Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape) (Volume 3)

by Marion G. Harmon

  “And why do you give a flying — ”

  “Because I’m dead, duh. My mom buried me, and I would give anything to — You know what? Forget it, screw up your own family, I am so out of here — ”

  The girl dropped her burger, but whatever she’d planned to do changed when the waitress serving the next table over screamed. I looked up to stare into the barrel of a gun as the waitress threw her tray at the hooded guy holding it. The gun blast hammered my ears, Shelly spun up and away from her chair — I’d never seen anyone move that fast. Lines split in her skin as she turned to shiny chrome, all silver and blue, and she nailed the hooded shooter behind her with a stiff open-palm thrust that sent him crashing through tables, gun flying away.

  “Get the gun! Everybody down!”

  She leaped after the guy, who made the mistake of trying to get up. He pulled a big knife but Galatea just slapped it out of her way and grabbed the throat of his hoodie twisting it into a chokehold. Pulling him off his feet, she flopped him onto his stomach and zip-cuffed him while everyone else was ducking or screaming.

  I just sat there, frozen, but the waitress who’d screamed found the gun on a customer’s plate, picked it up and safetied it before dropping to the floor with everyone else. Galatea grabbed my arm and pulled me out of my seat but not to the floor. “Move!” She wasn’t being gentle now, and her blue chrome robot hand was a vise as I stumbled along. Stopping at the doors, she stood between me and the street, a frozen statue, while my heart thundered and my skin burned.

  Then she was alive again.

  “Street and building cameras have nothing,” she said, voice flat. “Our guy was alone, and the CPD is coming.” Her words became a meaningless buzz. I leaned against the doorway while she ducked back in and reassured everyone inside the café. The shooter had only gotten the one shot off, and nobody was hurt. Nobody.

  The first of the police arrived while I stood there like a lump. Galatea handed the shooter off to the pair of officers fast, then steered me away.

  “Don’t we need to make statements?” I wasn’t thinking very well, but I knew that much.

  “Hey, you talk!” She negotiated us back across Michigan Avenue. “The café’s security tapes will show everything, really, but we will. But we need to get back to the Dome, now. Somebody shot Astra at the courthouse. What is going on today?”

  Chapter Nine: Astra

  I figured it out a long time ago. When you shoot someone in a video game, they fall down — unless they’re zombies, and then you have to blow them apart. When you shoot someone in real life, they fall down — unless they’re zombies (don’t ask). So the human brain knows that if you shoot people they tend to fall down, and when it panics, it forgets that there are exceptions. It can’t help itself, especially when the exception looks like me — so the opposite of tough and bulletproof.

  Astra, Notes From A Life.

  * * *

  I was a bad, bad person. If I took a breath, I was going to burst into insane giggles.

  Of course news crews had been covering the courthouse and protest, so we got to watch the catastrophe from multiple angles and freeze-frames. Blackstone froze the newsfeed at the moment of the hit: Shankman rocking back, spreading pastry and filling, the masked guy in the white chef’s uniform stretched out at the end of a throw so graceful it was balletic, arm extended forward at the end of the perfect delivery.

  It was beautiful. Shankman had been pied.

  The Pieman was one of those thrill-villains the public loved and public figures dreaded. Some kind of teleporter, he’d racked up an impressive “victim” count around the world. He always delivered two pies — the first nicely boxed and by courier, the second in person, in public, and in the face. Shankman had kept the first delivery secret (I could understand that; the usual response to someone revealing he’d gotten a delivery from the Pieman was late night comedy skits and a bet-making frenzy).

  Rush wasn’t holding back his laughter and Blackstone’s chosen moment was spreading smiles around the Assembly Room table, even to Mal. It would have been a perfect moment, too, if that had been the end of it. But when the Pieman made his delivery, a perfect pitch to Shankman’s face, I’d thought it was a real attack — and so did his bodyguards, who thought I was part of it. The one who shot me just moved faster than the rest.

