Shades of Gray

by Jackie Kessler; Caitlin Kittredge

  Black rolled over Iridium’s vision.

  “But is it Hypnotic?” a voice purred. “Or is it much closer to home?” A rough, stubby hand caressed her face. “Open your eyes, Calista. See what’s right in front of you.”

  When she opened her eyes, she was back in the old apartment building. Radar was staring back at her, his eyes gleaming. Iridium tried to jerk away, but the little man was far stronger than he looked.

  “You?” Iridium said. “Not Hypnotic? This is all your doing?”

  Black again, and Radar was gone, replaced by a tall, dark figure, a man in prison grays and eyes the color of tilithium.

  “Or perhaps it’s all the same,” Hypnotic said. “You’re so pretty, Calista. You look so much like your father. Are you as vain as him too? Because Luster was always the first to say he was a handsome devil.”

  Iridium’s legs folded, and she saw the apartment, light and bright and airy—your home, with your husband Bruce—around the corners of her vision.

  “There is no Radar,” she gritted. “It was you. It was always you.”

  “And you’re smart as your father.” Hypnotic offered his hand. “So a happy life isn’t what you want—fine. I can give you what you want … I can make it go away. The hate and derision on the hero’s faces. The fear of the citizens and the police. A father in prison and a life of loneliness.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed, tried not to listen. Her hand crept up, pressed the distress beacon on her earpiece. “Mayday,” she said, her voice shaking. “Hypnotic’s got us, took us down one by one. Backup, backup—”

  Lips brushed her other ear, the one without the comlink, and her words died on her tongue.

  “I can make it stop,” Hypnotic whispered.

  And Iridium listened.

  A crowd spread out before her, the sea of faces below the courthouse steps as the mayor shook her hand. “The Hero of New Chicago,” he said proudly. “Iridium!”

  Iridium’s costume wasn’t her normal unikilt. It was a white skinsuit, with a starburst insignia spread across her chest. Her mask shielded her eyes from the worst of the glare from the vids. Her cape billowed in the crisp breeze.

  “Smile, darlin’,” Bruce whispered in her ear. “This is what you always wanted.”

  Iridium turned to the crowd, smiling as they cheered for her. And their roars of approval swept her away.

  CHAPTER 39

  JET

  Therapy is the answer to the Extrahuman Question. Now all we have to do is sell it to the Executive Committee.

  —From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #61

  Jet yawned around her cup of coffee. “You’re sure there’s nothing?” she called out.

  “Nothing,” Meteorite replied, after a glance at one of her monitors. “All’s quiet. Finally.”

  “Stop worrying,” Firebug said around her croissant. She flipped her damp, bright orange hair away from her eyes, then winked. “They need us, they know where to find us.”

  They meaning the Runners on surveillance—five groups of four civilian men and women walking the streets. Patrolling, but reconnaissance only. More of the Runners were here at HQ, learning the ins and outs of the network from Meteorite, or poring through mounds of data with Frostbite. Still more of those normals dedicated to supporting extrahuman heroes would be arriving later that day, according to a message left by Taser.

  Jet had woken to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, which had all but yanked her off her cot. She hadn’t had a decent cup of liquid caffeine since … well, since before New Chicago had imploded. Following her nose, she staggered into the kitchenette. And then she’d nearly attacked the four strangers standing there.

  Okay, so she hadn’t exactly been expecting the Runners to be at Squadron HQ already. Whoops.

  After making her apologies, she tried to help them clean up—one of the four had dropped a tray of muffins (muffins!) in her surprise—but the Runners wouldn’t hear of it. One of them, a lanky man who introduced himself as Lowell, ushered her out of the tiny kitchen and promised that breakfast would be ready in ten minutes.

  Indulging in a second cup of coffee, Jet realized just how much she’d missed it. She picked at the remaining fruit on her plate, nibbled a strawberry. When she’d asked where the credit had come from to pay for all the extravagance, Meteorite had smiled sweetly at her.

  “Courtesy of Corp,” she’d replied. “Did I mention that we’d finished downloading all the files? Wouldn’t you know that one of the first ones we decrypted were charge codes? Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she added in a huff. “As far as I’m concerned, Corp owes us all. The least they can do is buy us breakfast.”

