Seven Wonders (47 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

"Just like old times."

  "Huh?"

  Jeannie raised her voice. "Just! Like! Old! Times!"

  "Oh yeah. F'sure." Conroy gunned the accelerator, twisting the handgrip the full way around and leaning to one side. Jeannie matched his movement, and the motorcycle smoothly skirted another torn-up patch of road.

  They were traveling on a superbike, but not one built by the Cowl or augmented by Jeannie. Well, maybe just a little. It wasn't a hog, but it was still huge. Sleek Japanese lines and streamlined shell for aerodynamics. A racing bike, perhaps not strictly street-legal. Just one of billionaire Geoff Conroy's many playthings.

  It was the best way into the city − hell, short of flying, it was the
only
way in. The crowd at North Beach parted as the motorcycle roared towards them. The bridge was still packed with cars, most abandoned, doors open, but there was plenty of room. And then in the city itself, the roads were a mess of craters big and small, abandoned cars, destroyed cars and debris fallen from buildings, not to mention some buildings in their entirety, collapsed as the unnatural path of the meteor storm intersected with the city.

  Even with the colossal damage to the civic infrastructure of San Ventura, they made superb progress. The bike was fast, punchy, and Conroy was an expert rider. All they had to do was point a route straight to the Citadel of Wonders, which had escaped the meteor strike and was apparently the only thing left with power. In the dark heart of the city, its crystalline walls projected a rainbow of colors across the devastation.

  Jeannie held close to Conroy's back, feeling his muscles flex as he controlled the machine, leaning in with him with every agile turn. As she felt his new superhero armor, she realized that while Jeannie and Geoff had often gone riding or driving or flying (conventionally speaking), Blackbird and the Cowl never had. The Cowl liked gadgets but not machines. With his innate superpowers he had no need for cars or bikes. So when Jeannie had shouted that it was just like old times over the howl of the engine, she realized she hadn't been talking about riding hell-for-leather through the city on a supermachine, she meant it was just like old times with him, going on an adventure, a caper, something dangerous. She felt that spark somewhere inside flicker, and her heart race. She breathed in the smell of his hair.

  Another sharp turn, and the machine in the bike's tiny cargo box rattled. The power transfer device – the MIC-N – was small and portable, and for that Jeannie thanked her not-insubstantial technical skill. They'd collected it from Tony's apartment, which thankfully had sustained only minor damage in the meteor storm. She only hoped it would work, and that the broken shell of the power core wasn't just a disposable, single-use container. She edged a hand farther around Conroy's chest as the bike bumped over more debris.

  Conroy slowed the bike, and Jeannie saw his head angled downwards. She peered over his shoulder, the floodlit square ahead too bright for him to safely steer towards. Not for the first time, Jeannie wished she had her Blackbird mask.

  Conroy pulled the bike into the shadow of an alleyway; Jeannie hopped off the rump and hefted the MIC-N from the cargo box.

  Conroy squinted at her.

  "We good to go?"

  Jeannie nodded. With no further debate, Conroy turned and sprinted towards the light, head down, dodging between rubble in his limited field of vision.

  The being that had once been Sam Millar stood in the center of the square, holding something in front of her. Around her, splayed like the picked petals of a flower, were Aurora and Sand Cat, Linear and Bluebell. All were face down, although whether they were dead or not, Jeannie couldn't tell. There was no time to check.

  She looked at Sam, her eyes popping with pain until they adjusted as best they could to the light. She could just make out a smooth, curved female form. One arm out in front held a thin, scarecrow-like figure by the neck. The figure was thin, almost two-dimensional, its black outline streaming ash in the radiant energy. Jeannie had no idea who it was, or what was going on, or even if their plan was a good idea or even if it would work at all and what were they thinking and what would happen afterwards and wasn't this a new superhero now and…

  She jumped as Conroy clapped a hand on her shoulder. Keeping his back to the light, he pulled the shell of the Thuban power core from inside his tunic. He turned to Jeannie and nodded.

  Jeannie snapped out of her reverie, and brought the MIC-N to bear on Sam.

