Wearing the Cape

by Marion G. Harmon

  We stood around the Assembly Room table, Artemis looking very stiff in the present company. I wasn't the only one who invited a guest to the party; Rush had brought Euphoria with him (and where had they been?). She looked much more confident in her place at the table.

  Chakra informed us that, in deep tantric meditation, she'd gotten a flash of the hugely bad karmic event about to land on us. She'd fallen off her partner—her words, and I so didn't want to know—hit the general alarm, and gotten Blackstone in the loop before she'd even dressed.

  Atlas stepped in when she finished.

  "So here's what we know," he said. "Our take-down of the Brotherhood and Sanguinary Boys hasn't set too well with some folks. At least five of them missed the dance, being away on jobs or in jail, and since then they've gotten together. They also have more minions than we knew about." (Yes, minions. I'd had no idea how cult-like hardcore supervillain culture had become. The Bees and I were going to talk.)

  "Some of them are bending the ear of the press, and they've bought some pretty slick shysters who're trying to claim that the deaths were due to excessive violence on our part. That's the background."

  He tapped an e-pad and an overhead display of the Harris Theater popped up.

  "Chakra foresaw a riot starting at the Freakzone concert, and our best guess is the leftover Brothers, Boys, and all their little friends have decided to go rampaging. It's going to spill out of the Harris Theater, and an army of unhappy fans with a few dozen minions and a handful of villains mixed in are going to tear downtown Chicago apart. Right in the shadow of the Dome."

  I'd braced myself, but I still felt my face go white. The Bees and their dates were going to be in the middle of that. Villains and minions and rioters aside, there were going to be a lot of people guilty of no more than questionable taste and bad judgment in the crowd.

  "Can we shut it down?" I still felt under a cloud, but I had to ask.

  "Nope. Precognitive visions aren't legally recognized so we can't show cause. Best we can do is alert the CPD that Bad Things are about to happen, which we've done. Word from us should mean something, but the new chief doesn't like us very much—reckons we upstage his boys in uniform too often."

  Ajax snorted and Blackstone shook his head as Atlas continued. "So I don't know how much attention they'll pay at the top, and it's got to go down through the proper channels. The concert's in progress now anyway—if we tried to shut it down we might just spark the riot. We can't try and bottle it up, either. The Harris Theater is underground and they'll be swarming up the lobby stairs; try and keep them in, gravity'll kill dozens. Same for the tunnel to the parking lot; bottle them up as close-packed as they'll be, there'll be tramplings for certain and folks won't think too kindly of us. There's no keeping this horse from bustin' loose."

  "So we're going to let it out of the chute but keep it in the corral."

  * * *

  Ten minutes later I stood on top of the Harris Theater, Atlas and Artemis beside me, looking down at Randolph Street. Low clouds glowed with reflected city light, giving the night a weird, silvered quality.

  The plan seemed simple enough, really. Nimbus, The Harlequin, and Ajax stood ready below us inside the Millennium Park Garage; any rioters that came out there would be funneled right into Nimbus, and she could strobe-blind the entire crowd as often as necessary. It's hard to rampage when you're blind or covering your eyes, and Quin and Ajax could probably handle anyone not affected. Blackstone waited with Rush and Euphoria on Upper Randolph just west of us; he'd conjured up several lines of police cars with troopers to the east and west of the theater, as well as in the turnaround. If we could herd the crowd away from Randolph, turn it south and back into Millennium Park, it would take them time to run east or west out of the park and they'd be thinning out and getting more tired all the way. With real police and lots more capes pouring in from around the city once Dispatch got the all-points bulletin out, it could all end well. The three of us on the roof were the mobile reserve.

  I could see my breath in the November air though the cold didn't bother me. It sounded like a good scratch-plan, but the idea of trying to 'corral the herd' bothered me. The herd would be a thousand rioters. I felt better for the items Ajax had slipped me, but this was still going to be bad and I tried not to think about the Bees, down in there somewhere.

  "Artemis," Atlas said, making me jump.

  "Boss." She saluted.

  He smiled. "For tonight, yes. I want you to do me a favor."

  He waived at the street.

  "There's going to be close to a thousand pissed-off fans busting out the doors below us, but they're not the problem; the villains and minions are the problem. The villains'll bring their powers and the minions'll be armed. They'll pose the worst threat to the police as they come in, and we may not be able to sort them out beforehand since a lot of the fans are dressed in villainwear for the after-concert parties.

  "So if you can identify the villains or their bad boys, I want you to shoot them."

  Speechless, I must have made some noise because he looked my way and smiled.

  "Only a little, of course. In the legs maybe; you can't raise much of a ruckus if you're trying not to bleed out."

  Artemis nodded.

  "That won't be a problem," she said softly.

  Atlas started to say something else, then cocked his head, obviously listening to someone on his earbug.

