 
# WEARING THE CAPE

# The Beginning

### by Marion G. Harmon

Author's Note: Wearing the Cape: The Beginning comprises the first fourteen chapters of Wearing the Cape, the first story of Astra's adventures published in April 2011.

Copyright© 2011 by Marion G. Harmon

Cover by Viktoria Gavrilenko

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

Chapter One

Cape (plural capes): literally, a sleeveless garment hanging from the neck over the back and shoulders; figuratively, a superhuman who has chosen to act as a superhero. Synonyms: hero, mask, super, superhero. Connotations: 'cape' is used as both a familiar and derogatory term for superheroes, who often casually refer to themselves as capes but generally consider it a demeaning term when applied to them by the press.

Barlow's Guide to Superhumans

 I was driving east on the Eisenhower Expressway when the Teatime Anarchist dropped the Ashland Avenue overpass on top of me, using enough C4 to bring the whole southbound span down at once.

My day had started normally enough. I gulped coffee and grabbed scorched toast, exchanging kisses with Mom on the way out the door. The September chill nipped around the edges of my coat and at my legs, making me glad I'd worn tights under my skirt. Driving one-handed, I scanned my schedule with the other: I'd be playing Mom's Girl Friday at the gallery, getting ready for Thursday night's foundation event. Julie had texted; she planned for us to take the University of Chicago by storm our first year, and wanted us ready by Orientation Week. We'd ruled Oak Park High till graduation, and she didn't see any reason our college years should be different.

I passed a gray Suburban and the red headed munchkin in the back seat waved at me while her mom talked business on her hands-free cell. I stuck out my tongue, making her laugh, and my epad launched into Julie's new call theme: the U of C fight-song. Wave the flag of old Chicago—

Bang.

Overhead explosions shattered my thoughts and I looked up to see blooms of blasted concrete and falling bridge. I screamed and ducked, lost control. The car slid. A flash of yellow and I hit something hard. I screamed again at the second, world-ending shock as falling roadway flattened my car. The tires blew. The buckled roof hit my head and flying glass stung my face as my vision exploded in fireworks. Choking off the scream, I found myself lying stretched across the front seat, the gearshift digging into my stomach, in smothering darkness. I tasted blood on my tongue.

Alive. I was alive.

The car roof pushed down, inches above my head as I lay there in the dark, my seat belt cutting off my air. Lightheaded, clawing blindly, I unbuckled but still couldn't breathe without choking. Cement dust. Pulling my coat open I yanked my sweater up, taking shallow, sobbing breaths through the wool and fighting to think around the rising fear.

Twisting around, I cautiously felt my legs, wiggled toes. Nothing broken? Emergency kit under seat (thanks Dad!). Pen light—I almost wept with relief. Broken epad, damn it. Still, breathing okay, not bleeding out. Help. Help would come.

But would it come in time?

What about the munchkin and her mom? Were they under the road now? Could they wait, if they were alive? I choked on panic as thick as the dust. I had to get out. I had to know. They had to be alive.

Gasping, pulse pounding, I pushed against the roof above me and felt something deep inside me change. Cold fire ran through my bones. I shrieked and my next breath filled me with the whole world. Tearing through the crushed roof of my car, I heaved aside the chunk of roadway above my head as easily as clearing cheap drywall, stood, blinking at the disaster around me, and saw what had saved me; I'd slid into a huge earth moving machine traveling in the next lane and it shielded me. Around us, cars had fallen with the span and lay broken among shattered chunks of road and twisted steel frame. Dust-clogged air carried the smell of spilled oil and gas, the first bite of burning rubber. A white sedan screeched to a sliding stop at the north end of the broken bridge. The world went far, far away as I looked at my shaking hands, unable to believe what I'd just done.

Oh God. Oh God.

I pushed the screaming panic down. Okay. Deal now, freak later.

I started digging.

I started behind the earthmover, pushing broken roadway back as easily as wading into fallen leaves till I found the munchkin's car. They were there but not alive, and I crawled out of the hole before vomiting into the dust.

After that I focused on what I could do, scrambling over the shattered chunks of road to check the passengers in the cars that had fallen between the wrecked spans. I ripped open one crumpled family van to gently remove a baby seat and its wailing occupant. Then I dug for more buried victims. Wherever there were cracks in the fallen overpass I could actually see their body heat and hear them breathing, crying. Screaming.

I worked hard to ignore the awful details, tossing concrete slabs aside and pulling out anyone I thought I could move safely. A few I didn't do more than quickly examine. Very quickly. News footage of disasters and battles hadn't prepared me for an up close view of what tons of falling concrete could do to flesh and bone, and I tried not to think. I barely heard the wailing sirens and the air-beating percussion of the police and news helicopters; only when the capes arrived, moving me out of the way to get to work themselves, did I begin to take stock of myself.

I hadn't broken a single nail, but cement dust and spattered engine oil covered my coat, hair, and face, mixed into a black grime. My tights were in no better shape, and my boots... weren't touching the ground. The concrete slab I'd been standing on had shifted lower while I took stock, but I hadn't. I "stood" a few inches above the unstable surface. I looked around, carefully stepping down. Nobody seemed to notice.

Breakthrough, I thought. I'm a breakthrough. I realized I was laughing like a loon and cut it off quick.

Atlas found me there atop the ridge of rubble. His dirtied costume and cement-dusted hair matched mine, but he still managed to look impossibly noble.

"Atlas, ma'am," he said with that famous Texas drawl, as if the whole world didn't know him.

"I know. I mean—" I shook my head. "Hope. Hope Corrigan."

His gaze sharpened, as if I had suddenly become more interesting, and he extended his hand.

"Will you come with me, ma'am?"

When I took his hand he shifted his grip, pulling, and I followed, rising again.

"We've done all that we can here with muscle," he said when I looked down. "And I'll be back for the cleanup. But we need to get you out of here and away from the cameras until you decide what to do."

Later I saw news footage of us, Atlas in his blue and white leather jumpsuit and cape, me an unrecognizable disaster victim, flying away from the fallen span. That was the last time I'd be unrecognizable.

Chapter Two

On August 18th, for 3.2 seconds, every human being in the world simultaneously experienced total sensory deprivation—no sight, hearing, or physical sensation. A small percentage of individuals did later claim to have heard something, what one person described as "the sound of God striking a cosmic tuning fork." However, when people remember the Event, what they most remember is not the sensory blackout or the worldwide power failure that came with it, but what happened next. They remember where they were when the first superhumans appeared.

Prof. Charles Gibbons, The New Heroic Age

 Hand in hand, Atlas and I flew out over the Loop and descended on Grant Park. I had to be the most improbable breakthrough he'd ever seen. I hadn't grown an inch since my débutante ball and was always being told I could use a milkshake. A soon-to-be U of C first year, I still looked—when not covered in grime—like an underdeveloped teenage Tinkerbell. Well, now I could fly like Tink, but it had nothing to do with thinking happy thoughts.

I remember the Event; it caught me out on the playground in the middle of a game of Red Rover (I'd been racing to break the opposite line). Falling over onto grass, I didn't even get stains. Others weren't so lucky.

With no power, they closed the school and sent us all home. The blackout caught Dad on the other side of the city restoring some old building, and he didn't make it back home till the next morning, just long enough to see us before heading back into the city to help where he could. When our power and cable came back on we saw what was happening, the smoking craters left by planes falling from the sky, starting fires across the city, car crashes spreading death on the highways. Mom turned it off, but not before we saw the footage the rest of the world saw. We watched, with wide eyed wonder, a man in airport worker coveralls leap into the sky to catch a private jet headed straight for O'Hare's tarmac.

That was Atlas, aka John Chandler, eighteen at the time and just a few months younger than I was now. A cowboy from Texas working as a baggage monkey at O'Hare Airport, he was the first breakthrough caught on film and shown to the world. Others appeared in the disasters that followed the blackout and most of them helped any way they could, but some just added to the chaos.

Like Aftershock, the sonic-powered gangbanger who turned bank robber the very next day.

Being eight meant that to me a flying man catching a plane was amazing but not impossible. The news that Air Force One had made a crater and that the newly sworn in President Kayle had declared a State of Emergency didn't mean much to me at the time, either. I did see the news clips of Atlas and the others who followed, and later the TV shows, movies, and even comic books fictionalizing their adventures. We had real live superheroes now, and we gave them codenames if they didn't hurry up and pick their own.

And now I flew with one. The first one.

Atlas brought us down outside the Chicago Sentinels Building. It looked like a giant, half-buried baseball, and we Chicagoans just called it the Dome. We landed at the columned portico on the west side, the entrance facing the August 18th Memorial. This early on a cold September morning there weren't any tourists or protesters around as we walked through the tall bronze doors into the huge public atrium. I suddenly felt like the kid in braces who'd come here on one of the first public tours.

But then it had been an adventure; now I so didn't want to be here.

Atlas marched us across the polished flagstones to the reception desk, staffed by a colorless man in dark suit and glasses.

"Morning, Tom," he said. "This is Astra, and she'll have full guest clearance until further notice."

I blinked. I had a codename already?

"Ma'am," Tom replied, giving me a quick but close inspection before looking back down at his screens. If he thought my disaster victim appearance at all unusual he didn't show it. Past the reception desk at the back of the atrium Atlas led me to an elevator bay, all brass and glass.

"Astra?" I whispered, distracted from my jittering thoughts. "Where did that come from?"

"I'd assumed this morning was your breakthrough," Atlas said. "Do you already have a name picked out? Keep it if you like it; Astra is Latin for 'star' and all I could think of on the spur of the moment. If you decide to take up the life, you can pick your own."

The elevator arrived and we stepped in.

"Just be careful what you choose," he added, voice dry. "I'm not so sure about Atlas."

"Why?"

"Because I named myself after a Greek titan whose sole job was to stand there and hold up the big blue sky. Got so bored with it he conned Hercules into taking his place, and Hercules—hardly the sharpest crayon in the box—tricked him into taking it back. Good thing most folks don't know their mythology."

"I'll be careful," I promised uncertainly, not sure if he was serious. "Where are we going?"

"Our actual headquarters is downstairs. The Dome itself is plenty tough, but we buried the most important stuff under enough concrete and armor to take a nuclear attack. Some of the folks we've tussled with swing mighty serious firepower, and of course we need to worry about A-class Black Hats coming around to shoot up the place, try and make a point. So we made darn sure any attack like that will fail and folks know it. Saves fuss and bother all around, don't you think?"

I flinched away from the thought. If someone like the Teatime Anarchist (I'd heard a reporter throwing his name at the cameras before we left the scene) thought he could blow up the Dome, or even seriously damage it... I shivered. Was I going into shock? Could I now, with what I'd become?

The doors opened into an underground lobby, all white marble and columns, with smart panels and sliding doors that made it look like someone had thrown Caesar's Palace and the USS Enterprise into a blender. Friezes depicting the Sentinels battling supervillains decorated the walls, and despite everything I laughed and felt a little better. I'd had a good art history teacher, and the frieze of Atlas fighting Aftershock copied the classic pose of Hercules vs. the Hydra.

The lobby receptionist, Bob (who looked so much like Tom I couldn't have picked between them in a lineup), greeted us with a nod and an "Atlas, Astra." Beyond the lobby we went through a set of doors and down a hall past the most high-tech gym I've ever seen, finally going through a big door labeled "Medical."

On the other side I found my personal nightmare: a doctor who wanted to know all about me.

Chapter Three

Although we can measure and quantify them, we will probably never know how superhuman powers work. They are supernatural in the literal sense; they appear to have no cause in nature. Science's greatest minds have been wrestling with it since the Event, and the best they've come up with is the statement that there is obviously an immaterial phenomenon at work that we can only observe and measure through material means. It's not the first time this has happened; for example we know how gravity acts, but we can measure it only by its effects and we still don't know why mass creates gravity. Although of course we have some theories we like for their consistency and elegance.

Dr. Jonathan Beth, Science and Superhumans

 I texted Mom just in case she'd seen the news, telling her I'd skipped the gallery and wasn't feeling well. They let me shower, and as the oil, cement dust, and blood circled down the drain the fact that I wasn't even bruised anymore freaked me out all over again. I stayed in the shower till I stopped shaking. The cotton jumpsuit they gave me itched, and I had to roll up the sleeves and legs before coming out to face Dr. Death, the fiend from Hell Atlas left me with.

Dr. Beth's eyes sparkled with kind humor and he promised me a lollypop when we were through, but the sensors he stuck to my skin were chilly, aggravating my tendency to shiver. I focused on the tasks he set me to, putting a wall between me and the lab and the memories screaming behind my eyes. He tested my new strength, toughness, super-senses, even my ability to fly, playing with his monitors the entire time and humming to himself when he wasn't chuckling or telling me to do something. By the time we were through I felt like I'd rolled down a hill in a barrel of rocks and run a marathon with bricks strapped on, but he was happy.

Atlas had asked me to wait for him, so Dr. Beth gave me an epad with a map. When the door closed behind me I put my back to the wall and just breathed for a minute. He'd been very nice for someone who saw me as a test subject, maybe a lab rat, and it wasn't his fault doctors gave me the screaming wiggins. Maybe someday I'd be able to face an examination without wanting to hide under the bed.

Bonus, I could "stand" by flying even if my shaky legs didn't want to support me. I might be able to get out without a mortifying scene.

Keep it together.

Pushing away from the wall I looked at the map, which led me back to the lobby, down another hall, and into a huge conference room. A round oak table dominated the space, engraved with a fancy S over the team motto. Nos Praestolor: We Stand Ready.

My breath caught. I stood in the Sentinels' famous Assembly Room.

Framed prints of newspaper headlines and photographs of Atlas and the other Sentinels covered one wall. Even with the general wooginess of everything, I had to smile; Atlas was blond and blue eyed perfection, wonderfully muscled in his jumpsuit of dark blue leather and white trim, cape and mask to match. The oldest pictures of Atlas showed him, at eighteen, in his first costume. I'd read somewhere he'd patterned it after the flashy, primary-colored jumpsuits worn by Elvis Presley and Evel Knievel. Able to fly, super strong, super tough, he might as well have put a big red "S" on his chest instead of the white Roman "A", declared himself the champion of "truth, justice, and the American way," and dared the lawyers to sue for copyright violation.

The largest team picture, accompanied by a Mayor Forms City Superteam! headline, showed all of the founding five Sentinels: Atlas, naturally, along with Touches Clouds, Blackstone, Ajax, and Minuteman. The picture even included the team's seldom seen reservists, Crow and Iron Jack.

I stroked the picture frame. The team was larger now, but only three of the founders remained. Minuteman was dead, killed by a supervillain. And the most recent picture of Atlas showed him shaking hands with President Touches Clouds in some White House ceremony.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin. While I'd been looking at the pictures Atlas had walked right up behind me. Super-hearing. Right.

He wore civilian clothes, and if I'd passed him on the street I wouldn't have recognized him; in Dockers and a sport shirt he looked nothing like the strongman in the pictures. He was lean, almost skinny, and without the mask his face looked sharper, more weathered.

I blushed hotly when he caught me staring.

"But—"

He smiled. "Where did all the muscles go? They're sculpted into the suit; not that I don't keep a six pack, but muscle mass has nothing to do with what we are—it's just what people expect. I brought you these."

He handed me a pile of clothing, to replace what I'd pretty much destroyed. Under the sweater and pants were new shoes, socks, and underwear.

"Discreet personal shoppers and a courier," he answered my unspoken question. "We aim to please. Ready to go home?"

"Just like that?" I was so ready.

"Just like that. We'll talk on the way."

I changed into the street clothes, and we stopped in the lobby to make an appointment for tomorrow through Bob. Then we left by the "back door", taking an elevator that went sideways and opened into a closet space that in turn opened into a dimly lit underground parking garage.

A little gray Saturn waited for us next to a man holding a white cardboard box, the kind you might keep files in.

"Your things miss," he said.

I lifted the lid to find it contained the items from my car: my busted epad, emergency kit, loose mail, the stale mints from the glove compartment...

