Wearing the Cape 4: Small Town Heroes Page 5

  I retrieved the towel, dropped it in its bin.

  It always came around to this, and I was tired of it. I knew it would get better; Ajax had managed to balance wearing the cape with family and a successful academic career. U of C had just named the new Superhuman Studies department for him, unveiled his statue on the campus quad. Hero, Scholar, Teacher: not a bad memorial, not a bad life. The tradeoffs still sucked, but I was done thinking about it.

  “Let’s just—let’s just go.”

  “Good.” Jacky could see I’d moved on, and approved. She fell into step beside me. “Because I’ve been to the town you dreamed about, and if your dream was prophetic then we’re in deep shit.”

  “Oh. Joy.”

  Chapter Five

  “A historical fact: In FDR’s last speech, the one he never gave because he died the day before he was scheduled to give it, he concluded ‘Today we have learned in the agony of war that great power involves great responsibility’. It’s a ringing statement of an unoriginal declaration. A famous fictional superhero’s uncle said it more recently. Voltaire said it, and Jesus Christ long before him: ‘To whom much is given, much is expected.’ Clichés become clichés because they state human truths; the power to act is the responsibility to act, or not to act, but most of all to act wisely. If there is no God to hold us accountable, we do the job ourselves.”

  Prof. Charles Gibbons (Ajax), Class Lectures.

  * * *

  Having something else to think about actually improved my mood, not that it could have gotten much worse.

  Jacky took us down to her rooms. She still used them; last fall when she’d come back to Chicago to help find me during my accidental “abduction,” she’d stayed a couple of weeks to do a little cleanup in her old neighborhood. Goons, minions, local street-gangs, they’d all had to be retaught that engaging in business or recreation in Artemis’ territory was a bad idea. Now she came back for random nights every week or three.

  How did she sow that much terror with a short drop-by? Nobody died, and more than that I didn’t want to know. Cowardly? Yes, but I liked Jacky, a lot. I didn’t want to know anything that might make me have to judge.

  And she’d moved her coffee shrine to her rooms—she didn’t trust the newbies with it—so I got to sit and watch her work. It was almost like watching a formal tea ceremony; she measured and prepared ingredients with ritual precision. Ozma said Jacky would make an excellent witch if she’d had a spark of magic, and the air filled with the brain-melting aroma of roasted and ground coffee bean fine enough to make the most exacting gourmand cry.

  “Irish Ka’u,” she said, setting my cup down. “Hawaiian Ka’u bean, one jigger of Irish cream and Irish whisky, a little chocolate and nutmeg. One cup would knock out someone as light as you if you weren’t, you know, the Iron Maid.”

  That got a tired giggle; the first time she’d called me that in range of my dad’s—Iron Jack’s—hearing had been a treat. I cautiously sipped—not a fan of liquor—and sighed. Perfect. Before she settled down with her own cup, Jacky put a ring-sized jewelry box on the dining nook table. Flipping it open, she touched the elegant pearl-cluster ring inside and nodded. I ignored the weird procedure, even when the pearls started glowing.

  “A gift from Shell.” Sipping her drink, she watched the pearls. “I use it when I talk to her from home. Twenty-second century tech from the Teatime Anarchist’s box of tricks, absolutely unbreakable anti-bugging countermeasure.”

  “Oh. Oh.” I couldn’t help looking around. If Jacky didn’t think that even the Dome was secure…

  Jacky shrugged. “She didn’t recognize the water-tower. That tells me it’s a secret that managed to even stay out of the Anarchist’s future-files. I don’t know if that’s good or not, but before we talk to anybody else about this, you need to decide whether or not opening this door is a good idea.”

  “A good—what— Jacky!”

  “What if I told you to just leave this door closed? No more questions? I don’t know what game that freaky ghost-fox is running, but… You get enough scrutiny from Certain People because of Shell. This is a secret that might take it to another level. Serious Need-To-Know stuff.”

  “What would they do if they decided I don’t need to know?”

  “Probably send someone like me to make it so that you don’t.”

