“Honey, I’m damn good at my job. When I was your Runner, I made sure to learn everything I could about the Runner network, how they operated, and what they did. How to contact others in a pinch.” He grinned, and Jet’s stomach fluttered. “They’re running scared now, like sheep. All I have to do is herd them, and they’ll be back in support mode in no time flat.”
Light, how much easier things would be, having even a little help. They could work with Frostbite on sorting through the Corp data, decrypting it in their search for information on Martin Moore and his horrific serum. Meteorite would create their communications unit and start working the streets, countering the Everyman message and publicly reassuring the citizens of New Chicago and the world that, even in the face of madness, a handful of them still stood strong.
But … this was Bruce. And as tempting as his offer was, she couldn’t bring herself to trust him. “What do you get out of it?”
“You mean other than the satisfaction of helping those on the side of justice?” He chuckled. “My standard rates apply.”
Of course. Taser was a mercenary. He never did anything for free. Even when he’d seduced her, he’d gotten paid for it.
“I’ll call for a meeting with the others,” she said tightly. “I’ll let you know what we agree to.”
His sensuous lips pulled into a smirk. “You do that, honey. Not like there’s a crisis or anything.”
She opened her mouth to say something she’d certainly regret, but that was when Meteorite’s voice hummed in her ear.
“Babe, you free?”
“Just slumming,” Jet said, staring hard at Bruce.
“Slum later. A bomb went off in the Downtown Grid, on Third. I need you to help New Chicago’s Bravest.”
“On it.” She paused, then said, “Firebug’s busy?” The Fire power was a natural for such situations.
A longer pause from Meteorite. “She opted out of this one.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard.”
A Squadron soldier choosing not to help firefighters? Unfathomable. Baffled, Jet asked, “Where’d the bomb go off?”
“The Everyman Society regional office.”
Jet closed her eyes. Her head throbbed, and she was drained, and the thought of dealing with Everyman, even for something like this, made her heartsick.
“Jetster? You’re going, right?” Meteorite sounded uncertain.
“On it,” Jet said softly, then tapped her comlink to white noise.
“Duty calls, eh?” Bruce smiled at her. “Some things never change.”
“And some things do.” She wanted to tell him to drop dead. She wanted to ask him to come with her. And, horrifically, she wanted him to hold her, kiss her, run his fingers through her hair. She scowled.
He said, “You need any assistance on this?”
And there it was. Pride, or common sense?
Jet gave him her back, summoning a Shadow floater. The voices, thankfully, were still silent; maybe they were bemused by her reaction to Bruce. She said, “Gosh, I’m all out of milk money. I guess I’ve got this one all by myself.”
“For you, Jet, I’m happy to throw in a freebie.”
“Most men at least buy me dinner first. I’ll get back to you about the Runner network.”
“You know how to find me?”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “I’ll just have another impromptu press conference. I’m sure you’ll come running to save me.”
The sound of his laughter followed her as she rocketed away.
CHAPTER 13
IRIDIUM
In vitro test subjects are risky. The incarcerated population provides an ample cross section of genetic material to test gene therapy on, and raises considerably fewer questions.
—Matthew Icarus, research notes, undated
There were times when Iridium wished she had a normal father. One who hadn’t gone rabid. One who’d been around for birthdays and recitals.
At least one who wasn’t so damn opinionated.
“We’re at the end of this discussion, Callie. There’s nothing more to debate.” Lester and Iridium were crammed into her bedroom, while the rest of Gordon’s escapees milled about the warehouse. They all had costumes now, thanks to Gordon. Except for Nevermore, they all seemed more interested in checking out her new tech than making a nuisance of themselves.
“You busted in on civilians, in their home,” Iridium gritted. “You could have killed someone, not to mention Radar torturing Screamer. That guy is a bad apple, Dad, and you know it.”
Lester cut the air with his hand. “Enough. I’m in charge of my team, and I won’t be questioned. Especially not by my own daughter.”
