CHAPTER 40
JET
The one thing you can count on is that heroes tell the truth—even when those around them don’t.
Lynda Kidder, “Origins: Part Twelve,” New Chicago Tribune, June 11, 2112
Jet tried to pull herself up, but she didn’t have the strength. Pain streaked across her battered limbs, leaving behind a miasma of sensations that made her hiss—a sharp stabbing in her leg and arm; a steady agony in her shoulder; an almost gentle throb in her jaw. Her body must have been five shades of purple beneath the skinsuit, bruised to the point that just breathing made her want to weep. And her head felt like Colossal Man had used it for a soccer ball. But none of that mattered.
Lynda Kidder was dead.
No, Jet thought, trembling. He lied. The man in the black mask must have lied.
I didn’t kill her.
She tried to move again, to go see for herself, but her body simply refused to obey. Between Kidder’s abuse, then fighting Iri—again, twice in a handful of days, and damn it all she got away again— Jet’s body was on strike. And broken in at least two places, to say nothing of her freaking shoulder.
Or her head. When she realized her vision had doubled, she focused on the large body on the ground. And got horribly dizzy.
Okay, focusing wasn’t such a terrific idea.
Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed thickly. No way was she vomiting. She was so exhausted, she wouldn’t even be able to turn her head away so that she didn’t puke all over herself.
Grunting, she lifted her broken right arm just enough for her to tap her comlink. A man’s voice replied, and she whispered, “Backup. Fix on … coordinates …”
Things got a little gray, and she swallowed again. She didn’t hear anything in her earpiece; they must have disconnected.
All she had to do was wait. And pray the Undergoths didn’t stumble across her.
Backup will be here soon, she told herself. Ops will dispatch the local S’R team for the city. Someone was coming.
They’d see Kidder wasn’t dead.
Get up, she told herself. You have to get up. The Undergoths might be scurrying this way. And what if Iridium comes back?
Iri gently nudging Jet’s goggles up and looking into her eyes, Iri telling her to stop fighting …
Jet gnashed her teeth.
“Joannie, you’re hurt. Bad. Is heroing worth tearing yourself apart?”
Yeah, it would be just like Iri to circle back and kick her when she was down.
Iri sighing, then clocking Jet in the jaw, the right hook so fast that Jet hadn’t seen it coming …
Iridium.
Jet’s fist clenched, and a snarl curled her lip. Iridium, claiming she didn’t know what Kidder was doing there. Right. Like Iridium had any other reason to be in this section of the Rat Network, with a masked lackey in tow.
Jet tried to move again, but her body wouldn’t have any of it. Almost sobbing from the pain, she groaned as her thoughts danced in slow circles around the idea that Iridium had sold out to Everyman. So what that she had history, bad blood, with them? She was rabid … and Iri always had a fondness for chemistry. Maybe she’d helped the Society with their damned serum, hooked them up with rogue scientists who got their kicks by selling their brains to the highest bidder.
Maybe Iridium had created the serum.
That backstabbing … rabid … bitch!
Fueled by anger, Jet rolled herself onto her right side, then bore down and propped herself up on her broken right arm. Oh Light, it hurt! Shaking, nauseated, she pushed herself back until she was leaning against the ruined wall.
Tears streaked down her cheeks, and she panted as she clutched her dead left arm to her chest, the pressure of squeezing a limb she couldn’t feel taking the edge off the glassy pain of her broken right arm. Her left leg splayed at an angle she didn’t want to think about.
I should change my handle to Rag Doll, she thought numbly.
Over the sounds of dripping water that she couldn’t see, of her heartbeat thudding in her chest, a man’s voice called out: “Jet?”
Him. Iridium’s lackey in the goggled black mask. He’d come back. Probably to finish the job his mistress didn’t have time for.
Jet gripped her left arm tightly, but that did little to dampen the pain of summoning three creepers of Shadow. Oh, Light, she was hurting. Bad. The creepers pulsed by her feet, waiting for her command.
“Jet? Where are you?”
A light from the far end of the passage marked his presence. Certainly was smug, letting himself be seen like that. Jet braced herself to throw the creepers at him. Hearing him scream like a girl would do wonders for her bruised ego, if nothing for her equally bruised body.
The light brightened. “Jet? Answer me if you can!”
Sweat rolled down her face, stung her eyes. When had she taken off her optiframes? Oh, right—Iri had. When she’d tried to convince Jet to stop fighting.
Damn Iri to the never-ending Darkness.
Panting, Jet bit her lip to keep from crying out. The creepers tried to slip away from her, but she reined them in. Barely. Signature move, she told herself with a wretched laugh.
