“Nothing down there saw her. Neither did I.”
Robin notices the anxious look on Mermaid’s face. She probably wants to get back to her kid. “You can go back to Pacifica if you want. There’s probably nothing more for you to do.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s all right,” Velocity Gal says. “Robin and I can handle it. Tell Erek hello.”
“I will.”
After Mermaid is gone, Velocity Gal turns to Robin. “So what’s the plan?”
“I have no idea.”
***
Greta feeds Starla the chicken noodle soup as if she’s an invalid. At the moment Starla supposes she is an invalid. Just to sit up in bed requires a monumental effort.
At least Greta doesn’t make airplane noises as if Starla is a baby. The only sound is that of Starla slurping the soup down. Ma taught her it’s rude to slurp, but she can’t help it at the moment. She’s lucky to be able to do this much.
By the time they’re finished, Starla feels slightly better. She sags against the headboard, but at least she doesn’t feel ready to pass out. “Thank you so much,” she says. Her voice still sounds strange to her ears; it’s like someone took her normal voice and put it on fast forward like those cartoon chipmunks.
“I couldn’t forgive myself if I left an innocent girl like you to those awful men.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” Starla shivers as she thinks what they would have done with her. She starts to wonder if it was really such a good idea to become a normal woman. Losing her powers left her at the mercy of those vagrants.
She doesn’t realize she’s crying until Greta presses a handkerchief into her hand. The old woman pats her back. “There now, it’s all right. No one’s going to hurt you anymore.”
“Thanks.” Starla dabs at her eyes. She thinks back to her brief time as Anorexic Girl. After what Dr. Roboto had done to her, she had sworn she would never be so powerless again. Yet now she’s as powerless, if not more so. What has she done? She should call Robin and ask her for a ride back to the Crystal Lair. Maybe the computer has a way to reverse this.
No, not yet. Greta is right; she’s fine now. She’s safe for the moment. There’s no need for her to panic. She needs to relax and focus on getting back her strength—such as it will be.
“Is there anything else you’d like?” Greta asks. “I don’t have a portable television, but maybe you’d like a radio?”
“It’s all right. You’ve done so much for me already.” Before the old woman can go, Starla feels a nagging in her bladder. “Could you help me to the bathroom?”
“Of course, dear.” Greta does most of the work to get Starla out of the bed.
Once Starla is on her feet, she realizes she’s wearing a light pink nightgown, not her Apex Girl costume. She puts a hand to the hair that has been shorn as well. “What happened to my clothes?”
“I took them off to clean them. Though that fabric isn’t like anything I’ve seen before. Must be one of those exotic synthetic blends.”
“You could say that,” Starla says. “What happened to my hair?”
“Oh, I’m afraid it was so tangled and dirty I thought it best to chop most of it off.” The old woman frowns. “I hope you’re not too angry.”
“No, it’s fine,” Starla mumbles. She would rather Greta hadn’t cut her hair or changed her clothes, but she supposes she must have been pretty filthy after landing in a trash heap beneath the overpass.
“Why were you wearing that costume? Halloween isn’t for over a month.”
“Oh, well, my normal clothes got ruined and that’s all I could find.”
“I should have some clothes you can wear that won’t be quite so conspicuous. If that’s all right?”
“That would be great.”
Greta helps Starla onto the toilet, but thankfully leaves the room after that. The effort to pee almost prompts Starla to pass out again. How embarrassing would it be for the mighty Apex Girl to fall off a toilet and crack her head open on the bathtub? She can imagine how Rad Geiger or her other enemies would laugh at that.
With renewed determination she gets to her feet. She toddles over to the sink to wash her hands. The sink is one of those old models that’s free standing, not built into a counter. From what little she has been able to see, she imagines Greta’s house was built in the late 19th or early 20th Century. It probably belonged to her parents, who passed it down to her, the way the Shaw farm had been passed down the years. But now there’s no one to inherit it.
