Black and White (9 page)

But it had been Jet who’d nearly killed her former friend earlier today, not the other way around. She shivered, remembered the whisper of the Shadow voices goading her on. All it took was a squeeze …

Enough
, she told herself angrily. She’d stopped herself from going too far. Iridium was fine.

She tapped her comlink.

“Ops,” a voice responded—not Meteorite. Another woman she couldn’t place.

“This is Jet. When my Runner comes with dinner, please ensure he also brings me a new set of optiframes. Alpha-issue.”

“Processing. One moment.”

As she waited for the request to clear, she turned on the white-noise machine—one of three in the apartment—next to the vidphone and selected the
NIGHTTIME SERENADE
setting. The sounds of crickets and peepers croaked from the hidden speakers throughout her small apartment, as if this particular Complex were in a rural part of Montana instead of sequestered in New Chicago. The white noise was in place.

“One pair of optiframe goggles, Alpha-issue. Approved.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Jet signing off.” She disconnected Ops with a tap of her finger. Taking off her comlink, she deposited the earpiece in a cradle beneath the vidphone so that it could recharge.

She erased both messages, then debated whether she should call Night now and get her scolding out of the way,
wait until after a shower, or do it after she did her duty on the Goldwater show. She wrinkled her nose. Smelling like a garbage barge wasn’t exactly a morale boost. Decided. First get clean, then do the Goldwater show. After that, she’d return Night’s call.

Walking into the bathroom, she peeled off her skinsuit—one of ten she owned. She briefly considered sending the suit to the Academy cleaners directly instead of having Bruce handle it. And then she laughed quietly as she realized she didn’t want him to do her dirty laundry.

Foolishness
, she told herself.
He’s your Runner. He’s supposed to do the dirty work.

But stripping off her sports bra and underwear, she fretted over the thought of his seeing her private clothes. Her dirty, sweaty, plain-cotton underthings.

Now she was being ridiculous.

Getting the water pressure and temperature in the shower just so, she wondered if the heroes and villains in the sexier outfits also wore sexy underwear. Actually, based on some of the outfits she’d seen over the years, she was sure that some of them went commando.

Ick.

She unwound her blond braids and shook out her sweat-damp hair, then dropped the elastic bands into a drawer beneath the sink. And then she stepped into the streaming water.

Usually her showers were perfunctory, a necessity. Not today. Instead, she took her time, allowing herself to enjoy the hot water thrumming on her bruised skin, the feeling of the soap as she scrubbed away her sweat and mistakes. It was as if the heat seared away her worries and melted her unease. The shampoo smelled of berries and coconut. She lathered and rinsed twice. She felt vaguely guilty for taking so long, but she had enough time before she had to get ready for the talk show. Ironically, going after Iridium (and
losing her, again, argh), getting waylaid by Grendels, and reporting to Ops had gotten her home faster than if she’d have stayed to receive Lee’s award.

She’d probably still be sweating onstage even now, if not for Iridium. The thought almost made her laugh.

When she was finished, she wrapped her hair into a towel and her body in a warm bathrobe. Her left shoulder throbbed, and her jaw ached from Iri’s punch.
Phantom pains
, she told herself. Feeling fuzzy-headed from the long, hot shower, she went into her bedroom and sat in front of the vanity table she almost never used. Standard issue in Squadron quarters; sponsors expected their heroes to look glamorous. Jet’s cowl usually allowed her to get away without makeup. With a sigh, she pulled out her cosmetics bag and rummaged through it for her eyeliner. The things she did to be a hero.

You’re the big damn hero around here, Jet
, Iri whispered in her mind.
But you know that I
know
you.

Jet knew her too. Knew her from when they were young.

Young, but not innocent. Not even back then, when they were twelve. Life had already been hard for both of them by that time.

But some of it had been good too. It was almost ten years to the day that she and Iri had met at the Academy. Jet had been sullen; Iri had been loud.

A sad smile flitted across Jet’s lips as she remembered Iri offering to punch anyone in the face who gave Jet any shit.

Light, Iri. What happened to you?