Atlas took the box and dropped it in the middle of the backseat before handing me the keys. Once I got in he slid into the passenger's side.

"Your Toyota will be a steel cube in a salvage yard before nightfall," he said. "If anyone asks, your car's in the shop, and in a couple of days you can pick it up. The plates and VIN will match your insurance and DMV records, and so far as you're concerned this morning never happened."

"But—I'm grateful, but why?"

"Because you were unrecognizable at the site, nobody knows who the new breakthrough is, and we're going to keep it that way for as long as you want."

"I got that, and that wasn't the question," I bit out, amazed at how fast he could turn gratitude into irritation.

"Ease up there," he said. "It's a rental."

I looked down to find the steering wheel bending under my grip, let go like I'd been burned. Suddenly my hands were shaking.

"Deep breaths now, darlin'. Let me know if you think I should drive."

"I'm fine. Really. I—" Oh God.

I threw open my door, leaned out, and vomited again. Then started to cry.

He sat there and let me.

I hugged myself since nothing else seemed safe, regained control in less than a minute, maybe two. You don't do drama; you keep it for private. Shame helped me push it down.

"Here," he said.

He'd rummaged through the box while I got hold of myself, and he handed me my water bottle and the stale mints. I rinsed and leaned my head against the wheel while I crunched the mints, silently praying.

Please God, look after your newest angels. Be with the ones who mourn them now.

At last I straightened, wiped, sniffed, and could breathe normally again.

"Thank you. I'm—"

"Don't apologize. You've had a bad day."

I jerked around at the dryness of his voice, but there was no pity in his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, I started the car. Being careful of my grip, I pulled out of the space and turned up the ramp. When we came out on the street I headed west.

"You wanted to know why," he said after a couple of lights. "Should we talk now or when you're home?"

"Now. Band-aid quick, Dad always says." I sniffed again, spoiling my brave talk, but he smiled at that.

"What else does he say?"

I managed a smile of my own. "Don't leave old food in the fridge, back up your computer every day, and punch like you mean it."

That got a chuckle. "There's a card in the glove compartment with a phone number and website address. Go there for the details, but to give you the spoiler you test within the top ten percent of Atlas-type superhumans. Pure A-class. Watch the road."

I pulled my eyes back to the street, relaxing my grip when the wheel protested again.

"In superhuman terms, you've won the lottery. But now you have to decide what you're going to do."

"Do? I—shouldn't I do what you do?"

"Why? You can do anything, or do nothing with it. Go to school, find a nice fella', start a career. You don't have to see any more days like today."

"But—"

He shook his head. "Hope, you're not suddenly indispensable. You'll need training to help you with your control, and we need to arrange for that right away. But you don't have to become a cape, and you don't have to decide now."

Then he shifted conversational gears and asked about my family and plans as I drove.

"What I don't understand," I finally asked, coming back to what had become the question since I'd first been able to really think again, "is why me? Why like this, I mean. I didn't dream of being Supergirl when I was little."

"You're asking why you got the Atlas-type package?"

I nodded. Turning onto Columbus, I headed for Harrison to avoid the expressway till we cleared the fallen overpass. The radio cautioned everyone to stay off Eisenhower until the afternoon, and the west arm of the El was down till the tracks could be repaired. Motorcycle cops directed the crawling traffic, and though the emergency vehicles were long gone helicopters still circled the site.

I smelled cement dust and the lingering hint of burned oil and rubber. Only seven dead. It seemed awful to think that, but a half-hour later it would have been dozens.

Atlas watched the helicopters without comment, listening to his earbug. When we passed Ashland he leaned back, stretching his legs as far as the car's foot space would allow, and picked up where he left off.

"A lot of misleading stuff has been written about breakthroughs, but the trigger is usually the way it's popularly portrayed: a really stressful event. You're in imminent danger of death or severe injury. You're scared. Adrenaline rushes as all your survival instincts kick in. Most breakthroughs happen in life-threatening circumstances, so breakthrough powers generally get shaped to deal with danger or trauma. How many ways do you think you could have escaped from your car?"

I blinked.

"Well, pushing my way out, which I did. Teleportation, I suppose? Going all ghostly, maybe." I thought of other capes and their powers. "I could have moved the concrete with my mind. Or blown a hole with energy blasts, or—"

He held up a hand.

"You've got the idea. There are dozens of possible variations of three basic responses; push back at the danger, create immunity to the danger, or escape from the danger. And if the danger is from another human being the push-back possibilities are even wider. You could assert mental control, mislead with illusions, attack the person's nervous system with toxins, lots of things. So when someone breaks through, how do you think they 'choose' from all the possibilities?"

I thought about it while I negotiated with a blue minivan for right of way in the thinning traffic.

"I guess it would depend on their natural response."

"Yup. You're a small one. Your youngest brother is how much older than you?"

"A year and a half."

"I'll bet you got used to fighting back at an early age."

"Oh yes." I laughed. "Toby liked putting me in a headlock and nuggying me or messing up my hair. Or he'd tease me until I got so mad I'd start swinging and then pin my arms and tickle me till I'd almost pass out. Aaron would stop him when he was around, but with his sports he wasn't there much."

"How did you deal with it?"

"I learned to fight."

"And Toby learned that tormenting you came with a price."

I nodded.

"Do you see where I'm going with this?" He leaned back and turned his attention to the tree-lined road. "Your first instinct is to push back, and you're used to pushing back physically. The Atlas-type is the type for physical push-back. Congratulations."

And on that note, I realized I was home.

Chapter Four

"The Teatime Anarchist has claimed responsibility for this morning's bombing, calling it a political assassination aimed at Senator Todd Davis, sponsor of the controversial Davis Bill and in Chicago this morning to attend a conference on superhumans, civil rights, and national security. The proposed law will, if enacted, make most superhuman crimes federal crimes under the jurisdiction of the Department of Superhuman Affairs. The senator and six others died in the attack, which may have resulted in a new breakthrough, seen leaving the site with Atlas once rescue operations were complete.

"At ten, Chicago by Night will be hosting Chakra, Chicago's most controversial Sentinel. She will be discussing her new book The Sacred Gates, a manual on meditation, yoga, and tantric sex. Back to you, Vince. "

Ted Nedcaff, Chicago Morning News

 My home is one of the colorfully restored Victorian mansions on Oak Park's sleepy, tree lined Chicago Avenue. Dad worked on it for years but all of us helped, and we still spend a few days together each summer repainting the trim. Pulling into the drive, we found a second car with a driver waiting for Atlas. He reminded me of the card in the glove compartment and tomorrow's appointment, and drove away. It wasn't much after two.

The rain, barely more than a mist, kissed my face as I stood on the porch breathing in the rich ozone and wet earth and leaf smell. For a moment everything felt normal again. I waved at Mrs. Morris across the street and her poodle Travis growled at me. I smiled.

Going inside I found the house empty, so I fed Graymalkin while he purred and head-dived my ankles, then texted Julie and canceled our mall-diving plans with a promise to talk. Upstairs, I put the box in my room and showered again before slipping into a tank top and shorts to curl up on my bed with my University of Chicago bear (a graduation present), just not thinking for a while. Finally I got up and went to my dresser, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the old Christmas tin. I'd ignored it for years.

I decorated the lid when I was ten, spelling Shelly and Hope with paper letters I cut out and glued on. Shelly had been my childhood playmate and confidante, my fearless leader and instigator of adventure and trouble, my BFF, and I'd stuffed the tin with notes we passed in school, cheap jewelry gifts, bundled stacks of pictures from camp, parties, us at the freshman dance. And her funeral program.

I sat cross legged on the hardwood floor and thumbed through the photos, finally finding the Halloween picture Mom took when we were thirteen. I had dressed as Tiger's Eye, Shelly as Lily Strong. Her mom had stitched on the detailing that turned the dance tights into costumes.

I'd lied to Atlas. Like so many girls we'd dreamed of being superheroines. For me it had been more about the look and the dream of team-ups with cool celebrity heroes like Atlas, Volt, or Burnout. But Shelly had been serious. She memorized all of Barlow's Guide to Superhumans, endlessly sketched her own costumes, bought every edition of Hero Beat and Power Week, recorded every episode of Protectors. She kept most of it from her mom, who'd thought girls should have other interests. Mrs. Boyar had been right.

When we were fifteen Shelly jumped off the roof of an apartment building. There was a quiet but intense argument in the parish over whether it had been suicide, but it hadn't been. She'd decided that the threat of imminent death by falling would trigger her breakthrough, that she'd be one of the lucky ones. She'd been inspired by a magazine story of how Legal Eagle had gained his flight powers when his parachute failed to open. She'd jump, she'd fall, and she'd fly.

She didn't.

After that I threw away anything related to our young obsession, with the exception of Winnie the Superpooh and the Halloween photo. Mom had taken Superpooh to repair his homemade Atlas costume (every girl is entitled to one celebrity crush and Atlas was never going to learn he'd been mine) and she hid him from me. The photo had gotten mixed up in all the family pictures for me to find later. I even trashed the home movie of the sleepover we'd had the week before she jumped; it had included one of her You Can Call Me Power Chick monologues.

Her family moved away the next year, and I'd been selfishly glad; I couldn't bear to look at her mom.

Eventually I put the tin away, wiped my eyes, and went online and downloaded and printed the file Atlas said waited for me. But before I read it I spent some time surfing the net for information on the Teatime Anarchist.

He was a strange villain, a complete unknown. The press gave him the name since he sounded vaguely British in the few doctored recordings he'd made, and in those he'd always worn a nylon mask and a long evening coat for concealment. A couple of years after the Event, he published a manifesto accusing the federal government of conspiring to rob US citizens of their liberties and create a totalitarian dictatorship. First step: identify and control the country's superhumans.

Then he got busy.

He started with nonlethal pranks. I even remembered one: five tons of jelly beans and a US Senate Hearing. But then he escalated. In the last five years he'd claimed responsibility for 11 bombings in which fifty-two people had died. He'd killed judges, lawmakers, marshals, soldiers, and lots of bystanders. And this morning a US Senator and half a dozen innocent commuters.

I'd been empowered by the indiscriminate evil of a madman.

Shutting down my laptop, I pulled the pages off my printer and returned to my bed to read my examination file. The numbers were scary.

The kid sister of three older brothers, I'd learned to put up with my share of roughhousing, and I played field hockey in high school—best sweeper in the Chicago league. Mom had enrolled me in a self-defense course when I turned sixteen, but small is small; the best I could reasonably do in a real fight was kick the Bad Guy in the knee and run like hell while he hopped on the other leg. Now?

I could kill a man with my finger.

My maximum lift without doing Bad Things to myself was just over ten tons. To put that into perspective, Dr. Beth had thoughtfully included a list. A business jet weighed nearly nine tons, a loaded semi-truck about ten. I couldn't pick up a tank, but I could easily flip one over like a turtle on its back.

Punching someone, that universal superhero activity? My punch could shatter bones, pulp internal organs, mess a man up something awful. (Imagine an Olympic weight lifter swinging a ten pound sledge hammer. Yuck.) Putting serious effort behind it, I could hit like an anti-tank missile.

How tough was I? I laughed at civilian weapons, but the hypothetical tank he kept comparing me to could hurt me. A lot. Tough all the way through, unlike the tank I could heal ten times as fast as a normal person (and I wanted to know how he figured that one out).

As for flying, based on the flying pushes he made me do, Dr. Beth clocked me at a hypothetical 632 mph—though he cautioned that turbulence would make control difficult at that speed. So I could fly faster than commercial jets but not military jets.

He'd attached a note to the end of the file: speak to military recruiters. Apparently, being in the top ten percent of Atlas-types meant I could earn twenty times the salary of a soldier of the same grade. No wonder: I'd been weaponized.

And it was going to change everything.

I was so not looking forward to tonight's dinner conversation.

 "No. That's not going to happen," Dad said. Mom didn't say anything, which meant she didn't agree with him, at least not yet. The after-dinner discussion wasn't going well.

I'd waited until the dessert course to break the news. Over the strawberry pudding cake I explained why a rental car sat in the driveway. Then I showed them the file and told them I'd decided to be a superhero. Or at least to try.

Atlas had been right that I didn't have to make a decision immediately, but he'd been wrong to think there was any real decision for me to make.

Dad didn't agree. I'd known he wouldn't.

"It just happened this morning. Have you really thought about it?" Mom asked.

"I haven't thought about anything else."

"And your education?"

"I think—"

Dad thumped the table. "Just one damned minute! We didn't raise you to be a costumed crimefighter!"

"I know, Dad. But can I ignore it?" My voice wanted to break, but I pushed ahead. "I can help people. Make a difference."

"You already make a difference!"

"But anybody can do what I do for Mom. There's Vicky and Susan and Joyce and..."

Mom took my hand.

"You know what your father means, dear. You're still eighteen. Don't you think the city already has enough superheroes?"

I nodded. My eyes stung, but I pushed it down. If I cried they'd treat me like a child.

"I don't want any of it. I wish this morning hadn't happened."

"Then why?" she asked gently.

"If I don't use this... I don't know. It's like winning a zillion dollars and not using it to help people? It just feels wrong."

She accepted that. Dad could see it too. "Damn it—"

"Language, dear." Her voice shook a little. "This is your fault too; we both raised her to take responsibility."

His big hands clenched on the tabletop and he looked like he wanted to tear his hair out. Then he deflated. Just like that.

"Hope..." He sighed and looked at Mom. "There's something we need to show you." Mom nodded and he left the table and went upstairs, leaving me to wonder what was going on. When he came back down, he'd put on sweats, and he stopped beside his chair instead of sitting down again.

Then he changed.

Holy mother of God.

In one long breath Dad went from being, well, Dad, to a human sculpture made of riveted iron plates, thickening and losing height as he changed. The wood panel floor creaked as he gained weight.

I screamed like a girl before clapping a hand over my mouth, and found myself out of my chair and in the air with my back to the wall, my head bumping the ceiling. I touched back down quick, but couldn't bring myself to take a step forward.

"Hope, it's me." He stated the obvious in a deep, almost crackling voice.

"You're Iron Jack," I squeaked.

He nodded. "Changed the day of the Event when a bus ran through the construction site, and spent most of the day playing the jaws of life." He flexed huge metal hands that looked like they could peel open cars as easily as I had this morning.

Iron Jack had been one of the first. He'd been there right along with Atlas, pulling people out of burning buildings or digging them out of the rubble down on the Loop. But cape watchers didn't see him much after that, mostly for the occasional civil emergency like tornadoes, floods, and hurricanes. He fought in the awful mess of the China War, when I'd thought Dad had mobilized in his position as a National Guard army engineer.

I righted my chair with shaking hands, picking through and tossing all the truly stupid questions. I would be adult about this if it killed me. Only one question really mattered right now, anyway.

"Why didn't you become a real Sentinel?"

"Sweetheart, how many Sentinels have died?"

"Oh." Besides Minuteman, two others had been killed in action. Roland died in the China War, Impact after he left the team to fight for Israel.

Dad shrugged massively. "If I'd been single, if we hadn't had you children... maybe—probably—I would have done it." He made a fist. "I'm certainly good at what I do, which is lift really heavy stuff and punch hard and stand tough. Responsibilities." His fist opened, releasing... what? Another life?

Then I was around the table and in his arms. It felt like hugging a warm and breathing statue. He was a superhero, and he'd set it aside for us. Mom joined us in the hug, and I laughed. Like this, I was as tall as he was.

Dad changed back so that he could sit down, and we moved the discussion to the living room. I sat on the floor while Mom sat beside him on the couch, and I asked all about it, back at the beginning and later. I learned the children of breakthroughs were much more likely to have breakthroughs as well. They'd prepared themselves, but thought if it happened it would be one of my brothers—way more likely to get into trouble! They absolutely agreed with my intention to keep my identity secret, whatever kind of career path I intended to take. He and Mom obviously hoped I'd take the safer path, only be active for civil emergencies.

