Chapter Seven
Come on and rescue me!
I’ve been waiting here all night
Just hoping that you’ll see.
Fly down and rescue me!
From Rescue Me, by Have No Fear.
* * *
I made some calls and headed home. If I’d lived on campus with the Bees, I’d have been dragging my laundry home every weekend.
Instead my parents had bought me my own little condo in Boyd Tower, the residential tower sitting on top of the Dome’s secret
backdoor garage-entrance, but after everything that happened I preferred to stay in my quarters in the Dome. The Dome’s staff
provided maid service, so I didn’t have the bag-of-laundry excuse, but I went home anyway. I so needed the normal.
I came to another decision while driving West on Eisenhower, this one about Shelly.
After all these months, Shelly still hadn’t got up the courage to get in touch with her mom. I understood why; Shell wasn’t
really Shelly. She was a quantum-ghost of my BFF, a future-tech operating system who remembered being Shelly. Was she real, did
she have a soul? Father Nolan said so, on the excellent proof that she had a heart. That was enough theological reassurance for
me, but how would Mrs. Boyar take it? Would she accept Shelly as another daughter, or reject her as a blasphemous copy? Shelly had
died three years ago; it might be best to leave it alone.
But besides Artemis, Blackstone, and me, only Father Nolan knew the truth about Shelly. She chatted remotely with her Dispatch
coworkers every day, but she had to lie to them (they thought she was a lot older, and, well, physical—a paraplegic shut-in
somewhere).
I’d asked if we could give her mom the same neural link that I had, and she’d mailed me a new bio-seed from wherever her system
is located. It looked like a little pink pearl, and if you swallowed it, it grew and braided itself into your central nervous
system to create the neural link. Now it just sat in a jewelry box on my dresser at home, and I was still the only family she had.
If anything happened to me, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
And now that I’d made up my mind, this was going to be fun.
Springtime meant art festivals and musical events for the Foundation, so despite it being the witching hour I found Mom in the den
going over tomorrow’s to-do list. Bent over her laptop, her dark hair back in a bun, in the dim light she looked like a witch
reviewing her spells.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked. Normally if she stayed up he found company business to review until she was ready to go up to bed.
She looked up and smiled.
“Your father is at the office preparing for a presentation on the Becker Contract. You’re late.”
I shrugged. “There was a last-minute thing.”
As lightly as I tried to pass it off, something pinged her radar. She took off her reading glasses to look at me.
“Trouble?”
Falling into Dad’s reading chair, I told her about Puccini’s.
“What’s going to happen to the boy?” she asked when I finished.
“I don’t know. He didn’t kill anybody, and it looks like aggravated self-defense to me. But most public teen breakthroughs wind
up in Hillwood Academy.”
Hillwood Academy, first a Prohibition Era millionaire’s home, then a prep school, was now the home for kids who’s breakthroughs
isolated them or made disciplining them in normal home and school environments impossible. Preteens went to Whitlow’s Academy,
and, from what I’d heard, neither was a particularly happy place; a lot of young breakthroughs got triggered by abuse, which
meant lots of those kids had serious issues.
She gave me a look and I laughed, stretching against the chair’s soft leather arms.
“Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can do about it. Promise.”
She nodded, but continued to study me.
“I saw Mrs. Lori today,” she said. “At the Founder’s Day committee meeting.”
I looked at her askance.
“She asked when you were going to end your mourning period.”
“Mom…” I sighed. “You and Dad wouldn’t have approved anyway.”
I’d been going to tell them about Atlas and me when we got back from LA. I confessed to the engagement and getaway when the
scandal broke after the funeral, and it had been an even bigger shock to my brothers since till then they hadn’t even known their
little sis was Astra. From Mom and Dad’s reaction to learning about Atlas, I’d been pretty sure that if he’d survived they
would have tried to pack me off to a convent—or at least to Aunt Vicky’s in France—and we hadn’t discussed it since.
But now Mom studied me like I was a puzzle for her to solve.
“No, we wouldn’t have,” she agreed. “But not because of Atlas. Your father has always known what was behind his reputation.”
I raised my head. “So it’s age? ‘Cause Dad’s what, fifty years older than you.”
“Ten years, dear. And I was hot for your father the moment I met him.”
“Eeeww!” I covered my ears. “Too much information!”
