Father Nolan likes to greet his flock at the doors before proceeding to his duties, and that morning he greeted us with a special thanks for the invitation to the gallery event.
"Indeed," he said, taking my hand with a twinkle in his eye, "I shall have to see if I can find a parishioner who will donate the beautiful Quan Yin to the church. I believe it would do good to draw the minds of our flock to the thought that piety and faith come in many forms."
I flushed. "Thank you Father, I would love to see her every Sunday." Then I took advantage of the moment. "May I see you after mass? I need your advice on a spiritual matter."
He glanced at my parents but his smile didn't falter.
"Of course, Hope. Although," he chuckled, "after my homily today I'm not sure you'll want to speak to me!"
The promised homily began with a humorous account of the evening at the gallery and his introduction to Quan Yin (for which he thanked me while I squirmed). As a few parishioners shifted in their own seats he praised the sculpture, which he called Mary of the Pagans, and went on to suggest that, as love is the primary attribute of God, so a statue of a foreign goddess of love and mercy is also an image of God. He ended with the observation that when anyone, Christian or otherwise, showed love they were also images of God.
It always takes awhile for the families of Oak Park to finish enjoying each other's company and leave, and I waited patiently as Dad got into a discussion with the renovation committee (since his hobby is restoring old architecture they won't leave him alone). I found Father Nolan as the crowd thinned, and he showed me to his office in the rectory.
Father Nolan's office is the opposite of the rest of the church; clean but not neat, crowded by wall-to-wall shelves of old books and filing boxes, an old office fridge, and older furniture around a battered desk. There aren't many pictures, mostly photographs of his parents and siblings and many nieces and nephews. Father Nolan considers his office merely a place to put him in proximity with paperwork.
"Did you enjoy the homily?" he asked, offering me milk and cookies (Double-Stuff Oreos, his private indulgence).
I accepted, laughing. "You realize that now Dad's going to buy it for St. Chris if it's not already sold, don't you? That is so cheating!"
"Arguably. Father Kreiski wants some new saint statues to go with the renovations. If Mother Church can adopt pagan spirits as Christian saints, patently I can do the same for a pagan image, especially one already honoring Christian faith."
"Patently," I agreed, smothering a giggle; Father Kreiski, a nice enough priest dedicated to the flock of St. Chris, was one of the most straight-laced old style priests I've ever met. But he'd met his match in Father Nolan; the little pastor of St. Chris had a whim of steel.
"And now what can I do to help you, Hope?"
I hesitated, then launched into a recitation of everything that had happened, leaving only the Anarchist out. It took a little while, and when I finished we sat in silence.
"I am sorry for your experience, Hope," he said at last. "I agree with your decisions, although I certainly see the irony of the situation. And I'm afraid I foresee a patch of parent-child conflict in your future. Have you decided yet, whether you're going to follow your father's example?"
I shook my head. "Only every five minutes. Part of me wants to hide in a hole. Just finish my training and go reserve like Dad. But is that the best use of my gift, Father?"
"I can't answer for you, only advise that you wait and pray until you are certain in your own heart. You do have time, after all. But that's not what is really troubling you, is it?"
"I—" my eyes stung. "I'm scared, Father, and I really don't know if I can do this. And you're right—Dad and Mom don't really want me to. But it's exciting too, and the things I can do are absolutely amazing. Just being able to fly…"
I told him about my night-flight, what Atlas had showed me, how incredible it was.
"And when I think of what I can do to help people, I'm glad. But how can I be?"
He steepled his fingers and regarded me solemnly.
"You're thinking about the munchkin, aren't you?"
I nodded with a sniff. "Her name was Kimberly Austin. People died, Father. How can I be happy about anything that comes from that?"
"That is a very good question." He offered me another cookie. I sniffed again and accepted.
Chewing thoughtfully, he finished his own and sat back.
"Before modern medicine," he said meditatively, "childbirth used to be very perilous and many mothers died bringing their children into the world. On tragic occasions they still do. In such circumstances are we to regret the birth of the child? Or should we be grateful for God's gift while mourning the loss of the mother? To be more specific to your own family's experience, your sister's death inspired your mother to start her foundation—a foundation that has collected many millions for research, aid, and education all over the world. Faith's story has helped your mother to bring attention to her causes, and thousands, tens of thousands of souls have been blessed by it. The work itself brings your mother great happiness."
He paused, inviting me to consider my family's history.
"Does being glad of the outcome mean being glad of Faith's death?" He flicked his fingers dismissively. "An absurdity, of course, but because we distrust ourselves we entertain such thoughts. Your family's tragedy inspired your mother to a course of action that blesses many people. I think that, circumstances being different, you would have done very well following in her footsteps.
