Tempest (24 page)

Becca buried her face into Teresa’s neck and refused to be disengaged. Becca wasn’t bleeding anywhere that I could see. She was just incredibly traumatized, the poor thing.

A few feet away, a reporter and his cameraman had just set up and were beginning to tape something with us in the background. “This is Victor Troy, Channel Seven, reporting live from the Santa Monica Freeway at the 110 exchange, where three levels of roadways have collapsed on top of each other during this morning’s historic earthquake. As you can see behind me, the members of the unnamed superhero team led by former Ranger Trance are already out and doing what they can to assist in the aftermath of the destruction.”

I stared at the back of the reporter’s head, stuck between disgust at this guy’s use of people’s deaths to tell a news story, and the intense need to use him to make a big damn point. I glanced at Teresa, who was staring at me like she knew what I was thinking. She glanced down at Becca, then over at the reporter. Her hands were (literally) full at the moment, and my collection of bruises might help drive the point home harder.

So I stalked over to the reporter, who turned after a signal from his cameraman. Troy was young, and not someone I’d seen before in the usual gaggle of press that liked to dog us. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and he looked like he’d been enjoying a lazy Sunday morning before the earthquake sent him straight to work.

Troy stared at me a little goggle-eyed before remembering he was live. “Tempest, correct?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What brought you and your teammates out here today?”

“Are you serious?”

He blinked. “I mean, um—”

“We’re here to help. Los Angeles is our home, and she’s been devastated. There are thousands of people across the city who need help this morning. We can’t be everywhere at once, but we can do our part to save as many lives as possible. But I am curious, Mr. Troy.”

“About what?” He looked terrified to hear my answer.

I gazed directly into the camera, allowing the anger and stress and exhaustion to show through in my face and my words. “Where exactly is Humankind during this crisis? I don’t see them out here moving rubble and rescuing trapped citizens. They say they want to protect the sanctity of human lives? Well, here’s their chance.”

Troy didn’t seem to know what to say to that, so I kept going. “We’re only a handful of Metas doing what we can, but there are dozens of Metas in Manhattan right now, with abilities that match or exceed our own. Metas who could help save even more lives today if our government gives them the opportunity.”

I turned and walked back to the rubble, where Marco had just pointed out our next target. He slid up next to me.

“That was brilliant,” he whispered.

“I just hope it helps,” I replied.

We got back to work.

It took us almost three hours to find all the survivors of that particular collapse. We managed to pull eighteen people out alive, including a two-year-old and her teenage mother. Troy moved on after a while to cover other areas of the city, but more reporters came and went, and then finally a few National Guardsmen showed up with medical supplies and news.

The U.S. Geological Survey announced that the earthquake had measured 9.0 on the Richter scale, the largest felt anywhere in the world in more than seventy years. The epicenter was in Santa Ana, California, and its effects were felt south into Mexico, as far north as Fresno, and all the way east to Las Vegas. A few casinos even suffered minor damage. The kicker for us, though, was the rumor—not yet confirmed by the USGS—that this wasn’t a natural earthquake.

The rumor surprised none of us. The timing of it had been too perfect. Unless the lab rats at Springwell had created a Recombinant with the ability to predict earthquakes to the second, this had to have been man-made. And that scared the hell out of me.

With the widespread power outages, fires, and gas leaks across L.A. and Orange counties, the National Guard was evacuating survivors right out of the city. Temporary refugee camps had been set up in the Mojave Desert just outside of Barstow, along with a MASH facility for treating the wounded the damaged city hospitals weren’t able to accept. Gage (with his broken shoulder and collarbone) had already been evacuated, along with a dozen other, less critical, patients. For now, the poor guy was too doped up on morphine to be of any help in our efforts.

Efforts we made for hours as the day became a blur of heat, asphalt, steel, debris, blood, and screams of pain. Occasionally a resident who hadn’t left yet would offer us bottled water or sandwiches—small gestures that made all the difference as we battled house fires, lifted collapsed roofs, and dug under multiple feet of rubble for survivors. By nightfall, we were exhausted, but we couldn’t seem to stop, as though our bodies were on autopilot. None of us had ever used our powers so extensively, and for such a long period of time. Sooner or later, we’d just shut down and pass out.

Which was okay, I guess. At least no one could accuse of us slacking off.

But for the first time in months, none of us cared about how we were being portrayed in the media. It didn’t matter. One thing mattered, and it wasn’t our image. It was the next innocent life waiting to be saved. The Springwell anti-Rangers had put millions of people in harm’s way and caused (at the very least) thousands of deaths today. Sooner or later, we’d make them fucking pay.

