GEN13 - Version 2.0 (4 page)

The others had proven to be gen-active as well. Bobby took on the code name “Burnout” to reflect his newfound ability to hurl blasts of fiery' plasma and transform parts of his own body into living flame. Sarah found herself able to manipulate Earth’s natural elements, while Roxy (newly christened “Freefall”) discovered her own ability to control gravity, making things either super-heavy or super-light. Grunge’s power was the most diverse, allowing him to mimic the properties and molecular structure of any object he touched. Sarah and Kat decided to keep their own surnames, Rainmaker and Fairchild, as their code names. And as for Grunge, well, no one could come up with anything more appropriate to call him than “Grunge.”    ’

They weren’t the first of Gen
¹³
to go gen-active. That honor belonged to a psychotic brother-sister team known as Threshold and Bliss. The homicidal duo became Ivana’s personal pets long before the rest of them had even shown up on the scene. But Kat and her friends were the ones to adopt the name “Gen
¹³
” as their own.

Yet, Kat reflected, they’d still probably be pawns of

I.O. today if it wasn’t for the intervention of John Lynch. Lynch had been the head of I.O.’s Operations section, and before that, he’d served alongside the kids’ parents as part of Team 7. He didn’t like what was going on at I.O., and when his conscience refused to let him look the other way, he decided to do something about it. Lynch’s career with the agency came to an abrupt end when he helped Gen
¹³
bust out of the I.O. compound and took in the young fugitives to teach them how to use their new powers and stay alive.

It wasn’t until much later that the team learned that Lynch also had another reason for helping them escape:

Bobby was his son.

All of them had come a long way since then, in a deceptively short period of time. Gen
¹³
had fought any number of super-powered menaces and would-be rulers of the world, and they’d always come out on top. Their days on the run were over; I.O. was ancient history now, disbanded amid scandal that even the shadowy organization’s best “public information specialists” couldn’t spin their way out of.

But it wasn’t all good news. The gang’s dream house in Southern California had been blasted into so much kindling along the way. That was what had given them the push to come east and start over again, here in New York City.

And Kat had come through all of it before she even turned twenty.

Kat looked back at the last year or so of her life, and marvelled at the unexpected turns it had taken. Heaven knows, it wasn’t what she had planned. If it were possible for someone to go back in time and tell her younger, bespectacled self what lay in store, she’d have thought the oracle was crazy.
But then again,
she thought,
I guess things don’t always turn out like we plan.

It wasn’t that Kat regretted what had become of her life, exactly. After all, not everyone can say that they’ve saved the world more times than they can count on their fingers. She couldn’t even remember the faces of everyone whose life she had saved at one time or another. Fate had handed Kat a rare opportunity, and she was grateful for the chance to live up to it.

Plus, there were personal benefits, too. Her Gen
¹³
teammates were the closest friends she’d ever had in her life. They’d become like family—especially when it turned out that Roxy was really Kat’s half-sister. If truth be told, the band of friends was tighter than a lot of “real” families. Every one of them was dearer to her than anything, and she wouldn’t trade that for the world.

It was just that Kat never expected to wind up with her teammates as her
only
friends. Sure, the stuff she was doing was vital in a reactive kind of way, stopping danger before it could claim innocent lives. Someone had to be there to right the wrongs, and sail in at blinding speed . . .

(Kat smiled despite herself. The phrasing made her sound like Underdog. “
When in this world the headlines read/Of those whose hearts are filled with greed
....” Gee, she hadn’t watched that show since she was eight. How on Earth did she remember the song?)

But that’s just dealing with the stuff that’s already happened,
she thought, turning her mind back to the matter at hand.
What about the future?

What about
my
future?

Was Kat going to wind up spending the rest of her life in a skintight outfit, showing off her legs while trashing the master villain of the week?

That was the path Mister Lynch had chosen for himself. The scars on his face and the cybernetic, mechanical eye that he wore in place of his real one bore witness to an endless series of battles. For all intents and purposes, those battles constituted the sum total of Lynch’s adult life.

Kat could imagine herself still doing this at age fifty, her hair showing touches of gray and the costume altered to allow for her sagging, middle-age spread. It wasn’t a picture that held a whole lot of appeal.

