“Drop Galatea outside,” Lei Zi instructed. The view dropped, then steadied as we watched Astra fly through the hole Safire had made. Astra’s icon yellow-barred, but Lei Zi was already calling out more orders. “Riptide, Variforce, Quin to the bay, now. Blackstone, Dispatch is yours.” Then she was gone, too, through the same hatch taken by Astra and Galatea, and The Harlequin went over the railing to bounce after her.
The tension didn’t die when they left — if anything it ratcheted higher. Chakra said something to Blackstone, then stepped away and headed for the stairs. Taking them quickly, she brushed by us to turn into the next office over, closing the door.
“I don’t get it.” I wasn’t really asking a question, but Andrew answered anyway, not taking his eyes off the icons on the main screen..
“They don’t know what’s in there, but if the fight’s inside then there are hundreds of trapped civilians on the floors above it. They’re going in blind with everything they’ve got. It’s what they do.” He looked at the closed office door. “And in a minute they won’t be totally blind.”
What? Oh. Chakra. The hero news sites speculated endlessly about what the psychic hottie did for the team.
Crash’s icon lit up, joined by another one — a yin-yang symbol I didn’t recognize.
“Crash does civilian evac and delivers paramedics and other first-responders to the scene,” Andrew explained. “It looks like Sifu is helping him.” Wow. The kid was, what, sixteen? How did they get away with that? Whatever I thought about fielding kids younger than I was, he and a paramedic were waiting by the ugly sculpture when Astra flew out carrying Rush on what looked like part of a door. Rush’s icon lit up, with a bright red bar across it.
“Red bars mean a hero’s down, red X’s mean dead.” Andrew whispered.
So he was alive. I let out a relieved breath. Astra only stayed for a couple of words before flying up and back through the hole. The room wound tighter, Blackstone conferring and watching the screens while everyone else did whatever they did. A second screen came up, showing a zooming scene — the team floater? — following Astra’s original route. I looked over at Andrew, but he stayed focused on the screens. Watching The Harlequin’s status icon?
“Zone in sight,” Lei Zi’s voice came over a room-wide broadcast. “Galatea reports sounds of at least two physical altercations in-zone, stood down. Preparing to shake out and enter.”
Then all the yellow bars vanished and the main screen view split into multiple pictures, info-bars scrolling across their bottoms. Watchman’s voice filled the room. “Dispatch, hostilities have ended, repeat, ended. Rush is down, civilian fatalities and casualties. Request all available medical assistance.”
Sighs of relief, scattered cheers, even cut-off applause ran through the stations.
“Hostilities ended, Watchman,” Blackstone acknowledged. “The Harlequin, all other field Sentinels incoming. Secure the situation until the CPD relieves you, expedite civilian aid.”
“Secure, aid, understood. Watchman out.” The lights came back up to normal office brightness, and that was it. Blackstone looked up, gave us a nod. Andrew returned it, clapped me on the shoulder.
“That’s the show, sport. They’ll be out there awhile, until everyone hurt is helped and in the ER and the cops have yellow-taped the scene. Give it an hour, they’ll be back for after-action debriefings — analysis and evaluation to follow when Blackstone and Lei Zi have had a chance to go over everything.”
“That’s... What the hell was that?”
“The glamorous life of a superhero. See you around the Dome.” He went down to the floor, said a few words to Blackstone, and left at a trot. I stayed on the balcony, trying to figure out what I’d just seen, until the office door behind me opened. Chakra stepped out, drooping but eyes bright.
“Uh,” I stuttered. “You okay?”
She looked me over from head to toe, drew in a deep breath, smiled wide, and reached up to pat my cheek. Heat flashed through me, and her eyes got bigger. She laughed.
“Yes. Yes, I am. And you’re adorable. Come see me after dinner. Doctor’s orders.” A final stroke and she turned, leaving me frozen. Gathering her skirts, she turned and proceeded down the stairs.
What the hell was that?
