Wearing the Cape 6: Team-Ups and Crossovers

by Marion G. Harmon

  I found the pumps and wrecked them, but stayed to make sure the ceiling came down. Then it was easy enough to punch my way out, knocking the few standing walls in as I made my way out of the mess.

  Stepping out of the rubble, I expected to enjoy a fight. I should have known better—I couldn’t see a single guard, past a handful without weapons beside some prisoners who put themselves in front of them when I stomped up.

  “Sir Brian,” the oldest prisoner managed to say. “These helped us, before today, and her majesty has extended clemency. She wishes you to attend her.”

  “Right. Thank you.” I looked down at my claws, realized that the heat in my bones was fading, and decided it was time to scale down anyway. By the time I’d stomped back to the nursery I was my normal self again, or at least as normal as I got. The Magician was with her, along with the children now that the protecting vines had been cleared away.

  “Did you have fun, Sir Brian?”

  “It was alright.”

  “Good. The guards have fled through the south and north gates, and my subjects have armed themselves. They are gathering provisions for our march, and while they do so I would be very grateful if you would also break down the walls.”

  The walls actually gave me a workout, but only a half-decent one.

  The Wizard, a man who liked his large breakfasts and deserts, was as thin and worn as I had ever seen him. And as charmingly confident as ever. It had been his plan, so of course I’d come and he even chastised me for being late with a twinkle in his eyes. And I of course was my imperious best, except with the children for whom I could smile and even cry. We both had our parts to play.

  Here I was the princess. And empress.

  The elders among the prisoners quickly organized things, reuniting children with their parents, arranging stretchers for prisoners who now needed to be carried. We left nobody behind as we marched out through what had been the south gate, a long, strung out line on foot and pulling wagons. Once we left the road and climbed the first low hill, I turned to look at the wreck of the works.

  “Well that looks like a good job done,” Brian decided.

  “Indeed,” my wizard said. “I am glad to see the last of the place.”

  I smiled. “And now you will see my place, Oscar. My court in exile is humble, and you’ll find that America has changed a great deal since you came to Oz, but I am happy to have you with me again.”

  He humphed, a sly smile showing a glimmer of his old humor. “I know it has, my dear. I kept my eyes on it over the years. But I am not going back with you, princess. I’m sorry.”

  “I— Wizard, I command it.”

  His smile turned sad. “Young lady I am Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkel Emmanuel Ambrose Diggs, a Yankee boy from Omaha. My father was a Nebraska Senator, and in my day I have worn many hats. Flim-flam artist. Politician, which is the same thing. Carny barker. Magician. A fake wizard, and then a real one. Your advisor and humble servant. What I have never been is your subject.

  “Ozma.” He touched my hand, the twinkle gone from his eye. “Only the City Lands are truly held by Mombi and the Nome King now. Quadling Country is in quiet revolt, so we will have help on our way to Jinxland. That old and only independent kingdom in Oz has become a refuge and center of Quadling resistance, and I have been stocking my bag of tricks, enchantments, clockwork magic, and humbug. I will see your Quadlings to safety, and offer my services. There is much to do before you can return for good.”

  “Oscar, please—” I closed my eyes, opened them and nodded. He was right, I knew he was right, but I had so wanted my dear old friend beside me. “I will speak to the elders, and you will go with my blessing.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and I will be able to show you how to reset the Traveling Ball before we part ways. I hope you will be able to find your friend.” He gave me a tired nod, stepping away to proceed towards the front of the march. Brian looked at me.

  “So what now, your witchy majesty?”

  Water pricked my eyes and I hid my smile. Please love, don’t ever change. I raised my scepter, laying a hand upon my Magic Belt and whispering to the land. My land. With a great crack and a ground-shaking roar, the river rose to sweep away the remains of the works.

  “Now let’s go home.”

  DSA Field Report: Agent Smith.

