“Two-Tone? I’ve done more than that with him.”
Through clenched teeth, Jet whispered, “No, the Runner. You met him?”
“Babe, I meet all of them.” Jet could practically hear the woman’s grin. “I think you’re going to like this one.”
“I liked Cathy.”
“Not this way, you didn’t.”
Oh boy.
The mayor droned on, oblivious to her nearly silent conversation. In the audience, the civilians cheered on cue. It was a spectacle sure to make the headlines for the next two days; Lee must be almost fevered with the thought of deliriously happy constituents. Jet whispered, “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping me informed instead of setting me up?”
“Far as I’m concerned, Jetster, it’s the same thing. When’s the last time you got laid?”
Jet choked, which she quickly covered with a dainty cough into her gauntlet. Mouth hidden behind her hand, she hissed, “That’s none of your business!”
“Like I thought. Forever and a day. You need to loosen up, babe. Or get yourself someone to loosen you up. If not the new Runner, then I highly recommend Two-Tone. And I’m not just saying that because he’s right next to me.”
Terrific, Jet thought, checking herself from rolling her eyes. Between Meteorite, the mayor, and the carefully screened civilians in attendance, it was practically a Jet lovefest—which made someone who strongly preferred to blend with the shadows exceptionally uncomfortable. At least this time no one was showering her in chocolates or throwing men’s underwear. Or, Light help her, women’s underwear.
Mayor Lee boomed on, calling Jet New Chicago’s “Lady of Shadows.” Behind her, Jet distinctly heard one of the cops snort.
“My goodness,” Meteorite said brightly. “I think you just lost a member of your fan club.”
Just a little longer, Jet told herself as she smiled, smiled, smiled. Soon the mayor would finish, and Jet would gratefully accept his gift and murmur her thank-yous, and make a very fast acceptance speech. Then on to the religious and television stops of her daily circuit. And then, finally, she could get out on the streets and actually do her job. Off camera.
“Hang on,” Meteorite said. “Data coming in.” The Ops voice clicked off, filling Jet’s ear with the white noise of a waterfall.
Jet smiled and waited, hoping that the data would be something big enough to pull her out before she had to launch into a speech that she really, really didn’t want to give. Maybe an armed robbery, or a fire …
The earpiece hummed, and Meteorite said, “New marching orders, babe. We spotted her.”
Jet’s heartbeat quickened. “Her? You’re sure?”
“Positive. It’s her energy signature. Whatever she’s been using to block it these past few months must’ve sprung a leak. You’ll have to ask her when you find her.”
“Where?”
Ops gave her the coordinates. “And Jet?” Meteorite said, all traces of playfulness gone. “Corp’ll be all over us if she pulls another vanishing act. Don’t let her get away again.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Jet said, her voice dark and full of promise. No, there was no way that she’d let her slip away. Again. After five years of cat and mouse, Jet was done playing.
“I’ll reschedule Cohn for tomorrow, but you have to make the Goldwater spot.”
“Understood.”
“Now make with the apologies to the mayor and get your ass in gear.”
Jet cleared her throat, then interrupted Mayor Lee. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It’s a real honor to be receiving this award today.”
Lee stared at her, his mouth working as if it dearly wanted to keep speaking, his eyes betraying his irritation. The audience hushed, waited in rapt attention as their savior stood on the Mount.
She smiled at the people of New Chicago, and this time, it felt right on her face. “And thank you all. Your support means more than I could ever say.” Flicking her wrist, she summoned a floater of Shadow. “But now I must go.”
“But …” The mayor spluttered, caught between indignation and professional courtesy. “We haven’t even given you the award yet!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but duty calls. A villain is at large, and I must rein her in.” Stepping onto the smoky black circle, she commanded it to rise. Her cape billowed around her as she hovered over the crowd, giving them one last look. The vids clicked and whirred, and the spectators cheered as Jet waved.
“Enough posing,” Ops said. “Time to go kick some rabid ass.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jet said, and her smile pulled into something feral. “She’ll never know what hit her.”
And Jet rocketed away.
CHAPTER 3
IRIDIUM
Other than the occasional deviation, the extrahumans are all sworn to serve and protect, far more diligently and thoroughly than the standard officer on a police force.
