Repercussions (Wearing the Cape Book 8)

by Marion G. Harmon

  “We’ll do it,” Sylvia said before she could reconsider. “I’m on my way to get you,” Steve got out in almost the same moment. “I’ve got one of your spare costumes, you won’t need to go back to your apartment.”

  “You guys are cute,” Power Chick observed. “I’ve got your ride waiting, see you in a few hours. Toodles.”

  “Toodles? Is she gone?”

  “My phone says she is. I’m one light away from you, get out to the parking lot.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “If the iconic image from the Brussels Attack was Astra bringing in Wunderkind’s wrapped body, the second-most famous image is of the arrival of Healing Flight. The American supplies of BV Vaccine arrived at the end of a supersonic relay flight from the United States. The flight pod carrying the vaccines was accompanied on the last leg of the flight by the UK’s John Bull, the Continental Guard’s Nike, and Astra, all of who joined the flight over the Irish Sea. The final estimate of infected citizens and visitors to Brussels was 4,500, all of whom were treated with the BV Vaccine.”

  EU Magazine

  “Ozma called,” Shell said through Hope’s earbud. “Plus, we’ve got stuff to do and a judge to see—there’s an arrest warrant with your name on it. It’s time to go home.”

  Hope banked north to east, looking down at the city. “Then let’s go.”

  She loved the sky, but the view from above was heartbreaking. The crater surrounded by half-shattered buildings looked like an open wound, something obscene. Chakra’d once told her that people couldn’t form close personal attachments to more than a dozen or so people, and real emotional connections to a whole lot more than that. Everyone outside that charmed circle was an abstraction—a person whose pain you could feel only by imagining it as your own. But though Hope hadn’t known a single victim of Belgium’s slaughter, as shrines rose on top of the rubble she saw the faces of parents, children, siblings, friends.

  The dead were beyond pain, but the living drowned in it and Brussels was the world. And it was Chicago.

  The cheering crowds of the morning when they’d landed with the flight-pod had dispersed back to the heartbreaking work. Trucks and haulers filled streets below her, crews working to finish bringing down unsafe structures, clear paths, begin the cleanup. The news had brought images of reconstruction from all over. Europe’s Emergency Response Coordination Centre, ERCC, was in full swing. Power was back up through most of Europe, delivered by its fleet of mobile nuclear plants. Screening for the Berserker Virus continued and would for weeks as the contaminated zones were decontaminated, but with the initial exposures being treated as fast as doses could be administered the CDPC could easily stay ahead of it now. The emergency part of it all was done.

  “People will want to thank you, first.” Shell floated virtually beside her, face-up and watching the sky with nothing to say on her t-shirt.

  “They can thank us later. Maybe the anniversary when they’re handing out medals by the truckload like they should?”

  “That doesn’t sound bitter at all.”

  “I’m not. I’m just, tired? And Dr. Mendel would probably say I’m suffering from survivor’s guilt. Plus there’s work to do at home.”

  Shell angled on her side to watch Hope. “You know if you just fly away, Quin’s going to hunt you down and kill you.”

  “I know.” Hope dropped towards the streets. “Arrange flights for the rest? Kitsune will do what he does and Quin can make everyone else’s exit graceful—I can truthfully say that I’ve been ordered home as soon as possible.” She could, too. Blackstone hadn’t set a date, but he’d made it clear they were to return as soon as they weren’t critically needed. And as field leader this last time, the timing was her call. “And find me Nike, please?”

  An hour later she flew out of Brussels airspace, obligatory hand-shake and farewell taken care of—Shell’d insured a photographer’s presence for her taking her leave of the Rotterdam Guard’s captain. Climbing above the air lanes, virtual-Shell floating beside her again, she settled Malleus in its straps on the back of her armor.

  “What are you going to name it?” Shell asked out of the blue.

  “Junior?” Hope said the first thing that popped into her head. The first thing she knew would set Shell off, anyway.

  It did. “Junior? The thing’s like, a holy relic!”

  “Nope, it’s not. A holy relic is the remains of a saint. Or of something that belonged to them.”

