Black and White (10 page)

Wurtham
: Your so-called special abilities are anathema!

Jet
: So now you know the mind of Jehovah?

Wurtham
: You work with shadows.

Jet
: I do.

Wurtham
: “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” James 1:17. I say again, you are anathema!
(Audience: Applause.)

Jet
: Actually, I’m an agnostic.

(Audience: Some laughter; more booing.)

Jack
:
(To Wurtham)
Now Doctor, you’re making some wild claims here.

Wurtham
: Like what?

Jack
: You said—you just said that the extrahumans lord it over people as if they were gods, that they convince regular people that we’re too weak to exist without them.

Wurtham
: Exactly.

Jack
: How so?

Wurtham
: By seeing their faces everywhere. By hearing of their exploits nonstop in the liberal media.

Jack
: Uh-oh. Guess I’m on your You Know What list, eh?
(Audience: Laughter and clapping.)

Wurtham
: To be fair, not all of the media has bought into the Corp-Co party line about how the extrahumans are really superpowered teddy bears. Lynda Kidder got it right.
(To Jet)
Are you familiar with Ms. Kidder?

Jet
: Reporter for the
New Chicago Tribune.
Been out of touch for three days. Her editor put out the word that she’s on some hush-hush assignment.

Wurtham
: Like maybe finishing her Pulitzer-prize-winning Origins series, eh? You know she didn’t publish the final article.

Jet
: What happens in the workings of the news media is outside of my expertise.

Wurtham
: I’m sure. But Ms. Kidder had the gumption to tell the world the truth about you people.
(Audience: Bursts of clapping.)

Wurtham
: She said, “It seems unfair that an extrahuman would take on mere mortal criminals. What chance does a standard human, a normal, have against someone who can fly, or can bend steel, or can dazzle you with light?”

Jet
: I’m very familiar with her work, sir. The rest of the quote is, “But then again, as many extrahumans would tell
us, life isn’t fair.” It’s from part eight of her Origins series. May 14, 2112.

Wurtham
: I suppose along with your shadows, you also have a photographic memory?

Jet
: I’m well-informed.

Jack
: She watches the liberal media.
(Audience: Laughter and applause.)

Wurtham
: Say what you will, but Ms. Kidder got it right. She was on to the extrahuman crusade against humanity.

Jet
: What crusade?

Wurtham
: You’re looking to make us defenseless against you.

Jet
: Of all the—

Wurtham
: How many crimes have you stopped recently? Not against other extrahumans. Against mere humans. How many?

Jet
: I don’t make it a habit to count all my victories …

Wurtham
: False modesty. How many?

Jack
: Come on, Jet. I’m sure you must have an idea. Let’s say in the past three days alone. Have you busted up any crimes committed by regular folk?

Jet
: Yes, of course.

Wurtham
: Of course. How many?

Jet
: Five.

Wurtham
: And the police couldn’t do it … why now?

Jet
: Why … of course the police could have. I just got there first.

Wurtham
: So you think you’re better than the police.

Jet
: I’m not saying that at all.

Wurtham
: But you just said the police could have done the job that, oh, they’re supposed to be doing. But instead, you
show up with your flouncy cape and do the police’s job for them.

Jet
: It’s not
for
them. It’s … Look, you’re misunderstanding my role.

Wurtham
: And what is your role, exactly?

Jet
:
To
serve the people of the world and protect them however I can.

Wurtham
: Hmm. To serve and protect. Now where have I heard that before?
(Audience: Laughter.)

Jack
: Have to admit, that does sound familiar.

Wurtham
: And this is just the first step. They’re making our own police and firefighters irrelevant. Soon they’ll make our soldiers irrelevant. And then, with no way to fight against them, they’ll take over.
(Audience: Boos.)

Jet
: You’re being unreasonable. We’re here to
help
people.

Wurtham
: We don’t
want
your help. What will it take before your kind understands that we mere humans can take care of ourselves? We’ve done just fine without your kind, and we’ll do even better once we rid ourselves of you!
(Audience: Cheering wildly.)

Jack
:
(to Jet)
He’s saying that you’re not wanted.

Jet
: I understand that’s what he’s saying, Jack.

Jack
: How does that make you feel?

Jet
: Like I’m wasting my time. If you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.

(Jet walks off the stage. Roaring applause from the audience.)

Jack
: Well, I guess what they say is true: When the going gets tough …

Audience
: The tough get going!
(Wild applause and cheers.)

T
he half-burned warehouse on the pilings above Lake Michigan wouldn’t attract the eye of the most desperate junkfreak, and Iridium liked it that way. She patched herself in with her modified wristlet and waited as the antique fluorescent tubes flicked on one by one, all the way down the length of the skeletal structure.

Patched and acrid though it was, and even with the stench of the lake ever-present, the place was home enough, and the old-style steel walls kept out most of the newer scansweeps that the Corp outfitted New Chicago’s Squadron with.

The chatter of the tele from the living quarters floated an echo down to Iridium, of Jet’s voice.

“Boxer, turn that crap off!” Iridium shouted. She put the
case of digichips on the workbench and popped the locks, slipping on sterile gloves to handle the chips.

A moment later, Jet’s electronic voice—“Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It’s a real honor to be receiving this award today”—cut off, and Boxer popped his head over the railing, pushing his fedora up with one finger. “Hey, hot stuff,” he called. “You got ’em!”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, bank and all,” said Boxer. “Not like knocking over the home safe of some corporate fat cat.”

“Boxer,” Iridium said with a sideways smile, “have I ever let you down before?”

