Wearing the Cape: Villains Inc.

by Harmon, Marion G.

  I stared after him. “What? What resolution?”

  Lei Zi watched him go. “Team Two reported success,” she said. “Blackstone confirmed Hecate’s neutralization the same moment Villain-X went down. But he reports significant property damage and some casualties. Are you up to lending a hand?”

  I was in the air almost before she finished, barely missing the incoming news helicopter.

  * * *

  Finding Hecate’s hypothetical base had changed the plan Blackstone and Lei Zi worked out with the DSA. Originally, all of us were going to be on standby, ready to come down hard when Villains Inc. tried to stop Agent Robbins and his men (the ten-Platoon team). But even if they attacked the convoy, Hecate, Tin Man, and Flash Mob would just be sending their demons, metal puppets, and duplicates; we’d clean up, but wouldn’t catch the three most dangerous bad guys.

  So when Artemis and I found Hecate’s hideaway, a closed office and warehouse on West 33rd, Agent Robbins got a federal warrant and deputized us.

  Chakra tried to talk Blackstone out of going back out into the field, but he chose to lead Team Two. With the exception of Watchman, all the more “durable” Sentinels went in Team One; after all, we’d be the center of the trap. Blackstone took Artemis, Rush, and Riptide—all the sneaky ones—with him (I didn’t consider Riptide sneaky, but he could enter a building through the drain). Watchman went as their muscle.

  They’d launched their attack the instant Lei Zi reported we’d been hit, and now I set off car alarms with my overpressure wave getting across town.

  I landed in the weed-grown parking lot hard enough to add more cracks. Dawn light flashed off the building’s silvered windows as I jerked the lobby doors open, breaking their bolts.

  “Astra?” Rush queried. “Lei Zi said you were on the way?”

  “Where are you?” There was nothing in the lobby but dust.

  “In the warehouse. Come on back.”

  Right. Remembering the blueprints, I danced around the reception desk and flew down the hall. The locked warehouse doors didn’t slow me down.

  The place had seen better days. Something had torn the loading bay doors away, and along one wall shipping crates had been shattered, scattered, and burned. Riptide had put out the fires, but smoke filled the air.

  I recognized Flash Mob. Someone had handcuffed the psycho to some pipes, and since he couldn’t generate more dupes for at least a few hours, he was harmless. I didn’t see Tin Man. A fancy ritual circle like the one in Hecate’s home filled the center of the floor, but big cracks ran through it.

  Hecate, in dramatic black, lay in her blood in the middle of the circle. I’d seen way too many dead bodies since last September, but I still had to force myself to look away.

  So where were the… “Guys?”

  “Over here,” Rush called, and I found them around the other side of a pile of crates stacked by the bay doors.

  Oh my God. I swallowed, and Rush looked up from where he worked on Artemis. He’d spread an EMT kit out, and was tightening a tourniquet bandage around the stump of Jacky’s arm. The wayward arm lay beside her, but she had her head turned to the sunlight pouring in the broken doors. Riptide stood beside them, looking helpless.

  “Watchman has already taken Blackstone to Northwestern Hospital,” Rush said, giving Jacky’s bandage a final tug.

  “Jacky?” I said tentatively.

  She opened her eyes. “Devourers are tough. Ready to fly? They have a team waiting for me at Northwestern.”

  * * *

  The Northwestern Memorial trauma team stoically ignored my babbling and whisked Jacky and her arm away. I sternly ordered the part of me screaming that we had to stay and watch them work to Shut Up, and flew back to the scene of our street-fight to help clean up. Riptide joined us; I found out later that when Rush had worked on Jacky, the big, tough, ex-supervillain had nearly fainted.

  I couldn’t blame him; I’d felt pretty wobbly myself.

