Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape) Read online

  They needed something; their attempts to blame us for his taking a bullet weren’t gaining any traction, and since he’d come through surgery fine and would be out of the hospital in days, that story was going to go away too.

  Since Willis had prepared rooms for tonight’s new arrivals and I was off-duty, I changed into civvies, put my hair in a tail, and decided to take my mind off the media frenzy and my pending responsibilities by studying up on the Foundation of Awakened Theosophy. Everything — and I meant everything — really had conspired to drive it out of my mind. But Fisher was right; the Paladins were a sideshow. We needed to know what had changed things for Mr. Ludlow, and if Fisher was looking at the FAT (Shelly’d gotten a kick out of the acronym), then I needed to learn all about it.

  Five minutes after opening my epad and looking up The Sleeper Must Awake, I wanted some good swear words. Blackstone should have learned about this last week.

  The Foundation of Awakened Theosophy was a cult.

  * * *

  “Yes, my dear?”

  Blackstone’s eyebrows rose when I made a slashing motion across my throat. His always-open door closed, and I handed him my epad.

  “Have you seen this?”

  He scanned the page, looked up. “I am aware of the Foundation. It’s a two-year-old fad among origin-chasers. Has it become important?”

  I nodded. “Mr. Ludlow may be a member, and it’s about more than breakthroughs.”

  “I think you had better sit down and tell me about it.”

  I sat, took a breath and opened my mouth, thought again. Organize.

  “Last weekend, before I went with Fisher to exercise the warrant, you suggested that whatever had turned Mr. Ludlow happened after January.”

  “Yes.”

  “Eric’s been reading FAT books and I just called Jenny and she says that they won’t know until they get a look at the Foundation’s membership records but from his emails it looks like he’s been a member since early February.” Breathe, Hope, breathe. “A serious one.”

  Blackstone sat back, rubbed his nose. “Indeed. That is interesting.”

  I’d never heard of it, but it didn’t surprise me that Blackstone knew about the Foundation. He tapped his desk phone. “Chakra, please.”

  “Dear to my heart?” It was late morning but she sounded like she’d crawled out of bed to answer the phone, and wanted to crawl right back in.

  My expression made Blackstone smile. “Good morning, my dear. I am with Astra right now and wondered if you might join us?” Chakra responded with an easy laugh and an entendre-filled promise to be quick while I tried to pretend I hadn’t been there to hear anything. My ears were red, but I wasn’t stupid — she did it because I made it fun, and Seven had been right; when I wasn’t blushing, I was laughing. I wasn’t judgy, really, just mortified.

  And I really needed to grow up. Last night Chakra had found me to talk about my feelings about Eric going to the dark side, even apologized for not being able to warn me of all the drama she’d seen coming with her precognitive gift. She’d been nice and not embarrassing.

  Blackstone made small talk until she swept in, dressed like a gypsy dancer. One look at our faces and she sat and adjusted her skirts, back poker-straight. Blackstone always dressed ready for the stage, so I was the only one not in “uniform.”

  “Yes?” No archness, no play, just what’s going on?

  “The Foundation of Awakened Theosophy. Our Mr. Ludlow may be a member. What can you tell us about it?”

  It was like she’d slipped on invisible schoolteacher glasses.

  “It’s one of the newer breakthrough-trigger fads, based on the theosophical enlightenment movement. After the Event, a lot of people started claiming they knew how to reliably trigger breakthroughs. Statistically, their results have varied, but never very far from the baseline of random incidents of extreme physical or mental stress.”

  “That is what I understood,” Blackstone concurred. “The government has always been extremely interested in discovering a reliable breakthrough-generator to address our national superhuman deficit.”

  I blinked. “Our what?”

  “Breakthroughs are caused by trauma, my dear, and despite our own supervillains, here in the U.S. we have less of that than the Chinese states, for example. Or the Middle East. Fewer mass-deaths. Fewer disasters. Certainly no civil wars. The downside of peace and prosperity is fewer events which tend to create superhumans.” He was back to rubbing his nose. “We make up for that by better mobilization and support and by attracting superhuman immigration — Lei Zi being the perfect example. She was twenty when she brought her family here from Beijing at the start of the China War.”

