Punching someone, that universal superhero activity? My punch could shatter bones, pulp internal organs, mess a man up something awful. (Imagine an Olympic weight lifter swinging a ten-pound sledge hammer. Yuck.) Putting serious effort behind it, I could hit like an anti-tank missile.
How tough was I? I laughed at civilian weapons, but the hypothetical tank he kept comparing me to could hurt me. A lot. Tough all the way through, unlike the tank I could heal ten times as fast as a normal person (and I wanted to know how he figured that one out).
As for flying, based on the flying pushes he made me do, Dr. Beth clocked me at a hypothetical 632 mph—though he cautioned that turbulence would make control difficult at that speed. So I could fly faster than commercial jets but not military jets.
He'd attached a note to the end of the file: speak to military recruiters. Apparently, being in the top ten percent of Atlas-types meant I could earn twenty times the salary of a soldier of the same grade. No wonder: I'd been weaponized.
And it was going to change everything.
I was so not looking forward to tonight's dinner conversation.
* * *
"No. That's not going to happen," Dad said. Mom didn't say anything, which meant she didn't agree with him, at least not yet. The after-dinner discussion wasn't going well.
I'd waited until the dessert course to break the news. Over the strawberry pudding cake I explained why a rental car sat in the driveway. Then I showed them the file and told them I'd decided to be a superhero. Or at least to try.
Atlas had been right that I didn't have to make a decision immediately, but he'd been wrong to think there was any real decision for me to make.
Dad didn't agree. I'd known he wouldn't.
"It just happened this morning. Have you really thought about it?" Mom asked.
"I haven't thought about anything else."
"And your education?"
"I think—"
Dad thumped the table. "Just one damned minute! We didn't raise you to be a costumed crimefighter!"
"I know, Dad. But can I ignore it?" My voice wanted to break, but I pushed ahead. "I can help people. Make a difference."
"You already make a difference!"
"But anybody can do what I do for Mom. There's Vicky and Susan and Joyce and..."
Mom took my hand.
"You know what your father means, dear. You're still eighteen. Don't you think the city already has enough superheroes?"
I nodded. My eyes stung, but I pushed it down. If I cried they'd treat me like a child.
"I don't want any of it. I wish this morning hadn't happened."
"Then why?" she asked gently.
"If I don't use this... I don't know. It's like winning a zillion dollars and not using it to help people? It just feels wrong."
She accepted that. Dad could see it too. "Damn it—"
"Language, dear." Her voice shook a little. "This is your fault too; we both raised her to take responsibility."
His big hands clenched on the tabletop and he looked like he wanted to tear his hair out. Then he deflated. Just like that.
"Hope..." He sighed and looked at Mom. "There's something we need to show you." Mom nodded and he left the table and went upstairs, leaving me to wonder what was going on. When he came back down, he'd put on sweats, and he stopped beside his chair instead of sitting down again.
Then he changed.
Holy mother of God.
In one long breath Dad went from being, well, Dad, to a human sculpture made of riveted iron plates, thickening and losing height as he changed. The wood panel floor creaked as he gained weight.
I screamed like a girl before clapping a hand over my mouth, and found myself out of my chair and in the air with my back to the wall, my head bumping the ceiling. I touched back down quick, but couldn't bring myself to take a step forward.
"Hope, it's me." He stated the obvious in a deep, almost crackling voice.
"You're Iron Jack," I squeaked.
He nodded. "Changed the day of the Event when a bus ran through the construction site, and spent most of the day playing the jaws of life." He flexed huge metal hands that looked like they could peel open cars as easily as I had this morning.
Iron Jack had been one of the first. He'd been there right along with Atlas, pulling people out of burning buildings or digging them out of the rubble down on the Loop. But cape-watchers didn't see him much after that, mostly for the occasional civil emergency like tornadoes, floods, and hurricanes. He fought in the awful mess of the China War, when I'd thought Dad had mobilized in his position as a National Guard army engineer.
I righted my chair with shaking hands, picking through and tossing all the truly stupid questions. I would be adult about this if it killed me. Only one question really mattered right now, anyway.
"Why didn't you become a real Sentinel?"
"Sweetheart, how many Sentinels have died?"
"Oh." Besides Minuteman, two others had been killed in action. Roland died in the China War, Impact after he left the team to fight for Israel.
Dad shrugged massively. "If I'd been single, if we hadn't had you children... maybe—probably—I would have done it." He made a fist. "I'm certainly good at what I do, which is lift really heavy stuff and punch hard and stand tough. Responsibilities." His fist opened, releasing... what? Another life?
Then I was around the table and in his arms. It felt like hugging a warm and breathing statue. He was a superhero, and he'd set it aside for us. Mom joined us in the hug, and I laughed. Like this, I was as tall as he was.