Aaron, Renee, and I were getting people out of their collapsed homes near Trinity Park when a city cop came over with a radio. He looked around as though searching for someone else, then came right over to me. He waited while I helped an elderly woman sit down on the curb, away from the remains of her house, then he held out a walkie.

“They’ve been trying to reach you folks,” he said. “Someone from New York, and it’s urgent.”

Curious, I took the walkie. “This is Tempest.”

“It’s Simon.” The familiar voice crackled badly over the connection, but he’d gotten through to us somehow. “How’s everyone out there?”

“We’re all alive. Gage is the only one seriously hurt, but it wasn’t from the quake.” No one else we knew was injured—I’d gotten a message from Alicia an hour earlier, letting me know she was alive and on her way out of the city.

“I want to hear that story, but first I have some news I think you will appreciate.” By this time, Aaron and Renee had come over to listen. “Warden Hudson is releasing fourteen volunteers from Manhattan to assist in the rescue efforts in Los Angeles.”

I stared at the walkie, positive I’d heard him wrong. I looked up at Aaron, whose surprise and joy were apparent even through Scott’s mask. “Are you serious?” I asked.

“Perfectly. He received permission from the president himself. All of the volunteers will wear tracking anklets, and they have to be supervised by your people, but this is real. I think your sound bite this morning got people’s attention out here.”

“That’s what it was supposed to do.” Fourteen more superpowered volunteers were exactly what we needed. “When will they arrive?”

“Everything is in motion. I’d say about four hours, give or take. The National Guard has an incident command post set up at Hollywood Park. That’s where the volunteers will be arriving.”

“Great, we’ll make sure some of us are there when they land.”

“Good luck, Tempest.”

“Thanks.”
We need it.

I gave the cop back his walkie. Renee looked cross, but Aaron’s smile canceled that out. Some of my bone-deep weariness lifted, and I couldn’t wait to find Teresa and give her the good news.

Twenty-three

Assistance Plan

B
y the time our backup from Manhattan arrived, our entire group of exhausted rescuers had retreated to the command post at Hollywood Park for power naps and a simple meal of sandwiches and chips. Hollywood Park had once been famous for horse racing, but was shut down and abandoned more than thirty years ago when animal racing was made illegal. It had a large open parking lot, as well as an overgrown racetrack. All the old buildings had collapsed during the quake, so the post was set up in the lot. We were only two blocks from the Centinela Hospital Medical Center, which was providing us with the bulk of our medical supplies and personnel.

Major Lee was in charge of the Hollywood Park ICP. He looked like he’d fallen out of a classic Hollywood war movie, with slate-gray hair, hard lines around his eyes, and a voice that could challenge cannon fire. He treated our group of Metas, in our uniforms and strangely colored skin, with the same respect he showed to every other volunteer working at the ICP.

“I knew some of your parents,” he’d said when we were first introduced. While it was a familiar refrain from authority figures over the age of forty, this time it stung. This time, versions of our parents had most likely caused all of the destruction in the first place.

Around 9:00 p.m., our help arrived via two helicopters landing on the old racetrack. Fourteen prisoners in gray jumpsuits, accompanied by four armed prison guards. Among the volunteers I spotted several familiar faces from the Warren, including one that made my heart sink—Alexia Lowe, Muriel’s mother.

Major Lee introduced himself to the Metas, then turned over their care to Teresa, who seemed to have found a second wind (or third or fourth), with the arrival of help. It might have been nighttime, but there were still people to find, fires to put out, and lives to save. She divided everyone up into five smaller squads, with herself, Double Trouble, Marco, Renee, and me each in charge of one.

My squad consisted of Aaron, Alexia, and a neon-yellow-haired man named Sebastian Rojas, whose imperviousness to pain and ability to spit acid would come in handy around immovable metal.

Before we headed out into the field, though, I pulled Alexia aside for a private chat. “Why did you volunteer?” I asked.

She gave me the kind of patient look mothers excel at. “I can manipulate metal, Ethan. I can be useful here.”

“What about Muriel?”

“Muriel’s with her father. I explained why I was leaving. She needs to know that we can still help people. That being Meta is a good thing.”

I wanted to tell her to go back, and not to risk getting herself killed when she had a daughter waiting for her. Only, I couldn’t do that. First of all, she wouldn’t listen to me. But mostly, I had no right. As Rangers, our parents faced death daily on their quest to do what they believed was right. Maybe Alexia had been a Bane once, a lifetime ago, but this was her time to be a hero to her daughter. She deserved that chance.

She got it, too, in spades. We followed a National Guard squad to an apartment complex in Culver City that was being threatened by a massive fire a quarter mile away. The fire had engulfed multiple city blocks, and city firefighters were doing all they could to contain the blaze while the surrounding neighborhoods were evacuated. Not even Dahlia could pull the heart of that fire out. The black smoke drifted on a westward wind, right in our direction, and I did my best to redirect it so we could work without choking.

