by Alex Ziebart
Jane started the car and the AC. “I know I did, and I’m sorry about that. My boss decided to let them run it. It wasn’t up to me.”
Kristen started shouting the moment the car rolled out of the parking lot. “Your boss? Who’s that? You didn’t tell me anyone else knew about this. And holy shit, is picking me up in a car like this supposed to be inconspicuous? Is it your job to screw me over?”
Jane kept her eyes on the road, easing into traffic. “You weren’t a fan of my bike, so I took the company car.”
“The company car? What company? What the hell, Jane?”
Jane glanced at her in her peripheral vision, then turned back to the road. “Uh, Temple Financial? You know, the company where I gave you a job?”
“You didn’t give me that job. You told me they had an opening.”
“Yeah, an opening I made for you. You seriously didn’t figure that out?”
Kristen threw her arms out as far as the confines of the car would allow. “I shouldn’t have to figure it out! You should tell me these things. So what, I work for some creepy bankers now? That’s why you sent me after those guys yesterday? And Jesus Christ, you forgot to mention the fucking bomb in that building.”
“Look, it doesn’t matter who pays you, alright? There were people who needed your help. I helped you help them. And no, I didn’t forget to mention the bomb. There was no bomb. I took care of that myself.”
Kristen’s face fell into her hands. “Ho-ly shit. What did you get me into? Who even are you?”
“I told you who I am.”
And she had—in a sense. The first time Kristen ended up on the news—three months prior—she’d intervened in a domestic issue, if a wife and two kids taken hostage by her estranged husband at gunpoint could be called a domestic issue. After a few hours of SWAT inaction, Kristen had walked in the back door and knocked his block off before he could even think about pulling the trigger. She thought she got away clean, but someone had recorded her visit on their phone’s camera. The second time, there hadn’t been an opportunity for caution. Not beyond taking off her wig and putting on her so-called costume, anyway. There had been a pileup on I-94, and she had happened to be close enough to help. The media was all over the place. Footage from a dozen different angles were on the news for days. In hindsight, tearing cars to pieces to get trapped people out of them wasn’t the most inconspicuous way to help. By the time she got home, dashing through the city to lose anyone trying to follow her, Jane was already there waiting. I’m Jane, she’d said. I know who you are, but that’s okay. Don’t worry. I help people like you.
Jane knew everything, too. Not just Kristen’s name and where she lived, but her height and weight, the schools she had attended, and the name of the hospital where she’d been born. Jane even knew at what time—not just what day—she’d been born. Kristen had never been more creeped out in her life, but Jane had repeatedly stated she only wanted to help. If Jane’s business was blackmail, she was a master of the craft.
Jane pushed her sunglasses onto her head. “Here’s the thing. There are some questions I can answer. There are some I can’t. We won’t know which is which until you ask them, and as far as I’m concerned, you haven’t been asking nearly enough questions given the situation. For example, I told you I’d pick you up today. I asked you where you’d like me to do that. You told me where, and you didn’t ask why.”
“Does it matter? I figure the first time I tell you I’m not doing something, you’ll go running your mouth.”
“I already told you it isn’t like that.”
“Then why did your boss put me on TV again?”
“Because you aren’t the only one like you. You want to use what you have to help, but not everyone like you does. My boss decided it would be a good idea if everyone knew about you—or who they think you are—before they know about the bad ones. And we’ve busted our asses to make sure the bad ones are dealt with before anyone knows about them. We won’t be able to do that forever.”
Kristen jerked her head toward Jane. “Wait, there are other people like me?”
“As far as I know, there isn’t anyone just like you. None I’ve met, anyway. But there are others who are… special, yes. A lot of them. Statistically insignificant when you consider the entire human population, but if you put them all in one place, you could fill every seat in the Bradley Center.”
“I have no idea how many people fit in the Bradley Center.”
“About nineteen thousand.”
“Oh.”