Jet sighed again, feeling sad and strangely empty. Then she begin to put on her public face.

I
ridium didn’t panic when an unmarked groundcar pulled up next to her, and a fat cop with a shaved head leaned out the driver’s door. He said, “There’s my favorite supervillain.”

She shifted the case of chips to her other hand. “Detective Ostraczynski. Handing out parking tickets for fun?”

“Need to talk to you,” he said, and jerked his head. “Get in.”

“You can give me a ride,” Iridium said. “What’s the problem?”

Ostraczynski’s motor-pool car smelled like day-old fast food and was littered with empty cigarette packs and energy-drink cans. The detective himself was mussed, discordant, and worn-out, just like the precinct he patrolled.

“You know Momo the Shark got hit last week,” Oz said.

Iridium nodded. “Retaliation from the yakuza in Little Shinjuku. My sources confirmed it.”

“Well, I don’t know what kind of half-assed operation Momo was running, but his replacement is some crazy fuckstick named Deke O’Connor, and the kid is bad news.”

Iridium watched the housing blocks roll past while she considered how to answer. The mobs were part of Wreck City, like rats were part of a garbage dump. She stayed out of the gang leaders’ businesses, and they knew the rules—no open warfare, no rapes, no attacks on honest, taxpaying citizens. Gambling, loan-sharking, and prostitution.
Let them have their money, and they’ll let you have peace
, Lester always said.

It was when the gang leaders got it into their heads to challenge her—and one did, every so often—that Iridium started to get a headache.

“He beat up one of my girls real bad,” said Oz. Oz was a crooked cop, as if you could find any other kind in Wreck City, but he was also fair and actually prevented crime rather than wallowing in it like the former lead detective, Marcia Sloan.

Sloan should be getting out of the burn unit any day now, Iridium recalled. She’d send flowers.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Iridium said. They passed the Moscow Grand, the hotel that Yuri Pritkoff and his Russians ran numbers out of, squatting next to the Blarney Stone, Momo’s former tavern. It was juxtaposition that made Wreck City, gave it a soul—cops and criminals, rabids and gangsters. The only thing pretty much everyone agreed on was a distinct distaste for the Everyman Society. Totalitarianism went over poorly when your flock was broke, hungry, and scrabbling to survive.

“He won’t see reason,” said Oz, meaning that O’Connor wouldn’t pay him his 10 percent for the New Chicago PD’s blind eye. “I need your help before he starts screwing up the neighborhood.”

Iridium sighed. “Let me out at the corner. I’ll talk to him.”

Oz pulled his car over with a wheeze and Iridium got out. “Thanks, Iridium,” he said. “There were a few more like you, I might actually get behind the Squadron.”

“Trust me, Oz … there’s nothing to get behind.” Hefting the case again, she pushed open the door of the Blarney Stone.

Deke O’Connor wasn’t hard to spot. He was the loudest, the biggest, the most tattooed, and the most obnoxiously Irish. Black hair and blue eyes, like her, the Snow White complexion that would scorch under five minutes of sun, and Celtic symbols inked on every inch of his arms.

“Top of the morning,” Iridium said.

O’Connor looked up at her balefully. “If it isn’t Wreck City’s own little mascot.”

Iridium bit back a snort. He may have looked like he hailed from the Emerald Isle, but his accent was pure South Side.

“I hear from Brian Ostraczynski that you’ve been messing with his streetwalkers,” Iridium said. “Since Brian doesn’t lie, I’m here to tell you it stops now.”

O’Connor shoved back from his table, his chair toppling over. Momo’s crew watched, but they didn’t make a move. Momo and Iridium had an understanding, a peace agreement, and nobody wanted to get a strobe in the face if their idiot boss didn’t order it.

“You’ve got a set of brass ones,” Deke O’Connor declared. “Coming into my place of business like this.”

“Thanks,” Iridium said. “Goes with the outfit.”

“I know Momo was afraid of you. I’m not. You’re just a skinny bitch who can do a magic trick.”

