“Fine,” she muttered. “Come on.”
On the way to her quarters, a Runner tried to get her attention, but Jet was in a foul place and chose to ignore the woman instead of possibly bite her head off. Or worse; the Shadow had grown … unpredictable.
Once Jet and Taser were alone, she sat at the edge of her cot, arms tucked around her knees. “Well?” she said. “What’s this business proposition?”
Taser leaned against the wall, his arms casually crossed over his chest. “I think we have us an unprecedented situation. Corp’s going to want to take credit for Hypnotic’s capture, and I’m sure they’ll manipulate things so they’ll have been behind you guys reining in the poor, sweet sewer mutants.”
“Your point?”
“They can’t brainwash you and the others anymore. That cat’s out of the bag. You have that over their heads. You’re in a position to make demands, and they’ll have to listen.”
Jet couldn’t say anything about it. But Light knew, Iri could. And Frostbite. And Hornblower, still in the hospital, his leg gone. Oh yes, Jet thought, her eyes glittering, they certainly could say things. Horrible things.
True things.
“I’ve been talking to the Runners,” Taser said. “Getting them pumped up. They liked getting out there, tranqing the mutants, getting into the thick of it. They want to do more than be your Stepin Fetchits, Jet. They want to actively help the Squadron, not just run their errands and pick up their dry cleaning.”
Her own words, from just a week ago: Maybe it’s time for us to reach out to the citizens of New Chicago, work with them now more than ever before. Build goodwill.
Yes, Jet thought, a smile playing on her face as she remembered Wagner’s offer. Yes. The Runners could be their civilian counterparts, working actively with the police and Lee’s office. Branching out from New Chicago to expand the network throughout the Americas.
“What about …” Damn it to Darkness, she still couldn’t say Corp. It made her want to scream.
Taser understood. “What about them? They can’t tell you no, not anymore. Don’t you see, Jet? For the first time, you and the Squadron are in control.”
She frowned up at him. “You said this was a business proposition. What’s your role in this?”
“Me? I’ll be your friendly local mercenary, ready to do the dirty deeds you good-guy heroes aren’t allowed to do. Consider me the ultimate negotiator.”
“For a price,” she said, “of course.”
He shrugged. “Of course. A boy’s got to eat.”
“I’ll talk to the others.” She stretched, then began to massage her left shoulder—her weak spot, ever since she’d first dislocated it Fourth Year.
When she felt his hands on her shoulders, she stiffened. “What are you doing?”
“I’m still trained in massage,” he murmured. “Among other things.”
She slid out from his hands and pivoted to face him. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
He cocked his head, looking her up and down, his hidden gaze lingering on her chest. “You still want me, Joan. Don’t try to deny it.”
She swallowed thickly. “I don’t deny it.”
“So?” He leaned forward, reaching out to her, stroking her cheek. “What’s the problem?”
She wanted to lean into his touch. Instead she shrugged away. “The problem, Bruce, is the last time I trusted you like this, you betrayed me the next day.”
“That was just a job.”
Hugging herself, she got off her cot, showing him her back. “Yes, it was. I get that. But that was also the last time you’ll ever get me.”
He chuckled softly. “We’ll see.”
“Don’t you have to go find Iridium and hit on her? Or maybe one of the dozens of female Runners you keep tucked around you?”
“Thanks for the permission.” A pause, and then, “Be seeing you, Joan.”
She stayed with her arms wrapped around herself for a long time after he left. And then, finally, she went to shower.
CHAPTER 59
IRIDIUM
The horror is, I can pinpoint exactly how it came to this. How I changed the world. I wanted to save my daughter. I doomed the world instead. I doomed it to Corp, and to their Squadron of thugs. I opened a floodgate, and the tide has drowned me.
—Matthew Icarus, diary entry dated 2020
By the time old Wrigley Field hove into view, Iridium was feeling decidedly less chipper.
The day she’d avoided at age seven, when Night had merely captured her father instead of killing him, was happening now. She was, for all intents and purposes, an orphan.
