CHAPTER 53
JET
Even heroes are fallible; even extrahumans aren’t impervious to human nature. That’s why rogue heroes work in the shadows … and why a Luster can become an Arclight.
Lynda Kidder, “Flight of the Blackbird,” New Chicago Tribune, July 2, 2112
In her bedroom, Jet was pacing. Had been for a long, long while. Terry had popped her head in at one point and scolded her, but a look from Jet was enough to send Terry scampering back to the other side of the apartment.
Corp and Everyman were working together.
The very thought made Jet’s stomach clench and her chest feel too tight. It was a slap in the face, a burn on her soul. Everyman despised extrahumans. And what they’d done in the past was inexcusable.
And yet Corp was working with them.
Worse, Night knew about it. And was going along with it.
Night, who she’d thought had been going mad. Night, who she’d thought was sending her on a wild-goose chase by asking her to investigate Lynda Kidder’s disappearance.
Night had known all along.
It’s a plan, Jet told herself, wearing the carpet thin from all her striding. Some sort of master plan from the Corp EC, to lull Everyman into lowering their guard, then the Squadron would come in and arrest them all for their crimes against us. Against humanity.
Corp wouldn’t condone it otherwise. Corp stood for justice.
Corp supported the Squadron and all extrahumans.
Corp was good.
Corp was in bed with Everyman.
Everyman hated extrahumans. An Everyman had killed Sam. An Everyman had nearly killed Iri.
Iri, who’d tried to tell her that day, five years ago …
A slash of pain cut Jet’s thought, made her clutch her head and bite back a cry. She tried to push through the pain, like they’d been taught back at the Academy—the Academy, the educational branch of Corp, oh Light, everything they’ve been teaching has been from Corp and mandated from Corp and Corp is working with Everyman—
Another stab through her mind, brutal, agonizing. Her world narrowed until it was just her head and the hot blade slicing through it, searing her until she couldn’t think, could barely breathe.
Blindly, she staggered to her nightstand, turned the white-noise device all the way to eleven. She was drowning in a waterfall, clutching wildly to the sound, trying to stay afloat before the pain dragged her under.
It did no good; her brain felt like it was on fire.
Desperate, Jet pawed inside her nightstand drawer until she grabbed her comlink. Shoved it into her ear. Clicked it onto the white-noise setting.
Still nothing. And now just beyond the scream of torment in her mind, she thought she heard whispers. Giggles.
Rumbles of anticipation.
“No,” she said aloud. She tapped her earpiece to connect her to Ops—
—and yanked the device from her ear as the deafening alarm shrilled on and on and on. Tears streamed down her face; she couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart thumped frantically, as if trying to break free from her rib cage. Sweating, shaking, Jet collapsed to her knees, her hands pressed to her head.
Corp stands for justice, she thought wildly. Corp looks out for the common citizen. The Academy teaches, the Squadron protects. Duty first, always.
Duty first.
Slowly, so very slowly, the pain receded. She recited the Academy Mission Statement as fast as she could, and again, and a third time. And then, finally, the pain was gone, leaving only echoes in its wake.
Oh sweet Light, that had hurt.
She stared at the comlink, which was still whining in alarm. With a trembling hand, Jet reached out and tapped it. Silence, except for her rapid breathing, her slowing heartbeat.
What had just happened?
Jet pulled herself to her feet, her gaze riveted on the earpiece. Her head was a mess, and her comlink was broken.
And Corp and Everyman …
A warning buzz in her head. Biting her lip, Jet thought, I! Serve! Corp! She even smiled.
And the buzzing faded.
She sank down onto her bed, her eyes wide. By all that was Light, they’d gotten into her mind. Somehow, they’d brainwashed her. Corp or Everyman or both.
She saw Martin Moore, grinning. Pictured him in the crisp white lab coat that all the doctors in the Mental wing sported, saying: “Who do you think did this to you in the first place?”
And Frostbite, stunned and yet smug, asking her: “How long’ve they had you on a leash?”
Longer than she’d ever guessed.
On the floor, her comlink seemed to wink.
Her eyes narrowed, and she clenched her fist so hard that her nails gouged the sensitive flesh of her palm. Someone had a lot of explaining to do. Blackness seeped out between her fingers, covered her hand in Shadow until she shook it away. A lot of explaining.
And she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
First, a shower. Get clean. Scrub away the remnants of what was starting to feel like a mental rape.
