Wearing the Cape

by Marion G. Harmon

  "Help me peel?" he asked.

  I did. Freeze-foam—one of the crowd-control tools we were working on—presented no problems for someone with my strength, but it was incredibly sticky. Atlas also had us learning to use the kind of taser gauntlets Rush routinely wore. I practiced using spiderwire and glue-tape.

  More than anything, we didn't want ourselves associated with police tactics like tear gas and billy clubs, so Atlas had us looking for every nonviolent and painless means of mass-restraint we could lay our hands on. We were even considering adding a sonic-powered superhero to the team roster; some of them could cause fear, bliss, sleep, even blindness with sound waves. I thought Mr. Sandman looked promising, at least as a reservist.

  "When I'm running I shake the stuff up," Rush complained. "You just float about." He had a point.

  "So don't use it. With your turn of speed, tasers and glue-tape can drop half a dozen guys a second, and you can do spiderwire pretty well."

  "Big A wants us checked out on everything," he almost whined.

  I sighed. "Let me try something."

  Willis told me how to find what I was looking for, and I came back with a couple of freeze-foam cans wrapped in duct tape.

  "Try these." I showed him how to peel the tape back.

  He ran around the room for a few seconds (watching him "rush" never failed to make me queasy), then grabbed one off his belt and popped the tape—which pulled on the button it had been restraining and blew the can on schedule. "Hey, thanks!"

  "Dad says anything can be fixed with duct tape."

  My mind was elsewhere, though. Way back in September, the Teatime Anarchist had told me that he couldn't time travel when holding anything larger than a breadbox. Or something like that. So what if I stuck him to the ground? Or glue-taped him to something? If DA had the same limitations then maybe I could capture him when he showed up. If he did; after so long, I’d begun to wonder if TA knew DA as well as he said he did.

  My earbug chirped. "Atlas has requested that all Sentinels please report to the meeting room."

  Rush rolled his eyes. "What does the boss want now?"

  I actually succumbed to the temptation to make a face behind his back as we left the room. Quin caught me and laughed. I really did hope the meeting wouldn't take too long; I needed to study for my History 101 final.

  We arrived after Atlas and Blackstone, but the others were right behind us—even Artemis, who’d begun cautiously settling in at the Dome. She didn't have to sleep the whole day, just stay away from direct sunlight (it was like she had the worst case of porphyria in the world), and since the Dome had no windows her "safe" world had expanded hugely. And for a bonus, making appearances upstairs during the day lessened the likelihood of her being labeled a vampire. Not that we would have cared, but the idea of vampire-groupies made her want to hurl.

  Ironically, of all of us living in the Dome she got along best with Willis; I'd even seen her make him smile. As she joined me on my side of the meeting room table, I decided we should get Andrew to design a "daysuit" for her.

  Andrew had sent over some new designs in preparation for the Presidential Visit. Actually he'd sent Quin a new outfit along with one for me as cover. He made Quin a black and white reprise of the Christmas costume without the jacket, and of course it looked fabulous.

  He made mine a sturdier version of my Christmas costume too; a high necked and long sleeved skirted one-piece, the same sapphire blue, but out of some kind of strong spandex weave instead of velvet. And he added the belt back in, held at my waist by belt loops.

  I'd let Quin talk me into wearing it on the grounds that Andrew's artistic sensibilities would be mortally insulted if I didn't. Watching her pose in front of her mirror during our mutual fashion show, the thought had made me laugh; the man had no sensibilities, only strategies, and the way Quin acted I was pretty sure he was winning. Regardless, sartorially we were all ready for the President's arrival on Tuesday. I wore my new costume now, not that our fearless leader noticed.

  He waited until we all arrived before speaking.

  "Thank you all for coming," he said. "As you know, I have been unable to talk Jenny into postponing her visit. I don't like it. The Secret Service doesn't like it. But she's the President and in her words, 'My people would have kicked your white asses if we'd had enough ammunition, and I'm not going to be scared away from my city by some bogyman.'"

  Laughter rolled around the table and he smiled dryly. "Pocahontas she's not."

  President Jennifer Touches Clouds was half Lakota Sioux, as proud of her people as Chicago was of her. A Republican, when she ran for President she still won Illinois by a landslide. Even Mom voted for her.

  Atlas banished the smile.

  "We still haven't heard from Psijack," he continued. "And we have no knowledge of his motives, plans, or the extent of his abilities. For all we know he can turn any crowd into a rioting mob in an instant, although footage from the concert suggests that setting that many people off may take awhile. They may also have to be "primed" first.

  "Until we know more we have to look at worst-case scenarios. Our brave President will be greeted at O'Hare by a crowd of school kids of all grades, teachers, even a marching band. If Psijack uses them we'll have to be prepared to be very gentle. In this scenario the danger isn't to the President, unless he uses a child-riot as cover for another attack. In any case we would handle it; the Secret Service isn't trained in gentle means of dissuasion and their responsibility is to secure the President."

