Iridium curled her hands. The air around her shimmered like an aurora borealis as the Light threatened to explode into the visible spectrum, searing Gordon’s eyes from his skull, flaking skin like burned paper.
Christo, wouldn’t that be nice.
No. Iridium couldn’t afford to call down the remnants of Corp still obviously working in New Chicago, or the full force of Corp Headquarters, on her father and the other convicts. Couldn’t afford to have Gordon and his smug grin rescind their pardons. Not yet.
“I suggest you get that thrice-damned gun out of my face before I shove it up your nose,” she said. “Or someplace less comfortable.”
Gordon flicked the barrel at the purse snatcher at Iridium’s feet, then back at her, quick as a snake. He wasn’t fast enough to be an extrahuman, but he had the quicksilver edge of a normal human who was just very, very good at what he did.
“You’re off the reservation, Calista. This is not how Corp brings in a criminal.”
The purse snatcher groaned, holding his broken nose. Iridium had eschewed her powers for shoving the sprinting thief in front of a robo-hauler. That had stopped him nicely, and it hadn’t caused a scene that would have brought cops or worse, a flock of rabids, down on the block.
“This is how I do it,” Iridium said. “You don’t like it, I suggest you go cry in your beer and leave me alone.”
Gordon raised a finger, wagged it. “You want to think about what comes out of that mouth, Calista.”
“Call me that again, and I’m going to feed you that gun.”
“Fine.” He holstered it, straightened his tie, twitched his cuffs. “But I mean it when I suggest you think, instead of using that fine brain Jehovah gave you for pithy comebacks and cussing.”
At Iridium’s feet, the purse snatcher tried to jump and run. She stomped down on his hand. He crumpled again, moaning.
“Think about what?” she managed, even though the urge to strobe Gordon was overwhelming. This must be what Jet felt every day, felt when she’d nearly killed Taser.
“This world will not burn forever,” he said. “Corp is negotiating with India to bring in their extrahumans to clean up the mess you’ve made.”
Iridium felt her eyebrows go up. Squadron: India was like Squadron: Americas in name only. India was state-sponsored and served the people. They didn’t go international. They were Switzerland, and the United and Canadian States was a war zone very much outside their jurisdiction.
“When they arrive,” Gordon said, “order will tip back into balance. Where will you be then? Will you be a criminal, running for the rest of your days with your poor, dear father? Or will you be welcomed into the Squadron with open arms, the prodigal daughter returned to the light?”
“Squadron: India won’t help you,” Iridium said reflexively. “They don’t answer to Corp.”
“And yet, their funding is nearly half Corp’s doing.” Gordon smiled, like a lizard tasting the air. “I think perhaps they will reconsider their position of international neutrality in this case. And then the question remains—where will you be?”
Iridium looked into Gordon’s soulless eyes, a gray that was nearly white. Corpse eyes. She knew with sudden, bell-like clarity that Corp couldn’t be allowed to gain a foothold in the Americas again.
Her life and Lester’s and even Jet’s depended on it. If Corp came back to power, every extrahuman who’d escaped their grasp and exposed their skeletons was as good as dead.
When Squadron: India landed on American soil, there needed to be a compelling case to lock up the men and women responsible for the rabids vaporizing the city. Men like Gordon.
And to do that, they’d need evidence, from someone who’d been a Corp insider.
“Well?” Gordon frowned at her.
Iridium pulled the purse snatcher to his feet as two patrol hovers rounded the corner, waving them in to take custody.
“I’ll be where I’m supposed to be.”
Gordon smiled again. “Good girl.”
Iridium smiled back, feeling ice crystals freeze the expression. “I try my best, sir.”
CHAPTER 12
JET
Aaron is positive that, without additional controls in place, the extrahumans have only 1–4 years before their conditioning breaks down. I think that range is too conservative.
—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #51
Stop that,” Jet said for the third time.
