Shades of Gray (40 page)

His brother’s eyes glinted, and for a second the old rage was there, stamped across his features, contorting his face into something ugly. Then his features smoothed, erasing the anger until Frank was left with an earnest expression. “I can see why it would look that way. It wasn’t jealousy, Rick. It never was.” He spread his hands wide, placating. “It was concern.”

“For my well-being? I’m touched.”

“You’re my brother, and I love you. I want what’s best for you.” He paused, as if measuring his words. “Rick, I’m begging you: Stop using those abilities. Leave Corp.”

“Why should I do either of those things?”

Frank took the easy one first. “Corp is nothing more than a megalomaniacal organization that will crush anyone, anything in its path.”

“Just like any other corporation out there,” Night commented.

“Other corporations don’t have an army of freaks to do their bidding.”

And there it was. “‘Freaks’? Some things will never change, little brother.”

Frank flushed again, but he didn’t back down. “It’s the truth. You’re monsters, with abilities no normal human should have.”

“We’re not human. We’re extrahuman.”

“You’re unnatural.” Frank took a deep breath and visibly tried to calm himself. “And you’re being used. Don’t you see that? You’re out there, trying to do good things—yes, I see how you save people’s lives and try to make the world safer, I do see that, Rick—but it’s Corp taking all the credit. Corp is using you.”

Night shrugged. “So?”

His brother gaped at him. “What do you mean, ‘so’? So tell them enough! So walk away from them! Leave Corp, and leave your costume, and live a normal life!”

“I can’t do that.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you
won’t.
You like being their toy soldier, don’t you? You like throwing your weight around and terrifying normal people. Admit it!”

Night chuckled, thinking,
Same old Frank.
He said, “And here I thought you were trying to save me.”

“I’d hoped you’d want to be saved! But no, you’re all too happy to do Corp’s bidding, to use that unnatural ability of yours to help Corp squeeze this country so tight that our blood will water the streets!”

Ah.
And there was the rant that Night had been waiting for. He leaned in close. “Between you and me, little brother, you’re right. Corp is dangerous.”

Frank’s eyes widened.

“And so are extrahumans.” Night lowered his voice. “We live on the edge, use our powers to shove normal people around. We make the police irrelevant. We’re celebrity heroes, and Corp gets fatter from our successes.”

“Yes,” Frank whispered, his eyes fevered. “Jehovah, man, you
do
see! You do understand!”

“But not enough people do.” This was it; Night had to make it convincing. “You’re just one man, Frank. And one man’s voice gets lost in the din of the mindless masses. But you can’t be alone. There have to be other people, everyday people, who feel the same way you do.”

“Yes,” Frank said, nodding, “I know I’m not the only one …”

“What the people need,” said Night, “is a voice to help them oppose extrahuman control. They need someone to speak for every man.”

The last words echoed, then silence hung between them as Frank considered. Night waited.

“Every man,” Frank Wurtham repeated, looking thoughtful.

“You could be that person, Frank. You could be their voice.”

Frank met his brother’s gaze. “Do this with me, Rick.”

“I can’t. It has to be regular people. Normal people. I’m just a freak, remember?”

His brother looked abashed. “I didn’t mean …”

“You did. And it’s okay. Because you’re right,” Night said. “My place is with the other freaks. But your place is elsewhere. It’s a good fight, Frank. Are you willing to fight? To let out a rallying cry? To be the leader people need?”

“I am,” his brother replied.

They shook hands, and Frank nodded respectfully just before he left.

Night allowed himself a small smile, then finished his coffee. Yes, every hero needs a villain. And with Corp-Co growing ever more powerful in the media and the world, it needed an enemy.

It was Night’s fervent wish that Frank Wurtham would be that enemy.

After all, what else were brothers good for?

One month after the Wurthams met over coffee, a small group of people gathered to talk about the extrahuman threat. The meeting went better than expected, and the following month, they more than doubled their numbers. A month after that, they needed to rent a hall to accommodate everyone.

Within six months, the Everyman Society had more than ten thousand members. And that was before Frank Wurtham began his national campaign.

