Chapter Sixteen
After more than half a century of comic-books before the Event and a decade after, American superhumans who fight crime are
practically required to do it in costume. Not that they fight it much—a lot of superhumans share the same powers, and their
costumes make them easily identifiable in the crunch when they need people to know who they are and take them seriously. The
miracle of media programming is that we can take anyone in tights and a mask seriously.
Dr. Mendell, Superhumans and Society.
* * *
“We’ll up our security measures for your family and friends,” Blackstone said. “Just in case. Panic buttons, that kind of
thing. But there are a couple of things I’ve been putting off talking to you about, and we’re out of time.”
I sat up straight, and he watched me take a breath.
“First, we’re getting more power on the team. Lei Zi, Riptide, Seven, Vulcan, have all been a boost for us, but the Sentinels
are Chicago’s heavy-hitters. We’re the CAI heroes called in when serious firepower is needed, and we lost all three of our
strongest, two of our most mobile, in LA. And I’m out of the field now, too. I think you’ll agree, after what almost happened
last night, we need to toughen the point of our spear.”
He waited until I nodded.
“I’ve had feelers out for another Atlas-type hero since January, but it can’t be just any Atlas-type; we need someone at least
up to your fighting weight, experienced, and able to continue your interrupted fight-training.” He raised a hand, stopping my
protest. “You’re certified now, and John and Charles did a good job bringing you along fast, but you’re not finished and unless
we find you serious sparring partners, you’ll lose what you’ve got.”
“Rook—”
“Offered, and that would help, but regular trips to LA won’t cut it; you need daily workouts, a hard-training program again.”
I couldn’t argue; a retired marine, he would know what it took to be fight-ready. “So, who?”
“You’ve met him. Lieutenant Troy Dahmer, ironically—the supersoldier who tried to recruit you for the Army. His current tour is
up, and he’s looking for a civilian job.”
Lieutenant Dahmer: buzz-cut blond hair, nice face, thin scar from the corner of his eye down to his chin. A soldier’s soldier
with a weird sense of humor. He sounded good, but it didn’t feel right. “Everyone will be comparing him to Atlas.”
“He could be Atlas,” Blackstone said.
“No—”
He held up his hand again.
“I said ‘could,’ not ‘is.’ The truth is, the team owns Atlas’ name and symbol; we could bring Dahmer in, slap the ‘A’ on
his chest, and use him to continue the legacy John created. And there’ve been some suggestions in that direction. But John made
Atlas a symbol that was bigger than just the Sentinels. He was the first, and he set the standard the public measures capes by.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the lines around his eyes deepening.
“Hope, John wanted the ‘A’ to be used. He was the goddamned Last Cowboy, and you know he always expected to die with his boots
on.”
I nodded, my throat closing up.
“I never understood why, until afterward,” he went on. “But he saw the A like a marshal’s badge, a symbol to be passed on. He
was wrong. Nobody else is going to wear the A. The current non-scandal will fade and all anyone will remember is the good he did,
but you’re right; the public will see any Atlas-type we bring in as his replacement, and it won’t go down well. Unless you’re
his replacement.”
“Me?” I squeaked.
“Sidekick, remember? You’re the real heir of his legacy. I’m not saying you’ve got to wear the A, and you certainly don’t
want to use the name, but it’s time you stepped up. Drop the black. All the public sees now is a kid acting dramatic. Andrew sent
you a new costume a month ago, in your old Atlas-colors, and if anyone knows what the public needs to see, it’s him. Step up, and
we can bring Lt. Dahmer in without any blowback. The team will be stronger, you’ll be trained, and John will get his wish if not
the way he expected; it’s a win for everyone. Think about it. Because tomorrow Lei Zi and I have a job for you.”
* * *
Blackstone left it at that, and I got on with my day. Tom drove me back to get my car, as silent as Tom-Bob-Willis—the whole
Platoon gang—always was. I wondered if Platoon was Blackstone’s DSA contact. Finally back in my rooms in the Dome, I wrote up
the incident report, then stripped down and walked into my closet.
