Black and White (4 page)

Someone in the tour group that had come through the doors behind Iridium snapped a picture of the screens. “This way to the costume gallery,” said the guide. “Much of the rabid—or supervillain, as they prefer—garb in these cases was preserved just as the Illinois prison system received it from the Corp’s capturing hero: laser-burned, bloodstained, and tattered. Please refrain from using vid-lights, as the materials might become discolored …”

“Bloody tours,” said the guard. “Up to three times a week, now. Corp’s raking in every E of that money. But does our funding for these freaks increase? You better believe it doesn’t.”

Iridium presented her Medico Society ID to the guard, which featured her blond, smiling, and bespectacled. The name on the ID claimed she was Dr. Teschi Sampson, who was ten years older than Iridium really was and lived in a
part of New Chicago with no guards on the windows and a new floatcar in every driveway.

If Iridium thought about it, she would have hated Teschi Sampson. But she never gave the fake psychiatrist any real thought; the ID allowed Iri access to Blackbird. That was all.

“Right,” said the guard. He had a Welsh accent and red hair that stood out in all directions. “On you go.”

“Thank you,” Iridium purred. Dr. Sampson was an incurable flirt, and Iridium was all too happy to play the role to its fullest.

Another guard, this one in full riot gear, buzzed her through a series of gates to the high-security wing. Finally, they entered a plain meeting room, with light-plast, prefab table and chairs that couldn’t be used as weapons, and an enormous old-style clock on the wall. He motioned to the seats, and curtly said, “Wait.”

After three minutes by the clock, a buzzer sounded and a robot voice announced, “Inmate walking. Number 342785, Bradford, Lester Daedalus, formerly known as Arclight.”

Iridium grimaced. They always broadcast his villain name, but never his old designation as Luster, from when he was a hero. Wouldn’t do to confuse the citizens—Luster saved lives, had fought the Ominous Eight to a standstill, had been New Chicago’s sponsored hero. Arclight was the boogeyman, what Corp would make sure Lester was remembered as.

It was hot in the room, and her head itched. Even with a scalp meld, wigs were uncomfortable, and the bright purple contacts that were Dr. Sampson’s eyes made her own blue eyes sting.

Never mind that the ugly off-the-rack blue power suit was ill-fitting and made her look twenty pounds heavier in her ass and hips than she actually was. Sweat started to trickle under her collar as the clock went
tick, tick, tick.

Sometimes, she wished for nothing more than Ice
powers, like Snowman or Frostbite. They’d never have to suffer inside a crappy off-the-rack costume.

The door to the interview room buzzed, then slid back to reveal two guards and a much taller, thinner man with a full shock of black hair, and hollow cheeks made knife-edged by black stubble.

Lester Bradford shuffled in, his force shackles partly accounting for his hunched, shambling posture, and the good old-fashioned Halcyon in his system for the rest. Sedatives were standard issue for rabids, especially ones who had been involved in violent captures, like Lester. In his more jovial moments, he claimed that Owl Girl had to wear long-sleeved uniforms to this day to hide her burn scars.

“Thank you,” said Iridium in the crisp doctoral tone that she’d perfected. “Please kill the surveillance on your way out. Confidentiality still has a place in this prison, I hope?”

“Yes, Doctor,” said the guard with a sigh. “No one is going to listen in on your precious rabids.”

The door hissed shut and locked.

Iridium silently counted to thirty as she and Arclight sat, waiting. Thirty seconds was as long as Corp and the police could legally surveil a patient in a closed session.

“Blimey, girl,” said Lester when time had ticked over. “You look terrible as a blonde.” He had resolutely kept his accent, even though overseas students at the Academy were encouraged to take dialect coaching to make themselves more brandable in America.

“You say that every time, Dad,” said Iridium with a roll of her eyes. She stripped off the fake glasses and tossed them on the table. “What in Christo’s name is the deal with that gigantic clock? It’s creepy. Like some old Terry Gilliam thing.”

“Warden Post’s latest idea, to remind us all of our sins and the time we’ve yet to serve.”

“Warden Post and his wacky schemes,” said Iridium
with a mock laugh. “How much more off his nut can that man go?”

