Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape)

by Marion G. Harmon

  “Last night, Astra spotted him and made a grievous tactical error. She tried to capture him, knowing that he could teleport others besides himself. The image on the left is a shot of her target from Rush’s helmet-cam in the moment before Astra grabbed him. Quite obviously, Astra was not able to handle what she found at the other end.”

  Astra couldn’t handle — She’d buried Seif-al-Din, taken down a godzilla, we’d just watched her and Watchman finish a far from one-sided beat-down on an absolute combat-monster.

  “Do we know anything, yet?” Watchman asked. He hadn’t said a word until now, and kept flexing his fists like he wanted to meet whatever Astra couldn’t handle. Everyone looked at Blackstone, but I looked at Shelly.

  The robot-girl was starting to seriously worry me. I knew her unfocused stare meant she was tapping the Internet plus every accessible or hackable signal source around — the way she’d hit every security camera on Michigan Avenue the day I’d been shot at. But she’d only taken a second, then; now she’d just sat through the entire show without blinking or responding to anyone around her.

  She’d explained to me that she had completely downloaded herself into her current “prosthetic body,” that she wasn’t piloting it remotely because she didn’t live somewhere else or online — her brain was in there, protected inside a titanium-alloy sphere in her skull — but she was wired. Now all she’d say was she was “searching,” and she stayed that way until the rest of the team returned to base and we all went back to bed. She stayed that way now.

  Blackstone looked her way too, shook his head.

  “No. We do know now that it wasn’t a planned grab, but what this means from their side remains pure conjecture. We don’t know our enemy or their motives, and so can only guess at their methods or what they will do with her now that they have her.

  “Eric Ludlow, Dozer, has invoked his Miranda Rights and is not giving us anything. Ozma,” he acknowledged the sun-haired goddess listening politely, “has reported that she cannot locate Astra using her mirrors. As I said last night, we are doing everything we can. We do have leads. Astra personally turned my attention to a group that may be behind the Wreckers, or at least a potential link to them. We are calling in all our resources, including some that we cannot field officially. That is my responsibility, however. The focus of this team must be elsewhere.”

  Ignoring the round of protests, he brought up the Green Man’s leaf-face icon.

  “The city may be coming apart, but the Guardian teams can handle the goon-on-villain action and, if need be, support the CPD in the case of further riots. This team must be ready for the next attack. Again, regarding yesterday,” he nodded to The Harlequin, “Quin believes that our new members couldn’t have made a better entrance, publicity-wise. Now when we make the formal announcement, the public will have already seen all of you in action.

  “But although yesterday’s action can only be considered a success in the sense that we managed to prevent a high number of casualties, the attack has yielded us a great deal of information. We now have a much better understanding of our enemy.”

  You could have heard a pin drop as the Green Man symbol changed to a drone’s-eye view of O’Hare.

  “The first and most obvious commonality between the two attacks is the source: both attacks originated from a contained body of water: Potowatomi Lake and Lake O’Hare. Also, both attacks were aimed at transport centers — and ecologically, air transport is the most fuel-intensive and therefore most polluting method of transport there is. The second observation gives us a good idea of the Green Man’s targeting priorities, but we will not assume that he intends to restrict himself to such targets. The first observation provided our entry-point into understanding his nature.”

  The picture changed again, this time to a thermal imaging shot of the airport. The clock in the corner of the frame unfroze and began fast-forwarding.

  “This footage was recorded by a patrol drone that caught the start of the attack. You will observe the bottom right corner of the picture.”

  The spot marked Lake O’Hare looked indistinguishably blue against the surrounding field, then a point of green appeared and spread to cover the lake. The green shifted to yellow, to orange, and finally to red before exploding outward, red at the edges, orange to yellow to green towards the center, but the lake stayed angry red. The red front of the attack met high energy opposition around the terminals (tagged for the heroes, including me), and we all watched as the lines stabilized, fluctuated, began to break towards the terminals and then died in a line spreading from the position marked by tags for Blue Fire and Ozma. Finally, the red heat-signature of the lake dropped to orange and continued to move back down the scale.

