Her head began to pound, right behind her eyes. Dizzy, she sank down into a kitchen chair. “After all I’ve done for them? For the city? The world?” Her voice was a strangled whisper. “How could they even consider doing this to me?”
“Jet,” Night said quietly, “you know by now that heroing is just as much about the politics as it is about justice.”
“Politics should have nothing to do with it.”
“Should doesn’t matter.” He spoke through clenched teeth; his voice was cold, but his face suggested that inside, he was boiling with fury.
“It’s not about how many constituents I help,” she said, the anger rising in her blood to match his own. “It’s about how many people I help. Who cares if they’re eligible voters?”
“The mayor does,” Night replied. “And so does Corp. You’re in trouble, little Shadow.”
The old nickname blunted her rage. She closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose.
“Want some advice?”
“Yes,” she said. “Please.”
“Do something to get back in everyone’s good graces, most especially the public.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“Give the media a story they can’t ignore.” Night lowered his voice. “You heard about Kidder?”
The second time today she was hearing the name Lynda Kidder: New Chicago’s own fearless reporter and resident thorn in the side of both Corp and the Academy. Most journalists assigned to the extrahuman circuit were happy to report whatever Corp told them, without digging for additional verification. Not Kidder. Jet opened her eyes. “Sure. She’s on that quiet mission for the Tribune.”
“That’s the party line,” Night said, voice dry.
“You suspect there’s more to it?”
“I find it odd that after a vid-hog like Kidder did nothing to conceal her actions as she dug around for the Icarus piece, now she’s suddenly on the q.t.” He paused. “It goes against her pattern.”
“Why would the Tribune cover up their star reporter’s disappearance, if that’s what this is?”
“Why indeed?” he said.
So Night felt that either the Tribune editor was in on Kidder going MIA, or the editor had been strong-armed into a cover-up. Jet frowned. Night had never been one to see a conspiracy where there were just cold, hard facts. “If that’s the case, why not go through the official channels? The police?”
“On what grounds? No one’s reported her officially missing.”
“Then send in one of the Squadron’s S&R teams to do the recon.”
“Not an option,” Night said, tension etched on his brow. “The Mind powers are in high demand these days. Can’t waste any on search and rescue for a lone reporter who technically is on investigation.”
She arched a brow. “You asked Corp?”
“I did.”
“And Corp said no.”
“Of course they did. Kidder’s been practically blackballed since that Origins feature.”
“Won her a Pulitzer,” Jet said.
“And made the EC very unhappy. They don’t like anyone snooping around their heroes, especially when it has to do with Icarus.”
“Bad for the secret identities?” Old joke, that. Heroes didn’t have lives outside of Corp and the Academy; the concept of a secret identity was right out of Hollywood.
“Bad for business.”
Jet stood, began to pace. “There are other options available, if you want to pursue this. Doesn’t have to be a Mind power. How about the trackers? Maybe Ranger?”
“Somalia.”
“What about Bloodhound?”
“Undercover in the European Union.”
“Sniffer?”
“Allergies. Trust me, going through regular channels on this one won’t work.”
“Maybe she really is deep undercover.”
“Or in the hospital,” Night said mildly. “Or in a ditch.”
“I’d be happy to talk to her editor—”
“Don’t bother. He’s laid up in the hospital. Apparently, he overdosed on his anxiety meds. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not for the editor.”
“Jet, this is what you need right now. It’ll get you out of the doghouse with Lee, and the media will love you forever, again, for saving one of their own.”
“Sir,” she said, “if you truly suspect something, then of course I’ll look into it. Kidder is a good reporter.”
“Tell that to the EC,” he snorted.
Jet had trained with and worked with Night far too long for her to miss the subtext: Night believed that Corp didn’t want Kidder back on the beat. One way or another.
She turned to face the vidscreen. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Corp had anything to do with Kidder’s disappearance?” The thought made her head pound. Of course Corp had nothing to do with it; Corp were the good guys. The idea that Corp was somehow involved was insane.