“Having your mind raped by the Invader during a prison break does strange things to a man,” said Lester, scratching his chin. “Poor Bob’s never been quite the same.”

“Did he ever find out it was you who replaced the Invader’s sedative IV with saline?”

Lester’s eyes sparkled. “I’m still breathing.”

“Good point,” said Iridium. “You look good, Dad. Well fed.” He didn’t look anything of the sort, but she figured that if she said something enough, it might eventually turn out true. That, or she might suddenly sprout wings like an Air power and be able to leave New Chicago behind for good.

Christo, now
that
was a dream.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through the river by your bloody hair,” said Lester. “The polluted bits.”

“I wouldn’t have any hair left if that were the case,” said Iridium. “Or skin.” She made a few shorthand chicken scratches on her data tablet for appearance’s sake when she was searched at the end of the session.

“If I wanted logic, I’d put in for a real psychiatrist,” said Lester. “What happened, girl?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Her father glared at her. “Well, tough, because you’re going to.” He sat back and crossed his arms.

“I hate that,” said Iridium.

“What?”

“How even in prison, shackled to a chair, with your powers inhibited, you manage to be such a
dad.
It’s maddening!”

Lester smiled, showing a flash of very white teeth. “It’s a gift, Callie girl. One that you’re going to have to learn if you ever want to do more than hit-and-run robberies on rich, complacent civilian types.”

“Watch it, old man. You’re not so feeble that I can’t smack you in the head.”

“Backbone, on the other hand, isn’t something you lack,” said Lester. “I wasn’t an utter washout as a father, eh? Now tell me what happened to make you so damned twitchy.”

“I had a run-in with
her,”
Iridium muttered. “She got the drop on me.”

“Hitting from behind,” Lester mused. “Our girl has come a long way. Whatever did you do to draw her ire?”

“I stole digichips.”

“Mercantile?”

“Bank vault,” said Iridium, feeling a trace of a grin rise to her face.

Lester returned it with his own ghostly expression. “That’s my girl.”

“It’s for the data outlets in Wreck City,” said Iridium. “Those systems are fifty years old with no upgrades. The more information that gets to the people about the Corp, the less of a stranglehold they’ll have on this city.”

“You sound like me, in my young and foolish days,” Lester muttered. “Information only goes so far, Callie. People need to be shown. They’re content to believe lies.”

“You sound like that’s a bad thing,” Iridium said. “Being like you, I mean.”

“Sooner or later, if you really want to spread the word on Corp, you’re going to have to take action,” said Lester.

“People aren’t stupid,” Iridium argued. “They’re capable of recognizing the hypocrisy and the lies. I did.”

“Most people didn’t have the luxury of seeing their father hauled away in chains for having the temerity to question Corp. Lead by example, Callie, not by preaching.” Lester sighed. “I just wish you’d learn that there’s a difference between being a rabid and being Robin Hood.”

“Seemed to work okay for you.”

“Until I landed in here,” Lester said grimly. “The goodness of your heart will get you killed, Callie. Take it from me. Toughen up.”

Iridium fell silent. She
had
let Jet get the drop on her. She’d been cocky. Arrogance was death—one of the few good lessons the Academy had instilled, whether it meant to or not.

“What’s wrong?” Lester said. “I know that look.”

“I run and run,” Iridium said finally, “and I feel like I do it in one spot. She knew
exactly
where to find me, Daddy. She just coiled up that cold power of hers, and she would have killed me. I have no doubt the Academy authorized
that.”
She made herself remember the fear in Jet’s eyes when she’d taken away her earpiece, but it didn’t warm her like it should have. “She was ready to kill me,” Iridium repeated.

“It happens,” said Lester, “when two soldiers find themselves on opposite sides of a war that they used to fight together. Are you sayin’ you
wouldn’t
kill her?”

Iridium looked up at the clock. Their session had just under a minute left. “This isn’t supposed to be a war.”

“But it is, girl. It is a war, and right now you’re on the losing side. Figure out how you’re gonna change that. Or before too long, you’ll be Inmate Number 501.”

