Iron Maiden Master Fiction Post
Mark Jones
Mark Jones
Title Fight
I suppose you've all seen the video by now. It was all over the local news and I don't doubt that it's on You Tube by now.
So...Evergreen Literacy. They're a charity pushing literacy (go figure). As it happens, I'm a big supporter of literacy efforts. My life would be unimaginably poorer if I couldn't read. So I support literacy programs on the “teach a man to fish” theory. Teach someone to read and the world opens up. Literature, science, politics, philosophy, anything that interests him is his for the taking. So I offered to show up at a fund raiser and sign autographs. I figured that an hour or two of my time was well worth it.
It didn't go as well as I'd hoped. Let me just check....yep. It's on You Tube. Go take a look, then come back. I'll wait.
Video close-up of Iron Maiden standing by the entrance of Evergreen City Literacy. A crowd of spectators are watching as she speaks to a local tv reporter. A figure in gleaming black and silver armor appears as if from nowhere behind and to one side of Iron Maiden. The camera zooms out rapidly to catch the action as the armored figure seizes Iron Maiden by the neck, spins her around and slams her face first into the concrete wall behind her, following up with a rapid-fire series of punches to the back of her head and kidneys.
It has happened so suddenly that the crowd only now begins to react. The video becomes shaky as the fleeing crowd jostles the cameraman, shouting and jabbering in alarm. The camera catches the armored figure lifting Iron Maiden overhead in both hands and slamming her into the asphalt surface at her feet with such force that the cameraman stumbles back and the camera tilts up to frame the sky for a moment. In the distance a car alarm starts screeching. The armored figure appears to be female, if the shape of the armor is any indication.
Iron Maiden is apparently stunned, though not unconscious. She is trying to get to her feet. The armored figure kicks her brutally in the mid-section, driving her into the side of the building again. Bricks splinter and crack and Iron Maiden drops to the ground again, still conscious. She asks a question, but her words are inaudible.
The armored figure looks down at her. “Who am I?” the figure roars in an amplified voice. “I'm IRON MAIDEN, bitch!”
Iron Maiden lifts her head and speaks again. “Over...body,” is all the camera catches. The armored figure laughs. “That's the general--”she says, and then cuts off as Iron Maiden and the armored figure vanish off the top edge of the video. The camera tilts up abruptly, catching
Iron Maiden flying rapidly upward, towing her armored attacker with a grip on one ankle.
The figures are dwindling rapidly when a series of brilliant flashes blot out the image for a moment. When the video clears again it shows Iron Maiden falling limply until she strikes the roof of a car, collapsing it and setting off the car alarm, before she bounces and hits the asphalt again. A moment later the armored figure lands softly, under power.
The armored figure is ranting at her opponent, though the words are mostly unintelligible. Another brutal kick drives Iron Maiden into the side of the damaged vehicle. “--stole my name, damn you!” she yells. “--worked for years on this armor!”
Iron Maiden is—amazingly--still moving. She struggles to sit up as her opponent stalks toward her again. “--a hero if not for you!”
The armored figure draws back a foot, preparing to kick again. Iron Maiden hits her with the car. It's an impossible act. Even given the strength to use the vehicle as a weapon, she hasn't got the leverage to lift it. But she does. The car pivots around Iron Maiden, slamming into her attacker and knocking her off her feet. Iron Maiden rises to her feet and then up into the air as she takes hold of the car with both hands and raises it to hammer her foe into the asphalt.
The armored figure raises one arm and blinding bolts of energy blast holes through the vehicle, reducing it to wreckage. Gasoline spills and ignites, pouring over both women. Neither one seems to notice. Iron Maiden tosses the wreckage aside and falls on the armored figure, throwing punches as fast as she can. It's at least as brutal as the initial assault she suffered. She doesn't let up, continuing to punch hard, fast and repeatedly.
By the time she stops, panting for breath, the armored figure is half sunken in the asphalt. Iron Maiden fumbles with the helmet for a moment then simply digs into the metal with her fingers and peels it away. The face beneath is bruised and bloodied. Iron Maiden shouts at approaching bystanders to stay back, then proceeds to peel away the rest of the armor, reducing it to scrap. By the time she's done, the police and EMTs are on the scene.
Iron Maiden drifts into the air and settles a little unsteadily on her feet. “It's safe now,” she says—and EMTs rush in to deal with her defeated opponent.
Well, wasn't that exciting? I especially like how my would-be namesake ambushes me there. Fast, brutal, unexpected. Everything a good ambush should be, except that she didn't complete it. She had me on the ropes but she stopped to gloat. You'll notice that when I finally got my hands on her I didn't make that same mistake. I wasn't about to let her get another crack at me.
What was her major malfunction? Glad you asked. She's been busy building a suit of powered armor for years. Apparently she'd settled on the name Iron Maiden for her big debut. Alas, I came along and took the name only weeks before she was ready. She's spent the last couple of months building up a huge head of hatred and resentment. So when she was finally ready to go operational, she decided that she had to defeat me and thereby somehow establish her right to the name.
You can't hear it on the video but she claims that until I usurped her name she was going to be a superheroine. Well, maybe. Frankly, I think that if my using 'her' name was all it took to turn her to the dark side, the chances of her ever being a superheroine were pretty remote.
Now what, I hear you asking? She's in the Evergreen City Jail on charges of aggravated assault and battery and attempted murder. The police identified her pretty quick—all things considered—and they were all over her house within hours. She's got a huge lab in her basement, with all the machinery necessary to design and fabricate the armor. I'm sure the feds will be all over it by the time you read this.
I also suspect that before all is said and done, they'll cut a deal with her. If she spends more than a few months in jail I'll be surprised. She'll probably wind up on probation and working for the federal government designing weapons and armor for them. I suppose I should be outraged, but I'm not. I know how the system works. I've got better uses for my time and energy than getting exercised over things I can't control.
As long as they keep her away from me, I'll be content. To slightly misquote Max Shreck from Batman Returns, “Bottom line, she tries to bother me again, I'll drop her out a higher window. Meantime, I've got bigger fish to fry.”
Signed,
Iron Maiden
(the one and only)
Mark Jones
POST-COMBAT SHAKES
Tara dropped out of the night sky, hesitating for a moment to scan for witnesses. She saw and heard none—not that she expected any at 3 a.m. but that was no excuse to get sloppy. Only one apartment showed any light, and that was through a closed set of blinds.
She drifted down to land on the balcony of her third floor apartment. The balcony door was closed but unlocked, just as she’d left it. She stepped inside and locked the door behind her. She wasn’t worried about intruders, but the ritual made her feel more secure. The rest of the world was locked out, leaving her alone in her sanctum.
She didn’t bother with the lights. She didn’t need them to navigate the living room and hallway. She pulled her mask off and held it in one white-knuckled hand. She paused with her free hand on the knob of her bedroom door.
A hiccuping sob escaped, surprisingly loud in the silence of her apartment.
It was always this way. Every goddamned time.
She pushed the door open. A small bedside lamp illuminated the small, neat room. Her view of the bedroom smeared and ran as tears filled her eyes.
She fell back against the door, pushing it shut, hugging herself. She hated this. Hated it!