“The very notion could lead to probation,” Night replied. The right words … but his eyes gleamed darkly, feverishly. And now he was nodding, ever so slightly.
Utter lunacy. But then, everyone knew what happened to Shadow powers eventually.
Poor Night.
She’d humor the old man. It was the least she could do. And once he was happily distracted, she’d quietly inform Ops that Night needed help. He’d looked out for her for so long; now it was time for her to stand by him. “So Ops, and other Squadron resources …?”
“Unavailable for this mission.”
“Understood.”
“Can I trust you?”
Startled, and somewhat guilty, Jet replied, “Of course, sir.”
“Excellent. You report to me directly for this, Jet. Keep the Squadron out of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I pulled together the basics—police reports, mostly, and parts of her EC file. I’ll upload to your wristband.”
Not her comlink—her old Academy portadata. He really was paranoid about Corp’s involvement. Her chest squeezed tight, and she couldn’t breathe for a sudden, overwhelming sense of sadness. “Understood.”
“Good luck with this, little Shadow. In every way. Find Lynda Kidder. And Joan? Be careful. It’s not too much of a stretch to go from scapegoat to Blackbird.”
“Thanks, old man,” she said, then disconnected.
She leaned back in the chair, her mind whirling. Before anything else, she’d do what Night had asked. She owed it to him to take him at his word—even though the idea that Corp was the bad guy here was enough to make her head hurt. First, she’d pore through the files Night was sending. Then she’d examine Kidder’s home, a routine sweep. Maybe visit the editor in the hospital …
“Anything you need me to do?”
Bruce’s voice yanked Jet out of her thoughts. “No,” she said, giving him a smile as she strode past him and into her bedroom. “But thanks.”
“You should eat,” he called after her.
“I’m on a mission.”
“You’re in recon mode,” Bruce chided. “I heard him. He’s sending you the files. So you’ll have time to wolf down your enchiladas. Which are getting colder by the second.”
“I really don’t have time.” In her closet, she pawed through her school things and dug out the old wrist-receiver With a touch of her finger, it turned on. And sure enough, a large file was waiting for her.
When she turned, she saw Bruce leaning in the doorway to her bedroom, watching her. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she had to swallow it down before she could speak. “What are you doing in here?”
“Convincing you to eat before you dash off to save the day.” His blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’ll wave the enchiladas under your nose until you’re overcome by the smell and drool all over your costume.”
Thinking about all the Mexican food made her stomach growl. “Well, maybe just a little …”
“That’s a good little extrahuman.” He led her out of the bedroom
and into the kitchen, over to the table. Once she was seated, he handed her a napkin for her lap. “I’ll put the wine back in the fridge. Water okay?”
“Yes, please. Thanks.” She smiled at him, then set to the food. Oh, by all that’s dappled in sunlight, it tastes sublime.
“I’ve got other errands, but if you need me, just call.” He motioned to his own Squadron-branded wristlet. “I’ll come running.”
She arched an eyebrow at her Runner. “Truth in advertising?”
“Hey, it’s what we’re supposed to say.” He winked at her, then headed for the door.
Jet lamented that he was wearing a trench coat and not a bomber jacket, then turned her attention to the wristband and started to read.
It was well past midnight before she finished.
CHAPTER 18
IRIDIUM
Police, Corp-Co Still Searching for Lynda Kidder
Headline from New Chicago Daily, October 30, 2112
Iridium looked down at the owner of the pawnshop, who was bound and gagged on the floor, and tipped him a salute. Pawnshops were about the only place in the civilized world where you could still get cold, untraceable paper cash. Every other place, except the diviest of the dives, was strictly digital.
“Mrph grn flarg,” said the pawnshop owner.