  “She’s an immigrant? I didn’t know.” She’d come on the team during the bad months right after Atlas’ death, when I hadn’t been paying attention to much of anything. Now she was just there, solid, professional, distant in a leaderly way.

  He raised an eyebrow at that. “She comes from a diplomatic Communist Party family, and probably learned English while counting blocks in the nursery. Apparently they were considered less than reliable by the party leadership when the purges began. But we’re wandering afield now.”

  I had a sudden burning desire to know that story, but I nodded. Chakra’s eyes were focused on something else, and she hummed thoughtfully.

  “Actually, I think I can see the attraction of the FAT for Eric.” She made sure she had our attention, smiled. “As I said, it’s based on the theosophical enlightenment, particularly on the version of theosophy preached by Helena Blavatsky. It builds on three propositions: the universe as we experience it is an illusion surrounding an unchanging Truth she called the Absolute; outside of the Absolute, everything is in flux, forever uncreated and recreated; all souls are monads, units of individual consciousness which are discrete parts of the universal oversoul, the part of the Absolute that is conscious of itself. Monads are eternal, but also constantly in flux with the rest of the universe.”

  She stopped to let us catch up and I ran it through my poor little brain.

  “So...reincarnation? Nirvana?”

  “Oh, yes, Blavatsky’s theosophy was strongly influenced by Buddhist philosophy. More important, the Foundation of Awakened Theosophy has updated her system to explain breakthroughs. According to the FAT, Monads also experience spiritual evolution — the Event was caused by the first Awakened Soul, which recreated the world. The Foundation doesn’t say who that blessed soul is, but it strongly hints he is its founder, Doctor Simon Pellegrini.”

  “I see.” Blackstone considered for a moment. “And Mr. Ludlow?”

  Chakra shrugged. “The Foundation teaches a system of study, meditation, and initiation that is supposed to ‘awaken’ a disciple who becomes sufficiently spiritually advanced, which is what makes it attractive to origin-chasers who don’t want to risk injury or death to achieve a breakthrough. But it also claims it is able to strengthen breakthroughs — a draw for weak breakthroughs whose powers are at or below D Class.”

  “Wow.” I thought of how easily Shelly might have been sucked into that if it had been around four years ago. Or maybe not — Shelly liked quick solutions. “But Eric is a B Class Ajax-type.”

  Blackstone shook his head. “But not the strongest, my dear. Perhaps his war experiences convinced him that he needed to be stronger. Which is not necessarily his motive now...”

  “Could he have met the other Wreckers through the FAT?”

  “Or been introduced to the FAT by a Wrecker. The Crew mixed with a lot of CAI and support teams during the cleanup in California.” He nodded significantly without elaborating. Chakra wasn’t part of the charmed circle with the need-to-know scoop on the Teatime Anarchist or the Big Book.

  I needed to call Jenny back, suggest they look into the Crew’s California adventure.

  Chakra filled us in on more about the FAT than I’d absorbed before I’d run to Blackstone, but by the time I got back in my rooms I realized I couldn’t te
ll Jenny anything. Or ask her anything else that might make her wonder. Asking whether Mr. Ludlow had joined FAT had probably been okay — since I’d been there, it was natural enough to ask about if I was at all interested in the case. But I was a cape, not a cop; investigation was their job, and if I started displaying a deep interest in a specific part of their investigation, they’d wonder why, which would be bad for The Secret.

  Which sucked; Fisher had his own secrets, which he knew I knew, but that wouldn’t keep him from coming after my secrets if he thought they might be important to Solving the Case. I trusted Fisher, but that wasn’t the point; when Shell and I had given Blackstone the Big Book — till then he hadn’t known how big it was or that I was its “guardian” — he’d sat us down to find out who else knew about it (Dr. Cornelius and Orb, who knew about the Big Book but didn’t know what it was, and Jacky, who could keep secrets like nobody’s business). Then he’d explained the secret to successful conspiracies: they remained secret. The ideal number of conspirators was two (one just wasn’t a conspiracy), and each conspirator above that number increased the chance of the secret being blown.

