Dr. Sterling stood up. “Alright, let’s get working on it!” Goodbyes were said, the video conference feed was cut, and the television screen went dark.
Gabrielle sat for a moment, apparently mustering the strength to start working on everything she needed to do. “It’s a good plan,” she finally said, though she sounded as if she were trying to reassure herself more than Seawolf.
Seawolf raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Let’s just hope that it’s better than whatever plan the bad guys have.”
Chapter 7
8:22 a.m., Friday, March 29th, 2013
Lewes Boulevard
Whitehorse, Yukon
Camille Richardson-Franklyn, formerly Nova Woman of the Infinity Team, formerly Nova Girl of West Pacific Supers, formerly Camille Richardson of the Hodges’ Institute Academy for Mutant Youth, had never learned the art of starting a car in 10 degrees. In fact, driving a car was something she’d largely given up on since moving to the Yukon. She listened with bemused incomprehension when Jules complained about putting chains on the tires or explained how to plug in the car so that the engine block wouldn’t crack. There were obvious advantages to being able to fly and commuting in a subarctic climate was clearly one of them. Not that Jules always appreciated that. This morning he’d gotten uncharacteristically upset when she’d woken him up so he could get ready to drop Meghan off at preschool.
“It’s negative 12 out there!” he’d exclaimed after checking the window thermometer.
“What is that in Fahrenheit?” she’d asked absentmindedly; she had also failed to internalize the metric system.
“For Christ’s sake, Camille, when are you going to learn Celsius?” he’d snapped, surprising both of them. “We aren’t in the States anymore!”
They were both quiet after that, though he had kissed her before she left. “It’s been a long winter,” he said apologetically and she’d nodded but said nothing. They’re always long winters, she thought, and he wouldn’t have kissed me if he’d known what I was up to today.
Now, flying parallel to Lewes Boulevard, then over the Yukon River, she wondered why on earth she had agreed to this meeting. She’d put Jules through hell over the last 8 years of their marriage and even Meghan was now getting old enough to understand about making friends and putting down roots. Why would she consider jeopardizing her tenuous family harmony again? It’s about public service, she told herself. Helping out old friends. And going home again, she admitted. And maybe redemption. She sighed. Whatever being a superhero was, it was never easy.
Christina was already bustling around the office; her Scots ancestry seemed to make her as immune to the bitter cold as Camille’s mutant genes made her. “Private jet, then,” she said to Camille significantly as she updated the Crime Stoppers wanted postings on the waiting room bulletin board. “First class all the way, they are.”
“That they are,” said Camille with a sigh, heading back to her office. “First class even when they show you the door.” She was still bitter that the West Pacific Governing Board had refused to let her change her costume design when Meghan was born. It was ridiculous that they expected a 26-year-old married woman and new mother to keep flying around in a miniskirt, halter top, and go-go boots. Not that she had wanted to change to some dowdy costume, mind you; the slacks and low-cut blouse she’d proposed still polled well with 18-to-26-year-old males, though admittedly she’d lost some sponsors and a portion of her fan base when her marriage became public. It was pathetic, really, how marketable sex appeal plummeted once you got a wedding ring.
If Dr. Hodges had come, she would’ve gone to the airport to meet him. Seawolf, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. She’d always made Camille uncomfortable for some reason. Camille had been 13 when she arrived at the Academy; Seawolf was already a graduate, studying at UC-West Pacific while working as an Academy RA for room and board. Camille had been assigned to her floor and the two had clashed from the start. It hadn’t been because Seawolf was an obvious mutant, she quickly told herself. In fact, Seawolf had been the one who wasn’t comfortable around her. She always resented that everyone liked me better. The thought was so unexpected that Camille was surprised by its vehemence. I sound like a teenage brat, she thought ruefully. Maybe I was, back when I first met her. Hell, even when I got on the team I was pretty full of myself. No wonder she didn’t like me. Seawolf was always professional, always distant, even arrogant, but a pro. A sarcastic, negative, and aloof pro, but a pro nonetheless. Camille shook her head. That’s years ago now. We’ve both moved on. Hopefully.
