Shades of Gray - By Jackie Kessler & Caitlin Kittredge Page 0,9
the rest of the Americas or reveling in it. Then again, Jet admitted to herself, she really didn’t want to find out.
After leaving a note for Commissioner Wagner, Jet was going to take off to old Wrigley Field for the meeting—she was already late, and the last thing she wanted to deal with was Frostbite’s grumbling. But after tucking the note into White Hot’s shoulder strap, Jet noticed that she had an audience. Civilians, ranging from early twenties to late seventies, based on outward appearances. None of them looked hostile, which was something. A few seemed curious. And one or two actually looked relieved. And blissfully, there was no media.
“Hey,” one of the civilians said—an auburn-haired man in sunglasses. “Littering’s a crime, innit?”
She couldn’t help it; she smiled. “Just dropping off a care package for Commissioner Wagner, citizen.”
The man grinned. “You don’t think he’d maybe prefer some freshly baked cookies next time?”
That actually made her laugh. “Next time,” she said, “maybe someone will be as thoughtful for me.”
And with that, Jet rocketed away.
CHAPTER 4
IRIDIUM
“I lost a daughter. My work, every second of my life, are geared toward making sure no other parent has to experience that void inside them.”
—Interview with Matthew Icarus on 60 Minutes,
January 19, 1970
Iridium’s warehouse crouched back from the street, like a shy animal or a sleeping bum, grit and dirt and teeth on the outside hiding what lay within.
She hit the code for the door—an old-fashioned keypad that couldn’t be sliced by any hack with a wireless rig. You had to get up close and personal to break in, and an equally ancient biometric scanner ensured that anyone besides Iridium or her assistant Boxer would get a healthy jolt from the city power grid.
Inside, Boxer sat with his back to the door, his shoes off, his feet in their mismatched socks propped on the shipping crate Iridium used as a table. A holo played on the wall, 3-D film explosions painting the wide, high space in sunset.
“Sitting on your ass is a good way to get a cap in it,” Iridium said.
Boxer jumped up, knocking over his soda and redimeal. He cursed. “Sneaking up on me’s a hobby for you, ain’t it?”
“Your own fault, old man. You didn’t used to be so sloppy.” Iridium grabbed her own meal from the freezer and shoved it into the cooker before she sat opposite Boxer. They’d developed a routine since they’d made their agreement—Boxer worked for her instead of gang running, and Iridium provided food, shelter, and the occasional 3-D film night.
Boxer wasn’t a brother, or an uncle—he was just Boxer, Academy washout, cranky old man, and the closest thing to a friend she had.
“I figure we ain’t worried about the Squadron anymore.” He shrugged. “Why do I need to guard the door?”
“Maybe because of the unmitigated chaos just beyond our doorstep?” Iridium got up again when the cooker chirped and pulled her meal out by the edges, peeling back the film and sticking a fork into the soy chicken. Real meat was a luxury, cloned on farms and sold in upscale markets. They’d eaten real meat at the Academy. “It’s not safe out there, Boxer. This city has descended into hell.”
“What’s the song? ‘Hell ain’t a bad place to be’?”
“Christo, you really are old.”
He threw his wadded napkin at her.
She ducked, grinning, then grabbed her can of Tab and popped the lid. The pink can shimmered as its malleable metal morphed into a cup. A division of Corp-Co appeared in pink script. Iridium turned the glass so she couldn’t see the writing. “I saw your nephew on the vids today.”
“Tyler? He commed me a few days ago. I didn’t pick up.”
Iridium chewed on her grainy chicken. “Why not?”
“Hell, what do the kid and I got to say to each other? I ditched out of the Academy when he was in diapers, and he spent most of his better years ready to arrest me on sight.”
“Things are different now,” Iridium said. “But hey, your family is your business.” Christo knew, she didn’t want anyone poking into the Bradford clan’s dysfunction.
“Different, sure. Inmates are running the damn asylum,” Boxer snorted, flipping the vids to the news. It was, if possible, even more violent than the action film he’d been watching. Iridium caught a flash of Shadow and saw Jet in fine form, kicking ass and taking names and still letting the camera find her good side.
Training was hard to shake.
On screen, the anchor announced, “And in other news, mounting tensions