“And as far as we can tell, there are more people like you born every year. The number was stable until 1975. That’s when it started to outpace global population growth. Why? We have no idea. If something that happened in 1975 put fuel in that particular fire, we haven’t been able to make a connection. But what’s happening could go public at any time. That’s why it’s important we make sure people know there are people like you who are good people—especially now that superheroes are mainstream. Fiction reflects, and shapes, reality. It’s more possible now than ever before for people to accept people like you as a real thing. Now, are you going to ask me where we’re going before we get there or what?”
Kristen slouched in her seat. Even when she ripped doors off overturned cars, she had a hard time convincing herself it wasn’t something everyone could do. She couldn’t convince herself it wasn’t one hell of a dream. It was pretty bad when she was just a young girl with a secret. It was a lot worse knowing she was being set up as some sort of mascot. “Fine. Where are we going?”
“Ice cream.”
Kristen peered out the window and boggled. All of that drama for ice cream? Sure enough, Jane took a turn at the sign labeled 76th Street and pulled into the driveway beneath the Kopp’s Frozen Custard sign. The digital marquee flashed as they approached: FLAVOR OF THE DAY: BIENENSTICH KUCHEN
She squinted. “What’s a Bienenstich kuchen?”
The marquee blinked to read FEATURED SUNDAE: BLUE MOON as Jane glanced up. “What?”
“It said Bienen-whatever.”
“It says Blue Moon.”
“It changed.”
“You’re seeing things.”
“I’m not. I swear to god.”
“Well, have fun ordering a bienen-whatever.”
Jane pulled into the parking lot and found a slice of shade to park in. A stone wall separated the restaurant from the lot and surrounding roads, vibrant green ivy engulfing the barrier from top to bottom. They stepped through a hole in the wall that looked like a fairy’s archway, its edges rough and irregular. Passing through an immaculate stone courtyard with a roaring waterfall, they walked to the shop proper.
Jane directed her inside. Where the exterior was a vision of natural beauty, the interior stood in stark contrast: a stainless steel warehouse with no walls to block sight of the kitchen, grills and fryers sizzled while a dozen ice cream machines whirred. Frozen custard oozed its lazy way down stainless chutes into basins to await scooping. Menus the size of roadside billboards hung from a ceiling of corrugated steel, gently rocking back and forth from the breeze generated by massive fans and vents. Jane leaned to Kristen. “I can never tell whether ice cream machines look cool or like they're taking the worst craps of their lives.”
Kristen grimaced. “You're pretty gross for a badass.”
“I'm a badass?”
“Oh, come on. Biker chick walking everywhere like she owns the place, keeps a gun in her trunk? You’re a badass or you’re trying way too hard to be one.”
“My bike doesn’t have a trunk. It has saddlebags.”
“Whatever. Are you paying?”
“Yep.” Jane strode to the counter. No one behind the counter looked like they’d made it out of high school yet—teenagers working summer jobs. An acne-pocked boy offered Jane a smile and a croaky, pubescent hello. His eyes didn’t stay there long: he noticed Kristen, then her chest. Kristen glared death. It was one thing when people stole a glance. She still noticed—a
nd it was still irritating—but the ones who glanced at least pretended they weren’t at a meat market. Relentless.
“Are you listening or what?” Jane asked. The boy looked up with an embarrassed flush. “Thank you. I’ll have the Blue Moon shake.”
“What’s the flavor of the day?” Kristen asked. One part curiosity, one part spite.
“Uh…” The boy croaked. “Bean-in-kitchen?”
“What’s in it?”
“Honey, sliced almonds, Bavarian creme, and pieces of yellow cake.”
“I’ll have that.”
Jane peered down at the stack of flavor-of-the-day calendars in front of the register. She frowned. “What’s it called again?”
“Bean-in-kitchen?”
“That’s definitely not how you say that word.”
“Sorry? Is that everything?”
Jane looked to Kristen, who nodded. Jane nodded to the boy in turn. He recited their total, accepted Jane’s cash, and gave them their receipt. They stepped back and Jane showed Kristen the slip of paper: #233. She shook her head. “You’d think people living a predominantly German town would know how to pronounce German better.”
