Shades of Gray

by Jackie Kessler; Caitlin Kittredge

  The last gift she gave her daughter was distraction. Holly Owens Greene threw the last of her Light at Blackout, forced him to keep his attention on her for just another moment.

  A Klaxon sounded—Joannie had hit the Panic Button.

  “Good girl,” Holly said, or tried to say. But it was lost in a river of blood.

  As she died, Holly’s last thoughts, surprisingly, were of Hal. He was holding her close, whispering that it was okay.

  It was a lie, of course. But Holly died believing it, her bloody mouth fixed in a gentle smile.

  CHAPTER 46

  LUSTER

  Instances of violence among what Corp is calling “extrahumans” is nearly 33 percent higher than that of the general population. Suicide, depression, schizophrenia, and a host of other disorders … all off the charts. Nobody listens. Nobody ever listens to me.

  —Matthew Icarus, diary entry dated 2020

  You’re in the chocolate river, Dad.”

  Lester blinked and focused on the shimmering holo board in front of him. “So I am, darling.”

  Callie fidgeted in her seat. “Candyland is boring. Can we turn on the 3-D unit and play Killer Commando?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Valerie, from where she was going over that week’s press with Yuriko. “Les, I told you that game would give her nightmares.”

  “I like shooting mutants in the face!” Callie insisted. “Their brains go everywhere.”

  “Les.” Val said with a sigh in the tone that let him know he wouldn’t be getting any that evening. Nothing to take the edge off what tomorrow would bring.

  Lester wished in that moment, truly, that he drank.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “Callie, we’ll finish the game, then you can have one hour of cartoons before bed. Fair?”

  Callie furrowed her brow and nodded. She had her mother’s height, and a certain elfin quality to her features, but she had his eyes and thick black hair. No one could ever deny they were father and daughter. “Dad, you’re smiling weird,” Callie said as she rolled the dice. Lester ruffled her hair.

  “It’s only because I love you so very much, girl. Now make your move so we can get to those cartoons.”

  Callie’s holographic piece slid along the board, then suddenly the game vanished, replaced by a flashing red signal.

  “Priority one alert,” said the holo station. “Vista Villa apartments, penthouse suite.”

  Valerie shot up from the sofa. “That’s Holly and George.”

  “I know.” Lester was already reaching for his uniform. Ignore the plummeting sensation in his chest. Ignore the spike of panic. Uniform belt boots GO, the training turning him into an automaton.

  Valerie started to strip off her sweat suit to her costume beneath, but Lester shook his head. “Someone has to stay with Callie.”

  “Yuriko can …”

  Lester held up his hand. “If this goes badly, someone needs to be there for Callie.”

  Valerie drew back like he’d slapped her in the face. “Les, don’t even talk about that.”

  “My little girl won’t be an orphan, Val. Watch her.” He reached out and kissed his wife, hard and quick. “I’ll be home soon.”

  Vista Villa was far more posh than Lester’s own apartment. Not that he couldn’t afford something just as opulent, but Callie needed a university fund if she chose not to attend the Academy. He and Valerie needed a retirement plan that didn’t involve Corp.

  George and Holly clearly had no such compunctions.

  Two Beta Team heroes were at the door, pounding with the flat of their fists. “Blackout! Angelica! The distress signal went off—please respond!”

  “Out of the way,” Lester ordered them. He had the sick falling feeling in his stomach again, one he’d thought he’d finally erased when he joined the Squadron, saved people from people like his father.

  But it returned now, nearly spinning him around as he pressed his ear against the Greenes’ front door.

  He could hear crying, just barely. Crying, then screaming.

  “Joannie! You can’t hide from your papa!”

  Lester jerked away from the door like it was a hot skillet. “Oh … fuck.”

  “What’s the situation?” Night’s face appeared beside him, blank and featureless under his cowl.

  “It’s happened,” Lester said softly. Inside the apartment, the screaming got louder. “Get out of the way.”