Everything tilted to the left, and she squeezed her eyes closed. Hold it together just a little longer, she thought, feeling light-headed. Just enough to take him down. Backup will be here soon …
“Jet? Oh f*ck, what happened to you?”
With a gasp she opened her eyes, saw not the masked henchman but Bruce Hunter, her own Runner, right there in front of her … well, almost right there. He was giving the creepers a respectable radius. Swathed in his black trencher, black shirt, and black slacks, he looked like one of her groupies. Except she could see his eyes, so blue and electric, even from this distance; her fans always wore goggles. She’d have to give him the official Jet Fan Club dress-code handbook.
Light, she was losing it. She whispered, “Kidder. Help Kidder.”
Bruce took a step toward her, but the creepers reared up. “Jet? Honey, can you call off your shadowdogs?”
Closing her eyes again, Jet pulled the creepers back, absorbed them. For a blissful moment, she felt better. Then she opened her eyes and the room canted to the right and started spinning lazily, and she had to fight the urge to vomit again. She shut her eyes again, which was better. Slightly.
His hands on her face now, so wonderfully cool. “Hang in there, Jet. Help’s on the way.”
“’M fine.” Her tongue was so thick, she could barely get words out. “Kidder. Get Kidder.”
He murmured, “Don’t worry about Kidder.”
“Go,” she said. “Hurt. Needs help.”
“I told you, honey, help’s on the way.”
“Not me. Kidder. Needs …” What had she been saying? Ah, Light, it was so hard to think. Bruce was here, and that was … wrong somehow. “Why you? Backup. Not you.” She was too dizzy to worry about sounding rude.
“You contacted me instead of backup. You must have put me on speedlink. I guess that means you like me.”
She heard the strained humor in his voice. “Mistake. Dangerous. Iri.”
“Iri? Iridium did this to you?” The humor was gone, replaced by a flatness she found oddly appealing. It reminded her of Night. “Jet? Did Iridium do this to you?”
“Kidder,” she said faintly. “Help. Kidder.”
“Shh. It’s okay. I’m here. Help’s on the way. Should be here any minute to get you out.” His hand on her bad shoulder now, but instead of adding to the agony it felt … warm. Soothing. “Tell me what happened.”
She tried. But even to her own ears, she sounded rambling, incoherent. Finally she gave up and said, “Shoulder.”
“I know, I see. Separated or dislocated.”
“Dislocated. Old problem. Pop it back.”
“No, honey. The S&R team will be here in a minute, they’ll float you up to the surface, get you to the hospital.”
“Pop. It. Back.”
She heard him hiss through his teeth, then he said, “Fine. On three.” Both of his hands on her, now, one on her dead shoulder, the other on her good one. “Brace yourself. One.”
Then the bastard popped her shoulder back in its socket.
Pain, so raw and overwhelming that it was almost exquisite.
Jet slipped away, then, and faded in and out of consciousness. When she first came back to herself, she felt her head cradled in someone’s lap, heard Bruce speaking softly, urgently.
“Not good,” Bruce was saying. “Pretty broken up, maybe internal bleeding … no, S&R’ll be here soon … want her now?” A pause, and then: “No problem, you give the word … yeah, she’s dead …”
Dead. Kidder was dead.
No, he was lying, the man in the black mask was lying, and oh Light, the man had come back and was going to …
She slipped away again, only to open her eyes to a familiar face.
“I’ve got you, Jetster,” Steele was saying. “You just hang in there, I’m getting you out now.”
The feeling of being lifted, then floating. Jet whispered, “Kidder.”
“We’ve got her, Jet, don’t worry.”
“Good,” she said, then passed out again.
The next time she woke up, she was getting wheeled down a corridor, with people running alongside her, talking quickly over her. She thought she heard Bruce, or maybe Night, and someone was trying to cut off her skinsuit, which was foolish because everyone knew the material was so densely woven with Kevlar, it made it almost impossible for a blade to penetrate. But the costume pulled away, and the person cutting through hissed and said something about bruising and internal damage, but then Jet slipped …
… and woke up in a room with horribly bright lights and shrilling beeps and a person was smiling over her and telling her just to breathe, honey, just breathe deep and then there was a cloying sweet smell that carried her away …
She awoke to the sound of crickets.
After listening to their soothing chirps, to the sound of her own breathing, and to the faint but consistent sound of beeping, Jet opened her eyes. Dim lights overhead. Soft sheets under her; warm blanket over her. The perfume of flowers around her. She felt like she was floating, distant from her own body, which she couldn’t feel. And while she knew that should bother her, she just didn’t give a damn.
