But there was real fear in George’s eyes, and Lester wouldn’t be the one to condemn him to that barbarian Moore ripping out his brain, his innermost thoughts and secrets laid bare. Secrets were all somebody like George Greene had.
“Take care of yourself, yeah?” he told George. “And look on the bright side—maybe Holly will come and kiss you better.”
“Screw you, man,” George rasped, but his eyes were his own again, and he managed a weak smile.
Lester breathed a small sigh of relief. His teammate was going to be all right.
He had to be. Otherwise, Lester had just lied for a man who needed psychiatric help desperately, who could endanger the very people he was supposed to watch over, and Corp would bury them both.
CHAPTER 10
NIGHT
Aaron is fascinated by the Shadows. If it were up to me, we would lobotomize the both of them. They scare the hell out of me.
—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #18
Night stormed down the hallway of Squadron headquarters, ignoring the pissants and lapdogs who tried to stop him with their tedious social obligations. He had no time to be bothered with “How are you?” or “Terrific collar” or “Who do you like for the series this year?”
Blackout was in the hospital wing.
Blackout, from the little that Luster had mentioned upon Night’s return from battle, had lived up to his designation and blacked out. Just for a second or two, Bradford had insisted, playing up how quickly the medics had arrived and how strong Greene was and no worries, mate, he’ll be back in black, tally ho.
Luster, for all his tactical brilliance, could be a fucking idiot.
No, Night allowed as he stomped down the last corridor. Not an idiot. Lester Bradford was many things—egocentric, proud enough to put peacocks to shame, and smart enough to do Corp to the letter whenever anyone was watching. But idiotic? Not Luster.
So when Night had returned from defeating Gold Digger and Luster had gamely by-the-byed Blackout’s “episode,” what Luster hadn’t said had spoken volumes. Of course Bradford had tried to make light of it; that’s what he did, in his sardonic way. But Night could almost smell Luster’s apprehension, could nearly taste Bradford’s unease. For all his bravado, Luster had been concerned—even scared.
Night’s lips pulled into a quick, tight smile. If Luster ever saw the Shadow for what it really was, then he’d know what fear truly meant. Then he’d know what it was to fear the Dark.
But the Lighters never thought about the Dark, not really. They thought their little power could banish the Shadow and make the world safe and sound. Lighters, as a class, were a joke. At least Bradford was a genius, which made him interesting, and even a worthy teammate. Sometimes.
But whether Light or Earth or Water or Fire, or any other power, they were all weak before the Shadow. They would all crumple, gibbering their way to madness. No one was infallible—except for those born with the ability to handle, to master, the Shadow. Like Night.
Corp had no idea how lucky they were that Night was one of the good guys. They had no idea how easy it would be for him to scourge the world of fear and oppression once and for all.
Night smiled again, a knifelike flash of humor. Of course, he’d never be a villain.
He appreciated that Corp had rules. Good rules were part of good discipline. And as a Shadow power, Night intimately understood the importance of discipline. All that stood between him and the Shadow was his own willpower.
And that, ultimately, was why he was marching to his comrade’s side right now.
Night strode through the hospital wing until he got to the room where they’d put Blackout. His brother in Shadow was lying on a cot, looking pale and somewhat bloody. Various tubes hung about him, dripping things into his veins through numerous IVs. His heart rate and blood pressure and other things were being monitored.
None of that mattered.
But then, as Night and Blackout were the only two living Shadow powers in Squadron: Americas, no one else on this side of the world knew what they really should be looking for. And that’s where Night came in.
Night sat down on the edge of the cot, one hand behind his back, clenched tightly. He scanned Blackout’s face. It was too thin, nearly gaunt. If he’d smiled in recent weeks, Night couldn’t remember. “Blackout,” he said softly. That was the first test: Did the man remember who he was?
Blackout stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. Brown eyes, bloodshot and haunted. But free of the telltale stain of Shadow.
Good. That was a start. Behind his back, Night’s hand loosened, just a little.