  Night tensed, and for a moment Lester thought that the bigger man was going to hit him, wrap him in cold Shadow and smother him. Then Night nodded and stepped aside with a sweep of cloak. “Velocity, Senator—with me. Luster has the lead.”

  Lester grew a strobe in his hands, white-hot, and threw it at the door. It exploded inward, flying clean off the hinges, and Lester ran in. He ignored procedure, didn’t cover his corners, just bolted into the apartment, praying that he wasn’t too late.

  He saw it all through a fractured lens, everything too bright and too loud, jagged and screaming.

  A scattering of cookies and crumbs on the kitchen floor.

  An overturned table in the living room.

  A body on the floor of the hallway.

  Not a body.

  Holly.

  The blood was too dark. It didn’t look real, sunk into the oatmeal-colored rug that probably cost more than all of the furniture in his and Valerie’s apartment. It looked black, like blood in old flattie movies. Black and thick, like the chocolate syrup Bela Lugosi had sucked down in Dracula.

  Holly was on her back, her body twisted like a pretzel, arms stretched in supplication.

  It was freezing in the apartment. Lester could see his own breath, feel the blood slowing all through him as Shadow crept over everything.

  Cold, so cold, cold as a grave …

  “Luster, move!” Night snapped, and powerful hands pushed him out of the way of a Shadow creeper.

  Lester regained his balance, looked through the open doorway to a bedroom—a little girl’s pink bedroom. George Greene crouched by the closet, blood gushing from his nose.

  “GET OUT!” he bellowed, as Shadow writhed all around like a nightmare garden.

  “You two,” Night jerked his head at Velocity and Senator. “Take point.”

  The Betas followed instructions, then Night focused on Blackout. “George,” he said, his voice calm. “Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it.”

  “I don’t think so, mate,” Lester whispered. He looked back and down, saw that Holly’s eyes were open. Blood had spattered across her face, a trail of fairy kisses etched in red.

  Blackout screamed.

  Lester heard the man lashing out as Night approached. Lester kept looking at Holly. Blackout’s fight would be futile; when Night wanted you subdued, he would bring you down, no matter the cost.

  And in a moment, Blackout was down, whimpering.

  In the open silence after, Lester heard crying. Not Blackout’s whimpering sobs—this was softer, higher. Lester tore his gaze from Holly’s body, following the sobs.

  They came from the closet.

  He stepped over Blackout, who was curled on his side as Night slapped stun-cuffs on him. “Hello,” Lester said, opening the door cautiously. “Anyone …”

  A tendril of Shadow snapped out, almost smothering Lester’s face.

  He created a strobe, set it to floating. The sparking ball kept the Shadow at bay—and revealed a tiny, thin face surrounded by a cloud of corn silk hair. The gold was spattered with Shadows.

  “Well, hello, Joan,” Lester said softly. “I see you there. You don’t have to be scared.”

  “I’m not coming out!” She crouched back, away from the light. “Can’t make me!”

  “And I wouldn’t dream of trying,” Lester said, giving the little girl a smile. “It’s quite roomy in here, really. For a flat in the city, you’re lucky to get this much square footage.”

  Her brow crinkled.

  “You know me, Joan, don’t you?” He extended a hand. “
Callie’s my little girl.”

  “Callie’s nice.”

  “How about this, Joan … if you want to come out of there, you can come home with me, and you and Callie can have a sleepover tonight.”

  Joan regarded him with her impossibly wide eyes, then took his hand. “My mommy is sick,” she said softly. “Papa said she’s sleeping.”

  “I know he did, luv,” Lester whispered, moving the girl’s hair out of her face. “Now, can you grab onto me and hold very tightly?”

  Joan jumped into his arms.

  “Shut your eyes,” Lester said as he backed out of the closet. “Just shut your eyes, darling, and think of nice bright things.” He cradled her head against his chest and sidestepped, shielding her from Blackout, then, down the hall, from Holly’s body.

  “You’re safe now,” he crooned, stroking Joan’s hair. “We’re going to keep you safe.”

  “Go,” Night murmured to him. “We’ve got this under control.”