  Jet had wanted to argue, but the coffee overpowered her sense of right and wrong. At least she had insisted on a status report before she’d allowed herself to be seduced by carbs and caffeine. The numbers of rogues and rabids at large hadn’t changed, but so far this morning, there had been no extrahuman sightings, no in-progress crimes reported—nothing out of the ordinary, according to Meteorite. The lull was startling, to say the least.

  But look: doughnuts.

  Curled in one of the numerous booths of the main room, Jet held the porcelain cup close to her and enjoyed the feeling of warmth against her fingers. Sometimes, she forgot how cold her hands were when she didn’t wear her gauntlets.

  She sipped, marveling over how relaxed she felt. She hadn’t even finished getting battle-ready yet: Though she was in her skinsuit, boots, and belt, her gauntlets were on the table, her hair snaked down her back in a loose tail, and her optiframes rested high on her forehead. Her cloak was in one of the back rooms, draped over her cot. It almost felt like she was on vacation.

  The back of her neck tingled, and Jet stiffened abruptly before she cast a glance over her shoulder. Frostbite was looking at her oddly, his mouth pulled into a lopsided smile, his gaze on her but also somewhere else. She quirked a brow, and he let out a rueful chuckle.

  “Flashback to Second Year,” he said. “You and Iri, and me and Samson, overdosing on coffee during midyear exams.”

  A startled laugh escaped her as she remembered Sam, so big and so strong, jittering like a junked-up cat after he’d downed his fourth cup. “We’d run out of milk,” she remembered, “and the kitchen was closed because it was three in the morning.”

  “So from that point on, we took our coffee black,” he finished.

  They shared an easy laugh, and he raised his cup to her in salute. She did the same. Turning back in her seat, the smile stayed on her lips as she swirled the coffee in her cup. Thinking of Sam hadn’t hurt for the first time in … well, forever. It was a bittersweet memory, to be sure, but it didn’t dig a hole in her chest and threaten to scoop out her heart.

  Maybe she was finally letting him go.

  She ate another berry. “Still nothing?” she called out.

  “Christo,” Firebug muttered. “Someone put junk in your coffee? Calm down, Joannie. If we’re needed, she’ll tell us.”

  Jet knew that. But after a week of threat upon threat, she didn’t trust this sudden lack of crime.

  A trio of Runners marched in, carrying an assortment of boxes. “Personal goods from the Complex,” one of them announced with a grin. “Not much, but it’s the best we could do on short notice.”

  “And we had to wait until there was a security guard we trusted,” said another, laughing. “Still had to pretend we were looters.”

  The Complex: Corp-sponsored housing for all Squadron soldiers when they were off duty. When everything had imploded, Jet and the others had found out the hard way that their homes had been compromised. Jet grimaced, remembering Bigfoot crashing through her front door in the middle of the night, screaming about bugs and trying to stomp Jet to death.

  “A collection of 3-D films for Steele,” said the first, holding up a handful of memory sticks. “Hot off the remains of her vid rack from her apartment.”

  “Deadly.” Firebug grinned, motioning that she’d ta
ke the lot. “Harriet’s going to be thrilled to see those again.”

  “For Jet.” The third Runner approached Jet’s booth and set down a short stack of old-fashioned paperback romances. “It was a grab and dash from your apartment. Hope these are okay.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, dusting her fingertips over the well-worn covers. “Thank you so much. Really, these are marvelous.” Maybe she didn’t have her favorite rocker, but the books would do—would more than do. Ah, to allow herself the luxury of fiction, of happy endings. She smiled, felt something loosen between her shoulders. And as she relaxed, she heard a teenage girl whisper urgently, remembered the feeling of something pressing into her hand.

  “Say,” Jet said, “would one of you mind running an errand?”

  “Of course we don’t mind,” the second Runner said, laughing. “It’s in the job description.”

  Jet took out a key from her belt pouch—the key that the girl outside of the burning Everyman headquarters had given her. “Could you go to the Old Chicago Post Office and see what’s in this PO box?” Worst case: Jet was wrong about what “oh cipio” really was, and she wasted a Runner’s time. Best case: Jet was right, and the package that waited in the post office box wouldn’t literally blow up in Jet’s face when she opened it.

