Seven Wonders (46 page)

  Jeannie raised an eyebrow, then smiled as her former lover used her supervillain name. "You do… or the Cowl does?"

  "Like I said, let's see when all this is done. But in the meantime, our problems are more pressing, and I have a better idea."

  "That so?"

  "That so."

  "And it is…?"

  Conroy looked at her face, holding the gaze a moment at such close quarters. Then he stepped back, turned around, and walked back to the house. He called over his shoulder for Jeannie to follow.

  Inside, Jeannie found him in his den. As with the rest of the house, everything was covered in white sheets, matching the white walls and giving the place a quiet, reserved dignity even though it was mothballed.

  Conroy swept the dustcover from the large desk, revealing a stylishly expensive glass and steel table, still covered with papers and paraphernalia. Ignoring the computer, he fiddled with the edge of the table. There was a click, and a section of white wall behind the desk slid open. Inside the dark cavity, two fireman's poles glinted in the dim light thrown from the approaching dawn through the French windows that were ubiquitous to the whole building.

  Jeannie leaned over the desk, looking at the poles and then to Conroy. He grinned and gestured to the poles with an expansive sweep. This entrance hadn't been used in years. Jeannie raised an eyebrow but her smile matched his. Conroy placed one hand on the pole closest.

  "I know how you gave Tony his power, and I know you two went down into the Lair. But I'm assuming your lab is still operational?"

  Jeannie hesitated. Conroy watched her face for a while, then continued after she failed to respond. "The antidote to the power core will be the MIC-N, correct?"

  Jeannie nodded, slowly. "Aurora told you, right?"

  "He told me a lot. About the MIC-N. About you."

  Jeannie looked away, changing the focus of the conversation. "You're right. If we needed to, we could drain Sam's power off."

  "And transfer it back to the power core?"

  Jeannie shrugged. "Maybe. We won't know until we try it. It should be possible. Do you think we'll need to use it on Sam?"

  Conroy nodded. "Yes." He pulled himself onto the pole, clinging to the smooth metal with his arms and legs. "We'll need to," he said, sliding into the darkness below.

In the damp grass, the light of the powerstaff remained strong, but as the rising sun began to compete with the alien light, the staff seemed to dull, the light diminish. The sunrise crept over the crest of the North Beach hills, the first rays striking the staff's shaft, rendering the dense, dark coppery metal from which it was made a flat, almost plastic hue. Lying next to the staff, the morning light reflected brightly from the white sections of the Dragon Star's spandex costume. Even after numerous battles and, ultimately, her death, the costume was as immaculate and colorful as ever.

  There was a muffled sound, a slippery rustling, as someone walked across the dew-damp lawn. Feet in black leather shoes carefully stepped over the Dragon Star. They stopped for a moment over the body, then continued their tread.

  As dawn broke a hand reached down and picked up the powerstaff. A strong, male hand, the skin as dark as the burnished metal of the staff.

  Ripped shirt flapping in the wind, the former SVPD detective, the late Joe Milano, rose into the air and flew towards the darkness at the heart of San Ventura.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Bluebell closed her eyes. Hands to her forehead, she desperately reached out to her husband. He was alive, his mind floating on the sea of unconsciousness. Bluebell sighed, unable to communicate with his subconscious mind, but relieved nonetheless. His body lay on the ground, still dark, but breathing. She hoped that his fire would reignite when he came to, but this was the first time he'd been knocked out − the first time he'd ever not been
awake
− so all she could do was hope.

  Linear completed another lap of the night bubble perimeter, skidding to a halt next to Bluebell, shaking his head. Sand Cat stood in the center of the square in a fighter's crouch, looking directly up to where the Living Dark hovered, white gash mouth slicing an evil smile into the otherwise featureless face. The creature seemed content to just watch.

  Linear knelt over Aurora. Bluebell looked at him, uncertain, delicately touching her husband's face. Aurora moaned, but his eyes remained closed.

  "Come on, big guy. We need some firepower here." Linear reached down, brushing Bluebell's hand away, and slapped their leader hard across the face. Aurora's head jerked, but he did not wake. Bluebell yelled, but Linear took hold of Aurora's shoulders and shook them violently.

