Black and White

by Jackie Kessler

  “Time?” someone shouted.

  “Two minutes twenty,” Iri answered, sounding smug.

  Hornblower’s biceps and thighs strained against his Second Year jumpsuit, all but screaming his need to break and rend and tear. All the circling was making him impatient.

  Excellent.

  Jet slowed the pace of her steps while slightly increasing the radius of their circle. Now Lancer was in her peripheral vision—flexing his fists, the idiot. He might as well wear a holosign that announced I’M GOING TO HIT YOU FROM BEHIND.

  Of course, none of the Taft family were known for subtlety. Or, really, for anything other than being walking, talking punching bags. Or, in Boy Moron’s case, a windbag. Jet allowed herself a smile.

  That pushed Hornblower into addressing her. “Any day now, skank.”

  She said nothing, but her smile stretched wider.

  “Christo! Come on, already! You going to hit me, or what?”

  Jet said nothing, kept circling.

  “You’re a creepy skank, you know that? Think you’re so hot.” He leered, which made him look like an advertisement for date rape. “You’re nothing but a dirty Shadow. Why don’t you crawl under a rock, where you belong?”

  She batted her lashes. “If that’s the best you’ve got, I recommend you take Battle Banter as an elective next year.”

  His face purpled, and baring his teeth like a rabid dog, he barreled forward.

  Too easy.

  She let him come. Five, four, three. She dropped low and spun around, right leg straight as a pylon. Two. Her leg leading, she completed the spin. One.

  Contact.

  She swept his legs out from under him, and he pin-wheeled wildly. She followed through, getting her body out of the way before he lost his balance and landed heavily on his back.

  The students whooped and cheered—cheered for her, for Jet. Probably it was because most of them despised Hornblower and his whole “I’m Jehovah’s Gift To Extrahumans” attitude. But maybe, just maybe, some of them actually had been rooting for her instead of against him.

  She grinned. That would be sort of cool.

  “Two minutes fifty-one!” Iri chortled her glee. “Horny didn’t even last three minutes!”

  “Got to work on that stamina,” Frostbite laughed.

  Oh, how the other students ate that up.

  On the mat, Hornblower glowered at her. Couldn’t attack her, though; rule of the unit was if you land on your back, that’s a kill for your opponent. In a battle situation, Hornblower would be either incapacitated or dead.

  No great loss.

  Standing up, Jet gave her back to Lancer as she smiled grimly at the Boy Moron. Come on, she thought, I’m right here, not seeing you, practically helpless …

  Behind her, Lancer charged.

  She pivoted right, her arms bent and up. Lancer’s fist sliced the air where her back had been. Grabbing onto his overextended right arm, Jet yanked down and to the left, and Lancer, as off-balance as his nephew had been, tumbled to the mat.

  “Two for the price of one,” Iri cheered.

  Jet offered her hand to her instructor, but Lancer sneered at her. “Get your stinking hand away from me!”

  Someone whistled. “Bad form,” Frostbite said.

  Jet withdrew her hand and stepped back. He’s a jerk, he’s a jerk, don’t show him that the insults still hurt.

  Lancer pulled himself up and rotated his shoulders, his small eyes glittering as he stared at Jet. Behind him, Hornblower climbed to his feet. “Today’s lesson’s about overconfidence. Just because you may win a battle, that doesn’t mean you win the right to be smug. Because you never know when the next fight’s going to come.”

  As if on cue, Hornblower opened his mouth and let out a sonic blast.

  Oh, cowcr ap—

  Jet threw herself to the left, but the sound wave grazed her. Intense static in her mind, angry bursts of power reverberating, but washing away—a combination of its being a passing blow and her blessed, blessed earpiece.

  Furious, she scrambled to her feet. “No powers in Street Defense,” she shouted, pointed at the towering boy. “That’s the rule!”

  “And you should have learned by now that in street fighting, there are no rules.” Lancer sneered at her, let out an ugly laugh. “Take her, boy.”

  Hornblower cut loose again, but this time Jet was ready for it. Reaching inside herself to where her power lived, she raised graymatter to form a shadowshield. The sonic bolt hit it square on—and her shield absorbed it. She felt the impact rattle her bones.