Stan Kane, Chairman of Corp-Co, to Corp-Co Shareholders at the 110th Annual Meeting of Corp-Co Investors, January 31, 2112
Down the numberless alleyways that crossed Wreck City like burst capillaries, Iridium stopped walking and turned around. “You can come out, you know. That Shadow-walking trick hasn’t fooled me since we were fourteen years old.”
Iridium waited, patiently. She was so goddamn paranoid. Probably expected a lasgrid cage, or a net with pointy sticks attached. “Anytime now,” Iridium coaxed.
Yet the bricks behind her, bars and brights of light and dark, stayed quiet, still, and empty.
Iridium set down the metal case of digichips and rolled her eyes. “For Christo’s sake, Jet. Get your ass out here. I read Art of War in the same unit you did. This is not dampening my morale, or whatever it is you’re hoping to accomplish with the big, scary Shadow puppet routine.”
“You cheated in that unit,” Jet said, finally letting herself separate from the shadow of a computerized Dumpster that bore the grinning face of Green Thumb, supershill for Chicago Consolidated Hauling. The fact that a plant-controller was posing for a major polluter made Iridium smile.
“Honey, I cheated at a lot of things,” she told Jet. “Sun Tzu doesn’t actually have a problem with cheating.”
Jet flexed her hands so the night-colored leather gauntlets casing them creaked. “I do.”
“Jehovah,” Iridium muttered. “Is that some elective I missed out on? ‘How to Sound Like a Cheesy Action Vid’?”
“I didn’t come here to talk.”
Iridium felt a pang in the air, like a stray draft of cold wind had come off Lake Michigan. Just a moment before they wrapped around her ankles, she saw the shadows running off Jet’s form, crawling toward her feet. Creepers, manifestations of Jet’s power. Alive.
“Imagine that,” said Iridium, creating a strobe that hung in the air above the pair, arcing and spitting. Jet hissed as her goggles irised from the sudden burst of light. With her cowl, skinsuit, and leather belt and gauntlets, she looked more like a nightmare than anything Iridium saw when she shut her eyes.
Seeing the shadows crawl back to their mistress, Iridium pushed the strobe closer. “Any other day, I’d love to stay and continue our witty repartee, but right now I’ve got places to go and corporate slimewads to rob, so I’ll be jetting. No pun intended.”
“You stay where you are!” Jet shouted. “You can’t get past me, Iridium, no matter how much your ego likes to think so!”
“Christo, shut up!” Jet couldn’t just speak; it was always a Superman with her. A platitude, pat and rehearsed. She might as well have been one of the ’bots the Academy kept around to wax floors and wash dishes. She was wired into Corp, as much as all of their machines. “You make me sick, Jet,” Iridium said. “You can either get in my way and be burned by my strobe—careful,” she snapped when Jet tried to bat the ball of ever-brightening light away, “that’s over a thousand BTUs of heat! Or you can slither away into the dark. As usual.”
Jet held her ground.
Iridium took another step forward and felt a droplet of sweat slide down her spine und
erneath her unikilt. Just the light heat, she lied to herself. Don’t worry about it. “You forget that I know you, Jet.” She pushed at the strobe, making it fly at the cowled woman.
Jet dove to the side at the last second and landed in a heap of garbage, clawing at her face as her goggles overloaded from the brilliance.
Iridium went to Jet, leaned down, and ripped off Jet’s earpiece, crushing the squawk of her operator’s voice beneath her bootheel. “You scare easy,” Iridium hissed into Jet’s ear. “You always have.”
She turned her back on Jet, got the digichip case, and walked away at a measured pace, into the ruins of Wreck City, feeling only a slight prick of guilt for what she’d said.
CHAPTER 4
JET
Out of all the various Powers represented in the Academy—and, of course, the Squadron itself—the most enigmatic one is Shadow.
Lynda Kidder, “Origins, Part Six,” New Chicago Tribune, April 30, 2112
No, no, no, no, no …
Jet took a shuddering breath, told herself not to panic. So what that she didn’t have Ops or the white noise to ground her? Within minutes, a Runner would arrive with another earpiece, and probably with backup, just in case.