  "Dude, wake up and start kicking ass."

  Bluebell finally managed to pull Linear off. The two sat back on their haunches, watching the steady, slow breath of Aurora. Bluebell spoke quietly.

  "He's never been unconscious before." She looked at Linear, eyes moistening.

  Linear stood and scratched his beard. The Living Dark and Sand Cat seemed to be in some kind of Mexican standoff. He looked around the dark square again.

  "Maybe if I can find the frequency at which his night-shield, or whatever it is, vibrates, I can set up a counter-vibration." He took off again, becoming nothing but an indistinct silver flash around the edge of the bubble.

  The Living Dark laughed, and began to spin on his axis, watching Linear's trail and eventually matching it for speed, sending out a shockwave which knocked Sand Cat to the ground, Bluebell falling a second later. As Bluebell hit the dirt she saw a flash of blackness connect the Living Dark with the wall of the night bubble. A second flash and Linear somersaulted through the air, colliding with the opposite side of the bubble and bouncing to the ground not far from Aurora. Bluebell leapt to her feet and ran to him. He was awake, conscious, blood streaking his face. He writhed a little, one hand to the back of his head. His glasses were broken.

  There was a bestial roar. Bluebell looked behind, over her shoulder, to see Sand Cat in her animal form pogoing upwards, snapping at the Living Dark. His shadow cloak swirled around her as she clawed the air. One paw caught his leg, jerking the black figure downwards, but even as he reached the ground there was another flash of black as the Living Dark's fist connected with Sand Cat's muzzle. Bluebell watched as the insubstantial black fist and forearm traveled all the way through Sand Cat's head in one sweep. The superhero roared and blinked back into her human form. She remained upright for a moment, but then her head slumped and her legs slackened, and she toppled to the ground.

  Bluebell stood. That was it. She was the last hero standing. Electrical energy caressed her body as her suit helped channel psychic energy into something more tangible, more
offensive.

  In the past, in the golden age when superheroes from all over the world battled supervillains, there had been bad guys like the Living Dark. Supercharged supervillains like the Black Mass, who drew power from a sentient black hole at the center of the galaxy. Magical anti-heroes like Twenty-Two, immune to all laws of physics. They'd been defeated and imprisoned or banished, when the superheroes had united. The Seven Wonders of San Ventura and the Chicago Nightguard. The Seven Wonders plus the Hyper-Committee plus the Ancient and Artful Legion versus the Sultan of Space. The Seven Wonders and United International taking down Death Route 66. Funny how it always seemed to be one single supervillain, one entity that required a superheroic team-up of ten, twelve, twenty, one hundred superheroes. But that's the way it always was.

  Those days were gone. Sure, a lot of the superhero groups were still around, enjoying comfortable celebrity, staying out of the business of the world now that all the supervillains had been defeated. A few were stationed on alert, but only in a very casual, part-time manner. If any trouble flared up, if any supervillain returned, they would just contact the Seven Wonders. The rest were tour guides or charity mascots.

  Except the Cowl. Except the Seven Wonders. That was a special case. A game: super cat and mighty mouse. It had gone on too long, too far. And now it had cost the city, and the lives of the people of San Ventura, and had destroyed the Seven Wonders. It had brought the Living Dark down upon them. Bluebell was the last hero standing.

  She took a deep breath, and took a step forward, playing it slow to allow her power to build up. The Living Dark stood in the center of the square, watching her approach, the monstrous smile fixed.

  Bluebell thought about saying something bold and meaningful, lecturing the creature on its evil ways. Something stirring, something American.

  And then she thought about saying something funny, caustic. Make a joke about his face. Crack wise about his mother.

  Arcs of electricity crackled over her body.

  After five more steps, Bluebell realized she didn't have anything to say. Heroic speeches were for Aurora. Quips about poor performance in the bedroom were Linear's ticket. She didn't have any material to play, and she wasn't in much of a mood to come up with something.

  She was the last hero standing.

  Instead, as she tensed to charge, arms outstretched ready to unleash a volley of electrical psychic energy, she screamed.