  “Sure thing,” said the first Runner, taking the key and heading for the door. “Back soon.”

  More goods were distributed. Between the food and the presents, it was like Christmas had come to the Squadron.

  Of course, even Christmas comes to an end.

  “Damn it, who turned this off?” Meteorite punched keys, then glared at the handful of Runners she’d been teaching. “A monitor does no good if it’s off, people!”

  Jet went cold. The doughnut she’d eaten settled like a rock in her stomach. “What happened?”

  “One of our newbies turned off our distress-call monitor!” Another heated glare that should have melted the brick face on the wall.

  “I was trying to adjust the volume,” one of the Runners said meekly, looking like she wanted to faint. “I’m sorry …”

  Meteorite waved her off as she peered at the machine on the other side of the bar top. She read the information, and Jet saw the horror in the woman’s eyes. “Oh Jehovah.”

  Frostbite was already by her side, looking at the information on her screen. Jet saw the blood drain from his face.

  She stood, demanding, “What is it?”

  “A distress call,” Frostbite said, his voice grave. “From Iridium, in Grid 21.”

  Hypnotic’s grid.

  Oh no.

  “She and a group of others had gone after Hypnotic, and he took them down, one by one.” Frostbite cursed. “The call came in at seven this morning.”

  More than two hours ago. As Jet had been taking her time over her first cup of coffee, Iri had been entering Hypnotic’s lair.

  “I’m sorry!” the Runner wailed.

  “Firebug, come on,” Jet said, sliding her optiframes in place as she marched to the door. Forget her cloak—there was no time. To Meteorite she said, “Contact Taser and Steele, have them meet us outside his lair.”

  “Joannie.” Firebug’s voice was a tortured whisper. “I can’t.”

  Jet paused midstride. She didn’t look back when she said, “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t know what he did to me,” Kai pleaded. “What he made me see. I can’t go back there, Joannie. I’m sorry.”

  “Save it,” Frostbite said, brushing past Jet. “Sheila, we’ll stay in full contact. If either of us stops responding when you call, assume the worst.”

  “Understood.” A pause, and then, “What happens in that case?”

  “We’ll be dead or enslaved,” Jet said crisply. “If no one’s left to fight, you tell Wagner what happened.” He’d tell Lee, and the mayor would have the hard decision of whether to risk innocent lives to go after Hypnotic. And Wagner would listen. He was a policeman, dedicated to saving lives and upholding the peace—but he also followed orders. If Lee told him and the National Guard to bomb Hypnotic for the greater good, he’d do it.

  Duty first, she thought grimly.

  “I’m sorry,” Firebug said again, sobbing. Or maybe that was the Runner who’d scorched everything by pressing the wrong button.

  “Come on, Joan,” Derek said, his eyes blazing. “Let’s go haul Callie’s ass out of the fire.”

  Jet didn’t bother trying to talk him out of it. Light knew, they needed all the help they could get.

  They bolted, leaving Firebug’s sobs far behind.

  Interlude

  Okay, Mr. McFarlane. Let’s do this again.”

  Garth sighs. He’s glad for his sunglasses; if the detectives see him rolling his eyes, it would probably go poorly. “We’ve already done this twice.”

  “Third time’s the charm,” says the Good Cop, a large man who looks like he wrestles bears in his downtime.

  The prissy detective, the Bad Cop wearing a unisuit that probably costs more than Garth’s rent, glances at his notes. “So you were walking down Third, just minding your own business.”

  “Right.” Garth tries not to sound too put out. But Jaysus, how many times does a man have to say the same thing? And really, it’s not like he’s about to tell them that he had to walk out for some air, because sitting in the apartment arguing with Terry and the others about how to fight Hypnotic was enough to make a man do something desperate. “Just getting some coffee from a local shop—”

  “Jose’s Deli and Grill.”

  “Just so. Best brew in the city. So yeah, I was walking down Third, and as I’m passing by a resi, I hear someone crying. A woman. So I stop and listen to where it’s coming from, and when I figure it’s by the side entrance of the building, I head over to see if I can help.”

