Black and White (13 page)

She rolled her eyes. Freaking politics would be the death of her. “It’s not like I snuck out to go dancing,” she said. Not that Lee would have noticed if she had quietly slipped away; the mayor was so full of himself that she was surprised there’d been room for her on the stage. But the police officers would have ratted her out. Loudly.

“I know, but you made him look bad.”

Deep breath. Hold it. Release. Now, speak without shouting. “I
did no such thing.”

“Worse, you don’t even have a rabid to show for it.”

“The paperwork’s all been filed.” She shot a meaningful look at Bruce, who nodded. Translation:
Yes, all the forms are in order.
Thank the Light. That would have been all she needed after this fiasco: getting cited for breaking code.

“Jet, understand that you humiliated the mayor—”

“I was doing my job.”

“—and now you can’t even prove you went after the bad guy. Yes,” he said, cutting her off before she could speak, “I
know, you filed the reports. But anyone can do the actual filing, and Runners have been known to elaborate when persuaded by the right extrahuman.”

That stung. “I’m not a liar!”

“I know that. But the mayor …” Night shrugged. “He’s a little one-track minded. It’s an election year. He’s out for blood. Or headlines. He’ll take, either.”

“My skinsuit reeks from where I got hurled into the Dumpster,” Jet said, seething. “Maybe we can use it to prove my word.”

“He’s not interested in your innocence. You know that. And he’s calling in favors. Threatening to pull New Chicago’s sponsorship.”

Damn Iri to the never-ending Darkness.

“He’d never do it,” Jet growled. “He was all but declaring his undying love for me this afternoon.”

“And now the honeymoon’s over, and divorce is on the horizon. This is serious, Jet.” Night paused, and Jet steeled herself for the worst. “The EC’s toying with putting you on probation.”

Fury shot through her.
“What?”

“Corp doesn’t want to lose New Chicago’s resources. The EC will do almost anything to keep Lee in their pocket, including sacrificing you.”

Her head began to pound, right behind her eyes. Dizzy, she sank down into a kitchen chair. “After all I’ve done for them? For the city? The world?” Her voice was a strangled whisper. “How could they even consider doing this to me?”

“Jet,” Night said quietly, “you know by now that heroing is just as much about the politics as it is about justice.”

“Politics should have nothing to do with it.”

“Should doesn’t matter.” He spoke through clenched teeth; his voice was cold, but his face suggested that inside, he was boiling with fury.

“It’s not about how many
constituents
I help,” she said,
the anger rising in her blood to match his own. “It’s about how many
people
I help. Who cares if they’re eligible voters?”

“The mayor does,” Night replied. “And so does Corp. You’re in trouble, little Shadow.”

The old nickname blunted her rage. She closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose.

“Want some advice?”

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

“Do something to get back in everyone’s good graces, most especially the public.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Give the media a story they can’t ignore.” Night lowered his voice. “You heard about Kidder?”

The second time today she was hearing the name Lynda Kidder: New Chicago’s own fearless reporter and resident thorn in the side of both Corp and the Academy. Most journalists assigned to the extrahuman circuit were happy to report whatever Corp told them, without digging for additional verification. Not Kidder. Jet opened her eyes. “Sure. She’s on that quiet mission for the
Tribune.”

“That’s the party line,” Night said, voice dry.

“You suspect there’s more to it?”

“I find it odd that after a vid-hog like Kidder did nothing to conceal her actions as she dug around for the Icarus piece, now she’s suddenly on the q.t.” He paused. “It goes against her pattern.”

“Why would the
Tribune
cover up their star reporter’s disappearance, if that’s what this is?”

“Why indeed?” he said.

So Night felt that either the
Tribune
editor was in on Kidder going MIA, or the editor had been strong-armed into a cover-up. Jet frowned. Night had never been one to see a conspiracy where there were just cold, hard facts. “If that’s the case, why not go through the official channels? The police?”

“On what grounds? No one’s reported her officially missing.”

“Then send in one of the Squadron’s S&R teams to do the recon.”