Nocturne, struggling against the stun-cuffs, tried to slam her chin into Jet’s face. The purple-clad woman missed, then overbalanced and went crashing to the ground, landing sloppily in the gutter. She was probably so used to phasing through solid objects that she’d forgotten how to roll with a fall or take the brunt on her shoulder.
Jet had little sympathy. Maybe next time, Nocturne would rethink breaking into First National. Light, what was it with former heroes pretending to be villains? Had Nocturne really thought all she had to do was phase inside the bank vaults and that would be the end of it? As if the bank didn’t come equipped with both organic and inorganic matter sensors that automatically triggered a silent alarm when they were tripped? Please. Had Jet been the only one of her Academy class actually to pay attention in the Criminal Minds units?
Well, her and Iridium. And Iri, she was sure, had cheated in those units.
Jet helped the bigger woman to her feet. “Come on,” she said to Nocturne. “You know the cuffs are messing with your balance. You’re just going to get dizzy if you try to hit me.” And if she tried to phase out of them, the cuffs would neutralize her. Painfully.
Nocturne suggested something anatomically impossible.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Jet asked.
Nocturne spewed obscenities so blue that even Were would have blushed.
“Now that’s just rude.” Jet bound Nocturne with a graymatter leash, then summoned a floater to whisk them both to the Sixteenth precinct. Nocturne, not a flyer, shrieked. Loudly. And very, very long, the sound slowly fading to an echo of terror. The woman shuddered, inhaled, then let out another whoop of sheer panic, giving Screamer a run for his money.
It did nothing for Jet’s headache. She hissed as Nocturne bleated, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The pain had begun when she’d stopped relying on physical training and skill against Nocturne and started tapping into her extrahuman power—a subtle thing, then, a stroke of discomfort as Jet had released a creeper of Shadow to startle her opponent. But as the fight had progressed, the stroking turned to knocking, then to pounding. And now her head felt stretched taut and her senses were as keyed up as a junkie’s—colors too vivid, bleeding and raw; smells of pollution and ozone and sweat combating for domination. As Jet and Nocturne soared over Wreck City, Jet pressed her fingers against her temple, massaging, silently pleading for what was surely a migraine to vanish.
And maybe the Light was shining on her, because the other woman’s voice finally gave out. When Nocturne fell silent, Jet breathed out a sigh of gratitude. Her head, though, continued to throb softly.
It’s getting worse.
She knew it in her heart. The headaches were coming steadily now, in rolling waves of pain that lasted for hours. As much as she wanted to say it was due to sheer exhaustion—the last time she’d slept was two nights ago, and she’d already maxed out on caffeine patches for the day—Jet knew better.
Whatever else Corp’s brainwashing had done over the years, at least it had kept the Shadow voices in check. Now, without whatever frequency they’d used to soothe that part of her mind, it was getting harder for her to ignore the Darkness that licked at her thoughts.
She was going to lose herself to the Shadow again.
As they flew, she peered down at the blurs of buildings, the cars and hovers that looked like children’s toys, at the people marching antlike to their destinations. It would be so easy to step off the disc and let herself fall, until the ground came up to meet her.
She nodded, determined
. If it came down to it—if the voices grew too strong—she would kill herself. Better that than to become something worse than rabid.
By the time they touched down in front of the Sixteenth precinct, Jet was feeling better. Her head still hurt worse than the scorched earth, but at least she felt in control, if exhausted. Nocturne had curled into a tight ball and wouldn’t untangle her limbs even when on solid ground. Jet debated leaving the woman tucked in a fetal position right there by the commissioner’s doorstep, but she decided against it. Wouldn’t do her any good if the police or even Wagner himself tripped over Nocturne and wound up breaking an ankle.
As Jet hauled her captive up the precinct steps, a black limo pulled up to the curb, followed by a battalion of minihovers overloaded with screamingly bright news-channel logos.
