Jet stared owlishly at the girl on her bed, blinked as she took in the clear blue eyes, the thick black hair, the worried set of the mouth. Recognition dawned, pushed through the fog of her dream. “Iri?”
“Yeah.”
She exhaled, slowly, and when she mopped her sweat-slick bangs away from her eyes, her hand trembled. As she took another shaky breath, she noticed that the room had every light panel on. “Where …” Her throat was raw, and she swallowed, tried to work some moisture into it before she spoke again. “Where’re my goggles?”
Iridium bent down, grabbed something from the carpet. “You mean these?” She dangled the ruined optiframes from a finger. “Looks like you tore them off in your sleep.”
“Oh.” Biting her lip, Jet felt her heart sink into her stomach. Without the special lenses, how would she shut out the darkness at night?
Iridium placed the goggles on Jet’s nightstand, right next to her clock. “Um. Until you get them fixed, you can, you know, keep the lights on overnight.” She sounded caught between worry and embarrassment.
“But …” Jet frowned, said, “but that’ll interfere with your sleep. And it’s against code.”
“Don’t worry about me—I’m happy in the light.” Iridium grinned wickedly. “And as for code, what the proctors don’t know won’t hurt us.”
“But it’s breaking the rules.”
Her father’s voice, smoky with insanity: You broke the rules.
If Iridium noticed how the blood had drained from her face, she ignored it, instead stabbing a finger at Jet. “You want to sleep in the dark?”
She wrapped her arms around herself, shivered. Her voice a whisper, she said, “No.”
“Then let me do this for you, and don’t bitch about it.” Iridium blew out a frustrated breath. “Christo, I try to do something nice, and I get ‘code’ shoved in my face.”
“Sorry.”
Iridium blinked at her, then sighed. “No, I’m being bitchy. Happens when my sleep gets interrupted with the screaming meemies. So. You want to talk about it?”
Remembering her mother’s bloody, broken form, her father’s capering glee, Jet shook her head.
“Well. Okay.” Iridium got up and headed to her own bed. “You change your mind, you know where I am.”
“Thanks,” Jet mumbled, lying back and surrounding herself in the thick comforter. “You sure you’re okay with the lights like this?”
“Jehovah!” Iridium spat. “Don’t push your luck. Bad enough that I’m nice to you. People hear about this, and my rep’s ruined for sure.”
“Sorry …”
“Christo, Joan, I’m joking.”
Jet shivered. She wanted to tell Iri not to call her that—it was against code to refer to each other by anything other than their designations. And she still heard the echoes of her father’s voice, whispering her name. But she held her tongue.
“Listen,” Iridium said, “my dad once told me something when I was little, and it’s helped me whenever I get nervous.”
Jet rolled onto her side to look at her roommate. Iri, nervous? Unheard of. “Really? What was it?”
“A quote, from a long-dead president. ‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.’”
What utter nonsense. “And that helps?”
Iridium shrugged. “Yeah. It reminds me that whatever’s scaring the piss out of me is also scaring everyone around me, even if they’re not showing it. So all I have to do is not show it. So I don’t. Next thing I know, I’m really not afraid anymore.”
Spoken like someone who didn’t learn the hard way that you really should be afraid of the dark. But still, maybe she had a point. “So a nightmare’s just a nightmare, and let it go?”
Iridium beamed. “Look who took a crash course in psychology. That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Thanks.” Jet smiled, faintly, not because she felt better but because Iri expected it.
“Stick with me, kid,” Iridium said, rolling over. “I’ll get you through this hellhole of an Academy.”
“You really think it’s that bad?”
“Nah. But I’m not convinced it’s all that good. ’Night.”
This time, Jet smiled for real. “Lancer.”
She and Iridium laughed at the old joke, then Jet settled back and eventually fell asleep, feeling safe in the light … and in the company of a friend.
CHAPTER 11
JET
Where do the heroes unwind when they’re done heroing? Do they go home to their spouses, kiss their children, and have a warm dinner? Or are they alone, in a forgotten part of town, desperate for downtime in a place that isn’t filled with people begging them to come help or to get their autograph?
