Shades of Gray (16 page)

“Christo, Sheila,” Derek said, coming back into the room. “Just let her stay until Jet wakes up.”

“I can’t believe you trust her,” Meteorite snapped at him. “She attacked me! She and him took down Ops,” she shouted, pointing at Taser. “They caused all the chaos that’s happening now!”

“Not on purpose,” Iridium said quietly. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

“She’s my friend,” Frostbite said. “She can stay.”

Meteorite stared at him, emotions playing on her face. “Maybe Therapy really did make holes in your brain.”

Frostbite’s gaze went sharp as a razor blade. “Think very, very hard about what you say next, Sheila,” he said quietly. “None of us want a mess to clean up in here.” Frostbite never raised his voice, but Iridium shivered at the words all the same.

Meteorite’s face went red. “Fine. Just make sure they don’t steal anything.” She spun on her heel and marched around the corner. Taser followed her.

Iridium glanced at Boxer. “Stay here and make nice,” she said, then went after Meteorite and Taser. Waking up and seeing Taser would probably be worse for Jet than getting her clock punched by Hypnotic in the first place.

If
she woke up.

Stop that.
Angry as she was at him, Lester’s voice was the one she heard when she needed to keep her shit together.
She’ll be fine. You’ve been through worse and you’re fine.

But Jet’s not me.

The so-called med room had exactly one surgical table and a cabinet of meds that Meteorite was rifling through. Iridium noted the inventory: all drugstore stuff that she could buy on the street.

“This is your medic bay?” she said. “I’d hate to see what happened if one of you got a paper cut.”

“Did I say you could come in here?” Meteorite grabbed a hypo of adrenaline and a swab. “Both of you, out.”

Iridium turned on Taser. “You heard the lady.”

He winked at her. “Only because you asked so nice, darlin’.”

“Charming,” Meteorite said. “You and your boyfriend make a lovely couple.”

“If Taser were my boyfriend, Satan would be wearing a parka. How can I help?”

Meteorite muttered, “I’ve got it.”

“You’re a button-pusher, not a doctor. Your first-aid class was what, seven years ago?”

The temperature in the room dropped precipitously, and Iridium swore she heard thunder rumble in the distance. She’d thought that Meteorite was a former Weather power; maybe she needed to rethink the “former” part. “I may be a washed-up hero,” Meteorite said, glaring at her, “but at least I didn’t turn on my own.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You have some fucking nerve.”

“Look, I didn’t know what would happen when we took down Ops,” Iridium said. “I didn’t know about Corp’s brainwashing everyone into being good guys. You can believe that or not. It doesn’t make a bit of difference to me.”

As Meteorite worked, stripping off Jet’s skinsuit, checking her injuries, taking her vitals, Iridium walked over to the medical cabinet. “Jet mentioned she hadn’t slept in something like a week.”

“Who has?” Meteorite let out a bitter laugh. “We’re all running on empty.”

Next to the boxes of bandages and aspirin hypos were the heavy-duty painkillers, in labeled syringes. Knowing Derek, he’d gotten the meds and equipment from a gray-market supplier. Iridium said, “So you’re just going to patch her up and get her right back out there, like a toy soldier?”

“There’s no other choice.” Meteorite sounded tired and mad and close to sobbing. “The police and even the National Guard can’t rein in all the rogues and rabids.”

Iridium said, “You know I’m not the bad guy here. Corp did this to her. To all of you.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything. She going to make it?”

“Yeah. Skinsuit absorbed the burn, but she’s in shock. Probably more from exhaustion than from your boyfriend’s love tap.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever. She’ll be fine. She just needs some rest.”

“She needs more than some rest, or she won’t be good for anything except a body bag.”

Meteorite grimaced, but she didn’t argue the point.

So Iridium didn’t feel at all guilty about injecting Jet with a sedative. “Sweet dreams, Joan. Beautiful ones, filled with light.”

Meteorite, who’d seen the label on the hypo, frowned at Iridium. “That’ll put her out for the whole day. Maybe more.”

“She needs it.”

Meteorite sighed, shaking her head. “Now that you’ve played nurse, get out of here, Iridium.”

Iridium backed out of the med room, leaving Meteorite to pull a blanket over Jet.

Jet was going to be fine. Thank Jehovah for small favors.