Plenty of time.
Trembling from rage and adrenaline, Jet called out, “Iridium, stop in the name of the law!”
Of course, the woman kept on walking. No, strolling, as if she had all the time in the world.
Scrambling to her feet, Jet cursed herself for three kinds of fool. This was all her fault; she never should have led with the creepers to restrain Iri. Even knowing what the woman had become over the past five years, Jet had still attempted to intimidate her with subtlety instead of bludgeoning her with power.
And she’d hoped that maybe some of the old Iri was still there, inside that rabid shell. “I said stop!”
Iridium kept on strolling. And … now she was whistling a jaunty tune. Acting for all the world as if Jet were insignificant.
She thought she heard laughter, dark and syrupy thick.
Over the thumping of her heartbeat, her blood pounding in her ears, Jet shouted, “Don’t you walk away from me!”
If Iridium heard her, she didn’t deign to show it.
Jet’s thoughts blackened with fury. How dare she act as if Jet was irrelevant? As if she wasn’t a threat?
She’d show her a threat.
Snarling, Jet leveled a blast of Shadow at Iridium’s receding back—nothing subtle this time. She meant to take her down, no matter what.
Iridium turned, then yelped as she dove out of the way, her metal case clanging to the pavement. The ebony bolt rocketed past her, and Jet had to force it to dissipate before it hit streetside. She grunted as the Shadow faded to nothing but gray motes in the afternoon sun, and felt a headache pound behind her eyes. Dissipation always drained her. Maybe Iri wouldn’t remember that; it had been five years.
Iridium had landed on her palms, then used the movement to somersault gracefully onto her feet. Now she stood proudly in the middle of the alley, arms out, looking for all the world like an acrobat in her white unikilt.
Still agile as a freaking cat, Jet thought, feeling clumsy and reeking of garbage. Ignoring the way her head throbbed, she aimed directly at Iridium’s smirking mouth.
“Hitting me from behind?” Iri chuffed laughter. “Isn’t that against the rules?”
“I gave you fair warning,” Jet said, approaching slowly. She’d distract her with talk—just enough for Jet to get her strength back. And then she’d blanket her. It would be fast and cold, and Iri would be out before she knew what had hit her. “Maybe you should get your hearing checked.”
“Right, this is the part where you try to distract me.” Iridium shook her head and sighed. “Christo, could you be any more by the book?”
“Sure. I could launch into all the codes you’ve violated in the past five years.” Jet stepped forward, her hand pointed at Iri’s head. “I could list all your crimes. But then we’d be here for days.”
“You think of that comeback all by yourself, or did Ops feed you that line too? Oh, wait—you don’t have Ops in your ear right now, do you?”
Just beyond the steady ache of her head, Jet heard whispers amid the laughter. She grimaced; it was too soon. No more time for banter, or games. With her free hand, she reached into one of her belt pouches to take out a pair of stun-cuffs. “Raise them.”
Iridium put her hands up in a “don’t-shoot” gesture, but Jet wasn’t completely stupid; she felt the change in the temperature around her, the slight shift in heat. Iri was getting ready to strobe her.
She glared at Iridium, debated whether she should raise graymatter to whip up a Shadowshield against the coming attack, or just blanket Iri now. She wasn’t back up to full power, but maybe—
hit her hurt her do it now do it
Shut up! Jet’s outstretched arm shook, and she hoped that Iri hadn’t seen her flinch. Just shut up!
do it do it make her scream make her bleed
Sweat beaded on her brow. Light, she needed her com-link. She had to drown out the voices—
“Still overthinking it, aren’t you?” Iridium’s voice forced Jet to focus on the other woman: Iri was grinning, and she’d lowered her hands. “Some things never change. Poor Jet.”
“Shut up!”
“Maybe you’re scared of little old me.” Iridium took a step forward—to attack? No, she was walking toward the discarded box, no doubt filled with digichips or plasigold. She winked at Jet, as if she was in on a secret. “Maybe you’re just jumping at shadows.”
Jet gasped. Iri knew.
No, impossible. Iri didn’t know about the voices. Only one other person did. Iri couldn’t know.
do it do it now do it NOW do it
The Shadow laughed … and Jet smiled.
