Shattered and fire-scorched buildings and vehicles lined the streets, pavement bright with broken glass, it looked like what it had been—a war zone. Not nearly as bad as Los Angeles had been post-quake, but worse than the aftermath of any superhuman fight Hope’d seen since Whittier Base. She didn’t know how many had died in the broken streets but she’d learned, too many times in her life, that heartsick meant something not at all metaphorical. As they turned up Michigan Avenue towards the Dome, she saw that white-tented disaster centers had sprung up in the parks. Not enough tents.
“Where’s FEMA? This can’t be all of it?”
“The feds are spreading their camps,” Lei Zi said. “In case of a follow-up attack. Also, they can’t do as much for Chicago as we’d like—they’ve got the flood zones to take care of.”
“Hoover Dam dumped ten trillion gallons of water,” Shell said gloomily. “Not a flood, a tsunami. Bullhead City, Laughlin, Lake Havasu City are gone, Davis Dam and Parker Dam are gone too. Power’s out all over there and Las Vegas has lost its main water source and is drying out in the summer heat along with hundreds of thousands of acres of farmland. LA, Phoenix, and San Diego are going to get pretty thirsty, too, and all that’s just from one of the dam hits. All the dams dropping off the grids means islanding—local areas thrown back on their mini-grids, surges and drops from imbalances between remaining generation and load, generators going off-system in defense. The rebuild after the Big One made the Pacific grids more robust, but rolling blackouts are sweeping the country from the Atlantic to the Rockies, Florida to the Dakotas.”
“What are we doing to help? Watchman’s down, but Riptide—”
“Riptide is remaining in Chicago,” Lei Zi informed her. “All of our CAI capes are.”
“But—”
“That decision was above our pay-grade. The mayor asked the governor to activate the state militia and place it at the service of the city. Since our CAI certifications come with state militia commissions, we’re under orders and we’ve been instructed to remain on duty here.” She shook her head before Hope could object. “Not our call to make. And we can’t be everywhere. Speaking of being everywhere . . .” A thin smile split her face. “Are you going to make a habit of flying to the rescue? From halfway round the world? Or from another one?”
Hope flushed. “Once isn’t a habit—”
“Blackstone hope’s it becomes one. You all saved lives yesterday. But you’re off the duty roster until cleared by doctors Beth and Mendel.”
Hope nodded. She’d expected that.
Lei Zi left her when they pulled into the garage. Shell landed and followed her downstairs to Blackstone’s office, her blue-and-silver chromed armor folding away as she walked to transform her from Galatea to just Shell; Hope honestly didn’t know what Shell thought she needed to protect her from in the safety of the Dome.
Blackstone straightened behind his desk when they came through the door; except for the lack of purpling he looked better than Hope, but he shook off his fatigue to give her a smile. “Glad you’re back. Sit.”
Hope sat, depositing Kitsune in the chair on her left. Shell took the one on her right.
“I’m sending you to Dr. Beth in a minute, but we need your after-action report on your fight yesterday. The Department of Superhuman Affairs has opened an investigation on the unknown superhuman, working with Homeland Security. Do you feel up to talking to their assigned agent? It’s as good a time as any to reintroduce you.”
What? Hope blinked. “Reintroduce us?”
“Yes. Shell, is he waiting?”
“With the worst elevator musak I could find.”
Blackstone’s lips twitched. “Put him on.” The screen on Blackstone’s desk lit up to show them— “Veritas!” Hope blurted. Faded short blond hair, lined face, dark shades worn even indoors like it was cool, a half-smile that could mean anything or nothing.
“Ms. Astra. It’s good to see you again.”
Blackstone said something over the pounding in Hope’s head and she realized she was standing. She tore her gaze from the screen to look at him. “He’s legitimate,” Blackstone repeated. “I spoke with Director Kayle.”
“They decided he was too valuable to lock up in federal prison for the rest of his life.” Shell looked completely disgusted. “He had people killed! He worked for the Dark Anarchist! How can he be trusted?”
Veritas removed his shades, dangling them from his fingers. “I take it the Director left it to me to explain my deal?”