We evacuated forty-seven people who were trapped in their apartments—and we found three times as many dead bodies. Alexia and Sebastian worked with an intense precision that reminded me so much of the Rangers who’d been my childhood heroes. They hadn’t been in a situation remotely close to this in over fifteen years, and yet they moved, talked, and reacted as if this was just another training exercise.

Our squad kept moving throughout the night, trying to keep ahead of the fire that didn’t want to die. What we really needed was someone who could manipulate an ocean of water and drop it down on the growing blaze—too bad the only one we knew was the freaking enemy. And if Tricia Rice had been willing to help, she’d have done so by now. From all the news reports we’d been briefed on by Dr. Kinsey, no one mentioned active Metas other than us—which well and truly sucked. Not even the Greens were coming out to play tonight.

Maybe in the morning.

Morning seemed like forever away, even when the first streaks of navy and purple lit the eastern sky. Rest was a foreign concept, untranslatable to a mind and body far past the point of utter exhaustion. There wasn’t a single part of me that didn’t ache. At some point, after we’d successfully cleared another residential street from the path of the fire, everything went white, then fuzzy black.

I woke up later, flat on my back on a thin cot, sweating like crazy in the sweltering summer heat. My whole body felt like a grain sack—heavy and bendy, without any real shape or mobility. I blinked at the white canvas tent above me, searching for some kind of energy within myself. Some strength to sit up. Maybe call for help. I tested my powers and found them easily—good. The moving air helped me feel less sweat-soaked and gross.

“Welcome back,” Teresa said from somewhere on my left.

I listed my head to the side. She was sitting on the next cot, elbows on her knees, shoulders slumped in the very picture of exhaustion. But she was smiling. “How long?” I asked.

“About six hours. You passed out right before I gave the order for everyone to take a break.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky you that Aaron caught you before you face-planted on the road, or you’d have another purple mark for your collection.”

“Told you I wanted to be more like you.”

“Leadership-wise, you’re doing a great job. Just leave the skin colors to me, okay?”

Wait a second, had she just complimented me on my leadership skills? I squinted at her through eyes that desperately wanted to close again. “How’re the rest of our people?”

“By some miracle, so far so good. Our New York volunteers are doing amazing work out there. No injuries, either.”

“I bet Humankind is thrilled.”

Her expression shuttered. She tried to hide something, but I’d seen it. I swung my legs over the side of the cot and sat up. Blood rushed to my head. I steadied my hands on both sides of the cot until the swirling in my brain stopped and I could focus. “What have they done?” I asked.

“They went on TV again, another distorted image and voice.” She clenched and relaxed her hands several times. “They got wind of the USGS’s suspicions about the earthquake being man-made, and now they’ve blamed Metas for it. They’re calling it a stunt—that we’re trying to gain sympathy by reinventing ourselves as heroes saving the day.”

I expected rage to show up at any moment, but all I felt was nausea. The clones had caused the deaths of thousands of people, untold millions in property damage, and now Metas were stuck in the middle. And the more people who believed the shit that Humankind was spewing, the worse it would get for us.

“And we fell for it,” I said softly.

“We couldn’t not help all those citizens who needed us,” Teresa said.

“Yeah, and we just gave Humankind more ammunition to use against us.”

“We can’t stop what people say about us in the press, I know that. But to think that people would believe we’d do something so awful . . .”

“Fuck them, then. Most people are smarter than that.”

“You’re right.” She let out a weary sigh. “I just can’t seem to see any further than the next rescue.”

“So don’t.” Off her startled look, I continued. “Focus on the rescue and evac missions, Teresa. You said once that Rangers could do more than just react to a Bane threat. We’re doing that right now. This isn’t something we can fix, but we can sure as hell do everything in our awesome collection of powers to help make it better.”

She considered me a moment. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like what you’ll be doing while I’m out with the rescue teams?” She knew me way too well.

“The clones have my brother,” I said. “And even though I have no actual emotion for the man, they have my father, too. I want to keep helping here, but . . .”

“You need to find your family.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to ask Aaron to go with you?”

I blinked several times, a little thrown by the question. She watched me calmly, a knowing light in her eyes and the hint of a smile tweaking the corners of her mouth. I looked down at my feet, feeling oddly cornered, even though she’d asked a perfectly innocent question. Only, it wasn’t innocent to me, because there was nothing innocent about my feelings for Aaron.

“Hey, pal.” She reached out and squeezed my knee. “We all love you. Period.”

I covered her hand with mine. The band of worry that had been squeezing my heart for the last eight months loosened. In time, it would go away completely. “Thank you.”