  And that opened a whole different can of worms; I didn’t ask if she used her vampiric mind-powers on people, and she didn’t tell. I touched my neck, jerked my hand down when I realized what I was doing.

  If I say the wrong thing, will I remember this conversation?

  Her mouth twisted as she followed the thoughts I couldn’t keep out of my face, but she didn’t instantly reassure me. She looked suddenly dark and dangerous, watching me over the rim of her cup, and I shivered. Being her friend made it too easy for me to forget she wasn’t safe, and I waited till I could keep my voice steady. Not that she’d ever hurt me, just…

  “Do I get to know what you might make me forget?”

  Her face didn’t change, but the danger drained away and I wondered if she’d been mentally pushing me already, testing. Why?

  “Have you ever heard of Guantánamo Bay?”

  I blinked. “No… Is it in Mexico? It sounds Spanish.”

  She snickered. “Good guess—the Spanish held it until we took it from them in the Battle of Guantánamo Bay. The Spanish-American War? It’s the war nobody ever remembers, and anyway Guantánamo Bay is on the south end of Cuba, which means it’s the ass-end of nowhere as far as the public is concerned. It’s ours under a perpetual lease. We don’t trust the new Tyrant of the Most Serene Republic of Cuba any more than we did Castro, but we’re willing to leave His Tyrannical Excellence alone as long as he leaves Guantánamo Bay alone.”

  “Why?”

  I couldn’t help but shiver again, for a different reason. Last year Shell and I had helped intercept and knock out a missile launched by an insane Verne-type supervillain—a missile what would have triggered a high-orbit EMP attack and killed millions in the power-crash. The Overlord had been hiding on the tiny island of Celubra and it had been our Caribbean Fleet that had taken him out. The after-action intelligence had given it a good bet that he’d been funded or at least tolerated by the mysterious superhuman master of Cuba.

  “Because we can’t afford to lose the place. It’s where we tucked Camp Necessity.”

  “And Camp Necessity is…”

  “My home away from home. Since the Event, DARPA has used the naval base as an isolated and totally hush-hush superhuman research facility. They’re the people who accidentally created Camp Necessity. The US Marshals Service uses the camp as a sanctuary for Witness Protection subjects, but it’s bigger than that. It’s a place that isn’t there—which is why we have to keep it.”

  I tried to see the joke, but she wasn’t laughing and I put my cup down with a sigh. “Too much has happened today, Jacky, so keep it short or I’m going to shake you so bad—”

  “Okay, it’s where the DSA sent me for testing when they thought I might be ‘contagious’. They moved the labs into Camp Necessity because it’s really not there. It’s a place that one of DARPA’s less stable Verne-types accidentally created because Cuba’s too hot in the summer. We can’t move it so we have to keep the bay, and besides the Witness Protection residents it hosts maybe half of DARPA’s Verne-Type scientists with their projects. It’s more Top Secret than anywhere else that I know about, and it’s bad that you saw it at all. If you saw it being destroyed…

  * * *

  In the end I agreed not to say anything to anyone else without her go-ahead. Not that I really thought she’d try and stop me if I wanted to. Jacky wasn’t a government agent; she acted as a “civilian contractor” to the DSA and in return they looked the other way so she could take care of her dietary needs without creating fang-addicted blood donors.

  (It said a lot about Jacky’s world that she considered it more moral to assault random strangers
, steal their blood, and then wipe their memories of the attack than to get their consent and let them remember the mind-blowing rush it gave. It said more that I understood that decision. From experience.)

  So if Jacky thought I was in danger of attracting the wrong kind of attention from the Powers That Be, I wasn’t going to ignore her. Besides, the Irish Ka-something tasted great, but I was yawning and ready for bed and Jacky was absently staring at my neck. I left so she could change for her evening out, but didn’t get halfway to my own door before Virtual Shell popped up.

  “You have a caller…”

  “Who?”

  “Just Superintendent of Police Big ‘The Fixer’ Red.”