We talked into the night, till I found my eyes shutting of their own volition. I finally went up to bed, knowing that they would be up long after. Mom, at least—an Anne Marie named after two saints—would be saying the rosary and telling her holy namesakes just how things were going to be from here on out.

I didn't know they'd start making plans without me.

Chapter Five

A breakthrough is an unpredictable survival mechanism, and the degree of empowerment it provides varies widely. Sometimes it's just enough to deal with the situation, other times far beyond that. For example, accidental electrocution kills and injures hundreds if not thousands of people every year, so electrokinetic breakthroughs are relatively common. But a breakthrough could simply make you immune to electrical shock, or give you taser-like abilities. Or, as it did for Volt, it could give you the power to drain electrical systems, generate electromagnetic pulses, fly by electrostatic levitation, and throw ball lightning.

Barlow's Guide to Superhumans

 As I ran through the atrium something cracked the Dome. Chunks of ceiling rained down as staff and tourists screamed, and a large piece landed directly on the reception desk where Tom stood yelling into his headset. The building shook and steel plates dropped into place over the elevator bay, but I kept looking. Yes! There she was, holding her mother's hand. Remembering I could fly, I launched myself at them as the ceiling caved and the roof of the Dome came down. I screamed as Faith disappeared under tons of concrete.

And sat up, my heart thundering in my chest. Falling back, I pushed damp hair out of my eyes with shaking fingers as Graymalkin complained. A dream. Only a dream. I tried to remember if I'd really screamed, and couldn't.

Faith. She was who the munchkin reminded me of. The big sister I didn't remember, who died of aggressive systemic scleroderma when I was only three. I wasn't a naturally brave person; when I'd gotten sick my guiding thought had been Faith would be brave. I'd tried to save Faith, yesterday.

What am I doing?

I buried my head in my pillow. And sneezed.

Looking down, I found that sometime during my dream I'd murdered my innocent pillow. Goose feathers floated everywhere. As bits of down settled on Graymalkin he flicked his ears and stalked off in disgust. I started giggling and couldn't stop even when the down began sticking to my cheeks.

 At breakfast I learned about my reprieve: Dad had called the Dome and gotten my appointment pushed back a day if I promised him I'd stay home. I agreed with relief and spent the day texting and going over lists for the gallery event with Susan, and just resting. Mom stayed home most of the day too—not crowding me, but making sure to be there if I wanted to talk. Boy did I ever, I just didn't know what to talk about. Well, It, obviously. I just didn't know how. Not knowing what to say about anything, I even put Julie off.

It rained off and on through the night as I lay awake listening, enough to keep the roads wet and give the fallen leaves some weight against the wind. Mom and Dad had cleared their schedules to accompany me back to the Dome, and after a silent breakfast we took the family van into town. Eisenhower was clear again; they'd already reopened the expressway and tracks and were installing a temporary overpass. I saw The Crew, out in their bright blue jumpsuits, lifting and floating steel frames into place. They'd be done by the end of the day.

Dad waved to the gate guard at the Wabash and Jackson parking garage and used a keycard to access the ramp to the lowest level.

Our reception shocked me. The Harlequin met us in the downstairs lobby, unmistakable with her slick latex-like skin and black and white harlequin costume. A contortionist and acrobat from Cirque de Soleil in Las Vegas, she'd experienced her transforming breakthrough in a stage accident in front of a few hundred spectators. An animated manikin, she moved like the dancer she'd been.

"Iron Jack," she said. "It's good to see you again. Mrs. Corrigan, Miss Corrigan." She shook our hands. "Please, call me Quin."

Ajax, aka Professor Charles Gibbons, stood beside her. He took up much more room. A big man with rich mahogany skin and elaborately cornrowed hair, he had one of the friendliest faces I'd ever seen, but his sunny expression didn't go with the black, sort-of-Greek armor he wore and the huge bell shaped and short-handled maul he carried. He gave me a smile as he shook hands all around, nodding to Dad. I returned the shake, awed.

A thickset man in a brown sport coat stood just behind them. Him at least I knew personally.

"Alex Chandler." he said, taking his turn. "Call me Al."

"We know who you are, Mr. Chandler," Mom said, smiling. "You're on our list."

He barked a laugh, acknowledging the point. Atlas' older brother, he'd used his marketing practice to mastermind the media campaign that launched Atlas and the Sentinels, and he'd helped sponsor more than a few Foundation events. As blond as his brother but with a touch of silver, he looked like a former high school linebacker who'd taken good care of himself.

He and Atlas shared the same dimple, but I couldn't say I liked him. It seemed to me that, under his charm, he was always sizing people up and deciding how useful they'd be to him. He'd always pretty much ignored me, but I could see him sizing me up now.

"Bob," Quin said, "we'll take the Assembly Room if that's all right."

Bob just nodded behind his desk, obviously not one for small talk, and they ushered us down the hall and into the room. We sat and Al dropped his briefcase on the conference table, briskly snapping the latches and removing a file to set between us.

I settled in between Mom and Dad (unfairly, they looked totally comfortable). Ankles crossed and hands folded, I tried to project confidence. I'd taken my cue from the parents and dressed for a Foundation business meeting, so I wore a gray business jacket and skirt with a white blouse under a darker vest. I'd applied minimal makeup, and wore my platinum blond bob styled back to bare my forehead. I felt ready for the room.

Then I nearly jumped out of my skin again, barely biting down on a shriek as a hand reached around my shoulder and deposited a white china cup and saucer at my elbow.

I clutched my chest to make sure my heart was still beating. The man attached to the hand was an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and a thin face punctuated by a mustache so trim it looked like his upper lip had eyebrows. He'd come in through another door; what was it about this room that let people creep up on me?

"Could you be any sneakier?" I gasped.

"I was a ninja barista in a former life, ma'am."

Dad laughed as the man finished arranging everyone's cups.

"Thank you Willis," Al said. "Astra, this is Willis, the Dome's major-domo. Willis, Astra and her parents."

"A pleasure, ma'am. Ma'am. Sir." He sounded impeccably British. "Should you need anything I am at your service."

He gave a polite nod and departed.

I tried the coffee to settle my nerves, consciously imitating Mom. It was delicious. Everyone else gave theirs the attention such creations were due, and Al cleared his throat.

"Now Astra," he started in. "First we'd like to thank you for taking Atlas up on his offer to arrange for training. There are several places available for training Atlas-type superhumans, including an excellent facility in Maryland run by the US Marshals Service, and they would be sensitive of your desire to protect your private identity. However, we have a more particular offer to make." He tapped the file meaningfully.

"Atlas would like to oversee your training himself—at least parts of it."

I gaped, stunned by the offer. Dad and Mom didn't say anything.

"His offer surprised me too. Your training wouldn't be restricted to the Dome. A lot of it would be fly-'n-try, stuff in the field under his supervision. Although you wouldn't be a card-carrying Sentinel you would be publicly associated with us from the beginning. In fact, Atlas has indicated a willingness to take you on as his sidekick."

Now I was beyond stunnage.

Breakthroughs happen at all ages, and young breakthroughs need training like anyone else. The comic books supplied the perfect solution: sidekicks. They could be paired with experienced mentors with at least their level of power. It's not a universal practice, but I know it's often that or "superschool." And despite appearances I was just too old for that.

"While John hasn't shared his reasons with me," Al went on, "I'm sure he sees it as solving, at least temporarily, one of our problems. Have you looked at the lineup of the team recently?"

I hadn't, although if it had changed I'd have heard. Besides Atlas, Ajax, and Blackstone, there was Chakra, Rush, Nimbus, and The Harlequin. Others had been added to and dropped from the team roster, but they'd been down two from their usual nine for a couple of years. I shook my head; I couldn't see where he was going.

Quin surprised me by laughing.

"What Al's trying to get at is right now the team doesn't have any Amazons. Nimbus is really the most physically dangerous member of the team, but she's a specialist and when you consider the rest of us girls..." She shrugged. "Physically, we're not heavy-hitters. So the team has been taking some criticism for 'perpetuating female stereotypes,' and not 'welcoming strong female members.'"

"But— How does adding a pixie to the lineup help?"

She laughed again. "A pixie that can bench press buses? You're young, cute as a button, and you can fight closer to Atlas' weight than any other Amazon in the city. And consider the popular perception of the team dynamic. Who's the leader of this team?"

"Atlas," I said immediately. "He was the first."

Ajax shook his head. "Seniority has nothing to do with it," he interjected. He had a wonderfully deep voice, like rough honey. A tenured professor, he taught the much-coveted Superhuman History survey course at U of C.

"He was the youngest of us when we founded the team, and right now only Quin and Rush are younger. He's our field leader because he's mobile, fast-thinking, and unlikely to get taken out in a fight. He's also been the public face of the team since Touches Clouds left to go into politics."

Quin knocked on the oak table. "We certainly don't need a spare with Atlas around, but it's good to add depth to the bench. But we don't want to add another Atlas-type man—the two of them would be constantly compared in the press and pitted against each other in the tabloids. And media-wise you would appeal to a completely different demographic."

"But—" I could already see the publicity shots of Atlas and me. Matching costumes would be involved. I would look disgustingly cute.

"Now, we need to discuss your training," Ajax said, folding his hands. "We must begin immediately, and I'm afraid you're going to have to disappear for awhile."

"How long?" I asked with a sick, sinking feeling. "Orientation Day is next week."

"At least a month, closer to two."

I heard a sharp crack, and looked down to realize I'd broken my cup. Bits of china dropped from my fingers and the remains of my coffee spilled over the saucer.

"Astra," he said kindly, ignoring the mess. "You're the second strongest Atlas-type in Chicago now. There are only seven stronger than you in the country, three of them in the military. More than anything you need to learn control, and until you do you're not only dangerous to everyone around you, you can give away what you've become in a thousand easy ways. If you want to keep your secret safe, keep your friends and family safe, you need to remove yourself from your normal life until you have experience with your new strength and abilities."

I shook my head in desperate denial, but thought of last night and the pillow. It could have been Gray. Or Mom or Dad. Oh God. Mom gave my hand a squeeze and I was afraid to return it. The world wobbled and I realized I was breathing fast.

"But school—I'm going to pledge Phi Mu with the Bees. We're sharing rooms in Palevsky Commons..."

Dad shook his head.

"No honey, you're not. Your mother and I have already come up with a cover story for you. We're going to tell everyone your cancer may be coming back. Since Aaron is interning at John Hopkins, you're going there for testing and treatment and staying with Aaron and Cindy. They'll be able to supply enough details to make the story completely believable. You'll be able to take online courses at U of C from right here at the Dome, so—"

"And I've got to lie to the Bees? Tell them I'm sick again?"

Julie's family lived in our parish, and after Shelly's funeral she'd ruthlessly dragged me into her circle, which until then had only included Annabeth and Megan. Together since middle school, the Bees (Brennan, Bauman, and Brock) had reigned as the benevolent dictators of the It Crowd of Oak Park. They hadn't been my crowd, but by Julie's decree the Bees had become "Hope and the Bees." We'd worked hard to keep the team together, to all get accepted at U of C. We'd be sisters forever, aunties to each other's kids.

Mom squeezed my hand again.

"You'll be able to tell them eventually, dear. Just..."

I nodded, blinking. "I know." The thought of Annabeth trying to keep my secret was sadly funny. She could... for maybe five minutes. A day tops, and if I couldn't tell one I couldn't tell any. "Where will I be staying?"

 The Dome is as self-contained as a military base, and Ajax explained that everybody had an apartment, even the Sentinels who lived elsewhere when not on the job. When he opened the door and ushered us into "my" apartment I stopped and stared, momentarily distracted from my misery by shock at the luxury of my jail.

The main room was a combination living room and entertainment center, lit by the same kind of indirect lighting as the halls, with the biggest TV screen I'd ever seen outside of a movie war room. Tiptoeing into the bedroom I found a queen size bed buried in pillows, a smaller flat screen TV I could watch in bed, and a study nook. Through the door into the bathroom I could see one of those decadent five-head showers complete with waterfall you read about in fancy home improvement magazines. A kitchen corner held a mini fridge and attached microwave and pantry. Ajax pointed out an apartment phone next to it, for when I wanted to call Willis and ask for something I didn't stock. If I was too lazy to walk down the hall to the common dining area and fix it myself.

The closet, a huge walk-in, held a full sized mirror and changing space. Dad just looked around and nodded; the accommodations befit his princess. Mom promised to have my stuff packed and over by tonight. She whipped out her cellphone and took pictures of everything, and I knew they'd have paintings and art for the bare walls and spaces in a couple of days if I didn't stop them.

Ajax stepped out to give us a moment alone, and Dad drew me into a bear hug. He pulled back, still holding my shoulders, and dropped a kiss on my forehead.

"Well," he said.

I nodded quickly, then gave up and threw my arms around his neck, barely remembering not to squeeze. He squeezed for me, lifting me off the carpet, while pointing out gruffly that my laptop had a webcam and I hadn't left the city. And in a couple of months I'd be able to come home, and everything would be back to normal.

I didn't agree, but didn't fight.

Mom gave me a kiss and informed me she expected me for mass and Sunday dinner before I "flew out." And then they were gone. With my new super-duper hearing I heard them talking to Ajax as they headed for the elevator, wringing all sorts of promises from the man.

I flopped onto my new bed. The sheets had an absurdly high thread count.

Somewhere Shelly had to be laughing, but I didn't think it was funny. I tried not to feel like an unwanted pet abandoned at the side of the road, a dog that'd gotten too big for the house. My chin quivered warningly and I took a deep breath, using oxygen to fight off defeat.

I wanted so much to agree with them; two months, then I could have my life back. Dad couldn't stand the idea of his little girl risking her life, getting hurt. I'd been so looking forward to college life with the Bees. Everyone had plans for me, and I liked them.

But.

Like I'd told Mom and Dad, it felt wrong.

You're not suddenly indispensable, Atlas had said. And he was right. But he was wrong, too.

I couldn't save little Kimberly or her mom. But yesterday the news report that gave me their names credited five other "saves" in the Ashland bombing to the new mystery woman. To me.

Gifts were to be used; the parentals had taught me that. So, what now?

One thing at a time.

I wiped my eyes and reached for my cell.

Chapter Six

Even in the beginning Atlas never went for the briefs-outside-the-tights look, but there are plenty who did and I started with the spandex shorts and cape. What possesses a person, already a freak to begin with, to put on a cape and mask and let people give her a funny name? All right, I will grant that there are good reasons for the mask. And the codename. But the rest? What are we, ten?

Astra, Notes from a Life

 I phoned Susan to call in sick again, though I hated to. Mom's best event coordinator, a perpetually harried woman who always had pencils and pens stuck in her ragged French bun, she could run the show without me if it came to that. I promised faithfully that I'd be there the next night unless I was dying (an unfortunate word choice considering my new cover). I'd be careful, not touch anything remotely breakable, whatever, but I wasn't going to miss it. I wouldn't allow it.

Then I texted Julie to tell them I couldn't make it to our lunch date and make sure that all three of the Bees were going to be at the gallery. I promptly got three WTF? responses and felt even worse; always busy with school and the foundation, I'd never blown off the Bees. As I wondered how I was going to be able to lie to them, someone knocked on the door.

Quin stood outside with another jumpsuit for me, this time with a mask and wig.

"The newsies got footage of you leaving the bomb site, so you're part of the story," she explained as I changed. "They didn't get a great picture, but they're running it again alongside the new Teatime Anarchist story; the DSA found the safe house where the bombs were made, but he's still in the wind and he released a new video file promising more death and destruction if the feds don't back off."

She handed me the wig.

"So we need to bring you out at a press conference as soon as we can, where people can stop speculating and see you. You're the one positive piece of this story. The body-scan part of your checkup Monday gave us all the measurements we needed, so we're going to see Andrew right now."

"Andrew?" I asked to distract myself from the images of the bombing my mind conjured up. I could still smell it, like smoke in my clothes.

"The designer for the sartorially sophisticated superhero. The team picks up the tab for his creations—all part of the PR."