She dashed into her bathroom, ignoring Terry’s outburst. No time for any of that. She showered in record time, was toweling herself dry as she raced back into her bedroom. Terry didn’t try to stop her, at least.
She dressed quickly—undergarments, skinsuit—and wrapped her hair into two thick coils and pinned them back. She strode down the hall and to the front of the living room, headed straight for the low table by the front door. She grabbed her boots and yanked them on, then clipped on her belt. Her hands slid into her leather gauntlets. Oh, it felt good to be back in uniform. Ready to take action.
Jet smiled grimly as she snatched her cape and cowl from the hook by the door. Oh yes, she thought, fastening the cloak so that it rested comfortably over her shoulders. She was ready for action. And answers. She wouldn’t stop until she got answers.
Almost ready—except her optiframes were missing.
“Terry,” she called out, “where—”
The lights cut out.
Even though it was about eleven in the morning, the living room was pitch black, as if it were storming outside and the sun couldn’t break through the pollution layer … or as if someone had reinforced the shades.
Her breath caught in her throat for a moment, then she pushed the reaction away. No time to be afraid. Get the lights on before the voices start to whisper.
But duty first: Get the civilian out of danger. “Terry,” Jet called out, tugging her hood to cover her head. “Are you all right?”
“Terry’s not here, darlin’,” a man’s voice replied—cocky, almost a verbal swagger. She’d heard that voice before, and fury swirled through her, slashed through her fear of the dark. “I gave her the afternoon off.”
The voice was coming from the bedroom.
Distract him. Get the lights on.
“You shouldn’t have, she’s paid through tomorrow,” Jet said, circling into the kitchen and pressing the lightpad—to no avail. She moved back into the living room, tried the front door—hissed as something shocked her, right through her leather gauntlets.
“Sounds like you’re having some electrical issues.” His voice was closer now—moving down the hall.
Aiming her hand toward the hallway entrance, Jet said, “Where’s your mistress?”
“Who?” Still closer.
“Iridium,” she said, lining up a shot. “You know. Tall. Mouthy. Tends to wear white.” Come on, say something else, just one more thing …
“My mistress, huh? Now that’s cute.”
Jet let fly a blast of Shadow. It crashed into something, but she didn’t hear a grunt or a cry, so she assumed she missed. Damn it to Darkness, I need light.
From behind her: laughter. “Iridium couldn’t be here. She’s a little tied up.”
She whirled and unleashed another Shadowbolt, and she heard something crash and tinkle.
“Hope you have insurance for that,” the man said, somewhere to her left. By the front door. “And by the way, I borrowed your goggles. They’re real cute. Spruce up my outfit something fierce.”
Jet stalked right and back, sought room to maneuver. Her legs banged against the sofa. “What do you want?”
“An all-expense-paid trip to Europe would be nice.” From her right now; damn, the man moved silently. “Maybe a cup of world peace. Oh, and one order of Jet. To go.”
But at least he was a blabbermouth. She hurled a blackball at him.
“You missed,” he whispered in her ear.
She elbowed him in the gut, but he grabbed her left arm, twisted it behind her back until her shoulder threatened to pop. Snarling, she slammed her head back—got his chest, which was heavily padded.
“Uh-uh, darlin’. I saw that move before.” He forced her arm back to the breaking point, and with his other hand he tore her cowl away from her head, yanked the cloak free.
The voices reared up, gibbering, demanding. hit him hit him HIT HIM HARD
No!
She was panicking now, but not because of the man pinning her arm behind her back. In the darkness, the shadows around her seemed to gather together, rise up and form something, something with teeth, something hungry …
HIT HIM HURT HIM HURT HIM KILL HIM MAKE HIM SCREAM
“Shut up!” She couldn’t think, couldn’t block out the voices and fight Iridium’s lackey. Writhing in his grip, she stomped down on his foot. He didn’t even grunt. “Get away!”
MAKE HIM SCREAM MAKE HIM SUFFER MAKE HIM SHADOW SQUEEZE HIM SQUEEZE HIM TIGHT
On the small amount of exposed skin of her neck: a pinch, then a rush of pressure. He whispered, “You’re supposed to be on bed rest, Joan.”
He released her, and the darkness slipped to the left. Jet staggered drunkenly, struggled to keep the world from spinning away. But the shadows reached for her, clawed for her. Dragged her down. No, she thought dimly, shielding her face from the blackness with its teeth. No …
Over the giggles of the Shadow voices, she heard the man say, “Nighty night.”
She was out before she hit the floor.