After only a few minutes, the teenage boy wrapped his hands around the shining steel microphone beside his register. Despite the two of them standing less than three feet away, his croaky voice echoed throughout the warehouse. “Number two-thirty-three.”
Jane waved her receipt as Kristen grabbed her Bienenstich kuchen custard and made for the outdoor seating. Jane, with her neon Blue Moon, followed close behind. The women were united in their unspoken decision to sit in the shade, but Jane didn’t stop until they reached the waterfall. She sat on the stone ledge at its base, one long bench that walled in the narrow pond. Kristen shook her head. She had to yell to be heard over the roaring water. “I’m not getting wet.”
“Just sit. It’ll be easier that way,” Jane shouted back.
With a roll of her eyes, Kristen sat down and ate a spoonful of custard.
Jane spoke low and quiet—quiet relative to the waterfall. Though the dining area was packed with children and their guardians, Kristen doubted anyone else could hear her, which was probably the point. “How are you feeling after yesterday? Good? Shaken up?”
“Mostly confused. Still pretty sure I’m going to wake up eventually.”
“Everyone I work with says the same thing. Hell, I used to say the same thing. You get used to it. It stays weird, but it stops being incomprehensible. You think you’re up for another job?”
Kristen’s shoulders fell slack. Of course there was another job. For a moment, she had managed to forget they weren’t just two ladies out for frozen custard. She’d forgotten this woman held her world in the palm of her hand. “Do I have a choice?”
“Absolutely. You can walk away if you want.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You’d let me do that?”
“Sure. If you made a good faith effort to keep yourself a secret, we’d still help you keep your identity under wraps. Actually, if you want to stay out of the media, walking away is a good choice. If you’re not with us, we’d want you to disappear from the public eye. That doesn’t mean kill you—it means we’d make every effort to keep you invisible. You’d only see us again if you made that job difficult.”
“What about the Internet? You can’t stop people from holding their phones up.”
“Nobody believes what they see on the Internet.”
“I’m sure some do.”
“And nobody believes those people. Are you willing to help or are you going to walk away? If helping people is what you really want to do, sticking with me means you can do it more effectively. You won’t have to hope you’re in the right place at the right time. We can make sure you’re there.”
Kristen sucked custard from her spoon and stared at the ground. Walking away would be the reasonable thing to do, she supposed. But she liked being useful for a change. The Temple Financial skirmish had been terrifying, sure, but also…incredible. In the moment, she’d felt untouchable. Unstoppable. Now that she had a choice—albeit one with conditions—walking away just felt wrong.
Before Kristen could answer, Jane spoke up again. “Let me put it this way: what did you want to do with your life before you knew what you were?”
“Football.”
“And why didn’t you go for it?”
“For one, nobody wants to pay women to play sports. Two, it didn’t seem fair. I broke records in pretty much everything in high school. It felt like cheating once I figured it out. I wish I could give them back.”
“You obviously want to do this hero thing. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have put yourself out there and helped anyone in the first place. You were doing that long before I found you. Is it fair to yourself to back away from something you want to do? Twice?”
Kristen idly drew a checkerboard pattern in her frozen custard with the edge of her spoon. “You have to tell me what you need me to do before I agree to anything.”
Jane grinned. “I can do that. Think you’re ready to hear some really crazy shit?”
“It gets worse?”
“Worse? I don’t know about that. Weirder? Oh yeah.”
Chapter 2
Kristen crouched on the roof of a warehouse along Howell Avenue. A sign on the roadside advertised SPACE FOR RENT AFFORDABLE RATES. She tugged down her stretchy athletic gear, impatient as she watched the office building across the street for movement. She could recall every word of what Jane told her about what was about to happen.