Christina sent Sven to the airport while Camille checked her email for the twentieth time that morning. Nothing. The fact was that not a lot went wrong in Whitehorse. Of course, she technically had jurisdiction over the whole territory, but even that wasn’t saying much. There were less than 35,000 people in the whole Yukon; two-thirds of them lived right here in the capital. There simply wasn’t a lot of crime and almost no supercriminal activity. Most of her day-to-day work was supporting the RCMP, but the Mounties were competent enough to not need a lot of help. There had been some excitement last year when Polaris had needed her assistance up in Northstar with a witch problem, but together they’d resolved the situation pretty quickly and she hadn’t had an excuse to visit the Northwest Territories since.
The only thing that kept her sane was alien activity. Both the Canadian and U.S. governments had allowed various alien refugee groups to establish settlements in the wilderness of the Yukon and Alaska, almost all on full restricted status, which meant that the inhabitants were prohibited from leaving strict geographical boundaries. Invariably, someone would decide to wander and then Camille would get to round them up and escort them back to wherever they were supposed to be. Even that sounded more exciting than it usually was. Few of the aliens were that dangerous, or delusional enough to put up much resistance. Compared to the sort of heroics she’d done in Chicago and West Pacific, it was downright pathetic.
Action junkie! She could almost hear Jules’ accusing voice. That’s what he would say this is all about. My need to be a hero. But dammit that’s what I am! She got up abruptly and paced around her office. Mr. Awesome used to say that powers were not a gift, but a loan from the future of the human race to help out those stuck in the present. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of her old friend who had suffered such an ignominious death. She had lost so many important people over the years that she wasn’t sure she could put herself through it all again. Almost at once she remembered what Dr. Hodges had said yesterday night when he called. West Pacific needs you again Camille. It’s time to come home.
Christina escorted Seawolf back to Camille’s office, pausing a bit longer than was strictly necessary to give this newcomer in the fancy costume a one-over. The swirling blue and white ultimesh took Camille aback, but she was also acutely aware of how pathetic her office must look to a professional super. Even the damn computer she had been so proud of was probably years behind what they were using in West Pacific now. She forced a smile and extended her hand. “Seawolf, welcome to Whitehorse! Please, take a seat. It’s been too long.”
Seawolf’s hand felt slightly tacky to the touch, always a strange sensation to shake. She rather pointedly looked around the office before sitting in the chair across from Camille’s desk. “You’ve heard of course,” she said.
So much for small talk, thought Camille. “Yes, of course. It’s been all over the news and when Matthew called to say you were coming… ” She paused at Seawolf’s expression. Oh God, I thought he told her that he called! “Well, he told me some of the details. Not much though. We mostly talked about Ben and Jason - it’s just shocking,” she finished lamely.
“So, Dr. Hodges already talked to you? Well then, I guess you know why I’m here,” Seawolf said. She stared at Camille for a moment before adding, “We want you back on the team.”
“Right,” said Camille. “The thing is, I don’t know whether or not I’m prepared to uproot my f
amily again. After the last… ”
Seawolf stopped her with a wave of her webbed hand. “Obviously you’re prepared to accept our offer, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. The only questions are about terms. We are prepared to buy off your current contract and offer you one year at 2.5 million, personal assistant, physical trainer, car with chauffeur, the typical equipment, ultimesh costumes - pants suit is fine, premium office space, publicity assistance with acquiring endorsements, five percent share in revenue from the Nova Woman brand… ”
“Ten percent,” countered Camille automatically, her pulse already racing.
“Eight,” said Seawolf with a distinctly wolfish grin. “Obviously we need you to start immediately. We’ll send people to move your family… ”
My family - Jules, holy shit, what am I doing here! Camille broke out in a cold sweat. “Wait, wait just a minute, actually I don’t want to revise the Nova Woman brand,” she stammered.