Blackout’s mouth moved, and he croaked, “Night. Christo, Night.”
“We can talk freely,” Night said. “I’ve put up a Shadownet. No sound will be recorded. We have privacy.”
Blackout sighed, and his eyes closed. “Okay.”
“Blackout,” Night said, putting his other hand on the man’s thin arm, launching into the second test. “Tell me. What happened?”
“Don’t know.”
Night’s jaw tightened. Not good. Not good at all. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a blank. There’s nothing there.” Blackout opened his eyes, implored Night to understand. “I was talking to Les, and then I woke up here.” A shudder worked its way across his bony shoulders. “Dr. Moore was here when I woke up. Legitimate doctors too—but why him? Christo, Night … I think they cut me open.”
Night silently agreed. “It’s okay, man,” he said, lying smoothly. Behind his back, his hand tightened.
Blackout rasped, “What did they do to me?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Night said, mostly to himself. “If they were looking for something, either they found it or they didn’t.” He looked at Blackout, searched the man’s face. “Can you still call the Shadow?”
Blackout paled visibly. “Rick … I’m scared.”
Night bristled; he loathed it when he was called by his nondesignation name. But clearly, that added … human touch … was what his teammate needed. “George,” he said, “you have to do it. You have to see if they took that away from you.” If they’d neutered him. This was the third, and final, test. “This will prove whether Dr. Moore tampered with your brain.”
Blackout sighed. Then his lips slowly turned blue, and his breath frosted from his nose. From his left hand, a creeper of Shadow inched out, hesitantly, as if tasting the air.
“Excellent,” Night said, relieved. “Good job. It looks like Moore didn’t get inside your head after all.”
Blackout hissed out a slow breath. “Then why can’t I remember?”
“Trauma, most likely.” Night clapped Blackout’s shoulder lightly. “You and I both know the real fight isn’t against the supervillains, don’t we?”
Blackout let out a weak laugh. It sounded like a scream.
Behind his back, Night released the Shadow knife, and it unwound, slowly, and sank back inside of Night’s flesh. Blackout had passed, though it had been a close thing.
But close only mattered, as the saying went, with grenades and horseshoes.
Night smiled, pleased that he wouldn’t be alone in the Shadow. But as he talked with his power brother, he couldn’t help but wonder what, exactly, Dr. Moore had wanted with Blackout.
Interlude
This way,” Julie says, lending a hand to old Mrs. Summers. “Sorry about the clutter.”
“This is nothing.” The old woman laughs. “You should see my place after my grandkids visit. Worse than Jehovah’s scorched earth, it is. And you’re a dear for letting us stay.”
“’Twasn’t nothing,” Garth says around an armful of boxes. “Glad to have you and the others.”
“Safety in numbers,” Julie adds cheerfully.
He can’t help but send her a look. You’d think she’d be supportive of him trying to call up the Network, what with her praise of big numbers. But no—Julie, like the rest of the Latents he’d spoken with over the past few days, is fla
t-out opposed to the idea.
She smiles back at him, content as a cat with feathers poking from its mouth.
Mrs. Summers is chatting happily with the Brewers from across the street. Garth shakes his head as he hefts the cartons to the floor. Poor Heather and Paul, and their youngsters Alex and Jacob, all but thrown out of their apartment thanks to their landlord deciding that now is the perfect time not to pay Deke O’Connor.
Garth sneers as he thinks of that small-time crime lord—the sort whose idea of Irish pride was to tat Celtic symbols over every inch of his arms. Word is, ever since Iridium had paid him a call a couple weeks back at the Blarney Stone, Deke had gone looking to prove how far he could piss. Word is, Deke had explained to the Brewers’ landlord just this morning that even with New Chicago festering worse than an unlanced boil on a leper’s arse, it’s no excuse not to make your weekly gambling payments.
Word is, Deke had explained it very succinctly with a firebomb to the landlord’s apartment.
