“Shit!” he broadcast wide-channel. “You just about killed me!”
I crossed all my mental fingers, tried to channel Megan at her snarky best.
“That was my plan, death by stupidity. You know you’re not that floaty, right? And we still don’t know how deep your gas tank goes.” I could practically hear him thinking about that.
“I’m not going back yet.”
“No worries — I just don’t want to have to fish you out of the lake. Want to see something cool?”
“...okay.”
I put myself in front and turned us back towards Chicago, then piled on the speed. The kind of boy who couldn’t let a girl show him up, Mal stoked his fire to catch up and pull ahead. Naturally I gave it more, too, and we flew into the city at a respectable if sub-sonic speed. I took us up Jackson Boulevard and then up through cloud to land on the east edge of the Sears Building. Mal did his awkward landing thing, where he cut off his blast about eight feet off the roof to avoid scorching it and landed with a light grunt.
“You’re getting better at that. How are your takeoffs?”
He shrugged. “Fine on fireproof surfaces. So what — whoa. Wow.”
“Oh yeah.” I dropped to sit on the edge and swing my bare feet over Franklin Street. I’d checked the cloud ceiling before leaving the Dome to make sure, and tonight the view was my favorite kind. The Sears Building and a reef of other skyscrapers thrust upward out of a luminous sea, light-speckled pillars of glass and steel over clouds lit by the city below.
“That’s just...wow.” He carefully lowered himself to sit beside me and I tried not to smile. He hadn’t been flying long enough to be completely blasé about heights yet.
I nudged his shoulder. “This was Atlas’ favorite hangout. You know the safest way for you to get down from here is to jump and then light up, right? So, to use a Shellyism, are you still feeling all angsty?”
He gave it a minute, which was good. The magic of Chicago will work on anybody.
“I’ll get over it. I heard about your brother. Sorry. If it was Sydney...”
My turn? A guy, or a girl trying to be one of the guys, would say “S’okay,” and “He’ll be alright.” Empathy expressed, accepted, done deal. I bit my lip hard.
He shifted when I didn’t say anything. “Hey. I didn’t mean—”
“S’okay. He’ll be alright. Want to hear a story?” I put a bright smile behind it, and when he didn’t say no I took a deep breath. “Now that the news about me is out, lots of people are saying how privileged I am. Chicago blue blood, society debutante, you know. But you’ve heard about Shelly’s story?”
He shook his head. Well, he was probably avoiding reading the news too.
“It’s my Big Tragedy, the hook they’re using to really sell me as a human-interest story.” I sighed. “Has she told you exactly how she became Galatea?”
“Just that she died.”
I looked for the pearly white halo of the Dome, but the cloud sea was a little too thick to be sure.
“We met in grade school and were closer than sisters. Joined at the hip. I was a — I was pretty shy as a kid, scared of a lot of things, and she was fun and fearless. I worshipped her. She was the leader in all our adventures, and — She jumped off a building origin-chasing when we were fifteen, and gravity doesn’t give you second chances.”
I kept looking for the Dome, listening in case he moved.
“My family is great, but it had been just Shelly and me forever and I felt like half of me, the stronger, braver half, was gone. I was so mad at her and just...just lost. That’s when the Bees pretty much kidnapped me.”
“The what?”
“The Bees. Julie Brennan, Annabeth Bauman, and Megan Brock. The Bees.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “They were the It Girls of my class, and Julie was the queen bee. Julie and I knew each other ‘cause we were in the same parish, did catechism class together.”
Hah. The clouds had thinned a bit and there was the Dome, shining bright. I sighed.
“Julie dragged me into their circle, made sure I sat at their lunch table, and if I went my own way, one of them would chase me down. Usually Annabeth, since nobody can ever get mad at her. I couldn’t be a Bee, of course — wrong initials — but eventually it was Hope and the Bees. Look.”
I pointed out the glowing halo of cloud that marked the Dome. He shifted beside me.
“So what’s your point?”