  Seven took the idiot down before he got his third shot off, coming out of nowhere to plant him face down on the pavement in a hard armlock. Despite the Hollywood Knights movie franchise, with the way that Seven acts it’s hard to remember that he’s a kick-butt martial artist and marksman. The bodyguard drawing on him took a kick to the hand that flipped his gun into the air in a beautiful arc that ended on the third guard’s head, knocking him out cold — all before I’d had time to realize there was no real threat.

  But the damage had been done; one of the two shots bouncing off me hit Shankman in the chest. The second hit nobody, but the shots and the action turned the worked-up crowd into a fleeing mob. Nobody dead, but five trampling victims — luckily minor injuries — taken to the hospital with Shankman. All caught on camera for the evening news.

  “So.” Blackstone smiled, shook his head. “Let’s all get the humor out. The Honorable Mr. Shankman will recover, and no one else was badly hurt. It’s always good to have Seven at the scene of a riot.” Seven tipped his fedora and Blackstone waited for the laughter to die down. “Also, the two of you are to be commended. You both reacted swiftly and appropriately — had it been a deadly attack, you would have saved Mr. Shankman from any second assault. However.”

  He nodded to Quin.

  “Shankman’s PR machine is already spinning this,” she said apologetically. “They’re trying to make it look like you jumped into a situation that was obviously not dangerous, concussed Shankman by throwing him to the ground, and scared his bodyguards into opening fire.”

  I didn’t want to laugh anymore.

  “We’re issuing our own statement, but it looks like he’s going to sue us to keep this alive and in the news cycles. So if anyone is asked, remember ‘swiftly and appropriately,’ and move on. If pushed, you ‘cannot speak about a lawsuit under litigation.’” Her gaze focused on Rush, the one of us most likely to be caught by the newsies on the street during a response-call.

  He laughed. “If the asker is hot, can I still get her number?”

  Quin winced. Rush had gotten a lot more serious since last year — he surprised everybody by being a solid mentor for Crash — but he still lived life like a rock star; he didn’t do drugs or drink until he got faded, but he made up for it by chasing the wild sex. I was pretty sure Quin saw him as a walking, talking, sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen.

  “No,” she said. “Lois Lanes are off limits — ”

  He held up his hands, still laughing. “Don’t get your — Don’t get hot. Joking.”

  “Moving on,” Lei Zi interjected, actually smiling. At least, her lips curved up a little. “Today’s other shooting is more alarming.” She looked across the table at Shelly, still in her sleek silver-and-blue Galatea form. Now I wasn’t feeling at all funny.

  “We have discussed being in public casually and openly since the Paladin attack last spring, and while Mr. Scott is not a Sentinel he is now recognizable to anyone motivated to find him. The police have only begun their investigation, but the café’s security tapes clearly show that our guest was the shooter’s target.”

  Shelly sat stiff and rebellious, but I’d seen the tapes; we owed Kristen Cho, the waitress, art student, and policeman’s daughter who screamed, big-time. The shooter had come loaded with armor-piercing rounds. If Kristen hadn’t seen the gun and thrown her tray at him, his first and only shot would have put Mal in the hospital or the morgue instead of killing an innocent cookies-and-cream malt and slicing a few customers with flying glass. She didn’t know it yet, but she was about to get an anonymously funded full-ride scholarship. Quin knew how to do it.

  Mal didn’t look rebellio
us — he looked green. Not that anyone blamed him, or Shelly for that matter; I wouldn’t have guessed he might be a target. Not before he even had a mask on.

  “Mr. Scott,” Lei Zi continued, “I’m afraid that, while you remain in the Dome, you will be covered by our protocols. And we will all be cutting back on showing recognizable faces, in or out of costume, outside the Dome when not on mission.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and that was it. Lei Zi’s mouth softened a little, an almost-smile of sympathy, but she left it there.

  “The same applies to everyone here without a secret identity,” Blackstone said gently. “We had two incidents today that could have resulted in civilian fatalities, one that targeted us. We cannot afford the bad press if a second attempt leaves innocents dead. Those of us who maintain true secret identities must also be doubly careful. The police have identified the shooter, and while they have barely begun their investigation they have informed us that his name appears on the Paladins’ membership rolls.”

  That killed any leftover levity, but nobody looked surprised.

