But she had done too much reading in the past hour. Her head throbbed, and she bit back a groan. Hoping the caffeine would help, she took some hasty sips of coffee, scalding her tongue.
“I’m sorry you missed the sermon yesterday,” Cohn said.
Pushing aside thoughts about Lynda Kidder and Corp, Jet replied, “As am I. But duty called.”
“I understand.” He regarded her, as if studying her features. Out of respect, she had pulled back her cowl and removed her optiframes. All she needed was light makeup and no perfume, and she could do another Goldwater appearance.
“How did the sermon go?” she asked, to be polite.
“Well, I think. You’d be surprised how receptive people are to the notion that whether human or extrahuman, we’re all children under HaShem.”
“You’re right,” she said, thinking of Wurtham, of Everyman, of all the citizens too happy to boo whenever she appeared. “I would be surprised. But it’s nice to hear.”
Cohn smiled at her, his light eyes twinkling. With his long white beard, comfortable fat, and spectacles, he looked more like a Santa Claus candidate than someone from the rabbinate. “I take it you’ve been subjected to the opposing viewpoint?”
“Loudly. And in public.”
“Yes. But what a blessing it is that we live in a society that allows such freedom of expression.”
“A blessing,” she muttered, sipping her coffee.
“A responsibility too.”
“I understand responsibility.”
“You better than most.” Cohn watched her for a moment, his smile easy, his eyes inviting. “Another blessing is the ability to question.”
She frowned. “How so?”
“Well, political relevance aside, questioning is one of the joys of Judaism,” he said with a wink. “Oh, we declare ourselves to HaShem, of course. But then we question.”
“Question what?”
“Why, everything,” he said, laughing. “We have a hymn, ‘Ein Keloheinu.’ After we say there is none like HaShem, we ask, Who is like HaShem?”
“With all due respect, sir, if you’ve already said there’s none like your god, then why question?”
“Because we can. Because questing for answers is one of the ways we show our humanity.”
She nodded, thinking, But the problem with seeking answers is that sometimes, you find them. And then what?
In her belt pouch, the weight of the memory stick pressed down on her.
Wurtham had been right. There was a final, unpublished Origins article that Lynda Kidder had written. It had been there, in the memory stick. Encrypted. After more than forty minutes of tinkering, Jet had broken the code. And then she’d read the seven paragraphs.
And her stomach had dropped away.
Unlike the pompous, self-righteous tone of the previous Origins installments, this final article had been clipped, perfunctory. Jet had sensed the reporter’s nerves as she’d read the damning paragraphs—ones that tenuously linked Corp-Co to the New Jersey-based Icarus fertility clinic in the late 1980s, as well as to disease-control facilities in Hong Kong and Mumbai.
If Kidder was right, then Corp-Co hadn’t merely bought Icarus Biologicals at the turn of the twenty-first century. They’d played a larger role. And that meant …
No. She couldn’t think about what that meant. Kidder had to have been wrong. Speculating. Looking for controversy.
Jet’s head pounded, pounded. She didn’t know what to do with the information she’d uncovered. Give it to Corp? Turn in the article to the Tribune, even though Kidder had hidden it?
Destroy it?
“If you don’t mind a personal question, Jet, are you religious?”
Pulled out of her confusion of thoughts, she answered, “Agnostic.”
The rabbi nodded. “Were you always?”
She remembered a blond-haired boy, his warm smile, his easy laugh. “No.”
“I see.” He paused. “Usually, when people have been greatly hurt, they turn away from HaShem completely, become atheists. But not you.”
“Not I.”
The rabbi seemed to measure his words carefully before he spoke. “People sometimes do evil things. But that doesn’t mean people are evil.”
“No,” Jet said. “They just choose to be.”
“Some, yes. And that is a tragedy.” He put down his cup, then met her gaze and smiled proudly—reminding her, for a moment, of the photograph of Lynda Kidder’s father. “But others,” he said, “ah yes, others have wondrous gifts. And they choose to use them to help make the world a better place.”