Jet distinctly thought, Fuck. Then she prodded Nocturne harder, telling the woman to move. Peripherally, she saw a brute stuffed into an expensive suit climb out of the limo. Strictly bodyguard material. As he scanned the block, taking in both Jet and Nocturne, flashes and glares and pops from the newsies burst like localized fireworks.
Almost there, Jet thought, propelling Nocturne toward the massive front doors. If she could escape inside the building, that would be the end of it; the media didn’t make it a habit to set foot inside the police station, not since Wagner had nearly taken off a reporter’s head for interrupting an interrogation by asking the prisoner to smile for the vids.
“Jet,” a man’s voice called out. “A moment of your time.”
She turned to see the large man standing in front of the limo. Overhead, the cameras whirred and clicked.
“A moment, citizen,” she agreed, despising that the conversation was being recorded and simulcast to the networks. Motioning to Nocturne’s bound form, she said, “Then I must return to business.”
“Understood.” He opened the limo passenger door with a perfected flourish. The well-dressed man who emerged was small, fat, and wore enough cologne to fell Colossal Man at two hundred meters.
Mayor William Lee.
Behind her optiframes, Jet’s eyes narrowed. Two weeks ago, this man was practically falling over himself to show Jet his gratitude for all the work she did as the official Hero of New Chicago. But then she’d offended him when she’d ditched an award ceremony (in her honor) to confront Iridium—at the time, still Public Enemy Number 1. Lee hadn’t taken it well. In fact, he’d almost gotten her sponsorship with the City revoked.
So how to play this?
Jet wished she could get Ops online for advice, but there was no time—the mayor was approaching briskly, his face set in a scowl. Jet pushed aside her exhaustion and her worries, straightened her spine, and lifted her chin.
“Good day, sir,” she said—not simpering, no, but borderline deferential. The cameras and vids caught every nuance.
The mayor glared at her, then at Nocturne. “Isn’t littering a finable offense?”
She smiled tightly. “We’re on our way inside to see Commissioner Wagner.”
“Of course you are.” He walked up closer until he was well within her personal space. “Nocturne saved my daughter’s life last year.”
Careful, she told herself. “Last year, Nocturne was a valuable member of the Squadron.”
“And now?”
“I caught her breaking into First National, sir, then she fought me and tried to escape.”
“And you prevailed. Miraculous,” he said dryly. “So why is it that all of the Squadron goes insane except for New Chicago’s own patented hero? Why is Corp refusing to comment? Can you give me any answers, Jet?”
If it were Hornblower here instead of Jet, he certainly would open his mouth and censure Corp-Co, damning them to the deepest Darkness. But the years of conditioning still held; if Jet tried to breathe a word against Corp, her brain would catch fire. She knew—she’d tried before.
So all she said was, “I wish I could, sir.” And that was the Light’s honest truth.
He held her gaze, and around them, the reporters salivated. Cameras flashed and vids gleamed in a dizzying array. Jet’s optiframes irised, canceling out the blinding effects.
“Well, you have a long history of service to the city,” he said loudly in his smooth politician’s voice, smiling. He offered his hand, and as Jet took it, he leaned in close enough to kiss her. Lee whispered, soft enough that the vids wouldn’t catch it: “One false step, and I’ll have Wagner drop everything to haul your ass to Blackbird.”
“I appreciate your words, sir,” she said, her voice far too tight.
He shot her a look filled with venom, then released Jet’s hand. “Dawson,” he said, “take this burden off Jet’s hands, would you?”
The bodyguard approached them, indifferent to the reporters, and hefted Nocturne over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. They disappeared inside the police station.
A long moment passed, and things unspoken hung in the air. Jet sensed the crowd of citizens that had gathered around the precinct steps, drawn in like moths to the light of the news vids. In her gauntlets, her hands were sweating. She hated being the center of attention.
“You go on with your heroing,” Mayor Lee said. “I have an appointment with the commissioner.”
She stretched her smile to its limit. “I’m surprised he didn’t come to you.” A tiny zing, one she shouldn’t have let loose.