Astra
Dispatch came online the instant the wrecking crew disappeared, my frantic call for medical assistance got a “Can do,” from Lei Zi before I’d finished making it, and less than a minute later Variforce floated himself and The Harlequin, wrapped in a rolling cocoon of glowing fields, through the courtroom doors. Lei Zi really had mobilized the team behind us — another minute and every Sentinel would have come down on the bad guys like the wrath of God.
Shaken court attendees trapped by the fight climbed out of their refuges, coughing in the drywall dust that floated in the air and covered everything. In the beams of the emergency lights, the courtroom looked like contractors had started an unscheduled demolition without getting everyone out first. Already under Chakra’s remote guidance, The Harlequin went to work on an unconscious bailiff while I stood there. My cheek was bleeding again, copper on my tongue, and I needed to move.
So why did I feel like the whole scene was far, far away?
“Shelly?” I whispered. “Get Blackstone, please? Private?”
“Yes, my dear?” he answered.
“Sir? I unmasked one of the attackers. It was Eric Ludlow. And he was standing up to Watchman.” I didn’t know which was worse.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, sir. But he’s only a B Class — I pinned him easy last year — Dad works with him and the rest of The Crew on cleanup emergencies. He cried, he’s cleaned up — I mean — ”
“I understand.”
“I can’t believe he’d — ”
“Of course not. I’ll alert the proper people, and we will find out what has happened to our Mr. Ludlow. It may be that he is being used, even controlled. Are you all right, my dear?”
I heard his subtext: Can you do your job? Taking a deep breath, I let it out. “Yes.”
“Then we will speak more of this at the Dome. Try not to be concerned.”
I got busy, flying paramedics and their equipment up from the plaza as Chakra directed them by psychic triage, then flying their strapped-down patients out. Benny Larkin was dead, along with one of the bailiffs — the nice one who’d tested Malleus’ heft just yesterday. I read the name above his badge: Officer Travis Delcort. It looked like he’d just been in the wrong place when they came through the wall. I dusted him off, closed his eyes, straightened his blood-matted hair — a useless gesture, he was just going to go into a bag — and whispered his name so I could retrieve it from Dispatch if I forgot. The luckier bailiff looked like he’d been thrown, and nobody else who’d been trapped in here was more than battered and shaken, in shock or suffering transient tinnitus from the repeated flash-bangs of the stun spheres. Even Safire would be fine, according to Dispatch.
Our part of the cleanup didn’t take long and, before we finished, we got word that Rush would be fine, too; he’d been shocked and concussed, but he’d been lots worse.
Getting back to the Dome meant writing up a report and going through a quick one-on-one debriefing while my memories were still fresh. The report was for the action review board and I was getting pretty good at those, but the debriefing was for our own benefit — Lei Zi and Watchman used them to analyze our encounters and tactical responses and to shape our ongoing drills and training. Also, dumping my experience and impressions onto those paid to think about them left me free to remember my earlier, happy resolution this morning.
* * *
I caught Seven after his debriefing and invited him home for Friday Night Dinner. He accepted as casually as he did everything else, which gave me a beautiful opening for carrying out my fiendish plan.
I had other motives, too. I’d invited Julie, Annabeth and Megan out of desperation — I hadn’t seen them in weeks outside of the class
es I’d managed to scramble to (my professors were beginning to think I was a rumor) — and with all us girls, including Shelly, Dad really needed more testosterone at the dinner table. Toby had a date (I seriously questioned the intelligence of anyone willing to put up with Toby, but the IQ curve meant there had to be someone who’d date my troll of a brother), and Dane was in New Jersey having one of the most impressive rookie years in professional soccer.
Being in a fight meant we were all completely off the watch roster for twenty-four hours, so I threw on a Bees-coordinated skirt outfit — Friday nights were not casual, even when it was just family — and drove Shelly and me home. Seven followed in his sporty Maserati, but nobody would notice him if he didn’t want them to.
The trees of Oak Park had started to turn, lining Chicago Avenue with oranges and yellows. There’d be weekends raking the front and back yards soon, with sandwiches and lemonade and pie; Mom wasn’t big on homemaking (we had a cleaning service), but she made us celebrate certain calendar events in a way that would make Norman Rockwell proud. As I pulled up to the curb, Shelly made a weird strangling sound and all my instincts went into overdrive.
