“It is an eternal experience that every man who has power is drawn to abuse it; he proceeds until he finds the limits.”
Montesquieu.
“There are always breakthroughs who believe they can do anything. We’re here to prove them wrong.”
John Chandler, aka Atlas.
* * *
They gave us our own annex.
“Mr. Lucas?” The English butler (c’mon, really?) hadn’t looked twice at my fangs or claws as he led us through the underground Hilton. A Hilton with doors that were too hip to go swoosh because that would be a cheap sound effect, but should have.
“Your rooms are the first on the left of the common room. Your Highness, yours are the second on the right. Mr. Lasila, you are next down from Mr. Lucas. The pantry is through the door on the end. The others will be joining you when they have time to move their things.”
“Right...” Reese looked impressed by the “common room.” Ozma didn’t, but probably nothing would impress her short of Buckingham Palace.
She nodded smartly. “Thank you, Willis.” Of course she remembered his name. “This is lovely, and I’m sure we will be quite comfortable. When will I be able to see my lab?”
He practically clicked his heels. “Your boxes are being delivered, Your Highness, and I will take you down presently if no one else makes themselves available.”
“Then we will be fine for now. Thank you.”
“Your Highness. Sirs. Call if anything is needed.”
“Should we tip?” Reese snarked when Willis disappeared through the door. “Is he off to polish the silver?”
Ozma just smiled. “Since our bags are already here, I suggest we unpack and clean up.” She yawned behind her hand, suggesting that sleep might come before serious unpacking. She and Reese were covered in ash even after he’d blown them off. I hadn’t been on the right side of the airport to see the slash-and-burn fight, but apparently Her Highness had ended the Green Man’s attack pretty decisively. No surprise there, but she actually looked a little wilted.
The big burnoff had thrown up enough smoke to give me shade as I’d worked clearing the road for emergency vehicles to get into the airport. Chicago’s capes had still been doing cleanup when we left, including the tiny cheerful blonde who’d given me the lift; last I’d seen her, she’d been proving she could fly for a family of kids.
Finally figuring out how to make the door panel work, I stepped into “my” room and had to take a minute.
Willis had meant what he said: rooms. Bedroom, dressing room, bathroom, and everything in my size, which was quite a trick. Even the shower (a separate tiled room, not a stall) gave me plenty of space, and the bathtub was big enough to host a flock of migrating ducks. Welcome to the big leagues.
I called Aunt Donna to let her and Uncle Carl know I’d arrived, found out we were on TV, and turned on my big-screen (yep, the remote had been sized for my clawed hands).
Holy shit.
Chicago’s news crews had to be crazy freaking daredevils to get the kind of footage they had, and the screen panned over the line of attacking green. I spotted Ozma and the blonde standing with some barely dressed blue-flaming chick and a freaking flaming chorus line of dancing blue firemen. Burning blue firemen, complete with fire axes and fire hats, long fire coats, and a pretty good sense of rhythm. Crazy girl had style.
I showered and worked on the hair.
* * *
Willis called to let us know that our new comrades would be down to meet us, so I dressed and stepped out in costume to meet everyone; it’s always best to get it over with. Reese and Ozma didn’t have costumes yet — the school had the uniform and variations on it — but my needs had gotten me one. It was just a pair of very heavy duty reinforced and stretchable black bike shorts and an armored belt I could store fragile stuff in. The whole thing could accommodate my changing clothing sizes and held up pretty well in a fight.
Everyone else was waiting for me. Ozma had changed into a party dress for the occasion, but Reese just slouched in jeans. The others were all in costume.
“Wow,” the blue and silver robot girl said. The girl I’d met at the airport nudged her. Astra. I should have realized — how many tiny blonde teen Atlas-types were there? She’d dressed for the party in a skirted costume instead of her normal battle gear and minus her mask. Crash and a guy in a red and black leather costume I didn’t recognize flanked them on the couch, but I didn’t pay attention to them.
