Within six months, the Everyman Society had more than ten thousand members. And that was before Frank Wurtham began his national campaign.
Night, when he learned of Frank’s ambition, thought only one thing: Took him long enough.
Corp-Co Chairman Stan Kane tapped his fingers on his desk as he considered Night’s report. Night stood at attention, waiting for judgment.
Finally, Kane said, “You’re sure Wurtham would agree to a meeting? That he doesn’t believe his own propaganda?”
“Oh, he does, sir,” said Night. “But he’s also an opportunist. He’d understand that by working quietly with Corp, the Everyman Society could better achieve its aims.” He let it go unsaid that the clandestine alliance would, of course, also help Corp. Night could easily see Stan Kane and Frank Wurtham—or maybe Frank’s Number Two, a man called Gordon—sequestered in some remote location—Maui, perhaps—discussing how to leverage their organizations’ strengths to better support their own goals of power and prestige. All for the cause, of course. Whatever cause that might be.
Heroes and villains. They were one and the same. Even the masks were interchangeable, Night mused. Bradford was proof of that.
“I appreciate your report,” the chairman said. “It’s good to know we have someone on the Squadron who appreciates the bigger picture.”
Night smiled thinly.
“Keep this up,” Kane added, “and you may find yourself on the Executive Committee one day.”
Thinking of Blackout’s little Shadow girl—due for Academy training in six short years—Night replied, “Actually, sir, there’s something else I’d like.”
Kane arched a brow. “Oh? Name it.”
Night named it.
Kane smiled. “That’s it? Well, consider it done.”
This time, Night’s smile was wide, but it still didn’t reach his eyes.
“Do you like it, sir?”
Night settled back in his chair. It was oversized and pleather, and it had wheels on the bottom. Very business-retro. It was the most stylish thing about his office; the rest was extremely spartan. The desk had no 2-D photos or hols; no pictures adorned the bare walls. The floor was equally bare. His elbows on the armrests, Night steepled his fingers. “Thank you, Celestina. This will do nicely. Please give the superintendant my thanks.”
“I will, sir.” A heartbeat, and then she hit him with a stream of words: “We’re all so excited that you’re joining the staff, sir. Having an active hero as a teacher!” The girl blushed, and Night fancied he saw stars in those odd purple eyes.
“I’m sure that enthusiasm will die down once you and the others take my Street Fighting Techniques class.” He smiled briefly. “I have a feeling I’ll be a difficult instructor.”
“Oh, sir,” she said, giggling. “You’re one of the best heroes ever! You were part of the Siege of Manhattan! You’ve taken down the Torrent Brothers! You were part of Team Alpha!” She prattled on, listing his accomplishments like a groupie. Then she added, “And I’m sure you’ll capture Arclight and Glitter Vixen any day now.”
That last irked him.
When she paused for breath, Night dismissed her curtly. Wouldn’t do to have the girl getting used to running on at the mouth whenever she was around him. Celestina closed the door behind her when she left, still giggling like an idiot. Night frowned, listening to the last of those giggles play out and finally fade. The girl admired him, clearly. But she didn’t fear him.
That would change.
He turned to his computer, bringing up the latest reports, columns, articles, and opinions about Arclight and Glitter Vixen. The mainstream media were still properly horrified over the Good Guys Gone Bad, and politicos on all sides of the spectrum continued to rally behind Corp-Co in its effort to smear the Bradfords as bad apples from the beginning—and never mind that Luster had been the official Hero of New Chicago. Mainstream media, it seemed, had a short-term memory.
But the underground newsies, they loved the Bradfords, called them the Squadron Bonnie and Clyde. One rag in particular, cleverly called Underground magazine, was utterly infatuated with Arclight. Picture after picture of the man as he entered New Chicago Savings, entertained everyone with jokes and banter as he and Glitter Vixen politely robbed them blind, as the two made their glamorous getaway in a waiting garbage hover. Night scanned the latest editorial, rolled his eyes over the inane purple prose scribed by someone named Lynda Kidder, then turned away from the computer. His gauntleted fingers drummed a beat on the desk as he mulled over the situation.
