They weave through the crowd hand-in-hand, returning greetings as they’re offered — some only to Matt, some only to Zina, but most are extended to both of them. They’re a unit now. An item. A couple.
“Hey, Miriam!” Zina calls out.
Miriam Roche — Zina’s supervisor and mentor within Bose Industries’ PR department — waves and beckons them to her table at the edge of the cafeteria. It’s at capacity, filled with Zina’s colleagues, but they shove over and make room for two more.
“Thanks,” Zina says, shrugging out of her coat.
“Ooooh, nice dress,” Miriam says, admiring Zina’s figure-hugging red party dress. “You look nice too, Matt.”
“What, this old thing?” he says, avoiding a return compliment on Miriam’s party attire. Better to say nothing and thus avoid saying something unintentionally inappropriate, he reasons. Anything to keep HR happy. “Want me to grab some drinks?”
“Please,” Zina says. “We should hydrate before we go dominate the dance floor.”
Matt sets off in search of the bar. He circumnavigates the dance floor, noting with some amusement that precious few of his colleagues have any skill as dancers, but boy, they sure make up for it with sheer enthusiasm. He has to shoulder his way through a mob of coworkers to reach the bar itself — coworkers jockeying for a precious moment of their boss’s attention.
“People, please, no shop talk tonight,” Edison says with a cordial if slightly strained smile. “This is a party. Stop treating it like a workday, all right? Go have fun, for God’s sake.”
With a collective murmur of acceptance, the crowd disperses.
“No wonder you require employees to take their vacation time,” Matt remarks. “I swear, some of these people would work on their wedding day and straight through the honeymoon.”
Edison chuckles. “I’ll have to tell you about Rogerson in the renewable energy lab sometime. You just get here?”
“Uh-huh. Zina and I are going to fuel up and then show all these pathetic old people how to dance for real.”
“Had any profound conversations with Zina lately?”
“Not yet, but I’m going to. Probably tonight.”
“Mm. You worried about how she’ll react?”
“A little. I really like her. We have a good thing going and I don’t want to screw it up, but there’s no point putting it off. She’ll find out one way or the other; the smartest thing to do is tell her myself. I mean, the whole reason we’re in this mess in the first place is because we didn’t come clean on our own terms, you know?”
“Yeah. I know,” Edison says distantly. “You should get back to your date.”
“Yes. Yes I should.”
Matt orders his sodas and wends his way back to his table. He sits and holds her close and does his best to ignore the nagging, gnawing fear in his belly that this is the last time he’ll ever again be this cozy with her. He could lose her forever with one confession.
Given the option, there’s a much different confession he’d like to make.
The music fades out and is replaced by the pop of a microphone turning on. “Good evening, everyone!” Edison says, prompting a wave of cheers and applause.
“Ah, time for the annual rally speech,” Miriam says.
“First of all, it’s great to see you all here. Thank you for coming.” Several guests raise their drinks in toast. “I can’t think of a better way to wrap up what’s been another fantastic year. The company’s had its share of challenges, which is to be expected, but we’ve accomplished a lot as well. We expanded the company significantly thanks to our acquisition of Advanced Robotics and Cybernetics; each of our departments made some impressive progress on their respective projects; and financially we’re as solid as we’ve ever been. I credit that success to everyone standing in this room tonight.”
Edison pauses, allowing the applause to run its course.
“I credit our success to all of you not just because you’re all so hard-working and dedicated, but because each and every one of you embraces this company’s core principles. We don’t imitate; we innovate. We don’t settle for conventional wisdom. We reject the status quo. We do things on our own terms and we — huh. On our own terms,” he muses — more to himself than his audience, Matt thinks. An odd look settles on Edison’s face, thoughtful and determined and, perhaps, a bit relieved. “You know what? Screw it. I had a whole speech planned but I need to say something else.”
“He’s going off-book,” Miriam says. “That’s never good.”
“Ohhhh,” Matt gasps, “no way...”
“What?” Zina says. Matt waves her quiet.
“I’ve always said that habit is a bad thing,” Edison begins. With each word his mood lightens, as if each exhalation lifts some long-suffered burden from his shoulders. “Habit breeds complacency, and complacency hinders our ability to grow and evolve and become something better — and I realized recently I’ve been living part of my life out of habit. I’d convinced myself I had good reasons for my choice, but honestly? I don’t. Maybe I did once but...sorry, I need to get to the point, don’t I?”
Edison closes his eyes, takes one last breath, and nods as though offering a polite farewell to a guest that has overstayed his welcome.
“I’m Concorde.”
Matt has experienced so-called deafening silences before — an absence of sound so complete that it feels unnatural — but none of those moments compare to this. No one gasps in shock. No one laughs in disbelief at what must surely be a poorly conceived and executed joke. No one fumbles a drink onto the floor. Not so much as a rustle of cloth or the whisper of heavy breathing disturbs the perfect stillness that has settled over the room.
It’s Edison himself who breaks the spell. “I kept my identity secret because I wanted a clear separation between my life as Edison Bose and my work as Concorde, but I’ve learned that such a separation isn’t necessary. I don’t have to pretend to be two different people — and frankly, I’m tired of the lies. This won’t affect how the company conducts itself, it won’t change how I treat all of you, and I hope it won’t change how you treat me. All I’m doing is removing a layer of deceit, and that’s a good thing.”