  Betrayal, carelessness, bad luck, it didn’t matter: it could just be a conspirator acting out of character and tipping someone else to the fact that something wasn’t as it seemed. Once someone knew something was up, the conspiracy was half-blown; with a conspiracy of secrecy like ours, if someone else figured out even part of it then the best-case outcome was we’d bring them into the conspiracy. Which meant one more member, more chances of someone else noticing, etc.

  So it stayed a circle of four: Shell, me, Blackstone, and Mystery Member — the one on the government side Blackstone had turned his vetted files over to. He wouldn’t tell us who that was (my money was on Veritas) or how he’d done it; it might have been by untraceable drop so Mystery Member didn’t know him. Knowing Blackstone, probably.

  Which really meant there were two cells of the conspiracy: ours, and whoever the one on the government side shared knowledge of the files with. Yes, Blackstone had definitely done an untraceable drop. Unless he needed a way for Mystery Member to touch him back...

  Trying to think like Blackstone made my head hurt.

  Then it became the last thing on my mind. “Hope?” Shelly whispered in my ear. She hadn’t gotten back from working with Vulcan yet.

  “Shell?”

  “Toby is going to be okay, but you need to get to Cook County Hospital. Right now.”

  * * *

  The security guy at the door didn’t blink when I landed outside CCH’s emergency rooms — they got superhumans arriving from above all the time even if they usually arrived in costume — and I dashed inside.

  “Hope Corrigan,” I blurted to the duty-nurse behind the counter. “My brother is here? Toby Corrigan?”

  Shell beat him to it. “He’s in the ICU, stable condition so stop freaking out!” I thanked him — he must have thought I was crazy — and forced myself to follow the red line at a responsible walk. Fast walk, but one foot on the floor at all times.

  “Hope,” Blackstone broke in through Dispatch. “Shelly has filled me in. Seven is on his way, and please try not to be too visible. We are securing the situation.”

  I nodded, choked a laugh. “Understood. Mom and Dad — ”

  They were there, on the other side of the glass doors, and I almost broke them going through.

  Dad looked up. “Hope?” And I knew Toby was okay. Then I was in his arms and he held on tight and the panic squeezing my heart finally loosened. I could breathe.

  He sighed into my hair. “We were waiting to call you.”

  “What — What happened?”

  Mom’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  “The hospital called us half an hour ago, when Toby woke up. He was found last night and admitted. They — Someone attacked and beat him. He was found on the street, unconscious...”

  “They couldn’t identify him until he woke up,” Dad finished for her. “Whoever attacked him stole his wallet and phone.”

  “How could anyone have gotten to him?”

  “He wasn’t wearing his Argus Security watch, didn’t tell them where he was going, so he wasn’t under the Sentinels’ security umbrella.”

  “W-why? How — ” I shut up. It was so Toby, and I wanted him better so I could give him a kicking.

  “Broken ribs, bruised kidneys, stuff,” Shelly recited off a list. “Biggest problem is cranial fracture, cerebral contusion, subdural hematoma.” Obviously she’d hacked the hospital system and I didn’t care. “Subdural bleeding stopped; now that he’s awake, the initial prognosis looks real good — CCH is one of the best hospitals for head injuries.”

  Dad hugged me again. “They don’t know what happened yet.”

  He meant well, but I’d been to plenty of trauma scenes. “Someone beat him half to death, Dad. Shell just read me the list. It’s my fault.”

  “Stop.” Mom wasn’t having it. “This is the city, Hope.” Dad nodded agreement and we just stood there.

  We moved to chairs, and after a bit a doctor came out and talked about short-term memory loss — unslurred speech and good visual tracking and reflexes let the doctor hedge on the side of optimism — and then Seven arrived.

  I looked up when he slipped in to sit down beside me. He squeezed my hand and flashed a smile warm with sympathy, and I realized I hadn’t thought about The Kiss since returning it to him Friday night. Not even Saturday before my world had blown up again.