“That’s just it!” Iridium shouted. “You’re not in charge. Corp is!”
Her father tensed like he wanted to hit her, and the radiant panels on Iridium’s ceiling overloaded and sparked.
“You know I’m right, Dad,” she said softly. “We can’t trust Gordon. They’re going to put us right back in prison when they finish with us and Corp sends in reinforcements to take back the city, if we aren’t smart about this.”
“I’m never going back,” Lester replied, just as quietly. “And I would never let them put my little girl in prison.” He gripped Callie’s hands. “I’d die first, girl.”
“I know, Dad,” Iridium said. “I know. But can we at least get rid of Radar?”
“The team is for us and we’re for the team,” Lester said. “When we break free of Gordon’s leash, we’ll need every one of them. Including Radar.”
Iridium opened the door a crack and looked out at the villains in her warehouse again. “You know, we’d have more firepower if I commed Jet and …”
“No, Callie.” Lester’s voice went harsh—and then it was Arclight who spoke. “Not Joan. She’s not the answer to our problems.”
“How do you know, Dad?” Iridium threw her hands up. “Jet didn’t lose her mind like the others! She’s still strong, and fighting the rabids, just like we are. We’re going to need some friendlies if we plan to go up against Corp. Again. Need I remind you, that hasn’t worked out so well for our family.”
“Joan Greene is a ticking time bomb,” said Lester. His mouth set, as if the truth hurt. “It’s not a question of if she follows her father into madness. It’s when.”
“How can you say that!” Iridium’s own power caused her 3-D unit to short. “Jet is a good person, Dad.”
“I say it because I was there, Callie. I know what can happen when Shadow overwhelms a person.”
A pause as Iridium digested his words. “The Squadron could be good allies.”
“And how long would it be before our allies took issue with our methods and did Corp’s job for them?” Lester sneered. “If you’re crying over one destroyed flat, imagine those do-gooders’ reactions to some of what we do when in the field.”
“You’re an impossible old man.” Iridium left him alone, storming through the warehouse.
Protean, the huge Earth power, looked up from one of his old-fashioned paper books. “Are you okay, little girl?”
“I’m not anyone’s little girl,” Iridium snapped. “And it’s none of your beeswax.”
“Ooo … touchy.” Nevermore, smirking, glided down from a balcony, her straight black hair, black eye makeup, black everything turning her into a porcelain doll.
Iridium summoned a strobe. “You do not want to start with me, Paleface.”
“Children, children.”
The voice slithered over Iridium’s skin, low and soothing like a hypnotist’s. She shivered as Radar came from the kitchen, holding a soy chicken meal. Her soy chicken meal. He was soft and round everywhere, with too-bright eyes that lingered too long on objects he desired. He reminded Iridium of Paul Collins, the rapist she’d killed during her final year in the Academy. Both Collins and Radar oozed covetousness from every pore, like a poison.
“Don’t fight,” Radar said. “Fighting never solved anything.
You girls will get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”
“Yeah, and I hear you prefer to kick people while they’re down.” Lionheart, the shapeshifter, snorted and moved away from Radar in disgust.
Radar grinned, showing all of his teeth. “You all should be careful how you speak to me. Everyone is afraid of something. Even heroes.”
“Think you can suck me dry before I light you up?” Kindle’s Irish accent reminded Iridium too much of her father’s.
She had to get out of there.
“Dad! Your little sewing circle is fighting!” she hollered, then grabbed her jacket and hit the release for the front door. Behind her, she heard Lester’s strident tones as he scolded his batch of pet villains, but Iridium didn’t turn back to help.
She got on the first hover bus heading toward Wrigley Field.
CHAPTER 14
JET
Approached Everyman today. Mixed success. Will make second attempt tomorrow during meeting. Remain convinced Everyman is best source of funding and materials for Project Sunstroke.