Would the Squadron even want her, now that they weren’t up to their asses in sewer mutants?
Would anyone even care that Iridium, no longer a villain, was still breathing?
“Everyone,” she said when she stepped into the ready room. “This is Protean. Protean, that’s Firebug and Meteorite. You know Taser.”
“Hey, man,” Taser said, shaking his hand. “Glad you decided to stick around.”
Protean nodded, smiling mutely.
“I’m Kai,” Firebug said, extending her hand. “Welcome aboard.” She left it at that, and quickly pretended to be busy at a console. She should be uncomfortable, Iridium thought. Hypnotic wasn’t the only boogeyman out there. Kai might not last if she was that easily rattled.
“It’s good to have you,” Meteorite said, and Iridium was shocked to see an actual smile creep across the former Weather power’s face. It looked like it hurt her a little. “We can always use another hand.”
“And I can see I’m in fine hands, myself,” Protean said, bowing over Meteorite’s grasp. The Ops controller turned pink.
Iridium rolled her eyes. Ah, young love. “Where’s Joan?” she asked Meteorite, before she got lost in Protean’s eyes.
“In the briefing room,” Meteorite said, “going over the sifted data. Trying to sniff out information on Moore. Doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Of course she doesn’t,” Iridium said, and went down the curve of the corridor and ducked into the small room that housed mounds of data printouts. Jet, her back to Iridium, was hunched over the desk, scanning what looked to be a kilometer’s worth of reports. “Hey,” Iridium called out. “Meteorite said you were hiding out in here.”
Jet turned, and Iridium was momentarily at a loss. She couldn’t remember a time she’d ever seen Jet in civvies—even at the Academy, Joan had always been in one uniform or another. Not to mention with her hair down in loose waves, and a smile on her face. And no optiframes.
It was official. The world had, indeed, been turned inside out.
“Iri!” Jet’s face fell as she stared at Iridium. “Callie, you look terrible. Did something happen?”
“My … my dad left,” Iridium blurted.
“Left?”
“Took off. Gone. Vamoosed. Protean stayed behind, with me. I came by to drop him off with you heroes.” She made a move to step back. The corridor suddenly seemed very close.
“Wait.” Jet pressed a button on a pager, and when a man’s voice answered, she said, “Lowell, Iridium needs a change of clothes, please. Do you mind?”
“Sure thing,” came the reply. “Seven all right?”
Numbly, Iridium nodded.
“Perfect,” Jet said. “Thanks.” She took in Iridium’s disheveled appearance and added, “Oh, could you also bring a hairbrush? And a full can of hairspray?”
“Screw you, Jetster.” Iridium actually managed a half smile.
“Go shower, get clean,” Jet said. “Then we can get some food and talk. About your dad. About everything.”
“I don’t really want to talk,” Iridium protested. “I just wanted to make sure the big lug was going to be safe with you supertypes.”
“Well, I want to talk,” Jet said. “Besides, I believe you said something before about margaritas.”
“There’s something I can’t figure out,” Jet said.
&n
bsp; Iridium downed her second margarita. At least now she didn’t feel empty. Just numb and slightly buzzed. Taking a guess, she said, “How Hypnotic escaped from Blackbird?”
Jet raised an eyebrow. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Eh, you’re easy. What else does an OCD superheroine think about in her free time?”
Jet smiled as she took a bite of enchilada. “Well?” she asked around the cheese.
“Radar,” Iridium replied. “He pretended to be an inmate named Radar. Mind control, from the very beginning. If that guy didn’t have puppets to string along, he’d be useless.” She sneered, trying to be tough and pretend Hypnotic hadn’t gotten to her, but the memory flashed all the same.
Bruce, the smiling crowd, her father free and happy and by her side.
“Son of a bitch.” Iridium frowned at her empty glass. “I’m glad he got what he deserves.”
“Me too,” Jet said absently, staring at the fish tank in the corner of the restaurant. A lionfish floated alone among the coral, fins flicking sadly.
