When she was finished, she wrapped her hair into a towel and her body in a warm bathrobe. Her left shoulder throbbed, and her jaw ached from Iri’s punch. Phantom pains, she told herself. Feeling fuzzy-headed from the long, hot shower, she went into her bedroom and sat in front of the vanity table she almost never used. Standard issue in Squadron quarters; sponsors expected their heroes to look glamorous. Jet’s cowl usually allowed her to get away without makeup. With a sigh, she pulled out her cosmetics bag and rummaged through it for her eyeliner. The things she did to be a hero.
You’re the big damn hero around here, Jet, Iri whispered in her mind. But you know that I know you.
Jet knew her too. Knew her from when they were young.
Young, but not innocent. Not even back then, when they were twelve. Life had already been hard for both of them by that time.
But some of it had been good too. It was almost ten years to the day that she and Iri had met at the Academy. Jet had been sullen; Iri had been loud.
A sad smile flitted across Jet’s lips as she remembered Iri offering to punch anyone in the face who gave Jet any shit.
Light, Iri. What happened to you?
Jet sighed again, feeling sad and strangely empty. Then she begin to put on her public face.
CHAPTER 12
IRIDIUM
As with legitimate businesses, criminals have their hierarchy. But when legitimate businesspeople get fired, there usually isn’t as high a body count.
Lynda Kidder, “Flight of the Blackbird,” New Chicago Tribune, July 2, 2112
Iridium didn’t panic when an unmarked groundcar pulled up next to her, and a fat cop with a shaved head leaned out the driver’s door. He said, “There’s my favorite supervillain.”
She shifted the case of chips to her other hand. “Detective Ostraczynski. Handing out parking tickets for fun?”
“Need to talk to you,” he said, and jerked his head. “Get in.”
“You can give me a ride,” Iridium said. “What’s the problem?”
Ostraczynski’s motor-pool car smelled like day-old fast food and was littered with empty cigarette packs and energy-drink cans. The detective himself was mussed, discordant, and worn-out, just like the precinct he patrolled.
“You know Momo the Shark got hit last week,” Oz said.
Iridium nodded. “Retaliation from the yakuza in Little Shinjuku. My sources confirmed it.”
“Well, I don’t know what kind of half-assed operation Momo was running, but his replacement is some crazy fuckstick named Deke O’Connor, and the kid is bad news.”
Iridium watched the housing blocks roll past while she considered how to answer. The mobs were part of Wreck City, like rats were part of a garbage dump. She stayed out of the gang leaders’ businesses, and they knew the rules—no open warfare, no rapes, no attacks on honest, taxpaying citizens. Gambling, loan-sharking, and prostitution. Let them have their money, and they’ll let you have peace, Lester always said.
It was when the gang leaders got it into their heads to challenge her—and one did, every so often—that Iridium started to get a headache.
“He beat up one of my girls real bad,” said Oz. Oz was a crooked cop, as if you could find any other kind in Wreck City, but he was also fair and actually prevented crime rather than wallowing in it like the former lead detective, Marcia Sloan.
Sloan should be getting out of the burn unit any day now, Iridium recalled. She’d send flowers.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Iridium said. They passed the Moscow Grand, the hotel that Yuri Pritkoff and his Russians ran numbers out of, squatting next to the Blarney Stone, Momo’s former tavern. It was juxtaposition that made Wreck City, gave it a soul—cops and criminals, rabids and gangsters. The only thing pretty much everyone agreed on was a distinct distaste for the Everyman Society. Totalitarianism went over poorly when your flock was broke, hungry, and scrabbling to survive.
“He won’t see reason,” said Oz, meaning that O’Connor wouldn’t pay him his 10 percent for the New Chicago PD’s blind eye. “I need your help before he starts screwing up the neighborhood.”
Iridium sighed. “Let me out at the corner. I’ll talk to him.”
Oz pulled his car over with a wheeze and Iridium got out. “Thanks, Iridium,” he said. “There were a few more like you, I might actually get behind the Squadron.”
