The Ultra Fabulous Glitter Squadron Saves the World Again

by A. C. Wise

  “I’m kidding,” she says. “We’ve been keeping an eye on Forsythe ever since the necklace disappeared from a shipment of artifacts bound for the St. Everild University Museum.”

  “Why didn’t the scarab attack him?”

  “Maybe it needed a woman’s touch?” Her tone is light, but Ruby can’t help shivering, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving exhaustion and fear in its place. She starts when the woman puts a hand on her shoulder.

  “That was quite the move with the lighting rig. You’re awfully strong.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Ruby tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work. The hollow laugh threatens her again.

  “Will she be okay?” Ruby asks as Penny and the woman in green help Sapphire off the stage.

  “She looks strong, too. I’m sure she’ll be fine.” One corner of the woman’s mouth lifts in a wry smile, her eyebrow arching again. “So, Ms. Jewel-Thief, what exactly was your plan?”

  “I don’t know. I was going to run away and join the circus, and then everything went wrong.” It sounds ridiculous out loud, but Ruby no longer feels like laughing. She’s tired, empty, and she wants to go home. But there’s nothing to go home to. She has the house, the physical structure, but without a job she can’t pay the electricity bill and keep the water running. She could go back to Mr. Salmetti, beg, but the very thought puts bile in her throat. Everything her grandparents tried to give her, all ruined. Ruby shakes her head, wiping at her nose and mouth with the back of her hand.

  “I don’t have a job anymore, and because of me, Sapphire’s lost hers and…”

  “Shh.” The woman squeezes Ruby’s shoulder. “I think we can help you out in that department, if you’re interested. My name’s Bunny. What’s yours?”

  “Ruby.”

  “Ruby.” Bunny smiles, and the same warmth surges through Ruby as when Sapphire first called them twin gems, tingling all the way through her body.

  The way Bunny looks at her, a hint of mischief in her eyes, sets Ruby’s pulse racing. She’s seen what these women can do; she can only imagine what kind of job offer they have in mind. No more Mr. Salmetti, no more having to deal with anyone like him ever again. The way Bunny looks at her tells Ruby something else, too—for the first time since her grandparents, she’s found someone, several someones, who look at her and see more than her body.

  “Perfect,” says Bunny, her smile deepening. “You’ll fit right in.”

  Separate the flesh of the passionfruit from the seeds and muddle in the bottom of a highball glass. Combine remaining ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake well and strain over muddled passionfruit.

  The Ruby Crush was a false start. This drink is much more Ruby, even though the name may sound like a joke. My Ruby is almost as innocent as Starlight when it comes to sex. No, wait, I take that back. Starlight is innocent and shy. Ruby isn’t innocent, or shy. It’s love that she’s missing out on, and until you’ve been touched by someone you truly love, well, you might as well never have been touched at all.

  I wonder where that leaves me? If you reach for someone, to touch them, and they don’t reach back?

  But I’m getting off track. The truth is, I think Ruby intimidates people. No one expects her be as strong as she is, and I’m not just talking about the way she can lift things. The other thing is, people can be fucking shallow. Bodies are just bodies. They need to get the fuck over it.

  Anyway, passion—that’s what Ruby is all about. She can be every bit as fierce as Bunny when she wants to, and she barely even realizes it. One day she’ll find someone as passionate as she is and together, they’ll set the world on fire. But god help them if they ever hurt her. They’ll have to answer to me.

  PENNY CROSSES HER ARMS AND GLARES AT THE YOUNG AIDE BLOCKING the steps to the plane. He shifts his weight, glancing at the tablet in his hand as if the key to dealing with her might be written there.

  “Ma’am, I really don’t think…” His voice breaks, as Penny steps closer. In her chunky copper heels, she’s a good inch taller than him.

  “Just how the hell do you think I’m going to protect the president without my gun?” She pats the M9 Beretta, Stella, holstered at her side.

  “The only weapons allowed on Air Force One are carried by the Secret Service. Ma’am.”

