Wearing the Cape: Villains Inc.

by Harmon, Marion G.

  “Sakura Wind’s band manager.”

  “Their manager is a Ren Katsu, and he wasn’t there. Kid?”

  “He introduced himself as the band manager.” I pulled my voice back down. “And he had to know who I was, but he didn’t give me his business card. And his English was too good and he knew Keats. Blackstone was wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  I waved hands he couldn’t see.

  “Not about—I mean—what he said made sense, but he didn’t know Kitsune was there!”

  “Whoa, slow down, kid. Deep breathes now.”

  I counted to five. Okay. “Blackstone assumes Nemesis was a nut-job who targeted us pretty much randomly so he could go out big. Suicide by cape. He’s not saying that’s what Nemesis was—just starting there. But if Kitsune was at our table last night, he could have been the target. At the Dome he—she—said ‘they’ were tracking her somehow…”

  “And if they still can and want her dead,” Fisher finished for me, “it makes sense to use someone like Nemesis that nobody would link to them. Kid, you might be onto something. We didn’t find anything pointing that way in Nemesis’ apartment lair, but we’re going to look closer at everything. Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  “Better. Phelps interviewed him while I was talking to you. Ask him—I can’t believe I missed it. I’m going to hang up and be stupid now.”

  Now Fisher really was laughing.

  “Don’t beat yourself up. And thanks, kid. If you’re right, this gives us a lead to follow. And anything that adds to our psych-profile is good.”

  We hung up, but was too late to go back to sleep so I showered and dressed, leaving the mask and wig off while my hair dried. I’d never get used to being in uniform nearly 24/7, and was already missing Shelly’s novel wakeup visits. On the plus side of everything, I’d had no nightmares last night. After being so close to a kill I’d been splashed, from past experience I’d expected my dreams to be no fun at all. Maybe the Word of Healing had changed the way my brain processed mental trauma.

  Either that or I was getting hardened to violence. Mental note: talk to Dr. Mendel about it at our next session.

  I called Dispatch to learn that Shelly was still on “sick-leave.” No surprise—it had been less than a day. Biting my lip, I called downstairs and got Vulcan, who cheerfully reported that her transfer was “going very well” and I shouldn’t worry.

  Yeah, right. I couldn’t help feeling like my BFF was undergoing an elective and risky medical procedure. To become a robot? When Shelly’d gleefully announced her plan, I’d flashed back to the horrible, world-ending moment when Mom told me her body had been found, that she’d jumped off an apartment building. Nearly four years ago now, and I still remembered the shock—like I’d run into a wall that hadn’t been there. Why hadn’t I tried to talk her out of this?

  Because being a ghost can’t be enough for anyone.

  I sat and brushed my hair and tried to convince myself the situation wasn’t the same. Vulcan knew what he was doing. And if something did happen, Shelly was backed up, right?

  Enough. Worrying about Shelly did no good. Worrying about Chakra, or about what Villains Inc. might do next, did no good. But there was something I could do while I waited for Artemis to green-light our little expedition.

  Picking up my cell, I saw a message I’d missed when fumbling to call Fisher. Dane had texted “AB sd ys!” Good boy—he’d probably only waited long enough to get the ring. Grinning ear to ear, I replied with multiple exclamation points and, on that good-omened note, made a quick call of my own.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  One of the pivotal moments in the history of the Sentinels was their decision to create a junior division. The Young Sentinels, under their slightly older leader, seized the public imagination after a rocky start and went a long way to recapturing the early post-Event enthusiasm for superheroes. Which makes it interesting that the steps leading to that historic decision were accidental ones.

  Terry Reinhold, Years of Service.

  * * *

  It’s amazing how fast you can get stuff done when you have juice, and even with the public beating we’d been taking lately, the Sentinels still had lots with the city government. Jamal’s caseworker was a pinch-voiced man with zero tolerance for personal discretion, but once I verified the foster situation, Quin called a judge who called him and that was that.

  Blackstone had further relaxed Def-1 conditions; still minimal civilian contact (especially after last night), and still a full in-base presence, but we didn’t have to be in uniform—just take them with us. So when I told Willis we were mounting a rescue mission he produced caps and shades, even a pair of wigs better than the one I’d worn last year, and politely suggested I take Artemis with me to get some sunshine. Jacky hadn’t gone to bed yet, and I talked her into a surfer-blonde wig to compliment my new brunette curls. Quin gave me the address of Jamal’s temporary juvenile home, promised to call ahead for us, and gave us New Tom and the armored Caddy since we were still at Def-1 (we stashed our uniform packs in the back).

  New Tom was as quiet and inscrutable as the old Tom. Since the Platoons that I knew were all perpetually Just Business Ma’am (except for Willis, who had a funnybone you could actually detect), were there secret Platoons somewhere who just lived in eternal Margaritaville, who caught the waves, sunshine, beer, and girls for the rest of them?

  I tried to picture a Platoon in sandals and a floral shirt, sipping coolers under a cabana, and my imagination shut down.