Or is there? Now that her life won’t be dominated by the craziness of being a superhero, maybe she can go see Ma and Pa. She can explain what happened to her. Thanks to what happened to Melvin Amis and the others, the world knows such instant sex changes are possible. There’s no reason for them to doubt her.
It might be nice to return to Rockford. She can start over there as a simple farmgirl. Maybe she can work at the local paper as a reporter—or a copy editor. She wouldn’t mind that.
Greta taps on the door. “Are you all right, Star?”
“I’m fine. I was washing my hands.”
Greta opens the door. She has something white in her hands. It’s not until it ends up in Starla’s hands that she realizes it’s a pair of glasses. They’re unfashionable cat’s eye-shaped glasses, probably from the 50s or 60s. “These were my sister’s when she was about your age. I thought perhaps they’d help you keep from squinting so much. You’ll get crow’s feet like that.”
“My mom used to say the same thing.” She puts the glasses on. The room comes into focus. Starla leans towards the mirror to get a better look at her new face. It still looks so young; she’ll never be able to buy a bottle of liquor.
She giggles at this thought. “What’s so funny?” Greta asks.
“It’s nothing. Just a silly thought.” She collapses against Greta to hug her. “Thank you so much for this.”
“You’re very welcome, young lady. Now, you should get back to bed. You need to get your rest.”
“Yes ma’am.” She leans against Greta to let the old woman help her back to bed. The moment her head touches the pillow, Starla is asleep again.
Chapter 7
In the morning Starla is strong enough to down a soft-boiled egg, piece of toast, and cup of coffee. Greta had set the morning edition of the Star on the tray along with the food. Starla waits until the old woman takes the tray downstairs before she opens the newspaper.
There, on the bottom of the front page, is an article about her. “Local Copy Editor Vanishes.” The article is written by Kate King and includes Starla’s photo from her security badge. She reads through the article, unconsciously counting the number of typos, but no one seems to know more than Starla disappeared from her office on the tenth floor with the door locked. Foul play is not suspected, so far at least.
Starla wonders if Greta has seen this article yet and if she’ll connect the dots. The name and time of her disappearance would coincide with that of Starla Marsh, but the face in the newspaper is now much different from her current one. Perhaps that will be enough for Greta not to suspect anything.
In either case, Starla knows she should leave soon. The only question is where she’ll go. By now the police have probably checked her apartment; they might have someone stationed there. If the police don’t, then it’s very likely Robin will have some kind of device planted there. That is if Robin is looking for her yet. All the Super Squad will know is that Starla Marsh has disappeared; they won’t know Apex Girl is gone yet. For all they know, she might be at the Crystal Lair or in space.
Starla groans as she gets to her feet. One slow step at a time, she toddles over to the corner of the room, where Greta has left her costume. Starla picks it up and stares at it. She can’t go out in this. It’s much too big on her now, not to mention she’ll be pretty conspicuous in a cape. She can’t go out in a nightgown either.
There’s a knock on the door. “Are you decent?” Greta asks.
&nbs
p; “Yes.”
She tries to make it back to the bed, but she’s too late. Greta smiles at her. “You seem much better this morning.”
“I am, thanks to you.”
“It’s no bother.” Greta tilts her head to one side. “I suppose we should find you something to wear. Unless you plan on walking around in that Halloween costume?”
“No, thanks.”
“You wait right here and I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Sure.” Starla sinks back onto the bed. She makes sure to flip the newspaper over so the article about her isn’t readily visible. No need to take chances.
After a few minutes, Starla begins to wonder if perhaps Greta has gone to call the police to tell them the Star’s missing copy editor is in her spare bedroom. Starla doesn’t know how she can explain things without revealing the full truth. Any cop who sees her and her old picture is going to know something weird has happened. Maybe she could tell them she was captured by a villain and experimented on. That’s a plausible story in Atomic City.