  Before he could attack again, Jet took the offensive. Her brow furrowed as she reshaped the shadowshield into a creeper, one of her new toys. It hurt—a lot; damn, she needed an aspirin—but as Night had told her again and again, she’d never know the full extent of her powers if she didn’t push past the pain. When she’d shown her mentor the creeper last week, he’d encouraged her to practice it, no matter what her Power tutor otherwise instructed.

  So she had. Quietly, of course; unauthorized use of powers was a major offense. She wouldn’t have dreamed of practicing on the sly, but Night had given her explicit permission. He’d explained that mentors had the authority to override Academy procedure—but even so, she should practice cautiously. And she did, every chance she got. In the past week, Jet had gotten very good at morphing Shadow into a creeper. It would be her signature move, Night had said.

  It was that thought that allowed her to focus past the building agony in her brain as she manipulated Shadow. When she was a fully certified hero, the creepers would be her signature move.

  And the really neat thing was, no one else knew about it.

  Until that moment. Her graymatter shield darkened and bubbled out, slinking forward like a living thing—a shadow seeking its own Peter Pan to adhere to.

  Hornblower’s eyes boggled, and he stepped backward. “What is that? Get it away from me!”

  Hearing the panic in his voice made the agonizing headache worth it. Grinning madly, she nudged the creeper forward.

  “Uncle Erik! Make her stop!”

  Lancer aimed his fist at Jet’s face. A glow of power outlined his hand. “Call it back, girl. Right now.”

  Sweat beading on her brow, Jet summoned the creeper back. It flowed into her, leaching away her headache but leaving her so drained that she almost toppled over. But she would be damned to the darkest hell before she let the Daft Family see her stagger. She lifted her chin and waited.

  Lancer didn’t lower his fist.

  “Um … sir?” That was Iri. “Shouldn’t you, you know, power off now?”

  If he heard Iridium, he ignored her. His dark gaze drilled into Jet, and she clearly saw that while she may have thought other instructors hated her, Lancer actually, truly, despised her.

  “You are damn lucky that I swore I’d never intentionally harm a student,” he said. His voice was low, and breathy, and Jet saw his arm tremble. Holding himself back, she realized. He’s forcing himself not to attack me.

  And that utterly terrified her.

  She swallowed, lowered her head. Whispered, “Yes, sir.”

  “If you ever—ever— use your filthy Shadow powers in this unit again, I swear by all that’s holy I’ll forget you’re a student. Now get the hell out of my classroom and report to the Superintendent for detention.”

  Around her, the students muttered. A few—including Iri—opined that Lancer was being unfair. And then one of the students, a boy, asked, “What did she do?”

  Still glaring at Jet, Lancer replied, “She used her filthy power against my flesh and blood. And I won’t stand for it.”

  “But sir,” the boy said, “all she was doing was defending herself. You’re the one who let Hornblower attack first with his power.”

  At that, Lancer cut his gaze over Jet’s shoulder. “Samson, you questioning how I run this class?”

  A pause, and then: “In this case, yes, sir.”

  A collective hush fell
over the room.

  “Well then,” Lancer said through clenched teeth, “you and the Shadow can both go to the Superintendent. Rot there for all I care. You think about returning here, you better have an apology at the ready. You hear me, boy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get the hell out of here. And take this trash with you.” Lancer glared at Jet again, then lowered his arm. “The rest of you wannabes, pair off! Hand-to-hand combat!”

  Jet took a deep breath, caught Iri’s eye. Her roommate shrugged, mouthed, He’s an asshole.

  Jet couldn’t argue that point. She nodded to let Iri know she was okay, then turned to walk out of the room.

  A large boy was waiting for her by the door. Samson. Big, bigger than big—at least six feet tall and a good two hundred pounds of muscle. Short blond hair that called attention to the way his ears stuck out. A lantern jaw in the classic superhero tradition; dazzling green eyes that crinkled in the corners when he smiled. Like now.

  Jet smiled at him, said, “Sorry to get you in trouble.”