  “Don’t give me that crap— You’re laughing at me.”

  “Yes, yes I am. If you’re going to name it, I’m going to at least make fun of you.”

  “Shut up. You’re an epic hero, this is your miraculously given weapon, you’ve got to name it.”

  Hope hid her smile. Not that it did any good since the haptic feedback of their quantum-neural link meant Shell could feel her lips twitch. “Yeah.” They rose over the clouds and Hope turned them west. “So you’ve looked at hundreds of names, I’ll bet.”

  “It’s tough,” Shell whined. “Most named weapons were swords. You know, like Excalibur. Swords were noble even when they weren’t magic. Mauls? Not so much. There’s Thor’s hammer, and a maul’s kind of a hammer, but Mjölnir’s already taken. There’s the Kaumodaki, a mace from Hindu mythology—”

  “I really don’t think we want to use another religion’s myths, Shell. Besides, I think one of India’s divas is swinging Kaumodaki around—and you’re mocking me now. Right?”

  “Duh, none of those are going to work.”

  “So.” She peeked sideways at her BF. “What did Shell-Shelly really come up with?”

  “Joyeuse.”

  “Huh?”

  “We picked Malleus because malleus literally translates as hammer—battle mauls and war hammers are really the same thing, though war hammers were typically lighter, right?”

  “Right. . . .”

  “But malus, also Latin, means spite. Malice. Intent to harm. And when you swing that thing you intend to harm somebody, duh.”

  “Okay, but Joyous?”

  “Joyeuse. It’s French—okay it means joyous, but it feels like the opposite of malus and it’s significant. It was the name of The Emperor Charlemagne’s sword. Reputably one of the near-magic swords forged by Weyland the Smith. It was said to change colors thirty times a day. We think that meant it was supposed to reflect light like a rainbow.”

  “Okay, are the French using it?”

  “Nope. Or not really. They have an old coronation sword they call Joyeuse, but experts date it to the High Middle Ages, way after Charlemagne’s time. There’s a French Roland running around with a Durendal, but no capes swinging Joyeuse.”

  “Any alternates?”

  “Well, there’s Almace. Another of Weyland’s swords and used by Bishop Turpin. All-mace, get it?”

  “That’s just terrible.”

  “We know. So, Joyeuse?”

  Hope sighed and put on the speed. They’d make the flight to Portland non-stop, plenty of time to argue it out. Joyeuse . . .

  Hope found the endless blue of the ocean restful, and even storms looked white from above. Flying over the Continental US, she always found it interesting how the land below transformed from greens and browns to tans and reds and then climbed in thrusts of rock as she crossed the country. She passed planes flying both directions below her, the west-to-east ones flying at a relative speed that took them into and out of her range of sight in minutes with a far rumble the only sound. Brussels sat at about fifty-one degrees of latitude and Portland Oregon at forty-five degrees, so Hope raced the Sun, arriving earlier in the day long hours after she left Brussels.

  Two hours after arriving and saying hi to Agent Smith, she stood guard as Ozma used the weakness of the rift to send the de-transformed patients through a pair of linked mirrors one at a time—after giving each a measured dose of crystalized Water of Oblivion. Grendel’d told her Ozma had rigged the mirrors in case they needed to make a fast retreat, and he stood beside
her reassuringly as agents moved the cured along. One of his tusks was a broken stump, his left arm was wrapped tight, and he wore a vested outfit that looked vaguely ren-faire.

  “You challenged their champion to a fight?” Shell laughed in both their ears.

  Grendel chuckled. “I figured why not? From what I’d read Oz had all that chivalric crap, sort of. We figure the nomes didn’t want to do it but they didn’t know what their Emeril soldiers would do if they didn’t.”

  “Annnnd?”

  “When I kicked its ass, the Emerils stood down. The nomes ordered the tick-tocks and winged monkeys to attack the Emerils, and I charged the tick-tocks with supporting fire from the fort. The nomes broke and ran. It was glorious.”

  “Glorious? Not your kind of word.”