It hurt like hell. All the terror and horror and fury of the battle against Mechanon burst up and out from where she’d stamped it down out of her awareness while everything happened. It kept her mind clear, let her concentrate on dealing with the crisis. It had kept her safe many times as a child, long before she’d discovered her powers.
Kept her safe, kept her siblings safe. Kept them alive at least once.
She still remembered standing alone, her younger siblings crying behind her, a handgun clasped in her small, steady hands, as one of her mother’s drunken, abusive boyfriends raged beyond the locked door in front of her. Even then, not even a teenager yet—but her hands were steady and she’d been clear-eyed, calm, ready to do whatever it took.
It hadn’t come to that. Ultimately the monster had passed out and she’d escaped through the window with her siblings and taken refuge with a neighbor. But she’d have done it. And she’d have done it calmly.
Afterward, she’d had hysterics. Cried, screamed, hugged herself as if she would vomit up a lung from the intensity of the sobs. But only afterward. When the crisis was over.
Just like now.
Tara slid down the door to plop onto the floor, hugging herself tightly, sobbing. It went on for some time, sometimes silently, sometimes loud enough that she feared her neighbors would overhear. They never did. She cried out the terror and the horror and unjustness of it all, the emotions raw and sharp enough to leave her feeling shredded inside and out.
She could have died tonight. The thought of just ending, of the world spinning on without her—forever—was terrifying. The others could have died too. That was terrifying enough, but if they’d failed, everyone could have died. Everyone she’d ever known and billions more besides. It wasn’t fair that they were saddled with that responsibility. It horrified her that the fate of the world had been dropped into their hands.
After some measureless time, the storm passed. Tara slumped against the bedroom door, feeling drained, physically and emotionally. Hollow. Dehydrated. And sticky.
She drifted up to her feet, wiped her eyes with the mask still clenched in one fist, and dropped it into her laundry basket. She stripped off the rest of her costume. When she entered the master bath and flipped the light switch her reflection was no surprise. Her eyes were reddened and puffy, her face blotchy and tear streaked. Some women cried daintily and prettily.
She was not one of them.
She washed her face, which made her feel a little better. She drank a tumbler of water and that helped too.
She wondered what the others were doing. Not having hysterics, she was certain. Quasar was probably busy with some scientific experiment—if he wasn’t asleep. Blacklight was probably asleep; she seemed like a pretty level-headed woman. Hammett…she had no idea. Ditto for Coldspark. That was a good name for him; there was something cold and standoffish about him. As for Connor…he was probably out drinking somewhere. That seemed to be his only hobby.
Not that she objected to drinking—in moderation. If it weren’t so early (or so late), she might consider going out to a bar or a club herself. Except that she didn’t want a drink. She wanted to dance and flirt (yes, and drink a little) and pick someone up.
Except not that either, really. She didn’t feel social. Just in need of physical contact. A few hours of holding someone else and being held, a reminder that she was still alive, still able to enjoy life. A few orgasms wouldn’t hurt either.
Tara looked at herself in the mirror. Do you know anyone you can phone at 4 in the morning for a booty call?
She sighed. You do not. You really ought to work on that.This is probably not the last time you’re going to be in this predicament.
She left the bathroom, then the bedroom, headed for the kitchen.
She was hungry, too. And that she could do something about.
* * *
“And how does that make you feel?”
Dr. Gershwitz sat with his hands clasped in front on him, waiting on an answer. It had been three days since the battle with Mechanon. This was her regular weekly session with him. Tara hadn’t felt the need to try to see him earlier. She counted that as a win.
“It makes me angry.”
Dr. Gershwitz grinned. “I’d be surprised if it didn’t. Why, specifically.”
“Stuffing my emotions that way isn’t good for me. I’m always an emotional wreck after.”
“True. Why do you think you do that?”
Tara frowned. “You know why.”
Gershwitz nodded, unfazed. “And so do you. Tell me.”
“It’s a survival mechanism left over from my horrible childhood.”
“Exactly,” Gershwitz said. “A survival mechanism. From what you’ve told me, it quite literally kept you alive on at least one occasion, maybe more.”
Tara scowled. “But at what cost?” she muttered.
“Whatever it costs you, I suspect it’s a lesser cost than not surviving at all. Which was the alternative at times. Survival mechanism.”
Tara opened her mouth to argue, but Dr. Gershwitz held up a hand. “I’d like you consider viewing this behavior less as a remnant—and a reminder—of an abusive childhood and more as a tool you have available to you. That you had to learn it to survive your childhood…yes, that sucks. But you did learn it, and it has value in certain situations. Don’t you think?”
Tara huffed in annoyance and let her gaze wander over the bric a brac in Dr. Gershwitz’s office. It was probably there for just that reason, to give patients something to look at. He never did anything without a reason.
And…she was avoiding the question. She forced herself to consider his question.
So maybe he was right. Being a superheroine—and that was her choice, in the end, even if she’d sort of fallen into it by accident at first—meant she could probably expect more life or death situations to arise. And being able to put her feelings aside and deal with the problem at hand was a useful ability.
“I just wish the aftermath wasn’t so awful,” she said, realizing as she spoke that she’d conceded his point.
“And we can certainly work on that. But I think you need to accept that not everything that comes out of your childhood is detrimental. You survived it, largely through your own efforts. Not without costs, surely. But you did. And this habit, this tool, is one of them.”
Tara didn’t reply, but she considered his words. Dr. Gershwitz remained silent as well, giving her time to think. Several minutes passed.
“M-maybe you’re right,” Tara said. She didn’t like admitting that, but it was true.
Gershwitz acknowledged her words with a nod, expression neutral. His gaze flicked up to the clock on the wall behind Tara’s sofa. “And that’s time for today. Same time next week?”
Tara nodded. “I’ll think about what you said. See you next week.”
Mark Jones
IRON MAIDEN LEARNS SOMETHING NEW
“I think this thing is busted,” Iron Maiden said, holding up the wrist-mounted GPS unit she’d ordered from Amazon a few days ago.
She stood in Dr. McQuark’s workshop. She’d talked her way past his secretary with some difficulty. They didn’t let just anyone back here. But she wasn’t just anyone these days. She was Iron Maiden, one of Evergreen City’s superheroes.
“Yeah?” Dr. McQuark didn’t look up from his project—whatever it was. She wasn’t even sure he knew who was speaking.
“Yeah. I tried to use it to navigate when I flew around the world. I was hoping you might take a look at it.”
Now he looked up. “You what now?”
Tara grinned, pleased to have gotten his attention. “I flew around the world. I wanted to see if I could do it. And how long it would take.”
Dr. McQuark blinked. A single, long blink. When he opened his eyes again, Tara could see that she had his full attention now. “And did you?”
“Yes, I did.” She couldn’t help smiling broadly. It had been a hell of a trip. Exciting and a little bit scary.
“And how long did it take you?”
“A little under six hours.”
“You were traveling at four thousand miles per hour?”
Tara shrugged, trying for modesty and probably failing. “Faster, actually. My course…meandered a bit. Well, more than a bit. I intended to stay at Evergreen City’s latitude, but by the time I reached western Europe I was over the Mediterranean. Navigating with the Mark I eyeball at
that speed and that height isn’t easy.“
“Which,” she waggled the GPS unit again, “is why I’m here. This thing stopped working shortly after I took off. It still isn’t working. I was hoping you’d take a look at it.”