  "Aren't we being a little paranoid?" Rush spoke up.

  "Only if they're not out to get us."

  I raised a hand.

  "Astra?"

  "The President's detail has an exit plan in place, don't they?"

  "A good question, and the answer is yes—they don't advertise it, but all of her detail members are superhumans. One manipulates force fields. Another can teleport with one or two passengers. Anywhere she goes they arrange a 'jump zone,' so while she's with her detail she personally is reasonably safe. Others around her, not as much."

  "But what about her flight? She won't have her detail with her then."

  "You're right, but she'll have us. You, I, and Blackstone will be flying with her. Blackstone?"

  The older man cleared his throat.

  "While I don't like to exert myself levitating that far, I am quite up to a flight around Chicago. And I will be spinning an illusion that will show us all about thirty feet from our true location, so the casual sniper won't have an opportunity to pick her off in the air. The Secret Service will also be putting a couple of unmarked helicopters in the air just in case. They are most unhappy since she will be leaving her detail's safety umbrella."

  I nodded. The Secret Service hated having a principal who flew—although at least if Air Force One went down again all they'd have to do was push her out the hatch!

  Atlas looked around the table. "Once she leaves O'Hare with us, her entourage will proceed to Lincoln Park High School. Her detail will split to control each landing zone along her route, and we'll repeat the process throughout her stay."

  He made it sound routine, but his expression made his unhappiness obvious.

  "The visibility will be good for us," Quin interjected smoothly. "We need all the good press we can get after Freakzone."

  He nodded. "I still think it's asking for trouble when we're flying blind, but if it doesn't blow up it should be good for us. And it'll be good to see Jenny again. But we thought we had the riot handled—let's all stay in the saddle this time."

  He touched his e-pad, lighting the table with a map of the city. "So now, if you'll look at the scheduled stops, I want to time it so those of us not on the flying team are arranged as well as we can be. Ajax, I want you to..."

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  The American experience with post-Event wars in China and the Middle East proved conclusively where strategic power now lay: with superhumans and supersolder-backed military units. A conve
ntional military simply cannot defend against superhuman forces, and the resulting geopolitical shifts have forced the US to redeploy its power abroad to a degree not seen since the end of the Cold War. In forging a new, if shaky, Pax Americana, we have not made many friends.

  Prof. Charles Gibbons, The New Heroic Age

  * * *

  Air Force One touched down at O'Hare Tuesday morning, coming out of an orange sky. A brisk wind off Lake Michigan fluttered my cape (as short as it was, it wanted to go all over). Hail to the Chief rang in the air, provided by the talented Lincoln Park High School Marching Band. Cheers rose from the stiff and shivering crowd as the President and her entourage emerged and they caught sight of her at the top of the ramp.

  With the exceptions of Artemis and Chakra (with us in spirit), we all stood at the foot of the stairs, more or less in formation, our breath puffing in the air. We might have been dressed in our best, but a bunch of innocent looking travel bags filled with the riot-control stuff Ajax had come up with waited in a row behind us. Standing at attention with a frown on his face, Atlas still looked yummy, darn it, and I tried to keep my eyes forward.

  If anything broke during the presidential visit it would likely happen at one of her later scheduled stops; Dispatch sent us reports of protest groups forming up to play for the cameras all around the city. Flying out, we'd seen the protesters gathering outside the Dome, rallying to protest her administration's support for our continued occupation of bases along Israel's new borders and in China and what used to be North Korea. Signs reading Stop Supporting Israeli Imperialism! and Not our fight! were everywhere, along with Superheroes, not Supersoldiers! Since they'd have already worked themselves up, Blackstone posited a high risk that any of them could be turned into a flash-mob by Psijack. But no pressure.

  President Touches Clouds reached the foot of the stairs amidst the strobe of camera flashes and waved to the banner-holding school kids. She loomed over most of her detail and staff and her copper complexion, sharply chiseled features, and waist length raven-black hair made you think of the warrior ancestors she was so proud of. She wore a dark red suit over a black blouse and her open collar exposed a wide choker, a rainbow of silver-set stones.

  I couldn’t call her pretty, but when she smiled she dazzled.

  "John," she said, shaking Atlas' hand while cameras flashed. "It's good to see you."

  "Madame President—" he began, but she leaned in and pulled him into a quick hug while the audience cheered and whistled. Standing beside them I heard her chuckle.

  "You were saying?"

  Now he laughed, smiling broadly enough to show his dimples. "It's good to see you too, Jenny."

  "Better." She waved at the children again and advanced to the podium set up on the tarmac. The crowd noise immediately died, and she launched into a gracious speech thanking Chicago for the warm welcome.

  I focused on the crowd, letting my eyes wander over faces.

  Atlas' instructions had been clear; look for expressions or body language that didn't fit the moment. Kids, teachers, politicians, handlers—all seemed happy to be there, or bored, or cold. Mostly cold.

