Chapter Thirty Three
There are three of Me: me when I’m Astra, me with the mask off, and the me the newsies insist lives a much more exiting life.
Terry Reinhold, quoting Astra in “This is a job for…”
* * *
Some revelations should not be made over lunch.
Jacky started innocently enough, confessing complicity with Mom and Dad; I’d guessed right—she’d called them before sunrise to
let them know what went down and that I was fine but ordered to take it easy. She had arranged to meet me after mass. Then she hit
me with it.
“Terry called last night,” she said after downing a bite of pizza with an expression of absolute bliss.
“Terry Reinhold? The journalist?”
“There are other Terry’s?” She carefully tucked a long string of cheese away. After doing my interview last year, Terry had
become the go-to newsy for Sentinels interviews; he’d done Jacky, and then Lei Zi, Seven, and Riptide as they’d each joined the
team. I felt a gathering sense of doom.
“Did he want to know about last night?” Questions about talking to known mobsters—dead known mobsters—would be, well, awkward.
“Actually, no.” Jacky didn’t smile, but her eyes were dancing.
“Well that’s something, I guess,” I said cautiously. Maybe the Sentinels’ could avoid all the blowback from our wild
adventure.
“He got a call from a friend who works for The Daily Metropolis, you know the one?”
Did I; it was the Chicago-based tabloid that devoted most of its page space to the doings, real and imagined, of the city’s
hundred-plus capes; only the Hollywood heroes got as much attention as we did. It was the rag that had screamed the loudest over
my supposed underage status, and over the whole Atlas-Astra thing because of it.
“Well, his Daily Met friend sent him some pictures and asked for his opinion. When we bailed out of the car in the 7-11 parking
lot Saturday, someone got some shots of us.” Jacky was working really hard on not grinning. Doom doom doom, but I couldn’t see
it.
“So they got some pictures to sell,” I said. “We had our masks on before we got out.” My panicked memory told me that yes, we
did.
“Yes, we did,” she reassured me. “And I’ve got to say I’ve never seen anyone that good at getting dressed in a backseat.
Something I should know?”
“No. Just a childhood going from school to field hockey to Foundation stuff. I can do my face in downtown traffic, too.”
“Okay.” She shrugged, lips twitching. “Anyway, here’s the money shot.” She held up her cellphone so I could see; it showed
the two of us standing beside the sedan. I was helping Jacky with the last few buckles. Masks were on and it looked alright to me.
“So?”
She rolled her eyes. “Geez, Hope, you’re so naïve. We were caught piling out of the car? Half-dressed? Look again.”
I looked. My cape was askew—I’d straightened it when we landed on the tower—and Artemis’ costume was definitely still all
about, but it was just a shot of the two of us getting out of the car helping each other dress before taking off to answer the
alert!
I didn’t spit my salmon across the room, or scream, or yell Oh my God! Mom raised me better than that. But I stopped breathing
until my vision cleared. My eyes must have been saucers.
“We’re…”
“Uh huh.”
“We’re…”
“Lesbian lovers. Saphic sisters. Chick chicks.” Now her grin split her face. “At least we will be tomorrow morning when the
copy hits the checkout stands.”
I pushed my plate away, dropped my elbows on the table, and covered my eyes.
“This is— I don’t know what this is, it’s so beyond anything.”
“We’re going to raise Atlas’ child together.”
Now I screamed. A squeak, really, but heads turned towards our corner. I glared till they looked away.
“So now I’m not just a Lolita,” I hissed when I found the air. “I’m a pregnant bisexual Lolita? Mom and Dad are going to die.
”
“I don’t know—they’re already grandparents.”
“You’re lucky I don’t shoot death-beams with my eyes.”
She took another bite of pizza. “This is really good. Want a slice?”
“So lucky.”
* * *
In revenge I took her therapy-shopping; since she wasn’t a fiend of the night anymore, she really needed a new wardrobe. I needed
the Bees for the full effort, and I had to read them in on the sensational revelations of tomorrow anyway. Megan was snarkely
thrilled for us, Julie horrified, Annabeth ready to set fire to the Daily Met, and I felt better. Or not better, but at least
strong enough not to cull Chicago’s wild newsy population the next day.