  Blackstone froze the picture.

  “The thermal recording of the attack confirms Chakra’s observations. She was able to psychically monitor the attack almost from its beginning. Chakra?”

  She smiled back at him, turned her head to look at us. “The attack is not directed by the Green Man,” she said softly. “The attack is the Green Man. It is best to think of the trees and plants he grows and controls as the cells of his body. The lake at the center, which investigators have found choked into a steaming soup of algae and water plants afterwards, is his heart, the source of his power.”

  Nobody said “What the hell?” or “You’re kidding.” They didn’t even blink. Riptide actually laughed.

  “So next time we drop a load of Agent Orange in the water and that’s it?”

  “Possibly a more thermal attack,” Blackstone corrected. “Although conclusions are preliminary, DSA researchers believe that chemical attacks would be ineffective against such robust growth. And of course we don’t want to poison the ground we’re fighting on.”

  There were nods and suggestions around the table, a group of costumed people considering ways and means of attacking a plant-mind, which was just weird. Jamal saw my expression and flashed a quick welcome to the game smile.

  “Hopefully,” Blackstone concluded, “we have a little while to prepare before the Green Man forces us to test conclusions again. In the meantime — ”

  “Wait,” Reese popped up. “Aren’t we just going to use Ozma’s blue fireguys again?”

  Blackstone frowned, rubbing his eyes. “Forgive me. I should have mentioned that Blue Fire’s experience yesterday was terribly debilitating. She is now being treated for extreme exhaustion, and there is no guarantee that she will be available for Ozma to work with next time. It is unwise to base a strategy upon a unique resource in any case, so we consider means that can be carried forward by more than one superhero on the spot.”

  More nods from the older capes, and Reese slumped in his seat muttering, “Whatever.” Ozma gave him a look and Grendel thumped him.

  The briefing went for another half-hour, updating the patrolling capes (Watchman, Variforce, and even Riptide in the current crisis) on known and possible threats, and bringing everyone up to speed on the other investigations associated with the team: the ongoing investigation of who fronted the guy who shot at me, and zero leads on whoever attacked Astra’s older brother. On that last one, The Harlequin stepped in to caution everyone.

  “Accusations are flying everywhere, people. The loudest noise, what set off yesterday’s riot, is that some of Shankman’s partisans, or thugs from Humanity First, decided to send a message. So for everyone here who hasn’t lived through a media-storm yet, the sacred words of holy truth are ‘No Comment.’ Variations like ‘I Can’t Comment On An Active Investigation’ are allowed, but be safe; if anyone outside this circle asks, your opinion is ‘No Comment.’”

  Her look promised she was dead serious and that any of us unwise enough not to take her seriously would be dead or wish he was, and nobody laughed at the rubber girl in the spandex clown costume. Okay...

  Blackstone cleared his throat.

  “People, we are on post from now until the Green Man matter is settled. If he does not attack again soon, hopefully the
DSA will have time to track him — that’s their job and they’re very good at it. Since he’s capable of uploading videofiles onto the net, either he is not a disembodied nature spirit all the time, or he has helpers — either way, the government is pouring hundreds of agency man-hours into figuring out where he came from and finding him.”

  He sighed, shoulders rounding before he pulled himself straight.

  “Everybody. I — all of us — want to focus on getting our teammate back. Please be aware that agency profilers suggest that in the Green Man we face a serious risk. Eco-terrorists such as the Green Man traditionally avoid inflicting casualties. However, his attacks are escalating. Three people have died, and City Hall is not responding to his demands. The experts judge it entirely possible that he may decide that the time for restraint is past if he is to achieve his objectives. If he does not draw back at the prospect of more killing, our next engagement may be far more desperate.”