—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #273
The air over Third Street was choked with noxious fumes, acrid with black smoke and ash. Jet formed a Shadowmask over her nose and mouth to filter the worst of the pollution. As it settled onto her face, the Shadow voices whispered and giggled, as if stealing a kiss. She ignored them; people’s lives were in jeopardy. She’d have to lose her mind later.
Throngs of people were crowded in the street, blocking traffic more effectively than a dam as they gawked at the furious blaze spilling out of the corner building. Between the firefighters combating the worst of the flames and the police barricading the pedestrians, things seemed to be well in hand.
Jet circled overhead, thinking that maybe she didn’t have to step in at all. Besides, the newsies were already here, their lights and cameras working overtime. Good—she’d ask the fire chief if she could be of any assistance, and assuming the answer was no, she was out of there.
And then she could ponder Taser’s offer without the man himself hovering over her.
“Freak!”
She stiffened. Even over the roar of the hoses and the rush of the fire, the word had carried.
Jet looked at the crowd, feigning dispassion, and she saw how people were pointing at her now, talking angrily, their voices lost to the background noise but their body language all too clear. She was used to being hated—even when she’d been the official Hero of New Chicago, she’d never made any inroads with the police, and Everyman despised her as much as she despised them—but the insults still stung. Only she was almost too tired to care.
Others were picking up the catcall now, creating a steady chant of “Freak! Freak! Freak!” Not the entire crowd, at least; some were noticeably arguing against the slur, and there were a few vain attempts to cheer her on. But those voices were easily dwarfed by the reality of too many extrahumans gone mad, of too much destruction and terror, of a lifelong trust not merely broken but shattered.
Jet closed her eyes. Light, it hurt. All she wanted to do was help people. And yet, they hated her. She’d never go so far as to say fear her—really, how could they? She was a hero. People didn’t fear their heroes.
How many extrahumans would it take to rule the world? To crush humanity under their feet?
She shuddered, remembering Martin Moore’s warbling old man’s voice.
“Freak!” the crowd screamed at her now, their hatred staining the skies far worse than the smoke from the fire.
“You, Shadow Girl,” a woman’s voice rang out, as if she had a voice enhancer.
Jet opened her eyes and peered down. The woman calling to her looked like a melting lemon drop in her cheerfully yellow unisuit and matching yellow earrings. The red-backed sunburst badge over her ample bosom marked her as a higher-up in the Everyman Society, possibly even the regional chairwoman. Jet grimaced behind the Shadowmask over her nose and mouth as she floated to the ground to hover before the woman in yellow. “My designation is Jet, ma’am.”
The woman jabbed a finger at her—Jet noted that the fingernail was tapered, and long, and exactly the same shade as the unisuit. She also noted how the chanting had stopped. Definitely the regional chairwoman. The woman declared, “This is your fault!”
Professional, Jet told herself. Polite. Powerful. The three P’s of extrahuman civil servants—especially when the news was picking up every word. “What is, ma’am?”
“This!” The woman gestured broadly, taking in the burning building, the city block, the entirety of New Chicago itself. “The world has fallen apart because your kind has declared war on regular, everyday humans!”
“Ma’am,” Jet said, her voice hinting on a growl, “I realize that things have gone mad, but not all extrahumans are causing such chaos. My colleagues and I—”
“Your colleagues have destroyed New Chicago, New York, central Texas!” the woman spat. “Your colleagues have proven to everyone what the Everyman Society has said all along! You freaks are dangerous, and should be put down like the rabid dogs you are.”
The crowd, knowing a cue when it heard one, bleated “Freak! Freak! Freak!”
Jet took a deep breath, forced the anger back. “I’ve risked my life for you and the citizens of the Americas more times than I can count. And all you do is criticize and complain.”
The woman’s face purpled with righteous fury. “We don’t want you! Go back to the labs you came from, you filthy Shadow freak!”
filthy filthy
“I take it back,” Jet said, talking over the Shadow voices. “You don’t just complain. You stir up the good citizens of New Chicago and get them to spew your hatred. At least my colleagues and I are trying to help everyone, human and extrahuman alike. How are you and Everyman helping? How many times have you saved the world?”