“But I was twenty, and had been in a relationship before. And after my summer internship ended we didn’t work together anymore.
” She smiled fondly. “I did make certain that by the time I left your father was hot for me.”
I shuddered. “Bleeding! My ears are bleeding!”
“Hope, John left Texas and moved to Chicago when he was sixteen. He became Atlas at eighteen, and the Sentinels made him their
field leader when Touches Clouds left to go into politics. He became an adult early. I’m sure that, from his perspective, you
were mature enough to know yourself and what you were ready for.”
And I wasn’t. I didn’t say it aloud.
John had intended to wait. I’d intended to wait, until getting shot out of the sky by a random act of madness convinced me we
might not have time. Then I’d pushed it, and I’d been right, just not the way I’d thought.
Mom took my silence for understanding, and smiled, letting it drop. She’d gotten the message across, and I felt better. A mom-
daughter night was coming, with much ice-cream and spillage of details. Meanwhile… I giggled.
“Everything, later. I promise. But there’s something I want to show you tonight. Please?”
Her look turned arch. “The last time you said wanted to ‘show me something’ it was your breakthrough, and now my daughter is
risking her life as a superhero. The time before that it was an improbably innocent kitten in a box, and now he owns the house and
sleeps on my shoes. Should I be worried?”
“It’s not in a box, but I think you’ll like this one.” Pulling myself up, I sat on the corner of the desk so I could lean over
her laptop and brought up the prepared web-page. Mom’s laptop webcam lit up, and Shelly looked out of the screen.
“Hi, Mrs. C!”
Who knew Mom could scream like a little girl? Some moments are priceless.
Five minutes of explanation later, I went up to bed happy in the knowledge that Shelly and Mom would be talking into the wee
hours. Mom had been Mrs. C, our house a second home, since the day Shelly and I met in first grade and became joined at the hip.
Most weekends it had been a tossup where we were sleeping, and when I’d been diagnosed with childhood cancer Mom relied on Shelly
to let her know what was going on in my head. It didn’t bother me at all that she would certainly enlist Shelly again.
* * *
I flew out in the predawn light, using one of Vulcan’s chameleon-suits. A baggy, hooded jumpsuit with mitts and booties, it gave
me amazing camouflage as I took off. Once west of Chicago, I peeled it off and stowed it in my travel bag before pouring on the
speed. The first time I’d made this trip I’d been hanging onto Atlas’ feet as he’d taken us above Mach 4. I wasn’t nearly
that fast yet, so it took me a couple of hours to reach LA.
Only four months had passed since the Big One flattened LA, San Diego, and most of Southern California, but I flew over busy
freeways and the city looked clear of rubble. Downtown, where business buildings had fallen like dominoes, the skeletons of new
buildings rose everywhere.
One of the advantages of the Post-Event world was how fast we could recover from hits like the Big One; South Cal had been flooded
with superheroes and superhuman-staffed construction companies like The Crew. It didn’t make up for the reality that the Big One
had been triggered by an insane superhuman, but it helped.
But it didn’t help me. I still saw the ghosts of collapsed buildings, the dust that had hung over everything, and I could almost
smell the broken sewer lines and bodies of January. And Whittier Base, now Fort Whittier, still stood south of the reviving
downtown. The military was turning the base into a memorial park and training center.
Fortunately my destination lay in north LA.
Lunette’s is on Santa Monica Blvd, along the old Route 66. It’s a club for superheroes, like The Fortress in Chicago, and I’d
expected something the same when I got there. It couldn’t have been more different.
The low building squatted behind a strip-mall, out of sight of the street. It had obviously started life as something else, and
its windows were covered and painted over. The sign over its steel doors was just a crescent moon, and both the doors and the sign
looked old. The only splash of color came from a pair of low concrete pylons that stood sentry in front of the doors—obvious
barriers to anyone who wanted to try crashing the gate with a car. Those looked new.
It was Saturday morning and I’d raced the dawn to the coast, so only a few forlorn vehicles huddled in the nearest corner of the
fenced-in parking lot. I pushed through the doors and blinked. If not for my ability to see into the infrared spectrum, I’d have
been blind till my eyes adjusted to the low interior light. The club had a long bar and an open dance floor surrounded by tall
club tables, and I saw doors that probably led to private rooms. Everything looked cheap, purchased from timely bankruptcy sales,
and hip-hop music played to a nearly empty room. Where The Fortress was filled with superhero memorabilia, Lunette’s was bare of
decoration. It could have been any hole-in-the-wall club (not that I’d been in many).
