Crawling From the Wreckage Page 6

  And then came the day they decided New Jersey had nothing more to offer and, on a whim, they left for Springfield, Massachusetts. There they encountered the city’s local super-hero, Deuce X. Machine, a muscle-bound idiot who offered no challenge worth mentioning. Disappointed, they retreated to a motel to wait for...what?

  “We were supposed to wait here for something,” Drake says.

  “Yeah,” Candace agrees, “but I can’t remember what.”

  “That would be Nemo’s last order compelling you to await his return,” Jason says.

  “So where is he?”

  “As I understand it, Mr. Nemo met with an unexpected and tragic end. That unfortunately left his many contacts high and dry. Prospects all up and down the East Coast have been stuck in a holding pattern, with no clue what they were waiting for or why.”

  “We’ve been in this stinking city for seven months,” Candace says in a frustrated growl. “Every time we think about leaving, we — we don’t. We sit in our fleabag scumbucket motel room night after night, eating cheap takeout and wondering why we aren’t packing our bags and going back to Jersey.”

  “And for that, my organization apologizes sincerely. They had more immediately pressing matters to address, but now that they’ve done so, they’ve sent me to continue Nemo’s good work. I’m here to discuss your future with our organization, if you’re still interested.”

  “We’re not disinterested.”

  “Uninterested. Disinterested means you’re neutral and have no stake in a given matter — though I suppose that applies accurately enough to this situation.” Jason checks his watch. “Lunch will be here in thirty seconds. What do you say we eat and talk this over some more? Perhaps in the privacy of your fleabag scumbucket motel room?” He looks to Candace. “Assuming you want to go back there, that is.”

  “Not especially,” Candace says.

  “I thought as much. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven...”

  “Here you go, one Thanksgiving Sandwich,” Mary says, sliding a plate in front of Jason, “and two cheeseburgers. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

  “Thank you, Mary.” Jason shrugs. “I was a little off that time,” he says to Drake. “It happens.”

  “We’re none of us perfect,” Drake says.

  ***

  “And you are...?”

  As a courtesy, I landed outside the front security gate leading to the Bose Industries complex. I could have easily dropped down in front of the corporate office building and walked right in, but I wanted to be professional and considerate. And what do I get for my good manners? I get stonewalled by a security guard high on his own authority.

  “Lightstorm,” I say. “Come on, Lusk, you know me. I’ve been here dozens of times.”

  “So where’s your costume, Lightstorm?” Lusk says with a faint sneer. Man, what crawled up your butt and died?

  “One: don’t say my name so sarcastically. It’s rude. Two: it’s a uniform, not a costume. And three: my uniform is at home because I didn’t think I’d need it because I’m pretty sure you don’t get a lot of glowing, flying girls showing up and asking to talk to Edison.”

  “You can’t be too careful nowadays. You got any ID on you?”

  Oh, screw this.

  I power up and fly into the heart of the compound (sorry, Lusk, but not sorry). I touch down outside the main office building and enter to a much warmer welcome.

  “Lightstorm, hello,” says the receptionist. Oh, I know her name. What is it? Mendes? Mendelssohn? Men-something. “Mr. Bose is expecting you. Go on up.”

  I thank Men-whatever and take the elevator to the top floor, where I find Trina, Edison’s personal receptionist, chatting with a smart-looking young man in a navy polo shirt and khakis. I repeat: a polo shirt and khakis. My God, has the whole world gone mad in my absence?

  “Hey, stranger. Klaatu barada nikto,” Matt says.

  “Yes, and a happy clatter barracuda necktie to you too,” I say.

  “I thought you’d be more comfortable if I spoke in an alien tongue.”

  “I don’t want to hear about your tongue, alien or otherwise.” I notice a pair of thick leather bracelets around his wrists. “Interesting choice of fashion accessory. Did biker chic become a thing while I was gone?”

  “Right, you haven’t seen these yet. Check it out.” He holds his arms up like a surgeon prepping for surgery and says, “Schrodinger’s cat is alive.”

  In the time it takes me to blink once, the bracelets transform into the leather gauntlets I saw on him in Manchester — fingerless gloves with dense padding around the palms and knuckles to absorb impact.

  “What the what?” I gawk. “What happened to your magic gloves?”

  “These are them!”

  While he was laid up in the hospital, Matt kept himself occupied by playing around with the specs for his thunder gun, the weapon he designed to duplicate Concorde’s concussion blasts. He lost it during the fight with Damage Inc. and wanted to avoid a repeat, so he started toying with the idea of making the tech wearable.

  Meanwhile, unlikely lab partners Doctors Quentin and Enigma were working together to reconcile certain scientific and magical theories. Dr. Quentin, once an avowed critic of magic, had become convinced that Arthur C. Clarke’s third law — any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic — applied in real life and wanted to find a way for technology and magic to work hand-in-hand. When Matt found out about their little pet project, he wondered if it would be possible to combine his magic gloves with thunder gun tech. He pitched the idea to Astrid and Dr. Quentin, who brought in Edison and Tisha, and over the summer, Team Science figured out how to do just that. The end product was the thunder gauntlets, a perfect hybrid of his so-called Schrodinger’s gloves and the thunder gun. When active, the gauntlets can produce any physical object Matt can envision and fire debilitating concussion blasts. When deactivated (using the phrase “Schrodinger’s cat is dead”), they transform into seemingly innocuous leather bracelets.

