Wearing the Cape Page 2

  Atlas had asked me to wait for him, so Dr. Beth gave me an e-pad with a map. When the door closed behind me I put my back to the wall and just breathed for a minute. He'd been very nice for someone who saw me as a test subject, maybe a lab rat, and it wasn't his fault doctors gave me the screaming wiggins. Maybe someday I'd be able to face an examination without wanting to hide under the bed.

  Bonus, I could "stand" by flying even if my shaky legs didn't want to support me. I might be able to get out without a mortifying scene.

  Keep it together.

  I pushed away from the wall and looked at the map, which led me back to the lobby, down another hall, and into a huge conference room. A round oak table dominated the space, engraved with a fancy S over the team motto. Nos Praestolor: We Stand Ready.

  My breath caught. I stood in the Sentinels' famous Assembly Room.

  Framed prints of newspaper headlines and photographs of Atlas and the other Sentinels covered one wall. Even with the general wooginess of everything, I had to smile; Atlas was blond and blue-eyed perfection, wonderfully muscled in his jumpsuit of dark blue leather and white trim, cape and mask to match. The oldest pictures of Atlas showed him, at eighteen, in his first costume. I'd read somewhere he'd patterned it after the flashy, primary-colored jumpsuits worn by Elvis Presley and Evel Knievel. Able to fly, super strong, super tough, he might as well have put a big red "S" on his chest instead of the white Roman "A", declared himself the champion of "truth, justice, and the American way," and dared the lawyers to sue for copyright violation.

  The largest team picture, accompanied by a Mayor Forms City Superteam! headline, showed all of the founding five Sentinels: Atlas, naturally, along with Touches Clouds, Blackstone, Ajax, and Minuteman. The picture even included the team's seldom-seen reservists, Crow and Iron Jack.

  I stroked the picture-frame. The team was larger now, but only three of the founders remained. Minuteman was dead, killed by a supervillain. And the most recent picture of Atlas showed him shaking hands with President Touches Clouds in some White House ceremony.

  "Pretty, isn't it?"

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. While I'd been looking at the pictures Atlas had walked right up behind me. Super-hearing. Right.

  He wore civilian clothes, and if I'd passed him on the street I wouldn't have recognized him; in Dockers and a sport shirt he looked nothing like the strongman in the pictures. He was lean, almost skinny, and without the mask his face looked sharper, more weathered.

  I blushed hotly when he caught me staring.

  "But—"

  He smiled. "Where did all the muscles go? They're sculpted into the suit; not that I don't keep a six pack, but muscle mass has nothing to do with what we are—it's just what people expect. I brought you these."

  He handed me a pile of clothing, to replace what I'd pretty much destroyed. Under the sweater and pants were new shoes, socks, and underwear.

  "Discreet personal shoppers and a courier," he answered my unspoken question. "We aim to please. Ready to go home?"

  "Just like that?" I was so ready.

  "Just like that. We'll talk on the way."

  I changed into the street clothes, and we stopped in the lobby to make an appointment for tomorrow through Bob. Then we left by the "back door", taking an elevator that went sideways and opened into a closet space that in turn opened into a dimly lit underground parking garage.

  A little gray Saturn waited for us next to a man holding a white cardboard box, the kind you might keep files in.

  "Your things miss," he said.

  I lifted the lid to find it contained the items from my car: my busted pad, emergency kit, loose mail, the stale mints from the glove compartment...

  Atlas took the box and dropped it in the middle of the backseat before handing me the keys. Once I got in he slid into the passenger's side.

  "Your Toyota will be a steel cube in a salvage yard before nightfall," he said. "If anyone asks, your car's in the shop, and in a couple of days you can pick it up. The plates and VIN will match your insurance and DMV records, and so far as you're concerned this morning never happened."

  "But—I'm grateful, but why?"

  "Because you were unrecognizable at the site, nobody knows who the new breakthrough is, and we're going to keep it that way for as long as you want."

  "I got that, and that wasn't the question," I bit out, amazed at how fast he could turn gratitude into irritation.

  "Ease up there," he said. "It's a rental."

  I looked down to find the steering wheel bending under my grip, let go like I'd been burned. Suddenly my hands were shaking.

  "Deep breaths now, darlin'. Let me know if you think I should drive."

  "I'm fine. Really. I—" Oh God.

  I threw open my door, leaned out, and vomited again. Then started to cry.

  He sat there and let me.

  I hugged myself since nothing else seemed safe, regained control in less than a minute, maybe two. You don't do drama; you keep it for private. Shame helped me push it down.

  "Here," he said.

  He'd rummaged through the box while I got hold of myself, and he handed me my water bottle and the stale mints. I rinsed and leaned my head against the wheel while I crunched the mints, silently praying.

  Please God, look after your newest angels. Be with the ones who mourn them now.

  At last I straightened, wiped, sniffed, and could breathe normally again.