"Patently God has called you to a different work, and I believe your first instincts are correct. Nor is it right for you to feel ashamed of enjoying your new gifts, though we should certainly mourn little Kimberly's death and pray for her family."
He fixed me with a stern look. "Do you believe she is in Heaven?"
I nodded without hesitation.
"Then trust that God knows what he is doing in this matter." He smiled with sad sincerity. "He has been making good come out of evil since the world began."
Chapter Twelve
Look, up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! No it's… Atlas? Red Robin? Armistice? Is the President in town?
Terry Reinhold, Citywatch
* * *
On Monday morning Atlas and I walked through the Dome's big doors and stepped off, lifting over the crowd with only a wave in passing. Nothing to see here, just another patrol. I tried to look cool as applause and a ripple of camera flashes followed us. Quite a few news photographers and cape-watchers had turned out in the early morning, crowding out the protestors, on the chance that Atlas' dawn patrol would also be the maiden flight of the new mystery-woman.
Rising together, we flew south along Lakeshore Avenue, the wind of our passage rippling our capes. Dispatch gave us our direction and time, and we cut west in a curve that took us through Chicago Midway International's airspace, waving at the planes coming in.
Atlas took us close enough to an Air West jet that we could see individual passengers through the windows. One little boy waved so hard his hand must have hurt. I waved back, then we swung around and flew north again.
Past the airport Dispatch maintained radio silence, and after a couple of circles and wide figure-eights over the city Atlas turned us back towards the lake. We touched down on top of the Sears Tower between the antennas. Below us there had to be a hundred and one small crimes and crises, but there were no major accidents, no big fires, no bank robberies in progress—at least nothing that got into the emergency channels to be handled at our level.
The honey light of the sunrise behind us painted the city with warm colors and long shadows. A brisk wind off Lake Michigan worked its magic to clear the air, leaving the sky a jewel-like, perfect blue unblemished by clouds. In the distance I could see a few other CAI fliers making their own patrols. I fiddled with the earbug clipped into my mask, still uncomfortable being plugged into a dispatch system and always having someone able to whisper in my ear.
There had
been no word from the fake Teatime Anarchist since his last threatening video-file. The White House made positive sounds, but I didn't expect anything to come of it anymore. How could they catch a time-traveler?
Giving up my fiddling, I sat on the ledge and dangled my feet over Whacker Drive. I could see the university from here, and beyond that the temporary Ashland overpass, its new, permanent framework already rising. Even at this distance, my super-duper vision let me make out details like the codenames of The Crew, stitched on the shoulders of their blue jumpsuits: Border, Irons, Brace, Gantry. I tried to read the others as they worked.
"Amazing, isn't it?" Atlas said.
I looked up.
"Can I ask a question?"
"Always."
"Why do we patrol?"
"What do you mean?"
I opened my arms wide to take in the city around us.
"Even with our enhanced vision, we're just too high up to catch anything happening ourselves unless we're really, really lucky. We rely on Dispatch to send us where we're needed, and being out here shaves, what, maybe a couple of minutes off our response time? If we're on the wrong side of the city when we get called in, it could even slow us down."
"You're right."
He studied me.
"Partly it's to remind the bad guys we're here, but mostly it's so the man on the street sees us. He needs to know we're here, too. Have you ever thought of the reason for the Sentinels? For that matter, why do we put on the capes? Kind of silly for grownups, don't you think?"
I opened my mouth, then hesitated. The answer seemed so self-evident that if he was asking it had to be wrong.
"It's not just to help people? And make buckets of money?"
His dimple appeared as he chuckled, but he shook his head.
"We could do all that without the fancy costumes and codenames. We get to help people, and once in awhile we fight supervillains, but that's not our purpose. Your mother's foundation puts on art shows, sponsors performances, produces all kinds of high-society shindigs. But that's not what it's for, is it?
He watched me while I thought about it. "And no, it's not about making us super-celebrities and making 'buckets of money.' Though," he conceded, still smiling, "that's certainly a perk. Our job is to be the best-known face for superhumans in the country."
I blinked. "You're saying we're not out to be famous, but we are."
"Nope, I'm saying fame is a means, not an end. You were how old, eight, nine when the change happened?"
He looked down, watching the traffic on Wabash. "You probably don't remember how scared folks were then, the feeling of panic, hysteria, around the whole thing. The blackout and disasters didn't matter, not compared to folks like you and me doing stuff right out of the comic books. Yup, folks were plenty scared."
We watched a police helicopter go by, following Wabash south. Atlas shrugged when Dispatch remained silent.