  His grey skin darkened in a flush. “Ozma’s word. She knighted me. And named me Royal Champion.”

  Hope lost all hope of keeping a straight face. It didn’t slow the line down much, but she still got control of her giggles. “Sir Brian? Please tell me Platoon got it on video.”

  Her friend growled. “At least it bought us another week, Oz-time. Time enough for the next batches of vaccine and good thing—Ozma hated maintaining that shop-full of stuff. Memories.”

  Wounded but mobile Platoons followed the newly-vaccinated infected, and Ozma stepped through last, head high. “Hello, Hope.” Her smile was at once regal and a little knowing and sad. “It’s good to see you. Half the Platoons will remain, training my Quadlings and expanding the fort. Now let’s take you home in front of a victorious army.”

  “Do you think I need one?”

  “She’s arriving,” Captain Stanliss said pointlessly—Watchman got the same update through his own earbud. The Illinois State Guard officer had arrived at the Dome with Astra still at least twenty minutes out, with the warrant and his five schoolboys as bright and shiny as could be. Watchman had escorted them to the Flight Bay at Blackstone’s instructions.

  “Do you think she’ll cooperate with her arrest?” the captain asked.

  Watchman eyed the five privates. They carried M4s, which might as well be Nerf guns. Please, sir, go ahead and express concern that the girl you’re here to arrest might not go along with it in front of the kids who can’t do more than get their blood on her if she decides not to. “Yes, sir.”

  The man adjusted his red officer’s beret, flinching at the sound of cheers from the wall-screen on their side of the bay. Dispatch had set it to a news channel showing the protest scene outside the Dome. The screen showed a very enthusiastic crowd. Most of the placards he could read said things like Free Astra! One dissenting message read Uphold Civilian Authority! The holder of that one stood on the other side of a blue line of CPD officers.

  The image changed to a sky-shot, making the cause of the cheers obvious. The camera zoomed in on Astra, still distant but dropping towards the Dome, the news-bar at the bottom of the screen filling in the details of Astra’s arrival along with the flights from Portland. The small figure slowed, and to Watchman’s trained eye changed its angle of decent slightly. He’d bet she’d been planning on her usual entry, landing outside and coming in through the Atrium. “Open the doors.”

  At his command the bay doors above them cracked and began to rumble open. Astra got bigger on the screen as the camera lurched and refocused to follow her and the cheers got louder, then she was dropping through the hatch with a wave to the crowd before the doors cut line-of-sight. Good girl. Had she been briefed?

  Astra landed lightly, unslinging her battle-maul from its flight strap on her armor as the doors shut above them, and Watchman didn’t roll his eyes at the twitching of the “arrest detail’s” weapons. If this turns into a shit-show it’s not going to be on her.

  She moved the weapon to her left hand and saluted the captain; in costume CAIs were considered in uniform.

  Stanliss returned the salute, holding his own long enough for it to say something. He cleared his throat. “Astra. Good to have you home.”

  “Captain Stanliss. It’s good to be home.”

  “Astra, it is my duty to place you under arrest on charges of dereliction of duty and violation of legal orders by a lawful superior. Watchman?”

  Watchman stepped forward smartly, any hint of what he thought of what was happening hidden behind his dark tactical glasses. His open hand came up, and Astra surrendered her weapon. He stepped back.

  “Thank you,” Captain Stanliss nodded as if giving up the thing left her disarmed in any meaningful sense. At least the detail relaxed.

  “Since the State Guard has no regular stockade,” the captain informed her, “it was suggested we house you in one of the CPD’s hard cells. Commissioner Redmond quashed that and the DSA isn’t offering their accommodations either. Therefore I am placing you under house arrest until trial, confined to your rooms in the Dome. Outside your room you will have one guard with you at all times, as well as when you receive communications or visitors. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Her voice was clear

  “Corporal Watcott, you will accompany Watchman and Astra, and will take up your post.”

  A fuzz-haired high schooler saluted sharply. “Sir! Yes sir!”

  “Dismissed.”

