Hero. Майкл Грант
into mutants or whatever?”
“Mary, what are you talking about?”
Mary shrugged. “I’m just saying what the news says. They said a big rock, a meteorite or asteroid or whatever, was heading toward Manhattan, so they nuked it.”
The bright pinpoints of light: nuclear explosions going off at the edge of space.
“The nukes broke it up, I guess, but it still hit. There’s buildings burning and all. I had to cross the park, and it’s full of people all scared to death. People are saying it’s worse than 9/11.” Mary had started to cry, which angered Simone: Mary wasn’t the one bleeding.
Still sitting on a floor no doubt crawling with exotic hospital germs, Simone looked past Mary and saw looming over her three people: one in NYPD uniform, two in jeans and blue windbreakers with large yellow letters across the back reading ICE, one male, one female.
A nurse was with them. She said, “This is one of them.”
“All right,” the female ICE agent said. She fixed Simone with a no-nonsense look, like a disappointed assistant principal who’d caught her ditching class, and pointed to a gold shield on her belt. “I’m with ICE, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, operating under emergency presidential decree.”
“Wait, what?” Simone frowned and shook her head not so much to say no, but to try and clear her head. “ICE? But I’m a US citizen.”
“Understood, miss. We’ve been deputized to act in this emergency. It’s for your own safety.”
Simone was confused, but not so confused that she didn’t know bullshit when she heard it. And as a child of privilege, she knew what words to say. She climbed to her feet, wincing at pains that had become deep aches, fighting the resistance of bruised and stiffening muscles. She said, “I want a lawyer.”
“We aren’t arresting you, miss. This is for your own protection.” The other ICE agent, a balding man with permanent worry lines around his eyes, tried out the same lie but was even less convincing.
“I want to see my father. And I want a lawyer. I’m not going anywhere until I—”
“Miss, you have to come with us.”
Simone turned to the NYPD officer. “Are you standing there allowing these people to drag an American citizen, a New Yorker, out of a hospital?” The policeman winced, then looked away, clearly not happy with his role.
“We are the federal government,” the plainclotheswoman said as if that would shut the conversation down. But this was tough New York, not nice Minnesota: New Yorkers were not by nature easy to shut up, and Simone was very much a New Yorker.
“Hey, Feds are the people who were doing that crazy stuff out in California. I’m not going anywhere with you people.”
“Under the Special Emergency Decree, we can take you to a secure facility for—”
“Hey, you!” Simone snapped, pointing at the uniformed policeman again. “You’re NYPD and I’m a New Yorker. Protect and freaking serve, man. Are you going to stand there and let these guys bully me? Where’s the warrant?”
The policeman seemed to agree, but he shook his head ruefully and said, “I’m sorry, miss, but we have orders to cooperate with the Feds.”
“I’m an American citizen in a goddamn hospital, I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, and I have done nothing wrong. You want me, you’ll have to drag me. Mary! Are you taping?”
“On it,” Mary said, holding her phone up.
“You need to put that phone down and wipe that recording,” the male ICE agent demanded.
But Mary was also a New Yorker and answered, “It’s live-streaming, and basically, screw you. I know my rights.”
At which point the agent stepped in quickly and snatched the iPhone away as Mary and Simone both unleashed verbal tirades liberally punctuated with F-bombs.
In the end it took the NYPD officers plus both ICE agents to carry/drag Simone, while fending off Mary, and the five of them went kicking and yelling out through the emergency room and down a corridor to the parking garage, where a black SUV with darkened windows waited.
From the Purple Moleskine:
FINDING IT HARDER and harder to think about writing fiction. Reality is too weird. I’m part of a group of superheroes, for God’s sake. Best friend can run 800 mph. Malik can make people wish they were dead. Francis moves through walls. There are silent, unseen aliens in our heads when we morph. Just the fact that I can write words like “alien” and “morph” and have them be a real thing, WTF ?
Times I think the watchers have a sense of humor or irony. Gentle, thoughtful Malik can cause agony. Driven, obsessive Shade can outrun a 787—how perfect for someone always in a hurry.
Then there’s me. How brilliantly cruel to give me the power I have. Let’s take the trans girl just starting to figure out how to be who and what she is, and give her the ability to appear as anyone of any gender, age, race . . . Not complaining—it’s so much better than what Malik got. Still.
Now I’m this famous person from an iconic photo. Millions of people who don’t know me have definite opinions about me. Expectations. I’m a hero to strangers and a mystery to myself. The personal is being obliterated. I’m in a war, and the war isn’t about me or what I feel or what I need. I get that. I know I’m just one tiny part of something huge and terrifying. I get that people are scared to death and looking for a hero.
But I am still just this one person. Just me. Cruz.
Also I’m thinking way too much about Armo.
Warning to self: heartbreak ahead.
If I live that long.
| 3 | BOLDLY GOING WHERE NO 3-D PERSON HAS GONE BEFORE |
“HOLD MY HAND,” Francis Specter said.
Malik held her hand.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Francis asked. “I’m worried you might get hurt or whatever and it would be my fault.”
“You took me into the Triunfo to take down Dillon Poe,” Malik said. “I was fine. Weirded out, but fine.”
They were talking quietly in the separate dining room of the suite because a sunburned Armo and Cruz were watching a movie in the living room, and Shade was reading something on a laptop provided by the casino hotel’s management. Dekka had gone down to replace a broken tail light on her precious motorcycle, involuntarily assisted by two starstruck guys from building maintenance.
Malik had not exactly cleared this experiment with the others. He worried that if they knew what he was up to, they’d come up with an endless list of objections, and he didn’t want more delay. The others did not have the Dark Watchers constantly, constantly in their heads. They could watch a movie. They could read. Malik was straining just to avoid screaming half the time, not from physical pain but from the crushing humiliation and impotent anger that came from having alien consciousnesses poking through your mind, seeing the world through your eyes.
Using me. Violating me.
There were times when anger would almost suffocate him, and that was not a feeling Malik liked. Malik was about doing things, fixing things, and above all, understanding things. Passively raging at invisible creatures in his head was not good for him;