  "Thank you. I'm—"

  "Don't apologize. You've had a bad day."

  I jerked around at the dryness of his voice, but there was no pity in his eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, I started the car. Being careful of my grip, I pulled out of the space and turned up the ramp. When we came out on the street I headed west.

  "You wanted to know why," he said after a couple of lights. "Should we talk now or when you're home?"

  "Now. Band-aid quick, Dad always says." I sniffed again, spoiling my brave talk, but he smiled at that.

  "What else does he say?"

  I managed a smile of my own. "Don't leave old food in the fridge, back up your computer every day, and punch like you mean it."

  That got a chuckle. "There's a card in the glove compartment with a phone number and website address. Go there for the details, but to give you the spoiler you test within the top ten percent of Atlas-type superhumans. Pure A-class. Watch the road."

  I pulled my eyes back to the street, relaxing my grip when the wheel protested again.

  "In superhuman terms, you've won the lottery. But now you have to decide what you're going to do."

  "Do? I—shouldn't I do what you do?"

  "Why? You can do anything, or do nothing with it. Go to school, find a nice fella', start a career. You don't have to see any more days like today."

  "But—"

  He shook his head. "Hope, you're not suddenly indispensable. You'll need training to help you with your control, and we need to arrange for that right away. But you don't have to become a cape, and you don't have to decide now."

  Then he shifted conversational gears and asked about my family and plans as I drove.

  "What I don't understand," I finally asked, coming back to what had become the question since I'd first been able to really think again, "is why me? Why like this, I mean. I didn't dream of being Supergirl when I was little."

  "You're asking why you got the Atlas-type package?"

  I nodded. Turning onto Columbus, I headed for Harrison to avoid the expressway till we cleared the fallen overpass. The radio cautioned everyone to stay off Eisenhower until the afternoon, and the west arm of the El was down till the tracks could be repaired. Motorcycle cops directed the crawling traffic, and though the emergency vehicles were long gone helicopters still circled the site.

  I smelled cement dust and the lingering hint of burned oil and rubber. Only seven dead. It seemed awful to think that, but a half-hour later it would have been dozens.

  Atlas watched the helicopters wit
hout comment, listening to his earbug. When we passed Ashland he leaned back, stretching his legs as far as the car's foot-space would allow, and picked up where he left off.

  "A lot of misleading stuff has been written about breakthroughs, but the trigger is usually the way it's popularly portrayed: a really stressful event. You're in imminent danger of death or severe injury. You're scared. Adrenaline rushes as all your survival instincts kick in. Most breakthroughs happen in life-threatening circumstances, so breakthrough powers generally get shaped to deal with danger or trauma. How many ways do you think you could have escaped from your car?"

  I blinked.

  "Well, pushing my way out, which I did. Teleportation, I suppose? Going all ghostly, maybe." I thought of other capes and their powers. "I could have moved the concrete with my mind. Or blown a hole with energy blasts, or–"

  He held up a hand.

  "You've got the idea. There are dozens of possible variations of three basic responses; push back at the danger, create immunity to the danger, or escape from the danger. And if the danger is from another human being the push-back possibilities are even wider. You could assert mental control, mislead with illusions, attack the person's nervous system with toxins, lots of things. So when someone breaks through, how do you think they 'choose' from all the possibilities?"

  I thought about it while I negotiated with a blue minivan for right-of-way in the thinning traffic.

  "I guess it would depend on their natural response."

  "Yup. You're a small one. Your youngest brother is how much older than you?"

  "A year and a half."

  "I'll bet you got used to fighting back at an early age."

  "Oh yes." I laughed. "Toby liked putting my head in an armlock and nuggying me or messing up my hair. Or he'd tease me until I got so mad I'd start swinging and then pin my arms and tickle me till I'd almost pass out. Aaron would stop him when he was around, but with his sports he wasn't there much."

  "How did you deal with it?"

  "I learned to fight."

  "And Toby learned that tormenting you came with a price."

  I nodded.

  "Do you see where I'm going with this?" He leaned back and turned his attention to the tree-lined road. "Your first instinct is to push back, and you're used to pushing back physically. The Atlas-type is the type for physical push-back. Congratulations."

  And on that note, I realized I was home.

  Chapter Four

  "The Teatime Anarchist has claimed responsibility for this morning's bombing, calling it a political assassination aimed at Senator Todd Davis, sponsor of the controversial Davis Bill and in Chicago this morning to attend a conference on superhumans, civil rights, and national security. The proposed law will, if enacted, make most superhuman crimes federal crimes under the jurisdiction of the Department of Superhuman Affairs. The senator and six others died in the attack, which may have resulted in a new breakthrough, seen leaving the site with Atlas once rescue operations were complete.