“Hush up,” Iridium said, nudging the man with her toe. “Half of this stuff is stolen, anyway. You fence for the Kleptos in exchange for their protection, right?” She prayed that Boxer had given her the right intel. Usually he was good for precise and reliable information, but there were memorable mix-ups, like the one with the gang of transvestite priests who knocked over liquor depots—but never on Sundays.
After a moment, the man rolled his eyes and nodded.
“Right. So I’m thinking that you probably won’t involve the cops in your business. You’ll just take this loss,” she said, waving the wad of paper cash, “out in trade like any somewhat crooked businessman.”
“Mmmph,” he agreed.
Iridium walked to the door, which sported an old-fashioned holosign reading CLOSED with a sad-faced clown spouting big blue holotears next to it. She looked back at the pawnshop owner regretfully. “That’s why I hate to do this.”
The alarm began to screech as Iridium smashed the emergency panel with her fist and jerked the lever within. The fuzzy screen flashed blue and a robotic voice announced, “This is the New Chicago Police Department. You are experiencing a robbery or other felony crime. Please remain calm. Help is on the way.”
Iridium chucked the cash into a mail drop and mounted the fire ladder to the top of the tall, narrow prefab buildings that composed most of Grid Sixteen. The roof was covered in junk needles, pigeon droppings, and sputtering holopa-pers from flyover advertising and leaflets. She sat on the electrical box and waited.
Any justice freak worth his cape would come sniffing around to see who, exactly, would be robbing a ganged-up fence’s pawnshop. In the middle of territory belonging to a known rabid, on top of it.
Iridium yawned and checked her wristlet. As she was about to give up and go find a taco stand still serving, a whisper of air teased the hairs on the back of her neck.
“Waiting on me?” someone asked.
Iridium turned. “Yes, as a matter of fact. And may I just say, your response time sucks. You can’t even call yourself a justice fanboy with that kind of performance.”
The vigilante smiled, or at least his costume crinkled up over the mouth area. A black stocking covered his entire face, and flat black welding goggles did the job for his eyes. He was decked out in tactical gear with ceramic plating and lightweight Kevlar straps that could only have come from Corp. No skin was visible, his marking a lightning bolt spray-painted across his chest plate.
“You all talk, sweetie, or are you gonna come along peaceably?”
Iridium cocked her head. “Fan of the cowboy flatfilms, I see. Not a surprise. Your type always thinks they should have a white horse.”
“Darlin’, do you see a horse?”
“No, though admittedly, a horse would add that certain something to your ensemble.”
“Just give back the cash,” said the vigilante, “and we’ll all go on with our nice quiet evening.”
“You leave the Undergoths be, and we’ll all go on with our flesh free of third-degree burns.” Iridium crossed her arms. “You picked a bad patch of city to set up shop, buddy. This is where you roll up the carnival and move on to someplace where they welcome costumed freaks doing Corp’s job with open arms.”
She couldn’t be sure, but something seemed to close off and darken behind the vigilante’s goggles. At the same time, the hairs on her neck went stiff and she tasted burned ozone on the back of her tongue.
“I’m not with Corp,” the vigilante grated.
“Obviously,” said Iridium. “If you were, you’d have learned how to dress yourself by now. And you wouldn’t go after a gang on their turf without four or five of your brightly dressed friends for backup.” Not that Corp cared about gangs, or anyone in Wreck City. Slumlords and petty crime didn’t make sound bites. It didn’t give action footage. If the Senator had a choice between saving a block of residents in Wreck City from sliding into the lake and rescuing a kitten in a middle-class mom’s tree, the cat would win every time.
“Give me the cash,” the vigilante said again. Iridium raised a hand and summoned a strobe, the size of a spinning, glowing globe.
“I know you think this is the right thing, but you should ask Wreck City who really looks after them.” She launched the strobe, aiming directly for the vigilante’s face. He dove sideways, goggles irising shut, and rolled, coming up on one knee.
“I don’t think. I know. You’re Iridium.”
