Recursion Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Glossary

  Wearing the Cape: Recursion

  by Marion G. Harmon

  Copyright© 2018 by Marion G. Harmon

  Additional characters created by Jori Miller, Grayson Judd, Austin Murrey, Jacob Crimin, Spencer Brint, Rick West, and Chase Wayment.

  Cover by Kasia Slupecka

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Chapter One

  “The head of the FBI/DSA unit tasked with tracking Mirth has issued a statement confirming Mirth’s involvement in Tuesday’s supervillain heist. The First Bank of Chicago has not released a statement, but the take is estimated to be at least three million dollars. With two years since his last reported heist, authorities had previously believed him to be retired. Like Mirth’s previous heists, the robbery of First Chicago was without fatalities, although one bank guard remains in intensive care. As always, anyone with any information that might lead to Mirth’s arrest is encouraged to call the FBI’s Chicago office hotline. Despite a substantial reward offered for information leading directly to Mirth’s arrest, he remains at large, identity unknown.”

  Chicago Daily News

  * * *

  My hands shook, an internal micro-tremor I’d learned to ride out. I left them folded, relaxed in my lap where it wouldn’t be obvious. If I kept my breathing even and deep then it wouldn’t move up into my diaphragm and voice.

  “And, how are you?” Dr. Mendel’s pen tapped a metronome beat on her notepad. She recorded our sessions, so I’d always supposed the pad was for insights or think about later stuff. Or a prop.

  I smiled and nodded, slowly instead of spastically, stepped down hard on a leg-jiggling rebellion in my right knee before she could see it, and kept from fiddling with the skirt of my black Astra uniform. “Things still ache a little when I move a lot.”

  It was safer to talk about the physical stuff, admit to a weakness that wasn’t Dr. Mendel’s concern. And I wasn’t lying; I’d healed fast. It had been just over a month since the Whittier Base Attack, but with Chakra’s help I’d healed the millions of breaks and micro-fractures in my bones from using myself as a missile against Seif-al-Dinn. Dr. Beth had pronounced me long-recovered from all my organ and soft-tissue damage.

  She looked interested anyway. “Can you be more descriptive?”

  “It’s like when I push myself past my limits in my exercise program. Just, you know, achy.” Especially the ache that had decided to concentrate in my left shoulder sometime last week. I hadn’t messed my shoulder up any more than the rest of me—was it psychosomatic? I wasn’t about to ask that, and anyway all my tests had come back clean.

  She nodded, made a note. “Does it hurt worse when you train?”

  Breathe. You can do this. “No, actually. It feels better.” It did, even when I took hits sparring. And I’d been doing a lot of that this past week, too, part of my new resolve and game plan leading up to today.

  Dr. Mendel’s gaze drifted to the old-fashioned calendar she kept on the wall of the office she used when doing sessions in the Dome. “It’s been a month since the state funeral, and you were on your feet for that. What’s your official readiness state?”

  “I’m physically cleared for field duty.” She had to know that, it was certainly in my accessible file.

  “So you’re just waiting on a clean psych-eval.”

  My diaphragm clenched, but I’d been waiting for her to get to the point and counted to relax. Her eyes dropped to my hands, and I realized I’d clenched them, too. Drat. “Yes.”

  She nodded, lips pursing, when I didn’t go on. Tap, tap, tap. “And what are you afraid of?”

  You. I couldn’t say that, either, even if my teeth were going to start rattling if I let the tremors climb my arms. I was heading for a 4.5 on the freak-out scale, it was just a question of when. “Clowns. They still scare me.” And why had my mind gone to that old shiver? I hadn’t truly freaked over a creepy, creepy clown since grade school.

  She smiled and made another note, shifted in her chair to uncross and re-cross her legs, settled in. “Dreams?”

  I relaxed a little. A very little. “I’m getting a full night’s sleep again.” I hadn’t had the fighting-in-Hell or the watching-my-own-funeral dreams in a week. I’d had both on rotation after the state funeral, waking in shaking cold sweats, but the funeral dream was the worst. Fighting in Hell wasn’t fun, but at the funeral I had to watch how my death hit my family.

  Regardless, both had gone away. My sleep patterns had changed so fast I was pretty sure Chakra had done something without telling me. I wasn’t going to ask.

  She made another note in her book. “Then let’s talk about what’s going on with you, now. How are you handling the whole ‘Atlas affair’ media storm?”

  My nails bit my palms.

  * * *

  “So? Did you pass?”

  Checking out of the Dome, I’d headed straight for the low cloud line. The heavy overcast turned the day gray, dropping more fluffy snow on the streets. Shell floated beside me in the sky and she’d changed her shirt again. This time it said Say No to Evil.

  Half the time I had no idea what her t-shirt prose meant.

  “I think so.”

  I didn’t ask if she’d watched; it had been more than a month since she’d come back from the dead as my own personal quantum-ghost, and we’d mostly worked out my privacy spaces. Now she only appeared “in the virtual flesh” when we were alone—when you’re trying hard to make everyone believe that you’re okay; having your eyes track to someone who wasn’t there doesn’t help at all.

