Black and White

by Jackie Kessler

  Celestina, to a reporter during a press conference

  Forgot to tell you,” Terry said brightly. “Bruce is running late. Hee, I made a joke! Running late!”

  Jet smiled as she accepted the cup of tea, but her stomach was heaving. Why was he late today, of all days? Was it because of what happened yesterday? No, nonsense. He was a professional Runner.

  Whom she’d slept with. Oh, Light, she was in trouble.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can,” Jet said casually. “If it’s a problem for you, Terry, why don’t you pack it in? I’ll be okay on my own.”

  Terry grinned. “Right, I bet. Bruce clued me in on your sneaking out of bed to help save a little old lady.” She clucked her tongue. “You’re on bed rest, Jet.”

  “Just for one more day,” she said around her smile, trying not to growl.

  “Exactly. For one more day. You’re following doctor’s orders. At least, you are when I’m on duty.”

  Chagrined, Jet sipped her tea. Terry smiled over her victory and left Jet alone.

  Oh boy, she was in a lot of trouble.

  How could she have slept with Bruce? What had she been thinking?

  Well, that was easy. She’d been thinking how sexy he was, and how horny she was, and how his lips were so enticing and his eyes so electric …

  Right. It was thoughts like that, that got her into trouble in the first place.

  She had to tell Corp. What she’d done was strictly against policy. Bruce could sue her for sexual harassment.

  Then again, he hadn’t been complaining yesterday. And he’d been the one who’d instigated. It wasn’t her fault.

  She let out a bitter laugh. Yeah, that would play real well. How many times had criminals wailed that it hadn’t been their fault?

  Grow up, Jet. When he gets here, you’ll talk to him. Like a grown-up. And you’ll figure it out from there.

  She finished her tea and set the cup down. Nothing to do but wait for Bruce to arrive. And then they’d talk.

  And maybe they’d do more than talk …

  Stop that.

  To pass the time, she picked up the paperback romance on her nightstand. After reading the same passage three times without really seeing what she was reading, Jet put the book down.

  Instead of thinking about Bruce, her mind was focused on Iridium.

  Joannie, you’re hurt. Bad. Is heroing worth tearing yourself apart?

  Callie had said that to her. She had been nearly delirious from pain, but it had still penetrated.

  Iri had wanted to help her.

  Jet’s head started to throb, so she leaned back against the pillow and closed her eyes. It made no sense. Iridium was rabid. Iridium didn’t give a damn about her, about everything heroes stood for. She’d proven that five years ago. All Iridium cared about was Iridium.

  And yet …

  You can either get in my way and be burned by my strobe, Iridium said, cocky and arrogant, then when Jet tried to bat the ball of ever-brightening light away, she’d hissed: Careful, that’s over a thousand BTUs of heat!

  Iridium didn’t have to warn her. Iridium could have let her get burned.

  But when Jet had wrapped her in Shadow and Iridium had cried out, had begged for her to stop, Jet let her go … and Iridium had sucker punched her.

  Iridium didn’t give a damn about her.

  And yet …

  I am smarter than you, Jet, especially now. I’m not going to warn you again.

  Why had Iridium warned her? If Iri really cared, then why was she a rabid? Why did she turn her back on the Academy and Corp all those years ago? Why had she turned her back on Jet?

  And what had Iridium been doing in the tunnels? She couldn’t be working for Everyman. She couldn’t. Not after Third Year.

  Maybe something with the Undergoths?

  Or …

  She hissed in a breath, doubled over. Oh, by the Light, her head hurt.

  Wincing, Jet rubbed her temples, fought off a maddening urge to put in her comlink. As if that would help. She reached over to her nightstand and turned up the volume on the white-noise setting. “Babbling Brook” filled her ears, but did nothing to ease the pounding in her head.

  She grabbed the phone—audio only; she couldn’t get to the actual vidphone in the kitchen, not with Terry herefrom her nightstand and punched in Night’s direct extension. When his familiar cold voice answered, she said, “Hey, old man.”