  “With me, Astra.” Watchman waved her by and followed, Corporal Watcott trailing. They made a silent party down the elevator and to her rooms. The corporal stopped at the door, saluting again as they did the same and leaving them in privacy as the door closed.

  “Okay,” Hope breathed. “What was that?” When he turned from the doorway, she looked like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or laugh hysterically. He understood; as comical as it had been, she’d been arrested. She’d certainly known it would happen, or something like it, when she left but that wouldn’t make it feel less awful and surreal.

  “What that was, is a complete cluster-fu—FUBAR.” Watchman hefted the battle-maul, momentarily distracted by its new weight. “You can’t keep this with you under the terms of arrest.” Neither of them commented on the obvious ridiculousness of stopping there; under the law, arrest of dangerous superhumans required such restraints as needed to render them reasonably safe and contained. Disarming her but leaving her unshackled outside of a hard-cell showed just how badly FUBARed this was. “Vulcan wants to look at it. Does he have your permission for a non-invasive analysis?”

  “What? Oh, sure. What’s been Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition?”

  He grunted. “You guys whooshed away from the center of the Atrium, the most public spot in the Dome, then we got the first pics and stories about your arrival in Brussels less than an hour later. The infosphere went nuts, with cape-followers reposting and spreading the governor’s official response to the President’s request for Illinois State Guard aid outside the state. And then the governor responded immediately that he had issued no countering orders. Our adjutant general immediately confirmed it.”

  “Seriously? Where was their Quin? Or their Legal Eagle?”

  “Hopefully dead in the attack.” Shit. He reigned it in; he was obviously even more pissed than he’d thought. “Which seems a stretch since I assume they work in Springfield.” He waved her to her couch. “Anyway, that admission triggered the anti-cape types who’ve always claimed the whole State Guard-CAI system is a joke.” Which it pretty much is. “They’re calling for a court martial and punishment under the terms of the military code—which were copied pretty much word for word from the US Military Code—and it’s not like the facts and the law are in dispute.”

  She paled but rallied. “And the protest outside?”

  “Some of them out there want you locked up, most of them want you freed—I didn’t think it was possible for you to get more popular with the public, after those first pictures from Brussels. You managed it this morning with Healing Flight—I’m pretty sure Quin conspired with friendly media to make sure live footage of you and Nike and the rest hit the news before lunch.”

  What
ever she was thinking she stalled, taking off her cape and mask and running her fingers through her bob. “What does Tommy say?”

  “Legal Eagle has verbal assurance that, if you appear before the court and plead guilty, the governor will issue a full pardon ‘in gratitude of services performed.’ The verdict will be expunged from your State Guard record and you’ll be good to go.”

  “They can’t do that!”

  “Why not?” He sat across from her, setting the maul down. She was obviously at a loss for words (in her defense words really shouldn’t have been necessary).

  “I violated orders! I knew I was violating orders! If the senior military commander, or officers under his orders, ignore the orders of their lawful civilian superior, and they aren’t disciplined—”

  He held up a hand, watching her closely. “Blackstone told me you’d be a martyr about this.”

  “It’s not about being a martyr! If they let me off, it destroys our current system. It tells every CAI cape—and the public—that our promises to obey lawful civil authority are optional!”

  “Would you do it again?”

  “In a heartbeat!” She groaned and deflated, dropping her face in her hands. “But if there aren’t consequences— If I get away with it, it breaks everything. If nothing else, I’ve proven I’ll ignore lawful orders. I broke my oath to the state, and if I did it once I’ll do it again. In a heartbeat. What?” He’d finally let his opinion reach his face.

  “Blackstone told Legal Eagle you’d say something like that, too. He agreed. So do I.”

  “Oh. So, what’s going to happen? Am I going to jail?”

  “The plan is you’ll plead guilty with no bargains, the court will accept the plea and enter a verdict of guilty with the minimum sentencing severity under the code—which will still be a dishonorable discharge and a good number of years in prison. The governor will immediately issue his pardon, which will include an act of clemency regarding the dishonorable discharge, on the grounds of your meritorious actions following your violation of orders. That will leave you with an honorable discharge from your state military service. That’s it.”