  Penny has to hand it to the kid—he isn’t backing down. Even if he looks like an overwhelmed toddler, about to cry. She’s tempted to show him just what she can do without Stella, but forces herself to take a deep breath. She mashes peach-flavored gum between her molars extra hard, counting to ten before leaning back to give the poor aide some space.

  “Look.” She racks her memory for his name. “Jonathan. I know you’re just doing your job, but Mindy… President Kelly requested me specially, and if this gun doesn’t get on the plane, neither do I.”

  “I’m sorry, but…”

  “Oh, give her a break, Jonathan.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” As the president breezes between them, Jonathan snaps to attention so fast Penny is amazed his spine doesn’t crack.

  “It’s his first month on the job.” Mindy, impeccable in her perfectly tailored navy blue suit, turns to Penny with a wry smile, taking in the knee-high boots and copper minidress. “And you’ve gotten taller since I last saw you.”

  Penny resists the urge to tug down her hem. Mindy’s seen her drink a room full of Sigma Phi boys under the table without flinching, and was there to hold her hair back the next morning; she’s seen Penny covered in mud after beating out seven other cadets during the Exhibition Challenge on the obstacle course at Ft. Bragg, and she didn’t hesitate a moment before throwing her arms around her in a huge hug. But her oldest friend has never seen Penny looking like this before. And her oldest friend just happens to be the leader of the free world now.

  Penny squares her shoulders, daring Mindy to comment further. President or not, she can’t help doing it with a smirk. Mindy returns the expression a moment later.

  “It suits you,” she says, before turning and climbing the stairs to Air Force One.

  As silly as she might feel, the dress brought Penny luck when the Glitter Squadron fought the Lizard Men, and she’s worn it ever since. The same goes for her hair, teased high enough that she feels the need to duck as she follows the president onto Air Force One.

  “Posh,” Penny says, taking in the surroundings.

  “Sit anywhere you like. Can I get you a drink?”

  Penny almost says yes, then shakes her head. “Not while I’m on the job. Speaking of—the kid’s got a point. Wouldn’t the Secret Service be better off handling this? Not that I’m not flattered.”

  “I trust you. The Department of Homeland Security pays them. There’s a difference.” The president gestures at the men in black suits standing unobtrusively at either end of the cabin. “Even senators on the other side of the aisle have heard of your team’s reputation. There’s no one I’d rather have watching my back.”

  “What exactly am I watching your back against?”

  It’s almost imperceptible, but Mindy flinches. If Penny didn’t know her so well, she wouldn’t have seen it at all.

  “Mindy.” Penny puts warning into her voice. “Tell me.”

  The president opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Jonathan interrupts. “We’re almost ready to leave, Madame President.”

  The moment is gone. Mindy smiles, and Penny recognizes the poker face that made her bane of the campus back in their college days.

  “I’ll leave you two to get settled. I have some work to do.”

  Mindy moves toward the front of the plane and her private office. The two Secret Service goons take their seats. Another man enters and introduces himself as the pilot, and then comes the service crew. Only Penny is left standing until Jonathan stops short of touching her arm and points instead.

  “How about over there?”

  To her annoyance, Jonathan takes the seat across from her. She swaps the current wad of peach gum
for a fresh stick, and stares deliberately out the window. After a moment, the engine thrums to life. Penny’s stomach does a little flip. It isn’t fear, but she clamps down on the armrests just the same.

  The plane’s lift thrusts her back in her seat. There’s a sensation of weightlessness, the thrill of leaving the ground.

  Aching blue surrounds them, and it opens up a space in Penny’s heart. She should be the one in the cockpit, flying Mindy’s plane. She should also be a retired Air Force veteran. A decorated one, with a combat readiness medal and a gallant unit citation. But for that, the Air Force would have had to let her fly.

  Penny resists the urge to put a hand to her sternum and press at the emptiness behind it. Instead of all those shoulds, Penny has a fucking denied stamped in red across her pilot license application. Good enough for the grunts, but not the elites. Good enough to get shot at, but not shot down, tumbling like Icarus from the sky.

