the other Sentinels only Blackstone and Chakra usually rated one—and second, Kindrake was still in St. Louis finishing her CAI recertification.
The final fallout of our brawl with Powerteam three months back had been our exoneration and the reality-show team’s complete decertification. They were recertifying now, but Kindrake had left them to do hers elsewhere. Once she was done, we planned on thanking her for her assist in Littleton (which Never Happened) by bringing her back here for cross-training exercises while she applied for a place with the Hollywood Knights.
Weirdly, Powerteam’s viewer ratings had gone up, which was just wrong on so many levels. Somewhat selfishly, I wanted Kindrake to do well just to spite Powerteam, but Kindrake was nice once you got past her Artemis-wannabe attitude and I did think her whole goth-girl thing would make a good contrast to all the glamour heroes in LA.
“So besides our morning schedule, what else have we got?”
* * *
Since a medical benching meant no serious training, the answer to my question was “Next to nothing.” The daily briefing for the Sentinels and Young Sentinels took half an hour—a military-time half an hour, which meant exactly thirty minutes. My own one-on-one action review with Lei Zi took ten minutes. The Harlequin made sure the photographer got me holding Malleus in full view in the photo op; I couldn’t do anything about looking small, especially in any picture with Svyatogor in it, but at least I could look like a serious problem. Then I got to fight him.
Astra vs. Svyatogor was pretty much a wash. Facing off on our hardened training room, I dodged his thrown club and got the first point before it returned to him. He held onto the club and block-hit me hard for the second point, and I got in the third point after some fancy air dancing only because Svyatogor, giant A Class Ajax-Type that he was, couldn’t quite make himself go all-out on me.
Could I have taken him for real? I had no idea, but he knew he’d been touched hard. When he got back home he wouldn’t just be talking to his comrades about how cute I was. Anyway, the match took my mind off my impending trip until it was time to go.
Ozma called to let me know she’d meet me in the flight bay. With the expanded team and two Atlas-Types to provide fast lift, Blackstone had made an agreement with NASA for us to house a pair of their ground-to-orbit Atlas Lift pods. A GTOAL pod was basically a five-man carrier (the fifth being the Atlas “lifter”) with separate payload space. Stripped down, they were only meant for direct docking to other spaceships or stations and we kept them ready for emergencies. In return, we got to use them for in-atmosphere trips when we really needed speed—we could lift with them from the Dome in under two minutes.
She arrived in the bay with Nix on her shoulder and wearing her art-deco robes and silver wire coronet, Grendel following with her “luggage,” and I was surprised to see Riptide flanking him.
“Think she’s trying to impress someone?” Shell whispered in my ear. I kept the grin off my face (with Ozma’s robes, Grendel’s preppy vest and tie, and Riptide’s street-hood leather duster they made a colorful and mismatched sight), but I couldn’t resist bowing her majesty through the hatch at the rear of the pod. Her smile recognized my brief amusement and her nod played along, something I really needed.
“Buckle up,” was all I said, giving grumpy Grendel a pat on the arm as he squeezed inside behind her. When Shell told me they were ready, I flew to the top of the pod and buckled into my own external lift harness. Shell opened the bay doors, and I maneuvered the arrowhead-shaped pod up and out with the ease of hours of practice.
“Safe flight, Astra,” Blackstone said in my earbug as I cleared the doors—as formal as always, but knowing he’d been watching my departure helped.
“We’ll be back for dinner, sir. Unless the Hollywood Knights have a good table tonight.”
“See that you are.”
Chapter Four
Orb is one of the strangest breakthroughs I know. She’s blind and deaf from birth, and her floating silver sphere sees and hears for her. But she’s told me her “sight” spans the full electromagnetic spectrum, plus her sphere’s fine-grained pressure sensitivity lets her map three dimensionally with sound waves. Add to that her total control of the sphere’s location, motion, and topography—she can form it into a nearly indestructible shield, or a floating blade with a monomolecular edge that can cut me with little effort. So my question is, what kind of weird breakthrough produced that thing? And what does the world look like to her?
From the journal of Hope Corrigan
* * *
Lunette’s looked just as downscale and seedy in the daylight as it had the last time Shell and I had visited the superhuman nightclub. Papers blew across the empty walk outside its industrial-steel doors, and without darkness to cover them the squat building’s white stucco walls were gray and dingy.
The fenced-in and nearly empty parking lot gave me plenty of room for the pod and Orb met us at the doors, standing below the crescent moon that was Lunette’s sign. Her crisp white pantsuit was a perfect contrast to Ozma’s jade robes. Her golden hair, done up in its signature hard-set and eye masking conch shell doo, gave Ozma’s golden locks serious competition. As always, she looked too classy for the club she owned.
Wearing the Cape 5: Ronin Games Page 3