Say what you will about Deke O’Connor, Garth thinks as he ambles to the kitchen, at least he did it when the kids were at school and the parents were at work. The only one who’d been in the two-family house had been the landlord himself, sleeping the sleep of the dead after a particularly raucous night on the town. Now the man sleeps in the critical unit over at New Chicago General. The idiot.
“Anyone for pop?” he calls out.
The Brewer clan answers in the affirmative, and Mrs. Summers politely requests a spot of tea. Julie’s in the kitchen with him now, setting up all the drinks on the counter as he putters by the faucet.
“I hear Screamer tossed about Kat’s car,” Julie murmurs, pouring. “Sent it slamming into one of the Squadron. You know, the still-good Squadron, not the junked Squadron. Kat says it’s nothing but an accordion now.”
“Kat’s lucky she wasn’t in said car when Screamer used it as a cudgel.”
“Kat’s got no way to get to work, not unless she takes a city hover.”
“Shame,” Garth says, waiting for it. Kat’s one of Julie’s closest friends, a teacher over at the Montessori. He puts the kettle on to boil and rummages about for the Twinings packets.
“I was thinking,” Julie says. “I could drive her to and from the school. It’s not safe to be walking the streets, or just waiting for a bus to show.” She finishes doling out the pop, glances at him from over her shoulder to gauge his reaction. She frowns. “You should just nuke the water, have done with it.”
“Bad luck to rush your tea,” he says. “And how’re you going to play chauffeur and still make it to the library on time? Your own job is worth less than hers, I guess?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Or you could come out and say, ‘Garth my love, as you’re a freelance writer with no set schedule, would you be a dear and chauffeur Kat to and from work until she’s got herself an accordion-proof car?’”
Julie smiles, and even with his sunglasses on, it’s positively radiant. “I was thinking I’d have to seduce you before I could ask such a thing.”
“Smart lass.”
He’s about to say more, maybe even kick-start the seduction process, when the ground shakes. And then it groans and gives a violent heave, sending Julie into his arms. Husband and wife exchange a panicked look, then Garth’s bolting into the main room. He doesn’t have to glance behind to see Julie gripping the kitchen doorway, her knuckles white with worry; he knows his wife far too well.
“Drop to the ground,” Garth bellows over the sound of the earthquake, “and get away from the windows! Alex, Jacob, under the table!”
The kids scamper like the Devil’s on their heels, and their parents chase after them. Julie’s calling out words that are meant to be encouraging, but her voice is too shrill. The walls are practically humming with energy, the old-fashioned 2-Ds shaking in their gilded frames. Things fall and splatter as Garth helps Mrs. Summers to the far corner of the room, the one away from the outside wall. He crouches over her as she hugs the floor, shielding her as best he can as he scans the room.
“Paul,” he shouts, “the bookcase isn’t bolted to the wall! Get closer to the door!”
Paul squawks and shuffles toward the front door. He makes it halfway before there’s a deafening THOOM!!! and the door implodes. Paul dives to the side just as the metal door sails past, thundering to the ground like a dying elephant.
Garth’s blood is pounding in his ears and the Brewer clan is shrieking and Mrs. Summers is praying loudly and Julie’s telling him to look Garth look and so Garth looks.
On top of the fallen door, a thin man in blue is scrambling to his feet. He’s battered worse than the door, all shaking limbs and torn fabric that’s almost fashionable. He ignores Garth and the others as he faces the naked doorway, opens his mouth, and screams.
Earsplitting noise, the sort that makes your bones rattle. Garth clamps his hands over his ears and bows down low, doing his damnedest to think. Daring a glance, he blinks away tears to see a tall man in prison grays stepping through the ruins of his doorway, a wall of light shielding him. The man calls out words Garth can’t hear, and a small, balding man slinks past him. Now the weasel-like man is throwing out his hand, and the screamer clutches his head.
Screamer, Garth realizes. The man in blue is Screamer, one of the Squadron-turned-rabids.