“Trance? Tempest?” An excruciatingly tall, skinny Meta named Lacey Wilson had ducked beneath the canopy near the end of the row of cots. Her enormous, leathery dragon-like wings were tucked close to her back, and her eyes glowed with orange fire, which made several of the resting volunteers cringe away. She ignored them in favor of us.

“What is it?” Teresa asked.

Lacey smiled, showing off sharp, pointed teeth. “We have some new volunteers.”

With a little bit of effort, I lurched to my aching feet and followed Teresa out into the afternoon sunshine. Lacey led us to another tent where Aaron, Renee, and Alexia were gathered around a trio of teenagers. The teens—two guys and a girl—didn’t seem nervous or afraid of us. One of the boys, whose hair was hidden beneath a black ski cap, looked downright excited to be there. All three of them went a little goggle-eyed when Teresa showed up.

“These are our volunteers?” Teresa asked Lacey, who nodded.

“I’m Mike,” the boy in the ski cap said. “This is Ben and Shawna. We wanna help.”

“And why is that?”

Mike puffed out his chest. “Because we’re Metas too, and we’re not afraid to say it anymore.”

She smiled. “What can you do, Mike?”

He turned around and nodded at Ben, who sighed, then closed his eyes. Mike walked up to Ben . . . and right through him. It was one of the most bizarre things I’d seen in a long time. Mike walked through a nearby table covered with water bottles, then came back to us.

“That’s handy,” Renee said.

“Sometimes is,” Mike replied.

“Not bad,” Teresa said. “What about the rest of you?”

•   •   •

Someone had been smart enough to set up a couple of mobile showers for the volunteers, so I made good use and washed off twenty-four-plus hours of smoke, dirt, grit, and a little dried blood. My bruises had bruises, and I’d acquired a limp at some point, which just added to my overall aesthetic. Putting my dirty clothes back on didn’t help, either, but it was that or running around in donated pink hospital scrubs, and that just wasn’t happening in this lifetime.

Before I could make the acquaintance of the food tent, I ran into Aaron—almost literally, coming around the corner from the row of portable johns set up downwind of the showers. He smiled, which made me grin right back at him. Working side by side last night had been amazing. Teresa was right about one thing—I wanted him by my side for whatever came next.

“Thought you’d be interested to know,” he said, “that Mayor Ainsworth has officially canceled today’s HQ demolition until further notice.”

I snorted laughter through my nose so hard it actually made my eyes water. “Ow. I can’t believe she made an official statement about that.” I glanced at the sky, as though I could see HQ from here. “I’d forgotten that was today.”

“I think so did the rest of the world.”

“Half her work’s done anyway. The Housing Unit will fall over if someone so much as looks at it funny. The Base is the only building still solid.”

“Thanks to the Merry Band of Misfit Clones.”

“Yeah.” Clones who hadn’t been seen since yesterday morning—after disappearing so quickly and completely.

They’d made a carefully orchestrated effort to protect the Base yesterday, to keep it upright during the powerful quake by shielding it in a cocoon of ice. Why? They could have faced us down in the parking lot and saved themselves the effort.

“Ethan?”

“Huh?”

Aaron frowned. “What were you thinking just now? You looked . . . I don’t know, confused?”

“I am, a little.”

“About what?”

“The Base.”

“What about it?”

I glanced around us. Even though activity continued everywhere at a frantic pace, no one was paying us any real attention. I described the rooftop fight in more detail, including the ice case around the walls and the clones’ grand disappearing act at the end. “If Andrew was with them, shielding them, they didn’t even have to leave the roof until we were distracted.” By Gage, for example.

“Do you think they’re still at the Base?”

“I don’t know, maybe. But what if they are, Aaron? What if they’re sitting in the Base, watching us run around saving people, and laughing about how perfectly their plan to ruin us worked? I mean, half the country seems to think we caused the earthquake as a publicity stunt. Why would the clones leave in the middle of the show?”

Aaron looked horrified, but definitely on board with my theory. “Are you going to tell Trance?”

“No.”

He looked startled. “No?”

“No, she needs to focus on the rescue and evacuation efforts. I don’t want to divide her attention right now.”

“So what do you want to do?”

Collapse. Sleep. Kiss you.

“I need to go back to HQ,” I said. “And to somehow get close enough to the Base to see if I’m right.”

“You got a plan in mind for accomplishing that?”

“Not a single one. You?”

He started to speak, then closed his mouth. He rocked back on his heels as his gaze went distant, thoughtful. An enormous, bird-shaped shadow flew over us, and we looked up. Lacey was coming in for a landing with what looked like a sackful of supplies in her arms. Aaron watched her disappear into one of the tents, then looked at me again. He didn’t have to tell me—I saw it in Scott’s brown eyes. He had an idea.