“Trust me, Oz … there’s nothing to get behind.” Hefting the case again, she pushed open the door of the Blarney Stone.
Deke O’Connor wasn’t hard to spot. He was the loudest, the biggest, the most tattooed, and the most obnoxiously Irish. Black hair and blue eyes, like her, the Snow White complexion that would scorch under five minutes of sun, and Celtic symbols inked on every inch of his arms.
“Top of the morning,” Iridium said.
O’Connor looked up at her balefully. “If it isn’t Wreck City’s own little mascot.”
Iridium bit back a snort. He may have looked like he hailed from the Emerald Isle, but his accent was pure South Side.
“I hear from Brian Ostraczynski that you’ve been messing with his streetwalkers,” Iridium said. “Since Brian doesn’t lie, I’m here to tell you it stops now.”
O’Connor shoved back from his table, his chair toppling over. Momo’s crew watched, but they didn’t make a move. Momo and Iridium had an understanding, a peace agreement, and nobody wanted to get a strobe in the face if their idiot boss didn’t order it.
“You’ve got a set of brass ones,” Deke O’Connor declared. “Coming into my place of business like this.”
“Thanks,” Iridium said. “Goes with the outfit.”
“I know Momo was afraid of you. I’m not. You’re just a skinny bitch who can do a magic trick.”
“Listen,” Iridium said. “I’m not putting a suggestion in your box, Deke. I’m telling you. No women get hurt on my patch. No one gets in Oz’s way, and you can be damned sure that if you do, I will roll over you like a transport hover through a flock of pigeons.”
O’Connor went white around the lips and reached into his waistband. Iridium rolled her eyes, lifted the case, and slammed it into the side of his head. There’s a time for diplomacy, and a time to beat a bastard senseless. You’ll know which is which, with a bit of practice.
Deke lay on the floor, bloody from the nose and the temple, a bruise already distorting his face. Iridium stepped forward and put her boot lightly on his neck, just enough to make it hard to get air.
“This is my city,” she said. “If you don’t like it, I suggest you get the hell out.”
CHAPTER 13
JET
When the going gets tough, the tough get going!
Closing of every Jack Goldwater Show
The following is a partial transcript from the Jack Goldwater Show, “More Human Than Extrahuman,” which aired on Oct. 30, 2112:
Jack: So, if you just joined us, we’re here with Frank Wurtham, a doctor of psychiatry and chairman of the popular Everyman Society, who has also just written the best-selling book, Seduction of the People, a blistering account of the extrahumans and the Squadron. (Audience: “Woo!”)
Jack: Dr. Wurtham made it very clear that he sees the extrahumans as a threat to society, to the whole world. That in his opinion, the best thing for people would be for the extrahumans to just go away.
Wurtham: Or to swallow cyanide capsules, whichever’s more convenient.
(Audience: Laughing, lots of applause.)
Jack: Now, now. No need to condone suicide. And there’s two sides to every story, even to Seduction of the People. So let’s welcome our next guest. Billed as New Chicago’s Lady of Shadows, she’s the face of the Squadron and has saved the city twice so far this calendar year alone. Boys and girls, give a warm welcome to Jet!
(Audience: Applause and cheers, sprinkled liberally with booing.) (Jet comes onstage. Awkward moment as Jack goes to kiss her cheek, but she stops him with the strategic offering of a handshake. Jack kisses her glove, to audienc
e “Oooh”ing and some applause. Jet offers her hand to Wurtham, who ignores it. Jet sits to Jack’s right; Wurtham is on Jack’s left.)
Jet: Hello, Jack. Thank you for inviting me to your show.
Jack: Great to see you, Jet. You’re looking lovely. You just come from a sponsor photo op? Maybe posing with the mayor? Or more than posing? (Audience: “Ooooh!”)
Jet: Jack, you know that I prettied myself up just for you. (Audience: Laughter, some applause.)
Jack: Well, I’m flattered. But more than that, I’m curious. Have you read Seduction of the People?
Jet: Actually, I’ve been so busy stopping Hellion from poisoning the reservoir that I’ve had little downtime available. (Audience: Applause.)