McQuark chuckled. “I don’t have to look at it.”
“No?”
“No. I know why it stopped working.” He picked up his tools again.
“Why?”
He glanced at the device. “They’re built that way.”
“What? Why?”
“How fast were you going?”
There was something in his tone. Tara thought about the question. “You’re saying it shut down because I was moving at 5500 miles per hour?”
“Actually, the cut-off is 1200 mph.”
Tara opened her mouth, had a thought, closed it again. “Really?”
“If a terrorist builds an ICBM in his backyard, they don’t want him to be able to steer it with a commercial GPS unit. So they’re all designed to brick themselves if they exceed 1200 mph. Not many things move that fast, but ICBMs are one of them. You're another, it seems. If you want to use a GPS unit when you’re flying around, you’re going to have to obey the speed limit. There’s your answer. Now, if you’ll excuse me….”
Tara watched him resume his work. Clearly he’d dismissed the subject—and her—from his thoughts just that quickly.
“Thanks, I guess,” she said, not expecting an answer. Nor did she get one.
She tossed the GPS unit in a trash bin outside McQuark Industries before taking flight.
Back to the drawing board. Maybe Quasar could design something…
This is true, by the way. Something I only learned recently. GPS units stop working if they exceed 1200 mph for just this reason.
Mark Jones
THE PRICE OF CELEBRITY
Tara knocked on the door of Rachel's apartment. She heard Rachel approaching the door, and then it swung open. Rachel was still dressed for work in an elegant and expensive skirt and blouse, though her legs were bare and she was wearing an old pair of sneakers. Black dress shoes and a pair of nylons lay in a jumble by the door.
"So," Tara said, stepping to the apartment, "what's so important that you wouldn't tell me about it over the phone?"
"I can't tell you. You need to see it for yourself," Rachel said.
"Will I like it?"
"I dunno," Rachel replied. "Some of it. Maybe." She made a show of studying Tara. "Other parts--no."
"C'mon," Tara insisted. "Give."
Rachel shook her head. She gestured toward her office. "Go sit at my computer," she said.
Tara gave Rachel a long, appraising look. Rachel put on a poker face, giving nothing away. Tara sighed dramatically and then walked into the office. Rachel followed.
Rachel's office was crowded. The walls of the room were lined with bookshelves, and every shelf was filled to capacity and then some. Hardbacks filled the lower shelves, with loose books laid horizontally across the tops of others wherever they'd fit. The upper shelves were double or triple stacked with paperbacks. The computer desk itself was buried under mounds of paper, piles of short story manuscripts, various drafts of novels, printouts of web pages, chat logs and text files. There was barely room enough for the keyboard and mouse pad. A Matrix-style screen saver filled the room with a green glow.
Rachel stopped in the doorway and leaned against the frame.
"What am I looking for?" Tara asked, sliding into Rachel's swivel chair. Tara reached for the mouse just as Rachel opened her mouth to speak. Her touch was enough to turn off the screen saver. Tara gawked at the image on the screen.
It was the splash page for a web site. The page was black. A slide show of photographs of Tara as Iron Maiden appeared sequentially, starting with small long-distance photos and getting progressively closer, ending with a fairly close-up photo. The words “Official Iron Maiden Fan Page” appeared in blocky white letters at the bottom of the screen, along with a hyperlink which read ENTER.
"Oh my god!" Tara said. She looked to Rachel. "Did you--?"
Rachel was quick to deny it. "No, it's not my doing. I only found it today. So I take it that it's not official?”
“Hell no!” Tara laughed. “This is the first I've heard of it.”
“That's just the home page,” Rachel said. “Keep going. There's more."
Tara turned obediently back to the screen and clicked on "Enter." She spent the next few minutes exploring a site devoted to Iron Maiden. There were links to on-line news stories of Iron Maiden in action, as well as to many more photos, a couple of video clips, and to a number of blogs or websites. There was a discussion forum with several topics.
“This I have to see,” Tara said to Rachel before clicking on the link.
One forum was for reports and discussion of verified sightings, including news reports. One consisted of an in-depth discussion of Iron Maiden's frequently changing costume, the significance (if any) of the changes, and a very lengthy and heated discussion of Iron Maiden's taste (if any) in clothing. Another was full of rumors and innuendo about the heroine's identity, background, origin, intentions--pretty much everything about her. Following a few links at random assured Tara that most of it was little different from the ramblings of the tabloid press.
Then she spotted the "Fiction" links. There were two options. G-rated and NC-17. Tara felt the shock like a blow to her solar plexus. She'd read enough fanfic to know what to expect here. Hell, she and Rachel had been writing fanfic since they were in high school, though never about real people. "Have you looked at this?" Tara asked Rachel, without taking her eyes off the screen.
"...yeah," Rachel said after a moment. That didn't sound good.
Tara clicked on the first link. It was just as she'd suspected. Mostly very short, very badly written action/adventure stories. The sheer variety of backgrounds ascribed to her was remarkable--she was variously portrayed as a mutant, alien, genetically-engineered super-soldier, time-traveler, sorceress, robot and occasionally other things that weren't quite clear. It had never been as clear to Tara as it was now how little the public really knew about her, after twenty minutes spent perusing this archive.
Tara took a deep breath and then clicked the second link. After clicking through a statement that she was indeed of age to look at such things Tara found herself looking at a thoroughly pornographic photo. It showed a nude—save for her trademark black trench coat and mask--Iron Maiden crouched over an equally nude man sprawled on the hood of some kind of sports car. The photo left no doubt about what they were doing. Beneath the photo was a long list of links to stories. As she stared at the image, Tara felt a prickling on the back of her neck and heat rising in her cheeks and ears. She realized that Rachel was speaking to her.
"What?" Tara asked. She stared at the image for a long moment, still struggling to process what
she was seeing, before dragging her gaze away. She turned to look at Rachel. "What did you say?"
"I said, it's a hell of a Photoshopping job. It's almost a shame it's so obscene."
Tara looked back, recognizing now that Rachel was correct. It wasn't a real photo--she knew that. It had never happened. But it was awfully damned convincing. Tara looked at it and realized she was angry. It had been mildly flattering to see the rest of the website, but this--
The list of story links was no better. The one line synopses told Tara all she needed to know. She knew that prurient material like this was inevitable. It was all over the internet. But she'd never been the subject before and it felt like a slap in the face. Tara closed the browser and sat quietly for a minute, taking one slow deep breath after another.
"Sorry," Rachel said. "But I thought you should know."
"You were right," Tara said quietly. "But now that I've seen it I want to forget it for a while." She looked at Rachel and mustered a smile she didn't really feel yet. "Let's go out to dinner and talk about something else, like your love life."
Rachel returned the smile. "Oh, so its horror stories you're wanting, is it? I can do that...."
Mark Jones
Mark Jones
PLAYBOY:
20 Questions with Iron Maiden
What do you say to a woman who appears
out of a clear summer sky wearing a mask, a leather skirt and boots, a wool
cloak, and can bend steel in her bare hands? We don't think it's "spank
me," even if you've done something very wrong. Better to back up quickly. That's what most foes do when they run into Iron
Maiden, a cornerstone of Evergreen City's
Guardians.