Night, when he learned of Frank’s ambition, thought only one thing:
Took him long enough.

Corp-Co Chairman Stan Kane tapped his fingers on his desk as he considered Night’s report. Night stood at attention, waiting for judgment.

Finally, Kane said, “You’re sure Wurtham would agree to a meeting? That he doesn’t believe his own propaganda?”

“Oh, he does, sir,” said Night. “But he’s also an opportunist. He’d understand that by working quietly with Corp, the Everyman Society could better achieve its aims.” He let it go unsaid that the clandestine alliance would, of course, also help Corp. Night could easily see Stan Kane and Frank Wurtham—or maybe Frank’s Number Two, a man called Gordon—sequestered in some remote location—Maui, perhaps—discussing how to leverage their organizations’ strengths to better support their own goals of power and prestige. All for the cause, of course. Whatever cause that might be.

Heroes and villains. They were one and the same. Even the masks were interchangeable, Night mused. Bradford was proof of that.

“I appreciate your report,” the chairman said. “It’s good to know we have someone on the Squadron who appreciates the bigger picture.”

Night smiled thinly.

“Keep this up,” Kane added, “and you may find yourself on the Executive Committee one day.”

Thinking of Blackout’s little Shadow girl—due for Academy training in six short years—Night replied, “Actually, sir, there’s something else I’d like.”

Kane arched a brow. “Oh? Name it.”

Night named it.

Kane smiled. “That’s it? Well, consider it done.”

This time, Night’s smile was wide, but it still didn’t reach his eyes.

“Do you like it, sir?”

Night settled back in his chair. It was oversized and pleather, and it had wheels on the bottom. Very business-retro. It was the most stylish thing about his office; the rest was extremely spartan. The desk had no 2-D photos or hols; no pictures adorned the bare walls. The floor was equally bare. His elbows on the armrests, Night steepled his fingers. “Thank you, Celestina. This will do nicely. Please give the superintendant my thanks.”

“I will, sir.” A heartbeat, and then she hit him with a stream of words: “We’re all so excited that you’re joining the staff, sir. Having an active hero as a teacher!” The girl blushed, and Night fancied he saw stars in those odd purple eyes.

“I’m sure that enthusiasm will die down once you and the others take my Street Fighting Techniques class.” He smiled briefly. “I have a feeling I’ll be a difficult instructor.”

“Oh, sir,” she said, giggling. “You’re one of the best heroes ever! You were part of the Siege of Manhattan! You’ve taken down the Torrent Brothers! You were part of Team Alpha!” She prattled on, listing his accomplishments like a groupie. Then she added, “And I’m sure you’ll capture Arclight and Glitter Vixen any day now.”

That last irked him.

When she paused for breath, Night dismissed her curtly. Wouldn’t do to have the girl getting used to running on at the mouth whenever she was around him. Celestina closed the door behind her when she left, still giggling like an idiot. Night frowned, listening to the last of those giggles play out and finally fade. The girl admired him, clearly. But she didn’t fear him.

That would change.

He turned to his computer, bringing up the latest reports, columns, articles, and opinions about Arclight and Glitter Vixen. The mainstream media were still properly horrified over the Good Guys Gone Bad, and politicos on all sides of the spectrum continued to rally behind Corp-Co in its effort to smear the Bradfords as bad apples from the beginning—and never mind that Luster had been the official Hero of New Chicago. Mainstream media, it seemed, had a short-term memory.

But the underground newsies, they
loved
the Bradfords, called them the Squadron Bonnie and Clyde. One rag in particular, cleverly called
Underground
magazine, was utterly infatuated with Arclight. Picture after picture of the man as he entered New Chicago Savings, entertained everyone with jokes and banter as he and Glitter Vixen politely robbed them blind, as the two made their glamorous getaway in a waiting garbage hover. Night scanned the latest editorial, rolled his eyes over the inane purple prose scribed by someone named Lynda Kidder, then turned away from the computer. His gauntleted fingers drummed a beat on the desk as he mulled over the situation.

Lester Bradford. Certified genius. Master of Light. Traitor to Corp-Co.

