Shades of Gray (9 page)

“Take a picture,” George Greene muttered. “It’ll last you longer.” He looked dreadful, his skin pale and his nose leaking blood.

Lester set his bag down, slowly. You didn’t make sudden moves around dangerous animals, or Shadow powers. His Light could burn, but it couldn’t choke the life from you. Lester had a healthy respect for predators higher in the food chain.

With Shadows, you had to outsmart them, distract them. If you came at them head-on, you’d lose.

He said, “You try to take on Behemoth again? Not smart, mate.”

“I was practicing.” George sniffed and swiped at the blood on his face. “I want to use the Shadow to fly, like Night.”

“Night’s a freak of nature,” Lester said. “Just be happy with what you have, is my advice.”

“I can
do
it.”

The snap in George’s voice made Lester pause. George was mild-mannered to a fault, so mild that he wouldn’t even speak up to Angelica and tell her that he fancied her to the point of pain. “All right, Georgie-boy.” Lester clapped him on the shoulder. “If you want a Shadow sled, you’ll have one. Out of curiosity, did the Shadow punch you in the gob as well?”

“I just … feel …” George’s jaw twitched. “I’m fine.”

“Maybe you should see a medic,” Lester said. “You look like death, if you want my honesty.”

“Well, I don’t!” George shouted. “And if you tell anyone, if Corp finds out about this and throws me to Dr. Moore to experiment on, it’ll be
your
fault, you Limey idiot!”

Lester blinked, but before George could continue his rant he swayed and fell over, his head cracking against the metal lockers in front of him.

“Bloody hell.” Lester bent over George, while he bellowed toward the practice room: “We need a medic in here!”

George’s eyeballs twitched under his lids. His pulse was racing like a hover engine when Lester pressed two fingers against his neck.

“Blackout. Blackout.
George.
” Lester shook him. “Come on, son. Wake up.”

George’s arm whipped out and caught Lester by the front of his shirt. His eyes were full of Shadow, black like someone had spilled ink across them. Lester felt his heart twitch in shock, but he let George hold on to him.

“Make them stop,” George hissed. “I hear them and they never stop. I can’t keep fighting, Les …”

A medic crew burst through the door and moved Lester to the side, working on George with smelling salts and a portable cauterizer for the cut in the back of his head.

“He lose consciousness?” one of the medics demanded.

“For a moment.” Lester watched George’s gaunt face. “He said he was …” He bit his tongue just in time. “He said he was feeling dizzy.”

The lie rolled seamlessly out. Lester’s father, a man obsessed with honesty to the point of lit cigarettes and leather straps, had impressed on him his need to be a superlative liar.

Of course Lester should report George’s incident.

Make them stop. I hear them and they never stop. I can’t keep fighting …

Of course George needed help if he was hearing voices.

But there was real fear in George’s eyes, and Lester wouldn’t be the one to condemn him to that barbarian Moore ripping out his brain, his innermost thoughts and secrets laid bare. Secrets were all somebody like George Greene had.

“Take care of yourself, yeah?” he told George. “And look on the bright side—maybe Holly will come and kiss you better.”

“Screw you, man,” George rasped, but his eyes were his own again, and he managed a weak smile.

Lester breathed a small sigh of relief. His teammate was going to be all right.

He had to be. Otherwise, Lester had just lied for a man who needed psychiatric help desperately, who could endanger the very people he was supposed to watch over, and Corp would bury them both.

CHAPTER 10

NIGHT

Aaron is fascinated by the Shadows. If it were up to me, we would lobotomize the both of them. They scare the hell out of me.

—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #18

N
ight stormed down the hallway of Squadron headquarters, ignoring the pissants and lapdogs who tried to stop him with their tedious social obligations. He had no time to be bothered with “How are you?” or “Terrific collar” or “Who do you like for the series this year?”

Blackout was in the hospital wing.

Blackout, from the little that Luster had mentioned upon Night’s return from battle, had lived up to his designation and blacked out. Just for a second or two, Bradford had insisted, playing up how quickly the medics had arrived and how strong Greene was and no worries, mate, he’ll be back in black, tally ho.

Luster, for all his tactical brilliance, could be a fucking idiot.