“You’re not going back to Nova Girl, are you?” asked Seawolf with furry arched eyebrows. “Having marital problems?”
“No, of course not!” Camille glared at Seawolf. “I’ve just been thinking of dropping the whole costume and secret identity and everything. Just going with Camille.”
“How very European,” remarked Seawolf dryly.
“It’s not just European,” said Camille defensively. “There’s Meredith with the Arches.”
“True, probably not the first time St. Louis has tried to import European class,” said Seawolf. “Very well, I think we can accommodate that request. Are the rest of the terms acceptable?”
Camille took a deep breath and forced herself to think. This was business after all. Sure, West Pacific might need her, but that didn’t mean they were going to treat her fairly – when had they ever done that? “2.5 million is way under my market value,” she said carefully. “Twice that would be more like it.”
Seawolf scoffed. “Considering what you’re making now, I should think that you’d be grateful for the pay raise.”
“That’s not the point,” said Camille, narrowing her eyes. “The top teens in the Super Draft this year are going for ten million. And I have experience.”
“At your age, it’s called baggage,” retorted Seawolf. “You’re not a teen anymore, Camille. You have scar tissue and stretch marks. Who’s your largest sponsor nowadays anyway? Canada Dry?”
Camille gritted her teeth. She was not going to let Seawolf rile her, even if she was making a good point. When the Infinity Team had cut her, Camille had lost almost all of her Stateside sponsors. The real blow was being dropped from the Barbie Superheroine line, which had been her most lucrative contract. Maybe West Pacific could help her get that back – it would be kind of neat to get back into the doll market now that Meghan was old enough to play with them. Camille shook her head. She had to focus here.
“Look,” she said to Seawolf, “what I’m looking for is stability. I’m tired of being treated like a damn yo-yo. So I want a three-year contract at four million a year. I’m insulted that you’d even offer 2.5. There’s no way in hell I’m going to settle for less than four million. You can take it or find yourself someone else.”
Seawolf laughed. “You’re losing your touch, Camille. You aren’t supposed to make ultimatums until later in the negotiations. Then again, I guess we are operating under time pressure here. After all, we did just lose Ben and Jason, not to mention that Starfish is now on the Injured Reserve. I should have expected you’d try to rake us over the coals. Perhaps you’re taking your cue from Keystone.”
“Oh, cut the crap,” snorted Camille. “If they wanted to try a guilt trip, Matthew would have come himself. West Pacific’s in the top five in the West Coast Conference, so don’t give me a load of bullshit about you not having the money to pay me a living wage.”
Seawolf gave her an incredulous look. “You’re trying to tell me that 2.5 million dollars – U.S. dollars – is not a living wage?”
Camille frowned, feeling frustrated. “You know what I mean, Seawolf! How much are you pulling in a year, anyway? Five, six million?”
“I have a nondisclosure agreement,” said Seawolf smugly, “so I can’t legally discuss my salary. But suffice to say that I feel myself justly rewarded for my 13 years of continuous service to the city. Seniority has its perks.” She grinned at Camille, showing more teeth than Camille thought was strictly necessary.
Camille swallowed hard. This was all a damn negotiating tactic, she told herself; Seawolf was just trying to get her angry so that she’d settle for less than she was worth. Then again, maybe Seawolf was actually trying to scuttle the contract entirely. She’s always hated me, Camille reminded herself. Matthew probably forced her to come and she’s bound and determined to either screw me over or get me to back out. Camille clenched her jaw. She wasn’t going to let pride or anger get the better of her. The fact was that even the initial offer was almost ten times what she was making now. This wasn’t 2007 anymore. Times had changed and so had her marketability. She couldn’t reasonably expect to pull in top dollar. “Three years, 3.5 million,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Two years, 3.2,” said Seawolf calmly.
Camille paused a moment, then nodded.