The noise cuts off, leaving Garth’s ears ringing like mad. Screamer is on his knees now, gibbering and crying and shaking. The weasel is standing over him, a gleeful look on his narrow face. He reminds Garth of every serial killer he’s ever seen on the vids.
“Enough,” the tall man decrees. “Just cuff him already. No need to make a show of it.”
Garth knows that voice—cultured, British, altogether commanding. He’s heard it on interview shows and on the news. He thinks of the light shield and puts two and two together.
Arclight’s busted out of Blackbird and is standing right here in his flat.
“Just one more minute,” the weasel begs. “He tastes so good.”
“Radar,” Arclight says in that movie-star voice, “do I really have to repeat myself?”
The small man licks his lips once, twice, then reaches into the pouch on his belt and removes a set of stun-cuffs. Screamer’s too busy bawling to notice that he’s been captured.
I want to throw up, Garth thinks as he unfolds himself and stands tall. “Here now,” he says, and his voice isn’t even breaking, “you can’t go barging into people’s apartments to do your fighting.”
Arclight turns to face him. His mouth is set in a bemused smile. “Seems like we already have.”
“Fear,” Radar whispers, crooning. “So very delicious.”
Damn straight Garth is afraid. But that doesn’t stop him. “There’s kids here,” he says quietly.
Arclight frowns, then darts his gaze about the place until it settles on the Brewer children, huddled beneath the dining-room table, clutching each other with desperate limbs. Something softens in the man’s face, but when he speaks again, his voice is hard.
“Take Screamer outside,” he commands. “Protean should have the Angle well in hand, but he may need some assistance.”
Radar grins, and Garth once again thinks of evil things who live to kill all manner of creatures. Very slowly. And very painfully. The small man leads Screamer out of the apartment, humming “London Bridge.”
Arclight watches the Brewer children for a moment, then takes in first their parents, then Julie, standing breathless in the kitchen doorway. He looks at Mrs. Summers, who’s peeking out from behind Garth. Finally, his gaze lands on Garth.
“I apologize for the mess,” Arclight says. “If these were different times, I’d put you in touch with the Squadron Claims division.”
“If these were different times,” Garth says slowly, “I’d think you’d still be in Blackbird and Screamer would still be a hero.”
A grin touches Arclight’s lips. “Touché.” With that, the villain—former
villain? Hell if Garth knows—spins on his heel and parades out of the apartment.
For a long moment, none of them say a thing. Then everyone talks at once. Alex and Jacob are going on about this being the best day ever. Heather and Paul are falling over themselves asking if the children are okay. Old Mrs. Summers insists that, in her day, even criminals respected innocent citizens’ private lives and nothing like this ever used to happen.
Garth exchanges a look with Julie. “No,” he says. “It surely didn’t. Things change.”
Julie gets his meaning. She lets out a sigh and leans against the doorway. “Some things shouldn’t change,” she says, but there’s no fire to her words.
In the kitchen, the teakettle begins to sing.
CHAPTER 11
IRIDIUM
I have absolutely no doubt that this technique could have saved Miranda’s life. I was too slow. Too slow by half. Never again. Nothing stands in the way of my work.
—Matthew Icarus, diary entry dated June 16, 1976
(the anniversary of Miranda Icarus’s death from
leukemia eight years earlier)
Iridium didn’t hate people. Hate, Lester had taught her, was a useless emotion unless it was spined with anger or fired by ambition. Iridium didn’t hate people just for being people. She didn’t hate the doctors who’d worked on Frostbite; she didn’t hate Night, who’d brainwashed Jet into a pale skeleton of her former self.
Iridium hated Corp. Corp was the machine that minted the doctors and the Nights, the true target of righteous rage, if you had any sense. Hating one part of a machine was like shooting the messenger—unsatisfying, and ultimately useless.
And if there was a living symbol of Corp, it was Gordon.
“You don’t have a choice,” the man said. It was a sick parody of when they’d met in the control room at Blackbird. He had the same gray suit and smarmy smile. The same gun.
Pointed at her face.
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