  Chakra beat us back to the hospital to join Blackstone, so I had no worries about him. Once back, I found out they’d checked Watchman into their special unit, the one tooled up to setting bones and doing other things for people as tough and hard to work on as we were. Riptide told me Watchman had gotten hit by something indescribable and nasty of Hecate’s, then eaten an Israeli Spike missile—a nasty weapon designed to core tanks and take down superhuman targets like us—fired by Flash Mob, who loved his toys, and still managed to crack the warehouse’ foundation. That broke Hecate’s magic circle and allowed Artemis to put three bullets through her heart, but not before the witch summoned another Devourer—the one that carved her up and almost got Blackstone. Rush took it out with incendiary grenades from his bike’s combat-loads, and Riptide took down Flash Mob using his water-form.

  Paper-scissors-rock, and Dispatch records showed that the instant Artemis killed Hecate, Villain-X’s possession broke.

  Fisher found me outside the secure rooms that held Artemis, Blackstone, and Lei Zi, watching TV with Seven and Riptide as we waited. We weren’t going anywhere till Tin Man had been captured—he hadn’t been in the warehouse—or till we could move everyone to the Dome. The trauma-team leader had told us Jacky’s supernatural regenerative powers had kicked in almost before they’d finished reattachment. He’d shrugged; the weirdness was normal. Lei Zi’s hearing would recover, and Blackstone was being monitored carefully after his blood loss. He really needed to stay out of the field. I bit down on giggles. Maybe Chakra could tie him to her bed.

  Great. My post-combat shakes have been replaced with inappropriate attacks of humor.

  Popping a cigarette, Fisher looked at it and sighed.

  “Rough day.”

  “More for some,” I said, getting ahold of myself. The news anchor was reporting fatalities: two DSA agents—Platoons—and three supervillains. Hecate of course, but Villain-X had also died of cascading organ failure. Seven had accidentally killed Swarm, when he froze his disassociated parts. I hadn’t worked up the courage to ask him how he felt about that.

  “Fair enough,” Fisher agreed. “Internal Affairs has arrested Phelps and Garfield. Garfield was in the Organized Crime Division when Kitsune’s family was killed. He’s been in the Outfit’s pocket for years, and Phelps was his delivery boy to the Mob. Mr. Ross identified him.”

  “Did you bring in Kitsune?”

  He actually winked at me. “How? Shapeshifters are a pain in the ass.”

  “But—” I closed my mouth. Fisher watched me play with my cape, and twitched a smile.

  “I’m going to have a talk with a local Buddhist priest, just in case he can pass on a message. Suggest a mutual acquaintance of ours should do some traveling while we take care of Garfield and the Outfit people we’ve been able to sweep up. The Outfit will still be hunting him—especially since, with Mr. Ross’s help and all the bread crumbs we have to follow now, we’ll probably roll up half the Outfit’s senior management. How’s Watchman?”

  I smiled sadly. “Atlas-types are tough and heal fast—Atlas said we make up for it by trying to get killed. They released him an hour ago; he and Variforce and Rush are back out helping with cleanup.”

  The TV switched to an aerial view of our desperate fight with Tin Man, Villain-X, and the rest. The DSA had thoughtfully released footage from their helicopter cam, and we got to watch Seven walk through autofire like a kid in the rain, shooting back with his little seven-round Sig-Sauers.

  “Dude!” Riptide slapped Seven on the back. Seven spun his fedora, showing two holes in the rim, and smiled at a passing nurse. Oh yeah, he’s fine. The “full” DSA video was already hitting the net; it barely showed a hint of Extreme Solutions, making me wonder who had an interest in making us look as good as possible. Quin had called to tell us not to talk to reporters until after the police had released a statement.

  Fisher started to say something, but turned when we heard the clumping behind us. I forced myself not to move when Dad, still Iron Jack, came around the corner. I
could feel each step through the floor, and he stopped beside us.

  “Astra, Detective, Riptide, Seven,” he rumbled. Seven and Riptide answered back uncertainly; Fisher just looked amused. Dad reached into his belt and carefully pulled out a cellphone, handed it to me.

