CHAPTER 34
JET
In the line of duty.
Epitaph on Samson’s gravestone
Everyone had shown up for the funeral. The entire I Academy, from students to instructors to support staff; all members of the Squadron who weren’t currently out battling evil or posing for their sponsors; the mayor and his City Hall entourage; the governor of Illinois and her assorted posse. Various other government officials, looking properly grim. Corp muckety-mucks, talking loudly about the “terrible tragedy.” The media, already branding the event as “Death of a Hero.”
And the dead hero, of course. He was there too.
Jet sat straight in her hard-backed seat, chin high. Eyes dry. Next to her, Iridium held her hand, squeezed tightly. Jet barely felt it.
She barely felt anything anymore.
Samson was dead.
The world had taken on a slow, syrupy feel—Jet sat, and breathed, and sometimes someone would say a word or a phrase that would capture her attention, then it would slip away and Jet was alone, sitting, breathing. She knew Iridium was on her right, poor Iri in her bandages and her pain, and next to her was Frostbite, with his fresh scars so livid compared with the bright blue of his hair, and Red Lotus next to him, his broken arm set and mending. She knew Were was on her left, as untouched as she was herself. Unmarked. Unhurt.
Undead.
She knew these things, but none of it really mattered. After the funeral, life would return to normal at the Academy; they still had to finish Third Year and apply for preliminary sponsorships. She knew this, too, and it mattered even less.
Even Night didn’t matter, not anymore.
“He’s gone, Jet,” Night had said to her after they had returned yesterday, Jet wearing blood that wasn’t hers and still feeling the ghost of Sam’s lips on her own. “He’s gone, and you have to accept it and move on.”
And when she hadn’t responded, Night had gotten cold, even for him, and told her that true heroes weren’t stopped by death. They held their heads high and did their duty. When she still hadn’t responded, he said curtly: “If you let this break you, Joan, then you weren’t worth the effort.”
She remembered turning her back on Night, actually turning her back on the man she’d emulated and maybe even loved, remembered walking away from him, then finding herself in the Infirmary by Iridium’s side, her hand in Iri’s just as Iri’s hand would be in hers at the funeral the next day. And when it was well past Lights Out and they were alone, Jet shed her Shadow cloak and became visible and cried. She’d dimly realized that she’d used her power when she was not authorized to, had used it and no one had noticed and none of the Power wards had been tripped, but that didn’t matter.
She cried, softly so as not to disturb Iridium, who was so medicated that even if Jet had wailed, she probably would have slept through it. Jet cried, feeling her heart slowly shred and drift away, leaving behind a hole in her chest that ached all the more for its emptiness. Jet cried, and lost herself to her grief.
Her fault.
She’d been too slow, again. Iri had gotten hurt because Jet hadn’t reacted fast enough, then she couldn’t stop the bleeding.
She hadn’t even heard the shot that had killed Sam, cut him down so cleanly, and he’d been standing right next to her.
She was no hero. She was just a scared little girl in a skinsuit who’d thought she had a chance at being happy.
Iri was hurt and Sam, oh holy Jehovah, Sam was dead, and if Jet had been a real hero, it wouldn’t have happened.
And now she was at Sam’s funeral, the whirring of the vids and the feedback from the speakers wreaking so much havoc with her earpiece that she’d had to shut it off.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Not Night in his cold arrogance, not even Iri, who’d almost died as well. Not the voices with their whispering and giggling—and maybe it showed how cruel Jehovah truly was, because this was the one time she would have surrendered herself to the dark and come what may, but today the voices were silent. In mourning, perhaps.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
She’d hand in her skinsuit and earpiece after the funeral. And if that meant she was resigning herself to Therapy, that didn’t matter, either.
Onstage, the Superintendent was blathering about the state of the world today, and why the Squadron was needed more than ever. Jet blinked and now it was Mayor Moulton droning on about the senseless hatred that had brought about this horrific event. She blinked again to find Mister Marvel speaking about how death is the risk every hero takes every time he walks or flies into the field.
None of this is about Sam, Jet thought, and that realization shattered her numbness.
This should be about Sam.
She thought she felt his arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into his touch. Iridium whispered something nonsensical about whether Jet was okay, and Jet ignored it because she didn’t want to lose this last feeling of Sam next to her, Sam touching her and kissing her and laughing with her and telling her …
… telling her …
“It’s too soon,” he says, stroking her face, “I know it’s too soon, but Joannie, I gotta tell you this before I burst, and I hope to heaven that you won’t run away.”
“You can tell me,” she says, a fluttering in her belly and a strange light sensation in her chest. “You know you can tell me anything.”
And he smiles—oh sweet Jehovah, his eyes are so bright—and he says, “I love you.”
She cries then, a little, and he’s afraid he’s scared her off, and then she starts laughing and she’s kissing him and telling him that she loves him too …
“Jet? Come on, answer me.”
Iridium again. Jet lifted her head and didn’t reply. Sam was talking to her, the memory of Samson was holding her and telling her it was all going to be okay …
“I swear,” Jet says, hearing the whine in her voice and helpless to stop it, “I’ll never get this right!”
“Of course you will.” Sam’s hands are strong and soothing, massaging away her tension.
“I won’t! I go by the book, follow the moves exactly how I’m supposed to. But then Iri goes and improvises, and I land flat on my back with her heel on my neck!” Jet lets out a wretched laugh. “How’m I supposed to study improvisation?”
“You’re doing great, honey. Iri’s used to thinking outside of the text. And she’s okay with fighting dirty.”
“We’re not supposed to fight dirty.”
“I know. But I think that’s just in the Academy. I think in the real world, we’re supposed to fight to win.”