  I closed my eyes and groaned, then opened them and looked down at myself. My workout shirt had dried, but I felt sticky and was sure to shine on the image-feed. “Phone?” I asked hopelessly.

  “Nope. He’s being nice with full video.”

  “Swell. Could you—”

  “I’ll make it so you’re in uniform, no worries.”

  “Thanks.” I stepped inside and closed the door, smile ready. Shell switched on the flatscreen TV in my living room, camera-rigged like every other screen in the Dome. Superintendent Sean Redmond appeared and I barely kept the smile on. The unhappy line of his mouth put deep creases in his cheeks. As late as it was he still wore a three-piece suit, perfectly knotted tie and shiny lapel pin, making me feel even grungier.

  “Superintendent. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “To Eric Litner. I apologize for the lateness of the call, Astra. How are you holding up?”

  “Okay. As Atlas would say, it’s not my first rodeo.” A small exaggeration; After-Action reviews were routine, IA reviews not so much.

  “No, it's not,” he agreed. His grimace deepened, working his mustache. “However, that’s not why I called.”

  “Eric Litner?”

  “The gentleman of the press you met this evening. From what they tell me a real piece of work. However, he has filed an assault complaint against you.”

  That killed my smile. “Wait, what?”

  “What indeed. According to his statement, your friend—Annabeth?— hit him and then you pushed him down. Hard enough to inflict injuries.”

  “That’s, that’s…”

  “Yes. Of course any time there is a complaint against one of the city’s contracted superhumans, there is an investigation. Did you touch him?”

  “He fell against me and tripped. I helped him up.”

  “And broke his camera?”

  “I—” I didn’t think so.

  He nodded unhappily.

  “Of course it would be highly improper of the Superintendent of Police to speak to a CAI cape under investigation. I don’t know yet if the investigating officer—who is not Inspector Fisher—will find enough to warrant formal charges. However, I wanted you to know…”

  He stopped, pursed his lips like he tasted something sour. “My predecessor had a problem with ‘superheroes’, and that affected the relationship between the CPD and our city’s CAI teams. I do not hold his prejudices, and I hope that you know that. But this is a matter of politics and media optics, Astra. Your high-profile image…”

  I nodded, stomach sinking. Even with everything that had happened since Atlas’ death, some people just couldn’t let our “scandalous” romance go; I’d become a scandal-generator and they latched onto every little thing that might smell of favoritism or super-celebrity entitlement. Other people talked about me like songbirds should be following me around, and I honestly didn’t know which was more embarrassing. I had yet to acquire my own feathered chorus, although I had seriously freaked more than a few innocently migrating flocks in passing.

  “I understand, sir. And I appreciate the courtesy. Naturally the CPD has to take the allegations seriously. Is there anything I can do?”

  At last he smiled. A little, showing dimples deeper than his scowl lines. “For the investigation? No. Just be forthcoming. Personally? I would like it if you let your mother know that she need not speak sharply to me the next time we meet over catered chicken, but of course this conversation never took place.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well then. Good night, Astra. And thank you.” He didn’t say for what, and I didn't ask.

  * * *

  “Aaah!”

  I lurched upright in bed, every muscle quivering and my heartbeat loud in my ears. It took long breaths for me to realize I wasn’t still dreaming, and then I had to gulp air to keep from bursting into tears.

  It had been a dream. The dream, again, but this time part of me had been desperately trying to move, to get off the freaking grass and fly to the burning town. Forget detachment; every rational thought had drowned in rising certainty that horrible things were going to happen if I couldn’t break out of my stasis and act.

  I lay back, working on breathing normally. My sleep-top was drenched in sweat, and a distant part of me was surprised I hadn’t woke up bumping the ceiling. Only a dream.

  I didn’t sleep again until night officially became morning, and then the Dispatch alert threw me out of bed.

  Chapter Six

  Can there be anything more clichéd than a supervillain robbing a bank? Aftershock tried it and fought Atlas in the first ‘superhero vs. supervillain’ fight a day after the Event. He lost. But it still happens, and just about the only time the bad guys win is if they get out before the capes arrive. And only the best or dumbest of them try it in Chicago.

