Shades of Gray

by Jackie Kessler; Caitlin Kittredge

  As for Therapy, Aaron Moore created the technique as a permanent solution to what he’d dubbed “The Extrahuman Question.” The first extrahuman patients unfortunately were lobotomized. But over a period of eighteen months, Aaron Moore perfected the procedure. Now, as Squadron members reached their “extracritical” points, they underwent Therapy. The result, according to Martin Moore, was beneficial to everyone.

  But the tone of Moore’s journal changed after his brother was killed by Doctor Hypnotic. It became darker and more vengeful, with Martin blaming the Squadron and Corp for Aaron’s death. One thing became clear: Extrahumans were ticking time bombs, and it was Martin Moore’s mission to destroy them before they went insane and annihilated everything in their path.

  Moore stayed on in Corp’s employ, lying low as a computer technician while he quietly worked to sanitize his records and expunge all mentions of himself and his brother from Corp’s files. On the side, Moore began experimenting to create a serum that would mutate normal humans into powerful beings that would be completely devoted to Moore, and programmed to destroy extrahumans. Lynda Kidder was the prototype. Moore expressed disappointment that Kidder had been defeated so easily by “the Shadow freak,” and said his goal now was to unleash a horde of mutants to keep the Squadron busy, while he worked to perfect the serum and create a new breed of creature that would not stop until the Squadron was destroyed.

  Where did he get the resources for such experiments? The Everyman Society. When he joined, he quickly became close with a core group of people who felt the same way he did about the extrahumans: “Put them down like the rabid dogs they are.” Moore’s involvement with Everyman, he admitted, was just a means of obtaining a steady supply of fanatical volunteers who were devoted to the pretense of making everyday people as powerful as the extrahumans.

  His last entry was after the Ops signal had been cut off, thus freeing the Squadron from the brainwashing frequency fed through the comlink. In this entry, Moore was furious over Frank Wurtham’s cutting off Moore’s funding. The chairman had discovered that Moore was a Corp employee. This prompted Moore to hire Bombshell to blow up the New Chicago Everyman branch office, and to firebomb City Hall to divert suspicion from himself.

  As of now, Martin Moore was still at large.

  But the Squadron has his journal, as well as Icarus’s notes—both of which damned Corp for its role in engineering the extrahumans.

  When Jet and Meteorite finished speaking, silence reigned. Everyone in the room sat, stunned and speechless, looking lost.

  “We really are freaks,” Firebug whispered.

  “No,” Jet said, her voice hollow. “We are what we are. Extrahuman.”

  “We’re all going to go crazy!” Firebug’s eyes were wide with fear. “Don’t you see? We’re broken!”

  “Kai,” Jet said, her voice sharp, “we’re broken only if we say we’re broken. Stop gibbering. You’re a Squadron soldier.”

  Firebug’s breath hitched. Steele put her arm around her shoulders, and Firebug sobbed quietly as her partner soothed her.

  Weak, Jet thought coldly. And the Shadow voices agreed.

  “We’ve got them,” Frostbite said, slamming his fist on the counter. “We finally got them. We’re going to the press!”

  “Which accomplishes what?” Protean asked. “Other than causing worldwide panic over how extrahumans are wired to explode?”

  That shut Frostbite up.

  “Frankly,” Iridium said, “I think this is a load of cowcrap.” She turned to Frostbite. “You haven’t gone crazy, even after what they did to you. I haven’t gone crazy. None of us have.” She looked pointedly at Jet, who managed not to flinch.

  “Corp lies,” Frostbite said, nodding, clearly willing to believe Iridium’s words. Jet thought Iri would make a terrific politician. Frostbite said, “This is all probably just one big wad of bullshit.”

  “Hear, hear,” Taser said, lifting an imaginary glass in a toast.

  Meteorite looked green. “What if it’s not?”

  “It is,” Iridium said firmly. “My dad may have been a criminal, but he was never crazy.” Her gaze slid to Jet. “Unlike some of our former mentors.”