“Of course,” she said, surprised. “It’s what we do.”
He reached out and clasped her gauntleted hand in his bare ones. “No, Jet. It’s what you do. There is always a choice. And for choosing to help us all, I say thank you.”
His words touched her, soothed an ache she hadn’t known was there. This wasn’t the almost mindless dedication of her fans, the vocal adoration of thousands who never dared come close. This was one man’s genuine thanks.
Her eyes stinging, she flitted a smile and gently removed her hand from his. “You’re too kind, sir.”
“I call them like I see them,” he said, winking again.
And in that moment, she knew what she had to do. And with that thought, she could breathe again. Her headache receded, and she smiled.
Over the next fifteen minutes, they talked on a wide array of things—books, mostly, and the city, and the nature of good and evil. When she had to go, Rabbi Cohn invited her to come back anytime she wanted to talk. And as she left, Jet thought that perhaps one day, she would take him up on that offer.
But now, soaring over New Chicago, there was something else she had to do. Taking a deep breath, Jet tapped her comlink.
In her ear: “Operations.”
“Frostbite, it’s Jet.”
He clucked his tongue. “What now? You need a Runner to massage you after the beating you took yesterday, maybe?”
“I need your help with something.”
The pause was filled with tension thick enough to strangle an elephant. When Frostbite finally spoke again, there was no mistaking the fury in his voice. “Oh, do you now? Let me guess. You want to tag Iri and bring her in for Therapy.”
“No. It has nothing to do with her.”
“Like the way you had nothing to do with her getting onto everyone’s most wanted list?”
“Believe what you want,” she said tightly, “but Iridium did it to herself.”
“Right.”
Remembering the rabbi’s words, Jet said, “It was her choice, Frostbite. Just like it’s your choice now whether you want to help me.”
“Why should I? So you can betray me too?”
Rage washed over her, cold and unforgiving, and she trembled as a black nimbus glowed around her fist.
Calm. Stay calm.
The dark aura faded, causing a headache to thud behind her eyes. “Help me because you’re still a hero, and heroes help each other.”
“Fuck off.”
Jet closed her eyes. “That’s the song you’re singing, huh?”
The words felt stale on her tongue. How long ago since she and Iridium and Frostbite and Samson had come up with the Canary Code? A memory flashed, and she was in Third Year, in Study Hall, and she and Iri were giggling over how Sam pitched spitballs at Hornblower and Frostbite would ice them just enough to make them sting—completely against code, but when Iri and Sam and Frostbite put their minds to doing something, Jet couldn’t help but go along with it. Whenever a proctor strode into view, either Jet or Iri would loudly ask about that song they’d been singing earlier.
Canary Code for “Danger.”
Frostbite was silent for so long that Jet was positive he’d severed the connection. He was serving as Ops; he didn’t have to keep the line open for a personal favor.
Maybe he’d forgotten the code. Or maybe he was still so furious with Jet that it didn’t matter even if he h
ad remembered. But then a burst of static sliced through her ear, followed by Frostbite’s muffled voice. “Clean channel. You have thirty seconds to convince me why I should help. Go.”
Her voice low, she said, “I have reason to suspect that Lynda Kidder was taken out by Corp because she got too close to the truth behind Icarus.”
A beat, then: “Why?”
“She got the Pulitzer for her Icarus investigation. But all the Icarus files weren’t just sanitized—they were expunged. They never existed. So how did she get her information?”
“That’s not enough. Reporters have sources.”
“There was another article,” she said quietly. “Unpublished. I found it. It strongly suggests that Corp had something to do with Icarus.”
“Corp bought Icarus.”
“No,” she said through clenched teeth. “Before that.” She wanted to say more, but her headache kicked into high gear. Tension, she thought, pinching the bridge of her nose. Entertaining this insane idea was practically blasphemy. Corp stood for justice. Corp sponsored the Squadron and the Academy.
Corp was in the business of saving the world.
