‘Quit twisting my words, Rowe. As I stated for the record at the last meeting, the matter deserves a full and public debate.’ says Blackshear, leaning into his microphone despite (or perhaps due to) the fact that his voice fills the small room just fine without it.
Ernest whispers to his friend and employer. ‘I’ve seen this guy before. Big advocate for the soccer complex. Creative. Tax credits for developers, hotel operators, etcetera. Guy’s a hero to those kids. And their parents.’
Ryland Washington nods. Otherwise, he remains virtually motionless while he assesses behavior. Either that, or he’s getting one step closer to enlightenment, Ernest concludes.
‘And what I don’t understand, Councilman Rowe,’ Jupiter continues, ‘is if you’re being obtuse because you don’t understand the issue, or if it’s a personal thing.’
‘Excuse me?’ At one end of the conference table, Douglas Rowe shakes his head. He looks sharp in his grey suit, complete with a pocket square whose shade of orange complements the tie. With a thick head of mostly grey hair swept back over his head, he looks like a cross between a college professor and a college president—if that college president did 100 pushups every morning. And the look he gives Jupiter is equal parts exasperation and condescension; a college president considering disciplinary sanctions for a student who’s violated the school’s code of conduct.
‘You do recall,’ Rowe says, ‘that this session, like every session we ever have, is open to the public.’ Rowe sweeps an arm around the mostly empty auditorium. ‘And you recall that I recused myself from the vote. When you’re finally out of diapers, dumbass, I’ll explain—’
The sharp knock of a gavel. Several, in fact.
With a glare, council chairman Holly Ephron brings order to the meeting. ‘Mr. Rowe. The last comment will be stricken,’ Ephron says, annoyed with Rowe, but also not bothering to conceal her own chafing at the young councilman. ‘Mr. Blackshear. As you know, usage rights for the proposed museum and shopping complex acreage is being donated by Councilman Rowe. He will not see remuneration from this deal until the bond is paid in full, which may be 25 years. There is no conflict of interest. It saves the city millions.’
‘It’s our gift to the city,’ Rowe adds. ‘A legacy this whole council can leave behind. Or perhaps Councilman Blackshear has a GoFundMe campaign that would—’
Ephron holds up a hand, silencing Rowe, but still looking at Jupiter. If Rowe’s vibe is that of a college president, Ephron’s is of a wealthy alum. ‘If, however, we put the complex on the land you own, it opens this council to charges of ethics violations at best, corruption at worst. Now then: Do you have a new issue to bring before the council?’
‘Yes.’ Jupiter casts his eyes over the council. ‘It’s in a floodplain.’
‘Not our problem.’
‘Unless it floods.’
This time Rowe is the one slamming a gavel, except he doesn’t have a gavel. His fist makes for an effective substitute, however. The echo of Rowe’s gavel-less table strike dances in the air. ‘That’s why we have insurance! That’s why we have levees!’
Jupiter shrugs. ‘Levees fail.’
Ephron has heard enough. ‘Very well. Councilman Blackshear has brought a motion before the council that it reconsider the commercial zoning plan adopted previously. All in favor of said motion?’
Jupiter Blackshear and one male colleague raise their hands.
‘Two in favor. Seven opposed. The motion is denied.’
---
From the back of the room, Ernest looks over at Ryland. Ryland purses his lips. Using his chin, he motions to a door. The men extract themselves from their half-desks.
When the pair enter the hallway, Ernest is the first to speak. ‘Seems like a smart guy. Can certainly think on his feet. Plus, he’s a fighter. That’s a good thing.’
‘It does take a certain courage to be the voice of dissent.’
‘So what do you think?’
Ryland shrugs. ‘We’ll see.’
The St. Louis City Council meeting adjourns, and the two crime fighters intercept soccer enthusiast Jupiter Blackshear as he steps into the hallway. He’s speaking with the colleague who voted in support of Jupiter’s failed motion, still apparently pleading his case, hands gesticulating. Over Jupiter’s shoulder, Ernest catches a glimpse of Rowe and Ephron shaking hands. Rowe glances Jupiter’s way and launches eye daggers into the young Councilman’s back. Good thing Rowe’s not one of the Powered, or else the eye daggers might be more literal than figurative.