  Out of the corner of my eye, one of the members of the presidential detail caught my attention. The shades made it hard to be sure, but I could swear it was Tom, keeper of the Dome's portals, driver, and general security guard. Or Bob. But he'd gotten off the plane with the President. Did we and the Secret Service both get our people from Central Casting?

  The President wound up her speech quickly, mindful of the cold and the children. She graciously accepted a Christmas bouquet, giving the blushing little grade-schooler a kiss in return, then straightened and stood back while the White House press secretary read off the visit itinerary. Then she handed the bouquet off to the secretary while Atlas, Blackstone, and I stepped up beside her. Atlas followed some signal from the President and we took off, rising with sedate speed over the cheering crowd.

  She waved, we didn't, and I concentrated on looking trim and professional while keeping watch on my forward-left zones (Atlas had forward-right). At thirty feet up we angled to the left for a bit while Blackstone worked his magic, and then turned west for a long and climbing circuit of the city.

  The President had a perfect flying form; body leaning at a wind-compensating angle into the direction of our flight, legs straight and feet pointed, hands at her sides.

  "You're looking well, John." Her voice sounded so close I started, which in the air translated into a wobble. She laughed kindly.

  "Fine air control," she explained for my benefit. "I can shape sound waves in the air at close range. I've created a baffle-zone too, so from the ground even the most long-range eavesdropper isn't getting a thing. And if you're wondering, the reason I'm not shivering is because I've also stuck a thermal layer of air to my clothes and I'm quite toasty."

  "That's amazing."

  "I get to dress as I like anyway, no matter the season. So how are the boys treating you?"

  "I—" I didn't know how to answer that, and she turned to look at Atlas.

  "John, haven't you taught this child the five standard answers to any question?"

  "She's hardly a child and does very well on her own," Atlas came to my defense. "I don't think she knows how to respond to teasing from a head of state, Madam President, and the boys are treating her fine."

  "I am sorry, Astra," she apologized good-naturedly. "But they are boys—even Blackstone who acts like everyone's favorite uncle. And you're both looking well," she said to them. "I know why Blackstone is, but you look happier too, John. It's been too long since I've been back."

  "Come again soon—but have them teleport you in next time. This is a damn fool stunt, and you know it Jenny."

  "Alright then, what are you doing about this Psijack nonsense?"

  Blackstone entered the conversation. "Investigating, my dear. And with few leads to go on. I had thought..." he shrugged. "We all half-expected to immediately hear demands of the 'give me fifty million dollars or I do it again' sort. That is normally what we get after a pointless and destructive show of power. I also wondered if we might be seeing the emergence of a new supervillain mastermind, here to take over Chicago's villain community. But with every asset we have listening, things appear to be business as usual. It is a puzzle."

  "Would you like some DSA help?"

  "I think not. I really don't see where more would be better in this instance; there's only so much ground to go over, in any case. And while I prefer not to make optimistic statements, with the help of our newest member I am pursuing a promising lead."

  "And that's all he'll tell me about it," Atlas added. "You just got back from China, so how goes the Great Game?"

  She laughed.

  "Like it's ever interested you. I think we're winning. Manchuria and Tibet are completely out of it, Beijing and Chongqing have agreed to declare an official ceasefire to go with the one that's been in place the last two years, and they've both stopped claiming the smaller breakaway states. I'm pushing hard for a Chinese confederacy and I think the hardcore nationalists will eventually settle for that as the only way regain some unity and get us to leave. Tibet and Manchuria will probably want us to stay forever."

  "What does your national security advisor say?"

  "The man walks into my office every day with a Proceed with Caution traffic sign nailed to his forehead."

  Atlas barked a laugh. "You're hardly the cautious sort."

  "If you listen to my critics, I make enemies so I can eat their hearts and nail their scalps to the Oval Office wall."

  "That's not necessarily a bad rep to have."

  "No, no it's not. There won't be another Caliphate War or China War so long as they recognize our strength and my complete willingness to use it. So I hold a peace pipe in one hand and a tomahawk in the other. One of those nice drop-forged military tomahawks of course. My ancestors conquered the Black Hills while yours were still fighting for their independence, and I don't mind if they rem
ember that."

  I kept my mouth shut and listened as we made a circuit of Chicago, a smaller one of the Loop, and then headed for the Dome. Until now international diplomacy hadn't interested me any more than politics. But listening to them, I realized she manipulated her image as intentionally as the Sentinels did.

  At the same time I could see how much she loved it up here, free in the air. Now she was mostly grounded, her gifts tucked away, and her obvious enjoyment of the flight and the "boys" company made me wonder why she'd ever left the team.

  We landed outside the Dome, where Chicago's finest stood ready to push back the crowd pushing up to the barriers. They weren't in riot-gear, but two squads waited inside, ready to mobilize at the drop of a hat. Any hat. News crews filmed the waving signs and chanting groups as Touches Clouds waved with aplomb to supporters and protestors alike.