  Jamal’s temporary home sat on South Buffalo, not the best place, but not the worst; the kind of place that had curfews and checkouts and routine searches, but let the kids out for school and play. Jamal’d had no juvenile record before the Puccini’s fight, but they’d still low-jacked him with a GPS anklet that went off when he “sped.”

  It wasn’t right, and somewhere between the Dome and the home, an absurd spirit took over. When we pulled up, I yelled “Keep the engine running, Tom!” as Jacky and I jumped out. We dashed to the door and I flashed my Sentinels ID at the man standing by Jamal. He was pinch-faced, and he gaped like a fish when Jacky slung Jamal over her shoulder and ran for the car.

  I bit down and managed a “company” face as I shook his hand.

  “Thanks for all your help, but we’ll take it from here,” I blurted. “Of course we’ll have to beat him, so pay no attention to the bruises. He falls down. Lots.” And, grabbing Jamal’s bag, I ran for it. Quin was so going to hate the next phone call she got.

  I actually heard laughing in the front seat as I threw myself into the back and yelled “Punch it, Tom!” He peeled away with a gratifying squeal of rubber while Jacky giggled, something I hadn’t believed possible. Scrunched between us, Jamal just looked, well, stunned. And Shelly hadn’t even thought this one up.

  * * *

  Mom and Dad bought me a car and a stun-gun when I turned sixteen, but before I finished Drivers Ed and got my license, they enrolled me in the most brutally practical self-defense course Dad could find. Master Li taught the course. A master of Bagau born in Philly, he'd studied in China before opening his school in Oak Park to sell graceful meditation to soccer moms and serious self-defense and discipline to kids. A Buddhist, Master Li taught that the path to wisdom was Mountain Dew—that and knowing what you didn't know and whether it was important to know it. Really, if he'd been a guru on a mountaintop, any eager acolytes who scaled the peak in search of enlightenment would have been handed a six-pack and advised to go study something useful.

  Looking through the round street windows, we could see a beginner's class in the gun (the school's training hall). They were going through basic form drill under a junior instructor, and we stopped for a moment to watch the children pace, with intense concentration and occasional catch-up hops, through the graceful and fluid palm changes.

  “I’m going to stay here?” Jamal asked, looking at me.

  “Mmhm,” I confirmed, hoisting his bag. “
Sifu—Master Li—is cool. He and Debbie are registered foster parents, though they normally host Chinese kids over here for school.”

  “Did he teach you to fight?”

  “Actually, he taught me to run. I didn’t learn much of that.” I waved at the window. “I learned how to use pepper spray, a stun-gun, and in a pinch, a small baton. The fanciest move he drilled into me was a knee-sweep—kick your attacker in the knee and then run like the wind.”

  I laughed at his disbelieving look. “When you’re my size, self-defense means situational awareness, personal preparedness, and bugging out if there’s any way to. He also made me promise to get a concealed-carry permit and a gun as soon as I was old enough. I think I can pass on that one.”

  Jamal looked disappointed, and I reassured him that Master Li was much more likely to teach him all the secrets of Bagau. I didn’t think he’d be interested in the Asian culture lessons Master Li also taught (they’d been good towards my AP Comparative Culture credits), but he’d probably get them anyway.

  We took the weapon-hung hallway to the back, past the tiny office and out the back door. A yard divided by a gated wall separated Master Li’s home from the school, and in good weather his students used the school side of the yard for outside instruction. The family side of the yard was Debby's garden, now bare soil and budding bushes, and both the yard and house were as ornately Chinese as the school.

  We went through the gate without buzzing and Master Li met us at the door to lead us into the open family area, decorated mostly by wall-scroll replicas of inked landscape paintings and lacquered bamboo furniture. I’d learned my love of Asian art here.

  He’d laid out his prized gongfu tea set (two red and unadorned clay teapots and matching cups and water bowl, heating pitcher, and utensils) on the table where he had taught me the strategy of Go. We sat, he nodded, and I prepared the tea while Jacky and Jamal watched.

  Rinse the smaller teapot with hot water. Fill it to one-third with oolong tea leaves. Rinse the tea leaves by filling the pot to half full, then drain it completely into the water bowl. Pour more hot water into the teapot, carefully so that no bubbles form. Silently contemplate the whichness of what while the infusion steeps for thirty seconds. Pour into the cups with the remainder poured into the second teapot so again only the leaves remain for further infusions.

  Master Li thanked me and we all took up our cups. He inhaled the fragrant steam, then sipped. "Very good."

  I sipped mine, thinking hard while he waited.

  Finally I said, "Good things come. Bad things come. Accept both with equanimity."

  He chuckled. “An excellent fortune-cookie aphorism. Stuff happens. Get over it.”

  I grinned. “Thank you, Sifu.”

  He shook his head. “Ted, please. Sifu is for students.” He scowled at Jamal. “That’s ‘teacher’ in Chinese, and you will use Sifu.” Jamal almost dropped his cup.

  After that I caught Master Li up on everything that had happened in the past year, and Jamal talked a bit about his background: no dad, mom died just after finishing paralegal studies, foster homes. Any time I feel like karma’s made me its play-toy it’s easy to find someone who’s had it way worse, but he got it all out with a stiff chin, daring us to feel sorry for him.