  “Joan.” He sounded either surprised or irked. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Fine, sir. Eager to get out of bed and back into uniform.”

  “I understand. Did I ever tell you about the time Mister Mystery laid me up for the better part of a month? Very frustrating. I was fresh out of the Academy when it happened too. And … there we go. Clean channel. What is it, Jet?”

  “Sir, I need you to tell me why I’m not pursuing Everyman. Why we’re cleaning out the Rat Network.”

  “We’ve been through this.”

  “No, sir, not really. You haven’t told me why, just what.” She closed her eyes, saw Iri’s face. “Why are we using Iridium like this?”

  “‘Using Iridium’?”

  His tone made her flinch.

  “We are not using her. She is an excuse, yes. But we most certainly aren’t using her.”

  “But she had nothing to do with Lynda Kidder’s abduction.” Or her death.

  “She walked away from the Academy, from you, long ago. She’s a criminal, like her father. You have to push aside old friendships and commit yourself to the only course of action that matters.”

  “But why aren’t we going after Everyman?”

  “Because that’s suicide, Jet.”

  It’s suicide, Martin Moore agreed, sounding grave. Or, depending on how many humans are around you when you finally go, homicide.

  “Corp has a quiet agreement with the Society,” Night said. “We leave them alone, and other than sound and fury, they follow suit.”

  “But,” she spluttered, her mind unwilling to grasp what Night was saying, “but how could that be?” She remembered Wurtham’s scorn when they’d appeared together on the Goldwater show, the look of pure loathing in his eyes. “They hate us. They’d never work with us. And Corp would never condone such a thing.”

  In her mind, Moore laughed. Who do you think did this to you in the first place?

  “Jet,” Night said, “it’s been this way for years. Haven’t you ever wondered why there hadn’t been another assault from Everyman since Samson died?”

  “But Martin Moore—”

  “Belongs to a fringe organization of the Society. We know, Jet. The EC is hunting him down, with the Society’s help. Quietly. This is an embarrassment to both organizations.”

  At least I’m not being deluded by a megalomaniacal organization bent on ruling the world.

  “How could Corp work with Everyman?” she asked, her voice breaking. “It’s wrong, it’s—”

  “It’s business, Jet. Just business.”

  She clenched her fist. “It’s untenable.”

  After a long pause, he said, “I understand your rage.” His voice was quiet, and utterly terrifying. “Trust me, I understand. And a reckoning will come.”

  Her stomach knotted. “A … reckoning?”

  “Soon. A little more patience, Jet. You concentrate on healing. I need you at full strength.”

  She whispered, “For what, sir?”

  “To stand at my side, little Shadow. To stand at my side.”

  CHAPTER 52

  IRIDIUM

  They say there’s honor among thieves. But here, in Blackbird, everyone says that honor isn’t worth its weight in digichips.

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

  The elevator ride to Ops was interminable. Iridium tapped her fingers against the panel as they glided through blackness.

  “Nervous?” Taser’s voice rolled out of the dark and startled her.
r />   “Eager,” she lied. “What about you?”

  He paused for a moment, and when he spoke, his tone was reflective. “Once, my unit got dropped over Siberia during a blizzard, winds about fifty, sixty miles an hour. I looked down and all I could see was white, going on forever. I was scared then. Not now.”

  “So I was right,” she murmured. “You are ex-military.”

  “You win some kind of bet on that one, darlin’?”

  “Just with myself,” Iridium said.

  Taser’s hand wrapped around hers, flexible Kevlar gloves rough on skin. “I’m glad I met you, Iridium. Know that.”

  The lift slowed, and Iridium disentangled herself. “Now isn’t the time for mushy stuff, Taser. It’s not like either of us is planning to die a dramatic death.”

  He laughed once. “I get the feeling it’s never the time with you.”

  “If we pull this off, I might prove you wrong,” Iridium said, her voice low, throaty. She couldn’t tell in the dark, but she thought Taser probably grinned.

  The light panel over the lift doors turned green, and Iridium clenched her fists. She reached for the Light, pushed it outward as the door swished back.

