Shades of Gray

by Jackie Kessler; Caitlin Kittredge

  As she left, Iridium threw a salute to Damien and his horned pals skulking in the shadows. Alone, she walked on toward her warehouse. As she approached, she let out a sigh. Iridium, once Public Enemy Number 1, now reduced to a superpower hall monitor for the scum of New Chicago.

  Yeah. The reality definitely sucked.

  CHAPTER 3

  JET

  Certain powers, like Earth, have taken to the conditioning better than others. Some powers, notably Light, have proven unpredictable.

  —From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #74

  Hey, Were,” Jet said, nonchalant, her fists by her sides. She’d never worked with White Hot, but Jet and the shapeshifter went way back. What was more, Jet knew him—how he reacted, how he fought, what pushed him over the edge from man to animal. If he thought Jet was going to fight, he’d attack first. And if he thought Jet was acting weak, he’d attack first.

  The trick, then, was to hold her ground with confidence, and never mind how exhausted she was from playing hero for two days without a break. Duty first, she thought sourly. Always. The Corp edict still held true, even if Corp itself had proven to be worse than any enemy the Squadron had ever faced.

  “Babe,” Were said, his voice a thick growl—damn, he was already halfway gone—“I didn’t see you there.”

  She smiled. “What, under all the rubble? Imagine that.”

  “Jet,” Meteorite hissed in her ear. “Were’s stats are off the board. He’s got less impulse control at the moment than a sugared-up two-year-old.”

  Without moving her lips, Jet whispered: “No kidding.”

  “Why are you wasting time talking to her?” That was White Hot, who hadn’t called back her power. Her gloved hands were bright as suns, and they twitched either with nervous energy or madness. Or both. “She’s one of the lapdogs.”

  Jet was getting tired of hearing the slur. “Was,” she spat, not having to fake her disgust. “Light, how many times do I have to say it? I don’t work for them anymore.”

  “You were their poster child,” White Hot sneered. “Like you really could just turn off your adoration?”

  “You don’t know me.” Jet pointed her chin at Were. “You do.”

  Were’s nostrils flared. “I do,” he agreed, and grinned hugely. “You still smell like you’d be a great lay. You try to send out these untouchable vibes, but under all that black leather you’re practically begging to get fucked. Bet you’re a screamer.”

  Light spare me. “My, you sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

  “I know how to do more than that,” Were said, stepping forward, all gangly legs and hormones. “I know how to make you see Jehovah. I can do things with my tongue—”

  “Shut it, perv.” White Hot scowled as she flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. Probably didn’t like not being the object of his attention. White Hot was arrogant, self-centered. Jet had seen the type before, mostly from Lighters. White Hot. Razzle Dazzle. Sunbeam. Dawnlighter.

  Iridium.

  “You know,” Jet said, pushing away thoughts of Iri, “there was a time, Were, when you’d be cracking jokes along with making moves.” She allowed herself a smile that hinted at “come hither.” She wasn’t a flirter by nature, not like Jezebel or Curves, but even Jet knew how to turn it on when necessary.

  Were chuffed laughter, the sound dancing with the animal in his nature. “Oh, I’m thinking of lots of things that’ll make me smile …”

  Jet motioned to the debris at her feet. “Maybe first you’ll apologize for bringing a wall down on me. That was just rude, wouldn’t you say?” She shrugged her cloak off her shoulder, the motion calling attention to her breasts.

  And … yes, Were’s gaze slid down to her chest.

  She allowed her smile to widen. A little more banter, a touch more innuendo, then Were’s guard would be lowered enough for her to take him out with a kiss of Shadow. He was the more deadly of the two; he had to go down first, before White Hot knew what was happening. As for the Lighter, Jet would knock her out the old-fashioned way.

  But of course, that was when the normal decided to bolt.

  Screaming like his hair was on fire, the thief pushed past her and headed for the mouth of the alley. Before Jet could catch her balance, White Hot lit up—the millions of spangles that made up her skinsuit transformed into prisms of eye-bleeding color. She aimed low, blasting the ground beneath the man’s feet.