Lester Bradford. Certified genius. Master of Light. Traitor to Corp-Co.
A disappointment, certainly, but Night couldn’t say he was truly surprised. Bradford, after all, was a Lighter, no matter what idiotic designation he used. He was still an arrogant son of a bitch. He thought he could thumb his nose at Corp-Co and take on the entire Squadron, one by one.
Of course, the problem was that, so far, Arclight had been doing just that. The police didn’t want to go after an extrahuman—especially not after one who’d worked with them on so many collars in the past. And the handful of Squadron soldiers who’d tried to tag Arclight … well, Night was certain they’d be released from Medical anytime now.
He grimaced. Second-stringers, sent to do an Alpha’s job. Ridiculous.
But there was no more Team Alpha, no more separation between the heroes. They were all part of the Squadron, getting their marching orders directly from the Executive Committee. And those orders were explicit: You went after only the rabid you were assigned to collar, unless you happened to catch one doing something illegal during your patrol. It was even in the new handbook.
Well, eventually, it would be Night’s turn to have a go at his former teammate.
Night’s grimace pulled into a tight smile. If he was exceptionally lucky, all it would take was a few more Underground articles, or perhaps just one more headline story in which Arclight boasted about being a modern-day Robin Hood to Corp’s Prince John. More likely, it would take months, even years. Bureaucracy was a bitch, but it was the way of the world.
But eventually, Corp-Co would send Night after the Bradfords.
When that happened, Night would not be going up against a former colleague, a man whom he grudgingly respected. No, Luster was dead and gone, buried in the arrogance of Arclight. His wife was an afterthought.
On that day, Lester Bradford would learn what it meant to be afraid of the Dark.
Content for the moment, Night turned back to his computer and started the tedious process of pulling together a syllabus for his class. He hoped that there would be at least one Light power among the brats that were to be his students.
After all, he had a special place in his heart for Lighters.
CHAPTER 54
ARCLIGHT
“It was only a matter of time before you lost one of them. You can’t show a starving man a meal and expect him not to gorge himself.”
—Matthew Icarus, testifying before the
Executive Committee re the killing spree
of Subject 6524, code name “Razor”
It was another bank robbery, in a string of at least a dozen, pulled off with style and flair by Arclight, New Chicago’s most dastardly villain.
It would also likely be the last. First Federal was one of the only banks in the city not to install heatproof vaults in the year Lester had been on the run from Corp.
Still, he didn’t believe in looking gift horses—bank vaults?—in the mouth.
Shouldering one sack of digichips and one of bearer bonds, Arclight stepped from the vault, his black cape swirling around his ankles.
What if you get yourself killed? Valerie had demanded the first time he’d stepped out in his new costume.
Not a costume. A uniform, a symbol of the resistance. Of the amends he was making to Holly Owens and her daughter Joan.
Haven’t come close yet, he’d said, with perhaps more arrogance than was strictly necessary. He’d come h
ome to Valerie in the small hours after he’d pulled George Greene’s little daughter out of that closet, in that awful abattoir, and, instead of breaking down, all he’d felt in his chest was a steely resolve.
We’re finished with Corp, and Corp’s rules, and the heroes who abide by them and allow themselves to be prostituted and killed.
Valerie had agreed. They’d planned, all through George’s trial. They’d waited for the right moment, for the furor and the press to die down. Luster had used the underworld contacts he’d developed from years on the street to procure new identities and secret bank accounts for the money he’d been funneling into Callie’s college fund.
And then one morning, when nobody would miss them for a few days—no press conferences, no training—before Yuriko had brought them coffee and the day’s correspondence, they’d woken up Callie and run.
It had been so easy once Lester had seen the truth. His family or Corp. One or the other would have to wither and die to allow the other to flourish.