“If the real world doesn’t do what I expect, then I’m in trouble.” She closes her eyes, leans back against his broad chest. “I’m terrible at this. I’m no hero.”
“You are, Jet.” He turns her around and tilts her head up until she’s gazing into his eyes. “We’re heroes, all of us. We’ve got these powers for a reason. We’re meant to help people.”
She says, “But I can’t do what Iri does.”
And he smiles and strokes her cheek. “So do what Jet does.”
“I have no idea what Jet does.”
“And you have plenty of time to find out. You are a hero, honey. Even if you don’t feel like one. Don’t worry. It’s all going to be okay.”
The Superintendent was speaking again, getting ready to introduce someone else who would talk about how important heroes were and why they all need to be strong and not saying a damn thing about Sam.
That was the only thing that mattered now: Today had to be about Sam.
Jet stood.
“What are you doing?” Iridium hissed. “Sit down!”
Jet walked out of the row of seats, stepping over feet that didn’t shuffle out of her way, leaving a wake of buzzing voices. The vids didn’t swarm to her until she started walking down the main aisle and headed toward the stage. Then they were on her, their lights glaring and the sudden silence so thick that she barely heard the cameras’ mechanical whirls.
It didn’t matter. Only doing right by Sam mattered.
He would have done the same for her.
No one stopped Jet from ascending onto the stage, and when she approached the podium, the Superintendent said to the room, “But first, one of our Third Years wishes to speak a few words. Jet, go ahead.”
She stared at the audience, but all she could see was the lights from the vids and the overheads. And even though she had no idea why she was onstage at all or what she was going to say, she opened her mouth and spoke.
“This isn’t about why we’re heroes.” Her voice was soft, and if the microphones weren’t there, even the people in the first row would not have heard her. “This isn’t about the way things are in the world. This is about a fifteen-year-old boy whose designation was Samson. But his name was Joseph Rogers.”
“You can call me Joe,” he says to her Second Year, that day when he followed her out of Lancer’s class.
“We’re not supposed to use names,” she replies.
“Yeah, and teachers aren’t supposed to break the rules whenever they want.” His smile is big, huge, and it eats his face. “And we’re not supposed to talk back to them. If you don’t like Joe, you can call me Sam. Lots of people do.”
She laughs softly and offers her hand. “I’m Joan. Joannie.”
“Joe was an Earth power,” Jet said, using his given name on purpose, even though it was foreign on her tongue. “And he was as strong as you’d think. But he was also kind. And sweet. He always, always helped out whenever he could. And he wasn’t afraid to speak up when he thought something was not fair or just.”
“But sir,” Samson says, “all she was doing was defending herself. You’re the one who let Hornblower attack first with his power.”
At that, Lancer cuts his gaze over Jet’s shoulder. “Samson, you questioning how I run this class?”
A pause, and then: “In this case, yes, sir.”
“He was my friend,” Jet said, her voice caught on a sob. “And I loved him. And I’m going to miss him terribly. Without him, the world isn’t as good as it was when he was in it.”
She took a deep breath. “We’re heroes, even if we don’t feel heroic, or if we’re scared, or if we want to quit and walk away. And we’re told that we can’t let death stop us, that it’s a risk we all face daily.” Jet paused, and when she spoke again there was an edge of steel in her voice. “But Joe died a stupid death. He shouldn’t have died. That was horrible and wrong, and nothing will ever make it right.”
“Nothing is going to happen today,” Sam says, sliding an arm around Jet’s waist. “It’s a good day.”
“Joseph Rogers would be the first person to say that we’re heroes for a reason, that we’re meant to help others. Well, he didn’t get a chance to show the world what he could do as Samson. But he helped me, more than I could ever say. And for that, I say to him: Thank you, Joe. Thank you, Samson.”
“I love you, Joannie,” Sam says, and everything is right with the world, and she could never imagine that it’s all going to fall apart not even a week later.
“Thank you for being my friend,” Jet said softly, “for helping me when I needed help. For making me laugh. For having my back. For holding my hand.” Tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t acknowledge them. “Thank you for your courage, and for your strength. Thank you for your smile, for your good humor. Thank you for being a true hero, and a truer friend.”
She bowed her head. “Good-bye, Samson.”
Brushing the tears from her cheeks, Jet exited the stage. No one stopped her when she left the assembly hall. She walked out of the Academy, her head high, breathing the cool autumn air. She thought she felt Sam squeeze her shoulder, but it wasn’t him at all.
“Jet,” Night said, not at all cold. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, sir.” Was that her voice, so curiously flat, sounding so unlike herself? “You could have said so to me yesterday.”
A long pause before Night spoke. “Yes. That was insensitive of me, and I regret that. But you were in shock, and I said what I did to try to snap you out of it.” He sighed. “Even heroes make mistakes.”
Oh yes, they surely do.
Night said, “Your tribute to Samson will probably be repeated by the media for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the week. What you just did back there was the best thing you could have done for Samson’s memory. And,” he added softly, “for yourself.”
She couldn’t bring herself to thank him; she wouldn’t have meant the words.
“You’ve more strength in you than you realize,” he said. “Your speech just now made that very clear. You’ll heal, Joan. You’ll move on.”
“Maybe I don’t want to move on, sir.”
“Maybe not right now. But you will. You’re a hero, Jet. And if you want Samson’s death to have any meaning at all, you’ll let his dedication to helping others be your beacon. Your guiding light in the dark.”
Her fist trembled, and that was when she realized she’d been about to lash out and hit Night. Hissing out a breath, she unclenched her hand. “Yes, sir.”
“Put the earpiece back in, Jet. And then let’s get you back inside.”
The device back in her ear, Jet allowed Night to lead her back into the Academy, safe behind its walls.