Wearing the Cape

by Marion G. Harmon

  "Most superheroes don't have real secret identities. Think about it. Lots of breakthroughs happen publicly. Mine happened right on stage! And capes whose breakthroughs aren't public still have the problem of living a double life. So lots of heroes don't bother—they simply wear the mask when on duty so they won't be recognized getting coffee at Starbucks when they're off. And of course reporters and photographers know better than to try and bug us when we're going civilian."

  "But what about—"

  "A part-time hero like, say, Iron Jack?" She flipped her fingers. "Now there it's easier to remain a mystery-man, and some full-time heroes take on civilian cover identities too. Sort of like the Federal Witness Protection program. Change of hair color and style, a new name and social security number... Then of course there are superhumans like me who are permanently transformed. For us secret identities of any kind just aren't an option."

  I went over the team roster in my mind. She was right; of all the team's founders only Minuteman had maintained a real secret identity. All the current Sentinels had only private identities—such as they were since, with the exceptions of Blackstone and Ajax, none of them had careers outside the team. The university didn't mind if Ajax occasionally missed a lecture, and Blackstone only performed his magic act two nights a week from the theater he owned.

  "So why is that feeding the media frenzy?"

  "It's the whole mystery-woman thing. You're young, photogenic, very strong and tough, being mentored by a Big Name, and a complete unknown. It makes you an irresistible puzzle to cape-watchers everywhere. They can make what they want of you—and believe me, the fanfiction sites are already madly spinning stories about your childhood, origin, and relationship to Atlas. FYI, don't read those unless you use an adult-content filter. And the better you do your job the worse the attention's going to get."

  I tried not to feel panicked; this was so not incentive. "What should I do?"

  She pushed her chair back and spun it around with a foot.

  "The first thing is to get you more media coverage," she said, laughing when I groaned.

  "I've already set up an interview and photo session with Powerbeat, and that's a good start. We also need to get you to more public events. The more you do publicly in costume the less interested they'll be in your out-of-costume life. I know it sounds strange, but that's how it works. We also need to get you into our entertainment lines—the TV show and comics—as quick as we can, with a fictional secret identity for viewers to identify with. Sure they'll know it's fiction, but the fans will identify with the character anyway, and even the actress. The more they see the character, the less interested they'll be in the real you."

  She stopped spinning and looked serious.

  "But you'll always have to be careful of identity-stalkers—all it takes is one obsessed fan who just has to know, or someone who wants serious leverage, to blow up your secret if you're careless. If someone finds out who you are and wants to out you they don't even need to get a major news agency to publish it—all they have to do is post it on the net and it'll go viral in minutes."

  My breath caught at the thought that a single mistake could destroy my safe anonymity. Quin read my face and smiled reassuringly.

  "Don't worry, just be careful. Keep the mask on everywhere, even downstairs. Don't talk to people you know or go places you go as Hope when you're Astra. Basic stuff. And like I said, the more public exposure you get the less you'll have to worry about private exposure. And there I have a brilliant idea."

  Chapter Eighteen

  In a 5-4 decision today, the US Supreme Court ruled in favor of General Arrest Warrants, the hugely controversial warrants that may be issued on especially dangerous superhumans with the inclusion of a dead or alive provision. Commonly called Death Warrants, they are posted publicly and may be exercised by any citizen, and are opposed by the ACLU on the grounds that they violate a suspect's right to a fair trial. The controlling language of the majority opinion, however, rests on the argument that the constitutional guarantee of a trial depends upon a successful arrest—something either impossible or suicidal to attempt in the case of many superhumans.

  Tom Atkins, The Wall Street Journal

  * * *

  I did not like Quin's idea at all, but both Al and Atlas did, so I did what I always do with evils I can't avoid; I forgot about it. September passed into October, and I tried not to think about missing the first weeks of college. I got all my courses transferred to online work without much trouble, even taking Ajax' introductory course, Superhuman Studies (how awesome to have him available to discuss his lectures personally). And I had plenty else to distract me.

  Dad wasn't speaking to Atlas, or Ajax or anybody else in the Dome for that matter. We'd talked, but we weren't talking. He wanted his princess safe and throwing me into supervillain battles, even with backup, hadn't been part of The Plan. He'd used to drop by the Dome a couple of times a week to spar with Ajax, but that was over now and only Mom came to lunch or dinner. I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt responsible for the rift.

  Both Atlas and Ajax continued my fight training, even ramping it up (since Atlas had originally discouraged me from becoming any kind of cape, I wondered why), and Dr. Beth worked up an exercise and toughening regimen he said would make me even stronger over time. Apparently he'd decided I was what he called a "progressive breakthrough." It wasn't fun, and I was back to calling him Dr. Death in my head.