Ignoring that, the next four days should have been great. I got to hit every class, startling professors and classmates resigned
to knowing me as an occasional face attached to top grades, hung out on campus with the Bees, and actually got to catch the social
side of student life. I even introduced the girls to Jamal—and had to fight hard to keep them from turning him into a makeover
project. Smart boy, he relegated them to the Big Sister’s Annoying Friends category and put up with their enthusiasm. He fell
hard for Annabeth. Dane didn’t mind; they always do, and in his opinion it just showed good sense.
But as my ribs healed, the only updates from the Dome were on Shelly’s “neuro-integration process” (whatever that meant). And
my public absence only fed the fireworks kicked off by the horrible story. At least The Story almost completely buried the Grand
Beach Incident, but it also gave Mr. Shankman one more “sad example of the depravity of self-appointed heroes.” Quin had to be
going crazy; I’d become the Bad Girl of the team, which was just surreal, and all Quin could do was repeat the news-point that I
remained on the injured list. Meanwhile, two more supervillain slayings hit the news—one with a high bystander bodycount—and
everyone seemed to be screaming for the Sentinels to Do Something.
At last Dr. Beth called me in, smiled over the good, strong remodeling he found in my ribs, and ended my exile.
* * *
“She looks so…normal,” I said.
The woman on the Assembly Room screen could have been someone’s aunt. Brown hair showed grey streaks, and narrow librarian’s
glasses framed a nice, lived-in face. Her mouth, lined by a bitter twist, spoiled the picture; she was unhappy and mad about it.
Did she look like someone capable of summoning a demon to render victims into soup? No.
“That’s the best, most recent picture we have,” Fisher said as we all looked her over.
The Friday morning briefing played to a full room. Fisher brought us all up to speed on the Hecate investigation, and two more
heroes sat at the table: Watchman and Variforce. I knew Watchman as Lieutenant Dahmer, and his fitted leather jumpsuit—military
cut, green and darker green, with silver shield on the left breast and Sentinels’ patch on the right shoulder, topped by a black
military beret—made me wonder if he remembered he’d gone civilian. He sat at attention.
I sat stiffly myself, wearing the armor Vulcan had worked up for me. A solid piece of molded armor covered my torso as part of my
bodysuit (the cape buckled onto it) and left my arms bare. Vulcan called it a cuirass. Bracers replaced my gloves, and “greaves”
and “poleyns” (I was beginning to think Vulcan was a history geek) molded into my boots protected my legs all the way up over my
knees. It all looked kind of like fancy motorcycle armor, and was made of The Stuff—in this case cooked up to be stronger than
titanium or ceramic composites. Vulcan had made it metallic blue to match the rest of my costume.
Sitting to my left, Variforce looked bothered .
“Are we sure Dr. Millibrand is this Hecate person?” he asked. “From what I understand, we have only circumstantial evidence and
hearsay connecting her to Mr. Moffat’s murder.”
“Which is why we don’t have a General Warrant out for her arrest just yet,” Fisher agreed. “But we are circulating her picture
to all the CAI teams and police precincts.”
A former US Marshal, Variforce came to us as a new recruit through the Department of Superhuman Affairs; his ability to project
and manipulate articulated variable-property force fields made him great on offense and defense, and Blackstone was serious about
ramping up our fighting strength. His black and silver spandex bodysuit flaunted a physique as tight as a Chicago Opera Ballet
dancer’s, but he looked anything but girly.
“However,” Fisher continued, “we do have a General Warrant for this man.” A point and click brought up a shot of Mr. Early’s
bodyguard from Saturday night. I looked at his dark, heavy-jawed profile, and swallowed, remembering the sick snap when he twisted
his boss’s head around.
“Sheriff Deitz passed along Astra’s description, along with corroborative descriptions from the neighbors. ‘Villain-X’ is
Sergeant Jason Leavitt, formerly of the US Army. Sergeant Leavitt finished serving four years in military prison last year, for
improper actions during his unit’s deployment in Iran. He is an A Class Atlas-type who experienced his breakthrough during basic
training, and he is considered extremely dangerous by the DSA. If you find him, you are to serve the warrant with all the force
you need to bring.”