Dad changed back so that he could sit down, and we moved the discussion to the living room. I sat on the floor while Mom sat beside him on the couch, and I asked all about it, back at the beginning and later. I learned the children of breakthroughs were much more likely to have breakthroughs as well. They'd prepared themselves, but thought if it happened it would be one of my brothers—way more likely to get into trouble! They absolutely agreed with my intention to keep my identity secret, whatever kind of career path I intended to take. He and Mom obviously hoped I'd take the safer path, only be active for civil emergencies.
We talked into the night, till I found my eyes shutting of their own volition. I finally went up to bed, knowing that they would be up long after. Mom, at least—an Anne Marie named after two saints—would be saying the rosary and telling her holy namesakes just how things were going to be from here on out.
I didn't know they'd start making plans without me.
Chapter Five
A breakthrough is an unpredictable survival mechanism, and the degree of empowerment it provides varies widely. Sometimes it's just enough to deal with the situation, other times far beyond that. For example, accidental electrocution kills and injures hundreds if not thousands of people every year, so electrokinetic breakthroughs are relatively common. But a breakthrough could simply make you immune to electrical shock, or give you taser-like abilities. Or, as it did for Volt, it could give you the power to drain electrical systems, generate electromagnetic pulses, fly by electrostatic levitation, and throw ball lightning.
Barlow's Guide to Superhumans
* * *
As I ran through the atrium something cracked the Dome. Chunks of ceiling rained down as staff and tourists screamed, and a large piece landed directly on the reception desk where Tom stood yelling into his headset. The building shook and steel plates dropped into place over the elevator bay, but I kept looking. Yes! There she was, holding her mother's hand. I remembered I could fly, launched myself at them as the ceiling caved and the roof of the Dome came down. I screamed as Faith disappeared under tons of concrete.
And sat up, my heart thundering in my chest. Falling back, I pushed damp hair out of my eyes with shaking fingers as Graymalkin complained. A dream. Only a dream. I tried to remember if I'd really screamed, and couldn't.
Faith. She was who the munchkin reminded me of. The big sister I didn't remember, who died of aggressive systemic s
cleroderma when I was only three. I wasn't a naturally brave person; when I'd gotten sick my guiding thought had been Faith would be brave. I'd tried to save Faith, yesterday.
What am I doing?
I buried my head in my pillow. And sneezed.
Looking down, I found that sometime during my dream I'd murdered my innocent pillow. Goose feathers floated everywhere. As bits of down settled on Graymalkin he flicked his ears and stalked off in disgust. I started giggling and couldn't stop even when the down began sticking to my cheeks.
* * *
At breakfast I learned about my reprieve: Dad had called the Dome and gotten my appointment pushed back a day if I promised him I'd stay home. I agreed with relief and spent the day texting and going over lists for the gallery event with Susan, and just resting. Mom stayed home most of the day too—not crowding me, but making sure to be there if I wanted to talk. Boy did I ever, I just didn't know what to talk about. Well, It, obviously. I just didn't know how. Not knowing what to say about anything, I even put Julie off.
It rained off and on through the night as I lay awake listening, enough to keep the roads wet and give the fallen leaves some weight against the wind. Mom and Dad had cleared their schedules to accompany me back to the Dome, and after a silent breakfast we took the family van into town. Eisenhower was clear again; they'd already reopened the expressway and tracks and were installing a temporary overpass. I saw The Crew, out in their bright blue jumpsuits, lifting and floating steel frames into place. They'd be done by the end of the day.
Dad waved to the gate guard at the Wabash and Jackson parking garage and used a keycard to access the ramp to the lowest level.
Our reception shocked me. The Harlequin met us in the downstairs lobby, unmistakable with her slick latex-like skin and black and white harlequin costume. A contortionist and acrobat from Cirque de Soleil in Las Vegas, she'd experienced her transforming breakthrough in a stage accident in front of a few hundred spectators. An animated manikin, she moved like the dancer she'd been.
"Iron Jack," she said. "It's good to see you again. Mrs. Corrigan, Miss Corrigan." She shook our hands. "Please, call me Quin."
Ajax, aka Professor Charles Gibbons, stood beside her. He took up much more room. A big man with rich mahogany skin and elaborately cornrowed hair, he had one of the friendliest faces I'd ever seen, but his sunny expression didn't go with the black, sort-of-Greek armor he wore and the huge bell-shaped maul he carried. He gave me a smile as he shook hands all around, nodding to Dad. I returned the shake, awed.
A thickset man in a brown sport coat stood just behind them. Him at least I knew personally.
"Alex Chandler." he said, taking his turn. "Call me Al."
"We know who you are, Mr. Chandler," Mom said, smiling. "You're on our list."
He barked a laugh, acknowledging the point. Atlas' older brother, he'd used his marketing practice to mastermind the media campaign that launched Atlas and the Sentinels, and he'd helped sponsor more than a few Foundation events. As blond as his brother but with a touch of silver, he looked like a former high school linebacker who'd taken good care of himself.