The cameras whirred. Peripherally, Jet saw a teenage girl tentatively approach, then get shoved out of the way by a furious Everyman whose face was so flushed Jet thought he might have a heart attack.
In her smart yellow unisuit, the woman spluttered, “You … you … How dare you!”
“I dare a lot,” Jet said. “Comes with the costume. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to try to help save your headquarters.”
She turned her back on the woman in yellow and allowed herself a small smile. If she were thinking clearly, she probably would have been horrified by how she’d just dressed down a citizen—even an Everyman—and on camera, no less.
But damn it all if it hadn’t felt good.
The crowd had started up again with a rousing chorus of “Freak,” but the insult slid off Jet. After all, it was just a word.
She approached a group of firefighters, shouted out to them, asking if she could be of assistance. One of the men—a captain, based on the bugles on his helmet—snarled at her to get back. When she tried to argue, he spat, “No, you can’t freaking help. Let me do my job.”
Jet glanced at the scattered police officers by the temporary barricades. A couple of them were glaring, their hatred searing her. The onlookers nearest them were screaming obscenities at her, about her, calling her filthy names. And the woman in yellow, the Everyman regional chairwoman, smiled nastily at Jet’s dismissal.
“See that?” the woman said. “You’re not wanted.”
wants wants little Shadow wants to squeeze you crush you
Shut up, Jet thought, which made the voices giggle all the harder.
Gleeful, the woman added, “Go save the world somewhere else.”
save her hold her make her scream
Over the whispering voices in her head, Jet heard a girl’s voice call out: “Jet, wait!”
The teenage girl who’d tried to approach earlier ran up to Jet. She shoved something tiny into Jet’s hand and whispered, “Oh cipio.” Then she punched Jet in the mouth.
“Yeah, freak!” she shouted. “Go save the world somewhere else!”
The crowd roared its approval.
/> Jet clenched her fist around the object and ignored how her jaw throbbed. She frowned at the girl, whose desperate eyes belied her violent pose, then Jet turned to the Everyman regional chairwoman. “You may want to invest in some air filters,” Jet said curtly. “Your headquarters will reek from the smoke. And other odors.” She summoned a floater and took off before the woman could reply. Once in the air, she saw that the object the girl had slipped her was a key. She blinked, then tucked the key into one of her belt pouches. She was too angry, and too exhausted, to think about keys and whispered phrases.
It occurred to Jet, as she soared around the blaze, that she hadn’t asked the fireman how many people had been injured or killed, or if anyone was still inside the building. Jet was horrified.
The voices giggled again.
She pulled up her goggles and rubbed her eyes. Light, she was tired. Obviously, she wasn’t thinking straight. Allowing her Shadowmask to fade, Jet decided to go back to headquarters, curl up on a cot for a few hours. She needed some sleep. She …
… saw something gleaming on a rooftop below her.
Frowning, she pushed her optiframes back over her eyes and squinted, which kicked in the automatic zoom on her lenses. There on the rooftop not even five blocks from the fire was a naked woman.
Huh. You don’t see that every day in New Chicago.
A closer zoom revealed that the woman wasn’t nude, but rather her skinsuit was flesh-toned, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. White hair wrapped in metallic hair toys stood out in short spikes on her head. A white belt caressed her hips. She was staring in the direction of the fire, absently tossing something the size of an apple up and down … and doing something else with her other hand between her legs.
Yeah, Jet thought. Absolutely nothing to the imagination. Ick.
She recognized the woman as Bombshell, a long-time rabid with no powers to speak of—a normal who got off on playing dress-up and wreaking a little havoc. Jet had tussled with Bombshell before. That fight had lasted a whopping two minutes. The woman was all mouth, no might, especially once she was disarmed. Then she just got weepy. Jet thought the act probably worked better on the male members of the Squadron. Then, thinking of Frostbite, she amended that to most male members.
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