  The glow erupted into the Ops control room with a bang, light and heat surging forth. If a flash grenade could work for Keanu Whatsit in his old movies, Iridium figured it could work for her.

  Taser charged into the control room, shooting electrical bolts left and right. Runners slumped over their stations; the quicker ones screamed and retreated. Someone hit the alarm. Overhead, Klaxons began to whine.

  Iridium strobed the Runners hiding behind their consoles, then shouted at Taser, “Turn off the damned alarms!”

  He shocked the control panel, and the Klaxons cut off abruptly. “Not like anybody can hear them.”

  Iridium was about to sit at the nearest console when something hit her between the shoulder blades. She stumbled and rolled, looking up into the sooty, enraged face of a dumpy, female, grounded hero—Weather Girl or Meteorology or something equally inane. At the Academy, she’d always eaten alone, studied alone, and passed Frostbite elaborately decorated love notes in the hallway.

  Well, that last had turned out well for her; on any day other than today, Derek was probably stationed next to her.

  The weather girl lowered her fire extinguisher and blinked at her. “Iridium?”

  “None other.”

  “Oh no …” Twitching, she stared around the room, took in the situation with her big, wide eyes. “What did you do?”

  Iridium whipped her foot up and kicked her in the gut, then got to her feet and kicked her again. The former hero collapsed.

  “Something really cool, trust me,” Iridium said. She jerked her head at Taser. “Load them into the lift. Lock the panel and send it to the basement.”

  As he did so, she pulled herself up to a console, which was locked and flashing the Academy logo. Iridium slid Ivanoff’s digichip into the drive, marrying it to the console so it became the recognized processor, along with her fake access code. After a long moment, the screen popped up a password box, and Iridium waited for the crack program to engage.

  “I’m in,” she said to Taser, who panted slightly as he shoved the last unconscious Ops flunky into the lift.

  “You sound surprised,” he said, coming to stand behind her.

  “Me? Never.” She scrolled through the data on-screen, an icon for each active hero with GPS positioning. They spread through the Rat Network like a small, lonely constellation.

  Iridium was about to enter the shutdown command when a cluster of power grids in the corner of the screen caught her eye. “Hey, Taser. Check this out.”

  He leaned in, putting one hand on her shoulder. Static popped between them. “What is that?”

  “It’s frequencies,” she said. “Hundreds of them. Nothing connected to the comm network.”

  “And nothing receiving,” said Taser. “Just broadcasting.”

  Iridium felt a cold twist in her gut. “Broadcasting what?”

  Taser shrugged. “You’re the genius.”

  Iridium thought about comlink, the muddled thoughts that came with wearing the earpiece. She thought about Dawnlighter’s blank features. About how Jet had gone from a thin shadow to the darling of the Academy.

  Jet and her earpiece.

  Frostbite, his aged face grim. Corp’s got something on Jet. You can be sure of that.

  “I don’t care,” Iridium said out loud. “It’s time to end this.” She brought up the command window and typed in TERMINATE ALL.

  ARE YOU SURE?

  Iridium keyed ENTER and waited.

  SHUTTING DOWN OPERATIONS MAINFRAME.

  “Now!” Iridium snapped at Taser. “Fry the network so it can’t do a hard boot!”

  Taser stuck out his hand and shocked the bank of servers underneath the console.

  A great hum died away, like blood had stopped flowing in and out. Every Ops screen went black.

  Taser circled back behind Iridium. She could see him now, clearly reflected in her dead datascreen. “We did it,” she said. Her heart was thudding, and she could feel sweat under her unikilt. Unbelievable as it was to be sitting in the bastion of her enemies, it was real. She let herself grin. “We fucking did it!”

  “Never doubted,” said Taser softly. “Makes me almost sorry.”

  Iridium frowned. “Sorry …?”

  Taser grabbed her by the hair and slammed her forehead against the console once, twice. Blood spattered over Iridium’s vision.

  “Don’t fight, Calista,” Taser said.

