Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape)

by Marion G. Harmon

  The fiction books were seriously worn, the bigger ones with broken backs. Almost all of them had used bookstore stamps inside their covers. But there was another set of books, all in their own pile. These were worn too, but carefully. No stamps, lots of dog-eared pages along with pages marked by colored stickies. Thumbing through the books showed a lot of highlighted pages, too.

  “What have you got?” Looking up, I found Fisher standing behind me.

  “I don’t know.” I held up one, a copy of The Sleeper Must Awaken. “It’s mostly action and adventure novels except for these — have you ever heard of the Foundation of Awakened Theosophy?”

  “FAT?” Officer Wyatt asked from across the room. “He has a couple of junk-mail letters from them.” Fisher squatted beside me, hand out. I passed it over and he read the back cover and inside page.

  “Jenny?” he called without looking up from the book. “Check his computer history for anything to do with FAT. And let’s look at his bank account’s transaction history again.”

  “Um, boss? You should — ”

  “Hope!” Shelly rattled my ear. “The 1st Precinct’s been hit!

  * * *

  Not many people can take a flight with only my grip between them and a fall to messy death without screaming — Shelly loved my rides, but even a terminal-velocity fall wouldn’t crack the titanium shell around her “brain.” Fisher insisted I give him a lift, brave man (if I dropped him, he’d splat and get better — but it would probably be a bit obvious). I flew fast as I safely could, but by the time we got there it was all over but the shouting.

  The precinct building on the corner of 18th and State looked fine — if you ignored the big hole in the north wall. Chicago’s finest swarmed like a kicked beehive with no one to sting where the wall had been blown outward. The breakout had thrown bricks into the nicely trimmed trees and against the low iron fence separating the sidewalk from the precinct grounds. It wasn’t a huge hole, just something an A Class Ajax-type might make punching through it on his way out. My gut clenched.

  Dozer, Eric.

  Riptide and Rush stood in the street watching the chaos. Riptide grinned when he saw us land.

  “Hey, chica. Somebody knocked over the cop-shop, put down the pajero that tried to pop our new boy. Nice.”

  The guy who took a shot at Mal in the café? In everything happening, I’d completely forgotten about him.

  Fisher lit up and watched the scene. “How did you get here so quickly?”

  Riptide shrugged. “Greek restaurant fire five blocks south. Rush got me there and I gave it a bath until the fire trucks arrived. We were just leaving when the call came.”

  “See anything?”

  Rush shook his head. “A big hole, body in the holding cell inside. Looks like the same MO — they broke the dude’s neck. No collateral damage this time and it happened fast. We got the call only after the bad guys let the station have its phones and computer system back.”

  “Thanks, guys.” Fisher gave them a nod, turned away. “Astra?”

  I skipped to catch up. “Sorry about Riptide — ”

  He threw me his default twisty smile. “He’ll never love cops, kid — it’s not worth getting pissy over. Do you see the obvious?” Another of his little tests.

  “Besides the bricks in trees?” I followed him over the low fence. “Not really, unless you mean they busted their way out this time instead of in.”

  A nod. “So, not quite the same MO. We find out why, it’ll tell us something about them.”

  I wondered how much this was telling Shelly. This time their hacker had circumvented a police station’s security with everyone outside noticing zip. So not good.

  Nobody questioned my being there with Fisher, and when he ground out his smoke in the grass and climbed through the hole, I floated after him. Rush had been right: one large holding cell, one body. Nobody else, but if they’d been sharing they’d probably have left, too. I didn’t look too close at the sad body; I’d seen plenty of death, and couldn’t tell Fisher anything the forensics people wouldn’t.

  Nobody else was in the cell yet, obviously waiting for the crime-scene guys. Either they’d emptied out the holding cells to either side or it was a slow day, and the cops outside the cells watched us but didn’t interfere. After a quick look at the victim’s neck, Fisher ignored the body.

  “Do you smell anything?” he asked quietly.