Iron Maiden is an intriguing mix of openness and secrecy. Her blog (http://iron_maiden.blogspot.com) is a remarkably lucid and readable description of what it's like to be a newbie superheroine (her posts have grown infrequent since she joined the Guardians, alas). At the same time, she's been very careful to provide virtually no clues to her real identity. It's often quite funny too.
We asked Contributing Editor Daniel Renquist to meet with Iron Maiden. He caught up to her--or she caught up with him--in the rooftop cafe of a hotel in downtown Evergreen City.
1. Playboy: Let's start with the name. Tell us about that. Who came up with it?
Iron Maiden: I don’t know his name, but it was an Evergreen City PD officer. I’d just had my first public appearance, a fight with Blackguard. Afterward, the cop asked, “Are you the Iron Maiden,” by which he meant was I involved in the fight. A reporter from the Evergreen City News overhead and used the name in his story the next day, and that was that. I was Iron Maiden from then on.
There have been no legal issues.
I wasn't sure that would be the case at first. But the band hasn't threatened
to sue. I suppose there's little chance of confusing a single superheroine with
an English heavy metal band. The worst trouble has been that bitch in the
powered armor. Lots of people have seen the video of that fight; it's a big hit
on You Tube, I understand. I guess it's not often that the media is there to
get the whole thing on camera from start to finish.
2. Playboy: If comic books have taught
us anything, it's that every superheroine worth her salt has a Rogues Gallery.
Tell us about yours.
Iron Maiden: My own Rogues Gallery? I never thought about it that way. Let's
see--there's Blackguard, of course. I've fought him a couple of times, but he
got away both times. He's not strong enough to hurt me, but he's a slippery
bastard. Hard to pin down. He's clearly had a lot more experience at brawling
than I had had when we tangled. If we meet again, I like to think it'd go
differently. Hmm...oh! Radiation Ravager. But it was only the one time and he's
doing time in Washington now, so he probably doesn't really
count. Other than that, I guess the only other one really is the wanna-be Iron
Maiden. Not much of a Rogues Gallery, is it?
3. Playboy: Speaking of your would-be
replacement, whatever happened to her?
Iron Maiden: As I anticipated in my blog, the feds
stepped in claiming jurisdiction under national security legislation. They
piled on a bunch of federal charges and asserted a superior claim. If she hadn’t escaped custody, I’m sure they’d have cut a deal with her
to work off her debt to society building weapons and armor for the government.
I have no idea where she is now, but I hope she’s smart enough stay away.
4. Playboy: Your costume is quite
distinctive. All black, which isn't
terribly novel, but otherwise quite recognizable and not nearly as revealing as
many others. Why did you choose that costume?
Iron Maiden: Not nearly as revealing as others--what, like Silverstreak? Or
Trollop? If they want to parade around in next to nothing, that's their
business. I'm not wearing this costume to titillate people. I wear it to hide
my identity and to be recognizable--which, as you point out, it is. The mask is
there for privacy, obviously. I've seen how celebrities live and I don't want
that. When I take off the mask and costume and go about my daily life, nobody
knows who I am. I can live my life without being hounded by the paparazzi--and
I like it that way.
As for the rest of my costume, it's a combination of practicality and fashion.
I wear the cloak because I think it's a more interesting look than a cape, and
more practical. It keeps me dry in the rain and would keep me warm in the cold,
if I got cold. Same for the boots--they look good and they're practical. The
tank top, the tights, the leather skirt--they all look good, and they're easily
replaceable when they get damaged or destroyed, which happens more often than I
like.
Keep in mind that I created the costume when I was still operating on my own. I
couldn't afford to pay for one
tailored spandex costume--even if I were willing to wear one, which I'm
not--much less several. Plus, those are specialty items; it can be difficult
enough to maintain a secret identity without having to worry about someone
following a payment trail to your door. But the cloak, the boots, the leather
skirt--all of that is readily available to anyone. When I bought a new skirt or
boots or tights, I was just one of millions of women. Now my costume budget is
included among the benefits of being a member of the Guardians, but I like my
costume and don't intend to change it.
5. Playboy: Your powered armor doppleganger attacked you while you were
promoting Evergreen City
Literacy. You're clearly a big fan of literacy programs. Why is that?
Iron Maiden: It's teaching a man to fish rather than giving him a fish. To say
that reading is fundamental is a cliche--but it's also true. If you can read,
there's very little you can't teach yourself if you really want to learn. It
doesn't matter how poor you are, how crappy your schools are, or whether you
get any encouragement from parents or teachers, or anybody really. Whatever you
want to learn is written down somewhere, and if you know how to read you can
learn it. Plus, literacy gives you access to countless worlds of fiction. I
spent endless hours as a child reading genre fiction--pulps, science fiction,
fantasy, mysteries, thrillers, horror. It was cheap entertainment--all it cost
was a library card--and a welcome escape from what was often an unpleasant
reality.
6. Playboy: Did you grow up poor? Was your childhood unpleasant?
Iron Maiden: Yes. [Stony silence follows.]
7. Playboy: Moving right along...you're one of the very few supers to maintain
a blog. Why did you start it--and why don't you update it more often these
days?
Iron Maiden: I wanted to maintain a record of my adventures. And I wanted
feedback as well, which meant I couldn't just write in a diary I keep in my
bedroom. [Shrugs] I'm a child of the electronic age. I've been reading and
posting to the internet since I was in high school. Usenet at first, but also
to web forums and chat rooms. It just seemed natural to extend that to my
costumed persona--though I've been careful to maintain firewalls between Iron
Maiden and my personal life.
I don't write in it very often anymore for a number of reasons. For one thing,
I'm a lot busier now. Working with the
Guardians is much more time-consuming than simply
flying around Evergreen City when the whim struck me. Also, I
like to think that I've made all--or at least most--of my rookie mistakes
already. I'm not learning as much about the job anymore. I'm doing the job. And, to be honest, what I
am still learning are deeper
lessons--the sort of thing that requires a much deeper level of thought than
simply finding out how often your cloak will get ruined or that flying too high
will lead to passing out from oxygen deprivation. Discussing these deeper
issues would involve revealing more about myself--my history and
background--than I'm willing to risk in a public space. I'm still writing, but
in a private journal now.
8. Playboy: Speaking of the Guardians, what do you think of your
fellow Guardians? How do you all get along?
Iron Maiden: [Shrugs] What do you want me to say? We get along
fine. We don’t all hang together outside of work, any more than co-workers in
any other field. We all have our own lives and different interests. Quasar and
Splicer would both rather do research than socialize. Blacklight is busy with a
number of projects, personal and professional. Hammett and Connor are professional
investigators, neither has a secret identity. We work well together, but that’s
about it.
9. What area of expertise do people
think you have that you don't?
Iron Maiden: Everyone thinks that I'm an experienced brawler. Nothing
could be further from the truth. I spent my childhood and adolescence avoiding
physical threats because I knew with crystal clarity just how easily I could
get hurt. I'd seen plenty of violence growing up, and I knew how unpredictable
and deadly violence could be. I've learned something about fighting in the last few months. But really, my basic approach to
combat hasn't changed. I grab the most dangerous bad guy and drag him away from
everyone else--preferably high into the area--and let him wear himself out
trying to hurt me. Once he's exhausted and thoroughly convinced that he can't
hurt me, most bad guys are a lot more willing to listen when I tell them to
surrender.