“What?” I whispered, parking but not turning off the engine, scanning the shadows between the trees and houses for threats as Seven pulled in behind us — he hadn’t missed a single traffic light on our tail. The Bees weren’t here yet. Earbug out but not yet on, I reached for my cell. Home had security, darn it,. It was invisible and courtesy of the Sentinels and probably as good as anyone’s who wasn’t the leader of a country, so what could be wrong? Shelly grabbed my wrist before I could hit “0” — our personal 911 if not canceled once punched.
She pointed to the faded green Volkswagen Beetle in the driveway. Okay... With my eyes, I could see the light pattern of old curb rash on its left bumper, but I didn’t see — A blue and white bumper sticker clung to its back bumper, seriously faded but I could read it, and it said My daughter is an Oak Park honor student. I spun in my seat, nearly destroying the steering wheel. Shelly wasn’t moving, and her eyes had gone huge.
It was Mrs. Boyar’s car. I hadn’t seen her in four years, since a little after the funeral. She’d moved away where everything wouldn’t remind her of Shelly.
Breathe, Hope. You can breathe, and WHAT IS SHE DOING IN OUR HOME? Parked behind us, Seven didn’t get out of his car but my cell started singing Luck, Be A Lady. The Frank Sinatra rendition, of course.
Shell let me go so I could answer it.
“Is everything okay?”
I twisted to look back at his car. “Yeah. Just unexpected company.”
“Should I go?” His Lucky Cloak of Anonymity would never last through a whole dinner.
“I don’t — could you wait — ” I tried to think. Shelly desperately shaking her head decided me. “Could Shell wait in your car? I need to go in.” Mom hadn’t called. She hadn’t called after I’d texted her to get late approval for Seven, so she didn’t want us not coming home. Whatever was happening, I could be sure of at least that.
Shelly finally moved enough to do more than nod, and then she was scrambling out her door and around to Seven’s car. Ducking in, she slumped down below the level of his dash. Okay.
For a moment, I considered putting my earbug on so she could listen in, dropped it as a bad idea. During my required therapy sessions, I’d talked to Doctor Mendel about the idea of bringing Shelly and her mom together; she’d categorically dismissed it — any move before Shell was ready to do it herself was a huge risk, and she obviously wasn’t ready now. Letting her listen in, when I didn’t know the sitch or what I’d be hearing, seemed to fit the same category.
I turned off the engine, checked my hair, swore off procrastinating, got out and resisted the urge to sneak up to the front door and eavesdrop with my super-duper hearing. “Once more into the breach, dear friends...” Pull on your big-girl panties, Hope.
Flying blind into the Daley Center had been easier.
* * *
“I’m home!” I called, closing the door behind me. “Hi, Mrs. B. Saw your car, you’re still driving it?” Ack. Dumb — no, stupid, she pushed it here because that’s what people can do in your world. Mrs. Boyar sat beside Mom on the living room couch, on its edge like she’d almost jumped off of it when I opened the door.
Mrs. Boyar had never been comfortable in our house. Mr. Boyar had only ever been Shelly’s dad in the sense that he’d donated chromosomes, but by the time Shelly and I had met in grade school, her mom had worked her way up to practice manager for Larkin & Carosi, corporate attorneys — or as she’d affectionately called them, inveterate shysters — while raising Shelly on her own. I’d never understood why she hadn’t liked to come over; Shelly had practically lived here with her blessing. Like my family, hers had deep roots in Oak Park even if she’d grown up on the poorer side, and she’d liked me; a kid can tell when parentals are faking, just being polite to offspring’s friends, and she hadn’t been. Now...
Now, I had serious dry mouth. I knew what she saw; I’d grown maybe two inches since she’d last seen me, but the tomboy was gone. The evil, evil Bees had turned me into a fashionista, and if I couldn’t be beautiful, I could manage stylish. Tonight, I wore a sleeveless silk blouse with a loose cravat collar, calf-high leather boots, and a belted and triple-layered seriously mini skirt saved from immodesty only by the opaque white tights I wore under them.