Finally looking at him, I gave him my brightest smile. “No point. Just that it sucks now but you’ve got a bunch of annoying new friends who won’t let you do something stupid like run out of juice over the lake.” I floated off the edge to hang by the building. “Coming?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Boys. So eloquent.
And who cared? It was way past my bedtime, and I needed every minute of sleep I could get if I was going to apologize and have it out with Shelly tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty One: Astra
Shelly and I had a drinking game (soda shots — we weren’t old enough to drink yet). We’d put on an episode of Sentinels or The Guardians and take a drink for every cheesy line of fight dialogue. In a real life fight, dialogue mostly consists of orders, swearing, and one-syllable words like “Stop!” and “Give up!” when it’s not just grunts and screaming.
From the journal of Hope Corrigan.
* * *
A jarring buzz pulled me out of dreamless sleep, rising in pitch until my fogged head couldn’t ignore it anymore. Forcing sticky eyes open, I looked at my clock: one-thirty. It had read twelve-something when I closed my eyes, and since I obviously hadn’t slept more than twelve hours, somebody was going to die. I’d explain the error of their ways and then kill them as a warning to others.
“Hope?” Blackstone’s voice replaced the buzzing. Rats. I couldn’t kill Blackstone.
“I’m awake.”
“My apologies. Detective Fisher has called; they have discovered Mr. Ludlow’s location, and we are to proceed with an arrest.”
I flailed my way out of bed. “Five minutes! Who else is coming?”
“Watchman, Rush, The Harlequin, and Variforce. Galatea is engaged with Vulcan working on counter-Green Man ordnance. Take ten minutes, my dear.”
Ten. I could do ten. My bedclothes went on the floor again as I scrambled into full armor gear. Does this count as a new day, or did someone decide to reopen the old one?
* * *
Willis was the God of Coffee.
Caffeine swept the veils of thwarted sleep away enough for me to notice an odd, minty taste in his offering. “Red ginseng,” he reported, pouring for Variforce. “And other natural stimulants, my own secret recipe. Side effects include sleeplessness followed by a brief coma. Be sure you’re somewhere comfortable.”
I reconsidered my cup, but took another gulp. Nobody else gave it any thought. I’d been the last of the picked team to arrive in the Assembly Room, all of us in costume, even Lei Zi and Blackstone. How long does it take to climb into a tux, complete with waistcoat and bowtie? Did Chakra help? I squeaked, almost a hiccup, and put down Willis’ evil brew. I was definitely feeling warm, and the stuff should be illegal.
Blackstone’s stage-magic powers didn’t include mind-reading tricks, thank God, but he took the lowering of my cup as a signal to begin.
“Two hours ago, a patrolman stopping for coffee recognized Eric Ludlow from a police BOLO. Our Mr. Ludlow apparently has a taste for red satin and cream cheese cupcakes. The patrolman got his own coffee and then called it in, and a thermal drone was able to get eyes on our suspect when he left — a happy result of having so many eyes in the air watching for the Green Man.”
He brought up an aerial shot of a Chicago neighborhood and zoomed in.
“Mr. Ludlow took his cupcakes to a closed business on South Anthony and 94th Street.” A red X highlighted the building. “That is the good news; his hideout is part of a small and isolated row of business buildings, with only
a handful of homes and a nice open business lot separating them.
“The bad news is that thermal imaging shows us that Mr. Ludlow is alone. Detective Fisher wants to wait to move in, in hopes of catching the rest of the Wreckers. Superintendent Redmond, however, disagrees; the presence of a teleporter on the team means we could lose Mr. Ludlow at any time. The superintendent has authorized his immediate arrest.”
Lei Zi nodded and took over. She expanded the image Blackstone had dialed up.
“Hopefully, the fight will remain contained within the strip of businesses. However, should the battlefield widen, you must remain aware of our first responsibility, preventing civilian casualties. As you can see, to the west across Escanaba Avenue, we have dense residential neighborhoods. To the east and south, we have more open ground — at worst, you might tear up the Chicago Skyway. Police will be standing by to close the toll road when the fight begins. They will also move in with vans to fast-evacuate the apartments on either end of the business row.”