  My return smile must have been blinding. He blinked, then tossed an easy smile back. I just sighed and rested my head against Dad’s shoulder. I wasn’t crushing on Seven — I’d been obsessing over the possibility of yummy, yummy Seven and wondering if he was crushing on me. That he hadn’t chased me down after Friday night answered that. Whatever the kiss on Omega night had been about, it hadn’t been an “I really like you kiss.” And that was a good thing; life was complicated enough right now.

  Beautiful as Seven was, friends was good.

  Now, trying to ignore the sick-inducing hospital smell and sounds my super-duper senses couldn’t block out, I looked at Seven’s pants-covered legs next to my bare ones, thought about the picture I’d presented flying here, and groaned. I was dressed for hanging out in the Dome, in one of my Astra shirts (good cotton, $39.99 in the gift shop) and a pleated athletic skirt. I’d never been so glad that my wardrobe choices now included the kind of bottoms cheerleaders had no problem showing to a stadium full of sports fans. Not that I’d thought about the up-skirt view at all, flying here.

  And gee, Hope, boys and clothes now? Can you be more shallow?

  Close to another hour passed before they let us in to see Toby, and by then he was out again — the doctor promised it was a natural sleep this time. A neck brace held his head straight, bandages mummified his left hand, and tubes came out of him everywhere. Between the mummy-wrap completely hiding his hair and the swelling, purpling flesh that disfigured his face, I didn’t recognize him at all. Unbelievably, it looked like they hadn’t broken his nose.

  Looking at him lying there, my head felt hot and stuffy, chills and fever together, and I fought the gut-sick urge to find someone and make them pay. If I could blame someone else, it wouldn’t be my fault.

  Mom called Aaron and Josh now that we knew he was going to be okay, and I called the Bees. Major hospitals almost always had at least one newsie hanging around to watch for capes, or someone that tipped them off for a little extra income; they might have missed my entrance, but Seven... The fan sites were sure to go crazy the instant word of the attack got out and Annabeth, at least, religiously followed them.

  I also called Blackstone to let him know I didn’t plan on being back in the Dome to meet our new teammates; he told me in no uncertain terms that if I showed my face before tomorrow we were going to have words. They’d put us in a more private waiting room just off of the ICU, and I split my time between Mom and Dad; they were too old for curling up with
stuffed animals, but they could always hold onto me. Our family had seen more than its share of hospital time. There’d been Faith, of course, and then my childhood cancer, but Corrigan boys had broken bones and racked up lots of sports injuries and Stupid Stuff — me too, for that matter — and I hated hospitals even if I wasn’t afraid of them anymore.

  Father Nolan arrived without ceremony, round face solemn, and quietly led us in praying the Rosary. Dad and Mom took him into Toby’s room so that he could perform a blessing of the sick, but I couldn’t make myself go back in with them.

  Instead I stepped out into the hallway, where Seven stood talking to a couple of Bobs.

  He gave me a quick look, relaxed. “How’s your family?”

  “Stoic. We’re real good at that.”

  That brought a thin smile. “I’ve been talking to Shelly. There weren’t any witnesses and the detectives have barely talked to his roommates. Has Toby said anything?”

  I shook my head. “The doctors said he doesn’t remember most of yesterday, but short-term memory loss is pretty common with his kind of injury.”

  “Well, we’ve got a full security ring now, and...” He stopped, tilting his head and listening to his earbug. “And we’ve got an all-hands mobilization.”

  “I didn’t — ” Stupid, I wasn’t in the Dispatch loop now. I tapped my earbug. “Shel — Galatea!”

  “Geez, you’re stood down!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “The Green Man’s hit O’Hare!” Seven was already sprinting away as I stood frozen — Rush would for sure meet him at the doors. This so wasn’t happening...

  “I’m not — Tell Blackstone I’m on the board!” I ran.

  Chapter Eighteen: Grendel

  “In the beginning, Queen Lurline tied the magic of Oz into the fairy blood of the royal family. Although usurpers can take the Emerald Throne, as the Nome King and Mombi have done, should the royal line of Oz be ended then Oz will no longer be a fairy land. I am alive and in exile because I was an only child.”