  The meeting broke up with that, but Blackstone wasn’t finished with all of us; he tasked Brian and Watchman with the job of helping the CPD transfer Eric Ludlow to the Detroit Supermax — apparently an over-the-top A Class Ajax-type couldn’t be held safely in Chicago — and he kept me, Jamal, and Seven behind. While everyone else was doing busy stuff, we were to go to the hospital and watch over Astra’s brother and parents for the day, and then go to the airport to pick up one of the resources Blackstone had talked about calling in. She was arriving after sunset.

  She?

  Chapter Twenty Four: Astra

  By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.

  Confucius

  Just because you can do something, that doesn’t make it a good idea.

  Hope Corrigan, aka Astra

  * * *

  The bed shook, pitching me out of shallow sleep. Chakra had been calling me in my dreams but couldn’t hear my answer, and I didn’t remember why she would be looking for me until the bed’s push across the carpet brought me painfully awake.

  At least some plans go right; I was awake and the thick carpet made the bed dig in and gave whoever wanted in a hard, swearing time. My slight weight wasn’t stopping them so I slid off the bed and wobbled to my feet. Biting off a hiss as my shoulder screamed, I managed to be standing upright and facing the door when they got it open. We stared at each other. They couldn’t hear my racing heart or know I was working hard not to hyperventilate. I had no idea what they saw, but what I saw wasn’t that intimidating; just two guys, my business-bland teleporter and a dark-haired guy who looked like a fast food middle-manager. They couldn’t be as bad as Ripper. Could they?

  Middle Manager’s right eye twitched and my entire body fell asleep, numbed. I didn’t collapse into a heap because someone else was driving, and they wanted me to stay where I was. He winced sharply and pulled his left arm in to his side.

  He made me step further back and they moved quick, pushing the bed out of the way, then bringing in a linen-covered cart. Middle Manager gave me one last hard look, face clenched in pain, and they were gone. Suck it, tough guy. Not a nice thought, and a weepy part of me wanted him back when the door closed and the numbness left with him, but if someone else was going to drive my body, they were going to have to live with it, too.

  The thought kept my wailing panic at bay. A neuralkinetic — at least B-Class. Barlow’s Guide listed them as rare. What else? My poor little brain remembered the detail, obviously true, that neuralkinetics got their target’s own sensations as feedback. Which meant he also knew how hurt and — admit it — freaking terrified I was, too. My eyes prickled.

  I couldn’t hide anything. So not good.

  I sniffed, took a breath, and pulled the cover off the cart.

  Plate covers, and under them breakfast. Eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast, jam, orange juice, milk. What? Just... What? Dropping to the bed, I put my head on my knees until I got my breathing under control. Then I ate everything, wiping my eyes with the linen napkin.

  Finished, I pushed the bed back up against the door and cleaned up. Fortunately, the costume design meant I could reach all parts of me without having to remove the bodysuit top; I washed without showering — no way was I getting naked here. Pulling the top down far enough to clean my pits and look at my shoulder involved more hissing and crying. It was black. My face was purpling, too, but that didn’t scare me. By the time I finished cleaning up I was shivering almost too hard to stand, but I got back to the bed okay.

  And it was time to think. I didn’t want to.

  What did I know? Since nobody had come to my rescue in the night, wherever I was couldn’t be found, and if my dream was real then the place was shielded against magic and psychic detection. Which didn’t mean they wouldn’t find me, and telling myself that helped me breathe. Fisher had leads, and hideouts had to be built, which meant paper-trails somewhere. And this place was weird.

  It wasn’t a hotel or home, but the little room I was in wasn’t a cell (a careful look even found a phone-jack behind the tiny dresser). It only had space for the single narrow bed, and the doorway to the bathroom didn’t have a door in it; privacy was preserved by closing the bedroom door, which had obviously been lockable from the inside once upon a time.