She stopped, looking around the table.
“They will not begin evacuating until we commence our assault. This is not procedure. Again, Superintendent Redmond feels that the risk of alerting our target — and possibly losing him — is too great. I have expressed my disagreement, but it is his call to make. Rush and The Harlequin will assist the evacuation, and Variforce will stand by and deploy his fields to keep Mr. Ludlow and any launched debris away from civilians and police. Any questions?”
The question wasn’t rhetorical; she fully expected that any uncertainties be ironed out before we deployed. When no one spoke up, she continued.
“Watchman, Astra, the two of you are tasked with bringing Mr. Ludlow down. Options?”
My stomach tightened and I flexed my hands on the table. The report from the precinct attack had mirrored the Daily Center attack. Eric, Dozer, had fought in the China War, he could kill, but both times it had been Twist, the telekinetic with the steel cables, who had killed their target.
“I want to talk to him,” I said before I could change my mind. Beside her, Blackstone smiled thinly.
Lei Zi didn’t smile. “That would concede the element of surprise, Astra, and give him a chance to escape the civilian-free zone he is in.” She wasn’t disagreeing, just stating obstacles.
“Watchman can stand by ready for a hard drop if he runs. Or attacks. Tactical surprise is as good as strategic surprise. And if he’s focused on me, Watchman gets a good first shot.”
“You have seen our strength estimate. Mr. Ludlow is now at least an A-Class Ajax-type. He was strong enough at the Daily Center to keep Watchman off of him, and his helmet broke before he did. Allowing him to come to grips with you would be suboptimal.”
“No, I mean, I understand. But — ” I swallowed, forced my voice level. “He’s a veteran, he — he lost more than he should have for his country. Sometimes, we get frustrated, we even feel it might be best to go straight to the killing. It’s not right, ma’am, and he’s guilty, but — We owe him.” Atlas believed in him.
I didn’t look around. Lei Zi didn’t look away.
“Watchman, you may wait for Astra’s call, or not, at your discretion. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
That ended our planning. Rush and The Harlequin left first, to be in position with the police units mobilized for the operation. Watchman towed Variforce in a force-field harness while I flew hands-free except for Malleus.
“Astra?” Lei Zi called through Dispatch. “The drone places Mr. Ludlow closest to the loading bay door facing South Anthony. You will enter there and proceed as seems best.”
My stomach twisted tighter. “Enter through the loading bay door, understood.” The line remained open for a breath, but she didn’t add anything. I focused on flying, and we arrived over our target in minutes.
The police had been prepositioning themselves while we were briefed. Looking down, I could see the orange glows of hot engines, more than a dozen police cars and vans on the perimeter and more on the toll road waiting. Captain Verres introduced himself as the head of the mission’s CPD side as we came in, but it was our operation tonight and he didn’t start barking orders. Lei Zi passed field control to me to keep clarity of command, and if Verres was surprised at all, it didn’t show in his voice.
It was a formality anyway; I had only one real order to give.
Watchman stayed up-top and Variforce went into glider mode to drop down and join the police beside the closest apartments. As soon as he was down, I dropped to the front of the parking lot.
And stood there for a long moment, staring at the loading door and listening to the solitary growl of trucks on the Tollway behind me, rumbling north and south, into the city or away while everyone slept. Did I knock? Did I call inside?
Let’s go reintroduce ourselves. Atlas’ voice, and not the attitude I needed for this, but it helped.
I flew up to the dock, gripped the rolling steel door with one hand, popped its bolts, and pulled up. The door rose and I stepped through into the dark, finding the light switch before Eric had time to roll off of his camp cot, shirtless and barefoot.
My heart thundered in my chest. “Hello, Mr. Ludlow. I’m sorry, but you’re under arrest.” Not the strongest opening and somewhere Atlas was laughing, but Eric hunched, face pasty-white, like I’d already hit him.