  In every session Ajax showed me my limits—how hard a hit I could take and still hit back. I knew how to play rough, but sparring with Ajax felt like daily beatings at a fight club. One session started with me trying a repeat of my surprise move from the first day. Ajax simply stepped aside and hammered me into the floor with his maul as I came in, and it got worse from there; I could break off the fight, but the point was to subdue him like I had Brick. After ten minutes of mounting frustration and repeated thumpings (twice he grappled and pinned me), he called an end.

  "You're improving," he said kindly.

  "Uhuh." I dropped to the floor and lay back, gasping and rubbing my side. "Why do you wear armor, anyway? It's not like you need it."

  He chuckled, sounding like an amused bear, and sat beside me.

  "Part of it is to give me more mass, since I can't brace myself against an impact the way you and Atlas can. Even so, remember how easily you pushed me into the wall the first time."

  "And the other part?"

  "The visor protects me from blinding attacks, and the suit and helmet seals against gas and helps against sonic attacks. I've got a tactical HUD projector on the visor and shielded data links. And the armor gives me another layer of protection—since it's stiffer than my skin it absorbs blunt impacts better. It's the same philosophy as the maul; my strength in a fight is my ability to take damage and give it back, so anything that improves my ability to do one without compromising the other is a good thing."

  "Okay, so why don't you just carry a really big gun?"

  "Because superheroes don't. Old fashioned weapons, like swords, warhammers, maces, those are traditional. Guns are for soldiers and the police. And bad guys."

  That made sense. "So what do you do against an opponent with a ranged attack?"

  "Let somebody else handle it. In a pinch I can throw this maul pretty far. You're thinking about Cryo, aren't you?"

  "Yes," I whispered, looking at the ceiling. I still dreamed about the fight.

  He shrugged. "In the comics superheroes rely only on their powers. But look at me, or Rush. He wears a helmet and his racing suit is anti-ballistic weave; he can't dodge everything."

  Now he put on a grand voice, thumping his chest. "We who fight as the heroes of old, body to body, blow for blow, we... lay our hands on the weapons we need," he finished in a wry tone and another deep chuckle. "Do you understand?"

  I thought about it. "I think so."

  "Good. One last thing; when I pinned you, why didn't you just fly me into the wall or ceiling? It's not like I weigh th
at much."

  "Oh." I wrapped my arms around my head and just laughed.

  A week later Ajax gave me a special belt buckle made of two separate disks. The front disk with the emblem on it connected to the back disk only by a sliding catch, and when I pushed sideways firmly, the two pieces snapped apart and I found myself holding a well-balanced titanium disk bigger and thicker than a silver dollar. He taught me how to throw it, and after that I practiced with my little holdout weapon every day at the indoor range. The dreams of helplessness and aching cold laughter gradually went away.

  * * *

  My flight lessons with Atlas were interesting in an entirely different way.

  "No. Not happening," I said.

  "Yes, it is."

  We were out at the CAI practice range on a wet Wednesday morning. I glared at the huge concrete block downfield of us. He had just proposed that I point myself at it like a diver, make a pair of fists, and fly through it. I half-wondered if he wasn't trying to get me to reconsider my career path again.

  "Get up here." He held his hand out at chest height, palm down.

  I raised myself up to hover beneath his palm, feeling like a kid learning to float in the correct position.

  Taking my waist, he turned me so I faced the ground. He ran his hands up my arms, pulling them to a straight point ahead of me, raised my chin so I peered at the target over my fists, and pushed down on my back to get the curve right.

  "Point your toes," he instructed.

  I started giggling uncontrollably.

  "This is serious business," he said, but I heard laughter in his voice and lost it completely.

  "Do I look as silly as I feel?" I gasped when I could finally talk again.

  "Yup, and now you're all catty whompus. Point your toes."

  He corrected my posture, which had gone all over the place.

  "It's all about form and penetration," he explained, pushing against my fists with his free hand. "Your fists are the smallest striking surface you can get your momentum behind, and the position helps protect your head and neck when you're fixin' to hit something. We're tough, but ramming things with them is still not the best use of our heads."

  He pushed against the small of my back to make me deepen the curve.

  "You've got the basic instinct down. When you surprised Ajax in his demonstration and when you took Brick and Cryo you used your mobility aggressively. But now we've got to teach you how hard you can safely hit and how to hit. So. Stay in form. Fire yourself at the target. You can do it." He slapped my butt like I was a stubborn horse he was trying to move.

  I gave him a look and then turned back to stare at the target over my fists. Thankfully, the early morning hour meant we had the range to ourselves.

  I took a deep breath and aimed beyond the target, and launched myself. If I'd been a car I'd have left burning rubber for a hundred feet, and the concrete block leaped at me. I acknowledged the gee-forces but focused on holding my form, tucking my head down at the last moment.

  Boom.

  Tumbling gracelessly, I plowed into the muddy ground beyond the block.