  The Paladins called themselves patriots “preparing against the day that superhumans attempt to take over the country, steal America from its freedom-loving citizens, etc.,” but there was a deeply racist streak to their worldview. Mal had killed someone, and not another SPB (Super Powered Being). It didn’t matter that it was an accident, he deserved to die; it was like something out of the Jim Crow South.

  Blackstone reviewed our security procedures, and Quin warned everyone again about loose talk online; she’d already updated our team webpage with today’s events.

  “Stay sharp, everyone,” Blackstone concluded. “Bright side, cutting back on our scheduled public appearances will give us all some much-appreciated downtime. Astra? Would you stay behind again?”

  * * *

  “Totes awesome!” Shelly laughed in my earbug as I swung wide around the Lake Point Tower and turned south on my patrol circuit. Chicago always looked amazing from above and, with the sun setting, my wider-spectrum sight painted the streets between the towers as ribbons of light in shadow. Yesterday’s private after-briefing meeting had slipped past her radar (probably because of Mal), but this last one hadn’t and naturally she’d hounded me until I spilled the beans. Now, great as the view was, it wasn’t what she was excited about.

  “Totes?”

  “Totally, duh. New slang — got to keep up on the wordage.”

  “No, no, I don’t. And are you out of your quantum mind? In what evil mirror-universe is this awesome?”

  “It’s awesome right here ’cause it’ll be ‘Astra and the Young Sentinels!’ Eeeee!”

  “We haven’t chosen a team name yet, and if you squeal like a fangirl one more time, I’m going to find you and hurt you.”

  “Spoilsport. Seriously — this is the next rung in your climb to total awesomeness. Before we’re done, you’ll be legendary.”

  I waved to some lingering office-bodies in the Aon Center. Blackstone had informed me that Hillwood’s headmaster had rejoiced at our offer, then dug in his heels at one of our choices — I could guess which one — until Blackstone had suggested he might get better cooperation from another school. The headmaster caved and Blackstone and Quin were negotiating with our picks and their legal guardians now.

  “So, who did you choose?”

  “Grendel, Tsuris, and Ozma.”

  Only one of those three names publicly belonged to their owners yet, and I imagined I could hear her switch over to The Book for the others.

  “You picked future supervillains?”

  Yeah, that was predictable. “They don’t have scarlet ‘V’s stamped on their foreheads, Shell.”

  She giggled. “Blackstone must have freaked.”

  “He never freaks.”

  “No, he doesn’t. Ozma? Wow, that’s just wrong. Like tagging Mussolini for your team.”

  “She never killed — never will kill — anyone, Shell. Okay, she wiped memories. And turned enough people into hats to open a haberdashery franchise, but not permanently.”

  “Kansas — ”

  “We don’t know what happened in Kansas.”

  “Okay ... and we can certainly use some magic muscle. Grendel? You read his future war crimes file, right?”

  I sighed. Shelly was the least uncertain person I knew in any situation — no matter how something turned out, she could never imagine herself deciding differently. Which was probably why, even with all TA’s contingent futures in her head, she couldn’t imagine someone else taking a different path. Change of plans? Yes. Change of direction? Not so much.

  So how would she take it if she knew I’d used Blackstone’s offer to get her a chance at her own change of direction?

  Grendel

  I closed my door and dropped on the bed.

  Latisha hadn’t been understanding. She’d never had a problem with Ozma; as beautiful as the princess was, she was also a 100–year-old virgin and therefore not competition, and Latisha had initiated our relationship in the first place — a wicked-smart, smoking hot D Class, she’d made up for her lack of serious power by accessorizing herself with one of Hillwood’s current alpha-supers, me. But she’d assumed somewhere that it would last until graduation.

  My telling her that I was leaving because the princess had crooked her finger told her everything she’d needed to know about where she ranked. She was cool and fun, and we’d been good with each other, but she’d never asked for more, I’d never offered, and I’d leave with Ozma because two years ago she’d promised me justice. Latisha knew that now; she just didn’t care.

  “Brian?” Nix called softly from the vent.