10. Playboy: So you're invulnerable?
Impervious to pain?
Iron Maiden: [Grins] So far, so good.
11. Playboy: What about pleasure?
Iron Maiden: Fortunately, my resistance to injury doesn't come with that price
tag. I can feel everything I could feel before: heat, cold, pressure,
everything. It just doesn't hurt me.
12. Playboy: What one piece of
technology could you not live without?
Iron Maiden: None. I've been poor. You can live without a hell of a lot. If you
mean what would I not want to live without--it's this. [Iron Maiden reveals an
electronic gadget strapped to her wrist.] It's a GPS navigation device. I use
it to navigate at night when I'm flying--the city looks a lot different from
high in the sky than it does from the ground, and there are no convenient
street signs to follow. Landmarks aren't nearly as useful as people think; most
of them aren't easy to spot from the air. Plus, unless the landmark is
your destination it doesn't help you find a particular intersection or address.
This, on the other hand, will steer me to any location I have programmed into it.
13. It's no secret to readers of your blog that you love to fly--and who can
blame you? So, sex or flight--you have to give one up forever. Which will it
be?
Iron Maiden: [Long pause] You are a horrible, horrible man! What an awful
choice! [Another pause] I'm going to paraphrase Captain Kirk: I don't believe
in such scenarios. I don't like to dwell on abstract hypotheticals. If the day
ever comes when I have to give up either flying or sex, it won't be by choice
so the question is meaningless. I intend to continue flying and having sex for
as long as possible--not at the same time, of course! Well...not often.
14. Playboy: You're a self-confessed
science fiction fan. As long as we're talking about sex, I assume you're
familiar with Larry Niven's Man of Steel,
Woman of Kleenex. Any truth to the idea?
Iron Maiden: You mean the essay in which Niven suggests that Superman couldn't
have sex with Lois Lane without crushing her in his arms, or gutting her from
crotch to sternum like a trout, or blowing her head off when he comes? That
essay? Yes, I'm familiar with it. You'd be surprised how many times men who've
read it bring it up in conversation with me. They make a joke of it, but they
never laugh like they really think it's funny. Maybe they're fishing for an
answer before they decide whether to proposition me. So here it is: I'm pleased
to say that there's absolutely no truth to it, at least in my experience. I
haven't killed or maimed anyone yet.
15. Playboy: Glad to hear it. Have you
had sex in public?
Iron Maiden: Yes, I have. I've shared a room--or a bed--with more than one
person and had sex while others were there.
16. Playboy: So--a three-or-more-some?
Iron Maiden: Again, yes--and more than once. But I prefer one on one sex. I
like to concentrate on a single lover--and I like to have him concentrate on me. I'm selfish that way.
17. Playboy: So what turns you on? What
do you look for in a lover?
What does anyone look for? He--and it should definitely be a he--should be
attractive and interesting. 'Interesting' can take many
forms--smart, funny, charismatic--some quality that makes you worth paying
attention to. And he'd damn well better be good in bed if he wants a second
invitation. But most of all, he should approach me in my day-to-day identity. Iron Maiden doesn't have lovers. It
would just be silly to be entirely naked except for the mask, and I'm not going
to take my mask off for anyone I don't know very well and trust with my secret.
18. Playboy: But you'll take your clothes off for someone you don't know well?
Iron Maiden: Sure. I like sex--and boy, does that sound trite, or what? Who doesn't like sex, aside from a few
screwed-up prudes? But I also have no religious or moral scruples about casual
sex. If everyone involved is of age and there by choice, why not?
19. Playboy: What would we find on or in
your bedside nightstand?
Iron Maiden: My Guardians communicator, in case they need me. A universal
remote for my television and DVD Player. A glass of water. A bottle of lube and
a box of condoms, in case I have a guest--and a Hitachi magic wand vibrator, in
case I don't. Whatever book I'm reading at the moment.
Playboy: What are you reading right now?
Iron Maiden: Gavin deBecker's The Gift of
Fear. It's a book about learning to trust your instincts and listen to that
tiny voice telling you that someone is dangerous. People--and most especially
women--are too often willing to ignore their instincts when they encounter someone dangerous because they don't want to be seen as
rude or uncooperative. Predators count on that, and use it to manipulate people. Don't do it. Be firm, be loud, make a scene if you have to. And never, ever let the bad guy take you somewhere else. If he wants privacy, it's for his benefit, not yours. Scream. Fight like your life depends upon it. Because it probably does.
Mark Jones
The Halloween party had been a blast. It had been a costume party. Alan, their host, had insisted on it—and he’d threatened dire consequences for anyone failed to dress up, or did a half-assed job of it. Tara wasn’t about to dress as Iron Maiden; that was just asking for trouble. So she settled for the next best thing: Supergirl. The classic red and blue costume, red boots, and a blonde wig.
Steve Cooper sat
behind the wheel, wearing a dress shirt and slacks, his tie askew, a silver
flask in his breast pocket. The trench coat that completed his Cade Connor
costume was folded on the seat next to Tara. His wife, Lisa, sat beside him dressed
like a miniature Wonder Woman. She’d removed her dark wig, exposing her own
short blond hair. When she’d met them for the drive to Portland, she and Lisa
had laughed to see themselves wearing the other’s natural hair color. She smiled to herself. She’d known them for less than a year but they were already two of her closest friends. They’d bonded quickly over a shared interest in science fiction and fantasy, but discovered many deeper shared interests. She’d wanted Rachel to join them, but Rachel had made other plans weeks earlier.
They’d chattered excitedly at the beginning of the long drive home, but the conversation had petered out. It was late—well past Tara’s usual bedtime—and they’d falled into a comfortable silence. She felt relaxed and content, sitting in the back seat of Steve and Lisa’s silver Hyundai.
Tara's only warning was the sudden screech of brakes and the flare of headlights in the right side windows. Inertia flung her against the lap belt and shoulder strap for just an instant. Then door beside her imploded in a shower of safety glass. The impact flung the car sideways and spun it crazily aside.
The car skidded sideways rolling up on one side but not quite tipping over, then fell heavily back onto all four tires. The smell of burnt rubber, hot metal and gasoline filled Tara's nose. The engine of the truck which had hit them was racing, blotting out any other noises.
Tara peeled her fingers out of the torn fabric of the seat beside her, where she'd instinctvely grabbed for support. She wasn't hurt and had only been momentarily disoriented. She looked into the front seat. Neither Steve nor Lisa were moving. Steve was slumped forward into the collapsed driver's side air bag. Lisa was leaning against the crushed door of the passenger seat.
The sight terrified Tara. She stared for a moment, unwilling to accept the evidence of her senses. Then Tara was frantically trying to unbuckle her lap belt. When it didn't yield immediately Tara ripped the metal clasp free of the belt and tossed the belt and shoulder strap aside.
The driver's side passenger door was likewise jammed. Tara kicked it free. The hinges tore loose with a high pitched shriek and the door landed somewhere off the side of the road. The dome light inside the car came on, illuminating the interior.
Tara scrambled out and tore the driver's door away from the vehicle as well. Didn't even try it first. Steve was stirring now. His nose was broken and blood covered his mouth and chin and stained his shirt. "Steve!" Tara said, leaning in to look more closely. "Steve--are you hurt?"