“Not an option,” Night said, tension etched on his brow. “The Mind powers are in high demand these days. Can’t waste any on search and rescue for a lone reporter who technically is on investigation.”

She arched a brow. “You asked Corp?”

“I did.”

“And Corp said no.”

“Of course they did. Kidder’s been practically blackballed since that Origins feature.”

“Won her a Pulitzer,” Jet said.

“And made the EC very unhappy. They don’t like anyone snooping around their heroes, especially when it has to do with Icarus.”

“Bad for the secret identities?” Old joke, that. Heroes didn’t have lives outside of Corp and the Academy; the concept of a secret identity was right out of Hollywood.

“Bad for business.”

Jet stood, began to pace. “There are other options available, if you want to pursue this. Doesn’t have to be a Mind power. How about the trackers? Maybe Ranger?”

“Somalia.”

“What about Bloodhound?”

“Undercover in the European Union.”

“Sniffer?”

“Allergies. Trust me, going through regular channels on this one won’t work.”

“Maybe she really is deep undercover.”

“Or in the hospital,” Night said mildly. “Or in a ditch.”

“I’d be happy to talk to her editor—”

“Don’t bother. He’s laid up in the hospital. Apparently, he overdosed on his anxiety meds. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not for the editor.”

“Jet, this is what you need right now. It’ll get you out of the doghouse with Lee, and the media will love you forever, again, for saving one of their own.”

“Sir,” she said, “if you truly suspect something, then of course I’ll look into it. Kidder is a good reporter.”

“Tell that to the EC,” he snorted.

Jet had trained with and worked with Night far too long for her to miss the subtext: Night believed that Corp didn’t want Kidder back on the beat. One way or another.

She turned to face the vidscreen. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Corp had anything to do with Kidder’s disappearance?” The thought made her head pound. Of course Corp had nothing to do with it; Corp were the good guys. The idea that Corp was somehow involved was insane.

“The very notion could lead to probation,” Night replied. The right words … but his eyes gleamed darkly, feverishly. And now he was nodding, ever so slightly.

Utter lunacy. But then, everyone knew what happened to Shadow powers eventually.

Poor Night.

She’d humor the old man. It was the least she could do. And once he was happily distracted, she’d quietly inform Ops that Night needed help. He’d looked out for her for so long; now it was time for her to stand by him. “So Ops, and other Squadron resources …?”

“Unavailable for this mission.”

“Understood.”

“Can I trust you?”

Startled, and somewhat guilty, Jet replied, “Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. You report to me directly for this, Jet. Keep the Squadron out of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I pulled together the basics—police reports, mostly, and parts of her EC file. I’ll upload to your wristband.”

Not her comlink—her old Academy portadata. He really was paranoid about Corp’s involvement. Her chest squeezed tight, and she couldn’t breathe for a sudden, overwhelming sense of sadness. “Understood.”

“Good luck with this, little Shadow. In every way. Find Lynda Kidder. And Joan? Be careful. It’s not too much of a stretch to go from scapegoat to Blackbird.”

“Thanks, old man,” she said, then disconnected.

She leaned back in the chair, her mind whirling. Before anything else, she’d do what Night had asked. She owed it to him to take him at his word—even though the idea that Corp was the bad guy here was enough to make her head hurt. First, she’d pore through the files Night was sending. Then she’d examine Kidder’s home, a routine sweep. Maybe visit the editor in the hospital …

“Anything you need me to do?”

Bruce’s voice yanked Jet out of her thoughts. “No,” she said, giving him a smile as she strode past him and into her bedroom. “But thanks.”

“You should eat,” he called after her.

“I’m on a mission.”

“You’re in recon mode,” Bruce chided. “I heard him. He’s sending you the files. So you’ll have time to wolf down your enchiladas. Which are getting colder by the second.”

“I really don’t have time.” In her closet, she pawed through her school things and dug out the old wrist-receiver With a touch of her finger, it turned on. And sure enough, a large file was waiting for her.

When she turned, she saw Bruce leaning in the doorway to her bedroom, watching her. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she had to swallow it down before she could speak. “What are you doing in here?”