Of course Corp wouldn’t have removed Lynda Kidder. The thought was insane. Kidder had to have been wrong.
But then, she’d thought Night had been wrong when he’d asked her to look into Kidder’s disappearance. And that’s what this was about right now: finding Lynda Kidder.
Jet could almost hear the gears of Frostbite’s brain turning. Tempting him with the possibility of a Corp cover-up was the one thing that might get him to override his hatred for her. Maybe. She hoped.
“What do you want from me?” Frostbite said.
“I need you to give me access to Corp’s original files on Icarus.”
He barked out a laugh. “All the glory’s gone to your head. If you think I’m taking that kind of risk for you, you’re crazier than your father was.”
The barb struck home. Grimacing, she said, “If you do this for me, and I see there’s something concrete that links Corp to Kidder’s disappearance, I promise you I’ll stop hunting Iridium.”
Silence over the comlink.
Hovering over New Chicago, Jet waited.
Frostbite finally said, “You have to do better than that, if you want me to do this for you.” Jet could hear the smile in his voice, and despite his words, she knew she had him. “If there’s something that links those bastards to Kidder’s untimely disappearance, you publicly renounce Corp and the Academy.”
Damn. “No.”
“No deal. Be talking to you …”
“Wait. If I find anything that definitively proves Corp was behind Kidder going MIA, I promise to make that information public.” Her mind whispered that she was a traitor for even making such a suggestion.
He snorted again. “What, interviews?” A subtle mocking in his tone now. “Public outcry? A revelation on Talk Circuit, where you announce the evils of Corp and throw away your cowl and burn your goggles?”
“Completely anonymous,” she said. “But with backup so everything can be proven. Including Kidder’s final article.”
Frostbite laughed softly, and Jet could picture his light eyes sparkling with humor. And rage. Frostbite’s eyes had always given away his emotions. “Considering you need my help, Jetster, you’re not being very accommodating.”
Through clenched teeth, she said, “I can’t change who I am, Derek.”
“I know, Joan. You’re Corp’s lapdog.”
“No,” she said, “I’m the Hero of New Chicago. And I believe what we’re doing is good, that people need heroes to save them.”
He laughed at her, the sound brittle and grating to her ears. “And heroes need the spotlight, don’t they?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Right.”
“It’s never been like that, no matter what you may think.” Her words poured out of her, thick and full of the quiet rage she’d borne for more than five years. “I’d give all that up in a heartbeat if I would still be allowed to do my job. But that’s not the way of the world, Frostbite, and you know it. If I’m going to hero, I need to do it by the hero rules. And as screwed up as it is, that means sponsors, and politics, and asinine pep rallies and talk shows and Light help me, photo ops!”
She shut her mouth, surprised to realize she’d been yelling. Great, she thought. Bad enough to soliloquize. But at full volume? Jet exhaled slowly and tried to force her blood pressure down.
“You hate it so much,” he said, “go vigilante. It’s in vogue, so I hear.”
Her words a whisper, she said, “I can’t.” Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t.
“Right, I almost forgot.” The sneer was all too clear in his voice. “You’d have to give up your Runners, your cushy spot as the Hero of New Chicago.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” she spat. “I said I can’t. But take that as you will, Derek. You will anyway.”
Frostbite was quiet for a moment, and then he murmured, “Holy shit, they’ve got something on you.”
She didn’t reply. Her heartbeat drummed wildly in her chest.
“How long’ve they had you on a leash?”
“Not your concern.” If he thought she was going to tell him about the true purpose of the comlink, and the voices she could barely keep at bay, he was … well, as crazy as a Shadow power.
“Was that what happened in Fifth Year? Did they force you to sell her out?”
“We’re not discussing Fifth Year,” she hissed. No more games; no more backing and forthing. “Are you going to get off your high horse and help me? Or are you going to let Lynda Kidder rot because you hate me for something you’re convinced I did five years ago?”
Frostbite cleared his throat, then said, “I’ll get back to you.” Then he cut the connection, leaving angry static in his wake.