Lynda Kidder, “Origins, Part Three,” New Chicago Tribune, April 9, 2112
Jet coasted over New Chicago. Beneath her, the city ebbed and flowed: pedestrians on the walkways, scurrying like crabs; groundcars skimming the roads, leaving trails of exhaust in their wake; hovers cutting through the air currents. Buildings stretched up regally, their chrome-and-glass sides gleaming like sunlight on the water, dazzling the eyes, mesmerizing and exquisite. Usually, Jet enjoyed her patrols, even the quick ones she grabbed when she was on her way back to the Squadron Complex. From up high on a floater of Shadow, it was impossible to see the urban decay scarring the face of the city—the Everyman posters speckling the cityscape like a pox, or the filth of the lawless, marking their territory with debris and crime. Above New Chicago, there were no police emanating resentment, no blistering looks from citizens wrapped in anti-Squadron propaganda. Soaring above meant escaping the troubles below.
But today, there was no solace as winds kissed Jet’s face. Her lips pressed together thinly as she once again replayed how she had screwed up. Light, Meteorite had been livid with her.
“I should kick you,” Meteorite had shouted. “Kick you hard in the ass!”
“There’s no need—”
“Of course there’s a need! Where’s your brain? Christo, Jet, how could you let her get away?”
“It’s not like I gave her a free pass,” Jet had seethed, more angry with herself than with Ops—and she counted her blessings that it was Meteorite on shift. At least she got along well enough with the onetime Weather power; if it had been Frostbite, Jet would have been filing reports for the foreseeable future … and probably would have had to explain herself to the executive committee of Corp. She’d sooner repeat all of her five years at the Academy, twice, before having to explain herself to the EC. They made the Everyman Society look positively docile. “I fought hard, did my best!”
“Sure you did. And in the process, you let a rabid escape. A rabid who’s won over the minds of the police and Wreck City.”
“New Chicago,” Jet said with a sniff. “Grid Sixteen.”
Meteorite waved a hand dismissively. “You and I both know the truth, babe, no matter how politically correct you try to be. It’s Wreck City, and it belongs to Iridium.”
“You’re overreacting. She pulls small-time crimes, corporate jobs. Nothing belongs to her, not unless she steals it.”
“You don’t listen to the street, do you?” Meteorite’s ice-gray eyes regarded her, scanned her face to see her reaction. “Maybe she pulls small-time heists directly, but she’s got her fingers in all the action. The gangbangers all answer to her. The cops look the other way. She runs New Chicago, Grid Sixteen, in everything but name.”
“Iri isn’t into power games. She wouldn’t do that.”
“You have no idea what Iri would or would not do.” Meteorite glared at her, and Jet thought she saw storms swirling in the former hero’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you still think you can turn her?”
“It’s never too late. With rehabilitation and constant support, Iri would be fine.”
“Therapy?” Meteorite said, arching an eyebrow.
“No!” Jet took a deep breath and shoved aside her anger from the suggestion. “Standard rehab, with a counselor. She could
be a hero again. I know her. She’s a good person.”
“Tell that to Paul Collins.” Meteorite snorted. “Iridium is rabid.”
“Even rabids can be turned. Look at Doctor Fantasy, at Thunderstruck. Textbook cases of how the system works.”
“Iridium would never submit to incarceration, let alone rehab.”
“Her father did. She would.”
A very, very long pause, filled with unspoken accusation. Finally, Meteorite said, “It’s all moot until you bring her in, babe. And Jehovah knows when we’ll get another fix on her. Don’t suppose you managed to pop a trace on her when she wasn’t looking?”
Jet felt her cheeks heat. “No.”
“Freaking terrific. Get out of here, Jet. Fast, before I decide to keep you here to file your report directly to the EC.” Meteorite turned away, adding, “And you smell like a garbage heap. Grab a shower before you go on Goldwater’s show.”
Jet replied through clenched teeth: “Already on my to-do list, remember? Along with light makeup and no perfume.”
