Chapter Twenty Eight
One of the pivotal moments in the history of the Sentinels was their decision to create a junior division. The Young Sentinels,
under their slightly older leader, seized the public imagination after a rocky start and went a long way to recapturing the early
post-Event enthusiasm for superheroes. Which makes it interesting that the steps leading to that historic decision were accidental
ones.
Terry Reinhold, Years of Service.
* * *
It’s amazing how fast you can get stuff done when you have juice, and even with the public beating we’d been taking lately, the
Sentinels still had lots with the city government. Jamal’s caseworker was a pinch-voiced man with zero tolerance for personal
discretion, but once I verified the foster situation, Quin called a judge who called him and that was that.
Blackstone had further relaxed Def-1 conditions; still minimal civilian contact (especially after last night), and still a full
in-base presence, but we didn’t have to be in uniform—just take them with us. So when I told Willis we were mounting a rescue
mission he produced caps and shades, even a pair of wigs better than the one I’d worn last year, and politely suggested I take
Artemis with me to get some sunshine. Jacky hadn’t gone to bed yet, and I talked her into a surfer-blonde wig to compliment my
new brunette curls. Quin gave me the address of Jamal’s temporary juvenile home, promised to call ahead for us, and gave us New
Tom and the armored Caddy since we were still at Def-1 (we stashed our uniform packs in the back).
New Tom was as quiet and inscrutable as the old Tom. Since the Platoons that I knew were all perpetually Just Business Ma’am
(except for Willis, who had a funnybone you could actually detect), were there secret Platoons somewhere who just lived in eternal
Margaritaville, who caught the waves, sunshine, beer, and girls for the rest of them?
I tried to picture a Platoon in sandals and a floral shirt, sipping coolers under a cabana, and my imagination shut down.
Jamal’s temporary home sat on South Buffalo, not the best place, but not the worst; the kind of place that had curfews and
checkouts and routine searches, but let the kids out for school and play. Jamal’d had no juvenile record before the Puccini’s
fight, but they’d still low-jacked him with a GPS anklet that went off when he “sped.”
It wasn’t right, and somewhere between the Dome and the home, an absurd spirit took over. When we pulled up, I yelled “Keep the
engine running, Tom!” as Jacky and I jumped out. We dashed to the door and I flashed my Sentinels ID at the man standing by
Jamal. He was pinch-faced, and he gaped like a fish when Jacky slung Jamal over her shoulder and ran for the car.
I bit down and managed a “company” face as I shook his hand.
“Thanks for all your help, but we’ll take it from here,” I blurted. “Of course we’ll have to beat him, so pay no attention to
the bruises. He falls down. Lots.” And, grabbing Jamal’s bag, I ran for it. Quin was so going to hate the next phone call she
got.
I actually heard laughing in the front seat as I threw myself into the back and yelled “Punch it, Tom!” He peeled away with a
gratifying squeal of rubber while Jacky giggled, something I hadn’t believed possible. Scrunched between us, Jamal just looked,
well, stunned. And Shelly hadn’t even thought this one up.
* * *
Mom and Dad bought me a car and a stun-gun when I turned sixteen, but before I finished Drivers Ed and got my license, they
enrolled me in the most brutally practical self-defense course Dad could find. Master Li taught the course. A master of Bagau born
in Philly, he'd studied in China before opening his school in Oak Park to sell graceful meditation to soccer moms and serious
self-defense and discipline to kids. A Buddhist, Master Li taught that the path to wisdom was Mountain Dew—that and knowing what
you didn't know and whether it was important to know it. Really, if he'd been a guru on a mountaintop, any eager acolytes who
scaled the peak in search of enlightenment would have been handed a six-pack and advised to go study something useful.
Looking through the round street windows, we could see a beginner's class in the gun (the school's training hall). They were going
through basic form drill under a junior instructor, and we stopped for a moment to watch the children pace, with intense
concentration and occasional catch-up hops, through the graceful and fluid palm changes.
“I’m going to stay here?” Jamal asked, looking at me.
“Mmhm,” I confirmed, hoisting his bag. “Sifu—Master Li—is cool. He and Debbie are registered foster parents, though they
normally host Chinese kids over here for school.”
“Did he teach you to fight?”
“Actually, he taught me to run. I didn’t learn much of that.” I waved at the window. “I learned how to use pepper spray, a
stun-gun, and in a pinch, a small baton. The fanciest move he drilled into me was a knee-sweep—kick your attacker in the knee and
then run like the wind.”