Back in the main room, Iridium nearly smacked into a tall blond slab of hero. He’d grown and gotten some lines around his eyes, and he’d lost the arrogant sneer. But she’d know that blocky face anywhere.

“Hi, Tyler.”

Hornblower’s uniform was torn and spattered with some unidentifiable, sticky liquid, and he had a cut above his eyebrow rimmed with brick dust. Strong he might be, but he didn’t heal any faster than a human.

“Holy shit. Derek wasn’t yanking my chain about you flipping to the light side of the Force.”

“Well …” Iridium started. “He might have overstated things.”

“Doesn’t mean I like you,” Hornblower said. “Or trust you. Stay the fuck out of my way, Flashbulb.”

He shoved her aside, and she let him. No need to pick a fight here at Hero Central, especially when she was supposed to be recruiting them to help her with her Corp problem. She watched as Hornblower stripped off his uniform jacket and tossed it onto a booth table. It was only then he noticed Boxer.

“Hey, kid,” Boxer said. He pushed up his fedora and scratched at his hairline.

Hornblower swallowed, dropping his eyes. “Hi, Uncle Patrick.”

“You look strong as an ox. These heroes keeping you busy?”

“Riot.” Hornblower said. “Beating on some rent-a-cops. Had to step in and be the peacekeeper.”

Boxer slapped him on the shoulder. “Good boy. Just like Warren taught you. He was always the upstanding brother.”

“You, uh … You staying around?” Hornblower looked between Iridium and his uncle.

Boxer said, “Iri? Are we?”

She nodded. “For now.” Until she got a few of them to help her.

“What about your guests?” Boxer raised his eyebrows.

“They can take care of themselves.” She didn’t want to go back to her warehouse, not when her home was overtaken by Lester and his pet villains. Not that she would say anything out loud. Last thing she needed was for the heroes to know she’d broken Arclight and Company out of Blackbird.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” Frostbite said. “We can really use you.”

“I didn’t say that I was helping,” Iridium snapped. “I’m not strapping on a skinsuit. I know we’re friends, Derek, but stop putting words in my mouth.”

He glared at her, then sank behind his console, turning his chair so she was out of his line of sight.

Steele smiled gamely into the silence. “You helped me and Kai. Seems like you’re helping, no matter what you say. And thank you, by the way.”

“Forget it.” Iridium sighed. “Just call it a freebie, and don’t get all emotional.”

Silence reigned for a long moment, drawn and strained.

The console shrieked in a sound that was becoming all too familiar.

“Bank robbery,” Frostbite said. “The vault alarm at First Federal.” He punched keys. “Looks like Satin, Kinetic Lad, and the feral twins, Tooth and Claw.”

“That’s a big job when we’re a man down.” Steele got to her feet with a weary sigh. “Iridium, could you?”

Iridium thought about Lester and Gordon, about Jet lying in the med room. She looked at Hornblower’s glare and Steele’s pleading gaze.

“Fine,” she said. “Just don’t expect me to make a habit out of this.”

Interlude

I
can’t believe you’re watching the tele. Isn’t life bleak enough?”

Garth smiles up at Julie, who closes the bedroom door behind her. In the main room, Garth hears the Brewer kids playing some game or another, even through the closed door. “After a long day of entertaining our guests and replacing the door, I’m ready for some escapism.”

On screen, Gena Mead announces that doctors are reporting a new disorder that’s running rampant in Looptown and its borders. “People are just staring into space, completely unresponsive to the world around them,” Gena says grimly.

Julie snorts. “See, when I think escape, I think piña coladas, not new diseases on our doorstep.” She frowns at the screen. “More Gena Mead? I swear, you’ve got the hots for her …”

“Hey now, you’re the only one for me. Just wanted the news, is all.”

“Oh goody. Then you won’t mind if I make a switch.”

Julie
blinks,
and Gena’s serious face is replaced with that of Tom Carlin from the News Network’s
Spin Room.
The pissed-off comedian-turned-commentator is railing about how the Squadron needs to get religion.

“Jaysus,” Garth mutters. “Not him,
please.
”

“Aw, he’s cute.” Julie grins wolfishly. “And he’s got red hair …”

Garth runs his fingers through his own auburn mop. At least, he assumes it’s auburn; to him, his hair always looks brighter than it really is, even through his sunglasses. But then, to him,
everything
looks brighter.

He’s mulling over colors when something Tom Carlin says catches his attention.

