“I heard there were a lot of gangs running wild and a chance to do some good,” said Taser “So I moved in.”
“Cowcrap. You thought to muscle me out and take over Wreck City for your own little playground. Make everything shiny and new and everyone going to church on Sunday. You angling for a job with Corp?”
“I already told you,” he growled. “I don’t work for Corp.” He pulled his mask back down. “Anyway, I don’t see you doing anything of the sort.”
“That’s because I’m not stupid. So tell me, Taser … the first time Corp sends a real hero to tag and bag you, are you going to knuckle under and go along to prison, or Therapy? Because unlike our little dance number, some of those wastesacks can fight, and they love beating up on people they’re authorized to beat on. It’s cathartic, or something.”
Taser turned his head away. “I won’t let them take me.”
Iridium smiled and held out her hand. “Then I think we can work together.”
CHAPTER 19
JET
Jet continues to display an aptitude for tactical instruction and heroic theory, but her social level is well below that of her peers. Branding may be difficult.
Internal progress report filed by Academy Assistant Superintendent Gabriel Graves
She dreaded this.
Standing outside his office for nearly two minutes, Jet forced herself to run through the new Focus sequence before she could summon the courage to announce her presence. Right out of Mindset Basics: deep breath, taking in the surroundings; hold it, absorbing the data and allowing the mind to make assessments based on initial impressions cross-referenced with knowledge and experience; exhale, reviewing possible next steps, textbook cases with examples. A second deep breath, picking a course of action; hold it, analyzing all probable outcomes; exhale, either selecting that action or rejecting it to review another. And again, until the next step has been decided. And then: Act.
Except, Jet realized, none of that really applied when it came to meeting your assigned mentor. There was only one course of action, and that was to press the door chime and wait for admittance. And then …
Beneath her Second Year jumpsuit, she started to sweat. How bad could it really be? He was a proctor, for Jehovah’s sake. A certified hero. His deeds were recorded for history; his dedication to fighting crime in all its forms was nothing less than impressive. Feared by his enemies, respected by his allies. Praised by the civilians and admired (so she’d heard) by Corp.
Even so …
A bubbling unease filled her belly, and she squirmed as she stared at the closed door. She’d only seen him a handful of times during First Year, and other than that one time on her first day of Academy, she’d never made eye contact with him. He wore intimidation like a skinsuit, and his shadowed glower was a thing of nightmares. The man completely terrified her.
And yet something about him was … compelling.
Just thinking about that made her palms itch and her breath quicken. What did he look like beneath his cowl? She knew he had a strong chin—she’d seen that much—but when he smiled, did it reach his eyes? Hazel, she decided. His eyes were hazel. She’d always liked the color, ever shifting between green and brown, with flecks of blue. Tamed wildness. Safe chaos.
She felt her cheeks burn. Jehovah, get a hold of yourself!
Let me hold you, Joannie.
She bit her lip, frantically thought: Go away, Papa!
Let me hold you.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed the voice that sounded so much like her father’s out of her head. The whispers had gotten worse in the past two months, ever since she’d started her Mental Preparedness units. Forcing herself to be aware of her own thoughts had made her realize just how much static was in her mind … and how, sometimes, that static formed words and sentences and started to speak to her.
When she’d first heard the voice, she’d almost asked her instructor about it. There was nothing in the textbooks about hearing things—other than a footnote about the warning signs of schizophrenia—and no one else in the unit ever mentioned such a condition. Or symptom. Granted, none of them were Mental powers; those rare individuals were trained in a quarantined section of the Academy. So Jet had little choice but to decide that the voice she heard had to do with being a Shadow power.
And everyone knew how that would go. Eventually.
Outside of her new mentor’s office door, she swallowed thickly. I’m not crazy. Not yet, anyway.
Let me hold you, Joannie …
Shut up!
Hold you hold you hold you squeeze you tuck you in at—
“Jet?”
Her eyes flew open and she gasped aloud. That hadn’t been Papa’s voice. That was something darker, colder.
“Jet!”
Something much scarier than her father ever had been.
“Jet. Snap out of it, girl!”
A flash of white, like a star shattering the darkness. The voice receded until it was an ugly memory, already fading to the stuff of nightmares.
Blinking, Jet realized she was crouching on the floor, her back against the wall, her cheek stinging … and Night was staring into her face, his hands firmly on her shoulders.
“Jet. Do you hear me?”
She squeaked out, “Yes, sir.”
He gazed at her, through her, and Jet dared to meet that gaze. Hazel, she thought, her mind locking on to those features and blocking out the hints of dark whispers. Definitely hazel. Not that she could see his eyes, but still …
Night nodded, then dropped his hands quickly, as if touching her had burned his hands right through his gloves. Standing straight, he said, “Good. Come inside. You’re late for our one o’clock.” Without another word, he walked into his office, his blacker-than-black cape billowing behind him.
Biting her lip, Jet followed. She jumped when the door slid shut behind her.