I laughed at his disbelieving look. “When you’re my size, self-defense means situational awareness, personal preparedness, and
bugging out if there’s any way to. He also made me promise to get a concealed-carry permit and a gun as soon as I was old enough.
I think I can pass on that one.”
Jamal looked disappointed, and I reassured him that Master Li was much more likely to teach him all the secrets of Bagau. I didn’
t think he’d be interested in the Asian culture lessons Master Li also taught (they’d been good towards my AP Comparative
Culture credits), but he’d probably get them anyway.
We took the weapon-hung hallway to the back, past the tiny office and out the back door. A yard divided by a gated wall separated
Master Li’s home from the school, and in good weather his students used the school side of the yard for outside instruction. The
family side of the yard was Debby's garden, now bare soil and budding bushes, and both the yard and house were as ornately Chinese
as the school.
We went through the gate without buzzing and Master Li met us at the door to lead us into the open family area, decorated mostly
by wall-scroll replicas of inked landscape paintings and lacquered bamboo furniture. I’d learned my love of Asian art here.
He’d laid out his prized gongfu tea set (two red and unadorned clay teapots and matching cups and water bowl, heating pitcher,
and utensils) on the table where he had taught me the strategy of Go. We sat, he nodded, and I prepared the tea while Jacky and
Jamal watched.
Rinse the smaller teapot with hot water. Fill it to one-third with oolong tea leaves. Rinse the tea leaves by filling the pot to
half full, then drain it completely into the water bowl. Pour more hot water into the teapot, carefully so that no bubbles form.
Silently contemplate the whichness of what while the infusion steeps for thirty seconds. Pour into the cups with the remainder
poured into the second teapot so again only the leaves remain for further infusions.
Master Li thanked me and we all took up our cups. He inhaled the fragrant steam, then sipped. "Very good."
I sipped mine, thinking hard while he waited.
Finally I said, "Good things come. Bad things come. Accept both with equanimity."
He chuckled. “An excellent fortune-cookie aphorism. Stuff happens. Get over it.”
I grinned. “Thank you, Sifu.”
He shook his head. “Ted, please. Sifu is for students.” He scowled at Jamal. “That’s ‘teacher’ in Chinese, and you will use
Sifu.” Jamal almost dropped his cup.
After that I caught Master Li up on everything that had happened in the past year, and Jamal talked a bit about his background: no
dad, mom died just after finishing paralegal studies, foster homes. Any time I feel like karma’s made me its play-toy it’s easy
to find someone who’s had it way worse, but he got it all out with a stiff chin, daring us to feel sorry for him.
Master Li listened with few comments. He knew how to deal with boys who arrived with stories—a lot of his foster kids came from
the worst-off Chinese states. Afterward, he showed Jamal to his room and walked Jacky and me to the door.
My manic mood had worn away, and Master Li picked up the change. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Debbie will smother him and I’ll
thump him, and he’ll be fine. And you must come more often. And your mother. It was very nice to meet you, Jacky.”
Jacky thanked him and didn’t say anything else until we got back in the car. I sat back as New Tom pulled away from the curb,
rolling my head to look at my friend.
“It feels good to actually rescue someone, doesn’t it?”
She looked back at the school, frowning.
“So he’s a martial arts master. Will he be able to handle the kid?”
“Didn’t I tell you? He’s a speedster like Jamal and Rush. Never uses it in the gun, but I caught him at it the time I almost
broke his tea set. He gave me permission to spill it this morning—the secret, I mean. I’m pretty sure he’s ex-military, like
Lei Zi.”
“Sniper, ma’am,” New Tom said from the front. “Belonged to my old special unit.”
“Well, there you go.” I turned to look back myself while Jacky stuttered. “You know, one of the things he taught us was stories
of the xia, the wandering martial artists of Imperial China who fought bandits and bullies on behalf of the common people. Kind of
like the Knights of the Round table, but cooler.”
Now I frowned. “I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I’m going to have to give Jamal the speech Atlas gave me—the one that
says the cape isn’t the only option.”
Jacky raised an eyebrow. “Will he listen?”
“Nope. But he’ll remember it.”
“Where to, ladies?” New Tom asked.
“The hospital, thanks. And, Tom? If you could polarize the windows and raise the glass, we’ll change back here.”
The glass went up.
It turned out Artemis had never mastered the essential life-skill of changing in a backseat—probably because she hadn’t had an
overscheduled childhood. I could change anywhere, but we never made it to the hospital.