“Well, this has been fun and all, but I should be getting back.” Iridium signaled for the check. The restaurant had human waiters, another plus. She’d been around far too many extrahumans lately. “Wreck City isn’t going to clean itself up.”
“Iri, wait.” Jet downed the dregs of her margarita. “There’s something else we need to talk about.”
Iridium shook her head at the waiter. “Cancel that. Bring me another one of these.” She waved her glass, and the man retreated.
Jet told Iridium about Taser’s plan, the blackmail … and the founding of an independent superteam, one that went beyond the extrahumans.
Iridium snorted. “So Taser is what, now … Superconsultant?”
“If we did form a new team,” Jet said hesitantly, “I’d want you to be a part of it.”
Iridium choked on her first sip of new margarita. “Excuse me?”
“Say yes, Iri.”
Iridium wrinkled her brow. “For Christo’s sake … why? Why do you want me?”
“What happened during Fifth Year … that’s behind us. You got a raw deal. You didn’t get a chance to work with the Squadron until this week. You’re good, Iri. Damn good. And I miss you. I miss my old partner.” She bit her lip. “I miss my friend.”
“What is this,” Iri muttered, “Extrahuman Confessions?”
Jet waved a hand. “Never mind, Callie. I can see you’re not comfortable with the idea. Forget I said anything.”
“Are you kidding? I’d be happy to be part of the team.” To be wanted. Needed.
To have her friend back.
Jet grinned at Iridium. “Together again. Just like old times.”
Iridium took a gulp of margarita and grinned back. “Christo, I hope not.”
CHAPTER 60
JET
Received Matthew Icarus’s original notes after Aunt Sarah’s funeral. Spent the weekend reading. Everything I’d thought about extrahumans was wrong.
—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #48
Excuse me, ma’am?”
Jet looked up from the mounds and mounds of raw data. “Please, Tara,” she said tiredly. “Just call me Jet.”
The Runner blushed. “Sorry, ma’am. Um, Jet. Here.” She handed Jet a memory stick.
Jet blinked at it, and said, “For me?”
“That’s what was in the post-office box. You know, the one in Old Chicago?” She nibbled her lip. “I’ve been trying to give it to you, but you’ve been busy …” The Runner’s voice trailed off.
“It’s all right,” Jet said, her mind already flashing to another memory stick, one she had found back at Lynda Kidder’s apartment all those weeks ago. “I should have made myself more accessible. Did you see what’s on this?”
The Runner looked abashed. “Of course not!”
Jet flicked a smile. “Thank you, Tara.”
“Glad to help, ma’am.”
Jet sighed as Tara scooted away. “Ma’am” made her feel much older than twenty-two. She pushed away the piles of decrypted information and inserted the memory stick into her computer.
There were three files on it. One was labeled READ ME FIRST. Another was called ICARUS PROJECT. And the last was simply MM.
Go save the world somewhere else, the teenage girl snarled at Jet, her eyes telling a different, desperate story.
Jet opened the READ ME file.
My parents are card-carrying members of Everyman. Me, I’m the afterthought daughter. I’m also a thief. A good one.
I stole the two files you’re about to read.
They’re copies of the original journals—written the old-fashioned way, on paper—that I borrowed from Martin Moore. Couldn’t keep those, because if he discovered they were missing, he’d probably do something crazy. Because he is crazy, you know.
The first file is a copy of Matthew Icarus’s journal, back from the 1980s.
The second file is Martin Moore’s personal journal. (Sort of ironic: He writes at one point that he finds handwriting to be much safer than keeping an electronic log, which anyone could steal.)
There’s interesting stuff in there. Thought you should know.
I may be a thief, but I also know the difference between right and wrong.
What they did was wrong.
What he’s doing is wrong.
Good luck, Squadron. You’re going to need it.
—Kylee Selene
Jet’s heart pounded in her chest as she reread the file. Then she opened up the ICARUS PROJECT.
Two hours later, with a trembling hand she opened up the MM file.
When she was done, she asked Meteorite to come into the room.