‘Mr. Blackshear. Do you have a moment?’ Ryland asks.
Jupiter stops. He leaves a hand on the shoulder of his colleague, and gives the pair the once-over. His eyebrows signal a flash of recognition, then suspicion. ‘You two from the paper?’
‘From the police.’ Ryland says. ‘There’s something we’d like to discuss.’
‘Police? Uh oh. Is this about the tags on my mattress? My collection of mp3s? Because I have receipts for all that shit.’
Ryland’s face becomes a warm smile. He offers his hand. ‘I’m Ryland Washington. St. Louis Chief of Police. Tough meeting in there tonight.’
‘Ha, you should be there for the ones where we argue.’ His eyes are light brown. They look a bit small under a wide forehead, but they radiate with a piercing, intuitive intelligence—the kind of smarts that allow someone to get straight A’s in school without really trying. It’s not hard to imagine Jupiter’s face on a movie poster. The councilman folds the corners of his mouth into an expression of, what are you gonna do? ‘Eh, they’re all like that. We fight for what we think is right. You win some. You lose some. I knew what I was signing up for.’
‘Speaking of signing up: this is Ernest Smith.’
Ernest offers his hand. ‘Wait. Now I recognize you,’ Jupiter says, shaking hands. ‘Damn, you actually look bigger than you do on TV. For most people it’s the opposite. You know I met Matt Damon once? Yeah, charity mission delivering drinking water in Nairobi. And I swear to God, I’m a good foot taller than him.’ Jupiter’s eyes travel from Ernest to Ryland, and then back again to Ernest. ‘So. You’re the hero fireman, right? Saved those kids at the school?’
Ernest gives Ryland a glance, asking permission. Ryland nods.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly what? The hero? Or the school?’
‘The fireman,’ Ernest says.
‘I don’t… not a fireman?’ Jupiter’s eyes narrow. ‘What are you, then? A poet? A librarian? A ninja?’
Ernest’s mouth draws into a frown. ‘Probably best if we don’t talk about ninjas.’
‘Why? You get attacked by one?’ Jupiter asks.
‘I’m parenting one.’
‘I… I don’t understand.’
‘That makes two of us,’ Ernest says.
Eighteen
Flynn Smith is a ninja. Or at least she’s dressed like one.
And right now, she’s in a fugue state. When she finishes running a polishing cloth over a gleaming katana, she looks up, catches her reflection in the mirror hung on the back of the bedroom door. The dark brown hair with the lavender streak. The intense brown eyes. Just like mom’s. Her tongue pokes out from the corner of her mouth. It makes her look like a little kid playing with a coloring book, not an almost-grown woman with an instrument of death.
She rises from the edge of the bed, sword in hand. She steps to the middle of the bedroom, then twirls. Makes several acrobatic slashes through the air. Silver ruin speeds toward her target.
Flynn Smith stops the blade just inches from Fergus’s exposed neck. For a long second or two, he offers no reaction.
‘Can’t you do that in your bedroom?’
Flynn lifts the sword. She inserts blade into scabbard. ‘Tell me this isn’t badass,’ Flynn commands. Whether her brother is ignoring her out of spite, or because he’s deep in concentration himself, is unknown.
Her brother turns from the computer. At 17, he’s older by just 11 months. O
nce her mom sets her mind to something, that thing gets done, Flynn has explained to friends. Seventeen years ago, she set her mind to having babies, and didn’t waste any time between reloads.
Fergus holds out a hand, and Flynn hands over the weapon. He scrutinizes Flynn’s handiwork. By any measure, the katana is impressive. The outfit Flynn wears, on the other hand… well, if not impressive, then something.
She’s dressed in some kind of battle armor that’s part steampunk dress, part ninja assassin. It’s probably been lifted chapter-and-verse from some comic book, Fergus thinks, but God knows which one. She turns to her side so Fergus can appreciate the attention to detail. The dress is cream-colored, with thin red stripes along its length. They lend a reinforced, sturdy aspect, like they’re meant to protect from slashing objects. Below the flare of her dress, Flynn’s white boots are high-heeled, and rise to the knee. Flynn slings the katana across her back.