  "Get the fuck out of my city, you sonovabitch!"

  White lightning, blue at the edges, zigzagged towards the Living Dark. In the split second before the arc of energy connected, Bluebell saw the white smile drop, just a little. Then the world flashed blue and white and blue again, the walls of the night bubble around the square reflecting the bursts of color back like a camera flash.

  Bluebell took another step forward, took another deep breath, and whipped her hands forward again. A second blast of energy, more powerful than the first, focused by concentration and training and fuelled by anger and hate. She didn't even see the Living Dark, but she could feel the resistance as the bolts of psychic lightning found their target a second time. Her leg muscles tensed as her upper body absorbed the kickback from the blast.

  When the flashing stopped it took Bluebell a moment to be able to see again. The brilliant strobe of her attack had rendered her blind in the darkness, but the building charge in her suit for the third attack threw more than adequate light across the whole square.

  The shadows moved, dusty smoke coalescing into a figure, a figure which flexed its arms and rolled its neck like a prize fighter. The eyes opened, white with fixed black pupils, and the figure smiled, a white diagonal streak across the blank face.

  Bluebell dropped to her knees, the realization that the supercreature was immune to her powers suddenly draining the fight from her. She felt tired. Parts of her body throbbed in protest, recovering still from her earlier injuries. Her suit channeled her telepathic abilities into pure force, but there were limits, and her attack had nearly drained the battery. She looked around, at Aurora and Linear and Sand Cat, each alive but in varying states of consciousness and injury.

  If she'd been in the open, she could have made a call, either by her wrist communicator or by mental projection. She could have called some of her old friends. Captain Captain for sheer muscle power. Or maybe the Absolute. Or better yet, both.

  But the wrist comms registered no signal, and her telepathy was unable to penetrate the night-shield thrown up by the Living Dark. He was a formidable foe, and part of Bluebell saluted the fact. The Seven Wonders had come up against the best, the most powerful, and had been overcome. They'd paid the price for their mismanagement of the city. But at least, at the end she'd given it all she had.

  The square exploded with light. The light was yellowish, carrying heat, and… promise. It was the light of a dawn, of a new morning. It flooded the square as the curtain of darkness shriveled, evaporating into a slick dust that stuck in Bluebell's hair. Bluebell spun around, towards the source.

  Surrounded by the light of mornings, the Living Dark cowered. His mouth-slash became a circle, the white eyes wide and the pupils tiny pinpricks. He held his arms in front of his face, and Bluebell could see how thin and insubstantial they were. It was the same for his whole body. In the light he seemed to dry out, desiccate, trailing the black dust behind him, somehow blown off his body by the falling rays of sun.

  Bluebell followed his gaze upwards. She was grateful for the sun − from the moon to the Earth, she'd experienced a night far longer than was natural.

  Except this was not the morning sun. The light radiated from a central point − Bluebell could see the spokes angling down through the dusty air. The rays rotated, widening, as the source came closer and closer. It was a figure, flying fast…

  A superhero.

  Bluebell stared until her vision almost whited out, ignoring the stabbing pain along her optic nerves as the whoever-it-was flew down into the square. Judging distance was hard, and then as Bluebell got to her feet and scrambled backwards suddenly the superhero was there, on top of the Living Dark. The light was bright, like a physical presence, pushing Bluebell to the ground. Beneath the white envelope, she saw the Living Dark shrink to nothing more than a skeleton, a bundle of black sticks quivering in fear. It was screaming, mouth open, but Bluebell couldn't hear above the roaring in her head. The light was too much. She closed her eyes, the insane bright white turning to a maddening bright red. She rolled onto her front, retched, and felt about a thousand years old. A wave of nausea spread up from her stomach. The red of her vision became spangled with white stars.

  The last thing she heard as she passed out, the impossible force of light sitting on her back, pushing the consciousness out of her head, was a powerful female voice, swearing, making threats, talking about the city and her parents and
whathaveyoudonetothecityyousonovabitch?

  Bluebell blacked out as the superpowered Detective Sam Millar unleashed her years of fear and anger on Tony Prosdocimi, the Living Dark.