  He shrugged, an easy movement of his shoulders. “All I did was tell the truth when I was asked. Basic heroing.”

  “A real good guy.”

  “I try. Race you to the Super’s office?”

  She cocked her head, considered him. “No running in the halls.”

  “What’re they going to do, send us to the Super’s office?”

  Running in the halls was against procedure. She was about to open her mouth to quote the code, but then she noticed how his eyes were twinkling as he waited for her answer, and she saw a mischief there that reminded her of Iri.

  If Iri had been a very, very cute boy.

  Logic shorted out as hormones kicked in.

  “You’re on,” Jet said, then dashed away.

  CHAPTER 24

  IRIDIUM

  Ever since the Squadron took down the Code Red villainesses more than a decade ago and disbanded the Ominous Eight by force, there’s been no superclub for extrahumans who scorn the law. Do they prefer to work independently? Or are they organized into clandestine cells, run by an elite few? Or something else entirely?

  Lynda Kidder, “Flight of the Blackbird,” New Chicago Tribune, July 2, 2112

  Iridium was pushing it. Visiting her father twice in three days would set off Warden Post’s obsessive-compulsive sense of security, but she had to.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Lester demanded. “I told you I’d be in touch when my man delivers.”

  “About that,” said Iridium. “I don’t want some shadow figure dealing with us. Who is he? How do you know you can trust him?”

  “His name is Ivanoff. And he’s a prisoner of Corp, the same as I am,” said Lester. “Don’t question me again, Callie. Have I ever led you wrong?”

  Iridium bit her lip. “No.”

  “You saw what Corp did to our family firsthand. Drove my friends over the edge, threw me in prison, destroyed your mother’s career when she wouldn’t abandon us. Are you wavering?”

  “No!” Iridium snapped. “I know what they did, Dad. I saw what the Academy does firsthand. I just …” She stopped, fighting the urge to summon a strobe, expel her nervous energy.

  Lester softened, extended one hand as far as he could in his shackles toward her. “What’s wrong, girl?”

  “I got hit with a vigilante.” Iridium sighed. “The Undergoths have a new backer. Wreck City is going to shit and Corp is just going to keep coming. I’m not having a good week, Dad.”

  “Nor will you, until Corp is put in its place,” Lester said. He didn’t believe in pity, or, in many cases, sympathy. Iridium wondered at her fellow students who’d had the family existence, with birthdays and school pictures. They all seemed so insulated, so removed from what the world really was.

  Which was why they were heroes, and she was here.

  “Gangs will always be gangs, Iridium.” Using her designation made Iridium snap her head up. Lester gave her a rueful smile. “Justicers will always be too eager. But you can change Corp hunting you. I suggest you focus on that.”

  “I asked him to meet me,” Iridium said. “The vigilante.”

  “I forbid it,” Lester said instantly. “Corp will be hunting him and it will expose us to too much risk.”

  Iridium nodded. “You know best, Dad.”

  “I don’t like this, Iri,” Boxer said, fidgeting with his watch chain.

  “There isn’t much you do like lately, Boxer,” Iridium said. “Will you knock that off? You’re making me nervous.”

  “Gee,” he said, looking over the edge of the hoverpad. “We’re perched on an aerial lander illegally, waiting for a guy who shoots electricity out of his hands—and is on the side of justice—to question his motives. And if I know you, you’ll still insult at least one of his ancestors. Can’t see why you’re nervous, Iri. Not at all.”

  “Button it.” The hoverpad swayed gently in the wake of a passing bus and Iridium deliberately looked up, at the pollution layer, and not down at the street five hundred feet below. Her father would kill her. But there was something about Taser, something that suggested it would be a bad idea not to get him on her side … after all, they shared no love of Corp. Backup could be useful, when Lester’s mystery man Ivanoff delivered.

  “He’s late,” Boxer said finally, snapping his watch shut in a huff and tucking it into his lime-green vest.

  “Yeah, he seems to make that a habit.”

  “You’re talking about my dashing good looks, right?”

  Iridium turned and saw Taser dismount a small black hover, sans license tag and flight markings. He swiveled his head toward Boxer. “You didn’t tell me we were going to have a chaperon, darlin’.”