Jack: And we’re all grateful to you for your actions.
Wurtham: Speak for yourself, Jack.
Jack: All right, not all of us are grateful. Doctor, do you mean to say you’re upset that Jet saved the city from certain death?
Wurtham: What I’m opposed to is these freaks in spandex running around and doing the police’s job for them. I’m opposed to a handful of so-called people lording it over us as if they were gods. I’m opposed to them convincing society that we need them, that we’re too weak to exist without them.
(Audience: Wild cheers, some boos. Jack throws a hand up in the air.)
Jack: Hold on. You’re saying that the heroes are muscling out the police?
Jet: That’s insane. I’ve always supported our fellow crime-fighters.
Wurtham: They’re not your fellows. It takes true courage for a normal man or woman to put themselves in harm’s way to serve and protect, knowing they could take a bullet or worse, to protect the innocent. (Audience: Cheers.)
Jet: You’re saying I don’t do that?
Jack: Now wait—
Wurtham: The police don’t have devilish abilities to aid them. They just have their beliefs and their training. The police are people.
Jet: Extrahumans are people.
Wurtham: Extrahumans are freaks, misanthropes. (Audience: Cheers.)
Jet: (Angrily) We’ve been given special abilities and we choose to use them to help society, so that makes us freaks?
Wurtham: Your so-called special abilities are anathema!
Jet: So now you know the mind of Jehovah?
Wurtham: You work with shadows.
Jet: I do.
Wurtham: “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” James 1:17. I say again, you are anathema! (Audience: Applause.)
Jet: Actually, I’m an agnostic.
(Audience: Some laughter; more booing.)
Jack: (To Wurtham) Now Doctor, you’re making some wild claims here.
Wurtham: Like what?
Jack: You said—you just said that the extrahumans lord it over people as if they were gods, that they convince regular people that we’re too weak to exist without them.
Wurtham: Exactly.
Jack: How so?
Wurtham: By seeing their faces everywhere. By hearing of their exploits nonstop in the liberal media.
Jack: Uh-oh. Guess I’m on your You Know What list, eh? (Audience: Laughter and clapping.)
Wurtham: To be fair, not all of the media has bought into the Corp-Co party line about how the extrahumans are really superpowered teddy bears. Lynda Kidder got it right. (To Jet) Are you familiar with Ms. Kidder?
Jet: Reporter for the New Chicago Tribune. Been out of touch for three days. Her editor put out the word that she’s on some hush-hush assignment.
Wurtham: Like maybe finishing her Pulitzer-prize-winning Origins series, eh? You know she didn’t publish the final article.
Jet: What happens in the workings of the news media is outside of my expertise.
Wurtham: I’m sure. But Ms. Kidder had the gumption to tell the world the truth about you people. (Audience: Bursts of clapping.)
Wurtham: She said, “It seems unfair that an extrahuman would take on mere mortal criminals. What chance does a standard human, a normal, have against someone who can fly, or can bend steel, or can dazzle you with light?”
Jet: I’m very familiar with her work, sir. The rest of the quote is, “But then again, as many extrahumans would tell us, life isn’t fair.” It’s from part eight of her Origins series. May 14, 2112.
Wurtham: I suppose along with your shadows, you also have a photographic memory?
Jet: I’m well-informed.
Jack: She watches the liberal media. (Audience: Laughter and applause.)
Wurtham: Say what you will, but Ms. Kidder got it right. She was on to the extrahuman crusade against humanity.
Jet: What crusade?
Wurtham: You’re looking to make us defenseless against you.
Jet: Of all the—
Wurtham: How many crimes have you stopped recently? Not against other extrahumans. Against mere humans. How many?
Jet: I don’t make it a habit to count all my victories …
Wurtham: False modesty. How many?
Jack: Come on, Jet. I’m sure you must have an idea. Let’s say in the past three days alone. Have you busted up any crimes committed by regular folk?
Jet: Yes, of course.
Wurtham: Of course. How many?
Jet: Five.
Wurtham: And the police couldn’t do it … why now?