I looked across the table at Watchman; I remembered his easy humor, but he wasn’t smiling now. One of his own, gone bad. He
caught my eye, and nodded.
Another click, and we were looking at a split-picture of two men, the guy on the right a ratty-looking blond and the guy on the
left a dark-haired… average kid. The kind of kid you expected to see behind a counter asking “Do you want fries with that?”
“We still don’t have a complete roster of Villains Inc.,” Fisher said. “But from your own encounter, we know these two; Tin
Man and Flash Mob. Tin Man appears to have stepped up his game, from remote-controlled housebreaking robots to serious threats
like your dragon last week. Flash Mob is a military nut who was turned down by the US Marines for psychological reasons. He loves
big guns, big explosions, and can spontaneously generate twenty or so short-lived duplicates—all just as crazy as he is, and
determined to have fun before they disappear.
“Hecate, Tin Man, and Flash Mob are all what the military calls force projectors. Since force projectors don’t engage in
fighting directly, it’s very hard for us to prove their involvement in any specific crime; you can imagine how valuable this made
them with the Outfit.”
Fisher brought up Kitsune’s picture next, his Yoshi Miyamoto-face. “We have had no luck following Kitsune’s trail,” he said.
“However, Jenny followed a hunch that our shapeshifter’s chosen codename, being Japanese, might mean that our suspect is, in
fact, Japanese. Combining it the latest name and face Astra provided for us, she found this.”
The picture changed to the redheaded half-Japanese Kitsune I saw in the attack on the Dome.
“This is Rei Pascarella. Her mother’s maiden name was Mari Miyamoto; she changed her given name to Mary when she married Johnny
Pascarella. Ms. Miyamoto was the daughter of Yoshi Miyamoto, a Japanese businessman.”
“Was, Detective Fisher?” Blackstone asked.
“Yes, sir. Mary and Johnny Pascarella, and their daughter, were killed in a home-invasion gone bad five years ago. The murders
remain unsolved, but a flag in the case-file leads to our Organized Crime Division; it appears Johnny was a wiseguy who was
quietly negotiating to turn state’s evidence and get out of Outfit. Internal Affairs couldn’t find any evidence of a leak, and
now it’s a cold case.”
“And Mr. Miyamoto?”
“Disappeared three years ago. He had no other family, and it took us awhile to get his information from Osaka Prefecture in
Japan.” Fisher brought up a picture of a grandfatherly Japanese gentleman.
“Right,” Rush laughed. “And what are the odds it’s coincidence?”
“None at all,” Fisher said. “Jenny gave us this.” The push of a button de-aged the face and I stared at the Yoshi I met in the
club. “We are proceeding on the assumption that Kitsune is in fact Yoshi Miyamoto, aged 78, of Osaka Japan. And the ten million
was never his objective; he’s here to collect on his debts.”
* * *
When the briefing broke up, Chakra and Quin stopped to welcome me back. Artemis waved and then disappeared, but Fisher took me
aside before I could follow her.
“Got a few minutes, kid? And a place?” He held up his pack of cigs and I grinned.
“Blackstone? Can we have the room?”
Chakra took Blackstone’s arm and gave us a wink. “Play nice,” she said as they left. I picked up an empty coffee cup and slid
its saucer over to Fisher. “Instant ashtray.”
“Thanks.” He lit up, sighed. “Glad to see you’re alright. Nice look.”
“My ribs approve. What have I missed?”
“Five more hits, two in public—hard to say which side hit which. Garfield is ready to take the investigation from me and hand it
all to Organized Crime. Has Kitsune been in touch with you again?”
I shook my head. “Why would he?”
“No idea. But why did he reach out to you the second time?” He shrugged, obviously not expecting an answer.
I thought about Saturday night’s Kitsune-dream. It hadn’t faded like dreams normally do. “There is one thing…” I said. And I
told him.
He took a long drag when I finished, stubbed out the cig.
“Burning hounds, huh? And she kills them?”
“That’s what the fox said.”
“Then there’s something I want you to see.”