Steve looked blearily at her. "Tara?"
"Yeah, it's me, Steve. Are you hurt?"
"My nose...."
Tara swallowed a lump in her throat. "It's broken, I think. Anything else?"
"No," Steve said slowly. "I don't--think so." He looked a little more alert now. Tara saw him orient himself again. His eyes widened and he cried, "Lisa!"
"Don't move," Tara warned him when he turned a little in his seat--and then groaned at some pain. "I'll check on her. You just sit still."
Tara leaped over the hood of the car. The runaway truck had crumpled both passenger side doors inward, and remained jammed against the side of the Coopers' Hyundai, blocking Tara's access to the passenger seat. She reached between the vehicles and pushed them apart. When there was room enough to stand between them, Tara did--and then pushed the truck still farther away.
She pulled the passenger door open with great care, though the twisted hinges screeched in protest. Lisa sagged a little, and Tara very gently moved her into a more secure position. Tara knelt beside her, struggling against the comforting feeling of unreality that threatened to engulf her. Shock wasn't going to help.
Tara pressed her fingertips into Lisa's neck. Relief at feeling a pulse loosened the terrible knot in Tara's belly. "Oh thank god," Tara said. She spared a glance for Steve. "She's alive, Steve. She's alive."
The look of relief on his face was profound. "Thank god," Steve muttered, as fervently as Tara had.
Tara dredged up lessons in first aid. ABCs. Airway, breath, circulation. Lisa had a pulse, so she was breathing and her heart was beating. Good. Fantastic, even. Tara's vision blurred and she had to wipe away tears. What next?
Oh--right. Check for injuries. Tara began gingerly checking Lisa's scalp and head for blood or other signs of injury. Then her neck. Her arms--Jesus Christ! Her right arm was bent between elbow and wrist--clearly broken. It wasn't a compound fracture, thank god. But how had Tara missed seeing that?
"Tara?"
Tara looked up into Steve's face. He was looking at Tara in wonder. His eyes shifted to take in the missing doors of the car, and the truck she'd pushed aside so easily. "Tara, what--?" he said.
Tara cut him off. She couldn't deal with questions right now, and especially not when the answers might mean the end of their relationship. "I'll explain it later, Steve," Tara said.
She pointedly glanced at Lisa. "We need to get Lisa to a hospital. You too."
Steve's gaze followed hers. His expression softened when he looked at his wife. He looked at Tara again and nodded. "Later," he said. He fumbled at his belt, wincing when the movement caused some pain, and produced his cell phone.
Tara resumed checking Lisa for other injuries as Steve dialed 911. Tara didn't find anything else, but that didn't mean there was nothing to find. Lisa could easily have life-threatening internal injuries. She could still die!
Steve was talking to the 911 operator now.
There was nothing more Tara could do at the moment. She could pick Lisa up and fly her to the hospital, but that would be a bad idea. Never move an accident victim--let the professionals handle that.
With nothing to do now but wait for help, Tara's fear began transmuting into anger. She turned and looked at the truck. The engine was still racing.
Without knowing quite what she intended to do Tara stood up and walked around to the driver's door of the truck. It might have been in working condition but Tara didn't care. She wrenched it free and sent it spinning down the blacktop.
An airbag in the steering wheel hung limply, half covering the driver of the truck. He'd slipped half way into the footwell, his knee jammed against the accelerator pedal. Tara stared at him, feeling the murderous desire to seize his collar and yank him out, to fling him aside heedless of any injuries.
Worse, she wanted to injure the stupid son of a bitch. Wanted to kill him. She stood with clenched fists, staring at him, hating him. In that moment he represented every stupid, selfish bastard she'd ever had to deal with and she wanted to punish him. Punish them all.
In the end Tara reached into the cab and shut off the engine. She snapped off the key in the ignition, a tiny bit of vandalism which was all she allowed herself.
* * *
Tara returned to the Hyundai. Steve was still on the phone with the 911 operator. He was looking at Lisa and answering questions about her condition. Tara knelt beside Lisa again and checked her pulse again.
Lisa stirred a little at Tara's touch. She made an incoherent noise of complaint. Tara laid a hand on Lisa's shoulder, doing her best to keep her from moving her injured arm. "Lisa, don't move," Tara said. "Lisa, you need to be still. You were in an accident...can you hear me?"
Lisa muttered an unintelligible reply, eyes still closed. She looked pale and felt clammy. (Blankets,) Tara thought belatedly. Lisa was in shock and needed to be kept warm. Steve too, for that matter.
Tara looked across Lisa at Steve. "Blankets?" she asked.
"In the trunk," Steve said.
Tara opened the trunk with little difficulty and returned with two blankets from a Rubbermaid bin of emergency supplies. She handed one to Steve and tucked the other around Lisa with great delicacy. Lisa had subsided into unconsciousness again. Tara was terrified that it might mean something serious but firmly throttled her desire to snatch her up and fly off to a hospital.
Let the professionals handle it, Tara reminded herself. If Lisa were awake, she'd tell me the same thing.
There was nothing left for Tara to do except wait and watch for signs of trouble. She kept a hand on Lisa's shoulder--for her own comfort as much as for Lisa's. Tara even prayed that Steve and Lisa would be alright. Not that she believed in god, but it couldn't hurt and right now Tara would take anything she could get.
After an eternity of waiting Tara heard sirens in the distance.
"I hear sirens," Steve said to the operator. "They're almost here...Yes, I'm gonna hang up now...thank you," Steve said. He closed his phone and slumped abruptly in his seat, eyes closed.
Tara felt a renewed spurt of alarm. "Steve! Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," Steve said quietly, eyes still closed. "Just damn tired all of a sudden."
Steve opened his eyes and rolled his head against the headrest until he was looking at Tara. "So what's the deal? What do I tell them?"
Tara met Steve's eyes and licked her lips nervously before speaking. The sirens were closer, the lights visible now in the distance. "Tell them the truth," Tara said, butterflies in her stomach. "Tell them Iron Maiden was here."
Steve's eyes widened slightly but that was all the reaction he showed. "Iron Maiden? Really?"
Tara nodded. "I'd rather you didn't tell them she was riding in the back seat, though."
Steve nodded slowly. "Yeah."
"They'll probably assume she flew off again," Tara added as a fire engine and an ambulance squealed to a halt. "No need to tell them otherwise."
* * *
"Tara Powers?"
Tara felt shaky and was certain she looked worse. Once the doctors had taken charge of Steve and Lisa, she'd fled to the nearest restroom, locked the world outside and let out the fear, dismay and grief she'd bottled up during the crisis. She'd cried long and hard--and silently, hugging herself and rocking back and forth on the closed toilet lid until the storm passed. She'd washed her face and hands, considered her blotchy, swollen eyes in the mirror, and decided there was nothing to do about it just now. She'd returned to the waiting area to pretend to read the magazine she picked up. A woman in green scrubs was looking at her. "Yes, that's me," Tara said.
"You asked for an update on your friends," the woman said. Her name tag identified her as Dr. Terry.
"Yes," Tara said. "Are they going to be okay?"