  "Here they come!" Rush called over the Dispatch link as the lobby doors burst open. The sound of so many voices raised in anger, harsh with rage, raised the hair on the back of my neck, triggered primal fears. There's a reason why we have a specific word for the angry crowd: mob.

  The emerging mob paused to mill and thicken as more pushed from behind. One breath. Two, and they tipped over into a rush straight down Randolph for Michigan Avenue—paying absolutely no attention to the "police barrier" in their way. Some threw bottles. Maybe five or six pulled pistols and started popping shots at the "police."

  None of them slowed down.

  Then Blackstone's illusory police squads vanished as the mob poured over his position—suddenly hidden from sight by a flowing black fog that drowned the light.

  "Blackstone!" Atlas yelled, launching off the roof with me right behind him. We hit the mob and weren't gentle.

  Surrounded by screaming rioters, I couldn't see any of our guys through the weird fog. Then I hit a pocket of dazed and very happy fans and saw Euphoria. She lay on the ground, but the guys who'd downed her sat or sprawled around her, blissed out.

  Beyond her a man in a long coat pointed a gun at a figure on the ground.

  I launched myself, knowing I'd be too late, but Artemis misted in behind him and fired. He went down screaming and clutching his leg, and then I was there, kneeling beside Blackstone.

  His eyes were open, tracking, but his scalp bled freely. Probably a thrown bottle.

  I carefully scooped him up. Where the hell was Rush? A blur and repeated sharp zaps answered that question; somewhere in the fog he danced through the mob, lashing out with his taser gloves as he went. Beside me, Artemis tossed the fallen minion's pistol back toward the theater and misted again as I leaped into the air and out of the fog.

  "Astra! Group A!" Atlas called out. "Has Blackstone been located?"

  "Sorry! I'm getting him out now!"

  "Thank God. Get back here quick."

  I laid Blackstone down on the theater roof and quickly checked him over. The old gentleman stiffened and focused on me as I felt my way around the gash on his head.

  "I'm fine, dear girl," he whispered. "Chakra is with me, if a little preoccupied at the moment, so run along."

  I checked his eyes again. His wide pupils matched and I sighed, relieved. "I'll be back," I promised, wrapping him in one of the emergency blankets from the gear we'd flown in with us before letting him send me away.

  "Atlas!" I called, stepping off the building as Dispatch connected us again. Now that I'd had a moment to think,
I felt stupid. "I know what the fog is! Freakshow's drummer is kind of a particle controller—his name's Blackout, and he uses it for stage effects!"

  "Do you know what he looks like?"

  "Tall, thin, bald and pasty white! Probably in black! Artemis' ugly brother!"

  I dropped back down to where I'd left Euphoria. The mob had swept past, leaving the poor fools she'd buzzed, the leg-shot guy, and a trail of tased rioters. I could hear the rest smashing their way down Randolph towards Michigan Avenue, still under the fog.

  I found Euphoria struggling to get out from under one of her limp and happy victims and helped her up. Her eyes were wide.

  "Shit!" She gasped. "Where were you?"

  I ignored that. "Can you handle what's left here?"

  She looked around and nodded. "What happened?"

  "I have no idea. If any heroes or police come this way send them west."

  And I flew to catch up with the fight.

  Now I blessed Ajax's foresight. Neither the Sentinels nor the other CAIs were equipped or trained to handle mobs of normal people. Why not? Our job was emergency aid and handling supervillains; we didn't use our powers on norms unless firearms or other means of death are in play. More specifically, we were not to be used by the government—city, state, or national—against ordinary citizens. That was the deal.

  Which had left us unprepared for tonight. But not completely.

  Atlas had obviously put some thought into it, because he'd handed me several thick spools of tape on the way out with some quick instructions. He called it glue-tape, and it was duct-tape on steroids, the non-stick side coated with some kind of substance that reacted to the sticky side once the "sticky" was exposed to air when you peeled it.

  Wrap the tape around somebody and it bonds tight as if melted together. Knives and patience can cut it, but most people don't carry knives.

  So now I was going to have some fun.

  * * *

  I flew into the fog and visibility dropped close to zero. Even with my enhanced vision, I couldn't see more than fifteen or twenty feet. Pounding north along Michigan Avenue, the rioters danced and capered like madmen, throwing improvised firebombs, overturning cars and breaking windows. They ignored the evening diners and theater-goers caught on the street unless they bumped right into them, concentrating on gleeful destruction.

  Since even I couldn't see far in the black I could only find them by their noise. Fortunately they liked to bunch up; I began dropping on clumps of rioters.

  Ziiiiiiiip.

  Grab a leg, tape it to someone else's leg, bind arms to sides or legs, a few to heads. A few seconds work reduced five rioters to a stuck cluster incapable of going anywhere until someone cut them out. I flew down on group after group as bystanders ran for cover in the black fog, breaking up knots of rioters who ran into victims by accident.