  Boss, we’ve secured the site. Per previous report, elements of the Chicago Sentinels have conducted an independent investigation and determined the identity and base of Red Jack. Got to tell you, it really makes us look bad; we spend hundreds of man-hours, and a fictional magic princess and a cyber-ghost we’re not supposed to acknowledge Nancy-Drewed the case and told us everything there is to know about our serial-killer. They’ve also presented us with a method whereby following Red Jack and Astra may be possible—and of course it requires them. My recommendation: lock down the determined location but allow “monitored” Sentinel access.

  Boss, they can’t do worse than we have so far.

  Red Jack Case File 1-B634 D.

  Through a Bright Mirror

  by Marion G. Harmon

  “Of course we don’t live in the best of all possible worlds. We’re human, we mess up, we could have always done better. Which doesn’t mean that we can’t do better. We can do worse, but we can always do better, too.”

  Hope Corrigan

  I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling of my room. Huh.

  Graymalkin vibrated with silent cat-snores against my side, his tail twitching against my hand where it had wandered out from under the blankets sometime during the night. I usually woke up this way at home, bumped out of deeper sleep by Gray jumping up and settling himself; half the time he’d open an eye when I got up, then get back to chasing dream mice or whatever made his tail sweep the covers.

  But I didn’t remember coming home.

  What was the last thing I remembered?

  Put that way, with nothing connecting then to now, it was tough. Especially since, still half-asleep, I couldn’t be sure which were memories and which were dreams. Memories of dreams.

  Okay, there was dinner with Tony. And Kitsune. Did I see the ducks? No.

  Red Jack. And mirrors. Velveteen and Jackie Frost. Santa Claus.

  My fingers twitched in Graymalkin’s fur as my whole body froze. Not a dream.

  “Shell?”

  There was only silence in my head.

  Checking under the blankets revealed my favorite sleep tee and shorts. But my last North Pole memory was of me all kitted out in an elf-spun Astra uniform, turning the snow globe over and making the magically real snow inside swirl around Chicago’s skyline. Pushing up on my elbows, I looked around my room.

  No uniform. No snow globe.

  “Shell?”

  Graymalkin complained and settled when I pushed the covers aside and swung my legs out of bed, trying not to panic. A quick check in my closet let me breathe easier. None of the Astra suits were my made-by-elves outfit—all but one was a form-fitting bodysuit and cape—but while they weren’t my styles, for some bizarre reason I’d been afraid I wouldn’t find any. I refused to think about that weird conviction, or Shell’s continued silence, and instead pulled on a pair of sweats.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Dad greeted me as I padded down the stairs to the kitchen. A stack of Belgian waffles waited for me on the table. “Your mother had to leave early—hey.”

  I ninja-hugged him in his chair, careful not to squeeze. “Love you.”

  “Love you too, bug. Are you going in today?” Since I wasn’t dressed for the day yet, that was a valid question. I swallowed all my questions; I couldn’t think of a single one that wouldn’t start him wondering what was going on. Worrying.

  “Yes. There’s always stuff to catch up on.” That felt safe to say.

  “Okay, but don’t forget lunch with your sister. She told me that the next time you leave her waiting in the Walnut Room she’s going to strip naked and go streaking until Macy’s security takes h
er down. Hope? Is everything alright?”

  I sat down. “I’m fine. Just wobbly for a second.”

  He frowned. “Have Doctor Beth check you out.”

  “Yes, Dad.” I managed to roll my eyes, the expected response to parental concern. The rest of breakfast passed without more existential ambushes and I was able to stay involved in the conversation—mostly about Mom’s Foundation schedule and my plans. And Faith’s science studies.

  Faith’s. Science. Studies.

  Somehow I got away without triggering Dad’s parental “Something’s Wrong” radar again. Dressing, I chose the single skirted outfit—it most closely matched the made-by-elves design—and flew out. Coming down over Grant Park, I couldn’t see any sign of the post-Green Man redesign but the normal crowds were there. Landing, I did my usual wave-to-tourists entry and nodded to the armored Bobs, settling into a headspace of same, same, different, same, same, really different, not thinking about it yet.