  “Your mother wants to talk to you.”

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  “There are some days when I think I’m going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.”

  Salvador Dali

  * * *

  With hardly a breeze and a nearly cloudless sky, the sun rose up like thunder and threw a column of golden light across Lake Michigan’s gentle waves. The view from the end of Navy Pier was breathtaking.

  The South Side Guardians caught up with Tin Man three days after the Big Fight; wearing a heavy mechaman exoskeleton, he put up a spectacular fight that made the news. By that time only Blackstone had still been on medical leave, and both Rush and I had gone back to our patrols and emergency-response duties. The press conference for Watchman’s official introduction went very well; Blackstone had been right—the media decided that, by taking back the colors, I’d accepted Atlas’ mantle. My fan-base completely geeked out over the armor and my new accessory. Malleus: finally I looked dangerous. Who knew that swinging a war-hammer weighing more than I did was the secret to being taken seriously?

  It’s amazing how fast a good fight can rehabilitate a reputation; every media-manufactured scandal was, well, not forgotten, but ignored. Quin was having a hard time keeping up with all my booking requests; she decided on one a week, but the first week, especially the weekend, was mine.

  “Hey! Looking for godzillas?” Annabeth poked me and laughed when I jumped.

  “No...” I rolled my eyes and turned around.

  “Then c’mon!” She laughed, pulling me back toward the white event pavilions dotting the end of the pier.

  The Foundation’s annual Spring Art Festival started at noon and ran through the next week. Normally it was centered around the Grand Ballroom; Mom had decided to make it a totally outdoor event instead of relocating, so reconstruction had stopped while people used Navy Pier again. Yeah, it was an election year and Mom had that kind of pull.

  I had stolen use of the end-most pavilion to throw the Official Danabeth Engagement Party (until eleven, when we had to be out of the event-staff’s way). The parentals were there, all of them, along with a lot of the UofC soccer team, so champagne flowed alongside sparkling fruit juice for us younger people. In keeping with the Boys of Summer theme, the boys wore khakis, shorts, or cargo pants, and all the girls wore summer shorts or dresses. Jacky wasn’t tan, but definitely pink and the thin white line of scar-tissue circling her upper arm was nearly gone. Without her armored layer, Shell looked a blushing sixteen; if her too-perfect skin made her look airbrushed, nobody watching her would guess the fresh-faced deb bouncing around was a robot-body for my Best Friend Forever. (I owed Vulcan big time.) Jacky had attracted a court of varsity boys, quite a feat with two unattached Bees close by, and was sizing up a dark charmer as a snack.

  Annabeth dragged me to where Dane stood with his parents, and Dane pulled me into a hug with a cheek-kiss and a whispered thank you. He didn’t look at all stunned, and I relaxed a little more even though, officially and publically, the engagement had been Hope’s Idea—which made it my fault, in advance, if the two of them crashed and burned.

  Right, like that was going to happen.

  I said hi to the Dorweilers, rescued a drink from a passing server, and left the two of them to their public displays of affection.

  On impulse, I pushed into Jacky’s circle and grabbed her hand.

  “Hey you,” I said, pulling her away. “Less drooling, more mixing.” The poor protesting boys thought I was referring to their looks.

  “But—” Jacky started.

  “No! Well… make sure he drinks plenty of juice.”

  “I promise. I’d planned on topping up before my flight tonight, anyway.”

  I nodded, deflating a little. “It so goes without saying, but…”

  “I told Grams you’re coming down after spring finals.”

  “Now that’s assuming a lot.”

  “That’s assuming you don’t fly south for Spring Break.”

  “Yeah, I might…” I shook my head. “Things are so weird. Did you know I got a call the other day? From a ‘friend of a friend’ of Mr. Early’s. He said ‘thank you.’ Can you believe it? Bad guys aren’t supposed to be grateful!”

  My cellphone buzzed. The screen displayed a domino mask.

