CHAPTER 6
JET
Sometimes, it seems unfair that an extrahuman would take on mere mortal criminals. What chance does a standard human, a normal, have against someone who can fly, or can bend steel, or can dazzle you with light? But then again, as many extrahumans would tell us, life isn’t fair.
—Lynda Kidder, “Origins, Part Eight,” New Chicago Tribune, May 14, 2112
You have got to be kidding me,” Jet muttered. It figured. The way her day was going, she was about to get mugged.
As the street tough approached, cracking his knuckles and grinning like a shark, Jet blew out a cleansing breath. If he was more than sixteen, she’d eat her goggles.
Which Iridium had shorted out.
She grimaced at the thought. Ops was going to rip her a new orifice for letting Iri get away. Because no matter how Jet tried to rationalize her reactions, that was exactly what had happened. She’d had the woman trapped, and she’d gotten sucker punched when she thought Iri had been hurt.
screaming she was screaming so sweet so succulent so
Shut up.
She clenched her gloved fist. Compassion was death. Next time, she wouldn’t hold back. Iridium was rabid, pure and simple. Like her father.
The voices giggled, agreed that next time things would be different indeed.
Jet bit back a hiss. She needed the white noise of her comlink. Where in the Dark was her Runner?
“Looks like we’ve got us a winged hero,” the gangbanger said, all teeth. “You lost, hero?”
Jet stood tall. Never mind her aching jaw and sore body; never mind the whispers that had nearly driven her to do something inexcusable to a woman who’d once been her friend. She was in control.
In the next two seconds—as the teen took two more steps forward—Jet directed herself through the ABC exercise taught to all second-year Academy students, from Introduction to Peacekeeping: analyze, battlescan, confront.
Analyze.
Seven toughs, dressed in black leather dusters, black work boots, black fingerless gloves. Faces studded with silver rings in intricate patterns. Clothes and jewelry marked them as Grendels, the gang that lorded it over New Chicago from Grids 3-6, the northern boundary of what the street-savvy residents referred to as Wreck City. Grendels were troublemakers, mostly; into vandalism, petty theft, carjackings. Assault. Some links to the Undergoths and other seedier elements of the city’s Rat Network that ran the black and gray markets. But for the most part, Grendels were all bark, no bite.
Battlescan.
They’d moved into a phalanx stance, blocking the alley. Body language and open coats suggested concealed weapons. Leader at point, hands dangling at his sides. Still grinning, his lips and nostrils were littered with silver hoops. Seven against one—either intimidation or lack of honor. None of them had the obvious signs of a junk freak—no tremor in the limbs, no red-tinged eyes.
Confront.
Forcing a thin-lipped smile, Jet said, “Thank you for your concern, citizen. I’m fine.”
“We can see that, baby,” a second kid said, almost swimming in his leather jacket. “You’re so fine.”
“Absolutely luscious,” said the leader.
From one of the others: “Must be hot under that cape, ’cause I’m sweating just looking at her.” Various snorts and chortles accompanied the statement like a laugh track.
Jet felt her cheeks heat. Her face was hidden by her cowl, so she didn’t have to worry about revealing her embarrassment. Professional, polite, powerful—the three Ps of being an extrahuman civil servant. Voice crisp, she replied, “Thank you.”
“No, thank you, hero.” This from the leader, still the grinning shark. “Me, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got to make me a citizen’s arrest.”
“Oh?” She considered him in his blacks and heavily ringed face. He leered at her, all but undressed her with his eyes. But no matter how loud his bark, he was just an average human—no powers of which to speak.
In other words, not a threat. She said, “Whom do you wish to arrest?”
“You.”
That took her aback. “On what grounds?”
“The things you’re doing to that bodysuit have got to be illegal.” Shark wolf-whistled and slobbered as his friends high-fived and made kissy noises. And one of them pumped his crotch, miming sex.
Fighting back the urge to roll her eyes, Jet’s smile stretched painfully thin; her cheeks were still sore from all the fake smiles for the holovids before, and her jaw throbbed from where Iridium had punched her.