  “Somebody has to make sure you don’t get fresh,” said Boxer, patting his plas pistol.

  Taser’s eye goggles irised and refocused. “I know you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Boxer said, tilting up his fedora with his finger.

  “You’re the third Taft brother.” Taser cocked his head. “How about that. Heard you were dead.”

  Boxer’s jaw went tight. “Fanboy, are you?”

  Taser snorted. “Not hardly. Nice to see you’ve found something to keep your hands busy.” He looked toward Iridium with his blank glass gaze. “Does she? Keep your hands busy?”

  Iridium snapped her fingers in Taser’s face and a prism flashed, shorting his goggles. They sparked and clamped shut. “Can we focus, please?”

  Boxer snorted. “Good luck with this sewer rat’s ass, Iridium. I’ll be at home.” He tapped his wristlet and signaled a taxi, which floated to a stop at the pad. Boxer got in without another word.

  After it had whirred away on its lift fans, Taser grinned. “You gonna pay me for these goggles?”

  Iridium feigned shock. “You mean to tell me you’re not a rich playboy during the day? I’m so disillusioned.”

  Taser shocked the goggles and they opened again. Iridium saw a hint of light eyes beneath. “Why’d you really bring me up here? Because I gotta be honest—a woman who banters is not one of my turn-ons.”

  “How about a woman who throws your ass off a hover-pad?”

  Taser shook his head. “We did this dance, remember? It’ll just end in tears, Iri.”

  Iridium pressed her lips into a line. “Only my friends call me that.”

  “Then tell me what you brought me up here for so we can move down that road.”

  The lights of downtown blinked softly at Iridium as she turned away from Taser. “I’m going to cut ties with the gangs in Wreck City soon. I want you to stop messing around with the Undergoths and make an alliance with me.”

  Taser laughed. “You and me against the world? Romantic, Iridium. Never expected that out of you.”

  “No,” said Iridium. “You and me against Corp.”

  Taser canted his head. “But I’m a fanboy, remember?”

  “If you were really a wannabe, you would have turned me in to Corp the first
time we tussled. You would have tipped the active duty squad to the Undergoths.” She turned to him. “You would have had a pair of stun-cuffs on you so you could haul me to the prison gates and get a pat on the head from Corp.”

  Taser shrugged. “Got me there. All that, and I did tell you that I wasn’t a Corp lover.”

  “Yeah, but I just assumed you were a liar,” said Iridium.

  “Sort of a dim view of the world.”

  Iridium smiled thinly. “It’s a dark world we live in, Taser. Do we have an accord?” She stuck out her hand, trusting him not to simply shock her, tag her, and take her to the hero squad.

  Taser gripped her hand, firm and warm. “Against Corp? We do for now.”

  CHAPTER 25

  JET

  Together we stand, a united front against injustice. Together we fight, a Squadron dedicated to expelling evil from our world.

  Squadron Mission Statement

  One thing Jet could say about Lynda Kidder: The woman had an ego the size of Old Texas.

  Amid the occasional holos and traditional paintings and posters on the walls were dozens—hundreds—of shots of the reporter. Candids. Formals. Ads and product placements. Two professional caricatures. And one life-size cardboard cutout of her, wearing an old-fashioned fedora with the word “Press” on a scrap of paper tucked into the hatband.

  Well, at least Jet would know her when she saw her.

  Lips pressed into a grim, determined smile, she continued Shadow-walking through the missing woman’s apartment, making sure not to leave any trace of her visit. Her feet cushioned in boots of Shadow, Jet kept moving just slightly above the floor, searching for any hint of where Lynda Kidder could have gone. Or, as Night would insist, where she had been taken to.

  Her heart lurched, and Jet forced herself not to think about her mentor losing his mind. Maybe he’s right, she told herself gamely. Night always had a penchant for Sherlocking things. Perhaps something really had happened to Kidder.

  Jet felt a pang of guilt as she realized that part of her fervently wanted there to be something wrong, all so that Night would be correct. Well, enough. If Night was going mad, so be it. Duty first—and that duty was to the citizens of New Chicago. Kidder would be fine.