  Clouds skim over the wings as the plane rises. It shouldn’t still hurt, all these years later, but it does. It leaves Penny breathless. This is where she belongs. The quality of light up here is different; it tastes of peaches and honey, and…

  “I know we got off on the wrong foot.” Jonathan’s voice is soft, but Penny whips around to glare at him as he breaks into her thoughts.

  Her expression cows him, so he has to swallow and find the words he just lost. “I actually admire the Glitter Squadron. I’m kind of a fan.”

  Penny manages to keep from rolling her eyes; he’s young.

  “May I ask…. What’s Bunny like?”

  “Seriously?” The word explodes from Penny.

  Jonathan flinches, and she regrets her tone. At the same time, there’s the itch at the back of her mind, the voice she can’t quite shut up, no matter how much she wants to: Bunny, always Bunny.

  Jonathan rises, cheeks flushed, and moves to another seat.

  Penny looks at her hands. They’re shaking. Remember to breathe. She does, and forces herself to examine her anger despite the fact that she thinks Dr. Popov’s “techniques” are nothing more than pop-psychology bullshit. She tries the visualization exercise, picturing her anger as a diamond-hard core, buried under her breast bone. It pulses occasionally, setting off flashes that contribute to the trembling of her hands.

  And just like that, the world turns night-vision green. Gunfire rattles in the darkness, accompanied by bursts of light. Penny’s body wants to rock back and forth. It wants to scream. It wants to curl up tight. It wants to set everything on fire.

  She stands, not bothering to check whether they’ve reached safe cruising altitude. No one stops her. Before she realizes it, she’s crossed the length of the plane, mounted the steps, and is simultaneously knocking and sliding open the president’s private door.

  Mindy is halfway to rising, reaching for her desk drawer, but she stops, seeing Penny. Still, tension remains, even when Mindy resumes her seat. Penny glances at the desk drawer. Is Mindy keeping a weapon in there?

  “Sorry.” Penny closes the door behind her and tries a smile. “Can I get that drink after all?”

  Mindy rolls her shoulders, a forcible attempt to relax, and pours Penny a healthy measure of Glenmorangie. A matching glass, ice melting, sits at the president’s elbow.

  “You okay?” Mindy asks.

  No. Penny nods. Mindy knows her well enough not believe her, but she knows enough not to push either. She pats the chair next to hers, and Penny sits.

  “You asked what was going on.” Mindy refills her own glass, not meeting Penny’s eyes. “I may have told a tiny white lie about the mission being to protect me.”

  Penny tenses, but says nothing as Mindy open the middle drawer of her desk and pulls out something that looks like a blade. It gleams in the light. Penny looks closer. Not a blade, a feather.

  “Careful,” Mindy says, even as Penny touches the razor edge. Blood wells on her finger and she sucks in a breath before putting her finger in her mouth.

  “What the hell?” The next sip of her drink tastes like earth and smoke and iron.

  Mindy leans back, tired lines etched around her eyes. “Do you remember the attack on the Pentagon last year? The explosion that sent half the building up in flames? Killed over a hundred people.”

  “No.”

  Mindy twirls her glass, watching legs of amber liquid run down its side. “That’s because it never happened. A group calling themselves the True American Nation—we used phone taps, surveillance, all the usual tricks. We knew about them, but we couldn’t root them out. Might as well have been goddamned ghosts.”

  Mindy picks up the feather, turning it to catch the light. There are shadows in her eyes that weren’t there even a year ago.

  “Has Bunny ever told you about the Area 51 Project?”

  Penny starts, and amusement tugs briefly at the corner of Mindy’s mouth at the reaction before weight settles around her shoulders again. She rolls her neck, and the bones pop.

  “The short version is, there are numerous supernatural beings on the government payroll.”

  Mindy pulls a laminated ID card from the pocket of her blazer. Tilting it into the light reveals a ghosted hologram of a classic, cartoonish alien head—bulbous skull, pointy chin, over-sized eyes.

  “You’re shitting me,” Penny says.

  “I wish I was.” Mindy’s voice almost cracks, surprising Penny.