She got away, Jet thought. Again.
“What do you say, hero? Want to get down and dirty, Grendel-style?”
Jet prayed that her Runner would show up in the next thirty seconds, because otherwise she might let out some of her frustration on these kids. And not the frustration the gangbanger was implying, either.
“I’ll even let you be on top. I know you heroes like that sort of shit.”
She clenched her fists. Once she had her new comlink in place and Ops back in her ear, she could fly and scan the rooftops. Iri could still be in the area; it might not be too late to rectify her mistake. “I’m flattered,” she said to the teen, “but now I must be off. A villain is on the loose, and I must stop her before she hurts someone. Good day.”
She turned away, already concentrating to summon a floater to whisk her into the air for her to better see the Runner—who should have been here by now—but a fierce tug on her cap spun her around … and into Shark’s arms.
“No, Luscious,” he purred, his hands gripping her biceps tightly, “it’s going to be a great day.”
Stupid kid. “Unhand me.”
“I don’t think so.” He grinned hugely, revealing smoker’s teeth and halitosis that would fell a rhino. “I don’t think you want to be heroing off just yet. I don’t think you’ve had a good time in ages.”
Planting her feet for leverage, Jet said, “Actually, you just don’t think.” Then she slammed her forehead into his ringed nose.
He screeched and let her go to cover his face. An upper-cut to his chin knocked him back. He fell against the alley wall and slid to the ground, hands still over his nose, blood gushing between his fingers.
There was the sound of metal behind her.
She spun to see three of the six Grendels holding naked blades—Hogans, she thought; what were they doing with Hogans?—and two sporting plasguns. One had morning stars poised and ready to throw.
It looked like she’d get to release some of her frustration, after all.
A flicker of Shadow was enough to clog the barrels of the guns; a bit more concentration to ring the edges of the throwing stars and dull the blades into a child’s toy. All in less than a second; their weapons were rendered useless before the toughs even blinked.
The three with knives closed in, their blades shining, their eyes bright with the thought of violence. Jet let them come. The first one charged, swinging widely. She caught his knife arm and used his momentum to flip him over while knocking the weapon out of his grip. The kid landed hard on his back, his head connecting solidly with the pavement. He stayed down and didn’t move.
Before the thud finished echoing, his buddy struck, aiming to gut her. She easily spun out of his reach, then grabbed his wrist and karate-chopped his forearm. He squawked and dropped the Hogan. Jet grabbed his shoulders and rammed her knee into his belly, and he doubled over with a sad grunt. She sensed more than heard another gangbanger moving in, so she gripped the doubled-over kid and, using just a whiff of Shadow to float him, she pivoted fast, slamming him into another Grendel. The two boys collapsed to the ground, groaning, their knives gleaming on the dirty ground of the alley.
Four down.
The remaining three circled her, the two with their plasguns still not realizing their weapons were little more than paperweights. The Grendel with the morning stars must have seen his damaged blades, because the only weapons he held were his hands—but based on his stance, he’d had some formal training.
One of the gunmen pulled the trigger, and kept pulling even after the dull click. The other followed suit. Then as one, they dropped the guns and charged her, one on her left, one on her right. Too easy. She leapt into the air, springing high thanks to a thin coil of Shadow—and the two teens slammed into each other, full tilt. Down they went. She landed on her feet, almost as gracefully as Iridium had before.
The last gang member motioned with his arms, made a “come-on” gesture. Instead, Jet blanketed him in Shadow. The thick bands of blackness swathed him completely, kept holding him even when his struggles ceased. After a full minute, she called the blanket back into herself and absorbed it—no more dissipation today; she was beyond her limit—and as she shivered from the cold merging with her body, the kid crashed to the ground, his skin pale, his breathing slow and steady in a Shadow-induced sleep.
Breathing hard, Jet scanned the litter of bodies. The seven Grendels on the ground were battered, and some were bloody, but none of them tried to attack her. Actually, most looked like they were unconscious.