  Lester walked out to the waiting ambulance, for once not surrounded by a storm of press. Wouldn’t do for Corp to have one of its families spattered across the evening news.

  Joan’s family.

  Lester heard the voice, his own voice, inside his head as the hover glided over the city, over its mess and disorder and ugliness.

  This is my fault.

  He’d told George the truth years ago, when Luster had been lost in grief over Valerie’s miscarriage. And the truth had broken him. The guilt ate Lester. Consumed faster than fire. Lester slipped off his mask, loosened his gloves and his cape and the straps on his boots. He wanted to set the whole thing aflame.

  He would never be Luster again. Not after tonight.

  He had to get his own family away from this, this great spreading stain of madness and secrecy that turned good men into murderers and little girls into orphans.

  Had to, before he caused another Blackout and Angelica.

  CHAPTER 47

  NIGHT

  Observing the remnants of Team Alpha going through the grieving process is better than anything on the vids. If they weren’t extrahuman freaks, I might even feel sorry for them.

  —From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #188

  Night was silent during Blackout’s sentencing. He did his duty, of course, giving his full report of what had happened that fateful afternoon—down to how the little girl, a Shadow power, had been saved. But other than that, he said nothing as the proceedings went on—not to Luster, next to him in a civilian suit and muttering under his breath; not to Blackout, doped up, stun-cuffs covering his wrists; certainly not to the press. Night’s face was an impassive mask, one devoid of emotion.

  His thoughts, though, churned through his mind, Shadow-chased and cold.

  Weak, he thought. Blackout had been weak. He’d given in to the Shadow instead of controlling it. For that, the man deserved death. He wouldn’t be killed, though; Corp-Co didn’t sanction capital punishment, which meant that neither did the government. No, they’d lock him away in Blackbird, medicated and insensible, in a cell in Maxi. Maybe even next to Doctor Hypnotic. For all intents, Blackout would be dead anyway.

  Just like the wife. Angelica had deserved death for coddling Blackout instead of helping him fight against the Shadow.

  Everyone who encouraged weakness was, in turn, weak. And everyone who was weak deserved death. Simple, really.

  Night could give them death so very easily. His mastery of Shadow was specific: He repelled light. And people, whether human or extrahuman, at their core were made of light.

  He could take that light away with a thought.

  Next to him, Luster growled something and glared hatefully at Blackout, who didn’t notice.

  Luster wasn’t weak. That was comforting, Night decided. There were so few people he could count on to remain strong in the face of the enemy—especially when the enemy changed masks so easily. Luster was steadfast.

  And he’d saved the little Shadow.

  A smile quirked his lips as he thought of the little girl Luster had coaxed out of the closet. She’d been surrounded by Shadow, using it to camouflage herself when her father had been looking to kill her. So early for such an ability. But then, stress tended to bring out the best in extrahumans. Unless it made them go crazy or killed them, of course.

  The girl would be an asset.

  He remembered the shocked look on her face, her dark eyes terrified, her mouth set in a silent scream as Luster had hugged her, telling her that she was safe now, that they were going to keep her safe.

  But Luster was a Lighter. What did he know of Shadow?

  No, that would be up to Night. He was practically the girl’s parent now; the two of them were the only Shadow powers on this side of the world. He couldn’t raise her, of course—she was already in the Orphanage wing of the Academy, surrounded by Runners and Therapists and others trying to help her adjust.

  And keep her calm, of course. She was a little Shadow, which meant she was unpredictable.

  Clearly, Night would have to become an instructor at the Academy in time to teach the girl. He had to; she had no one else to turn to for help with the Shadow.

  He smiled grimly. Oh, he’d help the girl. He’d train her, make her the perfect Shadow power. And in turn, she’d help him rid the world of weakness.

  Simple, really.

  That was the moment the judge sentenced Blackout to life at Blackbird Penitentiary, no parole.

  Next to Night, Luster muttered, “Better than the bastard deserves.”

  “We all get what we deserve in the end,” Night replied.

  Interlude

  It occurs to Garth that there’s more to heroing than wearing a costume. He has this epiphany as he dodges Elephant Man’s tusks.

