not to call her that—it was against code to refer to each other by anything other than their designations. And she still heard the echoes of her father’s voice, whispering her name. But she held her tongue.
“Listen,” Iridium said, “my dad once told me something when I was little, and it’s helped me whenever I get nervous.”
Jet rolled onto her side to look at her roommate. Iri, nervous? Unheard of. “Really? What was it?”
“A quote, from a long-dead president. ‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.’”
What utter nonsense.
“And that helps?”
Iridium shrugged. “Yeah. It reminds me that whatever’s scaring the piss out of me is also scaring everyone around me, even if they’re not showing it. So all I have to do is not show it. So I don’t. Next thing I know, I’m really not afraid anymore.”
Spoken like someone who didn’t learn the hard way that you really should be afraid of the dark. But still, maybeshe had a point. “So a nightmare’s just a nightmare, and let it go?”
Iridium beamed. “Look who took a crash course in psychology. That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Thanks.” Jet smiled, faintly, not because she felt better but because Iri expected it.
“Stick with me, kid,” Iridium said, rolling over. “I’ll get you through this hellhole of an Academy.”
“You really think it’s that bad?”
“Nah. But I’m not convinced it’s all that good. ’Night.”
This time, Jet smiled for real. “Lancer.”
She and Iridium laughed at the old joke, then Jet settled back and eventually fell asleep, feeling safe in the light … and in the company of a friend.
CHAPTER 11
JET
Where do the heroes unwind when they’re done heroing? Do they go home to their spouses, kiss their children, and have a warm dinner? Or are they alone, in a forgotten part of town, desperate for downtime in a place that isn’t filled with people begging them to come help or to get their autograph?
Lynda Kidder, “Origins, Part Three,”
New Chicago Tribune,
April 9, 2112
J et coasted over New Chicago. Beneath her, the city ebbed and flowed: pedestrians on the walkways, scurrying like crabs; groundcars skimming the roads, leaving trails of exhaust in their wake; hovers cutting through the air currents. Buildings stretched up regally, their chrome-and-glass sides gleaming like sunlight on the water, dazzling the eyes, mesmerizing and exquisite. Usually, Jet enjoyed her patrols, even the quick ones she grabbed when she was on her way back to the Squadron Complex. From up high on a floater of Shadow, it was impossible to see the urban decay scarring the face of the city—the Everyman posters speckling the cityscape like a pox, or the filth of the lawless, marking their territory with debris and crime. Above New Chicago, there were no police emanating resentment,no blistering looks from citizens wrapped in anti-Squadron propaganda. Soaring above meant escaping the troubles below.
But today, there was no solace as winds kissed Jet’s face. Her lips pressed together thinly as she once again replayed how she had screwed up. Light, Meteorite had been livid with her.
“I should kick you,” Meteorite had shouted. “Kick you hard in the ass!”
“There’s no need—”
“Of
course
there’s a need! Where’s your brain? Christo, Jet, how could you let her get away?”
“It’s not like I gave her a free pass,” Jet had seethed, more angry with herself than with Ops—and she counted her blessings that it was Meteorite on shift. At least she got along well enough with the onetime Weather power; if it had been Frostbite, Jet would have been filing reports for the foreseeable future … and probably would have had to explain herself to the executive committee of Corp. She’d sooner repeat all of her five years at the Academy, twice, before having to explain herself to the EC. They made the Everyman Society look positively docile. “I fought hard, did my best!”
“Sure you did.
“Listen,” Iridium said, “my dad once told me something when I was little, and it’s helped me whenever I get nervous.”
Jet rolled onto her side to look at her roommate. Iri, nervous? Unheard of. “Really? What was it?”
“A quote, from a long-dead president. ‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.’”
What utter nonsense.
“And that helps?”
Iridium shrugged. “Yeah. It reminds me that whatever’s scaring the piss out of me is also scaring everyone around me, even if they’re not showing it. So all I have to do is not show it. So I don’t. Next thing I know, I’m really not afraid anymore.”
Spoken like someone who didn’t learn the hard way that you really should be afraid of the dark. But still, maybeshe had a point. “So a nightmare’s just a nightmare, and let it go?”
Iridium beamed. “Look who took a crash course in psychology. That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Thanks.” Jet smiled, faintly, not because she felt better but because Iri expected it.
“Stick with me, kid,” Iridium said, rolling over. “I’ll get you through this hellhole of an Academy.”
“You really think it’s that bad?”
“Nah. But I’m not convinced it’s all that good. ’Night.”
This time, Jet smiled for real. “Lancer.”
She and Iridium laughed at the old joke, then Jet settled back and eventually fell asleep, feeling safe in the light … and in the company of a friend.
CHAPTER 11
JET
Where do the heroes unwind when they’re done heroing? Do they go home to their spouses, kiss their children, and have a warm dinner? Or are they alone, in a forgotten part of town, desperate for downtime in a place that isn’t filled with people begging them to come help or to get their autograph?
Lynda Kidder, “Origins, Part Three,”
New Chicago Tribune,
April 9, 2112
J et coasted over New Chicago. Beneath her, the city ebbed and flowed: pedestrians on the walkways, scurrying like crabs; groundcars skimming the roads, leaving trails of exhaust in their wake; hovers cutting through the air currents. Buildings stretched up regally, their chrome-and-glass sides gleaming like sunlight on the water, dazzling the eyes, mesmerizing and exquisite. Usually, Jet enjoyed her patrols, even the quick ones she grabbed when she was on her way back to the Squadron Complex. From up high on a floater of Shadow, it was impossible to see the urban decay scarring the face of the city—the Everyman posters speckling the cityscape like a pox, or the filth of the lawless, marking their territory with debris and crime. Above New Chicago, there were no police emanating resentment,no blistering looks from citizens wrapped in anti-Squadron propaganda. Soaring above meant escaping the troubles below.
But today, there was no solace as winds kissed Jet’s face. Her lips pressed together thinly as she once again replayed how she had screwed up. Light, Meteorite had been livid with her.
“I should kick you,” Meteorite had shouted. “Kick you hard in the ass!”
“There’s no need—”
“Of
course
there’s a need! Where’s your brain? Christo, Jet, how could you let her get away?”
“It’s not like I gave her a free pass,” Jet had seethed, more angry with herself than with Ops—and she counted her blessings that it was Meteorite on shift. At least she got along well enough with the onetime Weather power; if it had been Frostbite, Jet would have been filing reports for the foreseeable future … and probably would have had to explain herself to the executive committee of Corp. She’d sooner repeat all of her five years at the Academy, twice, before having to explain herself to the EC. They made the Everyman Society look positively docile. “I fought hard, did my best!”
“Sure you did.
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