Mrs. B smiled, but didn’t look surprised. It helped, but she was still wound tighter than a cello. If she was the A-string, I was the D.
“Hello, Hope. You’ve turned out wonderfully.”
“And you look great.” She did, but I was running out of words. I searched Mom’s face for a clue, but she’d gone completely Zen and sat there at one with the universe. Thanks, Mom. “Are you staying for dinner?” Beeeep — wrong question! Easily misinterpreted as a hint to go away. I longingly contemplated making a cowardly break for my room, or at least the kitchen and a glass of water; I didn’t have enough spit left to sound natural.
Mom still didn’t say anything, and Mrs. B wouldn’t stop staring. Dropping my gaze I finally saw the leather executive folder she held neatly on her lap, the kind you might take documents into a boardroom meeting in. Mrs. B started, looked down at the folder like she’d forgotten it was there, and drew a breath.
“I came to see you, Hope.” Her hands stroked the leather. “I needed to ask you something.”
“Okay. Sure.” What else could I say? Still no clue from Mom, and we were so going to have words later. Mrs. B opened the folder, held it out, and I accepted it automatically.
And almost dropped it. The top page was a character study in colored pencil. A sleek, anime-style figure, blue and white, seams and rivets suggesting a retro automaton. I helplessly flipped the pages. More Robotica sketches. Shell had actually been very good, but a corner of my brain wondered how Mrs. B even had these. Shell had kept all her superhero sketches at our place; her mom hadn’t approved and hadn’t let her work on them at home. And I’d burned everything — hadn’t I?
“Your mother gave me those,” Mrs. B said, like she was reading my mind. “She brought them to me when I left for the position she found me.”
And I’d explore that later, too. Now, I just nodded. She held out her hands and I returned the folder. It went back in her lap, her hands sliding over it until she folded them together. Her eyes were bright.
“Hope, I — I’ve known that you were Astra for some time.” Her face was a tight, controlled mask. “I saw you at the power station ribbon-cutting last year, and nobody who really knows you can miss it.”
Maybe I could faint; I was pretty sure all the blood had left my head. “You must absolutely hate me,” I managed. Her eyes widened.
“No! No, never.” Her hands tightened over the folder. “It was my daughter’s obsession, always, not — You enjoyed playing in the world she made.”
My cold cheeks were wet. “She didn’t want to go.”
Mrs. B didn�
��t ask what I meant by that. Instead she gave me a look that was pure Shell in an adult face, and took another deep breath.
“I came tonight to ask if you used her designs. I saw the news today.”
Oh, God. Shelly, standing sentinel on Daley Plaza, no gear, all sleek chrome lines. “I’d never — ” I blurted, stopped, horrified. What could I possibly ...
Now Mom nodded. It was over.
“I’d never do that, Mrs. B. But — ” Deep breath, Hope. “But Shelly did.”
I couldn’t bring Shelly in — not before I told her mom everything about the Teatime Anarchist and quantum-ghosts, made sure she understood what Shelly was now, that she was our Shelly’s Siamese twin, joined at the brain. Finished, I prayed to every saint, promised a million Hail Marys, while my BFF’s mom wrestled with the mystery that was Shell.
In the end, I’d been afraid for nothing; Mrs. B’s face was a study in wonder.
“Can I see her?”
“She’s hiding in the car.”
* * *
Seven was great, giving us space and staying quiet while I tried to talk Shelly out of his ride, but I felt like I was negotiating for hostages (not that I’ve ever done that myself).
“She knows, Shell.”
“She can’t!”
“She knows everything. Well, not why the Anarchist backed you up — I told her he thought I needed a sidekick.”
“How can she — ”
“Please, Shell. You’ve wanted this.”
“I can’t!” Seven shrugged, no help there. I closed my eyes, counting, and wondered if Vulcan had thought of the need for off-switches in hysterical robots.
“Shell, please,” I tried again. “I know you’re scared, but your mom — I swear to God that I will drag you inside if I have to.” Then I followed Dad’s ever-valuable negotiating advice and shut up while my BFF worked it through.
Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape) (Volume 3) Page 10
