… telling her …
“It’s too soon,” he says, stroking her face, “I know it’s too soon, but Joannie, I gotta tell you this before I burst, and I hope to heaven that you won’t run away.”
“You can tell me,” she says, a fluttering in her belly and a strange light sensation in her chest. “You know you can tell me anything.”
And he smiles—oh sweet Jehovah, his eyes are so bright—and he says, “I love you.”
She cries then, a little, and he’s afraid he’s scared her off, and then she starts laughing and she’s kissing him and telling him that she loves him too …
“Jet? Come on, answer me.”
Iridium again. Jet lifted her head and didn’t reply. Sam was talking to her, the memory of Samson was holding her and telling her it was all going to be okay …
“I swear,” Jet says, hearing the whine in her voice and helpless to stop it, “I’ll never get this right!”
“Of course you will.” Sam’s hands are strong and soothing, massaging away her tension.
“I won’t! I go by the book, follow the moves exactly how I’m supposed to. But then Iri goes and improvises, and I land flat on my back with her heel on my neck!” Jet lets out a wretched laugh. “How’m I supposed to study improvisation?”
“You’re doing great, honey. Iri’s used to thinking outside of the text. And she’s okay with fighting dirty.”
“We’re not supposed to fight dirty.”
“I know. But I think that’s just in the Academy. I think in the real world, we’re supposed to fight to win.”
“If the real world doesn’t do what I expect, then I’m in trouble.” She closes her eyes, leans back against his broad chest. “I’m terrible at this. I’m no hero.”
“You are, Jet.” He turns her around and tilts her head up until she’s gazing into his eyes. “We’re heroes, all of us. We’ve got these powers for a reason. We’re meant to help people.”
She says, “But I can’t do what Iri does.”
And he smiles and strokes her cheek. “So do what Jet does.”
“I have no idea what Jet does.”
“And you have plenty of time to find out. You are a hero, honey. Even if you don’t feel like one. Don’t worry. It’s all going to be okay.”
The Superintendent was speaking again, getting ready to introduce someone else who would talk about how important heroes were and why they all need to be strong and not saying a damn thing about Sam.
That was the only thing that mattered now: Today had to be about Sam.
Jet stood.
“What are you doing?” Iridium hissed. “Sit down!”
Jet walked out of the row of seats, stepping over feet that didn’t shuffle out of her way, leaving a wake of buzzing voices. The vids didn’t swarm to her until she started walking down the main aisle and headed toward the stage. Then they were on her, their lights glaring and the sudden silence so thick that she barely heard the cameras’ mechanical whirls.
It didn’t matter. Only doing right by Sam mattered.
He would have done the same for her.
No one stopped Jet from ascending onto the stage, and when she approached the podium, the Superintendent said to the room, “But first, one of our Third Years wishes to speak a few words. Jet, go ahead.”
She stared at the audience, but all she could see was the lights from the vids and the overheads. And even though she had no idea why she was onstage at all or what she was going to say, she opened her mouth and spoke.
“This isn’t about why we’re heroes.” Her voice was soft, and if the microphones weren’t there, even the people in the first row would not have heard her. “This isn’t about the way things are in the world. This is about a fifteen-year-old boy whose designation was Samson. But his name was Joseph Rogers.”
“You can call me Joe,” he says to her Second Year, that day when he followed her out of Lancer’s class.
“We’re not supposed to use names,” she replies.
“Yeah, and teachers aren’t supposed to break the rules whenever they want.” His smile is big, huge, and it eats his face. “And we’re not supposed to talk back to them. If you don’t like Joe, you can call me Sam. Lots of people do.”
She laughs softly and offers her hand. “I’m Joan. Joannie.”
“Joe was an Earth power,” Jet said, using his given name on purpose, even though it was foreign on her tongue. “And he was as strong as you’d think. But he was also kind. And sweet. He always, always helped out whenever he could. And he wasn’t afraid to speak up when he thought something was not fair or just.”