The mayor smiled in return, a nasty smile filled with promise. “He doesn’t know we have an appointment yet.” And then Lee straightened his lapel and walked up the remaining steps to the station.
As if on cue, the reporters swarmed her.
“Jet! How does it feel going after your own teammates?”
“Jet! Do you think you’ll be going rabid too?”
“Jet, what assurances can you give the people of New Chicago that you won’t put them in harm’s way?”
“Jet! Over here, smile!”
“Jet! Give us a fierce look!”
She tried to get a word in, tried to think, but they kept coming at her, firing questions at her and flashing their lights, demanding. Insisting.
Enraging.
all of them all of them vultures suck them dry
Light, no. She wanted to cover her ears, but the vids would see her weakness and the reporters would never let her forget it. She had to get away before the Shadow grew too strong. She—
“Jet!”
The man’s voice was loud, almost crystalline, easily carrying over the sounds of the reporters and paparazzi. And it came from above.
She looked up and saw a man swathed in black, his head covered in a ski mask fitted with goggles. His hover revved, and he extended a gloved hand.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Sorry to break up the impromptu press conference, honey,” Taser shouted, “but you’re needed!”
Desperate, she smiled for the cameras. “My sincere apologies,” she said brightly. “But duty calls.” A spring of Shadow propelled her upward, and she grabbed Taser’s outstretched hand. He pulled her onto the back of his hover with ease.
“Jet!” a reporter cried. “Is this your new boyfriend?”
She nearly gagged.
“Might want to hold on to my waist,” Taser suggested. And then he gunned the engine and they took off.
Jet clutched onto him, hating him and thankful for him. As the wind whipped her cowl back and sent her cloak fluttering madly, the Shadow voices giggled and teased, whispering things that made her want to cry. Then they receded.
For now.
He said nothing as they rode, and neither did she, but there was an energy between them, dancing, suggestive. She gripped his waist and gritted her teeth, and in a charged silence Taser and Jet cut through the polluted skies.
When they landed on a rooftop somewhere in the Waterfront Grid, Jet nearly flew off the hoverbike.
“Usually, the damsel gives her savior a token of her affection,” Taser said.
She clenched her fists, felt the Shad
ow pulsing around her curled fingers. “I’m so very grateful that you saved me from the evil press corps,” she said curtly. “What do you want, Bruce?”
Under the mask, the outline of his mouth pulled into a grin. “You, of course. You’re looking particularly sexy tonight in your skinsuit.”
“Don’t,” she said quietly.
“That’s right, you have no sense of humor. I remember that from your file.”
“And I remember how you lied to me,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, “how you used me and seduced me, how you betrayed me and nearly got me killed!” She was shouting now, the words erupting from her mouth. “You’re a bastard, Bruce Hunter!”
He watched her for a moment, then slowly brought his hand to his chin and lifted the mask. His face, pale against the black fabric and the dark mass of his hair, was still upsettingly handsome. Bruce Hunter smiled at her, but his blue eyes held regret.
“It wasn’t personal, Joan,” he said. “It was business.”
“Right. Because mercs will sign on with anyone, for any cause, as long as the money’s good.” Suddenly cold, she rubbed her arms. A small part of her had been hoping that the mercenary called Taser had lied to her, back when he’d captured her and Iri weeks ago, that he wasn’t really the same man who had been her Runner.
The same man she had taken to her bed.
But the proof was right there in front of her. No, he hadn’t lied—not then, and not now. Though she despised that she had been his assignment, she could appreciate his work ethic.
And damn it all to Darkness, she was still attracted to him. Stupid hormones.
“What do you want, Bruce?” she asked again, her voice flat.
“You and the others are in a bind,” he said. “Too much chaos, not enough control.”
“Your point?”
“I was a Runner,” he said. “I can gather up the others, organize them into a cohesive unit.”
“The others?”
“The other Runners. Think about it—a dedicated civilian group that would support you and the others.”
She frowned. “You could do that?”
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