He and Atlas shared the same dimple, but I couldn't say I liked him. It seemed to me that, under his charm, he was always sizing people up and deciding how useful they'd be to him. He'd always pretty much ignored me, but I could see him sizing me up now.
"Bob," Quin said, "we'll take the Assembly Room if that's all right."
Bob just nodded behind his desk, obviously not one for small talk, and they ushered us down the hall and into the room. We sat and Al dropped his briefcase on the conference table, briskly snapping the latches and removing a file to set between us.
I settled in between Mom and Dad (unfairly, they looked totally comfortable). Ankles crossed and hands folded, I tried to project confidence. I'd taken my cue from the parents and dressed for a Foundation business meeting, so I wore a gray business jacket and skirt with a white blouse under a darker vest. I'd applied minimal makeup, and wore my platinum blond bob styled back to bare my forehead. I felt ready for the room.
Then I nearly jumped out of my skin again, barely biting down on a shriek as a hand reached around my shoulder and deposited a white china cup and saucer at my elbow.
I clutched my chest to make sure my heart was still beating. The man attached to the hand was an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and a thin face punctuated by a mustache so trim it looked like his upper lip had eyebrows. He'd come in through another door; what was it about this room that let people creep up on me?
"Could you be any sneakier?" I gasped.
"I was a ninja barista in a former life, ma'am."
Dad laughed as the man finished arranging everyone's cups.
"Thank you Willis," Al said. "Astra, this is Willis, the Dome's major-domo. Willis, Astra and her parents."
"A pleasure, ma'am. Ma'am. Sir." He sounded impeccably British. "Should you need anything I am at your service."
He gave a polite nod and departed.
I tried the coffee to settle my nerves, consciously imitating Mom. It was delicious. Everyone else gave theirs the attention such creations were due, and Al cleared his throat.
"Now Astra," he started in. "First we'd like to thank you for taking Atlas up on his offer to arrange for training. There are several places available for training Atlas-type superhumans, including an excellent facility in Maryland run by the US Marshals Service, and they would be sensitive of your desire to protect your private identity. However, we have a more particular offer to make." He tapped the file meaningfully.
"Atlas would like to oversee your training himself—at least parts of it."
I gaped, stunned by the offer. Dad and Mom didn't say anything.
"His offer surprised me too. Your training wouldn't be restricted to the Dome. A lot of it would be fly-'n-try, stuff in the field under his supervision. Although you wouldn't be a card-carrying Sentinel you would be publicly associated with us from the beginning. In fact, Atlas has indicated a willingness to take you on as his sidekick."
Now I was beyond stunnage.
Breakthroughs happen at all ages, and young breakthroughs need training like anyone else. The comic books supplied the perfect solution: sidekicks. They could be paired with experienced mentors with at least their level of power. It's not a universal practice, but I know it's often that or "superschool." And despite appearances I was just too old for that.
"While John hasn't shared his reasons with me," Al went on, "I'm sure he sees it as solving, at least temporarily, one of our problems. Have you looked at the lineup of the team recently?"
I hadn't, although if it had changed recently I’d have heard. Besides Atlas, Ajax, and Blackstone, there was Chakra, Rush, Nimbus, and The Harlequin. Others had been added to and dropped from the team roster, but they'd been down two from their usual nine for a couple of years. I shook my head; I couldn't see where he was going.
Quin surprised me by laughing.
"What Al's trying to get at is right now the team doesn't have any amazons. Nimbus is really the most physically dangerous member of the team, but she's a specialist and when you consider the rest of us girls…" She shrugged. "Physically, we're not heavy-hitters. So the team has been taking some criticism for 'perpetuating female stereotypes,' and not 'welcoming strong female members.'"
"But— How does adding a pixie to the lineup help?"
She laughed again. "A pixie that can bench-press buses? You're young, cute as a button, and you can fight closer to Atlas' weight than any other Amazon in the city. And consider the popular perception of the team dynamic. Who's the leader of this team?"
"Atlas," I said immediately. "He was the first."
Ajax shook his head. "Seniority has nothing to do with it," he interjected. He had a wonderfully deep voice, like rough honey. A tenured professor, he taught the much-coveted Superhuman History survey course at U of C.
"He was the youngest of us when we founded the team, and right now
only Quin and Rush are younger. He's our field leader because he's mobile, fast-thinking, and unlikely to get taken out in a fight. He's also been the public face of the team since Touches Clouds left to go into politics."
Quin knocked on the oak table. "We certainly don't need a spare with Atlas around, but it's good to add depth to the bench. But we don't want to add another Atlas-type man—the two of them would be constantly compared in the press and pitted against each other in the tabloids. And media-wise you would appeal to a completely different demographic."
"But—" I could already see the publicity shots of Atlas and me. Matching costumes would be involved. I would look disgustingly cute.
Wearing the Cape Page 3