“Wow?” she teased the robot. “Apologize.” She aimed her grin at me as robot-girl rolled her eyes. “Shell just likes big muscles. Is the Mr. Universe build your default look?” She laughed, smiling like we hadn’t all been in a desperate fight with nature just hours ago.
“Um, yeah.” Shell?
“We brought offerings. Truthfully, Willis made them.”
They’d piled the table in the middle of the dropped area high with food: toasted sliders, chips and dip, wrapped mini-sandwiches and fancier things on toothpicks, and bottles of everything. The smell of the hamburger sliders made my mouth water and my fangs started growing. I dialed them back, but not before Astra saw and her eyes widened. Shit.
She looked away, transferring her smile to Ozma.
“Willis told me your...assistants?...have taken over the lab Vulcan equipped for you. Should we invite them up?”
Ozma shook her head, hands busy piling a plate full of sliders. Everyone else had already dug in. “They don’t eat. Nox would threaten somebody and Nix is shy, but thank you.” She handed me the plate and a bottle like she was serving tea and cakes, and Astra’s eyes followed the plate back to me before she looked away again, smile still up. She sat legs crossed and back straight, mirroring Ozma, and I almost choked when I realized what they were doing; it was high tea at Buckingham Palace and they were seriously trying to out-princess each other.
You have got to be kidding me.
Astra — what was her real name? Hope? The cheerful girl sitting there drinking a Coke with her pinky-finger extended like she was holding a teacup, dressed like a superhero cheerleader, had killed Seif-al-Din, the supervillain who killed Atlas. She’d dropped a godzilla pretty much on her own, and taken down a demonically possessed A Class Atlas-type if the Sentinels fansites weren’t just making it up.
And she couldn’t look at me. Shit.
Astra
Boys could be so stupid.
First he came walking out like he was ready to flex for the judges — he might as well have oiled up first — then he got all...sensitive because I was surprised to see his teeth growing.
I’d read his files, I just didn’t think he morphed to eat.
And now he couldn’t look at me. I suppressed a sigh and kept smiling, but of course he shut up. Which was too bad; Shelly said I had a “thing” for deep male voices, and while Seven was easy to look at, I could listen to Brian’s voice all day long. It started at a solid bass and worked its way down from there, like the growl of a downshifting Harley Davidson, and I was really tired if I was waxing specifically poetic about voices.
Since he wouldn’t engage and Reese wanted to engage way too much, I passed the time bouncing witty and-how-are-you-enjoying-Chicago back and forth off of Ozma. It was better than stewing in mortification because I’d reduced possibly the strongest boy in the world to a twitching pile of silent embarrassment.
I mean, how could you apologize? Sorry, your growing fangs startled me? Now go right ahead and chow down? Yeah, that would work.
Ozma knew what I was doing and played along, but I bailed out. Five minutes into a discussion of the merits of Hillwood, I cocked my head to the side like I was listening to my earbug, and lied. Duty called. Or Blackstone. Maybe Fisher, but somebody. I left the honors to Shell, maybe she could blow the party up worse. And anyway, we’d all be seeing each other at tomorrow’s newbie orientation.
Mom’s hostess lessons let me retreat with grace — she knew how to exit a party at high speeds without offending anyone or even
looking rushed — but tired as I was, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t go back to the hospital. After our part of the O’Hare cleanup, Dad had suggested I stay away from the hospital for now; the doctors had drugged Toby again to discourage any movement less necessary than breathing, and my presence would just attract more newsies. He had hugged me when he said it, but stay away still meant stay away.
So I went upstairs to the chapel to talk to Quan Yin.
Standing in front of the crypt shrine, I lit my normal votive candles for Atlas, Ajax, and Nimbus with a prayer for each. Then I added three more, one for each death at O’Hare: a businessman from Germany who got pushed over a balcony in the panic, a tourist crushed against another car by a driver trying to bulldoze his way out of the departure lane jam, and an airport worker who got caught under the sweep of vines and asphyxiated before anyone could find him.