“My God,” Miriam says as the truth hits her with hurricane force. “All those times he ran out of meetings with no explanation...all those days he came into work covered in bruises...”
“I understand you have questions,” Edison says, “but now isn’t the time. After the holidays I’ll meet with my executive staff and I’ll be happy to meet privately with any employee who requests it, but tonight, let’s celebrate what’s going to be an exciting new year — for all of us.”
Edison steps down from the stage, gesturing for the DJ to resume his duties before disappearing into the crowd. The music comes up again with a thunder of bass, but it fails to restore the festive holiday mood. The party, for good or ill, is over.
“He did it,” Matt says. “My God, he really did it.”
“Matt?” Zina says. Matt stiffens. “Why are you acting like you knew about that?”
Matt downs his soda, a vain effort to loosen his suddenly constricted throat. “We need to talk,” he says.
***
“Holy crap,” I say.
“Yeah,” Matt says.
“I mean...oh my God.”
“Yeah.”
“But...why did he do it?”
“Like he said, he had no reason to keep the secret anymore.”
“Maybe, but he had no reason to go public either.”
“No,” Matt agrees. “I’ve been wondering if he did it for us. You know, as a show of solidarity? Maybe to take the heat off us? I mean, who’d care about the Hero Squad if Edison Bose outs himself as Concorde?”
The thought floors me harder than the revelation itself. Did Edison really sacrifice his private life for us? To let us know we won’t be facing our challenge alone? I sink onto the edge of my bed as I try to process it all.
“What abou
t Zina?” I say. “How did she take the news?”
“Like everyone else did; she never saw it coming.”
“I meant about you, you dummy.”
“Oh. Right.” Matt joins me on the bed. “She reacted more or less as I expected. There was the initial shock and disbelief stage, but she got over that when I showed her the gloves. Then she got angry at me for not telling her the truth sooner, but after I explained why I kept quiet she calmed down. Then she asked me a thousand questions.”
I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I prod him. “And then what?”
Matt reddens and turns away. Oh, you cannot be serious.
“Then she locked my office door and we made out on my desk.”
“For the rest of the night?”
“Not the whole night, no,” Matt says, a feeble protest, “but shouldn’t the takeaway here be the fact that Zina didn’t dump me on the spot? She’s totally cool with the fact I’m a super-hero.”
He’s right. The point got lost amidst his tale of teenage hormones run amok, but he’s right. Zina’s solid evidence that maybe we’re not doomed to live as pariahs among our peers.
“Counting Gordon and Dr. Hamill, that makes three people solidly on our side,” I say, though saying that aloud somewhat undermines my optimism. Three out of how many?
“Four,” Matt says. “On the way over this morning, Stuart said his grandmother is one hundred percent pro-Hero Squad.”
“Get out. Really?”
“Uh-huh. She remembered how upset her parents got when she decided to become a cop, how they never even tried to understand why she chose to go into police work...”
So it makes sense she’d sympathize with Stuart, the latest member of the Lumley family to risk life and limb to help others. “Okay,” I say. “Four, then.”
“It’s a good start. It’s a good start and it’ll get better,” Matt insists. “We just have to be willing to fight for it. Together.”
I smile. “Nice speech. Very inspiring.”
“What can I say? You take after Bart, I take after Edison.”
“Hm. I recall pointing that out to you not so long ago. Didn’t go over well.”
He shrugs. “I finally understand why he’s like that sometimes, with us and with the Protectorate,” he says. “It’s scary being the guy in charge. Everything that happens to you and Stuart and Missy is ultimately on me. You know, that whole ‘on my watch’ deal.”
“We’re not your responsibility.”
“Yes you are. You’re my friends. I love you guys. I’m responsible for all of you.”
I take his hand. “We’re responsible for each other. Like you said: together.”
Matt nods, smiles, and stands up, my hand still in his. “Please let me take you home.”
I don’t resist. I don’t resist at all.
“Okay.”
***
We sit in his car for untold minutes, me staring at Christina’s house and Matt staring at me with such concern, like he’s worried I’m going to wuss out and tell him to take me back to the hotel.
It’s tempting.
“Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“She wants me back, right?”
It’s a rhetorical question, really. Each of Christina’s seventeen unanswered phone calls went to voicemail. I listened to all of them on the ride over. In every single one, Christina begged me to come home — but I need to hear it from someone else, someone I trust unquestioningly. Someone I trust with my life.
“Of course she does,” Matt says. “She never wanted you to leave.”
No. She didn’t.
Matt waits at the curb as I walk up to the house, my stomach twitching with every step. I knock on the front door. Christina answers. Her face lights up at the sight of me.
“Can I come home, please?” I say. I can’t get the sentence out without my voice cracking.
Christina gives me her answer by pulling me into the house and into a hug that only a mother can give.