  Dr. Mendel didn’t know about Shell. Nobody did, other than me, Jacky, and Blackstone. I mean, really, how did I explain it? Hey, you know my best friend who killed herself origin-chasing our freshman year? She’s come back as a 22nd Century quantum-copy ghost. Only I can hear and see her, because of a neural link the Teatime Anarchist grew in my head without me knowing. Yes, I took candy from a stranger. Why do you ask?

  “And are you okay?” I’d been quiet too long and now Shell searched my face. Yeah, I was her obsession.

  But was I okay? Was I really ready for this, could I do it again?

  “Yes.” I made the smile a real one, drew in a shaky breath. “Maybe?” A lot of that okay-ness was because of Shell. Through all the physical rehab, the shakes and the near panic-attacks, everyone had helped me put myself back together, but Shell had helped me survive. And now she gave me the eye, finally sighing dramatically.

  “Which is it? You think so, or maybe?”

  “Yes? It’s not like before, Shell. I know I’ll live.” And I would. My smile was genuine. I didn’t have to pretend anymore, really, except at certain moments. Even the Bees, my merry ban
d of stalkers, had relaxed their Hope Watch a bit the last few days, and they knew the full story about me and Atlas. “So, is it quiet?”

  “It’s pretty dead. The South Side Guardians handled a bad accident this afternoon, routine stuff. Street-villain activity has been down all week, some kind of truce between what’s left of the Brotherhood and Sanguinary Boys, no professional villains trying anything in town. Not a good time for it—everyone’s at a state of heightened readiness because of, hey, Mirth.”

  “Okay.” Dead was good. Dr. Mendell had signed off, provisionally, and though I wasn’t on the official duty roster until Blackstone did the same I was clear for outside activities. I could fly a few circuits, low enough that people saw me, and call it a day.

  “Astra,” Dispatch buzzed in my ear. “Confirm availability.”

  Or not. “Dispatch, I confirm availability.” The regulation response rolled off my tongue as I watched Shell’s eyes widen—obviously “reading” my orders. Ready or not, here it comes. . .

  “There is a reported superhuman homicide on South State Street and 27th, Dearborn Homes. Blackstone has approved you for Superhuman Crimes Liaison.”

  I was already dropping through the falling snow. “Tell Blackstone I’m on it.”

  * * *

  SCL duty had been something mostly handled by Atlas—John—before. He could fly out to a reported superhuman crime scene, stand around with the detectives on-site and look good for the press, and be useful to the forensic investigators. I had no idea how useful I’d be, but I understood the “show the flag” part of it. I could have touched down in under a minute, but I slowed as I came over the scene. There’d be civilians, twitchy officers, possibly news cameras, and landing fast and hard was never a good idea if you weren’t responding to a live incident. If you looked un-calm, you un-calmed the people around you—Dealing with The Public 101.

  Calm. I could fake that. Shell faded out as I descended, giving me a “Good luck!” and two thumbs up as I touched grass outside the police perimeter on the side of the park staked out by the press, close enough for them to get a good look but not fire questions.

  The past few weeks had taught me to avoid the press without seeming to avoid them.

  The young officer closest waved me past the yellow crime-scene tape, her breath puffing in the air as she called out. “Astra! Detective Fisher said you should go right over!”

  The police perimeter enclosed a stretch of grass in the center of the park. High winds over the past few days had cleared the frozen turf of snow, and they’d erected a sort of tent to cover something against the thickening snowfall trying to bury it all again. I caught the smell of it before I saw it, cooked and carbonized meat overpowering the cold scent of snow, and my stomach twisted. A detective standing beside the tent beckoned me over.

  “Detective Fisher.” He held out his hand and we shook.

  “Astra. It’s nice to meet you.” I winced at my automatic and stupidly out of place response.

  “Duh, like he doesn’t know you.” Okay, Shell wasn’t good at staying out completely.

  The detective’s lips twitched. “Likewise. Wish it was better circumstances.” He held the covering up so I could duck inside, his lean height making it easy. Brushing snow off his rumpled suit, he followed me in.

  I didn’t need the portable lights they’d set up under the tent—in fact I carefully didn’t look at them. I also breathed as shallowly as I could. Nobody else seemed bothered by the smell. Darned super-senses.

  “About half an hour ago someone saw a flash in the park and reported it. Uniforms arrived to find this. They covered it with a tarp from their cruiser before calling it in.”

  This was a circle of scorched and baked ground, with a lump of something else fused into it. My nose told me the lump had been a person, unless someone had been keeping a very big pet in the projects. Something had almost completely carbonized the body, with only a trace of oxygen-driven combustion to burn some of the flesh and fat for the revoltingly mouth-watering barbeque smell. I looked away from the vaguely man-shaped charcoal briquet.

  “Now that’s just . . . ick,” Shell whispered.

  With the detective watching me, I opened my mouth before gulping and ducking back out of the tent.