  “Because you’re a Good Samaritan.” This he says like it’s a sexually transmitted disease.

  “Come on, Joe,” says Good Cop. “Let him tell it.”

  “Fine,” Joe the Bad Cop grumbles.

  “My wife’s one of the zombie victims.” Garth’s voice is soft, tentative, laced with tenderness and rage. “I can’t help her. But if I can help someone else’s wife …” He shrugs. Sexist, maybe, but he has a soft spot for women in distress. He won’t apologize for it.

  “I’m sorry,” says the Good Cop.

  “Thanks.” Garth says a silent prayer for Julie, then continues. “So I walk around to the side. And there I see a man laying into a woman. Girl, really. Looked to be all of sixteen. He’s hitting her, and maybe getting ready to do worse. So I go up to him and tap him on the shoulder. And when he turns to me, I punch his face in.”

  “Don’t you think maybe that was a little aggressive, Mr. McFarlane?”

  He eyes Joe the Bad Cop. “Maybe I should’ve waited for him to blacken her other eye, yeah?”

  Good Cop says, “You understand, sir, that the problem is Ms. Lang is saying that Mr. Jordan wasn’t beating her.”

  “So I guess she accidentally fell face-first onto his fist. Jaysus!” Garth wants to spit. He manages to only scowl.

  “You’re lucky that Mr. Jordan isn’t pressing charges.”

  “That’s me,” Garth says bitterly. “Mister Lucky.”

  “Let’s talk about your … condition,” says Bad Cop.

  Here we go again. “Sure.”

  Joe scans his notes. “You’re not in the data banks as a known extrahuman.”

  “That would be because I’m not an extrahuman.” More like a sortaextrahuman. But whatever. It’s always been enough to keep him off Corp-Co’s radar.

  “But your eyes glow, Mr. McFarlane.”

  “They do. It’s a neat party trick. I’m sure it says in my medical records that I was given a high dosage of Praxical when I was three. My folks were rather desperate about me not being so sensitive to light,” he says, shrugging. “You see all the good it’s done me.”

  “You really expect us to believe that?”

  “Sir, I
’ve been sitting here for three hours, all for doing what I thought was a good deed. I don’t really care what you believe. Are you arresting me, or what?”

  “You should drop the attitude.”

  “Come on, Joe,” says Good Cop. “He’s been through enough.”

  He’s let go with a stern warning to leave the policing to the police. Good Cop actually walks him to the precinct door.

  “Everyone’s temper’s up,” he says by way of apology. “Lunatic superheroes, rioting citizens. It’s enough to give a cop a case of the nerves.”

  “I can see that,” says Garth.

  The detective shakes his hand. “For what it’s worth, I think you did good. It’s probably wasted, though. She’s the sort who’ll defend her man up until she wakes up dead one day, thanks to his not-beating her.”

  Garth leaves.

  The big problem with vigilantism, he muses, isn’t the swollen knuckles or the loose teeth. It’s all the time eaten up when cooling one’s heels at the local police station.

  Maybe he should wear a costume. That seems to make people impervious to getting hauled in for questioning. Garth decides to raid his closet once he gets home; maybe he can find something in basic black.

  When he walks into the apartment—still with the temporary wooden panel serving as a front door—he wishes so much for Julie to be there that he almost hears her puttering about in the kitchen, asking him if he wants a drink. Even if he says no, she’ll bring him one anyway, overflowing with cubes, and he’ll thank her, and they’ll find something deadly on the tele and settle down for a cuddle and some mindless fun …

  But it’s not Julie. It’s Terry, or one of the others, helping themselves to his food and drink.

  Garth sighs, the sound like a sob. She’ll be okay, he tells himself. Because really, what else can he tell himself? Julie was strong. She wouldn’t stay a vegetable. A zombie.

  She’ll come home to him.

  Silently, he kisses the memory of his wife. And now it’s time to move on to other things, to get the report of how many Latents have responded to the emergency calls. To see if anyone has come up with a brilliant plan to help the remaining Squadron stop Hypnotic.