  Her friend’s hand trembles, and it takes two tries for Mindy to slip the card back into her pocket.

  “I fucked up, Penny.” Her voice is barely audible. “Big time.”

  “Mindy, what—”

  But Mindy shakes her head. After a moment, she takes a shuddering breath, and her voice is clearer, steadier, when she speaks again.

  “We managed to capture an individual suspected of being in the True American Nation’s inner circle. We didn’t have any hard proof. It was a gamble.

  “This is a harpy feather.” Mindy’s fingers hover over the coppery surface without touching it. When she looks up, the rawness of her expression startles Penny, but this time the president holds eye contact. Mindy downs the rest of her glass, and shakes herself as if to physically shed the weight of her words. When she sets her glass down, her face is impassive, and she sits straighter.

  “The harpies got the information we needed. We sent in a strike team, clean and quick.”

  Penny reaches for her friend, but before she can touch her, Mindy draws her hand back.

  “Don’t. Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.” Mindy’s voice is hard, but there’s sorrow in her eyes. “I haven’t gotten to the worst of it yet.

  “To say the harpies work for the government is to put it in generous terms. We keep them locked away in a secure facility in Area 51. They do not get to see daylight. They never see the sky. They’re winged creatures and we daren’t let them fly.”

  Penny understands that fire, white and hot, in Mindy’s throat.

  “Why?”

  The single word sounds so cruel.

  Mindy offers Penny a cracked, humorless smile. “They don’t exactly blend in. If the public knew the government kept trained…mythological torturers at its beck and call, and was willing to use them against its own people…”

  There’s something else, something in Mindy’s expression that makes Penny feel as if the floor of the plane is about to drop out beneath them.

  Mindy slides a photograph from under the papers scattered on her desk and turns it so Penny can see. The image is blurred, the resolution poor. She can just make out a young boy, arms bound behind his back, mouth gaped in fear.

  “This arrived yesterday.” Mindy places a second photograph beside the first, a school portrait. The boy’s mop of brown hair, his freckled face, his gap-toothed grin, are hauntingly familiar. “They have my nephew. Joshua. He just started kindergarten.”

  She’s never met the boy, but Penny still has the baby pictures Mindy sent when Joshua was born saved on her computer. Weariness replaces the rage in Mi
ndy’s features, soaking all the way through her bones.

  “There was another enclave of harpies. I don’t know where they came from, or why they waited until now, but they want their sisters back. If I don’t give them what they want, they’ll kill Joshua.”

  Mindy takes a final object from an open desk drawer—a second feather—and sets it beside the first. This one is battered, torn. Or chipped might be a better word. Penny still can’t tell whether the feathers are organic or metal. Either way, this one is tipped with dried blood.

  The president’s expression is stark, her voice flat. “I know where they’re holding him.”

  Penny stares at the president, Mindy, her friend. But there’s nothing to say. The weariness in Mindy’s eyes is a thin veneer over the horror buried deep at their core. Penny glances at the battered harpy feather again. Mindy authorized torture, and possibly used it herself. Who tortures the torturers? Penny doesn’t ask the question aloud. She doesn’t want, or need the answer.

  Whether Mindy held the knife or gave the order, the result is the same. A fault line runs through her now, and only force of will holds her together. Penny recognizes it; the same rough edges run under her skin, matching wounds that will never heal.

  Penny takes a deep breath. Part of her wants to capture this moment, Mindy’s expression—the hardness, and the pain, owning every decision she’s made, every ounce of what she’s done.

  She wants to broadcast that image to the world as a fuck-you to the pundits who will call Mindy emotional and irrational, accuse her of leading with her heart instead of her head. Because she knows Mindy will be judged differently from other presidents. Her actions will be scrutinized and dissected under a different lens.

  And the other part of Penny—here and now, thousands of feet in the air—doesn’t give a fuck about any of that. Mindy isn’t the leader of the free world. She’s Penny’s friend, blood sister, twin of scrapes and bruises and a thousand childhood adventures; brave defenders of their neighborhood, treehouse architects, junkyard warriors, and wild shining knights on sixteen-speed horses.