  I took a breath, shook my head. “Not really. Brick dust, cleaning bleach, people who don’t bathe. Him.”

  He grimaced. “I hoped their teleporter might leave a signature.”

  “Detective Fisher.”

  The new Superintendent of Police stood in the holding block hallway. Sean Redmond wore a suit with a vest, and loomed large as he surveyed the mess, hands in his pockets. Age and worry had put jowls in his cheeks and set his lips in a determined frown below his thick mustache, but his eyes were sharp and focused. Blackstone had told us all about him; they called him Big Red and The Fixer because the CPD had sent him wherever a precinct had broken down internally. After the events of the spring, the mayor had appointed him to the top seat to clean house, and from what I’d heard from Fisher, he’d been doing exactly that.

  Captain Verres stood beside and slightly behind his boss. I’d met Verres before at the Fortress riot last spring. Bull-necked, bald, and even bigger than Redmond, he radiated competence. I liked him, and he liked me too — seeing me eat an anti-tank missile and walk away had impressed the heck out of him.

  “And Astra,” Redmond added politely, nodding to me. “I’m sorry we haven’t met previously. Detective? I’m assuming this is one of yours?”

  “Looks that way, sir. The MO mostly matches the Daley Building hit so far.”

  “Be about it, then. You’ll have every department’s assistance. Captain Verres will coordinate with you and the DSA. Verres has just been informing me that our would-be-shooter’s Paladin connection was more than hypothetical.” Another nod and he was gone.

  I exhaled. “He’s...” Blunt? Focused?

  “Yeah. Most cops go their whole careers without shooting someone or taking a bullet. He did both and he’s the guy that broke the Nickelmen, our own in-house crime family. C’mon, kid.”

  We exited back through the hole. After another quick chat with Rush and Riptide, Fisher let us go; he’d called his team back from Mr. Ludlow’s, and my part was done.

  The afternoon wore on. Back at the Dome, I filled Blackstone in on what I’d seen and thought. He thanked me nicely enough, but didn’t return the favor. Shelly was out, so I worked out my frustration by trying to beat Watchman down, with Malleus this time. He still won, but only by two falls out of three.

  Watching Mal work out against Variforce’s fields was even more satisfying, and I actually managed to get some studying done (I was only keeping my grades up by taking the minimum class load this year) before Shell got back after dinner with her mom — Mrs. H was blowing every vacation day she’d accumulated in the past three years. She bounced on my bed, bright-eyed and ready to share.

  I closed my eyes. Instead of sharing what Blackstone had told me, I’d been a coward. Had anyone explained that the best Mrs. H could hope for was visiting rights? If they hadn’t, now was the time — we were off the watch roster again tonight and the evening looked ready to become Sleepover II.

  My phone chirped and I looked at the name displayed. Julie? I hit the button.

  “Hi, Julie. I — ”

  “Hope, God, turn on CEN, now!” she said the instant I picked up. “You’ve been outed!”

  Chapter Fifteen: Astra

  Secret identities are a staple of superhero fiction but are less common in real life. Many superheroes only wear masks to ensure that they are not easily recognized out of costume, and although they may use codenames in public, their true names are known. With the release of a viral video file today, Astra, celebrated by many as one of Chicago’s greatest daughters, joins the ranks of heroes whose names
are known.

  CEN News clip.

  * * *

  I wanted to scream and vomit from horror. They had my face. The CEN commentator showed a split screenshot, me in my half-mask and wig opposite my high school senior yearbook picture. Shelly’d gone statue-still, looking at nothing, and now her eyes were wide. “It’s on Powernet, too — they pulled it off a Viewtube video file that went up an hour ago. I can — ”

  “No, you can’t,” I croaked. I’d covered my mouth to keep the scream in, but even my frozen brain realized where she was going. “You can’t hack Viewtube and Powernet and CEN, and thousands of people who’ve downloaded it. And you can’t wipe their memories.”

  “Hope?” Oh. I’d dropped my cell. I picked it up.