  I should have gone straight to my Dome apartment—instead, on autopilot, I found myself passing through Dispatch to say hi to David; even standing down, it was good to let the Dispatch watch know when I was present and in uniform.

  David was at his station. So was Shell, and for one heart-stopping moment everything was right. Then it wasn’t Shell.

  “Hey! What are you doing in today?” The too old not-Shell wore a blue and white bodysuit with what looked like data-line attachments and had her flame-red hair up in a tail, suit and hair framing a more mature and narrow face and figure than I’d ever seen on her. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “I’m just— I’m here for— Hi, David. Going downstairs now.” I turned and fast-walked out, not speeding up when Shell’s quick steps sounded behind me. She closed the gap and made it into the elevator right after me, to burst out laughing when I turned around and carefully poked her in the shoulder.

  “Okay, really. What’s going on? You looked like you’d seen a ghost—”

  I didn’t even try to not hug her. “Quite the opposite. It’s good to see you.”

  “And now you’re totally freaking me out.”

  My Shell would have never let me sit her on my bed to patiently wait while I opened file after file on my desk screen, checking the team roster, doing multiple news searches, occasionally giggling but gasping just as often. She texted on her cell a bit, but otherwise just sat and watched me.

  No news items anywhere referred to the Green Man. Shelly was on the roster as the team’s Galatea drone-pilot. Atlas was alive. And Ajax and Nimbus. No mention of Artemis anywhere, but there was a news article about Chicago’s youngest female detective, Jacky Siggler. They’d taken her picture outside her precinct at high noon.

  There were no Young Sentinels. Also, no Megaton—or Mal Scott when I accessed Hillwood Academy’s records. No Grendel, either, although Ozma was listed as a graduate.

  A hand settled on my shaking shoulders. The manicured and painted nails on it didn’t belong to Shelly and, looking up, for a moment I thought she’d called Mom. She hadn’t, but the dark hair was Mom’s.

  “F-Faith?”

  “No, the Tooth Fairy. What’s happening, Ace? You’re scaring Shell.”

  I didn’t crush her, but it was a close thing. It was turning into a morning for hugging people, and then I had to stop laughing and crying. Eventually I was sitting on my couch between them. I couldn’t stop touching them, and they let me.

  “Have either of you heard of the Teatime Anarchist?” He hadn’t been mentioned anywhere, either, but I had to check. My breathy question drew two blank stares. “Okay. How did I become Astra?”

  “Riiiight.” Shell stood up. “I’m getting Doctor Beth.”

  “No!” I pulled her back down. “I’m okay. Please?”

  She rolled her eyes, for one second totally my Shell. “Fine. The day I was stupid enough to try and chase my own breakthrough. And you were smart enough to get to the apartment building for your own breakthrough when I jumped? You caught me on the way down, and I wouldn’t speak to you for weeks until Faith here yelled at me for being a dumbass?”

  “I was fifteen? They made me Astra at fifteen? Tell me I didn’t have a total crush on Atlas?”

  Faith laughed, capturing all my attention. “Hardly. No, you did, but the parentals shipped you off to Hillwood. By the time you came back here to do the whole sidekick thing you’d got over it. At risk of repeating myself, what’s going on?”

  I closed my eyes in sympathetic mortification for my younger self, opened them and turned back to Shell. “And how did you become…Galatea?”

  “Duh. Graduated early, enlisted in the Marines, didn’t get a boot-camp breakthrough. I became a drone pilot and helped test Vulcan’s Galatea Program. Went civilian last year when the military dropped the program, signed on with the Sentinels to help the idiot keep field-testing his hardware. Plus, Awesome Girl and Power Chick together again—how could I not?”

  I nodded. “Faith? When did Mom start her foundation?”

  “After I nearly died. Ace, much fun as this is, I’m going to repeat myself.”

  So I told them. It took a while, with lots of exclamations from Shell—“The Bees? Really? We made so much fun of them!”—and careful questions from Faith. I stopped with the Red Jack thing, but somehow Faith knew I was holding something back and made me finish the story with Velveteen, Jackie Frost, and Santa Claus. Shell was snickering by the end. Faith wasn’t.