No,
Night allowed as he stomped down the last corridor.
Not an idiot.
Lester Bradford was many things—egocentric, proud enough to put peacocks to shame, and smart enough to do Corp to the letter whenever anyone was watching. But idiotic? Not Luster.

So when Night had returned from defeating Gold Digger and Luster had gamely by-the-byed Blackout’s “episode,” what Luster
hadn’t
said had spoken volumes. Of course Bradford had tried to make light of it; that’s what he did, in his sardonic way. But Night could almost smell Luster’s apprehension, could nearly taste Bradford’s unease. For all his bravado, Luster had been concerned—even scared.

Night’s lips pulled into a quick, tight smile. If Luster ever saw the Shadow for what it really was, then he’d know what fear truly meant. Then he’d know what it was to fear the Dark.

But the Lighters never thought about the Dark, not really. They thought their little power could banish the Shadow and make the world safe and sound. Lighters, as a class, were a joke. At least Bradford was a genius, which made him interesting, and even a worthy teammate. Sometimes.

But whether Light or Earth or Water or Fire, or any other power, they were all weak before the Shadow. They would all crumple, gibbering their way to madness. No one was infallible—except for those born with the ability to handle, to master, the Shadow. Like Night.

Corp had no idea how lucky they were that Night was one of the good guys. They had no idea how easy it would be for him to scourge the world of fear and oppression once and for all.

Night smiled again, a knifelike flash of humor. Of course, he’d never be a villain.

He appreciated that Corp had rules. Good rules were part of good discipline. And as a Shadow power, Night intimately understood the importance of discipline. All that stood between him and the Shadow was his own willpower.

And that, ultimately, was why he was marching to his comrade’s side right now.

Night strode through the hospital wing until he got to the room where they’d put Blackout. His brother in Shadow was lying on a cot, looking pale and somewhat bloody. Various tubes hung about him, dripping things into his veins through numerous IVs. His heart rate and blood pressure and other things were being monitored.

None of that mattered.

But then, as Night and Blackout were the only two living Shadow powers in Squadron: Americas, no one else on this side of the world knew what they really should be looking for. And that’s where Night came in.

Night sat down on the edge of the cot, one hand behind his back, clenched tightly. He scanned Blackout’s face. It was too thin, nearly gaunt. If he’d smiled in recent weeks, Night couldn’t remember. “Blackout,” he said softly. That was the first test: Did the man remember who he was?

Blackout stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. Brown eyes, bloodshot and haunted. But free of the telltale stain of Shadow.

Good. That was a start. Behind his back, Night’s hand loosened, just a little.

Blackout’s mouth moved, and he croaked, “Night. Christo, Night.”

“We can talk freely,” Night said. “I’ve put up a Shadownet. No sound will be recorded. We have privacy.”

Blackout sighed, and his eyes closed. “Okay.”

“Blackout,” Night said, putting his other hand on the man’s thin arm, launching into the second test. “Tell me. What happened?”

“Don’t know.”

Night’s jaw tightened. Not good. Not good at all. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a blank. There’s nothing there.” Blackout opened his eyes, implored Night to understand. “I was talking to Les, and then I woke up here.” A shudder worked its way across his bony shoulders. “Dr. Moore was here when I woke up. Legitimate doctors too—but why him? Christo, Night … I think they cut me open.”

Night silently agreed. “It’s okay, man,” he said, lying smoothly. Behind his back, his hand tightened.

Blackout rasped, “What did they do to me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Night said, mostly to himself. “If they were looking for something, either they found it or they didn’t.” He looked at Blackout, searched the man’s face. “Can you still call the Shadow?”

Blackout paled visibly. “Rick … I’m scared.”

Night bristled; he loathed it when he was called by his nondesignation name. But clearly, that added …
human
touch … was what his teammate needed. “George,” he said, “you have to do it. You have to see if they took that away from you.” If they’d neutered him. This was the third, and final, test. “This will prove whether Dr. Moore tampered with your brain.”

Blackout sighed. Then his lips slowly turned blue, and his breath frosted from his nose. From his left hand, a creeper of Shadow inched out, hesitantly, as if tasting the air.