"They'll be fine," Terry said. "Steve has a broken nose and bruised ribs, but nothing more serious. His wife has a broken arm, two cracked ribs and a mild concussion."
"Those are nothing to be overly concerned about," Terry said, laying a hand on Tara's arm. Tara realized she was hugging herself tightly, her whole body taut. "It's not as bad as it sounds."
"We'll need to keep Lisa overnight for observation," Doctor Terry continued. "But barring complications--which we don't expect--we can release her in the morning. Try to relax and get some rest."
"Can I see them?" Tara asked.
The doctor nodded. "For a few minutes, but they both need rest." She paused and looked at Tara. "You were with them?"
"What?" Tara asked, confused by the non sequitur.
The doctor touched the sleeve of Tara's shirt, and Tara realized she was still wearing the Supergirl costume. "They were also in costume," Doctor Terry said. "You were together?"
"Yes," Tara said.
"Has anyone seen you? You really--"
"The EMTs looked me over at the scene," Tara interrupted. The last thing she wanted was to spend any more time waiting to see Steve and Lisa. An exam would only prove what she already knew, that she was unhurt. She'd allowed the EMTs to do a cursory field exam, but that was as far as she was willing to let it go. "I'm fine," Tara said with finality.
Doctor Terry looked surprised--and a little affronted. Tara mustered a smile from somewhere. "I appreciate your concern, doctor--really. But I'm fine. I'll be sore tomorrow, I expect. But I don't have a scratch.
"Very well," Doctor Terry said. "If you'll follow me, you can see them for just a few minutes."
"Thank you," Tara said.
Doctor Terry led Tara out of the waiting room and down a couple of corridors. A set of double doors led to a circular hallway with a large nurse's station. Doors to patient rooms encircled the work station. Most of them were closed.
Doctor Terry knocked at one door, then pushed it open and walked in. Tara followed, fearful of what she might see.
It was a small room with two hospital beds side by side. One was empty. Lisa occupied the other, with Steve sitting in a chair by her side. Lisa was wearing a hospital gown and had her right arm in a cast supported by a sling. Steve was still wearing his dress pants and shoes, but his torso was bare save for the tape wrapped around his ribs. The knot in Tara's belly relaxed at this visual confirmation that they were alive and not badly injured.
"Tara!" Lisa said. Her face lit up the way it always did when she saw Tara. She raised her good arm and made a grasping gesture. Tara obediently moved around to the side of the bed and leaned in to gingerly hug Lisa and kiss her cheek.
"God, it's good to see you," Tara said.
"Hey, what am I?" Steve complained from the other side of the bed. "Chopped liver?"
"Yes, exactly," Lisa said.
"You too, of course," Tara said to Steve.
"How are you feeling, Lisa?" Doctor Terry asked.
"Tired," Lisa said. "Sore. Sleepy."
Doctor Terry nodded. "That's normal. I'm afraid we can't let you sleep just yet. We need to keep an eye on you for a few hours."
Lisa nodded. "I know," she said.
Doctor Terry nodded. "Of course," she said. Tara gathered that she'd learned that Lisa was an emergency room nurse. Tara wondered if that would make Lisa better patient or a worse one. Tara and Steve waited quietly while Doctor Terry spoke to Lisa and checked her vitals.
After she left Lisa looked at Tara. "You sure you're okay?" she asked.
"Me?" Tara asked, surprised. "I'm fine. You're the one in the hospital bed. I'm so glad you're okay."
Lisa smiled. "Thanks," she said. She glanced uncertainly from Tara to Steve and back again. "Steve says you have something to tell me," Lisa said.
Tara pressed her lips together. She felt a little anxious but she wasn't terribly frightened. "Yes, I suppose I do."
Lisa must have sensed Tara's nervousness. "Tara, what is it? You know you can tell us anything. If it's--"
"Lisa," Steve said quietly. Lisa stopped speaking and looked at her husband. "Give Tara a minute. It's--" Steve glanced at Tara and smiled fondly. "It's big."
Lisa looked at Tara again. Then she very deliberately settled back to wait for Tara to speak.
Tara wasn't sure how to start. She dithered for a few moments, mentally trying on different openings. Lisa waited. (Oh hell,) Tara thought. (Just say something!)
"There's a reason I wasn't hurt in the accident," Tara said. "It's the same reason I wore this costume to the party tonight," Tara said, gesturing at the Supergirl outfit.
Lisa's expression told Tara she wasn't making her point. "I wore the costume as a...private joke. I'm not as tough as Supergirl, but I'm close." Tara took a deep breath and said it. "I'm Iron Maiden."
Lisa's only immediate reaction was a faint look of surprise. Whatever she'd expected to hear, this wasn't it. Doubt followed, then more surprise as she realized Tara was serious.
"You're--Iron Maiden?"
Tara nodded. She waited for questions. Or accusations. Or--well, Tara wasn't sure what she expected. She'd never done this before. She'd told Rachel right away. She'd never confessed her secret to someone she'd kept it from for any length of time.
"Iron Maiden," Lisa repeated. One corner of her mouth curved slightly. "Prove it."
Tara let a smile of her own out to meet Lisa's. After a glance at the closed door, Tara drifted up into the air.
Lisa’s eyes grew round and her mouth sagged open for a moment, before she grinned broadly. “No way!”
“Yes, way,” Tara said.
“Once I’m out of here,” Lisa said, “you’re taking me flying!”
Tara grinned back at her, settling back to the floor. “Yes ma’am.”
Mark Jones
Tara braced herself as the elevator doors opened onto the reception area for the Guardians’ offices in Evergreen City.
“Iron Maiden, DAH-link!” Edna cried from her place behind the huge circular reception desk that dominated the foyer, “How nice to see you again.” She peered at Tara through her eyeglasses, eyes looking huge. “WHEN will you agree to get rid of that cape?”
“How’s the Twelfth of Never?” Tara asked, moving past her toward the conference room. It wasn’t a cape, it was a cloak, but that was a battle she’d learned not to try to fight. Edna’s intractable opposition to capes, cloaks and the like had met its match in Tara’s determination to continue wearing it. There were enough cheesecake photos of her on the internet as it was. She wasn’t about to make the live of the paparazzi easier by abandoning her voluminous cloak.
Edna harrumphed, but sat back in her chair. “Doctor Asher and Ms. Hancock are waiting in the conference room already,” she said.
Tara paused, looking at Edna. “Ms. Hancock? Rose Hancock?” She’d met the woman in Washington, DC a week ago during the battle for the Pentagon.
“Yes,” Edna said. “She arrived a few minutes ago.”
Tara accepted this without comment. She’d received a text from Dr. Asher--Splicer--asking to speak to her. He hadn’t said why and she hadn’t asked. Now she wondered why--and why Rose Hancock had been invited to the meeting.
She entered the room to find Splicer sitting at the conference table, hunched over a tablet as he tapped and scrolled rapidly through some complex document. Rose Hancock stood with her back to the room, studying the cityscape. She was dressed in jeans, boots, and a dark blue t-shirt that Tara knew without looking including a Union Jack flag on the front. It was Rose’s unofficial uniform.
It all looked casual, but the jeans and t-shirt fitted her so perfectly that Tara knew they’d been tailored. When you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you could afford things like that, Tara supposed. Must be nice. She could afford things better now that she was a Guardian, and a successful novelist, but she’d grown up very poor and couldn’t avoid a pang of envy.