  With a squawk, the thief pinwheeled to the broken, smoking cement. White Hot planted a high-heeled boot on the man’s back and threaded her gloved fingers through his hair.

  “Baby,” she crooned, “going so soon?”

  “He’s a thief,” Jet said, her gaze locked on White Hot. She didn’t like the sadistic smile on the woman’s face, or the way the air still crackled with ozone. The Lighter wasn’t still glowing, at least, but she hadn’t tamped back her power. Not good. “I was going to deposit him with Commissioner Wagner.”

  White Hot didn’t bother looking at Jet when she replied. “And why would we want to do such a thing?”

  “He’s a thief,” Jet said slowly.

  “Mmm. I do so like bad boys.” White Hot yanked the man’s head back, exposing his bare throat. “What do you think, Were?”

  “Not my type,” Were said. And then he pounced.

  Jet rolled, but Were still tagged her, grabbing her shoulders and going down with her. Fast, she thought, so damn fast. She brought her legs between their bodies and kicked hard. Too late—she missed his kneecaps because he was already shifting. Calling up her power, she pummeled him with a Shadowbolt. Were, half-human, flew off her and slammed snout first into the alley wall.

  Protect the normal.

  Jet launched herself at White Hot, who had already flipped the thief onto his back and was fumbling with his zipper. Propelled by Shadow, Jet built momentum and cocked her right fist back as her left leg came forward, bent at the knee. White Hot looked up just as Jet swiveled, the knuckles of her right hand aiming for the Lighter’s pouty lips.

  The meaty thud of her fist connecting was music to Jet’s ears.

  White Hot’s head snapped back, and she spun drunkenly before crashing to the ground. She didn’t get up again.

  Wimp, Jet thought, shaking out her hand.

  In Jet’s ear, Meteorite screamed: “Down!”

  Jet dropped hard to the cement, her hands and arms absorbing the impact. Her cloak pulled taut against her neck before the clasp let go. Jet didn’t need to hear the snarls or the snapping of teeth to know that Were had completed his transformation to wolf. Fabric tore, and she winced.

  “I liked that cloak,” she muttered, sending her creepers into the black material. The folds rippled with Shadow, and the cowl reared back with a life of its own as the rest of the cloak wrapped itself around Were.

  Jet pulled herself to her feet, swallowing thickly against the dizziness. She’d expelled too much power. She needed to rest.

  Soon, she thought, feeling the beginning of a headache behind her eyes. I’ll take some time off soon. Right after things here get less insane.

  Whenever that would be.

  She walked over to Were’s bundled form, and she couldn’t help but be impressed by how he was still struggling. Most people—humans and extrahumans alike—succumbed quickly to the numbing cold of the Shadow. “Hey,” she said, prodding Were lightly with her boot. “Come on, Shaggy. Calm down.”

  Were roared and lashed out, swiping at her through the Shadow-covered cloak. It didn’t matter that the sounds were muffled or that the claws were unable to pierce either the material or Jet’s power. It still made Jet take an involuntary step backward.

  “Traitor!” he howled, lunging for her.

  Jet sidestepped. She watched the bundle sprawl to the broken concrete, feeling sad. Fighting with Were now was nothing like sparring with him back at the Academy. Then, all of his attacks were punctuated with dirty jokes and innuendo just shy of sexual harassment. Now it was deadly serious. If h
e tore his way free, he’d go for her throat.

  But the Shadow held. Beneath the cowl and cloak, Were’s form shuddered, then finally went still. The material shifted and rolled until a man’s shape was clearly outlined under the black fabric.

  Jet sighed, her heart feeling heavy, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “I’m not a traitor,” she said softly. But after fighting her former colleagues—and now her former friends—she wondered if Were was right.

  right right

  Behind her optiframes, Jet’s eyes widened. No, no—Light, no. It was too soon.

  soon soon sweet girl sweet Shadow sweetness like bones crunching like dead leaves like

  Gritting her teeth, Jet called back the Shadow, let it swim over her body and sink into her skin. The Shadow voices faded to whispers, which easily could have been the wind. But Jet knew better.