“But sir,” Samson says, “all she was doing was defending herself. You’re the one who let Hornblower attack first with his power.”
At that, Lancer cuts his gaze over Jet’s shoulder. “Samson, you questioning how I run this class?”
A pause, and then: “In this case, yes, sir.”
“He was my friend,” Jet said, her voice caught on a sob. “And I loved him. And I’m going to miss him terribly. Without him, the world isn’t as good as it was when he was in it.”
She took a deep breath. “We’re heroes, even if we don’t feel heroic, or if we’re scared, or if we want to quit and walk away. And we’re told that we can’t let death stop us, that it’s a risk we all face daily.” Jet paused, and when she spoke again there was an edge of steel in her voice. “But Joe died a stupid death. He shouldn’t have died. That was horrible and wrong, and nothing will ever make it right.”
“Nothing is going to happen today,” Sam says, sliding an arm around Jet’s waist. “It’s a good day.”
“Joseph Rogers would be the first person to say that we’re heroes for a reason, that we’re meant to help others. Well, he didn’t get a chance to show the world what he could do as Samson. But he helped me, more than I could ever say. And for that, I say to him: Thank you, Joe. Thank you, Samson.”
“I love you, Joannie,” Sam says, and everything is right with the world, and she could never imagine that it’s all going to fall apart not even a week later.
“Thank you for being my friend,” Jet said softly, “for helping me when I needed help. For making me laugh. For having my back. For holding my hand.” Tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t acknowledge them. “Thank you for your courage, and for your strength. Thank you for your smile, for your good humor. Thank you for being a true hero, and a truer friend.”
She bowed her head. “Good-bye, Samson.”
Brushing the tears from her cheeks, Jet exited the stage. No one stopped her when she left the assembly hall. She walked out of the Academy, her head high, breathing the cool autumn air. She thought she felt Sam squeeze her shoulder, but it wasn’t him at all.
“Jet,” Night said, not at all cold. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, sir.” Was that her voice, so curiously flat, sounding so unlike herself? “You could have said so to me yesterday.”
A long pause before Night spoke. “Yes. That was insensitive of me, and I regret that. But you were in shock, and I said what I did to try to snap you out of it.” He sighed. “Even heroes make mistakes.”
Oh yes, they surely do.
Night said, “Your tribute to Samson will probably be repeated by the media for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the week. What you just did back there was the best thing you could have done for Samson’s memory. And,” he added softly, “for yourself.”
She couldn’t bring herself to thank him; she wouldn’t have meant the words.
“You’ve more strength in you than you realize,” he said. “Your speech just now made that very clear. You’ll heal, Joan. You’ll move on.”
“Maybe I don’t want to move on, sir.”
“Maybe not right now. But you will. You’re a hero, Jet. And if you want Samson’s death to have any meaning at all, you’ll let his dedication to helping others be your beacon. Your guiding light in the dark.”
Her fist trembled,
and that was when she realized she’d been about to lash out and hit Night. Hissing out a breath, she unclenched her hand. “Yes, sir.”
“Put the earpiece back in, Jet. And then let’s get you back inside.”
The device back in her ear, Jet allowed Night to lead her back into the Academy, safe behind its walls.
CHAPTER 35
IRIDIUM
The psychological toll on extrahumans in training is sometimes severe, but with very few exceptions our conditioning enables them to cope with the demands of heroism. No counseling support is deemed necessary at the time of this report’s publication.
Internal report circulated to the Executive Committee
Iridium sat down across from Frostbite, and jerked her chin at the hunched, silent figure on the other side of the cafeteria. “Any change?”
Frostbite refroze his blueberry slush and sucked on it through his straw. “That’s a big negatory. Not tears, not smiling. Just sitting, and staring. Sorta creepy, honestly. It’s been what, two weeks?”
“Her grief is weighing her down,” Chen said. “You can see it in her body, in the way she moves.”