  "At ten, Chicago by Night will be hosting Chakra, Chicago's most controversial Sentinel. She will be discussing her new book The Sacred Gates, a manual on meditation, yoga, and tantric sex. Back to you, Vince. "

  Ted Nedcaff, Chicago Morning News

  * * *

  My home is one of the colorfully restored Victorian mansions on Oak Park's sleepy, tree-lined Chicago Avenue. Dad worked on it for years but all of us helped, and we still spend a few days together each summer repainting the trim. Pulling into the drive, we found a second car with a driver waiting for Atlas. He reminded me of the card in the glove compartment and tomorrow's appointment, and drove away. It wasn't much after two.

  The rain, barely more than a mist, kissed my face as I stood on the porch breathing in the rich ozone and wet earth and leaf smell. For a moment everything felt normal again. I waved at Mrs. Morris across the street and her poodle Travis growled at me. I smiled.

  Going inside I found the house empty, so I fed Graymalkin while she purred and head-dived my ankles, then texted Julie and canceled our mall-diving plans with a promise to talk. Upstairs, I put the box in my room and showered again before slipping into a tank-top and shorts to curl up on my bed with my University of Chicago bear (a graduation present), just not thinking for a while. Finally I got up and went to my dresser, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the old Christmas tin. I'd ignored it for years.

  I decorated the lid when I was ten, spelling Shelly and Hope with paper letters I cut out and glued on. Shelly had been my childhood playmate and confidante, my fearless leader and instigator of adventure and trouble, my BFF, and I'd stuffed the tin with notes we passed in school, cheap jewelry gifts, bundled stacks of pictures from camp, parties, us at the freshman dance. And her funeral program.

  I sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor and thumbed through the photos, finally finding the Halloween picture Mom took when we were thirteen. I had dressed as Tiger's Eye, Shelly as Lily Strong. Her mom had stitched on the detailing that turned the dance tights into costumes.

  I'd lied to Atlas. Like so many girls we'd dreamed of being superheroines. For me it had been more about the look and the dream of team-ups with cool celebrity heroes like Atlas, Volt, or Burnout. But Shelly had been serious. She memorized all of Barlow's Guide to Superhumans, endlessly sketched her own costumes, bought every edition of Hero Beat and Power Week, recorded every episode of Protectors. She kept most of it from her mom, who'd thought girls should have other interests. Mrs. Boyar had been right.

  When we were fifteen Shelly jumped off the roof of an apartment building. There was a quiet but intense argument in the parish over whether it had been suicide, but it hadn't been. She'd decided that the threat of imminent death by falling would trigger her breakthrough, that she'd be one of the lucky ones. She'd been inspired by a magazine story of how Legal Eagle had gained his flight powers when his parachute failed to open. She'd jump, she'd fall, and she'd fly.

  She didn't.

  After that I threw away anything related to our young obsession, with the exception of Winnie the Superpooh and the Halloween photo. Mom had taken Superpooh to repair his homemade Atlas costume (every girl is entitled to one celebrity crush and Atlas was never going to learn he'd been mine) and she hid him from me. The photo had gotten mixed up in all the family pictures for me to find later. I even trashed the home-movie of the sleepover we'd had the week before she jumped; it had included one of her You Can Call Me Power-Chick monologues.

  Her family moved away the next year, and I'd been selfishly glad; I couldn't bear to look at her mom.

  Eventually I put the tin away, wiped my eyes, and went online and downloaded and printed the file Atlas said waited for me. But before I read it I spent some time surfing the net for information on the Teatime Anarchist.

  He was a strange villain, a complete unknown. The press gave him the name since he sounded vaguely British in the few doctored recordings he'd made, and in those he'd always worn a nylon mask and a long evening coat for concealment. A couple of years after the Event, he published a manifesto accusing the federal government of conspiring to rob US citizens of their liberties and create a totalitarian dictatorship. First step: identify and control the country's superhumans.

  Then he got busy.

  He started with nonlethal pranks. I even remembered one: five tons of jelly beans and a US Senate Hearing. But then he escalated. In the last five years he'd claimed responsibility for 11 bombings in which fifty-two people had died. He'd killed judges, lawmakers, marshals, soldiers, and lots of bystanders. And this morning a US Senator and half a dozen innocent commuters.

  I'd been empowered by the indiscriminate evil of a madman.

  Shutting down my laptop, I pulled the pages off my printer and returned to my bed to read my examination file. The numbers were scary.

  The kid-sister of three older brothers, I'd learned to put up with my share of roughhousing, and I played field hockey in high school—best sweeper in the Chicago leag
ue. Mom had enrolled me in a self-defense course when I turned sixteen, but small is small; the best I could reasonably do in a real fight was kick the Bad Guy in the knee and run like hell while he hopped on the other leg. Now?

  I could kill a man with my finger.

  My maximum lift without doing Bad Things to myself was just over ten tons. To put that into perspective, Dr. Beth had thoughtfully included a list. A business jet weighed nearly nine tons, a loaded semi-truck about ten. I couldn't pick up a tank, but I could easily flip one over like a turtle on its back.