Blinking, Jet realized that as she’d lost herself to the memory of Ops tearing her a new one, she’d flown on autopilot to the Squadron Complex. Terrific, she thought angrily. Get your mind out of the past.
But a rebellious part of her mind whispered: What about the good part? Meeting the new Runner was worth all the angst from Ops and the fight with the Grendels.
But it hadn’t been worth losing Iridium. Again.
Hands balled into fists, Jet landed in front of the Complex’s security gate. She walked up to the guard book, passing her own image on the way: a holo of New Chicago’s own Lady of Shadows, standing proudly, with the words DUTY FIRST above her and PROTECTED BY THE SQUADRON below, complete with the Squadron starburst. Not many people bothered to read the small note at the bottom: THE SQUADRON IS THE EXTRAHUMAN DIVISION OF CORP-CO.
The guard tapped something on a keyboard. “Go ahead, ma’am.”
Jet’s lips quirked into a brief smile. Ma’am never ceased to make her feel like she should have gray hair. Then again, she was feeling so beat-up and exhausted that a little old lady could probably have knocked her flat. “Thank you, Ryan.”
She stepped up to the register and opened her eyes wide. She barely felt the beam bisecting her gaze; after all this time, the retinal scan was as much a part of her daily routine as brushing her teeth or her thousand morning sit-ups.
“All set, ma’am.” Ryan smiled, perfectly perfunctory, and waved her through. “Have a nice afternoon.”
“You, too, Ryan.”
She headed toward the elevator bank. The lobby was empty, which wasn’t really a surprise; two o’clock was between shifts. Plenty of time to get ready for the thrice-damned Jack Goldwater Show.
She replayed the conversation with Meteorite as she waited for an elevator, and again as she rode up to the twenty-ninth floor. By the time she was standing outside her apartment, she was feeling exhausted, wrung out. And ashamed of her momentary weakness.
A hero always had to be on guard. Especially with former friends.
Next time, she told herself as she stripped off her gauntlet. Next time.
She waved her palm in front of the door sensor. It hummed in recognition, then the door slid open. Massaging her sweaty hand, Jet stepped inside, and light slowly illuminated the apartment. She paused just beyond the threshold, waiting, as always, for the lights to finish brightening to their fullest before she pulled back her cowl and unpinned her cape. The lights would stay on as long as she remained inside, even when she slept.
Jet knew what lurked in the dark. And she preferred not to meet it in the safety of her own home.
She hung up her hooded cape on a hook by the door, then stripped off her other glove and put both on the small table there. Next came the boots, made of the same thick leather as the gauntlets; she unzipped them and pulled her stockinged feet free. Whoa—time for a new deodorizer in the boots. Or maybe she should leave off the antisweat pads and let her stinky feet take out all criminals unfortunate enough to be downwind.
Her lips twitched in a sudden smile. Code name: Body Odor.
Placing the boots neatly beneath the table, she removed the thick, pouched belt from her waist and looped it in a tight circle before setting it down on top of her gauntlets. Then she let out a tired sigh. Maybe other heroes felt lighter when they removed their official accoutrements of office. But standing in nothing but the shiny skinsuit, swathed from chin to toe in inky black, Jet felt naked. Exposed.
Sweeping her glance over her living room, she paused at the cushioned glider-rocker tucked in the corner, next to the window that showed the hazy New Chicago skyline and, most important, next to her overstuffed bookcase. She knew it was eccentric, but she preferred the old-fashioned paper books to reading electronically. Something about the feel of the book in her hands, of the smell of the paper, gave her comfort. Most of the novels crammed on the shelves were romances. Maybe it was trite, but Jet loved to read books that guaranteed a happily-ever-after.
Real life so rarely ended well; it was nice to lose herself in a fantasy of happiness, even if it was just in the well-worn pages of a book.
Tonight she’d read one of the historicals from the early twenty-first century. Those always made her smile. Assuming she didn’t have a mission, of course. Or another beat on Iridium.
Unzipping her costume, she padded over to her vid-phone. Two messages. She’d forgotten to set visual for messaging, so she was stuck with voice only. Light, she was tired.