“Hey, you’re awake.”
She tried to turn her head to face the person who’d addressed her, but her neck wouldn’t cooperate. Shame.
A man swam into her field of vision: dark hair, blue eyes, chiseled features. Ruggedly handsome. Terrific smile, if a tired one. A name clicked into place, and she smiled at Bruce. At least, she tried to smile; her face didn’t want to work.
The feeling of pressure where her hand should be. “How’re you feeling?”
She tried to answer, to no avail. She’d have been frustrated if she didn’t feel so warm and floaty.
“I’ll take your silence to mean you’re feeling peachy.” His smile softened, and she felt something like a dim stirring around where her chest was. Presumably. Bruce said, “From what they told me, they’re keeping you higher than a kite while your body finishes healing. You shouldn’t even be awake now.”
Healing?
Maybe he saw the question in her eyes, because he said, “You were pretty busted up. Broken bones. Internal bleeding. Concussion. You gave the Faith Healer a run for her money. Apparently, she’s out of commission now for at least a week. And so are you.”
She didn’t like that; even the pleasant haze she was in now couldn’t fog a sense of anger.
Bruce laughed softly. “Don’t complain. She fixed you in record time, but she said you won’t be up to full strength for a while. And she’s the one who said you’re temporarily grounded to make sure you don’t rebreak what she fixed.” A brushing feeling where her cheek probably was. “Lucky you, you have your own personal Runner to make sure you do what the good extrahuman doctor says.”
Oh really?
“Jet,” said another voice.
She couldn’t turn, but she didn’t have to see Night to know who had spoken. Or feel Bruce’s hand to know he’d removed it from her face.
“You shouldn’t be awake,” Night said. “Your energy is better spent on completing your healing.”
Bruce said, “She’s stubborn.”
“Indeed. Excuse us, won’t you?”
“Of course, sir.” To Jet, he said, “I’ll be seeing you.” And then he was gone.
“I only have a minute before they come in here, see you’re awake, and dope you senseless again,” Night said, staying out of her limited field of vision. “So I’ll make this quick. Your Runner reported that on your way home from nighttime patrol, you’d communicated with him that you’d seen some movement by one of the sewers and were going to do a cursory pass, make sure the Rat Network was quiet. And the next thing he heard was you requesting backup.” Night paused. “This is the official report, Jet. Do you understand?”
Yes. Bruce had lied for her, hadn’t said anything about her actively seeking Lynda Kidder or her pursuing the connection between Corp and Kidder—even though he’d known what Night had asked her to do.
But why had Bruce lied?
“From what Steele reported,” Night continued, “there had clearly been a battle where she’d found you and Kidder. From what she and the Runner puzzled out, it looks like you’d accidentally found where the Undergoths were keeping Kidder, whom they’d tortured hideously before they killed her. And then Iridium found you.”
Kidder. She’d killed Lynda Kidder.
“Corp will be grilling you once you’re healed, but they’re ready to send the Squadron in full force to clean out the Network once and for all. At least, that’s what they’re feeding the media. Should be interesting if that’s actually true,” Night said dryly. “That would tie up a good chunk of active extrahumans for the near future.”
Gentle pressure around her shoulder.
“The media’s already picked up the important parts. You found Kidder and nearly died trying to save her. Iridium, a known rabid, was apparently working with the Undergoths. You’re back in the City’s good graces, Jet. This time, when the mayor tries to give you an award, I suggest you stick around to accept it.”
Night’s plan had worked. Jet knew she should be satis-fied, but she kept seeing Lynda Kidder’s monstrous form, heard the reporter’s wet chuckle before she’d slammed Jet against the wall.
She’d killed Lynda Kidder.
“You’re tired, I can see that. We’ll talk when you’re healed. For now, rest up. Your Runner will be staying close to you.” Softer, by her ear: “You can trust him, Jet. I helped place him in his latest assignment.”
She’d killed a civilian. An innocent.
Night cleared his throat. “Is the white-noise setting adequate? Would you prefer something else? A waterfall, maybe?”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t even if she wanted to.
“Excuse me, Night, but I have to ask you to leave.” This from a new voice, a woman’s voice. “Jet needs her rest.”
“Of course.” The pressure around her shoulder vanished. “Sleep well, Jet.”
Jet wanted to cry, to scream, to beg for forgiveness. She hadn’t meant to kill her. But then something warm rushed through her, soothed her, wrapped her up and held her.
And then Jet didn’t want anything at all.