The people I sent you after in Temple? There’s a reason we couldn’t let the police go in first. Those people weren’t human. Historians call them the Sea People—folk legends call them changelings. They only look human when it works for them. Historians don’t know where they came from, because the people who wrote about them didn’t know. And as far as I know, they don’t come from anywhere. They’re nomads that go wherever they want and take whatever they want. No port authority in the world has ever noticed them. Not even the TSA. We don’t know how they do it. They walk through security without question every single time.
My branch of Temple doesn’t deal in money. We deal in artifacts—the kinds of things you’d see in a museum. In fact, a lot of the artifacts in the Milwaukee Public Museum’s collection? We put them there. My branch is on the thirteenth floor. They were looking for something—one part of a set. They already have one of the items in that set. It’s here in town and we need to reclaim it. I can’t tell you what it is. I need you to trust me.
Here’s a map of the warehouse. You’re going to go in through the roof—I’ve marked the spot. I’ll have two guys in this building across the street here. You’ll watch for the signal before making your entrance. Do just what you did last time. My guys will cover you through the windows if you need it. Once the warehouse is secure, I’ll move in and reclaim the item. Whatever you do, do not touch it. And remember: these people aren’t human. Do what you need to do.
Kristen silently cursed herself. Why am I doing this again? This was all a far cry from punching asshole husbands or pulling people from burning vehicles. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was the bad guy this time. Then again, there were a bunch of weirdos skulking around a dark warehouse just below her. As far as she knew, good guys generally didn’t skulk. Skulking was not a good guy kind of word.
It was the waiting, she decided. She’d never had to wait before. Something happened, she jumped in. The only barrier to entry was stashing a wig and a layer of clothes. This time, she had to wait for a signal. And the signal was taking forever. Too much time to think, wonder. No rush of adrenaline. Just waiting. Would she get shot this time? What would that be like? She was pretty sure she couldn’t deflect bullets, but she wouldn’t actually know until it happened. Just thinking about it made her shiver.
Light sparkled in an upper window across the street. It stopped as soon as it began. Kristen squinted at the darkness.
A small ligh
t flashed again. Twice, this time.
That was it.
Kristen tiptoed to her mark and took a breath to steady her core. She thrust down with her fingertips. They pierced the aluminum roofing like a nail through a board. She peeled the aluminum back with the shrieking sound of twisting metal. With a final yank, she tore the metal strip away and dropped into the hole, letting herself fall thirty feet to the concrete below. Instincts registered motion ahead, and she moved automatically, sidestepping the flashing muzzle of an assault rifle just fast enough to stay ahead of the spray. Kristen looped an armored arm in hers and twisted it up and back. The shoulder snapped. Guttural shouts of unknown language echoed throughout the warehouse followed by the stomping of boots. The man she held dropped his gun, and she spun him to face her. A punch to the stomach caved in his armor, the blow lifting him from his feet and dropping him to his face. She brought a boot down on his head with a wet crack, then kicked away the now-misshapen helmet.
For the first time, she took in her claustrophobic surroundings. A single swaying light fixture cast faint, flickering light through every gap. Jane’s map proved frighteningly accurate. Kristen had fallen between two tall shelving units laden with shipping crates—not quite as large as those she’d seen on actual ships, but still large enough to contain a small car. The aisle was just barely wide enough for a forklift to turn around, she supposed. The contents of the shelves prevented her from seeing anywhere but straight ahead and straight back, hemming her in. If it turned out she couldn’t deflect bullets after all, she’d be a dead woman. The solitary lightbulb illuminated another figure ahead—with another rifle.
Kristen threw herself sideways, slamming her shoulder into a crate at ground level. It didn’t just move, it flew from the shelf and into the next aisle, a deep yelp and the plastic clatter of armor the only sign she’d hit someone. She scrambled onto the shelf and out of the line of fire, throwing herself into the crate a second time. A snapping of armor signaled the end of whomever got caught between that crate and the next. Kristen darted away from the fresh gap in the crates behind her, taking cover behind the metal while she examined her position. The units were six shelves high, their tops nearly reaching the thirty-foot ceiling. She could fall thirty feet, but could she jump it?