  Sam turned her head, and looked at Jeannie. Jeannie felt a rush of adrenaline punch through her chest, almost enough to physically knock her over. Sam's expression was beyond anger or rage. It was hate. Superheroes were supposed to be stoic, epitomes of fair justice. Whoever it was in her grip, Sam was killing him or her or it. Surprised at her own moral judgment, Jeannie realized that Sam couldn't be a superhero, wasn't ready for it or capable of handling the power and responsibility. She was operating on instinct. Revenge.

  "Fuck this shit." Jeannie flicked the machine on with one hand and dragged the power sliders to full with the other.

  Instantly, Sam released her captive. Caught in the light, the figure collapsed downwards, nothing more than a tangled mess of dry rags. Jeannie saw Sam turning her body to face her, raising both arms in front, her once-blonde hair streaming behind in a crown of white flames. Jeannie held her breath, and closed her eyes.

  She felt the machine kick, and had a vague feeling of space beneath her. Then her back hit the ground and the back of her head bounced sharply against the surface. Disoriented, the blackness spun behind her closed eyelids like she was drunk. She reached out blindly, realizing that she wasn't holding the machine anymore. Then she gasped as a hand took hers. Its fingers locked around her hand and she was jerked forwards − no,
upwards,
the world spinning back to level. She opened her eyes.

  It was Linear, mask missing, broken glasses haphazardly sitting on his face which was cut and covered in soot. Under the dirt and bruises he smiled, the eye behind the one good lens sparkling.

  Jeannie looked around in confusion. It was morning, still early, but the square was bathed in the yellow light of dawn under a sky that was filled with smoke rising from the city, but otherwise clear. Linear released her hand and went to re-join the other heroes − Sand Cat, Bluebell, Aurora, all alive and well (and in Aurora's case, blazing) and standing in a tight circle around something folded up in the center of the square.

  "Welcome back to the land of the living."

  Jeannie turned. Conroy stood, apart from the others, running some kind of scanner over the ground. He flicked it off, flipped it in half like a cell phone, and stowed it in a belt pouch.

  "What happened?"

  Conroy laughed. "Oh, you were out for a while. The others−" he nodded toward the heroes "−gave up trying to wake you about an hour ago."

  Jeannie raised her hands, expecting the MIC-N to materialize in them. She looked around in a slight panic, then exhaled as she saw the gizmo on the ground, stacked safely next to a pile of rubble.

  "Did it work?"

  Conroy nodded. "It worked."

  "The power core?"

  "Ask Aurora." Conroy turned and walked towards the others. Jeannie followed.

  Aurora watched the pair approach. Jeannie flinched at his heat, at first, then found it strangely reassuring. She pushed her way in next to him. Sand Cat moved and, amazingly, didn't complain.

  On the ground, two figures were entwined in fetal positions. One was Sam, arms and legs curled around her naked form like an angelic painting, a look of peaceful contentment on her face. The other… the other was T
ony
. He was alive, breathing. His body − dead body − had been in the chiller on the moon. Now, here he was, in San Ventura, naked but covered in soot. He twitched occasionally, dreaming.

  Jeannie stuttered her words. "I… Tony? He's alive? But… I… What happened? Where's the power core?"

  Aurora turned to her, eyes afire. She backed away instinctively as he faced her, opening his cloak and stretching out his arms theatrically. She swore, lip curling upward out of instinct, confused at what he was doing, behaving like some kind of superpowered flasher.

  "We'll fill you in. But the power core is safe, for the moment."

  As Aurora spread his arms, his personal superhero symbol on his chest − a stylized sun, surrounded by a moving, swirling corona, flared into life. Jeannie squinted to shield her eyes, but they could not help but widen in surprise as Aurora's
chest
opened, split apart like a jewelry box. The heat was like a punch in the face, the light as bright as the sun on a summer morning.

  There, swimming in yellow energy, the familiar multi-surfaced form of the power core sat, spinning gently, red light radiating from the seams along each facet. The power core was inside Aurora, part of him.

  Aurora smiled. Jeannie thought his expression was cruel.

  "The danger is not over. The Thuban are still on the way, but we can deal with them. It is time for all the superheroes of the world to join in battle once more."