Tom drove us in a car with tinted windows, and Andrew's studio turned out to be off Michigan Avenue not far from Bennigan's Tavern. It had a narrow front, just a solid oak door framed in decorative molding with Andrew's Designs in gold above the lintel. Andrew assumed, I supposed, that if you didn't know what he designed you didn't need to know.

Inside, at the end of a long hall hung with tracklights lighting gallery prints of celebrity superheroes (mostly high-fashion shots by famous photographers for magazines like Vogue and GQ), we met Andrew in a cozy parlor. Andrew wasn't what I expected; the man stood tall at around six foot two, as tall as Dad though Dad was heavier. Andrew didn't have an inch of fat on him. He looked like GI Joe gone civilian, and he was all business.

Pulling a stack of boxes out of a wardrobe, he pushed me behind a screen and told me how to dress. I had trouble with the mask and he helped to pull and tug the thing snuggly back and over my head, then led me out to stand in front of a three-way mirror. He fussed briefly with the fall of the cape while I stared at the girl in the full length mirrors, speechless.

The outfit was the same blue and white scheme as Atlas' leather jumpsuit, but the resemblance ended there. Instead of a jumpsuit, I wore a two-piece costume with a short cape. The blue top was a sleeveless leather vest with a sweetheart neckline, belted at the waist, over a pair of white spandex boyleg shorts. The vest hugged my small waist and hid inserts that changed my immature bust to a more grown up one, and the white cape hung from buckles on the shoulders to just barely below the costume bottom. A white eight-pointed star sat on my chest, its cardinal points longer than its secondary points so that it looked a bit like a compass symbol except that the "south" or down point was longer than all the others. The silver buckle at the waist sported the Sentinels' trademark S.

Both Atlas and Quin wore token masks, domino masks that only hid the bit of face around their eyes, but mine gave serious coverage. The snug half-mask of blue leather covered my face from just below my cheekbones to past the edge of my scalp, with a cleverly attached wig that darkened my platinum blond hair by several shades and added five or six inches to fall down behind my shoulders. White leather gloves and blue boots with hidden lifts completed the outfit.

Taken all together it seemed to hide nothing and exaggerate nothing, but...

"Well?" Quin prodded. Andrew watched me closely.

I hardly knew where to begin. "I still get mistaken for a middle-schooler, but this... it's amazing."

The costume didn't have the "do me" look that modish superheroines were adopting, but it transformed me from someone who didn't look like she should be driving into an unmistakable adult. And a superhero. Monday I'd been just plain 'Hope,' and now a superhero looked back at me. Even my own family wouldn't recognize me.

Andrew nodded. "Have Atlas show you how to hang everything from the belt. And what do you think of your crest?"

"My what?" I couldn't look away.

"The star symbol. I thought of just using Atlas' 'A' since you share the same initial, but I think you really need your own."

"Oh." I turned to face him. "It looks good, I guess."

He sighed.

"Astra, the crest is the most important part of the costume. You can change your costume style, even your colors when you graduate from being a sidekick, but you'll never change the symbol unless you're trying to create a whole new superhero persona."

"Purist," Quin laughed at him. "It's a marketing thing, Astra. Atlas has his Roman 'A', Chakra has her pink lotus, and I have my crowned diamond. We even sell them on t-shirts and stuff."

"Oh," I repeated. I tried to look at it critically, but shied away from the idea of having a symbol.

"I like it," I finally said.

"Done, then." Andrew clapped his hands, rubbing them together.

Then he turned to a folder he'd brought with him. It held page after page of color sketches of Harlequin costumes, from her standard diagonal-checkered bodystocking to frilled skirts and tights, ruffled shirts and patched vests, cravats and tied sleeves, waistcoats and jackets, slippers, shoes, boots, and hats, hats, hats. The sketches ran from playful to sexy, formal and even businesslike. Delighted, Quin spent some time poring over the designs while Andrew watched her, smiling.

I made some comments, but mostly just sat trying catch up in my head. At the end of the hour Andrew shooed us out with a smile for me and a wink for Quin.

Back on the street I turned to Quin to ask just what the wink had been about, and a flash lit off in my face. I knew the lanky, grinning guy under the tousled dirty-blond hair holding the camera.

"The!" he said. "Turn this way! And who's your friend?"

I almost blurted his name.

Confronted by Terry Reinhold, a photo-journalist and columnist who worked Chicago's superhero and society beat for his column, City Watch, Quin scowled.

"Terry..."

"Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"'The'?" I asked.

"Her name, don'tcha know?" Terry grinned at me. "Her first name, at least: The Harlequin?"

Her scowl deepened. "Terry, so help me—"

"So are you going to introduce us, or am I going to have to wait till Monday like everyone else? This shot'll make a handy column topper till then. The Harlequin seen leaving Andrew's with stylish new mystery woman."

"Damn it Terry!"

"C'mon, Quin. I've been staking Andrew's out for two days. You've got to give me something."

Tom had pulled up, drawing more attention from afternoon strollers. Quin ground her teeth.

"Get in."

We got in, Terry in the front passenger's side, where he twisted around to face us as the car pulled away from the curb and I tried to figure out how to arrange the cape.

"So?"

Quin rubbed her temples.

"What will it take for you to bury the picture until Tuesday? I want a clean debut."

Terry nodded, obviously expecting it.

"You want it dramatic. No worries. First interview."

"You'll have to do the interview right after the press conference. I will vet the questions."

"Don't you trust me to know what's off limits by now? I'm hurt."

"You're a journalist, you can't feel pain. I'm more worried that Ast—my associate has no experience with the wiles of the press. You know the drill; I'll be there, I'll vet the questions and—"

"And if I ask any question you've declared out of bounds or go over your on-the-spot veto that'll be the last time I'm allowed in the Dome. You're a hard woman; are you free for dinner next Friday?"

"Get out."

Tom had conveniently stopped us at a light at the dramatically appropriate moment. Terry opened the door, but looked back over his shoulder.

"Someday you'll say yes. I'm that irresistible."

The light changed and we pulled away. Quin let her head fall back on the seat headrest. Tom raised the dividing window, and, looking at the glass I realized distractedly that our ride was armored.

"I've got to do it some time," I offered. Hesitated. "And I like Terry."

She frowned.

"Do you think he might recognize you?"

I thought about it.

"I don't think so. He covers a lot of Mom's events, and he interviewed her a couple of times, but I'm mostly invisible. I don't think he'd out me if he did."

She sighed, agreeing. "He's no tabloid reporter and he does know the Deal."

The unspoken deal, capital 'D'. News agencies only used the codenames of superheroes who wanted to keep their private lives private, even if their private identities were publicly known. Superheroes who tried to keep their private identities secret weren't fair game for investigative journalists either; heroes routinely and successfully sued reporters and news agencies in civil court on personal injury grounds for breaching their secret identities. The courts recognized a superhero's right to privacy and the shield of an official "super identity." Mostly.

I chewed my lip, wondering if a mask, wig, and wonderbra would really be enough.

"Terry's good people," I said at last. "You could do worse on a Friday night, too. For that matter, what's the deal with Andrew? I've seen boys chase girls with flowers and concert tickets before, but never with costume designs."

She sighed again, straightening up. "I know. I don't date."

"Oh."

It was a polite oh, not intended to really go anywhere, but she looked at me.

"I had a boyfriend when I changed, and it didn't last." She stroked her shiny, slick-smooth cheek. It squeaked, the sound of rubber on rubber. "He said it felt like he was dating Barbie."

I honestly had no idea how to respond to that horrifyingly personal revelation, but she didn't seem to expect me to. We drove back to the Dome in silence. I kept quiet, grateful for the time to think. I still didn't know how I felt yet—everything was happening so quickly.

She probably thought I needed a few moments before what came next; with the costume it was official, and the whole team was waiting for me when we returned to the Dome. They welcomed me with a beating.

Chapter Seven

Protestors from Citizen's for Human Rights picketed the Dome this morning, this time to protest the Illinois Supreme Court decision upholding the right of superheroes to testify in court under their superhero identities, thus denying defendants the right to directly confront their accusers. A spokesperson argued "No court would accept the testimony of a Klan member wearing his hood, or of an 'anonymous source' on tape or a fuzzed out screen. Why should so-called superheroes get special privileges?"

Chicago News at Five

 I exaggerate, but not by much. They weren't wasting any time; I had my costume, and without a moment to breathe I was going to meet the whole team. Atlas waited for us in uniform at the elevator.

"Astra," he said. He took in my new look and nodded. "I approve. Right this way." Stepping aside, he ushered us into the Assembly Room. I'd seen them all in pictures, of course, but now I stood in a room filled with some of the world's most famous superheroes, all in full costume and watching me. I nearly hyperventilated.

Ajax and Blackstone flanked what had to be Atlas' empty chair, Ajax looming large in his black-on-black armor. Across from him, Blackstone wore his usual elegant tuxedo and opera cape, his white mustache and Van Dyke beard neatly trimmed, dressed to take the stage for his magic act.

Rush, the Sentinels' current speedster, sat on Ajax' left in his red and white racer's jumpsuit, his half-visored helmet off to expose a blond buzzcut and surfer boy looks. Nimbus sat beside him, a luminous white hologram of a woman surrounded by a glowing aura that fuzzed her edges and lines to softness. She looked ethereal, even angelic, but Quin had called her the most dangerous member of the team. Chakra sat next to Blackstone, dressed like a vaguely Hindu tribal dancer in a midriff-baring red vest and skirt loaded down with lots of gold jewelry. Beneath lustrous auburn curls, her brown eyes regarded me warmly.

Quin walked around to sit on her right and I took the empty seat beside her as Atlas took his place. I fidgeted with my cape.

"Thank y'all for coming." he said. Most of them smiled at me encouragingly, though Rush just looked bored. I smiled back, as nervous as a cat at a dog show.

"There will be a welcoming dinner later, and Willis assures me it will be superb."

There were chuckles all around and he nodded to me.

"I would like everyone to welcome Astra to the team; she'll be training with us for now, and we'll be introducing her to the public. For later, who knows? Now, in a normal business this would be the point where we all introduce ourselves and share our favorite movies or do some such damnfool get-to-know ritual. Since she already knows everything the media feels fit to print 'bout us folks, and we've all read and discussed her file, we can forget about all that. Some embarrassment for the new hand is traditional, though, so, Astra? Could you say a few words?"

I jumped, then stood. Right. Thank you speech number one coming up. Thanks Mom. I cleared my throat.

"Only that I'm very grateful for the amazing opportunity to be working with all of you. I know this is a unique opportunity, and I'll work very hard not to let everyone down."

I sat and they applauded.

"Short as a Truman speech." Ajax said approvingly.

"Yup," Atlas said, standing. "And now I reckon we should get down to the main event."

We all trooped down the hall that led to the infirmary and gym as I wondered what was going on, but we went through the doors opposite. In all the movies I'd seen, superhero headquarters came with a high tech training room that fired lasers and missiles, threw out traps, even created virtual reality environments to fight in. This was just a big, high ceilinged room, completely bare except for some brightly painted red circles on the floor.

Here Ajax took over. He twirled his short-handled maul end over end, caught it as lightly as a baton, and gave me the same friendly smile he had this morning.

"This is our primary training room," he said. "For urban tactical training we share an open range outside of town with the Crisis Aid and Intervention teams, and there's a practice range down the hall for target practice. This room is strictly for drilling and sparring, and when we want to train against different threat types we invite others in to join us."

I nodded and he continued.

"We'll have plenty of time in the coming weeks to do serious training; today we just want to give you an idea of how we fight individually. I understand you've had some training yourself?"

I swallowed. "Just the Tae Bo gym workout and mixed self-defense. And high school field hockey. "

His smile widened.

"Then you've at least struck someone else with intent before. Good! You're now one of the strongest superhumans in the country, and when your training is complete you will be able to go one-on-one with any other Atlas-type out there. However, you have limits." He nodded to Rush and waved me forward to follow Rush to the middle of the room, marked by one of the red circles. We faced each other and I hastily took a stance, palms slick inside my new gloves.

"Begin." Ajax said.

Rush bowed and I copied him.

And he kicked me, knocked me to the floor, grabbed and rolled me, tossed me out of the circle. And bowed, back in the center.

I stared up at him, dizzy and wide-eyed.

"Done!" Ajax barked. Rush's fists and feet, normal human bone and muscle under his armored gauntlets and boots, hadn't hurt me at all, but I could hardly see him move, forget about touching him. It was like a cage match between a brick and a butterfly.

Ajax waved Nimbus forward, and she floated to the center as I scrambled up and returned to my position.

"Begin."

She flashed about the room, firing at me from each new position. Her low-power shots burned, the few that missed leaving scorch marks on the wall as I desperately tried to dodge. Then she flared, bright enough to burn herself into my retinas.

I blinked uselessly, blind. If she wanted to, she could burn a hole in me with a sustained megawatt laser burst without even trying, and since she was solid as a sunbeam I couldn't touch her any more than I could touch Rush.

"Done!" Ajax ended it.

She flashed back to the center and we bowed again as I tried to get my breath.

Blackstone multiplied himself into a dozen levitating Blackstones, all of them disappearing with a flourish and a puff of smoke.

The Harlequin just stood there, inviting me to hit her as hard as I could. When I nerved myself up to do it, I felt her bones bend as she bounced away like a superball. Rebounding off the wall, she did spinning leaps back to the center to give us all a bow.

Rush laughed and even Atlas smiled. I flushed.

When Ajax donned his helmet and marched out to stand in the center, I wanted to run. Instead I took a shaky breath and settled into a defensive stance, weight on my back foot, fists up.

I can do this.

"Begin," he said.

We bowed.

And I launched myself at the far wall like the goal at the end of the pitch. Through him.

He folded over me with an explosive grunt, and, still accelerating, I drove us both into the wall. It boomed and rebounded, and as he slid to the floor I flew to the ceiling, where I hovered, breathing hard.

Everyone stood in shocked silence as he climbed to his feet and removed his helmet.

And roared in deep, booming laughs. "Done!" he shouted, applauding.

He retrieved his maul. "You won't spar with Atlas today, and Chakra's psychic powers provide tactical support. I believe you have learned the lesson?"

I landed, light headed.

"It's paper-scissors-rock, isn't it?"

"That's a simplification, but yes. Each of us has our strengths and weaknesses, and the purpose of a team is to cover them for each other. Well done." I flushed again as they all applauded and gathered around to shake hands like I'd passed some sort of initiation. All except for Atlas, who stood in the door with a smile that stopped with his lips.

 Everyone was perfectly nice, but after dinner I went back to my rooms. Mom had sent over my entire winter wardrobe, my laptop, school things, and even a big box of odds. I killed a couple of hours putting everything away the way I wanted it, till I found myself endlessly rearranging my bathroom stuff. Flopping on my bed, still in costume, I tried to think about tomorrow and the rest of the week.

And the next.

It still seemed unreal, like I was an unwilling guest at one of those live action adventure parties; no matter how much I wanted to I couldn't break character and leave. Or maybe I'd been kidnapped by elves, dragged off to fairyland where everything was the same but different, full of magic and odd rules I had to learn or else. I tried to remember my earlier resolve. Maybe I could click my heels three times and go home?

My mask itched and I peeled it off.

There came a knock at the door and I scrambled to open it to find Atlas in the hall, still in costume too. I remembered reading that he'd bought a penthouse somewhere in the Loop after his divorce. Was he flying home?

"Are you done for the day, or do you have a little time tonight?" he asked.

"Yes. I mean—yes, I have some time."

"Then I'd like to show you something. Put your mask back on."

He took me up another elevator, a secure one that didn't stop at the ground floor atrium, and we stepped out into a bay as big as a five-car garage. Racks of pallets lined the walls, and at the push of a button the ceiling opened. It was a launch bay for fliers like us, complete with loads of emergency equipment.

Now he grinned.

"Try to keep up."

I started as he launched himself through the bay doors, then leaped after him. He got a good head start, and without my new super-vision I'd have lost him as he climbed straight up into the night sky. My ears didn't pop as we raced upward, but the whistle of air thinned, and then I lost sight of him in the clouds.