  “My name is not Calista!” Iridium summoned strobes, sent them backward blindly as Taser slammed her head again. Pain overtook her, and she dimly felt the strobes fizzling harmlessly.

  Taser jerked her out of the workstation chair and sent her sliding across the floor. Iridium’s vision was all blurs and light, blood and blackness.

  From his sleeve, Taser drew out a flat disc and shook it until it irised into the silvery network of wires and metal she recognized.

  That bastard had stolen her own neural inhibitor.

  “I want you to know I don’t enjoy this,” said Taser. “I respect you. Not many people get my respect. This is just business.”

  “Oh, go to—” Before she could finish the insult, Taser slipped the neural inhibitor over her brow, then she didn’t know anything except nothingness.

  CHAPTER 53

  JET

  Even heroes are fallible; even extrahumans aren’t impervious to human nature. That’s why rogue heroes work in the shadows … and why a Luster can become an Arclight.

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

  In her bedroom, Jet was pacing. Had been for a long, long while. Terry had popped her head in at one point and scolded her, but a look from Jet was enough to send Terry scampering back to the other side of the apartment.

  Corp and Everyman were working together.

  The very thought made Jet’s stomach clench and her chest feel too tight. It was a slap in the face, a burn on her soul. Everyman despised extrahumans. And what they’d done in the past was inexcusable.

  And yet Corp was working with them.

  Worse, Night knew about it. And was going along with it.

  Night, who she’d thought had been going mad. Night, who she’d thought was sending her on a wild-goose chase by asking her to investigate Lynda Kidder’s disappearance.

  Night had known all along.

  It’s a plan, Jet told herself, wearing the carpet thin from all her striding. Some sort of master plan from the Corp EC, to lull Everyman into lowering their guard, then the Squadron would come in and arrest them all for their crimes against us. Against humanity.

  Corp wouldn’t condone it otherwise. Corp stood for justice.

  Corp supported the Squadron and all extrahumans.

  Corp was good.

  Corp was in bed with Everyman.

  Everyman hated ex
trahumans. An Everyman had killed Sam. An Everyman had nearly killed Iri.

  Iri, who’d tried to tell her that day, five years ago …

  A slash of pain cut Jet’s thought, made her clutch her head and bite back a cry. She tried to push through the pain, like they’d been taught back at the Academy—the Academy, the educational branch of Corp, oh Light, everything they’ve been teaching has been from Corp and mandated from Corp and Corp is working with Everyman—

  Another stab through her mind, brutal, agonizing. Her world narrowed until it was just her head and the hot blade slicing through it, searing her until she couldn’t think, could barely breathe.

  Blindly, she staggered to her nightstand, turned the white-noise device all the way to eleven. She was drowning in a waterfall, clutching wildly to the sound, trying to stay afloat before the pain dragged her under.

  It did no good; her brain felt like it was on fire.

  Desperate, Jet pawed inside her nightstand drawer until she grabbed her comlink. Shoved it into her ear. Clicked it onto the white-noise setting.

  Still nothing. And now just beyond the scream of torment in her mind, she thought she heard whispers. Giggles.

  Rumbles of anticipation.

  “No,” she said aloud. She tapped her earpiece to connect her to Ops—

  —and yanked the device from her ear as the deafening alarm shrilled on and on and on. Tears streamed down her face; she couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart thumped frantically, as if trying to break free from her rib cage. Sweating, shaking, Jet collapsed to her knees, her hands pressed to her head.

  Corp stands for justice, she thought wildly. Corp looks out for the common citizen. The Academy teaches, the Squadron protects. Duty first, always.

  Duty first.

  Slowly, so very slowly, the pain receded. She recited the Academy Mission Statement as fast as she could, and again, and a third time. And then, finally, the pain was gone, leaving only echoes in its wake.

  Oh sweet Light, that had hurt.

  She stared at the comlink, which was still whining in alarm. With a trembling hand, Jet reached out and tapped it. Silence, except for her rapid breathing, her slowing heartbeat.

  What had just happened?