Iridium bristled. “I’ll never let them get me. I’ll die first.” She’d known since the day she lost her hero status and gone on the run that she’d rather go to a graveyard than to prison under the thumb of Corp. She wouldn’t give Jet the satisfaction. “Tell me what to do, Dad. You fought them. You stood up to Commander Courage and the Prestidigitator. Owl Girl. Velocity. All of those fossils from the glory days.” She reached across the table and gripped Lester’s hand as the guard’s footsteps drew closer in the hall. “You want me to learn what it is to be rabid? Fine. Tell me what to do to hurt Corp.
Really
hurt them.”

“Enough with this rob-from-the-rich bollocks,” said
Lester. “I’ve got a bloke. He can help us hit them so hard and fast, they’ll still be teaching units about you in fifty years.”

“I want to do it,” Iridium said. “Today made me certain. Jet’s forgotten everything that may have been between us. She’s just another drone, and next time I’m pretty sure she’ll kill me.” Admitting that Jet might be better at
anything
caused a distinct twinge, but Iridium could still feel the shadows feeding on her, taking out everything inside her and leaving a husk …

“You’ll have to fight dirty, Callie,” said Lester, as the latches on the door hissed open. “Dirty and mean. There can be no quarter with Corp. Make no mistake about that.”

Y
ou have
got
to be kidding me,” Jet muttered. It figured. The way her day was going, she was about to get mugged.

As the street tough approached, cracking his knuckles and grinning like a shark, Jet blew out a cleansing breath. If he was more than sixteen, she’d eat her goggles.

Which Iridium had shorted out.

She grimaced at the thought. Ops was going to rip her a new orifice for letting Iri get away. Because no matter how Jet tried to rationalize her reactions, that was exactly what had happened. She’d had the woman trapped, and she’d gotten sucker punched when she thought Iri had been hurt.

screaming she was screaming so sweet so succulent so

Shut up.

She clenched her gloved fist. Compassion was death. Next time, she wouldn’t hold back. Iridium was rabid, pure and simple. Like her father.

The voices giggled, agreed that next time things would be different indeed.

Jet bit back a hiss. She needed the white noise of her comlink. Where in the Dark was her Runner?

“Looks like we’ve got us a winged hero,” the gangbanger said, all teeth. “You lost, hero?”

Jet stood tall. Never mind her aching jaw and sore body; never mind the whispers that had nearly driven her to do something inexcusable to a woman who’d once been her friend. She was in control.

In the next two seconds—as the teen took two more steps forward—Jet directed herself through the ABC exercise taught to all second-year Academy students, from Introduction to Peacekeeping: analyze, battlescan, confront.

Analyze.

Seven toughs, dressed in black leather dusters, black work boots, black fingerless gloves. Faces studded with silver rings in intricate patterns. Clothes and jewelry marked them as Grendels, the gang that lorded it over New Chicago from Grids 3-6, the northern boundary of what the street-savvy residents referred to as Wreck City. Grendels were troublemakers, mostly; into vandalism, petty theft, carjackings. Assault. Some links to the Undergoths and other seedier elements of the city’s Rat Network that ran the black and gray markets. But for the most part, Grendels were all bark, no bite.

Battlescan.

They’d moved into a phalanx stance, blocking the alley. Body language and open coats suggested concealed weapons. Leader at point, hands dangling at his sides. Still grinning, his lips and nostrils were littered with silver hoops. Seven
against one—either intimidation or lack of honor. None of them had the obvious signs of a junk freak—no tremor in the limbs, no red-tinged eyes.

Confront.

Forcing a thin-lipped smile, Jet said, “Thank you for your concern, citizen. I’m fine.”

“We can see that, baby,” a second kid said, almost swimming in his leather jacket. “You’re
so
fine.”

“Absolutely luscious,” said the leader.

From one of the others: “Must be hot under that cape, ’cause I’m sweating just looking at her.” Various snorts and chortles accompanied the statement like a laugh track.

Jet felt her cheeks heat. Her face was hidden by her cowl, so she didn’t have to worry about revealing her embarrassment. Professional, polite, powerful—the three
P
s of being an extrahuman civil servant. Voice crisp, she replied, “Thank you.”