But he wasn't trying to get away; when I broke through the cloud layer he was waiting for me. As I floated up beside him (that's really what it felt like—like I was a floating, self-directed balloon) he smiled. A genuine smile this time.

"Look around."

I did, and gasped in delight.

The clouds below weren't thick, and the lights of Chicago lit them from beneath so that we seemed to be floating above a sea of pearlescent fog. Then he pointed up. Undimmed by the lights of the city and the denser air below, the Milky Way stretched above us in a great celestial arch, impossibly bright and surrounded by more stars than I'd known existed. I blinked and felt tears cooling my cheeks, but I didn't care.

It was beautiful.

"I thought you should see this," he said softly. "Before you spend too much time down there in the mud and the blood. With everything that gets taken from you, you get a few things too."

"Thank you." I watched the clouds drift.

"Atlas?" I said.

"Hmm?"

"About the Teatime Anarchist—"

"Nope."

"What?"

"I wondered when you'd ask. Every Crisis Aid and Intervention team in Chicago is on alert, all of us are in the Dome, and why do you think I'm still in uniform? But even if we got the call tonight, you wouldn't be with us; you're a trainee, with no skills yet despite the stunt you pulled on Ajax."

"But—"

"We should be hunting him? The feds are doing that, with a lot more resources than we have. Blackstone is our team intelligence specialist, and he has no leads.

He shrugged.

"We're not gods, Astra. We're glorified emergency response professionals, rescue workers, and civilian contractors to the police when other superhumans are involved. Half the time all we get to do is the cleanup. Leave the counter-terrorism to the pros. Go to your party tomorrow, say goodbye to your friends, and next week we get serious. Come back inside when you're ready, the Dome'll be open."

And he dropped out of sight, leaving me alone above the pearl-bright sea.

Chapter Eight

Miraculous powers have not made the world a more peaceful place. Governments, whether liberal democracies or totalitarian oligarchies, rest upon a monopoly of force or the threat of force, and history has shown us what happens when significant centers of non-government force emerge: insurrections, civil wars, criminal oligarchies, warlords, terrorist movements. The results are all around us. China fragmented into the Chinese states. North Korea collapsed completely. Radical Islamists carved the Caliphate out of the Muslim states of the Middle East and nearly wiped out Israel before they were stopped. Mexico fights an ongoing civil war with supervillain-led drug cartels. The Event has forever broken the monopoly on force.

Prof. Charles Gibbons, The New Heroic Age

 Thursday started with the press conference. Quin and Al directed it, moved me about, and had me give a short statement—a repeat of my little speech the day before. I hoped the media saw a confident new superheroine instead of a scared girl playing dress-up. After the supervised interview Quin had promised Terry, she handed me off to Ajax for my first training session.

It wasn't at all what I expected.

Instead of going right to the fight-training, Ajax started me on what he called "resistance training." He didn't mean bodybuilding; he meant teaching me how to react to everything using less effort. Much less.

I'd done pretty well the past few days just not hurting anybody or doing any damage—except for the warped steering wheel, burst pillow, shattered cup... It felt like everything around me was made of tissue, thin plaster sheet, or cardboard. And people, Ajax said, were just as breakable. I had to learn to move safely through a fragile world, and our first session made me completely paranoid.

But I had to do the gallery event. It was my show, my last chance to see the Bees before "leaving town," my last day, really, of remotely normal life. I conferred with Susan through the day, went over the lists one more time, and made sure the gallery had good insurance. They could hardly lock me in the Dome, but Ajax made me promise to eat off napkins instead of plates, be very careful shaking hands, and not make any sudden moves.

A lot of Chinatown burned the day of the Event and the renewal brought serious gentrification, so the Silk Road Art Gallery stood just down the street from the Pui Tak Center in a shiny-new outdoor mall designed to look like a street in ancient China. The night's charitable donations were going to build health clinics and water treatment plants for villages in Anhui, China's poorest successor-state (President Touches Clouds had continued the East Asia Marshall Plan launched by President Kayle, and private charities were a big part of it). The event would also bring a lot of upscale attention to the gallery and the shops around it, so the entire mall was hung with hundreds of paper lanterns, Yuet's next door had agreed to provide incredible Cantonese delicacies for our guests, and Shennong's Book across the mall was supplying the erhu musician and wonderful teas.

I'd vowed to be no-touchy, but Annabeth practically clotheslined me when I crossed the gallery's threshold at seven. She pulled me into a hug and I froze as we narrowly missed knocking an ivory figurine to the floor. Holding me at arm's length, she and the rest of the Bees gave my little green cocktail dress a once over. I'd bought it for the party, and it had an empire waist with a ribbon round the front to define my hint of a bust. She gave it her critical approval, then hugged me again.

"Omigosh!" she enthused. "This party is amazing!"

Megan rolled her eyes while Julie laughed. Dane loomed beside them, there squiring Annabeth. They'd been together since freshman year when she'd started dating him because he was a jock and they made a matched set.

I'd expected them to grill me the moment I walked in, and, looking at them, I narrowed my eyes.

"Okay, this is nice but you're all a little too happy for the room. What's going on?"

Dane laughed.

"I scored front row seats for us at the Freakzone concert."

Oh yeah, that would do it.

Freakzone, led by the metamorphing "supervillain" Freakshow, was the latest megastar rapper group and all three otherwise sane girls were deeply into villain rap. Burnout was so last decade.

"Hey," he said. "I got six, would you like to come?"

"Dane, do I look like I listen to villain rap?"

"I dunno. Still waters..."

I shook my head. "Why? You're as vanilla as I am. You're not into it and I have no idea why they are."

"Hello? We're right here." Megan said.

Dane ignored her. "I think it's a transgressive thing, mostly for the style." Okay, he was a smart jock.

Annabeth stuck out her tongue at him.

"Hope, you've got to come."

"No, nyet, nein, and again, no," I said, laughing. "I'd rather go shark diving with a hundred paper cuts, but it's awfully nice of you. But maybe that means you don't want these."

Silently blessing Mom for her suggestion, I handed each of them the early invitations for the foundation's Christmas Ball. I even had one for Dane I'd expected Annabeth to deliver. Although most people on the guest list were public figures and big money, Mom liked to salt the crowd with beautiful, young, and connected people, as well as some purely entertaining ones. The Bees checked all the boxes—they already had plans to violently assault the fashion world together after graduation, and their families were old Chicago money. Dane, serious eye candy himself, was being groomed to take over his dad's defense contracting company if they could tear him away from soccer (he'd already been accepted on the U of C team).

The invitations elicited a round of shrieks; the Christmas Ball was legendary. I took a deep breath. Now I had to tell them.

I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything Julie leaned over and whispered in my ear, scanning the room.

"Guess who's here already? Mrs. Lori!"

"What? No!"

I looked around frantically, wanting to check everything again despite all my preparations, and spotted Mom across the room talking to Father Nolan, our own little priest and pastor of St. Chris. She'd obviously just handed him a plate of food, which he regarded in polite bemusement. All women felt the irresistible urge to feed the hapless man—one reason for his slightly spherical shape, I was sure. Then I spotted Mrs. Lori, in conversation with Rush of all people. My small world was getting smaller.

Mrs. Lori was one of Chicago's Grande Dames, and Mom's main rival in the charitable events business. She hosted only the most elite affairs, but always came to Mom's—probably hoping to catch her using black magic or something. I often thought she had no wrinkles because her closely knotted steel-gray hair pulled her face too tight.

Giving air kisses all around, I abandoned the Bees and wove my way through the crowd, trying not to touch anybody. Arriving at her side safely, I sigh of relief. Now I just had to face the dragon.

"Mrs. Lori." I curtsied. I couldn't help it—she always stood poker-straight and when she looked at me I knew she was doing a quick and critical inspection.

She interrupted her conversation with Rush, out tonight in an evening suit with his newest wife (Tracy? Stacy?), probably on Ajax's instructions. Beside them stood a little Buddha of a man I didn't recognize.

"There you are, dear," she said. "You know Rush and Stacy, but I would like you to meet Dr. Royce. The good doctor heads the neurosurgery unit at Holy Cross. Hope is the daughter of our hostess and an indispensable help to her mother."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Dr. Royce said, briefly clasping my hand. "And I must thank your mother for her donation; the Faith Corrigan wing will be completed on schedule because of it."

I banished my frown, but not before Mrs. Lori spotted it. I took a breath. Focus.

"Thank you, doctor," I said. "I'll relay your sentiments if you aren't able to find her in this crush. What do you think of the gallery?"

"It's amazing!" he said. "I thought all the ivory not in museums was badly carved imitation."

"It's true that new ivory is comparatively rare, but the best artists still work in it. But what you're looking at isn't ivory, doctor; it's white jade."

The doctor had been gazing at my favorite piece, the center of the collection: an amazingly lifelike figure of a beautiful Asian woman, nearly four feet tall and carved in purest white jade. She wore Chinese imperial robes, her head bare and hair loose in a flowing western style and carved so fine you expected to see strands wave when you breathed. She held a sleeping infant in the crook of her left arm, and a parrot with a pearl in its mouth perched on her right hand. She watched her child, mouth curved in an adoring smile. The parrot gazed at her rapturously.

"This," I said, "is a modern, nontraditional representation of Quan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy. Taoists worship her as an Immortal, Buddhists as a bodhisattva, and the Japanese as Kannon, one of the Celestial Kami. Asian Christians have noted her striking resemblance to the Virgin Mary, and secret Christians in Japan prayed to her as Mary for several centuries. This beautiful piece is a syncretic representation of her in that spirit."

I reached up but stopped myself from touching her milky robes.

"In China, superhumans gifted with beneficial powers are said to be 'kissed by Quan Yin.'"

"She's beautiful." Dr. Royce lifted his hand too, and then lowered it, clearing his throat. I played tour guide for several other pieces before Mrs. Lori brought a new arrival to his attention and he reluctantly excused himself. A very bored Rush and Stacy found their own excuses, and I seized the chance to cautiously grab a napkin and some finger food from a passing tray.

Mrs. Lori graced me with a dry smile.

"Thank you for not biting his head off, dear."

"I'm sorry." I hung my head. "I still don't think Faith's name belongs on a hospital building. On a children's wing it just seems like the most important thing about her is she died."

"It is the name of the foundation, dear. In any case, I think you've made a sale. I would not be surprised if your goddess ended up in the new wing."

That made me smile. Quan Yin certainly belonged where she would comfort many instead of delighting only the buyer.

"And perhaps when you're a director on the foundation board you can put Faith's name on a few schools?"

I choked on the delicious bao yu I'd just bitten into. That was what Mom wanted, what I had wanted. Now? I saw a huge fight looming. Suddenly the delicately seasoned and steamed fish didn't taste so good.

"Honestly Mrs. Lori," I said, clearing my throat. "I'm already thinking about staying in school for graduate studies."

She snorted. "Too much knowledge rots the brain. Unless it is the practical sort, such as how to fix my car or operate on my heart. Sometimes I think the more educated a person becomes the more useless he is to the rest of us. I can't bear to speak to half of my grandchildren because of their intellectual pretensions."

"I will strive not to be useless." I said.

That earned me another sharp look.

"See that you do. You're mother infuriates me. She ignores half of the rules of society and mocks the rest, yet everyone forgives her. Worse, she throws common affairs like tonight's and expects everyone to come, and they do. She could auction manure in a stables and need help carrying the cash away."

She smiled thinly.

"And if you do not live up to her achievements I will be sorely disappointed."

With that she took her leave, leaving me standing beside Quan Yin in mute astonishment.

 The event was a success, and I got to spend some time with the Bees between my hosting duties. But I wasn't able to tell them. There were moments when I could have, but I kept chickening out, feeling guilty as sin. Oh by the way, my cancer may have come back and I'm flying out to get experimented on at Johns Hopkins... No. I couldn't lie to their faces and accept their sympathy.

Driving back to the Dome, I decided to meditate on it with a soak in the amazing tub that came with the shower, then curl up with Superpooh to start on one of the training manuals Ajax had given me. Solutions always seemed to come when I did something else.

I got the bath, but before I could get to studying the Teatime Anarchist shot me.

Chapter Nine

Hindu scholars claim that the world has entered the next Vedic age. Many Shia and Sufi Muslims believe the Event a sign of the appearance of the Mahdi. The Catholic Church has declared the Event a Mystery, while many fundamentalist Christian sects consider it a sign of the End of Times. Scientists have no idea, although multiverse theory suggests some possibilities. The Awakened believe that the Event is evidence that the universe as we know it is a virtual reality inside a hypercomputer, most of us are simulations, and somebody changed the reality settings.

Prof. Charles Gibbons, The New Heroic Age.

 I was not well.

The first and last time I drank hard liquor had been when Shelly and I wasted a bottle of her dad's finest scotch on a Friday night while her parents were in New York. I hadn't liked the taste, got drunk too fast to enjoy it, and woke up the next morning wishing I'd tripped on the stairs during the night and broken my neck, because then I'd have been dead.

"Sorry about the head," a cultured New England voice said. "A neural disruptor might be the ultimate taser, but set too high it will make you wish you'd never been born."

I opened my eyes and saw short dark curls and a serious gray gaze in the face of a tired angel who needed a shave. I remembered getting out of the bath, drying off and throwing on my U of C t-shirt and drawstring shorts, walking into my new bedroom... and getting shot by a very apologetic intruder (how had I not heard him?). Then nothing; one moment a man with the face of a mournful saint stood there pointing something at me, then the remembrance of single-malts past. I hurt so bad I could barely think.

I looked down at myself, lying on my bed wearing what I'd thrown on, but also some kind of weird jewelry. Stylish bands of braided silver wires set with thin green jewel-toned disks circled each wrist and ankle.

I tried to focus through the thundering pain behind my eyes. What was going on?

"I'm sure you can't put two thoughts together," he said. "Again I apologize."

"You shot me," I managed. Every twitch made me nauseous and each syllable echoed in my head like stone bells.

"Yes I did," he said. "But now that you're awake I can do this."

He pulled out a quarter-sized disk and stuck it to my forehead, and between one ragged breath and the next the pain flowed away. Now I could think, which meant I could be scared.

I tried to sit up and the jewelry wouldn't cooperate. He backed up as I struggled, with rising hysteria. Putting enough fear-driven effort into it to toss a bus, I hardly moved at all.

He simply waited, and, early hyperventilating, I fell back. Somehow the bands held me down as securely as any set of anchored Blacklock cuffs could have, and no matter how I wrenched at them, my arms and legs wouldn't move.

Giving up, I struggled for calm. Then I screamed.

He didn't even flinch from the ear-rattling decibels.

"I've erected a baffle-field in the room," he said, pulling my computer chair up beside the bed. "Sorry."

He wore a long evening coat, cream-colored with a soft texture that looked almost like velvet, over gray slacks and shirt with a darker vest and tie. It all went together, but even in my fear I thought the cut looked strange.

"First," he said in that cultured voice, "I'm going to tell you four things. You're not in danger. I'm a time traveler. I'm the Teatime Anarchist. And I'm not who you think I am."

He didn't move when I tried to lunge at him, the green disks on my wrists and ankles flashing bright enough to turn the room green. I pushed so hard my vision went red and fuzzy as I struggled silently. Finally I stopped, nearly sobbing with frustration.

He watched me settle again, smiling sadly.

"I'll start with the last point first," he continued as if nothing had happened. "I'm not the man who killed Senator Davis along with the other unfortunate victims of the Ashland bombing. There is no reason for you to believe me, of course, so we'll return to that later.

"As for the second point, I offer the restraining bands you're wearing and the neural disruptor I used on you as evidence I've been to the future. We both know that to do the job with the best restraints available today would require hundred-pound titanium cuffs anchored in concrete. Do you agree?"

He stopped and waited for my response.

"... yes." I said, still breathing hard; I would have agreed with him if he declared himself a teapot. Keep him talking. If he's talking he's not doing something else.