  Climbing back to my feet, I confirmed that the bare walls couldn’t hide a camera anywhere, even in the light fixture. No way to prove I wasn’t being listened to (and Blackstone would be ashamed of me for taking this long to even think of any of that), but tapping proved the walls were interior drywall. Reinforced by something, but not concrete or brick, and the heavy door was just wood. Again, not a cell, and I had no idea what that meant, beyond the hopeful thought that whoever was in charge had never contemplated holding prisoners.

  Which didn’t mean they wouldn’t want to play, and just the thought of what Manager Man might want to do with his powers nearly made me lose my breakfast. I pushed that one down by focusing on plans — which in the end amounted to stealing the breakfast knife and hiding it under the mattress; if they didn’t miss it, I could use it to carve a message into the wallpaper behind the dresser or something. I couldn’t get more proactive than that, and I lay back down to rest my aching arm.

  Please, guys, get here soon. Please.

  Megaton

  Seven posted Jamal and me outside Toby Corrigan’s hospital room, two helmeted boy-wonders. It was easy to see Astra’s family had money; it was a nice room and so was the public lounge outside it. The place was its own little wing, four patient rooms watched by one nurse’s station with only one door into the place, which might be why they’d moved him up here.

  I tried to understand what Blackstone was thinking and came up blank, but even the CPD was worried enough to put two more cops outside the lounge. If they were cops; they looked suspiciously like Bob.

  Seven alternated between pacing and talking to Astra’s parents. Galatea’s — Shelly’s — mom had joined them after we got here. Shelly’s mom looked just like her, which would have meant great things for her if she’d grown up, but Astra’s parents not so much; Mrs. Corrigan was taller by at least a head and her dark pulled-back hair gave her tired face a witchy look. Mr. Corrigan was sandy haired and nearly as big as Brian. Then he smiled at something Seven said, and I saw where she got everything from. I looked away. Why were we here? I jumped when Galatea spoke in my ear.

  “Hey Mal, having fun guarding the Monster?” She sounded almost her normal annoying self, and I put a hand to my helmet so nobody would wonder if I was talking to thin air.

  “The who?”

  “The Monster. He and Hope are only a couple of years apart — he used to pull all sorts of tricks on us. I did a lot of supervillain sketches of him. By the way, there’s someone outside to see you...”

  Seven looked up and gave me a nod. Jamal shrugged. Okay... So the girl was a computer; I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the way she could talk to dif
ferent people at the same freaking time.

  Beyond the doors everything was normal hospital, and Galatea directed me down the hall to another public lounge, this one looking a lot more like a waiting room. Not that I paid attention; Tiffany was waiting for me — she spun around when I came through the door. Dad stood behind her.

  “Son,” he said. I almost walked out. Tiffany looked tragic, like she wanted to say something, but she looked at Dad and got out of the way. Dad took a step, stopped.

  “Your friend came by to see us this morning. She wanted to thank you. Someone named Shelly called and said you’d be here.”

  I was going to kill her. No, I was going to tell her I thought her mom was hot. “So you’re here why?”

  “To see that you’re all right.” He looked at the door, still open behind me. “Son, can we sit down?” Tiffany said something and slipped by me into the hall. I let go of the door handle, let it close, then felt stupid standing there and took a seat.

  “Okay, Dad. Sitting. So, what?”

  He looked at his hands, took a breath. “When I got home last night, Sydney told me you called. She wouldn’t stop crying, said your mother wouldn’t let you talk to her.”

  “Mom said you — ”

  “I wasn’t there, Son. Your mother and I have been...fighting.” He clenched his hands on his thighs, looked me in the eye.

  “Son, I didn’t want you wrestling. Your mind will last longer than your body, and I hated seeing you dropping science. You’ve got — But that’s all done.” He shifted uncomfortably. I got my size and weight from him. “Your mother left this morning. She’s taken Sydney and gone to her sister’s in Oregon. ‘Where it’s safe,’ she says.”