It had been easy to stop being a hero.
It had been easier to start being a villain. All he needed to remember was Holly’s body on the floor and the face of that little girl. And the consistent, ever-present reminder:
You set this in motion. George killed her, but you started it.
Valerie, after she stopped worrying about him dying at the hands of some second-rate Team Beta wannabe, got into the act. She liked Arclight. Every once in a while, she even joined him as the newly dubbed Glitter Vixen.
And the sex had never been better.
There were even hints from Val about a second child. Lester let that bring a smile to his lips as he stepped through the melted front door of First Federal and into an onslaught of press.
Some things never changed.
“Arclight! Do you really think you’ll get away with this?”
Lester flashed his smile into the cameras—the smile Corp had taught him, charming and devoid of real feeling. “Abso-bloody-lutely.”
A wail of sirens in the distance put him on to the appearance of New Chicago’s Finest, which meant he had less than a minute before some hero or another showed up.
“Anything to say?” another reporter shouted. “Anything to say to Corp?”
Lester tipped a wink at the reporter, a petite blonde with an unfortunately nipped and tucked face.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He hefted his loot so that the First Federal logo would be sure to show up on the newsfeeds in a few hours.
“And what’s that?” the reporter prompted.
Lester grinned. This time it was real. “Catch me if you can.”
“Where have you been?” Valerie demanded as Lester stripped out of his cape and dumped the two bags into the floor safe in their closet. He kicked a pile of dirty laundry over the spot, and spun to face his wife, who handed him a shirt and tie with a frown on her face.
“Check the vid. You’ll see.”
“Did you forget that your daughter has a birthday party going on as we speak?”
Lester skinned into the shirt and tie—nothing he’d have been caught dead in, in his old life. But this wasn’t life. This was a cover. Charlie Ryan wore poncey ties even at home, so Lester donned it without complaint.
“Of course not. I told you I’d make it in time, didn’t I?” He smoothed down his hair in the mirror. Now that Corp had stopped demanding he dye it, there were a few streaks of white creeping into the black, premature reminders of the hard road he’d taken so far.
“Callie’s been asking for you.” Valerie wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed the top of his ear.
Lester turned so he could return the gesture. “I’m just relieved she hasn’t accidentally strobed the clown unconscious.”
“There is no clown.” Valerie cocked her eyebrow. “He’s late, and his comm goes straight to messaging.”
“Bloody hell,” Lester swore, disengaging from Valerie’s arms. “For the amount of cash I gave that wanker, he should be turning backflips while he makes balloon animals and whistling ‘God Save the Queen’ to boot.”
“Les.” Valerie swallowed when he frowned and started again. “Charlie. I handled it. Go enjoy the party. And for Christo’s sake, tell your daughter happy birthday.”
Lester nodded tightly and went through the hallway into the living room, where nine sugar-injected seven-year-olds were alternately shrieking, jumping on the sofa, and stuffing their faces with more sugar.
“Where’s my birthday girl?” Explaining to Callie why her father was sometimes British and sometimes not had been a trick, but she’d adapted.
“Daddy!” she shrieked, leaping from the sofa and into his arms. “Did you bring me a present?”
“Indeed, I did,” he said. “But that will have to wait.”
Callie squirmed free and went back to her game. She’d blossomed since they’d left Corp, even with the fake names and the anonymous suburban house. No Runners watching her every move, no Yuriko scolding her that she’d be too fat for Branding if she ate a candy bar.
No one spying on his little girl, waiting to see if she’d be fit fodder for Corp’s hero machine.
“Daddy, did you see the cake Mommy baked?” Callie shouted. “It’s this big.” She spread her arms wide, fell off the sofa, and collapsed into a giggle fit on the floor with some of her little friends.
“Be careful,” he said. “Can’t have any cake if you’ve got a concussion.”
The door chime sounded, and Lester muttered “Bloody finally.” Those bastards at Party City were giving back every cent of his deposit.