His office was stark to the point of being spartan. Other than his desk, his laptop computer and two chairs, there was nothing—just steel walls, a steel ceiling, and a plain dark carpet on the floor. No las-art or paintings hung on the walls; no holos decorated his desk. Just the standard Academy pledges, lased onto the wall: DUTY FIRST; PROTECT THE WEAK; PROFESSIONAL, POLITE, POWERFUL. He gave away nothing of himself here.
Jet nodded to herself; she approved. Showing personality also showed weakness. And Night was many things, but weak was not one of them.
“Sit.”
His tone brooked no argument. Her rear hit the seat in record time.
Night tapped on his keypad, then grunted at the computer screen. “Excellent grades.”
She brightened.
“For regular school.” Night snorted. “Figures. Time to get you moved into something where you can actually use your brain.”
Stung, she said, “I do use my brain. I’m a straight-A student. I’ve read all my textbooks already, have done all my assignments for the year.”
“There’s a world of difference between repeating information and actually having to think things through.” He glanced at her. “Are you a parrot?”
She swallowed, stared down at her boots. “No, sir.”
“You sure? You don’t want a cracker?”
A whisper: “No, sir.”
“Then learn to say ‘thank you’ when someone does you a favor. I won’t have you wasted, little Shadow. We have to keep that mind of yours challenged.” He paused, let the silence grow thick before he added, “You know what happens when your mind is too quiet, don’t you?”
Not daring to speak, she shook her head.
“Oh really? So what happened in the hall, Jet?”
“I … I don’t really know, sir.”
“Wrong answer.” The venom in his voice terrified her; she tried to shrink away to nothing as he spat, “What you mean to say is, ‘I slipped and hit my head against the wall, sir.’ Let’s hear it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do.” Now his voic
e was quiet, a thing of pending doom, and Jet bit back a scream. In his very soft, very deadly voice, he said, “Because hitting your head explains the vacant stare you had when I found you in a heap outside of my office. Anything else would mean a full examination. And that would mean Therapy. And that would be very bad. Very, very bad.”
Her memory flashed to when she was five and the man in the white uniform was holding her, comforting her as he led her away from the closet and her mother’s body, away from where her father had tried to …
“Come on, Joannie,” he had said. “Let’s go, my girl. I’ve got you.”
“Where’s Papa?”
“He’s … he’s off to Therapy,” the man in white had said, his voice strained around his smile. “He won’t hurt you. I promise.”
Night’s quiet voice shattered the memory, blew it to dust. “Do you understand me, Jet?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered.
“So, what happened in the hallway before?”
“I slipped. I think I hit my head.”
“Better.” He frowned at her, saying nothing as his hidden hazel eyes regarded her. Finally, he cleared his throat and turned back to his computer. “What do you do to keep them at bay?”
“To keep …?”
“You’re an intelligent girl, so I’ve heard. Puzzle it out, little Shadow.”
He meant the voice. He understood. He knew!
Did he have a voice too?
She bit her lip, then said, “Light. I keep the lights on. Or I use my goggles. The optiframes are good for sealing in the light, even after Lights Out.”
Night nodded. “A good distraction. White noise is better. Constant talk or background chatter also works.” He typed on the keypad. “And challenging your mind is the best technique of all. A busy brain doesn’t have the luxury of listening to things it shouldn’t be hearing. Effective immediately, you’re in the advanced units.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, her thoughts whirling. He’d said keep “them” at bay—did he hear more than one voice? If he did, what did they whisper? But Jet wasn’t stupid, so she bit back on her curiosity and held her tongue.
Night was a Shadow power. Night was a respected extrahuman hero.
Night wasn’t insane.
For the first time in years, she felt a glimmer of hope for her future.
He closed his laptop and turned to her, folding his hands across the desk. “As your mentor, I have a certain … perspective … that others lack. If you’re smart, you’ll treat our meetings, and what we discuss in them, as completely confidential. If you’re smart, you won’t tell anyone, not even a trusted roommate, the extent to which we discuss certain matters.” Night peered at her, his own face hidden, unreadable. “Are you smart, Jet?”
Translation: Can you keep what we discuss to ourselves? Can you keep this even from Iridium?
Meeting his gaze, she said, “I’d like to think so, sir.”
“Excellent.” He steepled his fingers. “I think you’re meant for great things, little Shadow. You understand the power of the dark. You know why people are afraid of what goes bump in the night.”
She nodded.
“As you get older, you’ll learn to use that fear. Let it do your work for you. Let your reputation as a Shadow power knock the fight out of your opponents before you have to raise a hand.”
“But sir,” she said meekly, “I don’t want people to be afraid of me.”
He smiled, thinly, and without mirth. “That will change.”
CHAPTER 20
IRIDIUM
The idea that children can be molded into soldiers for a great and noble cause is both obscene and untrue. Children can no more be expected to know what “justice” is or how to meter it than a normal human can sprout wings and fly.
Editorial entitled “It Worked for the Nazis, Too,”
printed in the New Chicago Century,
an alternative daily published from 2099 to 2107
Iridium sat on the cold plast bench and listened to the drumbeat her feet made on the base. Thud-thunk. Thud-thunk.
The door to the Superintendent’s office stayed closed, and Iridium blew out a puff of air, ruffling the few pieces of hair that always managed to escape from her school bun.