“I’m going to try again.” Iridium picked up her tray, winding between tables until she sat down across from Jet. “Hey, stranger. We’ve missed you at lunch.”
Jet pushed her vegetable stir-fry from side to side on her tray but didn’t take a bite. “I just want to be alone.”
“Okay, but it’s been two weeks,” Iridium said, echoing Frostbite. “Do you want to talk about it, maybe?”
Jet looked up, her eyes flat. “About what?”
Iridium sighed. “Samson dying was terrible, it’s true—”
“Heroes aren’t stopped by death,” Jet said shortly. “We hold our heads up and do our duty. For Corp, and for the people.”
Iridium rolled her eyes. “Is that what Night said, to try and placate you?”
“It’s the truth. The sooner you realize that, Iridium, the better off you’ll be.”
Iridium picked up Jet’s chocolate milk from her tray and dumped it down the front of Jet’s unikilt.
Jet shrieked, jumping away from the table. Glaring at Iri, she snapped, “What was that for?”
“To wake you up!” Iridium shouted. “Stop acting like Samson dying doesn’t bother you! I hear you crying at night, Jet. I hear the nightmares. His death was wrong, so drop the act!”
Jet raised her chin. “Death is a fact of life when you’re a hero. All it does is strengthen your resolve.”
“We’re not heroes,” Iridium said through clenched teeth. “Not yet. Our friend—your boyfriend— died point-lessly. How can you can actually stand there and say that it doesn’t bother you?”
Jet trembled for a moment, then Iridium watched her friend visibly shed her emotions. It was utterly terrifying to watch. “What’s done is done,” she said coldly, sounding just like Night. “And speak for yourself, when you say we’re not heroes. Corp’s been begging for my attention lately.”
“Because of the passionate speech you gave. At your boyfriend’s funeral.”
Jet’s eyes narrowed. “You should be careful of what you say, Iridium. The child of a known rabid has to work extremely hard to find sponsors and build her image.”
“Oh, fuck image,” Iridium hissed. “The only image you have is of the little girl with the crazy father.” She knew that it was a horrible, hurtful thing to throw at Jet, but she kept going. She hoped Jet would cry, slap her, summon Shadows and destroy the cafeteria—anything to show she wasn’t brainwashed.
Because if Iridium hadn’t known better, she would have sworn Jet had gone to Therapy.
“That’s preferable to the image of the immature child with the felon father,” Jet said in that same dead tone, the Nothing-to-See-Here tone. She picked up a napkin and blotted at her unikilt. “I have a press conference with the Squadron tomorrow, and then Night mentioned that the city wanted to talk with me about doing a public-service announcement.” She tossed the napkin onto her tray. “I’m excused from field training for the next week. You’ll have to find a new partner until I get back.”
She grabbed her lunch tray—her food still untouched—and started to walk away.
Desperately, Iridium said, “Don’t you miss him?”
Jet paused. With a struggle, she ground out, “No.” Then she deposited her tray by the designated return station and walked out of the cafeteria.
Iridium slumped back in her seat, tears that she hadn’t shed in her entire time at the Academy brimming. No matter how much it hurt, she never cried. But this was a different kind of pain, an insidious, ephemeral type she couldn’t guard against.
If this was being a superhero, she didn’t want it.
CHAPTER 36
JET
The Everyman Society is the Squadron’s most vocal opponent. A humans-first activist group, Everyman purports to hold a 48% approval rating among populations in the United and Canadian States of America. If you believe their stats, more than 39% of Greater America are in or have family members in the Society. That must be very sobering to Corp.
Lynda Kidder, “The Plight of Everyman,” New Chicago Tribune, September 10, 2112
They walked beneath the city, slowly, with Moore leading and Jet following, picking their way through the tunnels of the Rat Network. Around them was nothing but gloom that receded into damp shadows; the rounded passages hinted at what might have once been plast, or maybe steel, which was now nothing but water-smoothed blackness festered with mildew and rot. Eye-watering stench—raw sewage; filth; sodden decay—turned breathing normally into an Olympic feat. Sounds were both amplified and muffled, overriding the steady white noise from Jet’s comlink, filling her ears instead with the plunk-plunk-plunk of their footsteps, the constant drip of unseen water, and the buzzing spurts from overhead that must have been early-morning traffic on the streets of New Chicago.