  “My name is on a research paper with three of the most brilliant scientific minds of this century and the world’s foremost authority on all things magical and supernatural,” Matt says. “If that doesn’t get me into MIT, nothing will.”

  “Plus, your ‘How I Spent my Summer Vacation’ essay will probably get a decent grade,” I say.

  “The cherry on the sundae.”

  “Carrie?” Trina says. “Edison will see you now.”

  “Thanks. Are you going to be sitting in on the grand debriefing?” I say to Matt.

  “Man, I wish. Seriously, I’d love to, but alas, I am a very busy adult with many important things to do.”

  “Busy, I can believe, but an adult? Ha. Ha, I say.”

  “Go ahead and laugh. Your contempt sustains me. After you’re done, want to grab lunch with me down in the cafeteria?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll text you when I’m done.”

  “Cool,” he says, and Matt the very busy adult marches off to attend to his many important things.

  Edison isn’t alone in his office. A woman in a smart blue suit finishes up a quiet conversation — quiet and, judging by how close she’s standing to him, personal.

  “I’ll let you go,” she says.

  “All right,” Edison says, smiling in a way I’ve never seen him smile before. “Talk to you later.”

  Edison, like a gentleman, escorts her to the door. She stops and extends a hand in greeting. She’s tall, pretty, and has what I’d call a sturdy build; hers is the physique of someone who works out regularly.

  “Hi, Carrie. Lia Pershing, Forward Robotic Concepts,” she says as if that’s supposed to mean something.

  “FRC handles prototype development and production for our robotics and cybernetics projects,” Edison explains. Ah, now I remember. Last year, Bose Industries bought out what was left of Advanced Robotics and Cybernetics, the fine people who gave us Archimedes, and outsourced the work to some company in — Delaware, I thin
k?

  “Edison’s told me so much about you I feel like I know you already.”

  “I assume if I’d been around, Edison would have told me all about you,” I say.

  “I certainly hope so,” Lia says, tossing Edison a smile over her shoulder. “It was nice meeting you, Carrie.”

  “Yeah, same here,” I say to her back as she strides out like a very busy adult with many important things to do. Seems to be a lot of that going around. “Your girlfriend seems nice,” I say to Edison.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” he says.

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Our relationship is strictly professional.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Fine. We are seeing each other, yes, but on a casual basis. It’s nothing serious.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Edison leads me back to his big fancy executive desk and invites me to have a seat. “It’s good to see you again,” he says warmly.

  “You too, boss.”

  “I’ll warn you, at some point I am going to insist that you tell me all about the advanced technology you saw.”

  “Sorry, Edison, no can do. Earth is officially classified by the Kyros Alliance as a gray-listed world. That means the planet’s technological capabilities have yet to be formally assessed, which means I am expressly forbidden from sharing Alliance tech with you or anyone. I probably shouldn’t have brought my phone back with me.”

  “Your phone?”

  “I had it retrofitted with a virtually indestructible case, and the battery can hold a full charge for ten years. Oh, and I recharge it by exposing it to sunlight for a couple of minutes.”

  Edison does not shock easily, but when I tell him about my cool phone upgrades, his eyes pop like a kid discovering a puppy under his Christmas tree.

  “And you can’t let me look at it,” he says.

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  He frowns. “That is the most disappointing thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, my status as a lieutenant in the Vanguard means Earth is by default a provisional member world, so who knows? You might yet get to play with some cool alien toys.”

  “Here’s hoping. Lieutenant, eh? Impressive,” Edison says with utter sincerity. I shrug modestly. “Sounds like your time in outer space was eventful.”

  “...You could say that.”

  He spreads his hands. “Well? Any good war stories? Or are you forbidden from sharing those too?”

  “I have war stories,” I say flatly, “but none of them are good. They all end with a lot of people dying.”

  “Oh. Oh, Carrie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean —”

  “I know. It’s okay.”

  “If you need to talk —”

  “I don’t.”

  “Okay.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. I assume Sara has filled you in on some of the key events of the last eight months or so?”

  “What she didn’t tell me, the Internet did. I know about the Great Unmasking, the fallout from the Kingsport Landing, Mr. Dent-slash-the Foreman...”

  “Those would be the greatest hits. A matter of ongoing concern, and perhaps a more pressing issue for us, is the recent uptick in criminal activity involving superhumans.”

  “Yeah, Sara mentioned that, too. You think the Foreman is outfitting wannabes, looking for people who might make the cut and move up to professional super-villain status?”

  “That’s our working theory. Super-heroes all across the country have been a lot busier than normal, but the real problem is, we can’t trace anything back to a source. We busted a black market weapons dealer in the South End last year, but the suppliers got smart and stopped handling direct sales. Everyone we’ve taken down since then has gotten their tech through an anonymous middleman. We’re running around putting out fires when we need to be nailing whoever is handing out the matches.”