  The repeated snap of Rush's tasers told me he was keeping busy, but I had no idea what was happening to anyone else and I wasn't going to call out—we all had our situations to handle and anyone who needed me could get me through Dispatch. Whenever I heard gunshots I wondered if it was minions or Artemis.

  Presently I heard police sirens from all directions and sighed; Chicago's finest, responding at last. The black fog began to blow away—probably someone had found Blackout—and I saw capes coming in as the more mobile CAI members arrived.

  We were getting it under control.

  Then through a break in the thinning fog I saw a pack of rioters screaming curses and flipping a taxi. I almost called out their names; Dane and the Bees were howling with the rest of the pack.

  What the hell?

  Before I could do anything, someone big and heavy landed on me and tried to twist my head off. I dropped and rolled us both into a parked car. Its alarm wailed a protest, but he didn't let go and long claws scraped across my face.

  He hadn't had claws before.

  I panicked. Elbow-punching backward, I broke something and he fell off me. Rolling to my feet I found myself staring down at Freakshow, Chicago's very own villain-rapper celebrity.

  It had to be him; his breakthrough had given him total control over his own body and he could morph into any animal form he wanted, even mixing them up. During his act he usually morphed into a kind of toothy, scaly half-snake thing or a lionman, both shapes carefully styled to look nasty and cool for the audience (I'd seen pictures). Now he morphed without thinking, pulling out every fearful image evolution had engraved on our hind-brains, the things we made our nightmares out of.

  His broken arm knit itself as I watched, and he looked up at me with deeply crazy eyes. I stepped back.

  I know, I know—near invulnerability, right?

  The snarling, spitting, slavering monstrosity screamed and pounced.

  Ziiiiip. Ziiip, zip. Zip.

  The snarling, spitting, slavering monstrosity rolled on the street till I taped it to a handy fire hydrant and howled till I taped its jaws shut and damn near mummified its head (carefully leaving its nostrils clear). It morphed in disgusting waves, but more layers of tape defeated it. As I turned to go after the Bees it went limp, and turned back into a he.

  And every rioter on the street... stopped. The fight was over.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Attack one foe to win another.

  Kill with a borrowed sword.

  One tree falls for another.

  From Thirty Six Stratagems.

  * * *

  We'd been played, and it didn't take long to understand how though why had us beat. The rioters were quickly rounded up, a fairly easy job since they'd remained freaky-cohesive for a mob. Ambulances and fire trucks filled the street, victims were found, treated, taken away, fires put out. It would take longer to clean up all the broken glass. Michigan Avenue sparkled dangerously under the streetlights.

  Atlas pulled us together and we all (except Artemis, who hung around as mist nobody noticed) made our reports for the police. Then we headed back to the Dome. Nobody said much; we'd been beaten and we knew it. Atlas called all of us except Blackstone back to the Assembly Room.

  He looked us over as we slumped around the table, a far less pretty team than had left earlier that night.

  "To bring everyone up to date," he began, "Group B in the garage was successful. Blind steers are still blind, and the mob never made it up the ramps. A few torched cars and broken windows, but easily dealt with.

  "Up on the street now, there we got outplayed. Did anyone notice anything peculiar before they got away from us?"

  "They didn't stop," I volunteered. "They saw Blackstone's police lines, but didn't stop. They should have at least slowed down."

  I saw nods around the table.

  "Another fact," Atlas added. "Nobody stayed in the theater. Not one. The entire audience, the band, the technicians, and the staff took part in the rampage. And then there's the way it ended."

  More nods, and Ajax swore.

  "Yup," Atlas agreed with him. "Just before they came out to play, Chakra told me she felt someone playing with them. Villains, minions, fans, crew, some kind of mentalist used the focus of the concert to drive them all to a frenzy and then guided the explosion; that's why, beginning to end, they stayed together.

  "What stopped it?" Ajax looked grim.

  "I did," Chakra said, her voice thin, washed out."I fought a psychic battle with the person responsible. I don't think I would have won if he hadn't been spreading himself so thin. Or I might not have won at all; he may have simply accomplished his goal and left."

  "He." Ajax made it a question.

  "He."

  "Mind control. Well, shit," Rush swore.

  Silence fell around the table. Mentalists of various types were common enough since the Event. Even with Barlow's Guide I had a hard time keeping them straight. But not many were capable of outright mind-control—and nobody had ever heard of a mentalist capable of sweeping up whole crowds. Just the thought terrified me.

  "Now it's time for me to admit my
mistake." Atlas pressed on. "I've always drawn a hard line on heroes being used against civilians—and that hasn't changed—but we should have had a game plan prepared anyway, and the next time we have to try riot control we will. We're going to develop equipment and tactics so that when this happens again we'll be able to shut it down fast. I don't suppose anyone has considered that our new nemesis went easy on us. The mob focused on property damage. A few bystanders got attacked, but our puppeteer could have just as easily painted Michigan Avenue in blood tonight. Or made them all turn on each other in the theater. This was a demonstration, not an attack, and we need to be prepared for the next one."