“He told me you might be ‘rehabilitated,’” Hope said, remembering. She sat back down. “He didn’t explain what that meant.”
“It’s simple, really. After the investigation into my activities revealed enough evidence to put me in prison for life, I was offered a deal. I consented to full telepathic interrogation—a verifiable confession of all of my activities—and to telepathic realignment.”
“Telepathic brainwashing, you mean.” Shell’s voice was flat and Veritas smiled thinly.
“If you want to call it that. It was voluntary. With my shadow network and projects rolled up and shut down my power and skills are still too valuable to throw away, and my end goal has always been the same as yours—survival. I simply took necessary actions my superiors would not have approved of.”
“And now?” Hope felt sick.
“Now I have a telepathically implanted desire to do all I can to achieve my goals, which haven’t changed, within the law and framework of my duties and my orders. I’ve been ‘realigned’ for institutional loyalty.”
“So, no more conspiracy to commit murder, treason, and jaywalking?” Shell quipped.
“Such possibilities aren’t on my menu of options anymore,” Veritas returned blandly. “I’m trustworthy because I agreed to be made so in exchange for the opportunity to continue to serve my country. Shall we get on with business?”
“By all means.” Blackstone’s gaze rested on Hope and she knew what he saw in her face.
Realignment. Oh God. Her stomach churned, the ache rising into her chest. She didn’t look at Kitsune.
“Certainly.” Veritas’ voice stayed flat. “I’m principally involved in the investigation of who planted the anchors for the Verne-tech teleportation bridge used to drop the attackers on Chicago. We’re also hunting the individuals tasked with delivery of things like the truck bombs that opened the attack with the city precincts. I’ll be reviewing every interview and interrogation for truthfulness. Astra, as I’m here I was asked to conduct your DSA interview regarding the unknown superhuman who attacked you.”
He gave what had always passed as a smile for him. “I could come to the Dome, but I think given past events it might be best my interactions with your team be done remotely for now. It was reported that you experienced vivid aural hallucinations?”
Hope nodded. Now she just felt tired and cold. “I heard a poem from years ago.” She shivered at the memory. The cold. The weight. The dark.
His eyebrows climbed. “A poem.”
“We were thirteen. Shelly’d been going through a ghoulish phase? She almost switched her cape-obsession for Goth, and there was a documentary about The Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde’s last poem. We watched it together.” Hope had liked Oscar Wilde; she still loved “The Importance of Being Earnest” and watching a production of the play could make her laugh hysterically—as long as she didn’t think about what happened to him later. And loud they sang, and loud they sang—they sang to wake the dead. She suppressed a shudder. “Wilde was convicted of ‘homosexual offenses’, and the reading of the poem was really an excuse to talk about his criminal sentencing and the inhuman prison system back then.”
“Oh?”
She nodded again. “It was almost total isolation. They’d put the prisoners in single cells with thick walls and doors. They weren’t allowed to communicate. Even the guards wore soft covers on their shoes, so they wouldn’t make noise doing their rounds. When they took the prisoners out of their ce
lls, they’d hood them so they couldn’t see each others’ faces and they weren’t allowed to talk. Ever. They might have a Bible to read when they had the light to. They’d . . . it doesn’t sound horrible, not compared to other kinds of imprisonment, but—”
She could still remember the creepy shadowing of the images of the old prison, the ominous music beneath the narration. “It broke people down. Lots of prisoners were never the same, after a few years in that system. They took away your name.”
Wilde had become C-3-3, the designation of his cell.
“And somehow the BBG brought it back?” Blackstone prodded when Hope didn’t go on.
She shook herself. “More than that. Back then the show gave me screaming nightmares.” She’d managed to forget the feelings that went with the dreams, waking up in her bed with the sense of overwhelming dread, of weight pressing her down though there was nothing there. Hope had thought she’d grown out of childish night terrors by then, but it was the worst trigger she’d ever had and she groped for the right words.
“I’d learned by then that people did terrible things to each other, you know? I wasn’t naïve. But that place—” Another shiver ran through her.