  Not crazy yet, she told herself as she retrieved her cloak—torn and slobbered on. Groan. No, she hadn’t given in to those voices. Not yet. Not ever again, she promised herself as she clasped the soiled cloak to her shoulders and tugged the cowl over her head.

  She’d sooner kill herself.

  Feeling much older than her twenty-two years, she slapped a pair of stun-cuffs on Were, and another on White Hot. For the human thief, she resorted to good ol’ duct tape. He didn’t fight her; he was too busy babbling the Twenty-third Psalm of David. At least his hands were already clasped together, so tying them was a cakewalk.

  “Ops,” she said.

  Meteorite replied crisply, “Go ahead.”

  “Note that I’ll need to carry more cuffs.”

  “Noted.” A pause, then Meteorite asked, “You okay, babe?”

  “Dandy,” Jet said, looking at Were’s pale form. “Just dandy.”

  Meteorite cleared her throat. “Okay. Enough mommying. The others are here. You may have forgotten, what with all the fighting, that there’s a meeting in, oh, two minutes.”

  Crap. “I’ll be there as soon as I drop these packages off at the Sixteenth. Out.”

  Jet tapped her comlink, replacing Meteorite’s voice with the white noise of a waterfall. It wouldn’t be enough to keep the Shadow voices at bay, not forever. But for now, it would do.

  She summoned a floater of Shadow big enough to hold White Hot, Were, Slider, and the thief, then she called up one for herself. It took a moment to create a graymatter leash to connect the two floaters. It took a little longer for Jet to massage away the headache.

  Dragging the unconscious rabids and gibbering human on the disc behind her, Jet flew to the Sixteenth precinct, just inside of Grid 16—what many people referred to as Wreck City.

  Iridium’s city.

  Jet deposited the four people in front of the building, wondering if Iri was fighting against the madness infecting New Chicago and the rest of the Americas or reveling in it. Then again, Jet admitted to herself, she really didn’t want to find out.

  After leaving a note for Commissioner Wagner, Jet was going to take off to old Wrigley Field for the meeting—she was already late, and the last thing she wanted to deal with was Frostbite’s grumbling. But after tucking the note into White Hot’s shoulder strap, Jet noticed that she had an audience. Civilians, ranging from early twenties to late seventies, based on outward appearances. None of them looked hostile, which was something. A few seemed curious. And one or two actually looked relieved. And blissfully, there was no media.

  “Hey,” one of the civilians said—an auburn-haired man in sunglasses. “Littering’s a crime, innit?”

  She couldn’t help it; she smiled. “Just dropping off a care package for Commissioner Wagner, citizen.”

  The man grinned. “You don’t think he’d maybe prefer some freshly baked cookies next time?”

  That actually made her laugh. “Next time,” she said, “maybe someone will be as thoughtful for me.”

  And with that, Jet rocketed away.

  CHAPTER 4

  IRIDIUM

  “I lost a daughter. My work, every second of my life, are geared toward making sure no other parent has to experience that void inside them.”

  —Interview with Matthew Icarus on 60 Minutes,

  January 19, 1970

  Iridium’s warehouse crouched back from the street, like a shy animal or a sleeping bum, grit and dirt and teeth on the outside hiding what lay within.

  She hit the code for the door—an old-fashioned keypad that couldn’t be sliced by any hack with a wireless rig. You had to get up close and personal to break in, and an equally ancient biometric scanner ensured that anyone besides Iridium or her assistant Boxer would get a healthy jolt from the city power grid.

  Inside, Boxer sat with his back to the door, his shoes off, his feet in their mismatched socks propped on the shipping crate Iridium used as a table. A holo played on the wall, 3-D film explosions painting the wide, high space in sunset.

  “Sitting on your ass is a good way to get a cap in it,” Iridium said.

  Boxer jumped up, knocking over his soda and redimeal. He cursed. “Sneaking up on me’s a hobby for you, ain’t it?”

  “Your own fault, old man. You didn’t used to be so sloppy.” Iridium grabbed her own meal from the freezer and shoved it into the cooker before she sat opposite Boxer. They’d developed a routine since they’d made their agreement—Boxer worked for her instead of gang running, and Iridium provided food, shelter, and the occasional 3-D film night.