Blackstone had said “step up” but he might as well have said “grow up.” Was I being that unprofessional? Why had I gone with
black? I hadn’t felt comfortable, in the blue and white, but… Yuck. Maybe the tabloids were right for once; maybe I was acting
like a drama-queen. How Victorian of me. I sighed. It couldn’t hurt to look.
Shelly popped in as I pulled the new costume out of its bag.
“Wow,” she said. “You’re going to do it?”
“Why?” I didn’t trust her playful grin.
“No reason. Just thinking you may need help.”
I dropped the outfit on my bed and looked at the picture and instructions that came with it.
“Oh, hell no!”
My BFF since childhood collapsed into shrieks of laughter.
The thing came in two parts, plus cape, mask, boots, and gloves. The mask was my old leather half-mask and wig, in Atlas’ cobalt
blue. The short cape looked the same too, but blue with my star in white. But the body of the costume…
I sighed. I’d dress, then I’d go strangle Andrew. He at least deserved to see why he was going to die.
First I put on the white spandex tights. The legs ended in stirrups for my feet, and the high waist attached to suspenders with
snaps. The blue bodysuit was harder to get into. Of layered and seamed spandex, it had the high neck and long sleeves that I
liked, but its bottom might as well have been a thong. The bodysuit had to weigh at least ten pounds on its own, with reinforced
ribbing that made it tight as a corset under the spandex, and heavy snaps up the front that locked me in. The suit’s leg came up
to the top of my hips, and despite the tights I felt like I had a permanent wedgy.
I attached the cape and looked down, ignoring Shell’s ongoing giggle-fits.
“Nice boo-teh,” she gasped.
“Can I go out in public in this?”
“It’s not like you’re flashing skin. Fact—you’re covering more than you used to. At least the cape hides your butt.”
I groaned, then pulled on the boots and gloves and looked in the mirror. Whatever else Andrew had been thinking, it did make me
look more grown up. No costume could give me stature or make me look anything but elfin and petite, but the bodysuit pulled in my
already-small waist and it had the usual bust enhancement, giving me an almost hourglass shape. The bright silver snaps displaced
my crest, so Andrew had shrunk it and moved it higher and to the left so I wore the six-pointed star like a sheriff’s badge. The
tabloids could call me a minor all they wanted, but nobody seeing me in this would pay much attention to them.
I looked at the instruction card again, flipped it over. He must have anticipated my reaction, because on the back he’d scrawled
The snaps are titanium-alloy and can take temps as hot as you can, and the reinforcement and fireproofing will prevent wardrobe
malfunctions. You shred too many costumes, girl.
Maybe The Harlequin wouldn’t mind if I only hurt Andrew a little.
I dropped to the bed. “Hey!” Shelly complained, rolling over so I wasn’t lying through her virtual self anymore. I wiggled with
the unfamiliar feel of the costume, sighed.
She echoed me. “Did we do it?”
“Do what?”
“Save Blackstone. I mean—we outed the villain that killed him before, right? And the Outfit’s so not after him now. They don’t
want anything to do with any of us, or what was the point of today?”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly, sitting up and hugging my knees. “I wish we knew why the Wicked Witch killed him in the first
place. Maybe only Blackstone was a threat to her before, but the whole team’s a threat now, and the police, and the DSA if she
manages to get out of Chicago and becomes an interstate fugitive.”
I chewed my lip, but before I could chase my thoughts around some more Shelly got that abstracted look. She made a face.
“We’ve got a call from the CPD Detective Division, Fisher’s team,” she said. “He wants you at the Great Lakes Mercedes
dealership. It’s another murder.”
“Of course he does.” I looked down at myself. I could change, but what would be the point? I’d already made up my mind.
“Blackstone flagged us,” Shelly added. “You’re supposed to take Galatea.”
“Aaand that’s the plum in the pudding.”
* * *
“She’s different,” Fisher said, smiling. “You, too.”
“Galatea, this is Detective Fisher. Detective, Galatea, Vulcan’s gynoid field unit.”
“Good evening, detective. I am pleased to meet you.”
“Are you really?”
She looked at me. “Is that a normal social response?”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” I said to Fisher, rolling my eyes. “Galatea, file Detective Fisher’s response under ‘humor’ and
don’t use it.”