  “Send me in, coach,” I say. “I need something to do and I have plenty of time to do it in.”

  “I appreciate that, but we have to take care of some necessary business first. When you’ve fully settled back in, I’d like you to write up a report about your experiences with the Vanguard. I’d like as much information as you’re at liberty to divulge.”

  I can’t help but note the careful phrasing here. He’s not asking for as much information as I’m comfortable providing but as much as I can provide. Edison’s determined to get the full gory details out of me.

  As if to prove me right, he then says, “And I want you to schedule a day to sit down with Bart.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I don’t know. Is it?”

  He’s got me there.

  “Look, Carrie, I’m thrilled you’re back, personally and professionally, but before I put you back on the active roster, I have to know you’re fit for combat duty,” he says, and I involuntarily tighten up when he says combat duty.

  “Why do I have to talk to Bart?” I say, more sharply than I intend.

  “Because I think you need to. You said it yourself; you saw some horrible things out there. I don’t want to put you back out in the field if you can’t handle it. This is a matter of safety, Carrie — yours and your teammates’.”

  That shuts me up but good. I can be a bit reckless, I know that, but my recent experiences are a painful reminder that my actions have consequences beyond myself.

  “You’re currently red-listed due to your MIA status — which you no longer are, obviously — but I won’t reactivate you until I’m convinced you’re ready,” Edison says. “Assuming you even want to come back to the team, that is.”

  “I do. Absolutely. I need some semblance of normalcy in my life.”

  Edison laughs. “What does it say about us that we consider our lives normal?”

  “It’s all about context.”

  “That it is.”

  “Edison, please. I need to do something.”

  His eyes narrow to slits, but I can still see the internal debate going on behind them. “I can give you something, if you’re amenable to it. It wouldn’t be terribly exciting, but it would be helpful.”

  “Yes. Whatever. I’m amenable. That’s my middle name now, Carrie Amenable Hauser.”

  “I like Dakota better.”

  “Shut up and give me an assignment already.”

  “Matt tells me you’ve met Skyblazer.”

  “Yeah, yesterday. What’s his deal, anyway? Did you give him an old Concorde suit or something?”

  “Oh, no,” Edison says with a distinct note of irritation. “That suit is, for want of a better word, a bootleg version of mine. Well, my suit from two upgrades ago. It’s not a perfect copy but it’s close enough to piss me off.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  Edison makes a thoughtful sound, then says, “I think you should ask Dennis directly. That’s his story to tell. What I will say is, you can trust him. Sara did a little poking around in his head — with his permission,” he adds quickly, “and I personally grilled him at length. He’s a good kid and he has some natural talent, but he’s inexperienced. He could use some training.”

  “And that’s where I come in.”

  “If you want the job. I think he’d benefit from your expertise.” Edison drops his voice, as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear him confess, “Something tells me you could fly circles around me now.”

  I can’t resist smirking. “You wouldn’t be wrong.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “Consider me on-board. How much of a drill sergeant do you want me to be?”

  “Full Metal Jacket,” Edison says. I’ve never seen the movie, but I get the gist. “No mollycoddling, no kid gloves. Push him hard — to his limits and beyond.”

  “Done and done.”

  “Excellent.” He smiles. “Welcome back, Carrie.”

  “It’s good to be back.”

  SEVEN

  Before I leave to join Matt for lunch, Edison gives me
Skyblazer’s number. His real name is Dennis Antar, but that isn’t for public consumption. Skyblazer and his fellow Wardens are among the minority of super-heroes who maintain secret identities, even within the profession; according to Matt, they initially refused to share their real names with the Squad.

  “Maybe you should give him a call first and warm him up for me,” I say.

  “Yeah, good idea,” Matt says, digging his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll shoot him a text now.”

  “Thanks. Why are they so protective, anyway? Pretty much everyone else has gone public.”

  “For the same reason we were so protective: they don’t want their parents stopping them.”

  I take a bite of my open-faced roast beef sandwich. The meat is tender and perfectly seasoned, the gravy is hot and savory, but I might as well be eating school cafeteria food. I glance at the slice of cheesecake I picked out for a dessert, almost accusingly, like I’m preemptively blaming it for being as bland as everything else I’ve eaten since I got back.

  “I get that,” I say, “but it’s all worked out for us.”

  “Yeah, but it was a long, ugly, painful process. I mean, after I landed in the hospital my Dad was —” Matt frowns. “Wait, did Sara tell you about that?”

  “She did, yeah, and about the Foreman.”

  “Try not to spread that last part around,” Matt says in a conspiratorial hush. “As far as the general public knows, Damage Inc. was killed fighting with me.”

  “Okay.” It takes Matt’s comment a minute to register. “Wait, what?”

  “Uh-huh. Officially speaking, I killed Damage Inc. — in self-defense, of course.”

  “But — what? Why? How did that get hung on you?”

  “You can thank Edison for that,” Matt grumbles. “He didn’t want people freaking out that a super-villain had infiltrated the high school to spy on us, but in order to erase him from the story he had to pin Damage Inc. on someone, and since there were plenty of eyewitnesses who saw me fighting them minutes earlier...”