She didn’t say that the nightmares had come back for a while after Shelly’s death, after the Bees had dragged her into their circle and she’d gotten to know Megan. Megan—the snarky, prickly, loyal, protective, and gay Bee. Reading Gaol had held murderers and rapists, thieves and pimps, the corrupt and the dregs of society. Oscar Wilde hadn’t hurt anybody. He’d been sent there, condemned to soul-wounding isolation, for the crime of being sexually different. It had been evil, and the thought of someone condemning Megan to that had been crushing. Hope shivered again; she probably wouldn’t shake it until she got some sleep.
Blackstone grimaced when Hope didn’t say anything more. “It seems a highly specific attack.”
“No,” Kitsune said from where he sat in the chair, now Yoshi. “The Mikaboshi isn’t at all clever that way.”
Hope whipped around, wobbling for a moment. “You shouldn’t be—”
He smiled. “Neither should you, but there are things we need to talk about.” Blackstone touched his epad to close the door as she searched Kitsune’s pale and tired face. His smile turned into a grin. “I live, Amai-chan,” he whispered in her ear, laughing when she turned pink and swatted his shoulder with no force at all.
“You know Hope’s attacker?” Blackstone inquired dryly.
“Yes.” Kitsune’s gaze shifted to the white-haired magician and the agent on the screen. “I know of the ‘Big Bad Guy’ who attacked Hope. The Chrysanthemum Throne has been aware of him for some time. And aware of what rides him.”
Hope shivered again.
Chapter Six
Supernatural (plural: supernaturals): literally, a phenomenon departing from what is usual or normal, especially so as to appear to transcend the laws of nature. Modern connotation: a breakthrough patterned after elements of myth, folklore, and fantasy rather than fitting the superhero mold. Documented supernaturals include vampires, witches, fairies, ghosts, angels, devils, etc. It is often difficult to determine which supernaturals are breakthroughs and which are the projections of unknown breakthroughs.
Barlow’s Guide to Superhumans
“Duh-duh-duuuuh!” Hope’s BF quipped. Hope was amazed she’d kept quiet so far. “Shell . . .” Her lips twitched but she kept them pinched.
“Oh please. Yes, totally sorry, but really who could pass on that dramatic reveal?”
“Not you.”
“Right! So, go on oh foxy one.” She looked past Hope at Kitsune as Blackstone snorted a laugh.
“Yes. Please enlighten us, Yoshi,” he said.
The foxy one didn’t laugh. “Agent Veritas, you can tell your superiors the BBG is a lunatic named Karl Langer, a neo-Nazi skinhead from Germany. He was a street thug in one of their national-purity movements, but they didn’t give him enough scope and he was too angry and violent for even them to stomach for long. So he went to Asia and worked his way up through the ranks of one of the bandit warlords in Qinghai.”
Blackstone stroked his goatee. “From neo-Nazi to working for non-Aryans? That’s a bit of a stretch.”
Kitsune chuckled, sitting back carefully. “He’s ideologically flexible. What he hated was being on the bottom. He came from very poor streets and had a violent criminal record long before his breakthrough in a savage beating. Power, respect, money, that’s what he’s always been about. He hates anyone ‘above’ him but he’s smart enough to know that he scares the shit out of people. He’s not a leader, nobody will follow him for very long, but he’s a useful monster for a ruthless leader to have under him. So he’ll attach himself to a top-dog who shows him respect and lets him break people. When Qinghai got its military act together enough to take care of their local warlords, Karl disappeared. Back then he was just a smart B Class Ajax-Type.”
“He wasn’t B Class yesterday,” Hope objected.
“No, he wasn’t.” All humor fled from Kitsune’s voice. “Karl’s true power is his hate. He climbed out of the gutter on top of the bodies of others and he’s a sadist. He’s also just smart enough to control his hate, to feed it and use it when it serves his goals. But his hate fed something else, something that likes him a great deal. Have you heard of Amatsu-Mikaboshi?”
Hope shook her head. Blackstone and Veritas looked blank, but Shell sucked in a breath. “No way!”