  Jeannie looked around the superteam. Conroy was the only one smiling.

  
All
the superheroes? Jeannie sighed.

  "Well," she said. "Hot dog."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Sam awoke on the third day, to noise and light. People talking, feet pounding. Everything echoing down hard corridors, everything lit with controlled, artificial light. She felt fine, and got out of bed with little difficulty, noting the slightly odd pull on her limbs as she walked around the functional but well-appointed quarters. She didn't know quite where she was, or what was going on, or what had happened, but she was of sound body and mind at least. She opened the cupboard next to the bed experimentally. Inside she found her clothes – not the ones she'd been wearing, but a selection of work wear from her own home. She frowned, then shrugged and made her choice, replacing the clinical, hospital-like pajamas with something at least more familiar.

  Fragments of memory came back to her as she pulled her boots on. She paused, on the edge of the bed. She remembered light. She remembered the city under attack, not from supervillains or terrorists but from space. She remembered Geoff Conroy's hillside mansion. And then… nothing.

  She stood, then realized where she was. The artificial gravity, the conditioned air. She was on the moon again. But unlike the mausoleum it had been on her first visit, this time felt different.

  The door slid open and she stepped into the corridor, then shrank back.

  The moonbase was full of people.

  Dozens strode past in both directions. Some smiled as they passed, others ignored her. A lot were in a generic blue uniform, support staff of some kind. But their lack of color and distinction was more than made up for by the eye-popping variety of the rest.

  Red, white and blue. Orange, yellow. Flat colors, glowing colors, colors on fire and leaping from backs, shoulders, heads. Acres of cloth like decorated circus tents sweeping any available airspace between the throng of pedestrians. Skin completely covered, head to toe, or skin almost entirely exposed with only some tiny, daring coverings − on both men and women. Soft, organic, friendly people with smiles and perfect muscled forms. Mystery men and women in hoods and cloaks and shadows. Hard, metallic, robotic forms, shiny and percussive as they marched down the corridors.

  Sam took a breath and found she was leaning back against her door, making herself small if not actually shrinking back in… fear? No. Surprise, for sure, but something else.

  She smiled, and laughed, and pushed off from the wall, joining the walkers and matching their pace as she strode with confidence toward the conference room.

  The moonbase was full of superheroes. They had returned.

The conference room was filled to standing room only, every available space − extending even to the wide observation windows − packed with superheroes. Somehow Jeannie had managed to find herself seated at the conference table, ingratiated into the inner circle of the Seven Wonders. She wasn't quite sure how or why or even quite when the transition had been made, or even how long it would last, but she wasn't complaining. She was still in the fluorescent orange prison jumpsuit, but she was among the least brightly dressed in the room.

  All but one chair was occupied. Aurora sat at the head of the table, Bluebell on his left, Sand Cat on his right. Then Linear and Conroy, left and right. Jeannie sat next to her former partner. She wasn't sure whether she'd intended to or not, but they naturally gravitated to the same side of table. Opposite her sat the last member of the core team. Holding the powerstaff in one hand, he was perhaps the most out of place in the room, dressed in a cheap blue suit and white shirt, tie loose at his neck. Jeannie supposed a new costume for the Dragon Star's new body would come later. She smirked. His former partner was going to get a hell of a shock.

  As Jeannie counted the places she realized with a jolt that perhaps this really was it, and they were the new superteam, the new Seven Wonders. Her mind raced. She wasn't sure this was quite what she wanted. Or perhaps she was jumping to conclusions. Then there was the mystery of the empty seat. Jeannie frowned.

  The entire room stood silent, waiting. They'd been like that for minutes now. Jeannie was pleased she had a seat. Even the all-powerful supermen and women squeezed into the room shifted slightly on their heels, arms folded, expressions set, waiting, waiting. A room full of good guys, as many of the best of the best that would fit – leaders of other teams, mostly, and a few solo heroes deemed to be most senior. But even Jeannie was sure that at least a few of them were eyeing the others up, flexing biceps, pushing out breasts. A multicolored display of superpowered masculinity and femininity. The most perfect of the human race.