I lit one more with a prayer of thanks that there hadn’t been more — dozens of panic and trampling injuries, but not the hundreds who would have died if we hadn’t stopped the green.
And I lit one for Toby. The jerk. What had he been doing? As always, Quan Yin’s luminous white jade face seemed to smile peacefully and I felt better. A little.
Behind me, Father Nolan chuckled. “And why did I know I’d find you here?”
“A little birdy told you?” I turned to see his smile.
“Certainly not. Well, perhaps Mary of the Pagans.” He briefly transferred his smile to Quan Yin, refocused on me. “I would be remiss in my chaplain’s duties if I didn’t come by and see how you are doing.” He sank into a pew, sighed. “And how are you doing, Hope?”
I sat beside him with a sigh of my own, sniffed. Father Nolan handed me his handkerchief and I used it.
“Better than Toby, Father. Dad kept his secret from us since the day of the Event. Mine didn’t last a year.”
“Did you believe it would last? Most high-profile superheroes don’t, unless they go to extremes to hide or alter their appearances entirely. Most don’t even try. Will you dispense with the mask?”
“No. There aren’t that many pictures of me without it. And nobody looks at Hope.”
“Now there, you are inarguably wrong, but in the interest of amity I will let it pass. Hope, you are not responsible for what has happened to Toby.” His mouth set into stern lines. “Do not tell yourself otherwise. Perhaps if you had covered yourself head to toe in concealing body armor, disguised your voice with a device, you could have kept your secret. Perhaps. But you are not responsible for all that may befall your family because you are now a publicly known superhero. Please allow others their agency and moral culpability.”
“I know.” I wiped my wet cheeks. “I just can’t make myself believe it. Toby — ”
“Toby will recover, and if it is learned that his attackers were motivated by your good works, that will be on their heads. Do the police know anything yet?”
“No. It’s not his investigation, but Fisher promised he’d keep me in the loop. There weren’t any witnesses and — They may never find out unless Toby suddenly recovers his memory.”
“Then you will have to forgive unknown strangers. And forgive yourself.” He waited until he got a nod from me, and rose with a groan. “And I am not getting any younger. We will be observing a Mass for the fallen Sunday at St. Christopher, for today’s dead and those in recent days to this latest outbreak of violence. Will you come?”
I nodded. “Thank you, Father — ”
“Ozma has left for her lab,” Shell broke in quietly.
“ — and I have to go now, too.”
* * *
“Going to tell me what’s going on?” Shelly asked when I punched the button for the maintenance level. We’d put Ozma’s lab down with the armory and the wards.
“A private conversation. Leadership stuff.” Private meant exactly that, and she wouldn’t be able to override the Dome’s protocols to listen in. It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have right now, either, but given everything happening and how fast it could all go real bad... “I won’t be long, and then we can dish. Promise.”
Nothing else was going to happen until tomorrow, anyway; Blackstone had decided to give the new guys the day to settle before getting down to business, and he was deep into situation analysis with all of the information from the new Green Man attack.
“Okay.” Shell pouted audibly, but couldn’t make herself sound down. “Crash and Reese have got a Dance Dance Revolution face-off going on the Common Room game system, anyway. I don’t think Reese is very smart.”
I swallowed a giggle and agreed. Challenge a speedster to a dance off? Yeah, good luck with that. And with her computer-precision, Shell would totally own them both. If she joined in, she could download new moves off the Internet between steps.
The doors opened and I stepped out. The maintenance level was just like the others but without the starship-meets-Hilton trim, and even more secure. Willis, not usually a font of information, once told me the original designers had intended the level to include hard-cells for holding superhumans, but Atlas and the others had flatly refused to include detainment as a duty of the Sentinels charter. There would have been no way to keep us independent of the government at all. We’d just be supercops.
They’d given Ozma the space right across the hall from the armory (Willis had lettered the door in green) and she had already figured out the vocal latch; when I touched the door screen, it slid open at her “Come in!”