  “So, Shelly and I are dead,” she summed up. “Though Shell has a twin? And half the senior Sentinels are gone?”

  I nodded.

  “And you got here because of a gift from Saint Nicholas, but you don’t remember arriving. And the magical snow globe is gone.”

  I nodded again.

  “Ace, that’s all kinds of messed up. You know that, right?”

  “I know!” I put my head in my hands. “But it’s true! I remember every awful bit!”

  Faith one-arm hugged my shoulders. “It must have been horrible. But you’re here now, and we’ll figure it out.”

  “What’s to figure out?” Shell asked. “Somebody’s messed with our girl’s head. Chakra will get her straightened out.”

  “Ace?”

  I raised my head. It wasn’t like I had any choice; if I was the problem, if somebody had messed with my head, then I couldn’t be relied on until we figured it out. After all, if I’d forgotten my real history, who knew what other important details—gaps in my training, nemesis I should know about, whatever—had gotten buried. People could die because of something I should have known.

  But Faith was watching me thoughtfully, like she wasn’t sure my head was the problem.

  It’s never that easy. If I’d not been distracted, I would have asked why only Shell had been in Dispatch—instead I got the shock of learning that the only Sentinels in Chicago at the moment were me, Rush, and The Harlequin. The rest were away with Heroes without Borders seeing to a disaster. A tsunami in Indonesia.

  It wasn’t as crazy as it sounded; Nimbus could be back in the blink of an eye, we had the Guardians teams to help out, and Dispatch’s criminal intelligence people saw no big threats on our near horizon. I let the fact that Blackstone had a whole intelligence department now distract me again, but only for a minute.

  Then I reviewed the Day Brief; fortunately all the Sentinels protocols I remembered seemed to be correct. To my huge relief, SaFire had the Atlas Watch today. A B Class Atlas-Type, she could handle anything but an A Level problem, and was better than me at the more normal emergency stuff. I breathed a little easier when I saw that.

  They didn’t call it Atlas Watch, though; they called it Overflight Watch.

  Shell had been able to pull Faith in so quickly because Faith had been in the Loop on errands of her own before our lunch date, and we decided to head out early. I made Shell check me out on my Dispatch link doctrine before deciding it was okay for us to leave, but everything was the same there too.

  The Walnut Room had rec
ently undergone a change of management—I knew about it because they got Mom to host a foundation dinner there after they’d finished retraining the staff—and Faith confirmed that, yep, it had really happened. They gave us a table by the windows (which also put us out of sight from the open Macy’s floor above us), and I ordered their signature pot pie. Faith got their crusted chicken.

  “So,” she said after our waitress had filled our lemon-freshened water glasses and departed. “On a scale of one to ten, how freaked out are you right now?”

  I managed to keep from laughing hysterically. “Eleven? This feels like a bad Sentinels episode. I don’t think the writers ever did something this weird to me.”

  “Yet. Give them time. Remember the evil Mirror Universe twin of Atlas last seas—oh, you wouldn’t.”

  “No.” The show writers at least tried to keep to the obvious Real World facts. When Atlas died, Sentinels had gone on a half-year hiatus while the studio salvaged what they could of the episodes already in the can and worked up a huge Final Atlas Story arc to cover the events of the Big One and the Fort Whittier Attack. None of which had really happened.

  Faith frowned, watching me until I couldn’t ignore it.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t freak out more, but I don’t think the problem is your memory. Part of my studies is the weird stuff—the extrareality stuff. I think you really did jump. And when you did, you made a Candide Selection.”

  The world wobbled and I couldn’t breathe. “A what?”

  “I think you’re an extrareality intrusion into this reality. There are one of two ways intrusions work. The direct way is physical translocation. The indirect way, which happens a lot with extrarealities that are ‘close’ enough to have local analogues, is mental translocation. The intruding mind highjacks the body of the local analogue for the duration of the stay. Count Ace, and breathe.”