CHAPTER 29
JET
Not everyone is enamored of the extrahumans. The civilian police bear an open hostility, even more so than they do for the FBI. And then, there’s the Everyman Society.
Lynda Kidder, “Heroes Among Us,” New Chicago Tribune, March 5, 2112
Midnight in New Chicago.
Jet perched on the windowsill outside of Martin Moore’s apartment, debating if she should break the window to scare the bejesus out of him or if she should Shadowslide and go for the silent approach.
She decided to opt for Shadowsliding. Technically, it wasn’t breaking and entering that way.
Inside, Moore was shuffling around. He’d been home for only five minutes; hazard of pulling second shift at Corp. Jet would give him a little more time to get comfortable, maybe even climb into bed. He was an older man—late sixties—and he’d just pulled a ten-hour shift. He had to be exhausted.
Best to let Moore collapse into bed, then … wake him up.
She’d have felt bad about it if Frostbite hadn’t been convinced Moore was the one who’d spilled information to Kidder.
“You want to talk to a man named Moore, Martin G.,” Frostbite had told her six hours earlier. “He’s the connection between Kidder and Corp.”
Jet was more than a little skeptical; it was distinctly possible that Frostbite was about to lead her on a wild-goose chase—or, worse, on a course that would lead to a wrongful arrest. “How can you be so positive?”
“He’s the on-site tech guru for the EC. He’s got access to all the files that Corp ever created. And,” Frostbite added with relish, “he has a bank account a little too padded for a Corp man. His car’s a little too nice. His apartment’s a little too well furnished. And he has expensive habits.”
“Circumstantial,” Jet said. “I can’t interrogate him based on that.”
“Something else. There’s a mention about a brother, deceased. Based on the birth date, a twin.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“Not unless alcohol poisoning during Rush Week at college is suspicious.”
“Then there’s nothing,” she said glumly.
“No? How about this: His first cousin was an active hero killed in the line of duty. Maybe you heard of him. Green Gaze.”
She frowned. “Not ringing a bell.”
“Mental power. Before your time.” Jet could hear the shrug in Frostbite’s voice. “Hell, before Night’s time. This was back around the flood. He got taken down by the Santini Family, if you go by the official reports.”
“And if you go by the street?”
“There were accusations, quickly covered up, that it had been a case of friendly fire.”
Jet hissed through her teeth. “Not good. Everyman pick it up?”
“Nope, but you’d think so, right?” Even though they were—supposedly—on a clean channel, he lowered his voice. “Instead of joining the Everyman Society for a good ol’ public round of righteous anger against the extrahumans, GG’s family, for all intents and purposes, went underground.”
“What do you mean, ‘for all intents and purposes’?”
“They were suspiciously quiet—didn’t seek remuneration from either Corp or the city, didn’t make waves in the media. It was like they just went away. Maybe they did.”
“Maybe,” Jet said, unease bubbling in her stomach.
“But then they surfaced publicly, all Orwellian and Corp Is Our Friend. Almost fanatical. Became loud defenders of Corp and the extrahumans, and led some short-lived outcry against the Family and the gangbangers. Soon that quieted down, and they became regular civvies. Anonymous. Moore himself hooked up with Corp directly and worked his way through the techie ranks. Been there now going on forty years.”
Her voice quiet, Jet asked, “You think Moore’s family had Therapy?”
Frostbite said nothing, but his silence answered for him. Green Gaze’s immediate family, and probably the outspoken extended family, had been … reeducated.
And if Frostbite was correct, and Moore had been the one slipping incriminating data about Corp to Kidder, then the Therapy was breaking down … or it had never taken, and Moore had just blithely played along. Either way, the man had a motive to want to see Corp taken down.
And based on where he worked, and in what capacity, he had the means.
“Forty years,” she mused aloud. “That’s a long time to build up resentment.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Any drier, and Frostbite’s voice would have been the perfect martini. “I still have thirty-four to go.”
Jet ignored that. “If Therapy wears off after time, then the EC’s going to have problems.”
“Makes me all warm and fuzzy just imagining it.”
She just bet it did. “Thanks for the information, Frostbite. I truly appreciate your help.”
“Don’t.” The clipped humor shriveled, died, and all that was left in his voice was a cold, brutal fury. “Don’t you dare thank me. We’re not buddy-buddy, and we sure as hell aren’t good.”
She sighed. “I know.”
“Just do what you said. If there’s a connection to Kidder’s disappearance and the EC, you go public with it.”
“I will. You have my word.”
“Yeah. And we know how important that is to you.”
Jet frowned as Frostbite’s words lingered in her mind. Her word was important. She meant to keep it.
And that meant disturbing Martin Moore’s sleep.
Jet nodded to herself in the predawn light, her black cape allowing her to blend easily with the heavy shadows. Effectively, she was invisible to any passersby on the street, or in the air. And now she was about to take that one step further.
Reaching inside herself, Jet touched Shadow … and slid.
The world oozed gray, all other color leached away by the power of Shadow. One of her long-gone instructors once referred to the ability as morphing or ghosting or—to appease the scientists among them—molecularizing. But to Jet it was simply Shadowsliding.
And, truth be told, it was a lot of fun. Phasing through solid objects gave her such a rush. Not to mention the look on people’s faces when she appeared out of nothing.
Not exactly heroic, she knew. But at least she was honest about it.