Hoping against hope that Frostbite would come through, Jet began the day’s patrol.
CHAPTER 28
IRIDIUM
Even locked away, the villains are not defeated. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they hold themselves, even drugged or wrapped in a straitjacket. Caged, yes. But not defeated.
Lynda Kidder, “Flight of the Blackbird,” New Chicago Tribune, July 2, 2112
The guard who ushered Iridium down the hallways, past the blank cell doors, each branded only with the designation of the rabid within, turned to her with an apologetic smile. “He’s been yelling and carrying on for the last hour, demanding to see you, Doctor. Sorry for waking you.”
“It’s not a problem,” Iridium murmured, feeling the cold snake of fear twist and coil in her gut. “I’m always here for my patients.” For Lester to risk drawing attention to their arrangement, something was very wrong.
“You’re a saint, Doctor,” said the guard, sliding his key through the pass slot outside the interview room. Iridium heard her father ranting from inside.
“Motherless sons of whores!” he shouted. “You let me out! We’ll see who’s rabid and who’s not!”
The door slid open, and Iridium pressed past the guard. “Mr. Bradford, that’s quite enough of that noise.”
Lester sobered immediately when he saw the expression on her face. “About time you got here, missy,” he snarled.
“Show the doctor a little respect,” said the guard, raising his nightstick in warning.
“Not to worry,” Iridium said through a fake smile, sitting at the lone table. “We’re fine here.”
“You got ten minutes.” The guard glared at Lester as he walked out the door.
As soon as she heard the lock click into place, Iridium watched the enormous clock ticking down the seconds. As soon as the requisite thirty had passed, she snarled, “What, Dad? What is so all-fired important?”
Lester exhaled and slumped backward in his chair. “You have any idea how tiring yelling obscenities for a solid hour is? I’m knackered.”
Iridium slapped the table with her palm. “Focus, Lester.”
His face flickered with a smile. “You sound like your mother when you call me Lester.”
“Dad,” Iridium said through gritted teeth. “What. Is. The. Problem?”
He leaned in, even though they were alone, and spoke so low that Iridium had to bend her ear almost against his lips. “We’ve got a message from Ivanoff.”
“Great,” said Iridium. “That still doesn’t explain why I had to rush down here to take in the wisdom of some Corp flunky.”
“Ex,” said Lester. “He was their commnet programmer until he got caught skimming from the accounts heroes use to fund their Runners and cushy little cages and Christo knows what else. They tossed him in here with the rabids rather than go through with one of those bothersome trials with evidence and the like. Nice bloke. Plays chess with me.”
Iridium narrowed her eyes. “Where are we going with this?”
Lester’s worried face re-formed into the sly grin she remembered from his WANTED holopapers, which at one time had covered New Chicago like flickering snow.
“Ivanoff let slip to me during one of our games that he programmed the communication systems that the heroes use from the ground up in the good old days.” He laced his fingers behind his head. “Everything that the skinsuits use to talk to each other, he built.”
Iridium felt her throat tighten. “What did he give you, Dad?”
“Everything.”
Iridium sighed in frustration. “Assuming that he isn’t jerking you around—and may I say that embezzling Corp scumbags aren’t famous for telling the truth—what could we do with some outdated passwords into superhero email?”
“Callie,” he said, shaking his head, “you’re not thinking, girl. Ivanoff programmed everything. Including that little voice inside your head when you strap on the costume and go out into the field.”
Iridium’s eyes widened. “Ops? You mean he programmed Ops?”
“Ops,” said Lester, grinning. “He knows every code key, every back door into the program.” He shrugged, the grin still on his face. “I figured it was my duty to pass the information along to my brilliant daughter.”
Iridium felt her heartbeat quicken, heating her up inside the cheap suit. She told herself to calm down. She didn’t have enough information to get too excited. Yet. “Dad, even with pass codes and the like, I can’t do anything with this. Ops is run from a stand-alone mainframe inside Corp headquarters.”
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