  Jet ignored the Shadow voices whispering in her mind. She was too busy taking in the other extrahumans’ responses. Iri clearly would be fine. So would Frostbite and Taser, who looked bored. Protean seemed to accept Iridium’s words as a small truth, if not complete gospel. Steele was unbendable; no matter what, she would fight the good fight. As for Firebug, well, she would have to make it through this.

  As would Jet. Maybe the Icarus journal was nothing more than one man’s speculation and oddly wishful thinking. Maybe it was all lies, and Martin Moore decided to believe those lies.

  It didn’t matter. They were heroes.

  Duty first.

  Always.

  “So what next?” Jet asked. “Do we pretend nothing has changed?”

  “Go to the press,” insisted Frostbite. “Corp’s got to pay.”

  “I have a better idea,” Iridium said slowly, a smile blooming on her face. “Let’s blackmail the hell out of those sons of bitches.”

  CHAPTER 61

  IRIDIUM

  I cannot fight the future. I only hope my children will.

  —Matthew Icarus, in his suicide note dated 2020

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Iridium looked at the loose knot of heroes waiting on the debris of the old playing field. “I don’t like it. They’re just … standing there.”

  Taser shrugged. “No law against standing.”

  “I don’t like it, either,” said Frostbite, frowning at the costumed strangers. “Who asked them here?”

  “Corp,” Iridium said. “Looks like Squadron: India finally got an offer they could agree to. Bet you an E they’ve come to clean up Corp’s mess and make sure we’re not fomenting revolution.”

  Frostbite folded his arms. “My point exactly. I say we tell them to screw off. Possibly with fireballs.”

  Firebug rolled her eyes. “Don’t volunteer me just yet. We should at least talk to them first.”

  “They haven’t made a hostile move,” Steele said, backing up her partner.

  “True,” Jet said. “Iridium, Frostbite, come with me. Taser, stay close in case the situation degenerates.”

  Iridium rolled her eyes and followed Jet down the bleacher steps, Frostbite bringing up the rear. In the past two weeks, Jet had become positively unbearable in her role of Fearless Leader.

  The problem was, Iridium had to admit she was pretty good at it.

  The three of them approached the onetime pitcher’s mound, where the five costumed strangers waited. “Hello, fellow heroes,” Jet called out.

  Then again, Iridium thought, there were moments like this.

  “Jet.” One of the men, presumably the team leader, nodded. He was tall, dressed all in black, and had curly dark hair that wanted a trim. He carried himself like Taser—that loose, catlike posture that spoiled for a fight no matter what the situation.

  Iridium narrowed her eyes. “Something we can help you boys and girls with?”

  “I’m Deathdealer,” the man said, holding out a hand. “Leader of Team Aik.” He pronounced the word Ek. Hindi for one. “Squadron: India sends its regards. And us.” He spoke English with a trace of Brit, and Iridium felt inexplicably comfortable with him.

  That made her frown deeply. She never felt inexplicably comfortable with anyone.

  Jet solemnly shook his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Iridium stared at the woman standing next to Deathdealer—her hand was pressed to her forehead, as if she were fighting off a migraine. Iridium, who knew when she was being vibed by an empath, popped a strobe. “Stop that,” she warned. “We learned to sense emotional tampering back at the Academy.” Celestina had been a particularly effective instructor. It had been one of the few classes Iridium had bothered to pay attention in.

  The empath glared at her, but she lowered h
er hand. The good vibes stopped.

  “No disrespect intended,” said Deathdealer. “Merely attempting to avoid a confrontation.”

  “Here’s how you do that,” Frostbite piped up. “Get back in your hover, point it east, and fly until you get home. We don’t want Corp’s help.”

  “You’ve made that abundantly clear,” said Deathdealer. He turned and spoke to his team in Hindi, and as one they drew back.

  Iridium and the others waited.

  Deathdealer smiled politely. “It is also clear that your resources are thinned, and that you’re desperate enough to take on criminals.” That last was clearly meant for Iridium.

  She decided he’d be nice-looking if he didn’t have such a hard-assed expression on his face. “Former criminal,” she returned. “I was pardoned.”