Jet: Why … of course the police could have. I just got there first.
Wurtham: So you think you’re better than the police.
Jet: I’m not saying that at all.
Wurtham: But you just said the police could have done the job that, oh, they’re supposed to be doing. But instead, you show up with your flouncy cape and do the police’s job for them.
Jet: It’s not for them. It’s … Look, you’re misunderstanding my role.
Wurtham: And what is your role, exactly?
Jet: To serve the people of the world and protect them however I can.
Wurtham: Hmm. To serve and protect. Now where have I heard that before? (Audience: Laughter.)
Jack: Have to admit, that does sound familiar.
Wurtham: And this is just the first step. They’re making our own police and firefighters irrelevant. Soon they’ll make our soldiers irrelevant. And then, with no way to fight against them, they’ll take over. (Audience: Boos.)
Jet: You’re being unreasonable. We’re here to help people.
Wurtham: We don’t want your help. What will it take before your kind understands that we mere humans can take care of ourselves? We’ve done just fine without your kind, and we’ll do even better once we rid ourselves of you! (Audience: Cheering wildly.)
Jack: (to Jet) He’s saying that you’re not wanted.
Jet: I understand that’s what he’s saying, Jack.
Jack: How does that make you feel?
Jet: Like I’m wasting my time. If you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.
(Jet walks off the stage. Roaring applause from the audience.)
Jack: Well, I guess what they say is true: When the going gets tough …
Audience: The tough get going! (Wild applause and cheers.)
CHAPTER 14
IRIDIUM
According to a recent poll, most teenagers today say that while they’d like to grow up to be a superhero, the supervillains are infinitely cooler.
Lynda Kidder, “Flight of the Blackbird,” New Chicago Tribune, July 2, 2112
The half-burned warehouse on the pilings above Lake Michigan wouldn’t attract the eye of the most desperate junkfreak, and Iridium liked it that way. She patched herself in with her modified wristlet and waited as the antique fluorescent tubes flicked on one by one, all the way down the length of the skeletal structure.
Patched and acrid though it was, and even with the stench of the lake ever-present, the place was home enough, and the old-style steel walls kept out most of the newer scansweeps that the Corp outfitted New Chicago’s Squadron with.
“Boxer, turn that crap off!” Iridium shouted. She put the case of digichips on the workbench and popped the locks, slipping on sterile gloves to handle the chips.
A moment later, Jet’s electronic voice—“Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It’s a real honor to be receiving this award today”—cut off, and Boxer popped his head over the railing, pushing his fedora up with one finger. “Hey, hot stuff,” he called. “You got ’em!”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, bank and all,” said Boxer. “Not like knocking over the home safe of some corporate fat cat.”
“Boxer,” Iridium said with a sideways smile, “have I ever let you down before?”
“That you haven’t, honey,” he agreed. Boxer was pushing fifty, but he still wore the zoot suit and fedora of the Bugsys, his old gang. “Not even when you threatened to singe my eyebrows off that first time we met.”
“You were trying to mug a couple of kids, Boxer.” Iridium popped the latches on the case and looked at the small digichips, dark green and packed with enough data-pushing juice to handle a grid of New Chicago’s power. The rich used them to improve the resolution on tele sets.
Just for a second, Iridium allowed herself to think what it would be like to pocket the money from fencing the chips—get herself a real stronghold, with security and a soft bed she could sleep through the night in. Hell, even a new unikilt would be nice.
“Hot damn,” said Boxer, quashing Iridium’s train of thought. “I’m a product of my misspent youth, Iri. Being the idiot brother of a big damn hero will do that to a man.”
She dug under the workbench for a box of plastic post sleeves and, wrapping the chips individually, began to slip them in. The hackers of Wreck City would get what Iridium had promised them, because the last thing she needed was pissed-off geeks on her ass.
“Your youth called,” said Iridium. “It wants its purple cummerbund back.”
“At least I’m not monochromatic, doll.”
“When the chips are ready,” she said, “drop them in the PS box on 170th that doesn’t have a camera attached to it. The terminals will get the upgrades in the next day or so.”
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