Down the long white hallway, the voices of happy students bounced off the arched ceiling, taunting Iridium with the fact that she’d be stuck in detention until Lights Out.
After a year of constant detention, extra work, and retaking tests so “We can assure ourselves you’re not manipulating the system,” Iridium came to one conclusion: The Academy had it in for her.
The students, with their whispers and idiot insults, were bad enough, but most of the proctors gave her the exact same stony-eyed looks. They just saw a rabid waiting to happen.
It pissed Iridium off enough that, sometimes, she deserved her punishments. But only sometimes.
“At least I’ll miss Self-Defense and Tactics,” she muttered.
A tall, skinny form flopped down on the bench next to her. Iridium didn’t move … no need to seem too interested … but she caught a flash of a smile and a shock of blue hair. “Amen to that,” said the boy.
Iridium glared at him. He was tall, but his jumpsuit marked him as a Second Year, like her. “Did I say you could sit next to me?”
“I didn’t see a NO PARKING sign on this bench, sweetheart.” He grinned at her.
Iridium balled up her fist. “Get lost. Do you know who I am?”
“Callie Bradford,” said the boy.
She blinked. “We’re not supposed to use given names.”
The boy pointed to the closed white door. “The Superintendent is right there. Gonna report me?”
Iridium lowered her fist. The boy was still grinning, like he wasn’t afraid of her at all. “Why don’t I bother you?”
“Because you’re not scary,” said the boy. “You’re just angry.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Derek Gregory. Frostbite, if you want to go by the book. I make ice.”
“Yeah, I kinda got that. I’m Iridium. You better call me by my designation if we don’t want our butts permanently welded to this bench.”
“What are you in for?” Frostbite asked.
Iridium knitted her hands together, then she realized she was doing the nervous thing that Jet always did when she thought they were going to get into trouble. “I punched Sunbeam during a biology lab.”
“Sunbeam … wait, don’t tell me.” Frostbite blew a gum bubble, popped it, chewed. “Blonde, skinny. Has big teeth. Pals around with a bunch of other Lighters?”
“That’s her,” said Iridium. “She tried to copy off of my pop-quiz screen, so I decked her.”
Frostbite laughed, loudly. “That’s it? Usually they let you Light-power divas get away with a lot more than hair pulling.”
“I knocked her unconscious.”
“Oh.”
“What about you?”
“Underwear.”
Iridium blinked. “What did you say?”
“I froze a proctor’s shorts while he was showering in the locker room after my Phys Ed class. Man, when he slipped those things on … The screams are still echoing the hallowed halls.”
Iridium smiled, then started to laugh. “That’s pretty good. Hey, Frostbite?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not one of those ‘Light divas,’” Iridium snarled. “Don’t ever make the mistake of lumping me with those other girls. I am nothing like them.”
“Relax, girl,” said Frostbite. “I can see that. We’re cool here. No pun intended.”
The Superintendent’s door hissed open. “Iridium,” his voice rang. “In my office. Now!”
Iridium stood and straightened her jumpsuit. “They’re playing my song. See you around, Frostbite.”
She sauntered inside, acting as if she’d decided to just stroll into the Super’s office. Then she stood politely in front of his desk, smiling, as the Superintendent slammed the button to shut the door.
<
br /> “Your behavior is completely unacceptable,” said the Superintendent, jabbing a finger down against his data-screen. The incident report their proctor had filled out glowed and slithered away from the impact.
“Did you bring me here just to tell me that, sir? Because I have to say, this is getting predictable.” Iridium delivered the speech with the sweetest smile she could muster. Anger frightens people, her father’s voice whispered, but smiles confound them. Remember the power in that.
The Superintendent turned pink from the top of his shaved head all the way down to his Mandarin collar, like a giant strawberry. “You …” he sputtered. “You …”
“I know, I know, detention,” said Iridium. “I’ll go do my time with a spring in my step, like a good little hero.”
“Oh, no,” said the Superintendent, his fingers rubbing droplets of sweat away from his forehead like pudgy erasers. “No, young lady, you’ve stepped over the line. Hopefully, you’ll be outright expelled when I convene the board of proctors. You think that your IQ_ and your history make you special, but what they really make you is a menace. I want you out of my school!”
“That won’t be necessary,” hissed a voice behind Iridium. The air around her lowered ten degrees, like someone had opened a window and let in a winter wind.
The Superintendent paled. “Night. You finally got my message, I see.”
Night laid his hand on Iridium’s shoulder. She fought the urge to squirm. Night wasn’t as bad as some of the proctors—he was certainly no Lancer—but there was something about him, how he always seemed to be fading back into shadow just a bit, never wholly present, that bothered her if she really thought about it.
That, and she’d never actually seen the guy’s face. That was just plain creepy.
“What is the problem here?” said Night softly, and Iridium knew somehow he was using the exact same tone on the Superintendent that he used on street criminals when he was on active duty.
“This … girl … has repeatedly flouted authority in her time here,” the Superintendent sputtered, getting wound up again. “And today she assaulted another student and rendered the girl unconscious. Her attitude is appalling, she has anger and aggression problems, and I am placing her in Therapy.”
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