  Master Li listened with few comments. He knew how to deal with boys who arrived with stories—a lot of his foster kids came from the worst-off Chinese states. Afterward, he showed Jamal to his room and walked Jacky and me to the door.

  My manic mood had worn away, and Master Li picked up the change. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Debbie will smother him and I’ll thump him, and he’ll be fine. And you must come more often. And your mother. It was very nice to meet you, Jacky.”

  Jacky thanked him and didn’t say anything else until we got back in the car. I sat back as New Tom pulled away from the curb, rolling my head to look at my friend.

  “It feels good to actually rescue someone, doesn’t it?”

  She looked back at the school, frowning.

  “So he’s a martial arts master. Will he be able to handle the kid?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? He’s a speedster like Jamal and Rush. Never uses it in the gun, but I caught him at it the time I almost broke his tea set. He gave me permission to spill it this morning—the secret, I mean. I’m pretty sure he’s ex-military, like Lei Zi.”

  “Sniper, ma’am,” New Tom said from the front. “Belonged to my old special unit.”

  “Well, there you go.” I turned to look back myself while Jacky stuttered. “You know, one of the things he taught us was stories of the xia, the wandering martial artists of Imperial China who fought bandits and bullies on behalf of the common people. Kind of like the Knights of the Round table, but cooler.”

  Now I frowned. “I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I’m going to have to give Jamal the speech Atlas gave me—the one that says the cape isn’t the only option.”

  Jacky raised an eyebrow. “Will he listen?”

  “Nope. But he’ll remember it.”

  “Where to, ladies?” New Tom asked.

  “The hospital, thanks. And, Tom? If you could polarize the windows and raise the glass, we’ll change back here.”

  The glass went up.

  It turned out Artemis had never mastered the essential life-skill of changing in a backseat—probably because she hadn’t had an overscheduled childhood. I could change anywhere, but we never made it to the hospital.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  It’s amazing what you can do with a half-mask, a wig, and a padded bra. But that only works for pictures; if you’re serious about keeping your civilian identity secret then don’t ever let the same people meet you in costume, and if you do then don’t open your mouth. The most unbelievable thing about Superman was Clark Kent and his glasses.

  Astra, Notes From a Life.

  * * *

  I was trying not to kick a hole in the roof with my boot when Dispatch called.

  “A-One do you copy?”

  So not Shelly. I’d always suspected she re-mixed her own Dispatch calls so they sounded by-the-book.

  “A-One copies.”

  “Bad crowd situation at The Fortress. ETA?” Beside me, Jacky listened to her own earbug, and the sedan bounced as Tom pulled us into a 7-11’s corner parking lot in the shadow of an old tenement block.

  “ETA, two minutes.” I jammed my mask down, lined up the eye-holes, and yanked my gloves on, feeling something tear. A look confirmed that Jacky was still fighting with her leather suit. At least she’d got her skull-deco half mask on and her hood up.

  “Go,” she said, and Tom popped the trunk while I hesitated, torn. Even if she couldn’t mist or use her Jedi mind-tricks with the sun up, she was still wicked-quick and could body slam an Olympic weightlifter. And she could still do Dark and Dangerous like nobody’s business. If I had to face down a mob…

  “Make that ETA four minutes, A-One and A-Two,” I corrected, pulling her out of the car. She squawked and then shut up as we both buckled and zipped her in. When she was completely Artemis, New Tom handed us our arrest kits and I grabbed her hands and launched, lifting us up over the old tenements.

  “The CPD is mobilizing a crowd-control unit,” Lei Zi cut in, filling us in as we flew. “It looks like Mr. Shankman decided to give a speech to his faithful outside the club this morning; apparently the place is ‘a temple to false idols.’”

  I wasn’t getting it. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  She chuckled darkly. “Maybe not, but there’s a gang of construction workers from the renovation site across the street mixing into it, and they’re not happy with what the good Mr. Shankman is saying. Add friends of last night’s victims—some of them arrived this morning to put up a flower-shrine outside the club.”

  “Okay, bad now.” Mom’s training left me over-socialized and sometimes I regretted my general lack of swearing vocabulary.

  “Sure dropping us into the middle is a good idea?” Artemis
asked, not sounding terribly concerned.

  “It’s a terrible idea,” Lei Zi returned. “And we’re not. I want the two of you on top of the Newberry Plaza Tower in case it all goes pear-shaped. If the police can handle it, fine. If not, you two and Rush are going to make things peaceful. The North Side Guardians are standing by as backup, but they don’t have a great power-mix for this, either. Rush is dropping Seven off by the crowd, plainclothes, to see if he can add his luck to the situation. I’m coming with The Harlequin and Riptide.”

  That sounded better. I took us west to approach from the other side instead of overflying Rush Street, and came in above the Chicago News helicopter to hide in its blind spot. Artemis let go when her feet touched the graveled roof, and we stepped to the east edge to look down on the scene. Marino Park, the wedge of brick-topped ground where Rush Street angled into State Street, was greening beautifully in the spring sunshine, and the young leaves of its carefully tended trees hid a large chunk of the crowd below.