In all honesty, Fergus admits to himself, the outfit does look rather badass. In fact, if the stunningly beautiful Bree from English class were wearing the outfit rather than his hopeless nerd of a sister, he’d be a little less reserved in his praise.
‘It’s OK,’ he concludes.
Flynn angles her head. ‘It’s better than OK.’
Fergus hands the sword back to his sister and turns, speaking to his laptop screen. ‘Sure, Flynn. Badass. And obsolete. People stopped stabbing each other with swords, like, 2,000 years ago.’
‘Whatever,’ Flynn says.
Fergus sighs. ‘Can you hit the bricks, loser? You’re supposed to be practicing.’
Flynn adjusts the crimson choker around her neck. ‘Who says I’m not?’
Without looking up, Fergus points at the violin Flynn dragged in his room. It rests on the bed, silent.
‘The concert’s postponed,’ Flynn says. ‘The acoustics on top of a big pile of rubble aren’t the greatest.’
Fergus ignores the verbal joust and retrieves a printout. He takes it over to a corkboard to the left of his desk. He glances over the existing material, then finds a home for this latest clue. Fergus plops back in his chair, entering a fugue state all his own.
Flynn positions the katana across her lap so she can sit. Having a katana strapped to your back makes you look like a badass while standing, say, in your brother’s room, or while staring down enemies as a breeze whips through your hair. What they aren’t good for, however, is finding a comfortable seated position on a bed. She tilts her head as she studies Fergus’s array of pinned articles and what look like architectural sketches. Most of what’s on the board chronicle some sort of real or hypothetical prison break—from Alcatraz, San Quentin, Rikers Island.
‘You’re a strange little man, Fergus,’ Flynn announces.
Fergus doesn’t blink. ‘Says the little girl who makes her own clothes.’
Flynn concedes the point, but not out loud. Instead: ‘I thought you were supposed to be studying.’
‘Who says I’m not?’ Fergus replies, still examining the corkboard. ‘I’m studying how Strang busted out of jail. I mean, is the containment system we have for people like him that weak? I say no. My hypothesis is that he had help.’
‘Of course he did.’
Fergus folds his hands in prayer, touches his fingers to his lips, and pivots to face his sister. She can be so immature. ‘Can you be serious for one second, Flynn? I mean, aren’t you curious? Aren’t you worried?’
‘About Strang? He’s dead. Still.’
‘About others,’ Fergus says. ‘Worried there might be someone else out there bent on revenge.’
Flynn studies the hilt of her weapon. She unsheathes it a few inches. The thin, white strand of rope woven into and around the grip feels electric and alive. She half wishes that someone would try stabbing her, just so she could put the thing through its paces. ‘Nope.’
‘Fine. Then leave me alone.’ Fergus swivels back toward his computer. He scrolls through a news article about a famous escape from Leavenworth, Kansas, and then opens a search page. From what Flynn sees about the search, Fergus is about to investigate what kind of materials visitors can bring during a jailhouse visit.
‘It was Dad, stupid.’
The keyboard stops clacking.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Of course you don’t think so,’ Flynn says. ‘You don’t think so because you’re the golden child. You worship the ground Dad walks on.’
‘Um-hmm. Figured that one out with your woman’s intuition and all?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll stick to things that actually exist,’ Fergus says. ‘Like facts. I mean why would Dad help a criminal mastermind out of jail when he’s the one who put him away in the first place?’
Flynn stares at her brother as though the answer should be self-evident. Because to her, it is. She just can’t believe it isn’t to Fergus.
‘The same reason you think you’re a True Crime detective, and spend your evenings tacking stuff to a corkboard rather than doing your English homework,’ she says, and then adds: ‘Because the two of you are exactly alike.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?
Flynn clicks the sword back into its hilt. ‘You’re both stubborn as a couple of oxes.’
‘Oxen. Getting an A in English, if you must know.’
‘And both of you are easily bored.’
Fergus lets this one sink in as he composes a response. He opens his mouth to deliver it, but is cut off by a knock at the door.
Flynn stands and opens Fergus’s bedroom door.
It’s Father. Captain Boredy-pants in the flesh.
‘Hey. What’s the plural for an ox?’ Flynn asks.