An oak cabinet stood in one corner and shipping boxes lay open beside the lab tables. Another corner had been turned into a temporary greenhouse. Megan would have said there were enough plant lights to grow a serious indoor marijuana crop, but I had no idea what the climbing vines and flowers were. Which was weird; Mom had a serious flower hobby and I’d helped dress lots of events so I could recognize breeds of poppy, lily, and tea rose, but I didn’t know any of these. Ozma knelt examining the plants. She still wore her party dress, and she dusted the soil off her hands as she stood to greet me. Beside her, two dolls watched me warily.
Dolls. A tiny goth punk, with long raven hair and a look that said he’d cut me if I messed with his princess, sat on a stack of books. The other doll, crouched in the plants, was dressed in silk leaves and sported fairy wings. She smiled uncertainly, like she hoped we’d get along
“Hello,” I said carefully. I couldn’t stop staring. I didn’t get a whiff off of them, confirmation that I’d finally stopped being able to “smell” magic. I’d stopped smelling the wards long ago, but wondered if I’d just gotten used to them.
Ozma smiled. “Those are interesting magic wards you have. They shield the Dome from all outside magic?”
“Doctor Cornelius set them up for us.”
“He did a very good job. Not my magic tradition, but a potent one.” She followed my eyes, smiled. “Would you like to meet Nox and Nix?”
I flushed. “I’m sorry! It’s just that magic ... gives me the wiggins. I know there’s really no difference between magic and Verne-tech superscience, but — Sorry.”
“And yet, here I am. With you to thank, too. Thank you. And why?”
I opened my mouth, closed it, huffed helplessly. Oh well, in for a penny...
“How true are they?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The stories about Oz?” Mom had grown up with Grandma’s childhood collection of Baum’s Oz books and Dad had read them to me for bedtime stories. Which had made the Future Files on Ozma really disturbing — and sent me back to them to confirm what I’d remembered.
Ozma pointed us to a pair of lab stools, waiting for me to take one before seating herself. Her pictures really hadn’t done Baum’s description justice; she was perfect, a jewel of a human being, and though she looked maybe sixteen she carried herself with a sense of easy confidence in her worth and position that went down to her bones. She might as well have been wearing a t-shirt that said “I’m the Princess of Oz. Who are you?” — but the que
stion would be absolutely unironic, asked with a cheerful, friendly smile that reminded me of Annabeth of all people.
She let me settle myself and adjust my costume skirt while she thought about it. Nix flew herself and Nox up onto the table beside us to watch.
“Baum and the rest were storytellers first, chroniclers second,” she said finally. “None of them were particularly enamored of factuality when it got in the way of telling children’s stories, so some of it is true, some isn’t quite, some of it is entirely fanciful, and it’s all cleaned up for bedtime reading. Perhaps if you told me what you want to be true?”
“I — can you make someone who is alive human again?”
Her perfect eyebrows rose. Obviously not what she had been expecting.
“For example?”
“Well, say that the Tin Woodsman wanted to be human again? Could you?”
“What an interesting question.” She gave it some thought. “Nick Chopper’s meat parts were replaced piecemeal, of course, but he was so proud of his untiring tin body that he never wanted anything of it back. Other than a heart. Is your living but not human friend enchanted?”
I was wound so tight my hands were trying to shake, and I fisted them against my thighs. “No. She’s a copy? A...” I had no idea how to explain quantum-ghosts. “She’s a cybernetic twin.”
“So she has no physical connection with her original body?” She frowned pensively when I shook my head. My heart sank.
“Only her mind, but — There is the story of Peg Amy, and I know you have Glegg’s Box of Mixed Magic...”
“So how much of that story is real? Yes, Glegg turned Peg Amy into a tree, and yes, she was chopped down, a branch later carved into a doll, the doll brought to life by Glegg’s Re-Animating Rays, and she was finally restored to human form when Glegg’s original enchantment was broken in more or less the traditional fairy tale way...” She tapped her perfect chin.
Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape) (Volume 3) Page 17