“Way, I’m afraid.” He looked at the others. “Amatsu-Mikaboshi, the Dread Star of Heaven, isn’t an entity or being. It’s a force, like gravity or entropy. In fact, entropy is the best way to think of it. Older Shinto stories say that it was the darkness and nothingness that existed before anything, and that it was shattered by the birth of the universe. Shinto teaches that all of existence is alive and seeks ever greater levels of organization and being. But Amatsu-Mikaboshi remains, and it seeks to return the universe to the dark nothingness in which its power was absolute.”
“And what does that mean, in practice?” Blackstone asked.
Kitsune sighed wearily. “The Mikaboshi’s a corruptor. Spiritually, it feeds on negative emotions. Hate. Greed. Envy. Langer marinates in all that, but it can twist even positive emotions into dark aspects. Love into jealousy or obsession, for example. It corrupts mortals, kami, ideals, whole societies. Really, it’s an old and obscure story, part of Japan’s magic folklore. But part of the lore is the belief that if you feed it, the Mikaboshi can grant power.”
“Has anyone tried it?”
“A few corrupt onmiyoji sorcerers. I’ve killed one or two of those on instructions from the Chrysanthemum Throne.” He didn’t look at Hope. “Karl Langer’s not an onmiyoji, but we think he’s possessed by a fragment of the Mikaboshi. It’s boosted him, heightened his hate and lust for power. And it’s given him the projective power displayed yesterday. Hope caught it directly, but I felt it even from a distance when he arrived. Everyone close felt its effect, even if they weren’t aware of it in the heat of the fight.” He finally glanced at Hope, shrugging apologetically. “It magnifies your weaknesses, your sources of negative emotion. It’s different for everybody.”
Blackstone sighed. “So, in Hope’s case . . .”
“Despair.” Hope laughed unhappily. “I went through an intense nihilistic phase, from all that. Lost faith in humanity in general. It didn’t last.” It hadn’t, but it had taken spiritual counseling with Father Nolan and a lot of prayer and contemplation to get her past it. “I got more balanced. You know, aware of our faults and potential.”
“A quick mind and sensitive soul,” Kitsune said softly, taking her hand,“would be extremely vulnerable.”
Hope shuddered, Blackstone giving her a concerned look before turning to the screen. “Veritas, what does the DSA know of this sort of thing?”
The man chuckled. “There’s always vampires, their whole bend-to-the-power-of-my-will thing. On a larger scale there was Psi-Jack.” Hope winced
and Blackstone’s face hardened. None of them would forget the crowd-controlling mentalist who’d spawned the Michigan Avenue Riot three years ago. She could still see the Bees, Julie, Megan, and gentle Annabeth, gleefully beating down an unlucky bystander. Looking at his image on the screen, she thought she saw sympathy in the weathered agent’s eyes. “The strongest known projective telepath in the US was the Seattle Demon,” he said.
Blackstone sat back. “I’m not familiar with the name. Tell us about him.”
“There’s not a lot to tell. Nobody ever found out who the Seattle Demon was. One day the city’s homeless population began reporting a Get Out! vibe. They described it as the sensation of unfriendly eyes watching you, with a mounting level of threat. I was part of that investigation and we couldn’t find the source, but within a few months all of Seattle’s street-people either left town or ‘came in from the cold’ and accepted help for their mental problems or drug addictions.”
“Why didn’t we hear about this?” Blackstone asked. Hope wanted to know, too.
Veritas went back to playing with his shades. “The Seattle Demon’s literal reign of low-grade fear only lasted three years and was hardly a public spectacle. We managed to keep it out of the mainstream news, though some fringe publications talked about it. The breakthrough responsible for the Get Out! Effect most likely died but not before the city’s garbage-filled homeless camps emptied and the drug needles, human feces, and squatter’s carts and tents disappeared from the streets. Violent crime and property crime rates sank through the floor and the city government was happy to claim credit for that. Nobody’s seen such a selective and large-scale case of mental projection since.”
Blackstone rubbed his brow. “Shell, if you could pass all of this to Chakra? Ask her to consider defenses, when she can take a moment from her current work.”
Repercussions (Wearing the Cape Book 8) Page 6