  The deadly points arc past him, almost close enough to nick his whiskers. He falls backward, hitting the ground hard on his left shoulder, using the momentum to tuck into a roll. Somehow he gets onto his feet and scrambles out of the way as the Ram charges past.

  Thankfully, the Ram has one direction: forward.

  Garth, panting, stands in a loose ready position, elbows in by his ribs, legs bent as he faces Elephant Man. The massive extrahuman isn’t bothering to run at him again; instead, he’s picking up the two cartons he’d removed from Morse’s Pawn Shop.

  “You’re under arrest,” Garth shouts out. “Put your hands up!”

  Elephant Man rumbles a derisive laugh. “Whatever you say, mouse.” He hefts the two cartons onto his massive shoulders.

  “Hey! Stop—” Garth’s about to add the classic “In the name of the law” line when the Ram crashes into him from behind. Now Garth is airborne, in massive pain, and feeling incredibly stupid for forgetting about the other former hero. Elephant Man is kind enough to stop his flight with a body block. Garth bounces off the marble-hard hide and slides down to the ground, dazed. And seriously rethinking the hero thing.

  “You heard the wannabe,” the Ram snorts. “Put ’em down.”

  “Get scorched. I was here first.”

  “Oh yeah. I’m impressed.” The Ram laughs. “You were a second-stringer in the Squadron, and now you’re just a pathetic Earther in serious need of braces.”

  Insults fly. And soon the cartons come crashing down as Elephant Man and the Ram fight tusk and horn.

  Garth slowly picks himself up, shakes his head to clear it, and blinks as he sees the two rabids pounding each other into tenderized steak. This isn’t the plan, but then, he didn’t really have a plan going into this; he’d sort of stumbled onto the robbery in progress. So … time to improvise.

  He sidles his way to one of the fallen cartons. Tries to move it. Nearly gives himself a hernia. Right. Bad plan. Next?

  Garth spies the open store door and makes a gimpy dash for it. Once inside, he sees the broken counter glass, the goods scattered on the floor, and the man lying on the ground. Garth limps over and puts a hand on the man’s neck. A pulse. Good. The man groans. Better. “Sir, can you move
?”

  The man says something, either a prayer or a curse, then rolls over to look at Garth. And then he lets out a girlish scream.

  It takes a moment for Garth to remember that he’s wearing a black trencher and black ski mask, probably looking more like a criminal than a wannabe hero. Maybe he’ll rethink the costume idea. “Sir, I’m here to help. Do you need an ambulance?”

  The man considers his wounds, then shakes his head. “Did you stop him? Elephant Man?”

  “He’s outside.”

  “Tied up? Unconscious?”

  “Well. No. Not exactly. He’s sort of fighting another former hero for your stuff.”

  The man lets out a truly impressive curse.

  “Sorry,” Garth says. “It’s my first fight.”

  “You should reconsider the day job.” The man tries to get up, then groans and lies back down.

  “I’ll call the police,” Garth says. “Phone?”

  The man weakly motions to the broken counter.

  Garth hobbles over, picking his way around the broken glass. Spying the phone, he reaches down for it … and sees the baseball bat half-buried in the debris on the floor.

  Oh yeah.

  Walking out of the pawnshop, Garth tosses the phone to the battered man and tells him to call nine-one-one. Outside, the two rabids are still trading blows. They’ve drawn a cautious crowd of onlookers, all of whom look ready to bolt in a heartbeat. None of them are trying to step in or look in on the man whose store was being robbed. Garth isn’t really surprised. Elephant Man and the Ram are pretty damn frightening. Each time a punch connects is like a small peal of thunder.

  He creeps forward, quiet as the mouse Elephant Man had called him. He brings up the bat. And he actually grins. Maybe he is just an extrahuman wannabe. But he’d been the home-run king for the Middlewood Hornets junior and senior year.

  It occurs to him, as he takes the first swing, that a real hero wouldn’t hit someone from behind.

  But then, he’s no hero.

  Final score: Garth 2, rabids 0.