"Very good." He ignored my fear. "I'll be able to provide more proof later, but that will have to do for the moment. Now, let me state that time travel is impossible, at least time travel of the sort described in most fiction. To illustrate, have you heard of the Grandfather Paradox?"

I shook my head.

"A suicidal time traveler decides to rewrite history so he never existed. So he travels back in time to shoot his grandfather before his father is conceived, making sure he himself is never born. Will it work? Do you see the obvious problem?"

Focus. Focus. Play his game. I tried to think.

"It doesn't make sense," I finally said, hoping I had it right. "I think... if he killed his own grandfather and was never born, then who killed his grandfather?"

He smiled like I'd answered a question for the class.

"Exactly! The Grandfather Paradox demonstrates that history must be fixed and unchangeable—it's a matter of cause and effect. Scientists have tried to argue that time travel remains possible by postulating two theories."

He settled back as I pulled in my flying thoughts.

"One is the Observer Effect," he continued. "This theory states that, once something is observed to happen it can't unhappen. You can visit the past, but all of your actions are already part of history; you can't change anything. But why can't you? The theory breaks down to a circular argument for fate. If history is fixed then all of time, past and future, is fixed; there is no privileged present when free will is possible since your present is a future time traveler's past. There can be only a smooth continuum of fated progression from the beginning of time to its end, no deviations allowed.

"The other is Multiverse Theory, which in this context states that, with any event for which two or more possible actions exist, both actions take place and each action creates its own universe. So there could be universes in which Hitler remained a commercial painter instead of leading the Third Reich. A time traveler in this scenario could go back and change the past all he liked—he would simply be creating another universe with a separate history rather than changing his own."

He paused to make sure I was keeping up. I nodded quickly.

"Very good. There is, however, a third theory which expresses the reality of time travel. Are you familiar with Schrodinger's Cat? It's a little thought-experiment involving a cat in a box that isn't really dead or alive until you open the box to look at it."

"No."

"It was intended to point out the problem with the theory of quantum superposition. A scientist puts a cat in a box with a vial of poison that will be broken by a trigger that will be tripped only if a particle of radioactive isotope also in the box decays. Quantum theory states that, until the outcome is observed, the particle both has and hasn't decayed and therefore the cat is both alive and dead until the scientist—the observer—looks in the box."

Now he leaned in. I tried to curl up.

"Time," he said, ignoring my flinch, "behaves according to what I call the Principle of Temporal Superposition. The future is a tangle of infinite possibilities existing simultaneously, which collapse to a single actuality as the present, the moment we're in now, advances second by second into the future. Free will exists here, at the point of collapse where each decision is actually made. Trailing the present, the past is fixed—it can be visited but not changed. The future can be visited and interacted with, but is unfixed and indeterminate. When I visit the future I am only visiting the most likely future that would unfold from my moment of departure."

It was like being lectured by my favorite teacher. My heart still raced, but the more he talked the less I was scared he would hurt me. I even found myself desperately interested in what he was trying to tell me; if he wasn't crazy, maybe I was safe.

"Causality is preserved at each point," he concluded.

"Now you're going to tell me you're the Teatime Anarchist but not the man who's killing people?"

I almost bit my tongue. Don't confront!

"If you're ready."

I nodded shakily.

"It would be more accurate to say I'm the first Teatime Anarchist. You've read my manifesto? My predictions were observations of what I've seen in the future: by 2028 a totalitarian government will be in power, using superhumans to control the rest of the population. I wrote the manifesto hoping the warning would be enough, and when it wasn't I began my career as a goad and a prankster. My plan was to discredit the government badly enough to prevent it from taking absolute power. And I succeeded, but only temporarily."

"I don't understand."

"I revisited 2028 to find the totalitarian future again in place, this time by a slightly different historical route. That's when I began paying much closer attention to how future events play out, and I realized that many of the changes occurring couldn't have been caused by me. Even second or third hand, the dominoes shouldn't have fallen in that direction. Then came the first bombing that 'I' claimed credit for: the government office in Portland. When I went back to observe the bomber, what do you think I found?"

I really, really tried. "I have no idea."

"The bomb had been set by another time traveler. He did it the same way I got in here tonight. I simply went back to when the Dome was under construction and didn't have any real security yet, found this room, and returned to the present. I'd expected to find you sleeping, by the way. So there is a second time traveler, and his goals are the opposite of my own. Remember that."

Leaning in too fast for me to react, he tapped the pain-killing disk he'd stuck to my forehead and I'd completely forgotten about. And that was that.

Chapter Ten

The problem when dealing with time travelers is that they're nearly omniscient—they can discover anything known in the past or future, just by going and having a look. Tell me how you keep a secret from someone who can peek whenever they like. You have to assume that everything you do is completely transparent.

Astra, Notes from a Life.

 I woke in the morning with a lurch. That dream had been way too real.

Then I realized that under the blanket I wore my t-shirt and shorts, and saw the neatly folded letter on the nightstand by my bed.

Picking it up, I opened it like I was lifting the cover on a bomb.

Dear Astra, it read. I hope you will forgive my method of introduction last night, but I felt it best to be safe. I realize that nothing I have said or shown you is real proof of my claims—after all a gadgeteering Verne-type breakthrough could as easily be responsible for the restraints and other items you saw last night.

I rubbed my wrists.

I would have liked to have taken you for a time-trip as proof; alas, I cannot carry anything bigger than a breadbox with me on my journeys. In any case, I don't think you would have been a cooperative passenger. Instead, below you will find a list of events that will take place should you follow your routine for today. We will talk more later if you wish. If you do not, all you need to do is share last night's conversation with your teammates.

Below it was a list: your mother will call at 7:05; Quin will join you for breakfast; Dr. Mendel will give you a clean bill of mental health and so on through the day.

My cell launched into Ode to Joy and I bit back a shriek, I was just that wigged. It was 7:05, and Mom calling to see how I was doing. My response ("I'm okay," while trying not to cry) set off her mommy-radar, and she asked what was wrong. Where could I possibly start? Everything. A mask is a necessary fashion accessory. I can't lie to my friends. A probably psychotic time-traveler dropped by last night. I want to come home.

I picked the last item—surprisingly one of the biggest. It's not like I hadn't been away from home before. There'd been summer camps, and I'd been going to move on-campus in just a couple of weeks. But then I'd expected to be with my friends, and now I didn't even know when I could go home, even for a weekend.

Mom just clucked sympathetically and drama-checked me; there wasn't any reason she and Dad couldn't drop by the Dome through the back door—"it's not like we need to get preapproved visitation times, dear." Before we hung up she calendared three lunches and three dinners over the next couple of weeks. She also asked if I could talk to a couple of the Sentinels about some events coming up. I had to smile. That was Mom.

Hanging up, I felt a million pounds lighter; I didn't even mind knowing Dad would take advantage of the dinners to press me to settle for being a "safe" reservist once my training ended. After a few minutes more talk I was able to get up and shower.

I'd decided to tell Atlas everything. But first I had to test the letter.

Andrew had sent over several spares for my costume along with mask-cleaner and instructions, and I dressed quickly before heading down the hall to the common dining area. Willis kept the pantry stocked with healthy cereals and a selection of breakfast breads, and the fridge had juice, milk, fruit, anything else I could want. I drowned a bowl of oatmeal and fruit in milk, and was half finished when Quin walked in with a planner in her hand. I inhaled my cereal and spent a minute coughing.

She had a full day planned. First they had to satisfy the team's insurance company. This required a psychiatrist's statement that I wasn't an 'unacceptable risk,' likely to twist anyone's head off because of 'issues.' Then she needed to introduce me to a military recruiter flying out just to meet me. Like all other Crisis Aid and Intervention teams (including us, Chicago had eight) the Sentinels were part of the state militia system. We were under the command of the governor of Illinois in civil emergencies, not part of the US military, but good relations were important so they needed to give the recruiter his chance to pitch me.

The day followed the schedule the Teatime Anarchist left for me. He could have gotten some of it, like Dr. Mendel and Lieutenant Dahmer, from access to the team's computers (a whole different nightmare if he had), but lots of it was like Mom's phone call: unscheduled stuff. I got dizzy trying to figure out how even a time traveler could know everything about my day. Did he have super-sneaky future tech bugs watching me? What?

I never figured it out, but by the end of the day the last line of the letter, We'll talk more later, didn't make me want to run screaming. I forgot my resolve to tell Atlas.

In hindsight, things might have gone better if I had.

When I got back to my rooms that night I found an undelivered FedEx envelope on my nightstand, the kind of stiff cardboard envelope used for mailing computer disks. Opening it, I found a disk with a note stuck to it. I thought you might like to have this.

The disk was labeled with a flower sticker with SP 15 scribbled on it. My hand started to shake. It was the home movie of the last sleepover. I'd thrown it out the day of the funeral.

Now I held it in my hand.

I don't remember skinning out of my costume and into an athletic shirt and sweats (a joke gift from Megan, a lily-pad green shirt with a cute cartoon frog and "Kiss the girl" printed on it). I watched the movie twice. Then I got up and brought Superpooh down from his place in the closet to join me on the apartment couch as I relived the night again, with its games, dares, and jokes on the boys. Shelly was as amazing as I remembered.

I'd just started into the fourth viewing when, between one second and the next, the Anarchist appeared by the apartment door. It looked like the stop-and-go photography they used on old TV shows: he wasn't there and then, pop, he was. I paused the recording so that I could give him my full attention.

"Care to join me?"

He relaxed, but stayed where he was with his hands in his coat pockets and probably one foot in the past, looking ready to leap back if I so much as leaned in his direction.

Despite the sudden tension my lips twitched. "A time traveler who doesn't know what's going to happen next?"

"I can't see the consequences of my actions till I've taken them, any more than you can. I just get to see them sooner." If anything he looked even more tired than he had last night. "So, what are you going to do?"

"Tomorrow I'm going to light a candle and call Shelly's mom. Thank you."

"Are you ready to listen?"

I nodded guardedly and he relaxed without moving a muscle.

"My copycat has been killing in my name, trying to trigger a political backlash that will create the police state in my manifesto. He killed Senator Davis because the senator was too radical too soon—he made people nervous but, dead, he's a martyr and a bloody shirt for his supporters to wave. His attacks are getting worse, and he'll kill as many as he has to to get the future he wants. He needs to be stopped."

He pulled a small jewelry box from his left pocket and tossed it to me. I caught it.

"Open it."

A pearl nestled inside.

"It's future technology," he said. "The same kind that made your restraining cuffs. You can swallow it, and it will attach itself to your digestive tract and nervous system until activated."

"You can't be serious."

"I am. It's undetectable, and once triggered it will dissolve and be flushed out. I'll show you how to trigger it, and when you do it will send out a pulse that will allow me to zero in on your location instantly, through any kind of interference. It will also short out all unshielded technology in your immediate area. Activating it would kill anyone not as tough as you are, which is why it has to be you. You trigger the beacon, and I'll be there to do what needs to be done. I should also add that if you try to have it analyzed, it will simply break down into inert particles."

I took it out. It looked so harmless sitting in my palm, but it scared me.

"You think your copycat will come after me."

"I know he will. From his perspective he made you. Astra didn't exist in any future before the Ashland Bombing. Now that you do, future-you is getting in the way of his plans. I know him well enough to know you fascinate him, and that he'll try and enlist you before you become too big a problem. That will be our chance. I have to stop him, one way or another."

I shook my head in denial.

"Hope." His gray eyes were sad, haunted even. "This man has killed dozens of people to put the future on the track he wants. If I can't stop him, he'll kill many, many more. Whatever his motives, he can't be allowed to continue."

Rolling the little sphere between my fingers, I tried to think. "How is it happening now?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The future. Who's winning?"

"Right now it looks like a draw. His Washington players are mostly all in place, and the National Safety movement is getting traction—you've seen their protestors outside the Dome. But I've managed to link the new populist movement up with the localists, and the American Civil Liberties Union is slipping into bed with the New Federalist Society and other constitutional conservatives. Other events are eventuating. Metaphorically speaking, I've been flapping my wings in Dallas to generate a perfect storm in Washington. It should arrive just on time for next year's election season. After that his core conspiracy will have almost no political power left and if I can remove him from the picture they probably won't recover."

Drawing my legs up, I rested my chin on my knees.

"You make it sound like a political campaign."

He smiled without humor. "Since the US is still a republic, that's exactly what it is. If it becomes something else, I've failed."

Pulling out a notepad, he tore off the top page and handed it to me.

"If you need to get in touch with me, post this in the Chicago Times Online."

I read it and laughed. It was a lonely-hearts personal ad; I'd be looking for the perfect man.

"Why do you trust me?"

"Because I've seen a hundred of your lifetimes, and in none of them do you break a trust."

Wow. What can you say to that?

"And if I say no?"

He held up a green gem, the one he'd stuck to my head last night.

"I squeeze this, and you're out again. Instant narcolepsy; it's tuned to your brainwaves now. And when you wake up you won't have any memories tagged to me from the past two days."

I couldn't help it; I looked at the TV screen. His expression softened.

"I'll leave the disk—you'll just never know where it came from."

He told me how to activate the beacon when the time came, then left the same way he arrived. I sat, hugging Superpooh and staring at the frozen image of Shelly and me.

Why hadn't I said no? I had only two real options now. I could trust him and swallow the beacon (if that's what it was), or take it to Blackstone along with the unbelievable story of the last twenty-four hours, and see if he'd told the truth about it being impervious to analysis.

Sitting cross legged on the couch, I rested my chin on Pooh's head and tried to think.

I am only a bear, with a very little brain.

If the beacon was really something else—some exotic poison meant to kill me, or a tracking device that would allow the Anarchist to monitor me intimately (like he couldn't do that already)—he could have force-fed it to me after knocking me out and I would never have known about it. So he had to be telling the truth, at least as far as needing my active cooperation. It could, I supposed, actually be a bomb, but he'd picked me—he said—because I would survive. If that wasn't true then he could have picked anybody he knew his nemesis would target; it didn't have to be me.

I thought about his sad eyes. I couldn't imagine him being ruthless enough to trick me into becoming a suicide bomber.

I turned it every which way, but at least that part felt right to me. He'd gone through a lot of trouble to talk, and left the decision in my hands. I even owed him. He'd given me a gift more precious than gold.

Which took the second option off the table. I didn't think he was lying, and he'd extended his trust. He was right: I couldn't betray it. Not without cause.

But could I go along with his plan? Not tell the team I'd become bait in a trap? Would it be the Right Thing? And could I really be that important?

I rolled the little sphere in my hand, chilled by the thought.

I'd barely gotten my costume, but he'd probably seen years of Future Me in action. I tried to imagine what Future Me was like.

I'd come back to the first option; take it now, decide whether or not to use it later. Best case, I wouldn't have to. Worst case, I wouldn't have any other choice. Either way the only logical choice (like there was anything really logical about any of this) was to keep the option open. What would Shelly have done? I looked at her frozen, laughing face.

With the chance to stop the killing? Save the world?

There I had no doubts.

I got a glass of water, tossed the beacon back and washed it down, and went to bed.

Chapter Eleven

St. Michael, defender of man, stand with us in the day of battle.

St. Jude, giver of hope, be with us in our desperate hour.

St. Christopher, bearer of burdens, lift us when we fall.

Unattributed prayer for heroes.

 I woke up Sunday morning knowing I had to spill everything. I was to "fly out" right after mass, so after breakfast and before I drove to St. Chris I called Julie. There's a reason why Julie has always been the ringleader of our merry band; she took it with minimal "no ways" and "shut-ups." She immediately stomped on the idea of inventing another cover story for Annabeth—she and Megan would sit her down and let her get her excitement out in private, then zip her mouth shut with blood-curdling stories of things that happened to heroes—and sometimes their friends and families—whose identities were publicly known. They wouldn't have to exaggerate much; although it was usually no big deal, bad things had happened before. Really, really bad things.