“And if you watched today’s
Jack Goldwater Show,
you probably have your own Get Out of Confession Free card.” Tom’s eyes sparkle with humor. “Nothing like watching so-called holy men slinging mud. Better that than throwing stones, eh?”

The image cut to a clip from Goldwater—the host himself, seated across from a priest, a rabbi, and an imam on a sofa.
Sounds like the start of a bad joke,
Garth thinks. On the clip, Goldwater asks them if the extrahuman heroes’ going insane is a sign that the End Times are here.

The rabbi, identified in scrolling text below as Rabbi Jonathan Cohn of the Third Temple, says, “Well, Jack, some of the signs of the end of everything include the truth being in short supply, wise people being scarce, and inflation soaring.” He laughs. “If you go by that, the End Times have been approaching since, oh, the early twenty-first century.”

“I think many people are understandably jumping to conclusions,” says the priest. “What’s happening now is certainly upsetting—”

“And dangerous,” adds the imam.

“—but it’s probably more likely to be the work of a supervillain, or even post-traumatic stress disorder, than a sign of Armageddon approaching.”

“What’s happening today is very sad indeed,” says Rabbi Cohn. “But it’s not like these heroes have declared themselves deities.”

“Or Christo,” says the priest.

“Or are trying to take over the world,” adds Goldwater cheerfully. “Oh, wait. Some of them are. Whoops.” The audience finds this quite funny.

“When deeds speak,” the imam says over the laughter, “words are nothing. Whatever the cause, the effect is the same. The Squadron is dangerous.”

The rabbi looks pained. “Something happened,” he agrees, “but I have every faith that Corp-Co is working with the Squadron to fix it.”

“Corp-Co?” Goldwater says. “You mean the same folks who run the superheroes in the first place? The same Corp-Co that’s refusing to issue a statement other than ‘no comment’?
That
Corp-Co?”

“The very same.”

The imam waves a dismissive hand. “Some things are so broken, they cannot be fixed.”

The rabbi insists, “The Squadron’s not broken—”

“But they are,” the priest says gently. “Something happened to the Squadron. And until it is resolved, we are all in grave danger. This isn’t the End Times,” he says to Goldwater, “but it is a very serious situation.”

The clip ends, and Tom Carlin is shaking his head at the camera. “‘Serious,’ he says. A root canal is serious. What’s happening with the junked-up Squadron is a catastrophe! Corp-Co’s not saying boo about it. Maybe their lawyers have counseled them to slink under a rock while they figure out legally how to make the Squadron’s rampages not stick to them. Meanwhile, some people are talking about doing more than just talking about it.”

Another clip, this one of Frank Wurtham, chairman of the Everyman Society, according to the text. Garth doesn’t need the reminder of who the man is—besides, the text should ID him as “Raving Loon” instead of “Chairman.” But whatever.

“We cannot depend on the authorities to take down these freaks of nature,” Wurtham rants. “We must rise up, every man and woman and child, and we must fight back, with everything we have—”

A crash from the living room.

Over the sound of Wurtham’s monologue, Garth calls out, “You folks all right?”

No answer.

Frowning, Julie opens the bedroom door and steps out. Beyond the bedroom door, she lets out a gasp that cuts off abruptly.

“Julie?”

She doesn’t respond.

A creeper of ice stretches across Garth’s spine, and his mouth is suddenly too dry. On screen, Frank Wurtham is spewing more venom about the evils of extrahumans.

Garth clicks off the tele and silently rises. He approaches Julie, his hand out for her to grab onto, but Julie doesn’t move. He reaches out, turns her around.

Her eyes are white; her gaze is fixed on a spot he can’t see.

“Julie,” he whispers, stroking her cheek, his thoughts whirling about in a tempest of fear. A glance in the living room shows him that the Brewer clan and the old woman are lost in the same spell as Julie—the kids sprawled in front of their board game, Heather and Mrs. Summers on the sofa, Paul standing near the kitchen. By Paul’s feet, a glass lies shattered, reflecting light like diamonds.

Garth tries to lead Julie back into the bedroom, but her feet don’t cooperate. Snarling with frustration, he leaps toward his nightstand and grabs the phone, punches in nine-one-one.

And promptly gets a busy signal.

“Fuck!” He tries again. And again. He wants to go out into the living room, wants to run, wants to hit and hurt and scream. Instead he keeps trying the emergency line.