“Convincing you to eat before you dash off to save the day.” His blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’ll wave the enchiladas under your nose until you’re overcome by the smell and drool all over your costume.”

Thinking about all the Mexican food made her stomach growl. “Well, maybe just a little …”

“That’s a good little extrahuman.” He led her out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, over to the table. Once she was seated, he handed her a napkin for her lap. “I’ll put the wine back in the fridge. Water okay?”

“Yes, please. Thanks.” She smiled at him, then set to the food.
Oh, by all that’s dappled in sunlight, it tastes sublime.

“I’ve got other errands, but if you need me, just call.” He motioned to his own Squadron-branded wristlet. “I’ll come running.”

She arched an eyebrow at her Runner. “Truth in advertising?”

“Hey, it’s what we’re supposed to say.” He winked at her, then headed for the door.

Jet lamented that he was wearing a trench coat and not a bomber jacket, then turned her attention to the wristband and started to read.

It was well past midnight before she finished.

I
ridium looked down at the owner of the pawnshop, who was bound and gagged on the floor, and tipped him a salute. Pawnshops were about the only place in the civilized world where you could still get cold, untraceable paper cash. Every other place, except the diviest of the dives, was strictly digital.

“Mrph grn flarg,” said the pawnshop owner.

“Hush up,” Iridium said, nudging the man with her toe. “Half of this stuff is stolen, anyway. You fence for the Kleptos in exchange for their protection, right?” She prayed that Boxer had given her the right intel. Usually he was good for precise and reliable information, but there were memorable mix-ups, like the one with the gang of transvestite
priests who knocked over liquor depots—but never on Sundays.

After a moment, the man rolled his eyes and nodded.

“Right. So I’m thinking that you probably won’t involve the cops in your business. You’ll just take this loss,” she said, waving the wad of paper cash, “out in trade like any somewhat crooked businessman.”

“Mmmph,” he agreed.

Iridium walked to the door, which sported an old-fashioned holosign reading
CLOSED
with a sad-faced clown spouting big blue holotears next to it. She looked back at the pawnshop owner regretfully. “That’s why I hate to do this.”

The alarm began to screech as Iridium smashed the emergency panel with her fist and jerked the lever within. The fuzzy screen flashed blue and a robotic voice announced, “This is the New Chicago Police Department. You are experiencing a robbery or other felony crime. Please remain calm. Help is on the way.”

Iridium chucked the cash into a mail drop and mounted the fire ladder to the top of the tall, narrow prefab buildings that composed most of Grid Sixteen. The roof was covered in junk needles, pigeon droppings, and sputtering holopa-pers from flyover advertising and leaflets. She sat on the electrical box and waited.

Any justice freak worth his cape would come sniffing around to see who, exactly, would be robbing a ganged-up fence’s pawnshop. In the middle of territory belonging to a known rabid, on top of it.

Iridium yawned and checked her wristlet. As she was about to give up and go find a taco stand still serving, a whisper of air teased the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Waiting on me?” someone asked.

Iridium turned. “Yes, as a matter of fact. And may I just say, your response time sucks. You can’t even call yourself a justice fanboy with that kind of performance.”

The vigilante smiled, or at least his costume crinkled up over the mouth area. A black stocking covered his entire face, and flat black welding goggles did the job for his eyes. He was decked out in tactical gear with ceramic plating and lightweight Kevlar straps that could only have come from Corp. No skin was visible, his marking a lightning bolt spray-painted across his chest plate.

“You all talk, sweetie, or are you gonna come along peaceably?”

Iridium cocked her head. “Fan of the cowboy flatfilms, I see. Not a surprise. Your type always thinks they should have a white horse.”

“Darlin’, do you see a horse?”

“No, though admittedly, a horse would add that certain something to your ensemble.”

“Just give back the cash,” said the vigilante, “and we’ll all go on with our nice quiet evening.”

“You leave the Undergoths be, and we’ll all go on with our flesh free of third-degree burns.” Iridium crossed her arms. “You picked a bad patch of city to set up shop, buddy. This is where you roll up the carnival and move on to someplace where they welcome costumed freaks doing Corp’s job with open arms.”