Julie made me swear to be in front of my webcam after dinner for a four way chat-fest, and that cleared my conscience for church so that I could meet the parents at St. Chris with one worry solved. But I still really needed to speak to Father Nolan.

The family is practicing Catholic, but Mom is very opinionated about what Catholicism is—rumor is that she broke a couple of priests before Father Nolan came to St. Christopher. To her the Church is all about Good Works; it's there to provide material aid and spiritual comfort and the rest is window dressing. Nice window dressing, but window dressing.

St. Chris is not a humble church. Its large basilican hall is floored with marble imported from Europe and Africa. Pale marble columns march beside the pews and an extravagant square proscenium frames the beautifully gilded altar of the sanctuary. The trim and facings are from Florence, the stained glass is from Munich, and everything not gold or white is in earth tones, rich browns and reds. Mom pretty much considers St. Christopher a beautiful stage and a target-rich environment in which to hunt her natural prey: people with money and the heart for good works (or just the wish to look good—she's never been picky about why people give their money).

Father Nolan likes to greet his flock at the doors before proceeding to his duties, and that morning he greeted us with a special thanks for the invitation to the gallery event.

"Indeed," he said, taking my hand with a twinkle in his eye, "I shall have to see if I can find a parishioner who will donate the beautiful Quan Yin to the church. I believe it would do good to draw the minds of our flock to the thought that piety and faith come in many forms."

I flushed. "Thank you Father, I would love to see her every Sunday." Then I took advantage of the moment. "May I see you after mass? I need your advice on a spiritual matter."

He glanced at my parents, but his smile didn't falter.

"Of course, Hope. Although," he chuckled, "after my homily today I'm not sure you'll want to speak to me!"

The promised homily began with a funny story of the evening at the gallery and his introduction to Quan Yin (for which he thanked me while I squirmed). As a few parishioners shifted in their own seats he praised the jade sculpture, which he called Mary of the Pagans, and went on to suggest that, as love is the primary attribute of God, so a statue of a foreign goddess of love and mercy is also an image of God. He ended with the observation that when anyone, Christian or otherwise, showed love they were also images of God.

It always takes awhile for the families of Oak Park to finish enjoying each other's company and leave, and I waited patiently as Dad got into a discussion with the renovation committee (since his hobby is restoring old architecture they won't leave him alone). I found Father Nolan as the crowd thinned, and he showed me to his office in the rectory.

Father Nolan's office is the opposite of the rest of the church; clean but not neat, crowded by wall-to-wall shelves of old books and filing boxes, an old office fridge, and older furniture around a battered desk. There aren't many pictures, mostly photographs of his parents and siblings and many nieces and nephews. Father Nolan considers his office merely a place to put him in proximity with paperwork.

"Did you enjoy the homily?" he asked, offering me milk and cookies (Double-Stuff Oreos, his private indulgence).

I accepted, laughing. "You realize that now Dad's going to buy it for St. Chris if it's not already sold, don't you? That is so cheating!"

"Arguably. Father Kreiski wants some new saint statues to go with the renovations. If Mother Church can adopt pagan spirits as Christian saints, patently I can do the same for a pagan image, especially one already honoring Christian faith."

"Patently," I agreed, smothering a giggle; Father Kreiski, a nice enough priest dedicated to the flock of St. Chris, was one of the most straight-laced old style priests I've ever met. But he'd met his match in Father Nolan; the little pastor of St. Chris had a whim of steel.

"And now what can I do to help you, Hope?"

I hesitated, then launched into a recitation of everything that had happened, leaving only the Anarchist out. It took a little while, and when I finished we sat in silence.

"I am sorry for your experience, Hope," he said at last. "I agree with your decisions, although I certainly see the irony of the situation. And I'm afraid I foresee a patch of parent-child conflict in your future. Have you decided yet, whether you're going to follow your father's example?"

I shook my head. "Only every five minutes. Part of me wants to hide in a hole. Just finish my training and go reserve like Dad. But is that the best use of my gift, Father?"

"I can't answer for you, only advise that you wait and pray until you are certain in your own heart. You do have time, after all." He smiled soberly. "But that's not what is really troubling you, is it?"

"I—" my eyes stung. "I'm scared, Father, and I really don't know if I can do this. And you're right—Dad and Mom don't really want me to. But it's exciting too, and the things I can do are absolutely amazing. Just being able to fly..."

I told him about my night flight, what Atlas had showed me, how incredible it was.

"And when I think of what I can do to help people, I'm glad. But how can I be?"

He steepled his fingers and regarded me solemnly.

"You're thinking about the munchkin, aren't you?"

I nodded with a sniff. "Her name was Kimberly Austin. People died, Father. How can I be happy about anything that comes from that?"

"That is a very good question." He offered me another cookie. I sniffed again and accepted.

Chewing thoughtfully, he finished his own and sat back.

"Before modern medicine," he said meditatively, "childbirth used to be very perilous and many mothers died bringing their children into the world. On tragic occasions they still do. In such circumstances are we to regret the birth of the child? Or should we be grateful for God's gift while mourning the loss of the mother? To be more specific to your own family's experience, your sister's death inspired your mother to start her foundation—a foundation that has collected many millions for research, aid, and education all over the world. Faith's story has helped your mother to bring attention to her causes, and thousands, tens of thousands of souls have been blessed by it. The work itself brings your mother great happiness."

He paused, inviting me to consider my family's history.

"Does being glad of the outcome mean being glad of Faith's death?" He flicked his fingers dismissively. "An absurdity, of course, but because we distrust ourselves we entertain such thoughts. Your family's tragedy inspired your mother to a course of action that blesses many people. I think that, circumstances being different, you would have done very well following in her footsteps.

"Patently God has called you to a different work, and I believe your first instincts are correct. Nor is it right for you to feel ashamed of enjoying your new gifts, though we should certainly mourn little Kimberly's death and pray for her family."

He fixed me with a stern look. "Do you believe she is in Heaven?"

I nodded without hesitation.

"Then trust that God knows what he is doing in this matter." He smiled with sad sincerity. "He has been making good come out of evil since the world began."

Chapter Twelve

Look, up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! No it's... Atlas? Red Robin? Armistice? Is the President in town?

Terry Reinhold, Citywatch

 On Monday morning Atlas and I walked through the Dome's big doors and stepped off, lifting over the crowd with only a wave in passing. Nothing to see here, just another patrol. I tried to look cool as applause and a ripple of camera flashes followed us. A daunting crowd of news photographers and cape watchers had turned out in the early morning, displacing the usual protestors, on the chance that Atlas' dawn patrol would also be the maiden flight of the new mystery-woman.

Rising together, we flew south along Lakeshore Avenue, the wind of our passage rippling our capes. Dispatch gave us our direction and time, and we cut west in a curve that took us through Chicago Midway International's airspace, waving at the planes coming in.

Atlas took us close enough to an Air West jet that we could see individual passengers through the windows. One little boy waved so hard his hand must have hurt. I waved back, then we swung around and flew north again.

Past the airport Dispatch maintained radio silence, and after a couple of circles and wide figure-eights over the city Atlas turned us back towards the lake. We touched down on top of the Sears Tower between the antennas. Below us there had to be a hundred and one small crimes and crises, but there were no major accidents, no big fires, no bank robberies in progress—at least nothing that got into the emergency channels to be handled at our level.

The honey light of the sunrise behind us painted the city with warm colors and long shadows. A brisk wind off Lake Michigan worked its magic to clear the air, leaving the sky a jewel-like, perfect blue unblemished by clouds. In the distance I could see a few other CAI fliers making their own patrols. I fiddled with the earbug clipped into my mask, still uncomfortable being plugged into a dispatch system and always having someone able to whisper in my ear.

There had been no word from the fake Teatime Anarchist since his last threatening video file. The White House made positive sounds, but I didn't expect anything to come of it anymore. How could they catch a time traveler?

Giving up my fiddling, I sat on the ledge and dangled my feet over Whacker Drive. I could see the university from here, and beyond that the temporary Ashland overpass, its new, permanent framework already rising. Even at this distance, my super-duper vision let me make out details like the codenames of The Crew, stitched on the shoulders of their blue jumpsuits: Border, Irons, Brace, Gantry. I tried to read the others as they worked.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Atlas said.

I looked up.

"Can I ask a question?"

"Always."

"Why do we patrol?"

"What do you mean?"

I spread my arms wide to take in the city around us.

"Even with our enhanced vision, we're just too high up to catch anything happening ourselves unless we're really, really lucky. We rely on Dispatch to send us where we're needed, and being out here shaves, what, maybe a couple of minutes off our response time? If we're on the wrong side of the city when we get called in, it could even slow us down."

"You're right."

He studied me.

"Partly it's to remind the bad guys we're here, but mostly it's so the man on the street sees us. He needs to know we're here, too. Have you ever thought of the reason for the Sentinels? For that matter, why do we put on the capes? Kind of silly for grownups, don't you think?"

I opened my mouth, then hesitated. The answer seemed so self-evident that if he was asking it had to be wrong.

"It's not just to help people? And make buckets of money?"

His dimple appeared as he chuckled, but he shook his head.

"We could do all that without the fancy costumes and codenames. We get to help people, and once in awhile we fight supervillains, but that's not our purpose. Your mother's foundation puts on art shows, sponsors performances, produces all kinds of high society shindigs. But that's not what it's for, is it?

He watched me while I thought about it. "And no, it's not about making us super-celebrities and making 'buckets of money.' Though," he conceded, still smiling, "that's certainly a perk. Our job is to be the best-known face for superhumans in the country."

I blinked. "You're saying we're not out to be famous, but we are."

"Nope, I'm saying fame is a means, not an end. You were how old, eight, nine when the change happened?"

He looked down, watching the traffic on Wabash. "You probably don't remember how scared folks were then, the feeling of panic, hysteria, around the whole thing. The blackout and disasters didn't matter, not compared to folks like you and me doing stuff right out of the comic books. Yup, folks were plenty scared."

We watched a police helicopter go by, following Wabash south. Atlas shrugged when Dispatch remained silent.

"And there I was, on camera in front of God and everybody, catching planes, pulling people out of burning buildings, even settlin' down a few wannabe-supervillains taking advantage of the ruckus. I stitched an 'A' on a racecar driver's jumpsuit that first week, hung a cape on it. Didn't matter that everyone and his dog already knew my name—I put on a mask and made sure they called me Atlas. Even though I looked damned silly."

"I— You're saying you put on the costume because people were scared but they knew that a flying man wearing a cape was a superhero. And they didn't have to be scared of that."

He shrugged again.

"It sounds silly when you say it out loud, but slap a cape on a guy who can fly and suddenly he's familiar and even comforting, or at least a little less strange." He smiled, remembering. "We really camped it up. Grabbed some others right at the start, sewed up some more costumes, and founded the Sentinels in those first couple of weeks."

Now he looked down at me, serious. "Your father was all over it right beside us. Came within an ace of signing on with the team, but couldn't risk his family if it all went south. I respected that. But we made TV appearances with the mayor and governor, worked with the police and national guard, made damn sure everywhere people turned they saw us helping."

"So you gave us superheroes when we needed them."

He nodded.

"I won't go saying we single-handedly saved the country from going up in flames, but I reckon we did a lot to settle folks down. Good thing, too; some breakthroughs out there are pretty scary. One of those gets rambunctious, normal folks are as helpless as a gnat in a hailstorm."

I bit my lip, thinking about it. I'd been young enough to accept it all as natural, just part of the world. But even now, nearly a decade after the Event, some people didn't trust capes just because of what they were.

"Any kind of power is a threat to the powerless," Atlas said, echoing my thought. "Which most folks are in comparison. So we wear the capes and do the job. We build up a reserve of good will that's needed every time some super-powered nutjob does something that leaves bodies everywhere. We work damn hard to make folks understand that the bad ones aren't the majority, that we can keep them safe.

"And what can I say?" He grinned, dispelling the serious mood. "Being a public role-model and national celebrity pays better'n most jobs."

It made sense. It was also good public relations; Mom would certainly approve. But, looking up at him, I didn't think he really saw it that way. He saw my smile and looked away, stepping off into the air beside me.

"Time for the next lap."

Chapter Thirteen

Life would be so much better if it were like the series. But then I'd be taller too.

Astra, Notes from a Life

 The world of TV and the movies is not the real world. I offer this ridiculously obvious truism only as a defense of my ignorance. Shelly and I got most of our information about superheroes from Hollywood and television, with the details filled in by Hero Beat and Power Week, both breathless fan mags. After Shelly died, my exposure mostly came from news items which could generally be summed up as Bad Things Happening. And bad things are always happening, somewhere. But even the entire Chicago area, with its nearly eight million souls, is only a small part of somewhere.

Add the fact that Chicago has the Sentinels plus seven other Crisis Aid and Intervention teams, and half a dozen superhuman agencies, like The Crew, filling various needs. The city has over a hundred card-carrying capes. Most of them are street level or one-trick superheroes, but every CAI seems to have an Atlas or Ajax-type to help handle accidents, fires, and other civil emergencies. Which we do far more often than we fight supervillains. So in my first week of training and flying patrols with Atlas we averaged only one or two emergencies a day.

What kinds of emergencies?

On Monday we removed a downed powerline that blocked a major roadway, and I actually retrieved a cat from a tree. Dispatch only grabbed that call since it was my first day and a cute photo-op, but I framed the article. Wednesday we responded to an apartment fire, flying down and quickly searching through the smoke and flames for victims as fire trucks raced to the scene. Since it started upstairs during work hours and the alarms worked fine, we didn't find any. On Thursday Dispatch sent us to a bad freeway accident; we flew the paramedics in and flew the victims to the hospital, even moved the cars off the road. (Who knew there was a science to lifting cars? You don't just grab them by the bumper—you've got to tip them up and lift them by their frames.) Friday we weren't called up at all, though of course Bad Things happened that the other CAIs and normal emergency service providers handled.

On Wednesday the same week I accompanied Atlas to the ribbon cutting for the Southside Power Station, the city's new nuclear power plant. American Power put on a show for the flagship station of their new line of thorium fueled clean-power plants, and Quin thought the addition of my cute sidekickiness to the event would be good PR for the team. It was actually kind of fun.

In all the first week passed quietly. But in week two we responded to two superhuman "incidents."

 On Tuesday night we got called in on a domestic disturbance. Dispatch fed us his file as we flew, telling us all about Eric Ludlow, a B-class Ajax-type. An army reservist and veteran of the China War, he was a member of The Crew—codename Gantry. I remembered seeing him on my first flight last Monday.

He was also very, very drunk; not a good idea when you're an Atlas or Ajax-type—you're always operating heavy machinery.

We landed in his yard to find him standing on the front porch of his old brick wrap around, barefoot in jeans and a stained athletic shirt and yelling at the police who stood on the sidewalk. A large hole in the front window and a very dead TV lying in the gutter all the way across the street told part of the story. Dispatch told us the rest; a neighbor walking by had narrowly escaped being killed by the flying TV, apparently launched because Ludlow's team lost. A local unit responded, ascertained the obvious, and sensibly called for backup.

"Good evening Mr. Ludlow," I said as soon as we touched down.

After a week sparring with Ajax (more scary than I can say) and Atlas (even scarier), Atlas felt I could handle a B-class easily enough and thought I might be able to diffuse the situation. We should send in the girl who might remind him of his kid sister instead of the dude who'll just add to the testosterone, were his exact words.

I wasn't at all sure myself, but the difference between A-class and B-class meant in the worst possible outcome I wasn't the one who would get hurt.

The big guy focused on me.

"Get them out of here," he said.

I smiled and waved at the patrolmen. "You can go now. Thanks."

They looked skeptical. "Miss," the shorter one said. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Confident that Atlas would handle them, I turned to aim my friendliest smile at Mr. Ludlow and tried to look calm while the brief argument went on behind my back. A moment later I heard the squad car pull away. I was sure it wouldn't go far.

"Are we alright now, Mr. Ludlow?" I asked.

He thought about it, then jerked a nod.

"Damn busybodies," he said. "Always asking questions."