Orb didn’t look like she had either. She sat at one of the club tables, wearing a cream colored business suit and lime green tie,
legs crossed, one foot hooked on the rung of her chair, the other foot bouncing gently in its designer shoe. I joined her,
ordering the club’s best bottled water while she watched me.
“Watched” didn’t quite describe it. I couldn’t see Orb’s eyes; her golden hair, swept around her head and curled on one side
like a conch shell, as hard-set as a punk rocker’s mohawk, completely hid the top half of her face. A silver orb about the size
of a softball floated by her shoulder. To most people the hovering sphere probably looked smooth, chromed and featureless, but I
could see micro-tiny waves rippling across its surface. Shelly had briefed me during my flight; Orb was blind and deaf, the sphere
her eyes and ears. I smiled at it instead of at her.
“Thank you for seeing me so quickly,” I said.
She sipped her drink and the ripples deepened.
“For Astra of the Sentinels? Anytime.”
The words, spoken in a pleasant, low contralto and with an edge of amusement, came from the orb.
She set down her glass.
“So, what can I do for you?”
I took a breath. “I need to find someone, quietly, and I don’t have much time.”
She smiled. “I can do it fast, and quiet, and cheap. Pick two out of three.”
“A and B.” I pulled out a stack of hundreds and a picture Shelly had printed for me. “His name is Dr. Cornelius, but he may not
be using it yet.”
The orb floated over the picture. For only a second, she froze.
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Please.” I took the picture back. “He isn’t in any trouble and I don’t want to make any, but—” I wanted to say a life
might depend on it, but it sounded too cheesy. And desperate.
She softened a fraction.
“He’s already in trouble,” she sighed. “And I doubt he can help anyone.”
She held out her hand, and I reluctantly gave her the photograph. The orb dipped close, like she was drinking it in, and I
wondered what she saw. Dr. Cornelius was a reasonably attractive man, tall, thin, his narrow face a striking mix of African-
European features. His dark hair and beard were neatly trimmed, his eyes intelligent and good-humored. He looked like someone I’d
be glad to know, but not an object of fascination.
“Where did you get this?”
“From a friend. Can you tell me where he is?”
“No. But I can pass a message. Put your money away.”
I was forced to be happy with that. We left the club, Orb telling me to stick around for her call before she got in her car. Back
out in the morning sun and lacking anything better to do, I decided to check in at Restormel.
* * *
I hadn’t thought to bring civies, and wouldn’t have trusted a hotel anyway. Fortunately I had a standing invitation to crash at
Restormel anytime. Seven had been one of them, more movie star than superhero, and I still didn’t know why he decided to take
Blackstone up on his offer to join the Sentinels after the Whittier Base Attack decimated our ranks. I hadn’t been interested in
much when he switched teams, and now I wasn’t sure how to ask.
Restormel sat in the Beverly Hills, overlooking LA. The Hollywood Knights were up north shooting for their latest movie, Hollywood
Knights VI: Bloody Dawn, but the staff and accommodations were as high-class as I remembered; I showered and relaxed as well as I
could, even chatted a bit with Dr. Carlson, the team’s resident physician. She’d treated me back in January when I’d come in
with plasma burns after an enraged breakthrough shot me out of the sky.
At nightfall I got the call; Cornelius would meet me at Lunette’s.
And what a difference night made.
Lunettes’ was the same pale shade, but lit by tracks of silver-white LED lights I hadn’t noticed in the daytime. Its open doors
let in the cool night air and spilled music into the surrounding lot. There was no club line, just a doorman who nodded some
through, stopped others. Most weren’t in costume, and disappointed would-be-partiers didn’t stay around. Cars filled the guarded
lot, parked and retrieved by a team of watchful attendants.
When I landed the big guy just nodded to me, light from the crescent above the door shining off a matching tattoo on his skull.
Inside, the club wasn’t any brighter than it had been during the day, but I drew looks. Just like at The Fortress, club-goers
looked away; I’d be “invisible” unless I talked to somebody. Orb sat at the table she’d occupied earlier, and now she had
company.
Shelly popped into virtual existence beside me.
“That’s him,” she said. “And we’re screwed.”