Nodding, she blew out a tired sigh. She was done here; all that was left was to call in an ambulance to take the gang away, and file her report with the local authorities. And then get Corp PR in the loop to take it from there.
Someone clapped.
She whirled around, already calling up her power to raise a graymatter shield and let a blackball fly, but froze when she saw the civilian leaning against the alley wall, grinning like he’d just seen a terrific show and was applauding the players.
“Man,” he said, “that was terrific! I’ve never seen you work up close before, just on the vids and in the crowds. You took them down without breaking a sweat.”
Not exactly true, but she wasn’t about to correct him. “Thank you,” she said, remembering to smile as she let her power settle down. Her left shoulder twinged sharply; her weak spot, acting up again. “But you really shouldn’t have approached until it was safe.”
The dark-haired man laughed—oh, Jet liked that deep, musical sound. A sexy sound. He said, “I wasn’t worried. After all, you were right here. What could possibly be bad about that?”
She felt herself blush from the roots of her hair down to her toes. No matter; he couldn’t see her face clearly. “What brought you into the alley before it was secure?”
“You did.” He held up a metal communications device that winked in the sunlight. “Ops sent me. I’m your new Runner.”
Jet’s tight smile melted into a genuine grin. About freaking time. She forced herself not to rip the comlink from his hand and stuff it into her ear. Professional. Polite. Powerful. A breath later, she said, “I’m really glad to meet you.”
“The feeling’s mutual. I’m Bruce Hunter. And I’m a huge fan.”
Still blushing like a schoolgirl, Jet took the comlink. As her gloved fingers brushed against his bare ones, she could have sworn she felt a tingle, like a hum of energy that danced over her body.
Nonsense; Runners were strictly normals. The feeling had to be all in her imagination.
If only the way her body was tingling was also just her imagination. Ignoring the warmth spreading through her, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. I appreciate you coming so soon.”
His blue eyes twinkled, and Jet noticed he had a dimple in his right cheek. “Please, call me Bruce. ‘Mister Hunter’ makes me feel old.”
“You can’t be more than twenty,” she said, then bit her tongue when she realized she’d said the thought aloud. What on earth was wrong with her? First she’d let Iridium escape, and now she was practically flirting with a Runner?
Chuckling, he said, “Actually, twenty-three.”
A year older than she was. Jet felt the heat travel through her torso, making her stomach flutter and her breasts …
Oh, Light.
She shrugged her shoulders so that her cape shrouded her entire body. Her body hidden, she returned his smile, was fascinated by how his eyes seemed almost electric.
After a moment, he cleared his throat, and that was when it dawned on her that she’d been staring like a lovestruck teenager. She smiled broader so that she wouldn’t groan.
If Bruce saw her distress, he was too much of a gentleman to mention it. Instead, he said, “Want me to call these guys in for you, save you the hassle with the cops? I’m sure you’ve got places to be.”
She almost sighed with relief. “That would be terrific. You sure you don’t mind?”
“Hey, I’m here to make your life easier.”
That sounded incredibly nice. None of her other Runners had ever gone out of their way to do something without being asked; most, she thought, were afraid of her. Even the beloved Lady of Shadows was, after all, a Shadow power. Pushing that sour thought aside, she said, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Bruce.”
“Same here. I’ll see you tonight, then?”
Her eyes bugged before she schooled her face to impassivity. “Oh?”
He smiled again, and Jet found herself enjoying how his blue eyes seemed to ripple with mirth. “Um, to bring you dinner? Unless you’ll be on a mission tonight …?”
“Oh … right.” Of course he’d be bringing her dinner; that was part of what Runners did. They made sure that the extrahumans didn’t have to waste any of their limited downtime by mingling with civilians to do mundane things, like order food. Or pay for it. “I’ll be home this evening. If there’s any change in my plans, I’ll let Ops know.”
Eyes twinkling, he said, “See you tonight at the Complex.”
She was in the air before she realized that she’d summoned a Shadow floater to fly her away. Bruce, she thought, his name reverberating in her mind. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce.
It was five minutes before she remembered to put the comlink in her ear.