"Three previous disturbances," Dispatch whispered. "All just yelling."

"They just worry about your neighbors. No harm in that, is there?"

He stepped off the porch and I made myself step closer. The closer we were the more naturally we could talk and the more normal the situation would seem. He already looked calmer.

"Nah," he said. "But they shouldn't have called you. Bunch of nothing."

I nodded. "You're right, no reason to get worked up."

"That was a good TV, too." he said mournfully, looking past me. Then I heard the dying whoop of another squad car pulling in and nearly closed my eyes.

Well, hell.

"Hey!" Mr. Ludlow yelled. "I said get out of here!"

He lunged past, completely ignoring me to head for the street. He couldn't toss a tank, but he could throw a police cruiser so I was out of options.

Turn. Foot to the back of his knee, hand to forearm sliding down to his wrist as he tumbled past. Lean in and push, adding to his own momentum as he went down, just like Ajax drilled me. He smacked his front walk hard enough to spread spiderweb cracks, and before he could recover I had my knee in his back and his right arm locked behind him.

"Shhhh, shhhh. It's alright Eric," I whispered softly, patting his shoulder with my free hand, stunned to be pinning a man three times my weight. Silly, I know.

He yelled something I didn't get and tried to push off with his left, but I wasn't letting us go anywhere. I braced myself, refusing to move (sort of the reverse of flying) and the walk beneath us gave a sharp crack when he tried to push off it.

"Shhhh," I repeated, and he slumped. Then he started to cry.

We just stayed there, me crooning to him, until a patrolman brought up some titanium Blacklock security cuffs. With Atlas helping, we got his wrists and ankles snapped into them by the time the special paddywagon arrived. They took him in and charged him with Drunk and Disorderly Conduct. I heard he went into rehab.

All in all, my first real super-fight could hardly be called the stuff movies were made of.

My second fight almost made me quit.

Chapter Fourteen

Supervillain culture worships power; by definition, a supervillain is strong enough to do what he wants and lawbreaking is a display of strength. Fans of villain rap and fashion are attracted to what it represents: total self-empowerment and a challenge to the system. Because superheroes stand for the system, they and supervillains are literally Homeric enemies, like Hector and Achilles of old.

Professor Charles Gibbons, The New Heroic Age

 The alarm caught me in the middle of a dream that put Atlas, in costume, stretched out on my bed with a shiver-inducing smile on his face. That woke me up enough to realize he shouldn't be there, and I rolled over and off the bed with a little scream as I went over the edge. Hitting the floor woke me the rest of the way.

What was that about? And where was I?

Slow-firing neurons told me I was in my rooms in the Dome. I'd stayed up late on my webcam with Julie (she'd asked if Atlas was as yummy up close as he looked on TV, a question that may have influenced the trajectory of my dream), and fallen asleep studying Barlow's Guide to Superhumans. I hadn't been asleep that long; the clock said it wasn't quite midnight.

Rolling to my feet, I snatched up my earbug and fumbled it on. The instant I switched it on a coffee-driven voice started an info dump.

"Last night a couple of Brothers were killed by a Sanguinary," Dispatch reported. "Five minutes ago someone called in a fight shaping up in South Side. The Brotherhood and the Sanguinary Boys are going to war."

So not good. Stripping off my sleep set, I scrambled for my costume and arrest kit while Dispatch started in on a description of both groups.

Although I'd pretty much ignored the superhero scene I hadn't been able to ignore the new supervillain trend.

Cause-driven supervillains appeared practically the day of the Event, along with professional villains who like using their powers to rob banks or armored cars or commit burglary, and rarer psychotic villains and high profile thrill-seeking villains for whom it was all a game. But for the past few years an honest-to-God supervillain culture had been growing.

Superpowers aren't always a ticket to success. A lot of powers are only useful in combat or other specialized situations, and some there's just no legitimate use for. And then there are superhumans who just don't play well with others and aren't interested in going the public-service route. It's also become a minority issue; superheroes work for the Man, the System—if you do you're a sellout. Add in the rise of supervillain rappers like Freakshow, and supervillains have turned into what Ajax calls a new subculture and "styletribe."

A lot of them are simply fashion-villains. (Supervillain fashion right now is jeans or leather pants, a leather jacket or duster, and a bright colored shirt with a symbol hand-painted on it. Tats or face-paint optional.) But the seriously hardcore believe you aren't a supervillain till you've bagged your own superhero. Bagged as in killed.

I was so not ready for this.

  "I'm ready for this." I said, still adjusting the kit on the back of my belt. I'd been the third to arrive in the Assembly Room, even beating Rush.

"No, you're not," Ajax said.

Atlas looked up. "But she's coming anyway. The media is going to be all over this one; she has to show willing."

Across the table I saw The Harlequin nod and Chakra shake her head.

"We're not discussing this," Atlas said. "We've got to be in the saddle. Our source puts the Sanguinary Boys here." He tapped the tabletop projection showing a gutted warehouse on Cottage Grove and 111th Street, just south of the old Pullman Clock Tower. "The Brotherhood is headed in their direction, moving fast but not putting out scouts so it's obviously prearranged. The South Side Guardians can't handle this themselves—our source counts nine Brothers and twelve Boys. The Guardians are down one, so they're bringing four: Malory, Scarlet, Killjoy, and Sprints."

He looked up again. "Rush, move now; I want you on your bike and in position in five."

And Rush was gone, off on the Rushmobile. I'd learned Rush didn't really move faster than the rest of us—he sped up his subjective time till he was living at a rate of 10 seconds per second of Realtime. When he really wanted to get somewhere fast he "jumped the wall," taking his gear-laden motorcycle into Hypertime, where no time passed in the Realtime world. Of course he had to drop back into Realtime to fight, since he couldn't affect the Realtime world at all from there.

"No other Guardian teams?" Ajax asked. The other CAI teams could have easily added as many as forty more heroes to the fight.

"Nope. Don't need them, don't want to look like we need them. You've read the files; four, five A-class bad guys tops. The CPD will be bringing the wagons, but we move in first—there's going to be a lot of power thrown around in there."

Ajax nodded. "Formation?"

"Nimbus, take close support. Chakra, there in spirit darlin'?" She nodded and glided from the room. "Ajax, we'll bomb. Quin, same with Astra. Blackstone, could you give us some subtle multipliers? Phantom doubles went down well last time. Scout the action and let us know if there are any surprises."

Blackstone saluted theatrically with his cane, disappearing with a swirl of opera cape and a puff of fragrant smoke.

"Any questions?" He looked around at the rest of us. "Then let's go."

The Assembly Room's elevator took us to the bay and we launched—with the exception of Nimbus, who had no dimmer switch and would stand out in the night sky like a de-orbiting satellite. As fast as she could travel, she'd catch up when the time came. Atlas lifted Ajax with a one-hand grip by an unobtrusive handle on his armored back for just such occasions, and Quin perched on my shoulders (which had to look just a bit ridiculous considering our size difference). We flew in a high arc over Chicago.

"Astra," Atlas whispered in my ear through our Dispatch link. "Quin's going to dismount into the middle of the fight, and then I want you to go for the Boys' biggest Ajax-type. His name is Brick, cleverly enough, and he's bald as an egg and will be wearing an orange brick-tiled coat. He's mid A-class, so he can take anything you dish out without breaking, but you should be up for him. Nimbus will keep anyone else off your back while you're bustin' him."

Translation: Nimbus will nail the guy if you can't. I nodded, then realized that wouldn't work. "Got it." I could feel my heartbeat high in my throat, but my voice was steady enough.

And that was it. Atlas refined his instructions to the others as we flew and he got reports from Rush and Blackstone. We slowed down, flying wide over Lake Michigan. Why? The show had to be starting any minute. My nerves stretched thin, thinner, but we flew even slower until finally Atlas called out again.

"Boys and girls, it's time to be rude. Go."

We got.

Chicago's two supervillain gangs had decided to meet in an old abandoned warehouse. It must have been a regular meeting place, maybe even an arena, because someone had thoughtfully rigged the place for lights. Which made target acquisition easy for everyone as we dropped on them. Leaping off my shoulders, Quin did a triple somersault as she dropped through the old building's ceiling ribs. Ajax just dropped, released like a targeted kinetic bomb.

I can do this. Remember Mr. Ludlow; find Brick, end the fight. Right.

They'd started the fight without us, but I spotted Brick easily and went for the direct approach—I landed on him, Atlas' advice from our sparring matches echoing in my ears.

Forget your size, and don't be fancy. Let your toughness protect you while you hit 'em hard. End it as fast as you can.

I came in feet first, aiming between his shoulder blades to smash him into the ground. I hit off center, but he went down with an explosive grunt. Grabbing an arm, I threw him through the inner wall to separate him from the crowd, went through the hole after him. I wanted room to swing a Brick without accidentally hitting someone more fragile.

Brick was already pumped up, and surprised or not he showed me how fast he could move. I found him rolling to his feet, and kept going right into him.

He didn't bother to dodge, just swung his huge fist in a whistling haymaker. With too much momentum I couldn't slide by, so now I tumbled. But Ajax hit harder in training; I smacked the ground in a correct fall and bounced to my feet, shaking it off.

Okay, surprise over.

Brick grinned. "Awesome! I'm going to get my hero!"

And he charged.

I didn't fly; my nerves disappeared into a thrill I'd never felt before.

Step and turn. Duck inside his reach, foot to the back of his knee, help him fall down hard with a hand to the back of his head to make it harder. It worked with Mr. Ludlow.

And it worked with Brick; he smacked down so hard that concrete chips flew up like water droplets from a mud puddle and the warehouse floor bounced under my feet. He went loose, stunned, and I grabbed an arm and pulled it behind him, intending to cuff him before he could recover.

Then a crystalline fog of water particles condensed out of the night air around me, and I could feel my core temperature dropping. It felt like the horrible sliding chill you get when you slurp down a milkshake too fast, but with my whole body. My heart seemed to slow as my blood tried to freeze.

My vision fogged up as my eyes iced over, but I saw a guy in a white duster and spiked and frosted hair climb through the hole. Laughing.

"Whoa! It's our new golden girl! I got mine, but I'll trade up."

I scrambled up, but Brick grabbed my leg and pulled me to the ground. I kicked, rolled over, but he wouldn't let go. Where was Nimbus? I scrabbled in the rubble.

Brick's grip tightened, grinding bones, but the cryokinetic was the one killing me. My questing hand found a chunk of concrete, and I twisted and made a hardball pitch at white-head's center of mass. I hit his arm, heard the crack and he screamed. My vision started clearing.

I kicked Brick in the face hard enough to snap his head back, but was too weak. He grunted but didn't let go, pulled me under him to reach up. When his free hand closed in an iron claw around my throat I forgot all technique to tear uselessly at his tightening grip. Then from nowhere I smelled Chakra's jasmine scent, felt her reassurance. Warmth bloomed deep inside me, like a flower opening to spill liquid sunlight instead of taking it in, and strength flowed back as the chill at my core melted.

I kicked again. Halfway under him now, I caught a very vulnerable spot and he screamed falsetto. Good to know Brick had stones.

He let go, curling into a fetal position, and I shot out from under him to land with intent on white-head. The cryokinetic screamed again when his broken arm hit the cement. Reaching behind me, I pulled out two of my three sets of police ties and quickly clipped his wrists behind him, then got his ankles.

"Don't go anywhere," I gasped. "I can always break the other one." Standing, I looked through the hole just in time for Rush to poke his head in.

"Are you done in here?" he asked. "Because I'm torn between watching and participating."

Behind him I could see the fight winding down. Supervillains littered the ground, sitting or lying down while our guys moved through the mess dispensing more ties. Twelve of us to twenty-one of them, and we'd kicked their asses.

I went back and flipped a whimpering Brick over on his stomach.

"Hands," I said, still breathing hard.

He stretched them out and I slapped the titanium thumb-cuffs on him.

Then I started shaking so bad I had to sit down.

Brick unfolded a little.

"First real fight?" he wheezed.

I nodded.

"Well, shit."

 The special paddywagons rolled in with the paramedics and the media tag-alongs, and the Chicago Police Department took it from there. We returned to the Dome and I went straight to the infirmary; Dr. Beth wanted to make sure having my core temperature temporarily dropped way below even hypothermia levels hadn't done me any lasting harm.

Chakra visited me there; yes she had been there in spirit, and had been responsible for the burst of energy that turned it around for me. She believed her powers came from tantric sex-magic, but I didn't care if she thought they came from eating clownfish.

Nimbus dropped by to apologize. She got hit in the opening round, and by the time she'd refocused on me my fight had been over. Seconds are all it takes. She was very upset, but I told her we were good. I needed to learn sign language. Nimbus "heard" sound with her whole photonic body, but couldn't talk (Chakra translated for me). She didn't speak, didn't eat or drink, couldn't touch. It didn't seem right.

Then Atlas dropped by to debrief me. I'd thought I was hiding my feelings, but after a few minutes he firmly pushed everyone out the door and closed it.

"You have very aggressive instincts." he said turning back to me.

"Oak Park High field hockey, MVP."

He studied me for a long moment.

"And you're a cool one. You're fit to be tied, but no conniptions. I reckon you've got something to say to me?"

"Why did we do that?"

"Do what?"

"Don't act stupid." After pulling myself together I'd gone back through the hole in the wall with my prisoners to help with the cleanup, and I wasn't going to close my eyes again tonight. I kept seeing Diceman, a Brother, laying in way too many pieces. I suppressed a near-hysterical giggle. He'd been diced.

"We could have shut that fight down before it started." My voice shook. "Nimbus could have blinded half of them in a flash. Rush could have tased everybody Nimbus didn't blind. Blackstone could have flooded the building with fog while you and I went through with infrared vision and cuffed everybody still standing. There's got to be a dozen ways we could have done it. Nobody needed to get hurt. Nobody needed to die."

He gave me a pitying look, like he was about to tell me there was no Santa Claus.

"Now there you're wrong."

"Why?"

"If we had shut it down before it started, taken them all in, what would have happened?"

"Three of them would still be alive, and Sprints wouldn't be in the hospital." The Guardians had waited to go in till we got there, and hadn't been as lucky as us.

"You're right. And then?"

I just looked back at him. Where was he going?

"How long would they have stayed off the street?" he asked. "They'd have lawyered up. Claimed they were there for a 'friendly meeting' and been out in a day. Stopping the fight, easy. Shutting them down? Whole different thing. So we waited till there was blood on the ground, then gave them plenty of room to kick up a fuss."

I shook my head. "Tell me we didn't wait for someone to die."

"I could, but I'd be lying. I wish we could have waited longer."

"No. We're heroes." Tears prickled my still-aching eyes.

"You're right," he said. He folded his arms and dropped the Texas drawl. "We don't use deadly force, and when we do there has to be a damn good reason. Remember what I told you? We wear the cape and do what we do to show normal people that we can protect them, that they don't have to be afraid of us. What do you think the Brotherhood and the Sanguinary Boys showed them? That they should be very afraid.

"We went out there tonight to stop them," he went on relentlessly. "Not to stop them from throwing down—to stop them. Three dead means three homicides, more injured means battery, aggravated assault, attempted homicides. They met to fight—that's premeditation and conspiracy to commit, and all of them are culpable.

"They're all going away for a good long time; the courts will give the maximum sentences without possibility of parole. They've got no patience for superhumans who do what they do, so the score is three dead bad guys and the rest in prison for at least a decade or two, maybe three. Hopefully they'll kill each other there. Our hands are clean, and the good citizens of Chicago will sleep a little easier."

I took a breath, then let it out and slid off the table. He stayed where he was and I headed for the door the long way around him. I stopped, my hand on the latch.

"You're wrong about one thing," I said without turning around.

"And what's that?"

"Our hands aren't clean."

  I hope you have enjoyed this sample of Astra's adventures! The full story of Astra's origin is completed in  Wearing the Cape and her adventures continue in  Villains Inc., available through Amazon.com.

For more information on these books and their author, go to Marion Harmon, A Writer in Vegas.