Years later, Lester would remember that he didn’t check the security camera before he opened the door. He had been distracted, irritated, and preoccupied, like any father of a small, excitable child. If he’d seen the static obscuring his state-of-the-art security system, he would be a free man, he’d think, time and time again.
But he opened the door, and instead of a clown there were six impassive faces in riot shields.
The leader raised his shock pistol. “Lester Bradford. You are hereby ordered to submit to the authority of Corp-Co and appear before the Executive Committee on charges of robbery, fraud, and assault. You have the right to remain silent.”
Blind panic was not something Lester indulged in. He had one second of mild shock, one Oh.
“Who wants cake?” Valerie called from the kitchen. “Put your party hats on for the birthday song!”
Lester stared at the leader of the Corp Containment squad, and the leader stared at him.
“Well,” Lester said, not bothering with the fake Chicago accent. “Boris, isn’t it?”
The leader blinked in surprise, then nodded. “That’s right, Bradford.”
“Boris, my daughter’s in the kitchen having a birthday party. If you’d be so good as to have your gents come in, I’d prefer she didn’t see this.”
Boris peered in to check that Lester was really alone, then nodded.
“All right. For the kid’s sake, Bradford.”
Lester stepped aside, fingers digging divots out of the front door as his palms heated.
Boris held his shock pistol in Lester’s face while his unit filed in and took up defensive positions. “This isn’t personal, Bradford. You know that.”
Lester shut the door and turned the dead bolt home with a soft click. Couldn’t beat a good old-fashioned bolt.
“I know, Boris. Neither is this.”
He released the energy he’d stored up in the minute since the Containment squad appeared on his stoop.
Boris, blinded, staggered and raised his shock pistol. Lester grabbed it, twisted his wrist, disarmed him.
In the kitchen, the kids and Valerie started singing “Happy Birthday.”
“Charlie! You’re missing the big moment!” Valerie called. “Hurry before she blows out the candles!”
The next Corp thug went down with a shock blast at point-blank range, his vest absorbing the small sound of the pistol. The thir
d got an elbow to the throat, the fourth and fifth a broken ankle and wrist, respectively.
Lester didn’t need his power when he had to be quiet. He’d learned how to inflict quick, subtle pain long before Corp. All it took was a cigarette butt, a blow to the soft tissue that wouldn’t bruise, a hand on your throat, choking off your air.
The last squad member dropped. Valerie’s tidy front hall looked like Jonestown.
Boris moaned in his sleep, and Lester took a moment to get his heart rate under control. All six were subdued, but they’d found him. Found Valerie.
Found Callie.
And there was no hero with the unit, which was against Corp guidelines as he knew them. Extrahumans for extrahumans. People like Boris couldn’t be expected to take on Arclight with some shock pistols and body armor.
Someone had called off the hero.
Lester knew only one man with the clout and the single-minded arrogance to think he could take on the former Hero of New Chicago, defeater of the Ominous Eight, capturer of Doctor Hypnotic, protector of the people, alone.
He smoothed down his hair, not that it did any good coupled with his flushed face, skinned knuckles and torn shirt, and stepped into the kitchen.
Callie held out a piece of cake to him. “I made a wish, but I can’t tell you what it was, because then I will have wasted it,” she said solemnly. “But you can have the first piece.”
“No, no,” Lester said. “That’s for you, birthday girl. All for you.”
“Mister Ryan,” said Callie’s little friend—Tiffany or Swarovski or some ridiculous designer name—with a frown, “your accent is weird.”
Valerie gave him a drill-bit look over the heads of the children.
“I’ve got some bad news, kids.” His voice cracked, but at least it sounded closer to his cover of Charlie Ryan, lifelong resident of New Chicago. Get it together. Breathe, refocus, and get it together, Lester. “I’ve got an important meeting, so it looks like the party is over.”
Shades of Gray Page 31