"And there I was, on camera in front of God and everybody, catching planes, pulling people out of burning buildings, even settlin' down a few wannabe-supervillains taking advantage of the ruckus. I stitched an 'A' on a racecar driver's jumpsuit that first week, hung a cape on it. Didn't matter that everyone and his dog already knew my name—I put on a mask and made sure they called me Atlas. Even though I looked damned silly."
"I— You're saying you put on the costume because people were scared but they knew that a flying man wearing a cape was a superhero. And they didn't have to be scared of that."
He shrugged.
"It sounds silly when you say it out loud, but slap a cape on a guy who can fly and suddenly he's familiar and even comforting, or at least a little less strange." He smiled, remembering. "We really camped it up. Grabbed some others right at the start, sewed up some more costumes, and founded the Sentinels in those first couple of weeks."
Now he looked down at me, serious. "Your father was all over it right beside us. Came within an ace of signing on with the team, but couldn't risk his family if it all went south. I respected that. But we made TV appearances with the mayor and governor, worked with the police and national guard, made damn sure everywhere people turned they saw us helping."
"So you gave us superheroes when we needed them."
He nodded.
"I won't go saying we single-handedly saved the country from going up in flames, but I reckon we did a lot to settle folks down. Good thing, too; some breakthroughs out there are pretty scary. One of those gets rambunctious, normal folk are as helpless as a gnat in a hailstorm."
I bit my lip, thinking about it. I'd been young enough to accept it all as natural, just part of the world. But even now, nearly a decade after the Event, some people didn't trust capes just because of what they were.
"Any kind of power is a threat to the powerless," Atlas said, echoing my thought. "Which most folk are in comparison. So we wear the capes and do the job. We build up a reserve of good will that's needed every time some super-powered nutjob does something that leaves bodies everywhere. We work damn hard to make folks understand that the bad ones aren't the majority, that we can keep them safe.
"And what can I say?" He grinned, dispelling the serious mood. "Being a public role-model and national celebrity pays better'n most jobs."
It made sense. It was also good public relations; Mom would certainly approve. But, looking up at him, I didn't think he really saw it that way. He saw my smile and looked away, stepping off into the air beside me.
"Time for the next lap."
Chapter Thirteen
Life would be so much better if it were like the series. But then I'd be taller too.
Astra, Notes from a Life
* * *
The world of TV and the movies is not the real world. I offer this ridiculously obvious truism only as a defense of my ignorance. Shelly and I got most of our information about superheroes from Hollywood and television, with the details filled in by Hero Beat and Power Week, both breathless fan mags. After Shelly died, my exposure mostly came from news items which could generally be summed up as Bad Things Happening. And bad things are always happening, somewhere. But even the entire Chicago area, with its nearly eight million souls, is only a small part of somewhere.
Add the fact that Chicago has the Sentinels plus seven other Crisis Aid and Intervention teams, and half a dozen superhuman agencies, like The Crew, filling various needs. The city has over a hundred card-carrying capes. Most of them are street-level or one-trick superheroes, but every CAI seems to have an Atlas or Ajax-type to help handle accidents, fires, and other civil emergencies. Which we do far more often than we fight supervillains. So in my first week of training and flying patrols with Atlas we averaged only one or two emergencies a day.
What kinds of emergencies?
On Monday we removed a downed powerline that blocked a major roadway, and I actually retrieved a cat from a tree. Dispatch only grabbed the call since it was my first day and a cute photo-op, but I framed the article. Wednesday we responded to an apartment fire, flying down and quickly searching through the smoke and flames for victims as fire trucks raced to the scene. Since it started upstairs during work hours and the alarms worked fine, we didn't find any. On Thursday Dispatch sent us to a bad freeway accident; we flew the paramedics in and flew the victims to the hospital, even moved the cars off the road. (Who knew there was a science to lifting cars? You don't just grab them by the bumper—you've got to tip them up and lift them by their frames.) Friday we weren't called up at all, though of course Bad Things happened that the other CAIs and normal emergency service providers handled.
On Wednesday the same week I accompanied Atlas to the ribbon-cutting for the Southside Power Station, the city's new nuclear power plant. American Power put on a show for the flagship station of their new line of thorium fueled clean-power plants, and Quin thought the addition of my cute sidekickiness to the event would be good PR for the team. It was actually kind of fun.
In all the first week passed quietly. But in week two we responde
d to two superhuman "incidents."
* * *
On Tuesday night we got called in on a domestic disturbance. Dispatch fed us his file as we flew, telling us all about Eric Ludlow, a B-class Ajax-type. An army reservist and veteran of the China War, he was a member of The Crew—codename Gantry. I remembered seeing him on my first flight last Monday.
Wearing the Cape Page 8