  “It’s okay, Julie. Thanks.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Lie. Like that would work. Anyone falsely accused of being an active superhero could disprove it pretty easily by pointing to a zillion alibis, but when it was true — There was no way to hide once enough people were looking at you.

  Closing my eyes, I couldn’t stop seeing my double mug shot. I settled for staring at my toes. They were close; without thinking, I’d slid down to sit against the foot of my bed, legs tucked up, to hug my bare knees. I felt naked.

  But her simple question got my brain moving again.

  “The Bees can’t do anything, Julie. Thanks, but I’ve got a list.” Throw up, scream, cry, keep Shell from seizing control of the Internet to protect me. “I’ll call you?”

  “But — Sure. Promise?” My eyes prickled, but despite everything that was about to happen I couldn’t help smiling a little. Julie always wanted to fix things and I loved her for it. I had wonderful friends.

  “Promise.” I hung up and stared at my cell.

  “Shell? Could you let Bob know? He should...” He should do a security review of my family.

  “I’m already calling everybody. Including Legal Eagle.”

  “Thanks.” I took a steadying breath, wiped my eyes. “I’ll call Mom and Dad.”

  * * *

  I hadn’t made plans for this — I’d avoided even thinking about it — but it turned out Mom had. Of course she had; Dad had been a reservist cape for ten years. As Iron Jack, he hardly ever went into the field and nobody recognized him when he did (even his voice changed), so there wasn’t much chance he’d ever be outed — but there’s an important difference between not much and no chance. Dad’s response was completely predictable, and I hung up knowing Legal Eagle was getting a second call tonight.

  After that I dressed. A sleep-top and shorts didn’t go with a war council.

  Blackstone and Quin waited for me in Blackstone’s office — I was getting pretty familiar with the place now. Both were dressed for an evening out, which meant this had ruined everyone else’s night, too. Quin looked like a homicide waiting to happen. Blackstone looked...concerned.

  “Are you all right, my dear?”

  No. Never again. And I was a selfish monster.

  I wasn’t even that worried about my family, really; after last spring’s scare when we found out somebody in the Chicago mob knew my private identity, Blackstone had talked me down from near-screaming panic. The truth was that secret identities weren’t that secret; somebody outside your circle always knew. Need-to-know people in state and federal agencies had always known who I was, organized crime bosses knew who I was, a handful of people who knew me had guessed. Mrs. H was just another one I’d found out about.

  Having a secret identity had meant the public didn’t know. It had meant I could still be a normal — normalish — college student, could hang out with the Bees, have a life outside of the Sentinels. It had meant that nobody outside of my social circle knew who Hope was or gave two thoughts about her.

  And it had meant that if it ever got too much, I could quit, take off the cape and walk away and disappear back into plain Hope Corrigan. I hadn’t realized how much that mattered.

  And now that was gone.

  I wasn’t scared of supervillain nemesi coming at me through my family (like I had any except on the new season of Sentinels), or even attacking me on the U of C campus; that kind of thing never happened now. I was terrified because I couldn’t hide anymore. How selfish was that?

  “Hope? Hope?”

  I blinked. “Yes. I’m fine. What do we do?”

  “Post-outing interview,” Quin put in quickly. “I’m thinking Terry Reinhold — he’s practically become our team’s imbedded journalist. You assure the public that while you’re upset at the invasion of privacy, you’re still a dedicated Sentinel.”

  I nodded, laced my fingers over my knee and squared my shoulders. “And then?”

  “Get seen a lot, but keep the mask on. Lay low as Hope for a while. Your picture will eventually drop out of the news cycle — mainstream news stations won’t use it after the original story runs its course. We’ll have to worry about paparazzi — they’ll come after you anywhere for new shots to sell to the tabloids. We can handle them by setting you up with some Vulcan-improved anti-camera nodes; they’re sensor and laser packages that detect camera lenses and use the laser to block pictures with lens flare and blooming. We’ll do the same for your parent’s home to discourage snoops going for ‘background.’”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “What you don’t get back is any realistic expectation of public privacy, and your parents, your brothers will be — maybe not hounded — but at least sought for human-interest video bites for a while.”