Rose turned, hearing her entrance. She smiled brightly, seemingly very pleased to see Tara again. If she was faking it, she was doing an admirable job. She walked over to take Tara’s hand. “Iron Maiden, it’s so nice to see you again.”
Tara shook her hand and found herself smiling back. “You too,” she said, realizing it was true. She hadn’t spent a lot of time with Rose, but she was friendly and outgoing, and had been far more comfortable with the press conferences after the Pentagon incident than Tara had been. Being a billionaire’s daughter meant Rose had been dealing with the press most of her life.
“What brings you here?” she asked, glancing sideways at Splicer.
Splicer had looked up while they shook hands. “Uh, I do,” he said. “Why don’t both of you have a seat?”
Tara didn’t scowl, but it was an effort. She was still annoyed with Splicer over the revelation that the DNA samples he’d taken from her had been stolen by Dr. Helix and used to create a clone. She’d had words with him over that, but it still rankled. “What’s this about?”
“When I met Rose in DC last week,” Splicer said, “I was struck by the similarities your powers.”
He wasn’t the only one. Tara had noticed it as well. There weren’t a lot of other flying bricks who could fly as fast she did--but Rose was one. When she’d spoken to Rose afterward, she’d learned that Rose had no dramatic origin story to tell. Her powers had simply manifested without any obvious cause when she was a teenager--just like Tara’s had.
“Okay,” Tara replied, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I got a sample of Rose’s DNA while we were there, to compare to yours,” Splicer said. He hesitated. “I found something...interesting, that I thought you both should know.”
Tara could feel her expression harden as she eyed Splicer. Was the prelude to another confession? “Are you telling me she’s another clone?”
Rose turned from Splicer to stare at Tara, mouth agape. “Clone? What?”
“No! No--nothing like that,” Splicer said, hands raised as if to urge calm. “I did consider that possibility, but—” and here her turned to Rose “--I looked into your background. Your birth and childhood are well documented. Too well documented to be a fiction.”
“I should say not!” Rose looked affronted at the very idea. “Why on earth would you suggest such a thing?”
“It’s a long story,” Tara said, at the same time that Splicer said, “Kane Maximus is a clone of Iron Maiden. Well, mostly. There are differences, obviously, quite aside from his being male—”
“Well, I guess it’s not such a long story after all,” Tara said, Interrupting Splicer before he could start one of his long, unintelligible monologues on genetics.
Rose looked back and forth between Iron Maiden and Splicer, endless questions behind her eyes, but unable to choose one at the moment. Tara took the opportunity to pin Splicer with a look. “So she’s not a clone. What’s this ‘interesting’ observation of yours?”
Splicer sighed and looked uncomfortable. “There’s no easy way to say it,” he said at last.
Tara waited silently, still glaring at him. Rose watched him as well, more curious than anything else.
“The two of you...share a parent. Almost certainly a father.”
Tara and Rose exchanged a look. Rose was as confused as Tara felt. Tara said, “Say again?”
“You two share a parent. Iron Maiden, your mother lives here in the Pacific Northwest, yes?”
“Yes,” Tara said after a moment. She made a point of never discussing details of her personal life with the other Guardians. Not that she mistrusted them, but she lived by the credo “Three people can keep a secret--if two of them are dead.” They couldn’t betray, accidentally or otherwise, what they didn’t know. But it wasn’t a secret that she had family in the area somewhere.
“And Rose,” Splicer said, turning his attention to her. “Your family has lived in London all your life, have they not?”
“Well,” Rose said, glancing again at Iron Maiden, “My father travels quite a lot on business, and we’ve always traveled on holiday. But London is home. But my father can’t be--I mean, he doesn’t have any powers.”
Splicer shook his head. “No, not your father.” He tapped his tablet and the video screen on the conference room wall lit up with a photograph.
“That’s William Hancock, founder and CEO of Hancock Industries,” Splicer explained to Tara, and “Rose’s father.”
Tara glanced at the photo. He seemed an impressive man, his eyes full of intelligence. Even in a photo he radiated the decisiveness and drive that had made him a billionaire. He was also completely unfamiliar to her. She hadn’t seen her own father in almost two decades, had no idea where on earth he might be, if he was even still alive. His marriage to her mother had been brief and ended before she was five years old. Her memories of him were few and distant, and she knew him mostly as a face from a collection of old photographs.
Nevertheless—“That’s not my father.”
“No,” Splicer said. “I don’t believe he is.”
Tara turned her attention to Rose. She saw Rose’s confusion melt into understanding--followed in rapid succession by shock, anger, and denial. “Are you saying that my father is not my father? That my mother cheated on him? That I’m a bastard?” With every question her voice grew louder.
Splicer didn’t get or simply ignored her emotional reaction. “I’m not making any value judgments. But the facts speak for themselves—”
That was as far as he got before Rose jumped to her feet, knocking her chair over behind her, and stormed out of the room. Tara heard the sliding glass door to the balcony open. A few seconds later the dull boom of something--or someone, in this case--going supersonic rattled the building.
Tara sighed. She looked at Splicer. “Sometimes you just make me feel tired all over,” she said, certain that he wouldn’t recognize the quote. “I hope you’re certain about this, Asher,” she added. “You’ve just upended that woman’s life. I suspect there are going to be some pointed questions, and quite possibly some ugly arguments in the Hancock household shortly.”
“I’m certain.”
And no doubt he was. He was probably right, too. Tara didn’t necessarily trust his judgment on a lot of subjects, but when it came to genetics, there was almost no one else on the planet in his league.
“What about you?” Splicer asked. “I...may not have been as sensitive as I perhaps should have been, but I thought you both deserved to know the truth. How do you feel?”
Tara didn’t answer immediately. How did she feel? A bedrock assumption about her parentage hadn’t been called into question, as it had for Rose, so she had that going for her. On the other hand, assuming Splicer was right, she had just discovered that she had another sister. Or a half-sister, anyhow. One who shared her powers.
In some ways that made them closer than Tara was with her real--with her full sister. Paula, after all, had the same father but had not inherited his powers. There was no way she could have kept it to herself if that were the case. At the very least, there would be another woman with her same powers flying around Evergreen City, and there wasn’t.
“I’m going to have to think on this,” Tara said.
She liked Rose well enough, though she hardly knew her. She’d seen the Youtube video of Rose rescuing an airliner in San Angelo just like the rest of the world, and had worked with her very briefly and spoken to her even more briefly in Washington, DC. But a blood relationship didn’t necessarily mean anything if they couldn’t find common ground otherwise: she was estranged from most of her mother’s family, and from her mother.
Tara found herself hoping that she could be friends with Rose. A relative who understood her powers--who knew about them, for that matter--and who shared her desire to use them to help people would be really nice. None of her birth family knew. She knew how they’d react to the knowledge, and it was nothing she wanted to deal with.
Perhaps Rose would be her sister is spirit as well as by blood. She could hope.
Chris B
--
You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "CHAMPIONS of the Northwest" group.
To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to champions-of-the-no...@googlegroups.com.
To view this discussion on the web visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/champions-of-the-northwest/0382ca59-a22f-432e-a8ca-d020f4c208ae%40googlegroups.com.