  Boxer wasn’t a brother, or an uncle—he was just Boxer, Academy washout, cranky old man, and the closest thing to a friend she had.

  “I figure we ain’t worried about the Squadron anymore.” He shrugged. “Why do I need to guard the door?”

  “Maybe because of the unmitigated chaos just beyond our doorstep?” Iridium got up again when the cooker chirped and pulled her meal out by the edges, peeling back the film and sticking a fork into the soy chicken. Real meat was a luxury, cloned on farms and sold in upscale markets. They’d eaten real meat at the Academy. “It’s not safe out there, Boxer. This city has descended into hell.”

  “What’s the song? ‘Hell ain’t a bad place to be’?”

  “Christo, you really are old.”

  He threw his wadded napkin at her.

  She ducked, grinning, then grabbed her can of Tab and popped the lid. The pink can shimmered as its malleable metal morphed into a cup. A division of Corp-Co appeared in pink script. Iridium turned the glass so she couldn’t see the writing. “I saw your nephew on the vids today.”

  “Tyler? He commed me a few days ago. I didn’t pick up.”

  Iridium chewed on her grainy chicken. “Why not?”

  “Hell, what do the kid and I got to say to each other? I ditched out of the Academy when he was in diapers, and he spent most of his better years ready to arrest me on sight.”

  “Things are different now,” Iridium said. “But hey, your family is your business.” Christo knew, she didn’t want anyone poking into the Bradford clan’s dysfunction.

  “Different, sure. Inmates are running the damn asylum,” Boxer snorted, flipping the vids to the news. It was, if possible, even more violent than the action film he’d been watching. Iridium caught a flash of Shadow and saw Jet in fine form, kicking ass and taking names and still letting the camera find her good side.

  Training was hard to shake.

  On screen, the anchor announced, “And in other news, mounting tensions in the civilian sector as prison guards at the infamous Blackbird facility for supervillains go on strike.” The anchor smiled perkily at the camera. “Cited causes are lack of pay and increased safety regulations for workers. Blackbird Prison is one of the few not disrupted by riots during this time, but we can only assume that will change. Here’s Tom with your weather.”

  Boxer flipped the channel again, to a rerun of Squad House. “You know, my brother was short-listed for this. Before he got his bum leg.”

  Iridium heard him from a long way off. She was seeing the sterile corridors of Blackbird, the narrow
doors marked with designations instead of names. The screams that echoed endlessly no matter how much Thorazine the medics pumped.

  “Iri.” Boxer nudged her with his toe. “You with me?”

  Iridium shoved her dinner aside. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

  CHAPTER 5

  JET

  The conditioning will guarantee that the Squadron will always be defenders of the public good. And of Corp-Co’s interests, of course. Can’t bite the hand that feeds you.

  —From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #68

  The baseball field had long given way to age—the grassy field now nothing but dust, and the bleachers filled with junk and old ghosts. Jet tried to picture what it must have been like to see baseball outside, to watch a ball hit so hard that it flew over the stadium’s edge until it was lost to the pollution layer. She thought that the notion of playing any professional sport outdoors was a joke, or maybe a whimsical dream. Baseball outside a dome? Impossible to imagine.

  And yet, here was Wrigley Field—the original, dated all the way back to the early 1900s, not the covered astropark of the same name over in Grid 3. Jet soared over what had once been home plate, wondering what it would have been like to see Babe Ruth make his famous called shot.

  “I’ll take you to a baseball game,” Sam had said, not even two weeks before he’d be killed in the line of duty. “You and me, we’ll get a weekend pass and we’ll hit the Downtown Grid to catch one of the Wrigley vids. You’ll love it!”

  Jet blinked back sudden tears. They’d never made it to that game; third year had been insanely busy at the Academy, and Jet had too much work on her plate to request a weekend pass. And Samson hadn’t pushed. Samson had never pushed.

  Light, there were times she missed him so much that it hurt to breathe.

  Jet took a deep breath, then blew it out, cleared her thoughts. She’d have time for sentimentality when she took that fabled break. Hovering over the remains of home plate, she whispered, “Watch my dust.” Then she zoomed to the roof.