All in all, Jet would rather have been in bed. Or curled up in her rocker with a paperback romance. Or doing something altogether inappropriate with her new Runner.
The sewers, she thought morosely. It had to be the sewers, didn’t it? Why were hostages never held for ransom or for torture in penthouse apartments?
They sludged forward, and Jet tried not to think about what diseases were in the water they stepped through. Moore carried a lightstick, which he held like a holy object. For her part, Jet saw well enough. Perk of her optiframes. But they did precious little to block out the voices, which even now she heard pressing around her, waiting for her to get careless. Which was stupid; even now, her comlink hummed its white-noise hum. The voices couldn’t touch her. Not even here, in the pit of the world.
She pressed her lips together and marched on, pretending that she wasn’t afraid.
You scare easy, Iridium’s voice hissed.
When it came to the dark? Oh, yeah. She knew what went bump in the night. And it had teeth.
But she was the damn hero. So on she went.
More to distract herself from the looming threat of the whispers in the dark than out of actual desire for conversation, she said, “So you believe that I’m a time bomb?”
If Moore responded, she couldn’t hear it over their plunking footfalls, over the slow but maddening drip of water. Maybe his reply got eaten by the odor, which was rancid enough to be its own life-form. Her nostrils flared as she exhaled sharply. Damn it to Darkness, she was going to have to burn this skinsuit after they got Kidder out of here. Probably the cape and cowl too. Maybe Bruce would be a dear and get the whole enchilada dry-cleaned.
Enchilada. Heh.
She smiled, remembering the taste of the spicy food on her tongue. That really had been sweet of him. Bruce Hunter hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he’d read her file. Mexican food. Jet shook her head, the smile softening. He was … sweet.
She wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
“All of you.”
Jet blinked, lost the pleasant daze of imagining Bruce’s
lips on hers. “Pardon me?”
“It’s not just you. All of you extrahumans are set to go off.”
“And … what, explode? Have a mental breakdown? A stroke?”
“Yes.”
She arched an eyebrow, which he couldn’t see. To his back, she asked, “Which is it, then? If I’m a doomsday machine, I’d really like to know which symptoms to look out for. I fully believe in prior planning.”
“It’s different for each of you, depending on your genetic structure.” He risked a look back at her, over his shoulder. She saw fear in his eyes, yes … but also something else. Incredulousness? Or … Light help her, pity? No, she had to be misreading him.
And she had this nagging sense that he looked familiar.
He said, “You really mean to tell me you don’t know any of your kind who inexplicably started breaking down, either mentally or physically?”
A flash from Second Year: Dawnlighter bleeding from her nose and ears, shooting fireballs at Jet because she was a filthy Shadow, at Iri because she dared to have a costume that was also white …
Jet tripped, but quickly righted herself before she stumbled into the murky water. “Of course,” she said primly. “But that’s nothing more than an unfortunate side effect. This isn’t exactly a low-pressure occupation.”
“No,” he agreed, sounding grave. “It’s suicide. Or, depending on how many humans are around you when you finally go, homicide.”
Jet swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. What Moore said made a frightening kind of sense—the kind that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with a primordial instinct that explained the ways of the universe. An extrahuman race memory, perhaps. The sun brings light; the gods bring destruction.
Get ahold of yourself, woman!
Schooling her face to impassivity, she said, “You’re awfully sure of yourself, considering you’ve admitted you don’t have the hard data to back this up.”
“I see things.” Moore stared ahead as he kept walking. “Files that never existed. Conversations that never happened. Anything that once was data in Corp’s systems, I’ve seen it before it was obliterated. And I know how to connect the dots.”
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