  Atlas landed beside me as I flipped mud out of my hair. I ached from my fists to my shoulders, and my head rang.

  "And what have we learned?"

  I looked up at him disgustedly, noticing he kept his boots inches above the mud.

  "Don't do that?"

  "Yup," he said. "In the movies you see folks like us plow into bunkers, fly straight into the ground, generally use their bodies like they were missiles."

  "Isn't that the point?"

  "Yes, but you don't reuse missiles."

  Oh. Right.

  "Now look at the block." He pointed to where it lay, mostly intact but several yards from where it had stood.

  "If it had been wider and thinner your hit would have blown through, breaking it and minimizing the impact to you. Thickness is armor. Mass is armor. Inertia is armor. If you hit something hard enough and don't break or move it, it'll probably break you. Simple physics: you hit, you take a hit. If that block had been anchored it would have broken you."

  "You do it. I've seen news clips."

  "Yup, and I only pick targets that are more fragile than I am or aren't too heavy to knock aside like you did. Don't be going through a wall if you can go through a window or door. And you're going to learn all about modern construction and how to recognize different types of materials—the difference between the hollow concrete block wall you threw Brick through and solid granite walls you don't want to try directly. Sometimes you've got to hit something you're not sure of; you'll learn how hard you can safely hit in those cases. We're tough, but we're not really invulnerable. Now let's try a different target."

  He reached down to give me a hand up. I hesitated, then succumbed to temptation.

  "Let's try this first," I said. Grabbing his hand I flipped him into the mud. Totally caught off guard, he splashed wonderfully. I laughed at the appalled look on his face, but he came back up with a fist full of mud-pie.

  It took awhile for us to get to the other targets, and we had to hose down first.

  The fun and messy training session banished most of the awkwardness I'd been feeling since the apology. Though I still felt weird being mentored by the hero I used to squee over, and now wasn't at all sure of, I was able to focus more on my studies. In addition to coursework and the procedure manuals Ajax gave me, I also studied everything Blackstone had on the Teatime Anarchist. Now that I knew what to look for, I could easily separate the styles of TA and his copycatting nemesis (who I'd started calling the Dark Anarchist or DA).

  What I couldn't wrap my head around was TA's claim that, somehow, I stood in the way of his nemesis' plans. I kept looking, hoping to see what direction DA was pushing, to see how I was supposed to get in his way. But there wasn't enough information.

  For want of a nail a horseshoe was lost. For want of a horseshoe the horse was lost. For want of the horse the rider was lost. For want of the rider the battle was lost. For want of the battle the kingdom was lost, and all for the want of a horseshoe nail!

  What if you knew you were the nail? Or at least a nail?

  All of this kept me busy until the day I'd been dreading arrived: the opening day of Metrocon and Quin's PR plan for me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kinetics make up one of the largest superhuman categories, with many sub-categories. Each kinetic type controls, shapes, or even creates a single substance or force. There are, for example, the elemental kinetics: aerokinetics, hydrokinetics, pyrokinetics, and terrakinetics, who can manipulate air, water, fire, and earth. Electrokinetics are more common, cryokinetics less so. Telekinetics can move anything with their mind they could otherwise manipulate manually.

  Barlow's Guide to Superhumans

  If you ever meet a fat man in a Japanese magical princess costume, just keep walking. Trust me on this one.

  Astra, Notes from a Life

  * * *

  I'd ignored Metrocon for three years, and it had only gotten bigger.

  Metrocon started life as the National CAI Conference, the biggest annual CAI training and expo event in the country. Teams and selected members of teams come from around the world, and with all those capes around, the super-fans started to show up as well. Although the NCAIC occasionally debates taking itself elsewhere, it never will; the income from the convention more than pays for the conference.

  It's always held at the Chicago Sports Center (originally built to attract the Olympic Games) and it's a huge deal: three days of seminars and training and a closed expo, then three days of competition and Metrocon. And of course the Sentinels host the party. This year Atlas and Blackstone were supposed to do the honors, but Al and Quin decided on a change of plans. Looking down at the colorful crowd that thronged Main Street, I wondered how I could thank them.

  Filling the Dome with jelly beans sounded attractive. Perhaps TA would help.

  Main Street seemed smaller than I'd remembered. Looki
ng like the movie set for a mid-20th century urban street, it connected the conference center to the sports center. Atlas and I arrived through the arcade's skyway, greeted by huge cheers from the colorful crowd. He waved as we dropped to the balcony at the conference hall end, and I tried to imitate his casual poise. The balcony doors led to the convention's VIP lounge and a big guy who pulled Atlas into a back-thumping man hug.

  "Hank!" Atlas stood back, keeping a grip on the man's huge biceps (not built into his suit) as I tried not to stare. "Quin told me the Hollywood Knights were one of the training teams this year. Turning actors into real heroes now?"