Soon the Weather power was reading, and Jet was trying to keep her brain from exploding. She sat, curled in a fetal position, chanting aloud how Corp was good, knowing full well that it was all bullshit.
Corp was despicable.
The thought brought fresh fire to her head, and so Jet bit back a scream and rocked and tried to tell herself again that Corp stood for justice, that Corp had the best interests of humanity at heart.
A heart that was black and rotten.
When Meteorite was done, she said nothing for a long time. Finally, she asked Jet if she should bring the others in for an urgent meeting.
Jet agreed.
“This …” Meteorite swallowed. “This is it. We can finally bring Corp down. Can’t we?”
Jet didn’t know. “Call the others,” she whispered.
Soon they sat in the main room: Steele, Firebug, Frostbite, Meteorite, Taser, Iridium, and Protean. Boxer was in the hospital, visiting Hornblower, and he wouldn’t leave his nephew’s side for anything short of “a minor or major Apocalypse.”
One of Meteorite’s numerous computers had Kylee Selene’s files uploaded. Jet began talking. At points when the pain overwhelmed her, Meteorite spoke for her.
And this is the story they told.
Martin Moore and his twin brother Aaron are descendants of Dr. Matthew Icarus, the founder of a New Jersey-based fertility clinic—which was open from 1988 until 1991—and the creator of the Icarus Method: a gene-therapy treatment that stimulated fertility in women and allowed them to conceive naturally. This part about Icarus Biological was well-known. So was the fact that Corp-Co bought Icarus, which was completely absorbed into Corp’s biological sciences division in 2018.
What was less known was that Corp-Co had also bought disease-control centers in Mumbai and Hong Kong—which were also absorbed into the organization’s bio-sci division.
What was not known at all was that Corp had not merely bought the troubled facility, which had been plagued with lawsuits from former patients as well as a fire that had all but destroyed the original clinic. Corp had actually funded Icarus’s gene-therapy research.
According to Matthew Icarus, Corp-Co was looking to create a breed of programmable soldiers that would replace the armed forces and the police alike—superior fighters who
would obey commands instantly, without question.
The experiment went awry. The majority of children born as a result of the Icarus Method had horrific birth defects or mental disorders. A number of children were tested and found to be clean, with no measurable side effects. And a handful of children were born with extraordinary abilities. They were the initial extrahuman generation.
Corp-Co oversaw those extrahuman children’s education and training. When those children were adults, Corp created the Squadron.
And then Corp expunged all records of its involvement in the genetics program. Matthew Icarus himself stayed with Corp, developing many tools and measures to train the Squadron and to oversee the next generation of extrahumans.
One thing became clear to Icarus: There was a basic flaw in the extrahumans’ genetic code. This flaw invariably led to various disorders and pathologies, including but not limited to suicidal tendencies, mood disorders, schizophrenia, and dementia. Some extrahumans’ conditions were mild; others were severe. Still others were incredibly dangerous, to themselves and everyone around them. Because of this, Corp-Co insisted on medicating the Squadron to lessen the severity of what CEO Sebastian Lister called “going extracritical.” Thus began the practice of lacing the extrahumans’ food and drink, to help keep them stable for as long as possible.
This was all in Matthew Icarus’s journal—which had fallen into the hands of Aaron and Martin Moore twenty-five years ago.
And then there were the revelations of Martin Moore’s log.
The Moores were both scientists on Corp’s payroll when they discovered the truth of the extrahumans’ origin and their liabilities. The brothers decided to use Icarus’s notes to create tools and methods that would better control the Squadron. The Executive Committee gave them its blessing.
The two most prominent items in the Moore brothers’ legacy were the comlink and Therapy.
Because they were interested in mind control, the Moores studied Doctor Hypnotic and the other Mental powers closely—including Angelica, who they had determined was a Mental power and not a Lighter. After much trial and error, they successfully created the comlink. Through this earpiece, a signal was sent out to all extrahumans, one that would effectively keep the Squadron loyal to Corp-Co—and to the Moores themselves.
Shades of Gray Page 34