“Excellent,” Night said, relieved. “Good job. It looks like Moore didn’t get inside your head after all.”

Blackout hissed out a slow breath. “Then why can’t I remember?”

“Trauma, most likely.” Night clapped Blackout’s shoulder lightly. “You and I both know the real fight isn’t against the supervillains, don’t we?”

Blackout let out a weak laugh. It sounded like a scream.

Behind his back, Night released the Shadow knife, and it unwound, slowly, and sank back inside of Night’s flesh. Blackout had passed, though it had been a close thing.

But close only mattered, as the saying went, with grenades and horseshoes.

Night smiled, pleased that he wouldn’t be alone in the Shadow. But as he talked with his power brother, he couldn’t help but wonder what, exactly, Dr. Moore had wanted with Blackout.

Interlude

T
his way,” Julie says, lending a hand to old Mrs. Summers. “Sorry about the clutter.”

“This is nothing.” The old woman laughs. “You should see my place after my grandkids visit. Worse than Jehovah’s scorched earth, it is. And you’re a dear for letting us stay.”

“’Twasn’t nothing,” Garth says around an armful of boxes. “Glad to have you and the others.”

“Safety in numbers,” Julie adds cheerfully.

He can’t help but send her a look. You’d think she’d be supportive of him trying to call up the Network, what with her praise of big numbers. But no—Julie, like the rest of the Latents he’d spoken with over the past few days, is flat-out opposed to the idea.

She smiles back at him, content as a cat with feathers poking from its mouth.

Mrs. Summers is chatting happily with the Brewers from across the street. Garth shakes his head as he hefts the cartons to the floor. Poor Heather and Paul, and their youngsters Alex and Jacob, all but thrown out of their apartment thanks to their landlord deciding that now is the perfect time not to pay Deke O’Connor.

Garth sneers as he thinks of that small-time crime lord—the sort whose idea of Irish pride was to tat Celtic symbols over every inch of his arms. Word is, ever since Iridium had paid him a call a couple weeks back at the Blarney Stone, Deke had gone looking to prove how far he could piss. Word is, Deke had explained to the Brewers’ landlord just this morning that even with New Chicago festering worse than an unlanced boil on a leper’s arse, it’s no excuse not to make your weekly gambling payments.

Word is, Deke had explained it very succinctly with a firebomb to the landlord’s apartment.

Say what you will about Deke O’Connor,
Garth thinks as he ambles to the kitchen,
at least he did it when the kids were at school and the parents were at work.
The only one who’d been in the two-family house had been the landlord himself, sleeping the sleep of the dead after a particularly raucous night on the town. Now the man sleeps in the critical unit over at New Chicago General. The idiot.

“Anyone for pop?” he calls out.

The Brewer clan answers in the affirmative, and Mrs. Summers politely requests a spot of tea. Julie’s in the kitchen with him now, setting up all the drinks on the counter as he putters by the faucet.

“I hear Screamer tossed about Kat’s car,” Julie murmurs, pouring. “Sent it slamming into one of the Squadron. You know, the still-good Squadron, not the junked Squadron. Kat says it’s nothing but an accordion now.”

“Kat’s lucky she wasn’t in said car when Screamer used it as a cudgel.”

“Kat’s got no way to get to work, not unless she takes a city hover.”

“Shame,” Garth says, waiting for it. Kat’s one of Julie’s closest friends, a teacher over at the Montessori. He puts the kettle on to boil and rummages about for the Twinings packets.

“I was thinking,” Julie says. “I could drive her to and from the school. It’s not safe to be walking the streets, or just waiting for a bus to show.” She finishes doling out the pop, glances at him from over her shoulder to gauge his reaction. She frowns. “You should just nuke the water, have done with it.”

“Bad luck to rush your tea,” he says. “And how’re you going to play chauffeur and still make it to the library on time? Your own job is worth less than hers, I guess?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Or you could come out and say, ‘Garth my love, as you’re a freelance writer with no set schedule, would you be a dear and chauffeur Kat to and from work until she’s got herself an accordion-proof car?’”

Julie smiles, and even with his sunglasses on, it’s positively radiant. “I was thinking I’d have to seduce you before I could ask such a thing.”