  I actually started to relax a little bit. Mom and Dad could deal with that easy enough; they’d been interviewed plenty because of the foundation and were used to being well-known faces in Chicago. Aaron and Josh lived in different cities. Toby ... would hate the attention since it wasn’t about him, but he’d deal. He’d probably learn to use it.

  I’d call my professors — all two of them this fall — to apologize and let them know I wouldn’t be back to class. Maybe I could set foot back on campus next semester. I hoped so; was lunch in the student commons or coffee and cupcakes in Calvert House with the Bees too much to ask? Media celebrities went to school, right? It could be fine.

  And that’s what’s called denial. Someone had dropped another bridge on me; all I could do now was live with the damage.

  I’d been quiet long enough that Blackstone cleared his throat.

  “On the bright side, my dear, you’ll finally be able to show your birth certificate.” The brief smile wrinkled his eyes. “As to how this happened, it appears to be a political attack. The video file originated from Representative Shankman’s Chicago offices, under a dummy account. That is what Shelly tells us, and since outing a superhero’s secret identity is a serious civil tort, we will be able to demand that Viewtube take the video down and sue for the records needed to prove its origin. That said, individual responsibility for uploading the file may never be proven.”

  “What about CEN? Powernet?”

  “They didn’t out you — they are merely reporting the story. As will every other media outlet before this is over.” He sighed.

  “Hope, I’ve seen this before. We may be able to exact a pound of flesh from Shankman’s office over this. If we’re extremely fortunate, the person who made the video file will have made enough mistakes to be caught, and we’ll be able to sue him or her for every penny he’ll ever make as an example to others. But now that it’s out, freedom of the press covers anyone who runs with the story.”

  I nodded again. I knew all that, really. He leaned back and tapped his desk.

  “Meanwhile, I think it’s a good idea to expedite our plans for the cadet team. It will give the media something else to talk about. And,” he sighed again, “give you something else to think about. And who knows? Perhaps Rush will make the news again soon by dating two models or some such thing — he’s been amazingly low-key of late and it’s not in character.”

  He rubbed his eyes, conjured a smile for me.
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  “Fisher has also requested that I assign you permanently to his investigation of the Wreckers. He believes it may take him places where some superhero backup will be appropriate. Watchman says you can handle just about anything in this town, and the rest you can beat on until backup arrives. Can you do it?”

  Translation: With everything, are you up to going out in public now?

  No. I nodded. I’d keep nodding. “Yes. I’ll call him tonight.”

  Chapter Sixteen: Megaton

  The Paladins, Humanity First, all those groups are dedicated to the proposition if power corrupts then superhuman powers corrupt absolutely. Personally I don’t get it, even if there are enough supervillains out there to support their point. The way I see it, superpowers are like money — they allow people to act and act big. If superhumans want to help, great. If they want to get what they want or rule their corner of the world, not so great. It doesn’t get any more complicated than that.

  Malcolm Scott, aka Megaton.

  * * *

  “Wahoooo! Yeeah!” The ear protectors in my new helmet let me hear my own voice as I roared into the sky.

  “Everything okay, there?” Astra laughed on the Dispatch channel, sounding clear through the muted blast.

  Andrew had finished my costume over the weekend, and he and Astra brought it to me this morning, then took me down to The Pit for my helmet. Vulcan was a skinny dude in a lab coat with a serious case of bed-hair — the kind you get when you sleep on a couch in your lab. Just looking at him I could hear his inside-voice cackling maniacally, and he’d practically jammed the helmet on my head and shouted in my earhole.

  “Ear protectors and speakers,” he’d said happily. “The pick-ups in the helmet will screen out most of your blast volume while letting you hear everything else. And of course it’s wired for full Dispatch connectivity, heads-up-display on the visor, and it’ll stop a bullet. Your costume’s got a layer of my impact-weave, too. Good luck.”