“Hey, Jet. It’s Bruce. Looking forward to dinner later.”
Warmth tingled in her belly as she replayed the quick message. None of the other Runners had ever confirmed that she’d be home, or had bothered to leave messages. Then again, none of the other Runners had been sexy, dark-haired men who made her skin feel electric …
“Hello, Jet. I hear you’ve had an interesting day.”
The second speaker’s voice both sent ice up her spine and, incongruously, made her relax. Then again, Night always sounded cold, even when he was laughing—like now, with his low chuckle.
“Interesting in the Chinese sense, of course. When you get in, call me.”
No mention of whether he was calling as her former mentor or as an ex-officio member of the Corp EC. As the Academy representative, Night was in the loop on all things extrahuman. Including, apparently, her screwup with Iridium.
She blew out a frustrated sigh. Iri had caught her completely off guard. Twice. There was a time when she’d known exactly what Iri was capable of.
You have no idea what Iri would or would not do, Meteorite’s voice chided.
Maybe. And maybe Iridium was really nothing more than a rabid extrahuman, and she’d have to be put away or put down.
But it had been Jet who’d nearly killed her former friend earlier today, not the other way around. She shivered, remembered the whisper of the Shadow voices goading her on. All it took was a squeeze …
Enough, she told herself angrily. She’d stopped herself from going too far. Iridium was fine.
She tapped her comlink.
“Ops,” a voice responded—not Meteorite. Another woman she couldn’t place.
“This is Jet. When my Runner comes with dinner, please ensure he also brings me a new set of optiframes. Alpha-issue.”
“Processing. One moment.”
As she waited for the request to clear, she turned on the white-noise machine—one of three in the apartment—next to the vidphone and selected the NIGHTTIME SERENADE setting. The sounds of crickets and peepers croaked from the hidden speakers throughout her small apartment, as if this particular Complex were in a rural part of Montana instead of sequestered in New Chicago. The white noise was in place.
“One pair of optiframe goggles, Alpha-issue. Approved.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Jet signing off.” She disconnected Ops with a tap of her finger. Taking off her comlink, she deposited the earpiece in a cradle beneath the vidpho
ne so that it could recharge.
She erased both messages, then debated whether she should call Night now and get her scolding out of the way, wait until after a shower, or do it after she did her duty on the Goldwater show. She wrinkled her nose. Smelling like a garbage barge wasn’t exactly a morale boost. Decided. First get clean, then do the Goldwater show. After that, she’d return Night’s call.
Walking into the bathroom, she peeled off her skinsuit—one of ten she owned. She briefly considered sending the suit to the Academy cleaners directly instead of having Bruce handle it. And then she laughed quietly as she realized she didn’t want him to do her dirty laundry.
Foolishness, she told herself. He’s your Runner. He’s supposed to do the dirty work.
But stripping off her sports bra and underwear, she fretted over the thought of his seeing her private clothes. Her dirty, sweaty, plain-cotton underthings.
Now she was being ridiculous.
Getting the water pressure and temperature in the shower just so, she wondered if the heroes and villains in the sexier outfits also wore sexy underwear. Actually, based on some of the outfits she’d seen over the years, she was sure that some of them went commando.
Ick.
She unwound her blond braids and shook out her sweat-damp hair, then dropped the elastic bands into a drawer beneath the sink. And then she stepped into the streaming water.
Usually her showers were perfunctory, a necessity. Not today. Instead, she took her time, allowing herself to enjoy the hot water thrumming on her bruised skin, the feeling of the soap as she scrubbed away her sweat and mistakes. It was as if the heat seared away her worries and melted her unease. The shampoo smelled of berries and coconut. She lathered and rinsed twice. She felt vaguely guilty for taking so long, but she had enough time before she had to get ready for the talk show. Ironically, going after Iridium (and losing her, again, argh), getting waylaid by Grendels, and reporting to Ops had gotten her home faster than if she’d have stayed to receive Lee’s award.
She’d probably still be sweating onstage even now, if not for Iridium. The thought almost made her laugh.
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