“Scared?” Jet said, voice flat. “Me? You don’t know anything about fear. Or jumping at shadows.” The power poured out of her—oh, so fluid and electric, like shocks of pleasure dancing along her limbs—and wrapped Iridium in a blanket of night. “I’ll teach you to be afraid of the dark.”
She watched Iri double over. Grinned as Iri started to scream.
sweet screams sweet sounds suck out the light the life
“No!” Iri’s voice was muffled in the Shadow, desperate. “Jet … Joannie, stop! Stop!”
Jet blinked, then gasped when she saw the cocooned form bent on the floor of the alley, struggling.
Oh Light … Iri?
Joannie!
Jet ripped away the blanket, barely feeling the wave of dizziness hit her as Shadow evaporated. On the ground, Iri crouched, head down, her body wracked with shivers, her arms wrapped around herself.
Biting back a cry, Jet stumbled to her side, put her hand on the woman’s shoulder to offer comfort. “Iri? Callie? Are you okay?”
The punch landed squarely in Jet’s gut, stealing her breath. She doubled over, and a right hook to her jaw knocked her flat. Sprawled on the ground, she wheezed in garbage-tainted air.
Iridium sniffed. “Sucker.”
Jet couldn’t even lift her head to glare. She hurt all over—she’d dissipated too much Shadow instead of absorbing it back. Tiny tremors wracked her limbs, like fog-inspired DTs. Lying there, she heard Iri’s booted footfalls as she walked past Jet, heard Iri scoop up the metal box.
Damn it—get up!
“If you’re going to play with the bad girls,” Iri said lightly, “you have to stop being one of the good guys.”
By the time Jet pulled herself to her feet, Iridium was long gone.
Jet bent over, her hands on her thighs, concentrating on taking deep breaths. Forget how Iri had gotten away, again; forget the voices licking at her mind. Just ride out the pain and wait for the Runner to show up with the new earpiece …
“My, my. Lookee here.”
Jet forced her head up to see a group of seven toughs decked out in their street leathers and chains.
“Boys
,” their leader said, “I think we’re going to have us a bit of fun.”
CHAPTER 5
IRIDIUM
As reassuring as it is to know that the Squadron is committed to protecting us regular folk, we all know that even the best of heroes can go bad. To say nothing, of course, about the worst of heroes, or the myriad of those in between.
Lynda Kidder, “Flight of the Blackbird,”
New Chicago Tribune, July 2, 2112
The gates of Blackbird Prison weren’t steel and barred, like in the old days. They weren’t forbidding or stern or even particularly noteworthy to anyone passing by on the motorway above; but just the same, Iridium felt fingers of nerves all up and down her spine when the force fields parted to let her through. This was where she belonged—at least, according to Corp-Co.
Calista Bradford. Life without parole. The sentence felt like a small stone in the back of Iridium’s throat, every time the gates parted and she walked through a free woman.
Blackbird Prison was where supervillains were punished for daring to step off the party line. Lord Chaos, the Exterminator, Terror Man.
She’d be inside, too, in shackles, if Jet had been just a little sharper in the alley …
No.
Iridium breathed slow and easy, through the nose, just like combat training taught. Keep it slow, keep it calm, keep your head. One of the few useful tenets of life at the Academy. She’d come here dozens of times. They hadn’t caught her yet.
“Identification, miss,” said the guard at the entrance desk. He was enclosed in a rippling blue-purple fortress of magnetic force; the only other furniture in his personal enclosure was a serenely glowing data terminal. Behind him, an enormous bank of five hundred vid screens flickered and twitched, time codes ticking away in the corners. Each of Blackbird Prison’s inmates, the rabids of New Chicago and Mid-America—on display for the public to gawk at, if they chose—with the time left on their sentences delineated at the corner of the screen. On many displays, it simply read LIFE.
Someone in the tour group that had come through the doors behind Iridium snapped a picture of the screens. “This way to the costume gallery,” said the guide. “Much of the rabid—or supervillain, as they prefer—garb in these cases was preserved just as the Illinois prison system received it from the Corp’s capturing hero: laser-burned, bloodstained, and tattered. Please refrain from using vid-lights, as the materials might become discolored …”
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