  “Come in, Nix.” She fluttered up to perch on my lamp. Ozma had humored the little doll’s wish to be a fairy by making her a pair of attachable butterfly wings that, against all laws of nature, worked. She adjusted her gauzy lace skirts.

  “Are you ready to go?”

  I gave her the kind of toothy grin that reminded most people of my willingness to rip arms off. She sighed, not exactly the reaction I’d been aiming at.

  “My aunt and uncle have signed off on it,” I said, wondering what she was looking for.

  That had been an intense conversation but they were just glad I knew what I wanted to do, and it was normal enough even if it was all happening pretty fast. CAI teams creating spots for Academy seniors with valuable power sets was pretty routine, and we’d finish our classes by computer correspondence and return for graduation.

  She tucked her legs up, rested her chin on her ball-joint knees, and her next sigh turned into a sniff. I put down the six-pack I’d pulled out of my closet for the common hall party downstairs. Since we weren’t sure when we were leaving, Gilmore House was throwing us a farewell party tonight. Carlton House was probably doing the same for Reese.

  “What’s the matter, Nix?”

  “I don’t — I don’t...” She put her head down. “I don’t want us to go.”

  Dammit. Ozma was serenely confident that her yellow-brick road home was opening at last, even if it took years to walk it. Nox was ready to wade in the blood of his princess’ enemies, or at least make them hurt a lot. But Nix — Nix’s home had always been Ozma’s room and the lab, and the fairy garden she’d made of boxes and soil and the flowers and tea-plant vines she’d collected and raised.

  Dammit. I could find a shipping pallet behind the groundskeeper’s sheds, rig something, but moving the boxes would tear the vines ... It wouldn’t work. I patted my shoulder and Nix fluttered over to tuck herself in by my ear. She loved the spicy smell of my dreads.

  “We’ll find you space for another garden.” It was lame, but I wasn’t about to give her a line like It’ll be all right. I felt her nod, but she heaved a sob. Dammit, I wasn’t equipped to help a heartbroken doll. And she wasn’t going to have another real home until it was the Emerald Palace.

  I was going to have to talk to Latisha again. Great.

  Chapter Ten: Astra<
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  Superheroing is rescue and aid work, and sometimes police-assist and fighting. But mostly it’s studying and training and trying to have a life outside of the job. Most of the time, that’s not too hard; there are enough of us that we all have downtime, and months can go by between serious action.

  But then, there are the other days.

  Astra, Notes From a Life.

  * * *

  “Shelly says he’s good at swallowing the mad,” I said.

  Chakra smiled at me over her tea and toast. “Is that her professional assessment?” It was easy to forget she held a doctorate in behavioral science; she dressed like a gypsy, practiced pranayama and kundalini manipulation, and talked like a sex therapist (which made our conversations all sorts of fun). Her breakthrough-powered tantric magic was just bonus.

  Last night, Blackstone had insisted Chakra and I watch the tape of Mal’s meeting with Quin, Seven, Legal Eagle, and his parents from the day of the Green Man’s attack. I’d felt like a complete voyeur. Mal had got intense, his dad got cold, his mom wouldn’t stop the quiet hysteria. Nobody fought, but at least twice I’d thought he was going to redecorate the whole Assembly Room.

  Sitting beside Mal, Seven hadn’t so much as twitched.

  And this morning over breakfast, Shelly had fessed up about where she’d gone that first night and how it had ended. Shelly shouldn’t happen to unsuspecting people and it had been so Shelly — I couldn’t believe she’d managed to drag him to lunch after that, and now she was scoring 0 for 2 with the boy. Chakra had listened to the story, too, and had looked quietly thoughtful after Shelly left. Then she’d started the questions.

  “So, you think he’s safe?” she prodded. I squirmed.

  “Not safe, just...on top of it?”

  “I agree,” she surprised me, thoughtfully nibbling on her jammed toast. “Our Mr. Scott has a great deal of experience with ‘swallowing the mad.’ Have you given much thought to what shapes breakthroughs? His experience would seem to parallel yours, wouldn’t it? Little direct physical trauma, a disproportionate response to the danger...”