TWENTY
Christmas proves something of a bipolar affair. On the one hand, Christina is thrilled to have me home again, and I’m elated to be there, and that lends the day some measure of Christmas cheer. On the other hand, we’re both painfully aware of Carrie’s absence. This is her holiday. She should be here for it. That she isn’t tears us both up.
And yet, as much as I miss Carrie, I’m ripped at her too. Throughout the day I flash back to what Matt, Stuart, and Missy said about Carrie abandoning us, and I have to admit it: they’re not wrong. She left us behind, and in doing so, she sent every life she touched into a tailspin. We might never fully clean up the mess she dumped on us. How could she do that to people she allegedly loves?
Ben joins us for Christmas dinner, but his is not the most welcome presence. Christina hasn’t forgiven him for so quickly and completely betraying her trust, and I’m right there with her. It should be noted that the apologies he throws our way are neither numerous nor especially sincere. His are the halfhearted apologies of someone who simply wants us to stop throwing his screw-up in his face. However, in an effort to take the high road, I recant everything I said to him about the dangers of having a public identity. I admit I was only trying to throw a scare into him, and I point to the Quantums as examples of public heroes who’ve never had any major problems.
The Quantums are now officially in good company because the news of Edison’s big reveal exploded overnight. By Monday morning it was the top trending topic on Twitter as well as the lead story for every local news station and one of the top stories on the Today show. It was such a bombshell, financial analysts were citing it as the cause of a sharp drop in the stock market — and Bose Industries isn’t even a public company. Edison posted a brief video on both the Protectorate and Bose Industries websites explaining his motives for going public, but he’s deferring all requests for a press conference or an interview until after the holidays.
Here’s the plot twist: by the time New Year’s Day rolls around, Edison could be old news because his announcement has sparked a revolution.
I come downstairs Wednesday morning — Boxing Day, for those who care about such obscure pseudo-holidays — to find Christina sitting on the couch, staring at the TV in total fascination. “Looks like your friend Edison started something,” she says, scootching over to make room for me.
Today’s top story is about the sea change sweeping through the super-hero community coast to coast: heroes all over the country are dropping their secret identities and going public. One of the Boston news stations claims at least twenty known super-heroes in the New England area — about half of the New England HeroNet roster — have issued statements disclosing their civilian identities. I’ve always known Concorde was one of the big names in the business, but I had no idea he had this kind of influence over his colleagues.
Interesting side note: all the hubbub and hoopla, as Dad used to say, over the Nightwind incident has fallen off the news radar entirely. It had lost steam as a hot topic over the past several days, but people were still concerned, worried, scared, interested — and now the media’s talking heads are all like, Aliens? What aliens? Aliens are so last week. Let’s talk about super-heroes.
“This is surreal,” I say.
“You’re not going to do that, are you?” Christina says. “Issue a statement?”
“Oh God no. We agreed we’re not going to lie about it anymore but we’re not going to broadcast it either. Certainly not literally,” I add, gesturing at the TV.
While Christina gets ready for work, I hop online to get some solid information about who’s coming out of the super-hero closet. TranzSister has gone public, as has the Amazon, Black Iron, that tool Deuce X. Machine Natalie warned me about...interestingly, the only names from the Protectorate I can find are the known quantities: Edison, Astrid, and Catherine. As far as I can tell, Mindforce, Nina Nitro, and the Entity are still incognito. Can’t say I’m surprised about the Entity keeping his mask o
n, but Bart and Natalie?
Christina knocks on my door and pops her head in. “Leaving for work now,” she says. “What are you up to today? Do you have, um...duty? Is that the right term?”
She’s trying. It’s so hard for her and still so scary, but she’s trying.
“No. Officially I’m yellow-listed. That means I’m on injured reserve status,” I explain. “I won’t be patrolling with the police until Concorde clears me.” Christina nods and smiles with obvious relief. “Actually, could I catch a ride into the city with you? I’m meeting Meg for lunch so we can exchange Christmas presents.”
“If you can be ready in five minutes.”
That’s not enough time to make myself pretty for a deferred holiday with my girl, but I’ll skimp if it means I get to spend a little extra time with Christina. We’ve managed to put the ugliness of the past few days behind us, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t deeper damage that needs to be repaired — on her end and on mine.
The commute proves therapeutic but not in the way I expect. The drive into Boston is a royal suckfest of crawling traffic and drivers who can’t see fit to use a turn signal before cutting in front of us, and Christina chooses to express her frustration in the most profane manner possible. I half expect her to start ramming other cars and screaming, “Witness me!” It’s like riding with a Hell’s Angel, but it is giving her a chance to vent some pent-up emotion.
An hour later — which Christina says is actually not that bad for a morning commute — we pull into the parking garage near her office. While I grab my backpack out of the trunk, she points out a few nearby coffee shops where I can kill the morning and then gives me directions to the nearest T stop where I can catch a train to take me to lunch.
“Will I see you at home tonight?” she asks.
“I think so,” I say. I amend that to, “Can I get a ride back with you?”
“I get out at four-thirty.”
“Okay.”
She gives me a hug, but this time it isn’t one of her desperate, clingy hugs that makes me wonder if I’ll have to peel her off me. It’s brief. It’s normal.
Action Figures - Issue Six: Power Play Page 16