“You’re very athletic.”
“I’m Taser,” he grunted as Iridium snapped a kick at his head, only to have it bounce off his arm guard. “I gotta say, it’s a real pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” said Iridium, punching him in the mouth.
Taser doubled over with a grunt. “Christo! You take body enhancers?”
“Not me,” said Iridium. “I just enjoy my work.” She tried to knee Taser in the face while he was down, but he grabbed her foot and tossed her away. Iridium windmilled and hissed as her back impacted with the edge of the building’s steel utility box.
“A rabid,” Taser said. “At least, that’s what’s on your wanted holoposter Dead or alive.”
“Believe everything you read? I’m practically an honor scout.”
Taser swung at her, a sloppy outside punch, but fast, and he was a lot bigger than her. Iridium ducked and let her shoulder absorb the blow while she drove the heel of her boot into Taser’s knee.
He cursed and let go of her. “Yeah, you’re honorable enough to skim money off every gang in your grid and beat on Corp heroes for exercise.”
Iridium swatted away his next attempt at a grapple and hit him twice, neck and face. “And what fine exercise it is. A lot better than what you’re dishing up.”
Taser choked. “Is that so?”
Iridium regained her stance, a little impressed. Normally, the blow would drop anyone this side of a comic-book superhuman, but Taser just swayed slightly and massaged the spot where she’d hit him.
“Would you have done any different?” Iridium asked. “Corp has no love for justice freaks who color outside the lines. I hear most of ’em don’t even make it to Blackbird.”
“No, darlin’, I surely wouldn’t have,” said Taser. He ducked Iridium’s next swing, dropped, and knocked her legs out from under her.
Iridium’s creative curse flew out along with her last breath as she hit the rooftop, holopapers flying away as Taser landed on top of her.
“I must be getting old,” said Iridium. “Either that, or you’re just a damn dirty fighter.”
“Probably the second one,” said Taser. “Now, I have no quarrel with you, but you keep dealing with gangs and getting i
n my way, and it’ll turn ugly real fast. Pack up and find another grid to flip your middle finger at Corp from.”
“Oh, I apologize,” Iridium said with a smile. “Were you under the impression that the getup and the gravelly voice make you intimidating?”
She shifted her weight to her shoulders and jerked her leg to knee Taser in the crotch, but he slammed his knee down on top of hers. Iridium heard a pop and felt the pain that went along with it.
“Christo-damned vigilante justice jacker son of a bitch!”
Taser laughed. “I heard you were a handful and figured you wouldn’t go easy, so I planned on asking you nicely.” He extended his free hand over her face and Iridium saw silver pads on the palm and each of his fingers. She watched in horror as electricity began to jump from pad to pad, tiny sparks at first, then electrical storms the size of pennies, swelling until Taser’s entire hand was wreathed in blue crackling lines. “And then,” he said, “I planned on persuading you. You see …”
Taser faltered, and Iridium managed a rigid grin as she saw a sweat drop hit the inside of his goggles. Taser let go of her and jerked his mask up over his mouth with his free hand. Underneath, he was soaked and turning red. “What … what are you …” he gasped.
Iridium felt her hand heat slightly where it glowed white against Taser’s ceramic plate armor. “You fry me and I boil you, Taser. Poetic, after a fashion.”
After a long second of both of them not breathing, Taser let her go. Iridium scooted out from under him and sat up, massaging her knee.
“Well, hell,” said Taser, smacking the utility box and discharging a shower of sparks from his hand. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. How’d you do that?”
“Radiant light-heat,” said Iridium. “You?”
“I make electricity,” said Taser.
Iridium raised an eyebrow. “You make electricity? You use your body’s electrical charge and expel it? You’d be dead.”
“I pull in the ambient electrical charge in the atmosphere and store it until it gets released as one big old jolt,” said Taser. “You always this picky?”
“Just smart,” said Iridium. “Why’d you come to Wreck City?”
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