A disappointment, certainly, but Night couldn’t say he was truly surprised. Bradford, after all, was a Lighter, no matter what idiotic designation he used. He was still an arrogant son of a bitch. He thought he could thumb his nose at Corp-Co and take on the entire Squadron, one by one.

Of course, the problem was that, so far, Arclight had been doing just that. The police didn’t want to go after an extrahuman—especially not after one who’d worked with them on so many collars in the past. And the handful of Squadron soldiers who’d tried to tag Arclight … well, Night was certain they’d be released from Medical anytime now.

He grimaced. Second-stringers, sent to do an Alpha’s job. Ridiculous.

But there was no more Team Alpha, no more separation between the heroes. They were all part of the Squadron, getting their marching orders directly from the Executive Committee. And those orders were explicit: You went after only the rabid you were assigned to collar, unless you happened to catch one doing something illegal during your patrol. It was even in the new handbook.

Well, eventually, it would be Night’s turn to have a go at his former teammate.

Night’s grimace pulled into a tight smile. If he was exceptionally lucky, all it would take was a few more
Underground
articles, or perhaps just one more headline story in which Arclight boasted about being a modern-day Robin Hood to Corp’s Prince John. More likely, it would take months, even years. Bureaucracy was a bitch, but it was the way of the world.

But eventually, Corp-Co would send Night after the Bradfords.

When that happened, Night would not be going up against a former colleague, a man whom he grudgingly respected. No, Luster was dead and gone, buried in the arrogance of Arclight. His wife was an afterthought.

On that day, Lester Bradford would learn what it meant to be afraid of the Dark.

Content for the moment, Night turned back to his computer and started the tedious process of pulling together a syllabus for his class. He hoped that there would be at least one Light power among the brats that were to be his students.

After all, he had a special place in his heart for Lighters.

CHAPTER 54

ARCLIGHT

“It was only a matter of time before you lost one of them. You can’t show a starving man a meal and expect him not to gorge himself.”

—Matthew Icarus, testifying before the
Executive Committee re the killing spree
of Subject 6524, code name “Razor”

I
t was another bank robbery, in a string of at least a dozen, pulled off with style and flair by Arclight, New Chicago’s most dastardly villain.

It would also likely be the last. First Federal was one of the only banks in the city not to install heatproof vaults in the year Lester had been on the run from Corp.

Still, he didn’t believe in looking gift horses—bank vaults?—in the mouth.

Shouldering one sack of digichips and one of bearer bonds, Arclight stepped from the vault, his black cape swirling around his ankles.

What if you get yourself killed?
Valerie had demanded the first time he’d stepped out in his new costume.

Not a costume. A uniform, a symbol of the resistance. Of the amends he was making to Holly Owens and her daughter Joan.

Haven’t come close yet,
he’d said, with perhaps more arrogance than was strictly necessary. He’d come home to Valerie in the small hours after he’d pulled George Greene’s little daughter out of that closet, in that awful abattoir, and, instead of breaking down, all he’d felt in his chest was a steely resolve.

We’re finished with Corp, and Corp’s rules, and the heroes who abide by them and allow themselves to be prostituted and killed.

Valerie had agreed. They’d planned, all through George’s trial. They’d waited for the right moment, for the furor and the press to die down. Luster had used the underworld contacts he’d developed from years on the street to procure new identities and secret bank accounts for the money he’d been funneling into Callie’s college fund.

And then one morning, when nobody would miss them for a few days—no press conferences, no training—before Yuriko had brought them coffee and the day’s correspondence, they’d woken up Callie and run.

It had been so easy once Lester had seen the truth. His family or Corp. One or the other would have to wither and die to allow the other to flourish.

It had been easy to stop being a hero.

It had been easier to start being a villain. All he needed to remember was Holly’s body on the floor and the face of that little girl. And the consistent, ever-present reminder:

You set this in motion. George killed her, but you started it.

Valerie, after she stopped worrying about him dying at the hands of some second-rate Team Beta wannabe, got into the act. She liked Arclight. Every once in a while, she even joined him as the newly dubbed Glitter Vixen.