Ernest regards his daughter’s get-up. He tries to think of something to say. He was coming in to discuss something specific, but the combination of the visuals and the riddle have suddenly left him incapable of mental recall.
‘I told her,’ Fergus offers. ‘I said she should be practicing violin.’
Oh yeah. That. ‘Uh, where did—’
‘I made it,’ Flynn says. ‘Well, not the sword. Actually, just not the steel part.’
Made it? How? From what? Is the sword sharp? Are you planning on using it in a duel or something? Ernest’s eyes ask all of these questions and several others, although his mouth hasn’t had enough time to catch up. At last, he opens his mouth.
Words fail.
---
Ernest wanders into his bedroom. He now recalls the specific reason for the visit: he was going to check on the night’s homework, offer help if either of them needed it, and confirm driving logistics for the following evening’s orchestra rehearsal. He expected at least some sort of gratitude.
What he got instead was his son hunkered over a laptop, busy converting his bedroom into a lair better suited an unstable, alcoholic detective whose brain is slowly turning to jelly. Ernest would know—he’s seen the personality type many times during his time with the SLPD: type-A obsessives who spend their free time trying solve or prevent crimes that have resisted all efforts otherwise. In the movies, things tend to pan out nicely for these tortured souls. Closure and such. In real life, those types usually don’t get their man, don’t get the promotion, and don’t get the redemption they seek. They typically complete their character arcs the same way they began: as depressed, obsessive alcoholics.
And worse, Fergus is actually taking up less of Ernest’s capacity for worry than is Fergus’s sister.
What the hell was Flynn wearing? She had mentioned the words Lara Croft (familiar) and Sailor Moon (not familiar) and Ninja Garden, although it may have been Ninja Gaiden (also not familiar, whatever the correct pronunciation). Ernest is still replaying the list of movie/comic book/video game characters that supposedly inspired the costume—which, on second ghastly thought, she insisted wasn’t a costume at all, but rather a prototype.
Ernest settles into an easy chair and rubs his eyes using the heel of his hands. When he opens the
m, Phoebe stands at the bathroom door, flossing her teeth.
‘Well? Was she?’ It sounds more like: ‘Augh? Ausshie?’
‘Practicing? Umm, no. Not practicing her violin. And I think we should reconsider the comic book subscriptions. What would help more is me getting a whiskey subscription.’
‘Augh owh awck oooohewer.’
‘Good. You go talk to her. Because she still listens to you.’
‘Ughoo ayaht?’
‘Because she’s still scared of you, that’s why I say that.’
Phoebe removes her fingers from her mouth. She rewraps her floss. ‘She should be.’
Ernest smiles at this.
Phoebe opens her mouth. Something else occurs to her, though. ‘Did you and Ryland come up with someone?’
‘Sort of. Jupiter Blackshear is his name.’
She stops flossing. Squints one eye. Slurps back some of the saliva pooling in the space under her tongue. ‘The politician Jupiter Blackshear?’
‘Yes. The city councilman,’ Ernest says.
His wife pitches the floss in a wastebasket and leans against the doorjamb. ‘Hmm. I think he already has a superpower. Tax evasion.’
Ernest exhales a laugh. ‘It’s harder than it sounds. We can’t just hold a tryout. Or post it in the classifieds.’
‘I don’t think the people you want for this job know what classifieds are.’
Ernest opens his palms in a gesture of surrender. ‘Not my job. Ryland’s the one who’s supposed to find the right man. My job is to give them the right training.’
‘First of all, know that I’m still pissed. Not telling your wife about the fact that you can pass on superpowers is unforgivable.’
‘I didn’t want the kids vying for the job. I’m sorry.’
Pheobe responds by taking a step toward her husband. Folds her arms. Her eyes have a faraway look, her gaze fixed on a spot on the wall just over Ernest’s shoulder. Ernest feels like he’s watching some kind of chess grand champion considering not just her next play, but a possible reaction to her next play, and then the reaction to that. In the space of two seconds, Ernest has time to catalogue her look, and hopes she doesn’t view him as one of the pawns. ‘But that was in the abstract. Now that you’re actually having to hand things over, have you—’
I, Superhero Page 8