“Thank you, Astra.”
Fisher chuckled, crushed out his cigarette, and opened the door to usher us into the dealership showroom. He hardly needed to;
every one of the building’s bay windows had been shattered and we could have stepped in anywhere. I opened my mouth to ask him
about the Millibrand case, and he shook his head. Later.
Phelps and Wyatt turned our way as we stepped inside. Both stopped what they were doing and couldn’t decide who to look at,
making me think it might have been a good idea to bring Galatea along after all; her silver and white neoprene catsuit showed the
ridges and bumps of her articulation, and her mannequin’s face, barely mobile, gave away what she was to anyone who watched her
for more than a second.
Officer Wyatt settled for nodding to me before turning back to his interview, but Phelps joined us.
“George is talking to the last customer,” he said. “I’ve got the sales manager waiting upstairs. What’s this?”
“She,” I said, “is Galatea, and she’s with me.”
“Phelps,” Fisher said as the junior detective started to puff up. “I’ll be upstairs in a minute, after I show Astra and
Galatea the security footage and they’ve had a look around.” He led the two of us to the other side of the floor. “Two in two
weeks. Sorry about this, kid.”
I choked. I recognized the body hidden by the silver Mercedes.
“Donald Gerrold,” Fisher said. “You know him?”
And I wanted to kill him. This time I didn’t have to smell the blood—it was all over poor Don and the floor. At least someone
had closed his eyes. I took a breath, swallowed, and decided I wasn’t about to contaminate the crime-scene.
“I met him today, Detective Fisher,” I said. As Hope. “He works for—worked for—Robert Early. What happened?” I managed to
keep my voice even.
“That happened.” He pointed to bits of metal scattered around the floor and imbedded in showroom cars. “K-Strike?”
“Dude.”
The hero straightened up from his post by the door, stepping over the remains of whatever it was to join us. He wore a black half
-helmet and a black and gray jumpsuit armored like a motorcycle racer’s. A short black swashbuckler’s cape, slung over one
shoulder, made him look like a cyberpunk highwayman.
“K-Strike.” I smiled. I’d met the West Side Guardian at last year’s Metrocon blowout party, where he’d hit on Artemis in a
charming but perfunctory way.
“Hey Astra,” he said. “Nasty business.”
“What happened?”
He looked at Fisher, and the detective nodded.
“I was riding home from a safety event two blocks from here when Dispatch called—said a metal-man had killed somebody and was
shooting up the place. Bullets are no problem, so I came in without waiting for backup and found Robby the Robot here—” He
waived around and I could see some of the bigger parts were arm or leg joints. “—firing away with a couple of built-in
autorifles.”
He frowned. “Metal-dude wasn’t shooting to hit anybody, or even the cars, but I figured that could change. I could see it wasn’
t some dude in armor, so I took it down.”
I looked around at the mess. “With what?”
He reached into a belt pocket and pulled out a couple of steel marbles. His power was a personal field that could absorb the
kinetic energy of anything that touched it, making him bulletproof. He could also project kinetic energy into anything he touched;
he could fire those marbles hard enough to punch holes in concrete, and take the eye out of a One-Eyed Jack with one, too—I’d
seen him do it on the Metrocon best-of video.
“I took off its arms at the elbows so it couldn’t shoot anymore,” he said. “Then it just blew up. Lucky everyone was already
under cover—the biggest bit left is its head over there.” He pointed to the caved-in robot head. It had camera-lens eyes and
microphone ears.
Galatea looked at it, and then at the fragments of joints nearby.
“May I examine it?”
Fisher nodded. “Don’t touch anything yet.”
“I will not.” She knelt stiffly and placed a hand in front of the thing’s field of vision. “Detective Fisher,” she said.
“The visual and audio sensors of this automaton are still active, and it is transmitting a signal.”
“It’s what? Wyatt, get me a trash can.”
My super-duper senses aren’t always the biggest help, but I heard the sharp thuds of unlatched steel doors and the timing set off
alarms in my head.
“Fisher—”
The steel dragon came through the windows.