  “Hope?” Quin said when I held it up so we could both listen. “Dispatch got the call on a party-boat out on the lake. They had a small engine fire—it’s out but they lost power. You’re off duty, but Rush can get your suit to you if you’d like to fly out and pull them in. It’s a look-good assignment; are you up for it?”

  “And where do I change, a port-a-potty?”

  “So get behind something and Rush will whisk you back to the Dome. He can take you right back afterward if you want.”

  I gave what Mom called an Irish sigh, long and deep, but couldn’t stop the smile.

  “Deal,” I said while Jacky laughed.

  “Go.” She pushed me towards a mobile construction office, closed until work resumed. I waved to Julie and Megan, held my fist to my face with thumb and pinky out in a call me gesture, and scampered, wondering just how fast I could pull a party boat.

  Observation and Uncertainty

  by Dr. Jonathan Beth

  Before the Event, we were fairly certain we understood the observable world. Centuries of observation, experimentation, and deduction, had yielded many universal truths: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction; in any closed system, entropy will increase over time; the shortest distance between two points is a straight line; etc. The Event has overturned all the observations of science; or, to be more precise, made them conditional.

  What does this mean for science? Fortunately, it doesn’t mean we have to start over; none of the big theories have been disproved. Instead, a qualification must be added—for example “In the absence of breakthrough effects, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” This does, of course, place an added burden on the scientist; he must make certain that any observations he makes are general and representative. Since most experimental results are peer-reviewed and independently tested, this is not a great burden and the physicist, biochemist, and nuclear engineer can continue to poke away at the universe in relative peace, confident, through a few extra steps, that his experimental results represent reality.

  However, what of those of us who dare venture into the field of breakthrough science, where there are no physical laws that are unconditional, no natural processes that can be referred to with any confidence?

  Here we are striking out into an undiscovered country, and so far universal truths have proven few and far between. The heart of the problem lies in our inability to describe our observations in any causal way. This is not apparent to the general public; they accept labels as explanations and go about their day. To a scientist, these observations are less than helpful.

  The classic example is the broad category of “psionic powers.” Even before the Event, psionic powers were widely hypothesized and minutely described: telekinesis, levitation, pyrokinesis, precognition, telepathy, empathy, astral projection, teleportation, the list is long. So naturally, these breakthrough powers have been categorized as psi-powers, powers of the mind, as opposed to powers of the body.

  But a label is not an explanation, and “mind waves” have yet to be discovered (except by breakthrough-inventors, whose unduplicatable instruments can detect and measure things mundane instruments cannot). The mind is a construct of the brain, and acts on the world through the body of which it is part—yet it has been suggested that psi-power is an adequate label because it conforms to a pre-Event conception of what a mysterious and unverified phenomena would be like.

/>   The danger of these kinds of observational labels lies in their tendency to predispose observers to mistake them for explanations and treat them as real types. Doing so has led to the illusion of certainty, where the reality is that so far science has nothing to say towards the cause of breakthrough effects.

  This can easily be seen by looking at two classic breakthrough archetypes: Atlas-types and “speedsters.”

  The Atlas-type powerset is diverse; Atlas-types can fly without the assistance of wings, jets, or other physical mechanisms of flight, they are superhumanly strong and durable, and they possess an enhanced sense of sight and hearing. What can a scientist say about these abilities? The power of unassisted flight can be labeled “levitation,” a psi-power; certainly Atlas-types fly because they will it so. The rest appear to be powers of the body: an Atlas-type isn’t damage-resistant by an act of will. Yet the most thorough examination of the body of an Atlas-type will not yield a single clue to the source of his abilities. An Atlas-type’s cells are indistinguishable from a normal person’s cells: the rods and cones in his eyes are no different than a normal person’s; when removed and tested individually, his cells possess no greater tensile strength than does the rest of humanity’s. The Atlas-type’s physical abilities have as little physical explanation as do the supposed powers of the mind.