  Smooth, Hope. Real smooth. Focusing on Chakra’s breath-control technique again I managed to not double over and vomit up my lunch, getting the shakes under control before the tent flap rustled behind me.

  “Do you need a minute?” The detective kept his voice low, though his long face showed more mordant humor than concern.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Another meaningless and out of place courtesy.

  “No, you’re not. Nobody really is at a homicide scene. What did you see?”

  It couldn’t have looked that bad to them—just a fused lump on the baked ground. “Smelled. I smelled it.” I inhaled deeply, focusing on the smell of snow. “Whatever did that cooked— Him? Her?”

  “We don’t know, yet. Or age, either. Can you tell me anything?”

  “What—how did nobody see what happened?”

  “Look around.” He waved a hand.

  Right. We were standing in the middle of the Dearborn projects, public housing towers on all sides. Things had gotten better here in the last few years as the city had made a major renovation and law-enforcement push in Dearborn Homes, but it was still gang turf and most residents wouldn’t talk to the police even if they’d seen anything. From Blackstone’s briefings, I knew the Brotherhood—what was left of it—claimed it for their turf.

  And hardly anyone would have been out on this gray cold day, anyway. Now, with officers and cars on the grounds and a gaggle of press, I didn’t see anybody I could confidently tag as a resident. Looking up I saw a few young faces in distant windows, peeking from behind drawn blinds. Down on the ground there were just press and the cops—most of them watching me, if only with glances as they went about their jobs.

  Sometimes it was fun to watch people watch me. I was a little disappointing in person. For one thing I was shorter than the actress playing me on Sentinels, and not as pretty. That was normal—Megan had expressed her willingness to sleep with literally the entire show’s cast, guys too. She hadn’t been serious (and had hardly shocked Julie, Annabeth, and me), but I was pretty sure the actresses who played Chakra and The Harlequin really were on her I’d Do Them list.

  Looking towards the gaggle of media, Detective Fisher actually laughed. Just a little ha, under his breath, but his unconcerned amusement braced me; he was treating me like an adult and not someone who needed special care. After the past few weeks, it was refreshing.

  “Did anybody get shot?” I could smell a hint of gunpowder, too, faint but sharp in the cold air.

  “Nobody reported anything.”

  “Wait.” I sniffed, made myself ignore the barbeque smell. There . . . I took a few steps, remembered every police-procedural show I’d ever seen, and elevated myself to float along, feet carefully off the ground. Behind me the detective grunted approvingly as I sniffed again, looking around. With all the blowing snow, they’d focused on covering the body and obvious ground zero but hadn’t searched the frozen ground. And there it was. “Right here, detective.”

  Detective Fisher stepped over to look. “I’ll be damned. Hey! Send somebody out here with a bag!” At his yell a uniformed crime scene tech poked his head out of the tent, trotting over to follow orders. “Good work, kid.”

  “Just call me Scooby Doo.” Wow, I’d been useful.

  “Can you smell anything else? Want to look around? The news team probably has all the pictures they need, but . . .”

  “Sure.” I made myself nod. “That’s why I’m here.” I looked around. How could I quarter the ground and not miss anything?

  The detective read my mind. “Walk with me—well, bob along and look down. With the frozen turf and the wind, you’re not likely to find anything else, but we’ll do a couple of circuits and then it’s coffee and donuts t
ime.”

  “He makes donut jokes? Really?”

  Fisher didn’t ask why I turned red, the gasp-snort-giggle that escaped around my hand telling him everything he needed to know. He probably wondered about my hissed “Shelllllll,” though.

  * * *

  Blackstone greeted me in Dispatch, standing by David’s central manager’s station. He’d probably watched everything through my mask-cam.

  “I think that went well.” He gave me a genuine smile and a stiff nod. Nearly six weeks after he’d almost died, even with Chakra helping his recovery he still did most things stiffly. “What did your friend have to say about it?”

  “Shell kept her comments to a minimum.” I left it at that, knowing without looking that I had the covert attention of the Dispatch stations around us. Official first-day-back, I was very much an unknown quantity to everyone. To me, too. As for Shell . . .

  After wrapping his head around the idea of a 22nd Century quantum-ghost cybernetically linked to my cortex, courtesy of the Teatime Anarchist, Blackstone had asked me to keep it quiet while he investigated some possibilities. I had no idea what he meant by “possibilities,’ and was kind of afraid to ask.

  There were a lot of questions I hadn’t been asking. I needed a list.

  He nodded again when I didn’t elaborate. “Good. I have an idea of what she can do with us. How would she feel about becoming your official Dispatch wingman?” His smile widened and his eyes twinkled, like he was contemplating some new grand illusion or bit of sleight-of-hand. “Please tell her I’d like to speak with her tonight.”

  I laughed. “I’m sure she just heard?”

  “Splendid. Then let’s go downstairs, shall we? Our new teammates have arrived, and you remember what an event we turn welcoming meetings into.” The twinkle stayed in his eyes as he waved me forward; the magician had something up his sleeve. I followed.