Then he pulled himself straight. “No, I’m not. Sorry, Ms. Astra.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Mr. Ludlow, and you know I’m not alone. Let me — ”
He charged. Ajax-types move fast — their own body mass is negligible compared to their strength and big as he was, Eric closed in the blink of an eye. I spun away on my outside foot and my vision still flashed at the impact that threw us both back outside. We missed the door but the wall didn’t stop us. I lost Malleus.
I slid across the parking lot, pulling air into shocked lungs. “Eric, stop!”
He leaped to his feet. “I can’t! You don’t under — ” then Watchman landed on him. The hit drove him into the ground, throwing up shattered concrete as I scrambled for Malleus. My left shoulder felt on fire; he’d hit like a train.
I found Malleus, swung around, and ducked a spray of concrete as Mr. Ludlow rose to throw Watchman down, breaking his attempted hold. He bent to pick Watchman up and I hit him, form perfect behind my flying swing. He reflexively twisted, Malleus catching him on his upper arm — which didn’t break. He still screamed as I followed the force of my swing to spin around him and my second hit took him in his lower back. He went down hard, away from Watchman, but rolled and came up, this time backhanding the recovered Watchman as he came on again.
The crack sounded like steel plates coming together and Watchman tumbled but I came down on him again, dropping with an overhand swing that hit the same upraised arm. Which pushed aside the force of my hit as he grabbed me.
“No!” was all I had time for before he slammed me hard through the pavement into the packed earth beneath and I lost Malleus again.
“Stay down!” Watchman shouted, and then Mr. Ludlow disappeared as Watchman hit, flying them both across the parking lot, the avenue, and into the concrete wall that rose to the toll road.
At least we’re moving away from the houses. I grabbed Malleus and flew after them.
Worst fight of my life. Before the end, I was swinging through a grey haze. When Watchman finally dropped him with a hammering rabbit-punch to the base of his skull, I fell to my knees and dry-heaved.
“Are you okay?” he gasped, bent over himself. It hadn’t been any fun for him, either.
“Is he?”
“He’ll heal — Ajax-types are good at that.” He staggered over, rolled Mr. Ludlow onto his stomach, and got him into the alloyed titanium thumb-cuffs that had miraculously stayed on his belt. If Eric tried to break them, he’d rip out his thumbs first.
I slid back to sit, looked around. We’d ripped into the roadway’s southbound lanes. At one point, Wa
tchman had decked Eric with a concrete slab. The left side of my face felt hot and numb from a back-swing hit and I’d lost my mask somewhere. He’d even managed to knock my earbug out — which beat having it hammered into my ear canal. I’d lost my cape somewhere and a dent in my armor wasn’t letting me breathe deep.
“The wagon is back down the hill,” Watchman said. “Grab an arm?” Balancing him between us, we flew him down to the waiting police. They’d formed two lines from the buildings to the Tollway embankment. Rush, Variforce, and The Harlequin waited for us, along with a smoking Fisher
“Nice fight, A,” Rush said, stepping out of the way.
I huffed. It hurt to giggle. “Yeah, the scriptwriters will fix the lame dialogue...” Endorphins make me stupid and I should never open my mouth right after a hard fight.
And I saw him. Against all reason, not all the apartment residents had taken the offered vans and a crowd had gathered beyond the police line. One pale face I knew — the business suit from the Daily Building fight, the “hostage” who’d disappeared, the one Blackstone thought was our teleporter.
“Down!” I shouted, launching myself through the police line. And I got him — my half-dead but empty left hand wrapped in his jacket collar, and then we were down on the ground and I barely kept myself from smacking him — he wasn’t Eric and it’d kill him — he gaped up at me, face shocked white, and we —
Chapter Twenty Two: Grendel
In psychology class, I read about a government-funded study that proved that men were more helpful to beautiful women and that good-looking guys did better on job interviews. No kidding. The study didn’t ask if people are more polite to the physically intimidating. The answer is yes. Except when they’re not.
Brian Lucas, aka Grendel.
Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape) Page 19