When the door opens, it’s Greta in the doorway without a squad of police officers. She carries a bundle of olive green and plaid. “These also belonged to my sister. I think she was about your size.”
“Thank you so much,” Starla says, though she’s reluctant to put on another woman’s clothes. Still, she supposes she doesn’t have much choice in the matter.
She toddles across the room again, this time into the bathroom. She’s sure Greta is waiting outside the door in case Starla needs help. She’s tempted to call for help as she fumbles with the buttons on a pale yellow blouse. Between that and wrestling on the plaid skirt, she’s about ready to pass out again. She leans against the wall to rest for a moment.
“Are you all right?” Greta asks through the door.
“I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute,” Starla says, trying to sound as cheerful as she can. She slips on the olive green sweater Greta included.
When she turns to the mirror, she frowns. Between the glasses and the clothes, she looks ready to go to a sock hop. That or pose as an extra in Happy Days. But as Ma always said, beggars couldn’t be choosy and without a cent to her name right now, Starla is certainly a beggar.
She opens the bathroom door and waits as Greta stares at her for a moment. “Well, aren’t you pretty as a picture?”
“Thanks.”
“You are almost the spitting image of Darlene, rest her soul.”
“What happened to her?”
“Oh my, she passed away a long time ago. There was an accident after the prom her senior year. Her boyfriend’s car went off the road and they were both killed.”
“I’m sorry,” Starla says.
“Don’t worry about it,” Greta says. She forces a smile to her face. “Why, your mother was probably a wee thing when it happened. Come on, I’ve got some shoes downstairs you can wear too.”
“Are we going somewhere?” Starla asks. Maybe Greta has figured out who she is and plans to drop her off at a police station.
“If you’re up to it, I thought we could do something about your hair.”
“Oh.” Starla pats her ragged hair; she isn’t sure she wants to be stuck in a beauty parlor right now, when she’s so vulnerable. All she needs is one patron or passerby to recognize her and then everything will fall apart. “It’s all right like this.”
“Nonsense,” Greta says. “Don’t you worry about the cost of it. I’ll take care of everything.”
“I couldn’t let you do that.”
“It’s my treat, dear. If you’re ever going to get a job, you can’t look like you were attacked by a pair of scissors—and lost.”
Starla smiles as she thinks back to when she was seven years old and tried to give herself—himself at the time—a haircut. Ma had said the same thing Greta had. “All right, but I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
“I’m sure you will.” Greta takes her arm to lead her down the stairs. Appropriately a pair of saddle shoes waits for her to complete the outfit. Starla can’t manage the laces, so Greta bends down to do them for her. Then the old woman puts an arm around Starla’s shoulder. “Let’s be going now.”
Starla allows Greta to lead her through the doorway, onto the sidewalk. She blinks a few times in the light, her eyes struggling to adjust. Then they join the pedestrian traffic already heavy as people go to work. No one gasps in shock or gapes in surprise or does a double-take. Starla is safe—for now.
***
Out of any worthwhile ideas, Robin sits at the back of Expresso’s, Starla’s favorite coffeehouse in the city. She supposes it’s unlikely Starla will walk in the door, but it’s the only thing left she can think of. If nothing else, Robin could use some coffee after spending the last sixteen hours looking for Apex Girl.
Allison sits next to her, staring into her cup. Neither of them is dressed in their uniforms at the moment, allowing them to blend in. Anyone who looks at them probably thinks Allison is her mother from the age difference. Robin tries not to shiver at this thought.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” Allison says. Between them on the table is a copy of the Atomic City Star, which has Starla’s disappearance on the front page. “I never thought something could happen to her.”
“Nothing? Like maybe getting turned into a girl?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s different. I never thought anything could kill her.”
“We don’t know that’s what happened.”
“What other explanation is there? She flew off into space?”
“It’s possible,” Robin says, though she finds it unlikely from the readings she picked up. “Or maybe some visitors came for her.”