  “Team Aik is willing to offer its services until such a time as you can repopulate your ranks,” Deathdealer said to Jet.

  Frostbite snorted. “And in return, you spy on us for Corp.”

  “But of course,” Deathdealer said, arching a brow. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

  Iridium snickered. Oh, she liked him. “What’s your power, Deathdealer?”

  “I slow the biological function of the body, impeding cellular reproduction and inducing cell mortality.”

  Iridium whistled in appreciation. “The touch of death?”

  He nodded, and a tiny twitch in his cheeks stood in for a smile.

  “Cool with me,” she said. “You know, Jetster, we can’t really turn him down.”

  “Excuse us,” Jet said, then grabbed Iridium by the wrist and dragged her off to the side. Frostbite, humming, followed. When the three of them were alone, Jet hissed, “You don’t make decisions for the entire team, Callie.”

  “Of course not. But can you really turn the guy down, considering how many rabids are still out there?” Iridium ticked off the points on her fingers. “Hornblower’s still in physical therapy, Moore is still loose, the rest of us are exhausted …”

  “And besides,” Frostbite added, “that man is incredibly hot.”

  Iridium chuckled.

  “Seriously, Iri’s right. We’re stretched way too thin. And what better way to give Corp disinformation than to feed it to their spies directly?”

  “The enemy you know,” Iridium said cheerfully. “And yeah, Deathdealer is too hot for his own good.”

  “Fine!” Jet huffed, holding up her hands in surrender.

  Iridium grinned as she and Frostbite followed Jet back to the Squadron: India reps.

  “Deathdealer, Team Aik, we are happy to accept your generous offer,” Jet said magnanimously. “Welcome to New Chicago. When we’re out of the field, I’m Joan Greene.” The show of ultimate trust: the offering of one’s nondesignation name.

  “My name is Sunil Patel,” Deathdealer said.

  “I’m Calista,” Iridium said. “But you can call me Callie.” Next to her, Frostbite harrumphed.

  Deathdealer cocked one eyebrow, then slowly looked her up and down. He didn’t bother trying to hide his appraisal of her body. Iridium decided she liked that. A lot. “Very well, Callie. Please call me Jay.”

  Iridium’s mouth quirked. “You ever been to New Chicago?”

  “I have not.”

  She offered her elbow. “Wait until I show you Wreck City.”

  She walked with Jay back toward the clubhouse, tailing Jet and Derek, leaving the others in Team Aik to follow.

  It wasn’t the warehouse, and being a superhero rather than fighting with them still sat strangely with her, but Iridium couldn’t deny that if this was being a hero, she liked it.

  CHAPTER 62

  JET

  While we can control them for now, it begs the question of what will happen when they are no longer subject to our will. What would the Squadron, freed of its Corp-Co messaging, choose to do with its power? Would it serve mankind … or demand to be served?

  —From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #98

  Jet kept the smile painted on her face and pretended all the hundreds of people in the crowd outside of City Hall wouldn’t be looking at her when she took the microphone in a few minutes. In front of her, blathering for all the vids, Mayor Lee droned on. And on.

  “Babe,” Meteorite said in her ear, “your BP is skyrocketing. Calm down. It’s just a press conference.”

  “I know,” she replied, using the old trick of not moving her lips. Can’t have the Shadow power talking to herself, now, can we? We don’t want people thinking she might be just a wee bit soft upstairs—especially now that she was hearing Shadow voices almost all the time.

  Light, she hated public speaking.

  “You want to know what your favorability rating is?”

  “No.”

  “Want to know how many people want to sleep with you?”

  “No!” she hissed, stretching her smile wide, wide, wide.

  Meteorite chuckled. “More than 64 percent. That’s higher than it ever was pre-Hypnotic.” That’s how they were dividing history now: pre-Hypnotic, when they were all slaves to Corp-Co, and post-Hypnotic.

  Jet couldn’t quite bite back a groan.

  Standing next to her, Iridium leaned over to whisper: “Picture him naked.”