“Listen,” Iridium said. “I’m not putting a suggestion in your box, Deke. I’m
telling
you. No women get hurt on my patch. No one gets in Oz’s way, and you can be damned sure that if you
do
, I will roll over you like a transport hover through a flock of pigeons.”

O’Connor went white around the lips and reached into his waistband. Iridium rolled her eyes, lifted the case, and slammed it into the side of his head.
There’s a time for diplomacy, and a time to beat a bastard senseless. You’ll know which is which, with a bit of practice.

Deke lay on the floor, bloody from the nose and the temple, a bruise already distorting his face. Iridium stepped forward and put her boot lightly on his neck, just enough to make it hard to get air.

“This is my city,” she said. “If you don’t like it, I suggest you get the hell out.”

The following is a partial transcript from the
Jack Goldwater Show
, “More Human Than Extrahuman,” which aired on Oct. 30, 2112:

Jack
: So, if you just joined us, we’re here with Frank Wurtham, a doctor of psychiatry and chairman of the popular Everyman Society, who has also just written the best-selling book,
Seduction of the People
, a blistering account of the extrahumans and the Squadron.
(Audience: “Woo!”)

Jack
: Dr. Wurtham made it very clear that he sees the extrahumans as a threat to society, to the whole world. That in his opinion, the best thing for people would be for the extrahumans to just go away.

Wurtham: Or to swallow cyanide capsules, whichever’s more convenient.

(Audience: Laughing, lots of applause.)

Jack
: Now, now. No need to condone suicide. And there’s two sides to every story, even to
Seduction of the People.
So let’s welcome our next guest. Billed as New Chicago’s Lady of Shadows, she’s the face of the Squadron and has saved the city twice so far this calendar year alone. Boys and girls, give a warm welcome to Jet!

(Audience: Applause and cheers, sprinkled liberally with booing.) (Jet comes onstage. Awkward moment as Jack goes to kiss her cheek, but she stops him with the strategic offering of a handshake. Jack kisses her glove, to audience “Oooh”ing and some applause. Jet offers her hand to Wurtham, who ignores it. Jet sits to Jack’s right; Wurtham is on Jack’s left.)

Jet
: Hello, Jack. Thank you for inviting me to your show.

Jack
: Great to see you, Jet. You’re looking lovely. You just come from a sponsor photo op? Maybe posing with the mayor? Or more than posing?
(Audience: “Ooooh!”)

Jet
: Jack, you know that I prettied myself up just for you.
(Audience: Laughter, some applause.)

Jack
: Well, I’m flattered. But more than that, I’m curious. Have you read
Seduction of the People?

Jet
: Actually, I’ve been so busy stopping Hellion from poisoning the reservoir that I’ve had little downtime available.
(Audience: Applause.)

Jack
: And we’re all grateful to you for your actions.

Wurtham
: Speak for yourself, Jack.

Jack
: All right, not all of us are grateful. Doctor, do you mean to say you’re upset that Jet saved the city from certain death?

Wurtham
: What I’m opposed to is these freaks in spandex running around and doing the police’s job for them. I’m opposed to a handful of so-called people lording it over us as if
they were gods. I’m opposed to them convincing society that we need them, that we’re too weak to exist without them.

(Audience: Wild cheers, some boos. Jack throws a hand up in the air.)

Jack
: Hold on. You’re saying that the heroes are muscling out the police?

Jet
: That’s insane. I’ve always supported our fellow crime-fighters.

Wurtham
: They’re not your fellows. It takes true courage for a normal man or woman to put themselves in harm’s way to serve and protect, knowing they could take a bullet or worse, to protect the innocent.
(Audience: Cheers.)

Jet
: You’re saying I
don’t
do that?

Jack
: Now wait—

Wurtham
: The police don’t have devilish abilities to aid them. They just have their beliefs and their training. The police are people.

Jet
: Extrahumans are people.

Wurtham
: Extrahumans are freaks, misanthropes.
(Audience: Cheers.)

Jet
:
(Angrily)
We’ve been given special abilities and we choose to use them to help society, so that makes us freaks?