“Visitors no one saw?”
“It’s a big universe. There’s a lot of it we haven’t seen.”
“I never thought the day would come when you’re trying to find the silver lining.”
“Strange times.”
“How’s Melanie doing?”
“Fine, as far as I know.”
“It’s got to be rough, her going to school so far away. I remember when I went off to Johns Hopkins for my PhD and had to leave Sally behind. It really tore me up inside. I wasn’t sure we would make it.”
“We’re fine,” Robin snaps. She doesn’t know why everyone insists on talking to her about Melanie, as if it’s any of their business. She supposes it’s her problem for bringing Melanie onto the team; it was always easier to keep her personal life personal before that.
Allison tries to take her hand, but Robin is quick to shake it away. “It’s OK to be in love. It’s OK to be happy.”
“That’s what my therapist says.” Which is true. Dr. Hanover is always talking about how Robin needs to open herself up to happiness and not expect everything to go horribly wrong at any moment. Easier said than done. “Can we drop it?”
“Sorry.” Allison gulps down some coffee while Robin checks over the room again. Still no sign of Starla.
But a familiar face does appear in the doorway: Kate King, ace reporter for the Star and the girl whom Stan Shaw had chased after like a puppy for the better part of a decade. Robin watches King go up to the counter. Even from back here it’s clear the woman is a wreck: her makeup is smeared, her hair is uncombed, and her clothes are wrinkled. Did she really care that much about Starla? By all accounts Kate and Starla had been on the outs after the thing with Dr. Roboto when Starla began hanging out with that pipsqueak photographer.
King is dumping money into the barista’s hand when her phone rings. Robin reaches for her own phone. If Starla did go off somewhere to sulk, who might be the first on her call list? Robin presses a few buttons on her phone, allowing her to eavesdrop on King’s phone. It’s not Starla; it’s Larry Black, the editor of the paper.
“There’s something going down in New Zealand,” Black says. “I need you on it.”
Robin turns her phone to CNN in time to see a grainy image of robots marauding through a fishing village. She turns to Allison. “
Looks like we got work to do.”
Chapter 8
Starla is the youngest person in the salon by probably thirty years. Around her are a bunch of little old ladies with white or silver hair. She looks down shyly at her feet, feeling like a kid again. She wishes they could go somewhere with people her own age; better yet would be to return to Greta’s house.
After twenty minutes of staring down at her saddle shoes, Greta pats her on the shoulder. “It’s your turn now, dear.”
She motions to an empty chair, beside which is a woman about Greta’s age, her hair tinted bright orange to put Starla in mind of a clown. This is the person she’s supposed to trust to style her hair? Still, she doesn’t see any choice without hurting Greta’s feelings.
“Well, look at you!” the stylist gushes as if Starla is three years old. “I bet you’re another of Greta’s foundlings, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
The old woman clucks her tongue. “Greta really did a number on you, didn’t she?”
“It was my fault,” Starla says. “She did the best she could.”
“I’m sure she did. Let’s see what we can do to fix it, shall we?” The stylist holds out her hand. “My name’s Harriet.”
“Star.”
“That’s an interesting name. Your parents some kind of hippies?”
“It’s an old family name.”
“Oh, I see. I was named for my great-grandma.” Harriet twirls a plastic smock around to lay over Starla’s chest. As she does, the television in the corner brings up a special report. Before Starla can see what’s going on, Harriet takes her glasses and then begins to comb her hair.
Starla strains to listen to the anchor on the screen. From what she can gather, there’s been some kind of attack on New Zealand. “Oh no,” she whispers.
“Another robot attack?” Harriet clucks her tongue again. “Things were a lot safer with those supermen around. Those girls they got now don’t seem up to it.”
“They’re doing their best,” Starla says while inside she chides herself for being so selfish as to abandon her friends when they would need her. No, they can handle this. They’ll find a way. And maybe this way fewer people will die.
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