Smiling, she slipped through the locked window and stepped inside Moore’s apartment. She’d entered through the bedroom window—and the man himself had settled down in his bed, ready for the express to Dreamland. His face was seamed with age; his hair—what remained of it-was as white as Iridium’s costume. Next to the bed was a small table, with an old-fashioned framed photograph of two teenage boys. Jet couldn’t make out the details in the dim room, but it looked like the boys were grinning with all the impertinence of the young.
Like you’re so freaking old. In Jet’s mind, Iri’s voice chortled. Twenty-two. Positively ancient! Then again, you act like an old biddy, so the confusion’s understandable.
Hovering by Moore’s bed, Jet froze.
What, am I interrupting something important? Here you are, sneaking into an old man’s apartment to scare information out of him. Maybe you and I aren’t so different after all, Joannie.
At least I’m not a rabid, she retorted.
Oh, what a comeback! They teach you that at the Academy when I was gone?
Enough. I have a job to do.
It’s all about the job with you, Iri said with a laugh. Isn’t it?
Iri’s laughter faded. Face set in a determined mask, Jet approached the front of Moore’s bed. The old man must have just settled down; his breathing was far from the steady, restful pattern of someone truly asleep.
Get it over with, she told herself.
“Martin Moore.” She pitched her voice low, filled with subtle menace. “Wake up, Martin Moore.”
The old man startled, blinked his eyes. Rolled over to face her. And screamed like a girl.
“Shut it,” she hissed.
His mouth slammed shut. He stared at her, his eyes wide and terrified.
Jet could almost hear his heartbeat thumping madly. Light, don’t give the man a heart attack. “Where is Lynda Kidder?”
He paled dangerously, or maybe that was just the contrast of his skin against the darkness in the room. His mouth gaped like a fish. Then he whispered, “Why …?”
“You’re the leak in Corp,” she said, her voice almost purring. “You’ve been feeding Kidder code-black files. You’re her Icarus source. Now she’s missing.” So what that she was accusing him without the benefit of proof? If he was innocent, he’d say so. And if he was guilty, he’d crack.
They always did.
He let out a cry, then buried his face in his hands.
Jet let him sob for a minute, watched dispassionately as his shoulders heaved. So it was true: He’d been leaking sensitive information to a reporter. People like him incited riots, caused wars. Behind her optiframes, Jet’s eyes narrowed. “I hope her payoff was worth it, Moore. Corp’s none too gentle on those who clandestinely work against it. I’m curious: What was your thirty pieces of silver?”
“It’s not like that,” he stammered.
“Right.”
It struck her, then, that this was the same conversation she’d had with Frostbite—only now she was on the other side.
Softening her voice, she said, “Then what’s it like? Explain it to me.”
Moore dropped his hands and met her goggled gaze. “Yes, I shared information with her. But not for the money.”
“Then why?”
“To get the information public.” He took a shaky breath. “To get the truth out about the extrahumans.”
She remembered Rabbi Cohn’s words about seeking truth, and something cold worked its way up her spine. “What truth would that be, citizen?”
“That you’re ticking time bombs. The lot of you.” As if his words had given him courage, he set his jaw. “Some are just wired to blow before others.”
“I see,” she said, her voice giving away none of the panic rising in her. He was lying. He had to be lying. The epitome of calmness, she said, “And this was spelled out for you, in Corp’s files?”
“Not in so many words,” he admitted in his old man’s wavering voice. “But there’s clearly an early connection to Icarus, and it’s reasonable to assume that Corp-Co sponsored the fertility project—”
“So there’s nothing definite about your claim.” She gritted her teeth, forced herself to keep her voice steady. “Paranoid, baseless accusations that could lead to full-scale panic. You’re a model Everyman, Mr. Moore. You should consider joining.”
He sniffed, as if she’d wounded his dignity. “I’m a proud member of the Society. And you’re trespassing in my home.”
“I’m pursuing a lead on a very important missing person.” Jet leaned way, way into his personal space, until she was nose to nose with him. She smelled the stink of his fear. “You know where Lynda Kidder is. And you’re going to tell me. Now.”
He squeaked, his bravado bleeding away. “I can’t!”
Light, he did know where she was. Jet was going to have to thank Frostbite. Somehow. Voice pitched dangerously low, she said, “Can’t what?”
“If I tell you, they’ll do me next!”
Uh-oh. “What happened to Lynda Kidder?”
“No, I—”
She got in his face and shouted: “What happened to Lynda Kidder?”
Whimpering behind the fragile shield of his fingers, he groaned, “The Society took her.”
Better than Corp, at least. “Where is she now?”
“The tunnels,” he said meekly.
“What tunnels?”
“Below the city.” He hiccuped, said, “The Rat Network.”
Oh … damn.
She debated for all of two seconds whether or not to call this in to Ops, and decided against it. Night had stressed that she do this on her own, to redeem herself in the eyes of the media.
Besides, how hard would it be to haul Kidder out of the tunnels? The Everyman Society, as fanatic as they were, were only human. Not a true threat.
Unlike the dark, where Kidder was trapped. Helpless.
“Get dressed,” Jet said. “We’re going to the sewers.” Down into the dark, where shadows thrived. Where the voices would whisper, and caper, and giggle. “And Mr. Moore? You’d better pray that Lynda Kidder is alive and unharmed. Or I’ll leave you there, in the sewers, for the Undergoths and the rats to find. Do you understand?”
He swallowed loudly. Nodded.
“Now move.”