  Ew.

  “Wow, she can smile without looking like she’s screaming,” Iri mused. “Who knew?”

  “Shhh!”

  “Please. Like anyone’s going to care about us girls chatting behind the mayor’s back.”

  The mayor, pompous as ever, loudly and proudly announced how thrilled he was to have the Squadron back, how extrahumans were once again the protectors of their human cousins, how he had no doubt that New Chicago would once more rise up to be one of the jewels of the United and Canadian States of America, et cetera.

  And the crowd ate it up. The Runner network had been doing its job better than Jet had anticipated—they were proving themselves to be the exemplars of public relations, far better than Corp had ever done. Bruce had known what he was doing when he’d gathered them together during the crisis.

  Damn him, anyhow.

  “By the way,” Iri whispered, “I like the new look.”

  Jet tried not to blush. “It’s not that different.” She still wore the black leather–Kevlar blended skinsuit, which covered her from neck to wrists to ankles. The boots, gloves, and utility belt were the same. Her optiframes were in place, as always. But no cloak, no cowl. Her golden hair hung in a thick braid down her back.

  “You don’t look like a female Night anymore. It’s good.”

  Jet smiled, even though she was now blushing madly.

  “She’s right,” Meteorite chimed in. “If I swung that way, I’d do you.”

  Jet choked, then covered with a polite cough and thought of the many different ways she’d love to kill the Ops coordinator.

  Finally, the mayor introduced Jet, once again the official Hero of New Chicago, their own Lady of Shadows.

  The crowd, as they say, went wild.

  Trying not to panic, Jet stepped forward and shook the mayor’s hand. He was smiling for the cameras and staring bloody murder at her, warning her silently that if she even thought of skipping off now to do anything short of saving the world from exploding, he’d personally chop off her head.

  She stepped up to the podium and smiled at everyone standing on the steps outside of City Hall, cheering for her. Cheering for New Chicago. Jet took a deep breath, then she spoke.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayor, and thank you, New Chicago.” She paused to let the audience settle down. “When Doctor Hypnotic broke out of Blackbird a little more than two weeks ago, it felt like the End Times were upon us. Hero turned against hero; extrahuman turned against human. People were hurt. Property was destroyed. All on the whim of a man who would have bent all of our minds, forced us to live in the world of his creation.”

  She hated the lie. But this was the compromise. And the good part was yet to come.

  “Doctor Hy
pnotic is once again in Blackbird. And that wouldn’t have happened without the work of human and extrahuman, of heroes and former villains.” Jet looked to Iri, who stepped forward and—ack—waved, grinning like a fool.

  Flashes and pops of cameras and vids as Iridium made her public debut.

  “This is Iridium. She works with light. She’s one of a number of people who have set aside their differences to come together for the common good. Get a good look,” Jet said, smiling warmly. “You’ll be seeing a lot of Iridium.”

  Iri’s hands sparkled, and the media ate it up.

  Jet waited until the crowd’s roar of appreciation died down. Then she said, “We’re only two of many extrahumans who have been fighting to protect New Chicago and her citizens.” She looked to her right, bowing her head to Commissioner Wagner, standing next to the mayor. “But we have done nothing more than New Chicago’s Finest, those brave men and women who constantly put their lives on the line to serve and protect all citizens who call New Chicago their home.”

  A large burst of applause. Wagner nodded at her, acknowledging her words.

  “We may be extrahuman,” Jet continued, “but we couldn’t do our jobs without the help of a very human group of individuals who have been with us from the beginning, running errands and messages, supporting us. Helping us to help you.”

  More applause, this time more hesitant.

  “Doctor Hypnotic may be once again behind bars,” she said, “but that doesn’t negate the damage he’s done. Many extrahumans who had fallen under his control are still fighting to free themselves from his influence. And there are others whose minds were horribly shattered.” She paused, allowing her somber words to sink in. “We will do everything we can to help our brothers and sisters to heal. But our first priority, as always, are the citizens of New Chicago and of the Americas. Duty first.”