“Excellent,” said Seawolf briskly as she stood up. “That’s all settled then. I’ll have legal draw up the contract for you to sign when you start work - let’s say Monday. Shall we send a jet or do you want to fly down yourself?”
“What?” said Camille, standing automatically, her head spinning. “Ah, I guess I’ll fly. I mean, I was already going to fly down for the funeral, so I guess I’ll just stay on then.”
“But of course. Don’t forget that we have a new headquarters now.”
“That’s right.” So much had changed even in just a few years. “How is the new building?”
“Large,” said Seawolf with a gruff laugh. “Even you shouldn’t be able to miss it.” She took Camille’s hand for another uncomfortable handshake and walked out as Camille sunk back down into her desk chair. Her mouth went dry as she looked at the picture of her, Jules, and Meghan at the skating rink. I am so totally fucked, she thought, and then, but I’m back in the game. A smile played across her lips as she steeled herself and reached for the phone.
Chapter 8
4:25 p.m., Friday, March 29th, 2013
5809 Odyssey Court
West Pacific, CA
It was hard to find time for a secret identity. This was the problem that Loren Polawsky had struggled with for years. Being at West Pacific College for undergraduate and then graduate school had worked quite well, but graduation had been inevitable. Afterwards he had tried that most classic of secret identities: a reporter. Unfortunately, he soon discovered that being a journalist had serious drawbacks. Sure, he was usually the first one at the scene of any crisis, but once he was there, his boss always expected him to report, not change into a costume and save the day. He got a reputation as being ‘directionally challenged’ after he’d too often used the excuse that he’d gotten lost between the van and the scene. So he got demoted from reporter to driver, which worked pretty well until he left the news van to sneak into a crime scene and dust for fingerprints. How was he supposed to know that the Fright was going to choose that time to threaten the city? By the time he’d finished his investigation, the van was gone and with it his career in journalism.
Of course, the easiest secret identities to maintain were the ones that didn’t require you to work at all. But that only worked for supers who were independently wealthy or could get endorsements, or who belonged to a team and got paid for their heroics. But for most vigilantes, especially nonmutants like he was, a job was a necessary evil.
He often wondered what his fellow caped crusaders did for a living. Sometimes when he was showing a house, like now, he would look at the clients and wonder if one of them might actually be a secret superhero, perhaps even someone he worked with. Doubtful with these two. The man was too loud and th
e woman’s fingernails were too well manicured. Of course, that could just be a really good cover. He’d gotten up the courage to ask Goalie once what she did for a living, assuming that she was a professional hockey player. To his disappointment, she had said she worked in adult daycare. Perhaps that explained her aggression out on the streets. In a way it was comforting though. There was something worse than real estate.
From the outside looking in, being a real estate agent seemed to have distinct advantages. You could set your own hours and work mostly from home, with very little oversight from the front office. On the other hand, people expected you to be constantly on call and they had entirely unrealistic expectations. Even with his licensed agent priority access to special listings, he simply couldn’t find a single-family beachfront home within commuting distance of downtown West Pacific City for under a million. No one could find that and yet everyone wanted it. Telling people that such houses simply weren’t available didn’t stop them from demanding to be shown property after property that both he and they knew they could not afford. But you couldn’t refuse to show them properties. Like it or not, he was a real estate agent for more of his life than he was a superhero, and without at least occasional commissions coming in, there wouldn’t be any superheroing at all.
“It’s very nice,” said the woman with the well-manicured nails. “But I don’t think it’s quite what we’re looking for.”
Loren smiled politely.
“We were hoping to be closer to the city,” boomed her husband from the living room.
“And we’d like a bigger kitchen,” added his wife helpfully. “This one is so dark.”
“Well, I do have another property I could show you… ” Loren began.
“I know how this works,” interrupted the loud husband. “You show us a bunch of places that don’t meet our criteria and then one that does, but is way out of our price range. I saw an investigative report on how you people work.”
West Pacific Supers: Rising Tide Page 9