“That you haven’t, honey,” he agreed. Boxer was pushing fifty, but he still wore the zoot suit and fedora of the Bugsys, his old gang. “Not even when you threatened to singe my eyebrows off that first time we met.”

“You were trying to mug a couple of kids, Boxer.” Iridium popped the latches on the case and looked at the small digichips, dark green and packed with enough data-pushing juice to handle a grid of New Chicago’s power. The rich used them to improve the resolution on tele sets.

Just for a second, Iridium allowed herself to think what it would be like to pocket the money from fencing the chips—get herself a real stronghold, with security and a soft bed she could sleep through the night in. Hell, even a new unikilt would be nice.

“Hot damn,” said Boxer, quashing Iridium’s train of thought. “I’m a product of my misspent youth, Iri. Being the idiot brother of a big damn hero will do that to a man.”

She dug under the workbench for a box of plastic post sleeves and, wrapping the chips individually, began to slip them in. The hackers of Wreck City would get what Iridium had promised them, because the last thing she needed was pissed-off geeks on her ass.

“Your youth called,” said Iridium. “It wants its purple cummerbund back.”

“At least I’m not monochromatic, doll.”

“When the chips are ready,” she said, “drop them in the PS box on 170th that doesn’t have a camera attached to it. The terminals will get the upgrades in the next day or so.”

“You know, doll … Just throwing out a hypothetical here. If we sold these chips, we’d make a nice chunk of E’s and could maybe quit this petty criminal racket for a little bit.”

Iridium’s hands stopped moving.

Boxer didn’t drop his genial smile, but he backed up a step out of habit.

She took a deep breath, so Boxer wouldn’t know how close he’d come to the truth. He was a lot smarter than he looked, in his tie clip and fedora and thinning slicked-back hair. “After this, we’re taking the show on the road,” she said. “I’ve spent five years being a thorn in Corp’s boot, and I’m tired of it.” She slammed her fist down on the workbench. Her neural inhibitor, purchased from the estate of Baron Nightmare, fell off it and rolled away into a corner.

“What are you talking about, Iri?” said Boxer cautiously. “You know how I feel about getting too visible on Corp’s radar. If my brothers or my nephew ever found me, it’d be seriously down times for ol’ Boxer.”

“I’m saying I’m tired of being a thorn,” said Iridium. “I want to be a fucking nail.” A red halo blossomed around her hands, her hair, in the corners of her eyes. “We’re going after Corp and its army of badly costumed minions, effective now. If you have a problem with that, motor before it gets rough. Got it?”

Boxer swallowed. “Got it.”

“Good. Now go out and get me a sandwich, will you? I’m half-starved. Jet caught up with me and got in a lucky hit.”

“That low-down dirty hero,” Boxer commiserated. “Oh, boss, before I forget … you got a message from the leader of the Undergoths.”

“Wonderful.” She wrinkled her nose. The Undergoths
lived in the abandoned subway tunnels, not to mention any other holes in the ground … most of which were seeping with raw sewage.

Boxer jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You want me to tell ’em to get lost?”

“Not until you find out what they want,” said Iridium. “Wouldn’t be the first time some junkfreak gang leader tried to bribe his way into my neighborhood. If he’s going to make trouble, let’s get rid of him now.”

“He wants to meet with you,” said Boxer, lighting an old-fashioned cigarette.

“Well, that’s new.” She wondered exactly how crazy the leader of the Undergoths had to be. “What’s his deal?”

Boxer grinned at her through a cloud of blue smoke. “I know you’re done with the do-gooder stuff and all, but you might like this: He says he’s got a vigilante problem.”

N
ot even two minutes after Jet stormed into her apartment, the door chime sounded. Still fuming from the debacle that had been the Goldwater show, the last thing Jet wanted to deal with was … well, anything. Barring some cosmic emergency, all she had on her schedule for tonight was curling up with a good romance novel. Maybe—maybe—she’d even allow herself to have some chocolate.

Thinking of which book she’d lose herself in later, Jet opened the door. And right there, cover-model gorgeous, was Bruce Hunter. As her gaze locked on his handsome face, she forced herself to smile, even though she really wanted to squeak and slam the door shut. Her heartbeat jitterbugged in her chest, and she was breathing too fast.

Damn it all to Darkness, how could one man fluster her
so completely—and so quickly? He was just a man. A civilian, at that. Normal. Not a threat.

Except her instincts told her differently.

“Hey there,” Bruce said, his voice a sexy rumble that sent tingles running up her arms like electric shocks. He smiled broadly, his teeth bright enough to qualify him as a Light power.

When she remembered to speak, she said, “Hi.”

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “So, this is the part where you let me in …”

Hating the heat she felt in her cheeks, Jet stepped aside and threw the door open wide. There he stood, Bruce Hunter, Academy Runner, tall and dark and handsome in his black trencher and slacks, the dimple in his right cheek turning his grin into something boyish and altogether touchable, his blue eyes sparkling.

No
, Jet thought, staring into his eyes,
they’re nothing as soft or magical as that. They ripple with energy. They’re dangerous eyes. Sexy eyes.

She could almost hear Meteorite’s voice laughing, telling her she really needed to get laid.

And the truly sad thing was, Jet’s body agreed with the assessment. The tremors she felt in her belly had nothing to do with the aromatic smells emanating from the bag in Bruce’s hand.

The tremors shifted into small pulses, sending tiny waves of heat up to very sensitive parts that usually were very carefully hidden by her cloak. But she’d hung up her cowl and cape when she’d entered a moment ago. Telling her body to stop reacting
like that
to Bruce’s presence, she said, “Please come in.”