  Terry Reinhold, Citywatch.

  * * *

  “Blackstone wants you in Dispatch right now.” Virtual Shell’s face was the first thing my blinking eyes could track. “There’s a bank robbery going down.” For the second time in two days I fast-dressed in the air, more and more thankful for Andrew’s latest—and easiest—design. This time I didn’t destroy a boot.

  “Stand down, Astra,” Blackstone said. Not the words I expected to hear upon arriving in Dispatch. “Your feet aren’t on the floor.”

  The room hummed, all stations live while Blackstone watched the big screen. Beside me, David swallowed a laugh while he tracked CAI movement at his station.

  I forced my feet to get familiar with the carpet. “Sir? What’s happening?”

  “Somebody has decided to take advantage of the fact that almost all of our heavies are away south to rob Chicago National.” Blackstone sipped his coffee—coffee!—eyes roaming the icons bordering the screen.

  “And why aren’t I— I’m grounded, aren’t I?”

  “Indeed, my dear. Until the investigation and review is complete, we aren’t fielding you unless there is nobody else and loss of life is imminent. SaFire has just gone in to perform a forceful recon.”

  SaFire’s icon showed the source of the mask-cam view we were seeing. Sound brought us the shriek of the bank’s emergency system, and it looked like nobody was chasing the bank employees exiting the bank around her. This early in the morning there weren’t many of them. We could see one guard, down but no blood.

  “David?” Blackstone didn’t look away from the screen. “Teams?”

  “West Side Guardians are closest, but SaFire’s the only really robust West-Sider available now. The rest are south.”

  The screen lit up with a flash and boom, throwing paper from bank desks. SaFire didn’t stop.

  “They’re busy,” Blackstone observed. “Why aren’t they keeping anybody from leaving? No hostages?”

  “Professional crew?” David suggested.

  Blackstone nodded. “I think you’re right. In which case… Instruct the police to maintain a withdrawn perimeter. This will probably be over by the time they finish—”

  A second bang and flash and I almost leapt into the air again as an orange and green fireball filled the screen. The view spun, came to rest pointed at the ceiling.

  “So it’s the Repo Men.”

  “Yep,” David looked up, checked boxes on one of his touch-screens and I watched profiles com
e up.

  “Who? Shouldn’t I be out there?”

  Blackstone looked my way and actually smiled. “The Repo Men is the name the media has given this particular team. They’re a four-man heist crew, and the flash you just saw is the signature power of one of the four. It operates like a high-powered stun grenade. Improbably enough, it is effective against Atlas-types at closer range without turning normal victims into trauma-center cases. The good news is that if it is the Repo Men then it should be a zero fatality heist.”

  He studied the main screen again, a shadow of a thought wrinkling his brow. Leaning in, he spoke more softly.

  “It really is good news, but the FBI’s local anti-terrorist unit has already contacted us with a problem. They’ve been sitting on this bank for months—their sweep of Doctor Pellegrini’s holdings last year turned up a box here under a different name. They won’t tell me what’s in it, but they’ve been hoping to catch a member of the Ascendency coming back for it. So…”

  “So why aren’t the Wreckers here?”

  “Exactly. The perfect window opens for the Wreckers to be in and out, and instead we get a hired heist crew. Interesting.”

  Interesting? Six months after learning the identity of the superhuman terrorist who styled himself The Ascendant we were no closer to learning his ultimate goals. We knew he wanted to encourage more breakthroughs and strengthen manifested breakthroughs. We knew he believed that breakthroughs were a new and superior humanity. We didn’t know why he engineered the Detroit prison-break, or why he’d mainly freed younger breakthroughs incarcerated there. And we didn’t know where The Ascendant or any of his followers, known as the Ascendancy, were.

  Blackstone sipped his coffee like it was no big deal, but I just wound tighter. David seemed to buy his “everyone be cool” pose, but I could hear his teeth grinding together. Was everybody insane?