I need a life
, she thought.

Suddenly, Kat was jarred out of her reverie. A shout came from nearby, along with the unmistakable sound of a fist striking flesh.

Without so much as a second thought, Kat took off running. She followed the sounds into an alley, where she found a gang of four street punks in matching fatigue jackets and camouflage pants. The four were hovering like vultures around a young man in an overcoat and a conservative business suit. The young man was half-sitting, half-lying on the ground as one of the punks pawed through the pockets of his coat. A bruise was already forming on the side of the victim’s face.

Kat dropped her coat to the ground, so it wouldn’t restrict her movement, and struck a pose. Even in civilian clothes, she cut an imposing figure. “Hold it right there!” she commanded.

The punks spun at the sound of her voice, simultaneously reaching under their coats for the weapons that were hidden there. They froze at the sight of her, with looks of disbelief on their faces.

“What the hell... ?”

“Oh, mama ...”

The four punks stopped reaching for the weapons. Slowly, each of them smiled. One even licked his lips.

I can’t believe you just did that,
Kat thought.

The nearest punk strutted over toward her in a way that he probably thought was seductive. He gave a low whistle as he eyed her from top to bottom. “Sweet thing,” he said, “you just chill a minute. Soon as we’re done with that loser over there, then you and us, we’ll have us a real par—”

The rest of the sentence died in a strangled “urk” as Kat grabbed the front of his coat and lifted him up, effortlessly, above her head. With one hand, Kat hurled him through the air to smash into the wall.

The far wall.

At the end of the alley.

A good fifty feet away.

All of a sudden, the other punks weren’t smiling anymore. “Bust a cap in her!” one of them yelled.

In a flash, the three produced handguns as if from nowhere. They held the guns out at arm’s length, turned sideways, and opened fire on Kat.

Kat shook her head. It wasn’t so much at the futility of the hail of bullets, which hurt as they bounced off her but posed about as much of a threat as the flakes of snow that continued to fall from the sky. The thing Kat was reacting to was the amateurish way they handled their weapons.
They’re not even using the sights
, she thought. Either they were going for image over accuracy, or they’d seen too many movies. If Mister Lynch had been their instructor, he would have had their heads.

The carnage that followed was mercifully brief. In a matter of minutes, the punks lay broken and bleeding on the ground. The sound of distant sirens reached Kat’s ears, signalling her that it was time to go.

But before she could leave, she had to check on the victim.

She bent down over the young man in the suit. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely,” he said. A dreamy smile crossed his swollen face as she helped him to his feet. “You—you were amazing! The way you took those guys out....”

“It was nothing.”

“Well, it was something to me! You’ve got to let me

repay you somehow. I know—dinner! Let me take you to dinner tonight.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“What do you mean, not necessary? I insist! It’s the least I can do. For my female knight in shining armor.”

Kat could feel the blush spreading in her cheeks.

“A little lobster,” he coaxed. “Or maybe a filet mig-non.”

Kat’s resolve was starting to crack.

“A little dancing, a nice bottle of wine ...”

It did sound tempting.

“And then, afterwards, a romantic evening at my place. A little candlelight, some baby oil...”

“What?!”    '

A moment later, Kat picked up her coat and left the alley.

From his position upside down in the trash can, the guy in the suit called after her. “I’m in the book!” he yelled. “Call me!”

There has
got
to be more to life than this
.. ., Kat thought.

CHAPTER 3

The Congressional aide knocked softly on the door before entering. “Representative Sturmer?” she whispered. Tentatively, the aide held up five fingers and said, half in a whisper and half in mime, “Five minutes until the committee meeting.”

Sturmer nodded and raised a hand to signal the aide to wait. The telephone receiver never left her ear. . . Okay. What did she say then?” Sturmer said into the phone. There was a pause as she listened to the person on the other end of the line. “Uh-huh. Well, Taleisha, she
is
your mother...”

A pause. “I know. I know you’re not..

Another pause. “Absolutely. You’re absolutely right. But you have to see it from her side, too. She loves you. And she’s concerned about you ...

“Well, maybe that’s what you need to tell
her.
But try to remember to listen, too, okay? ...

“Yes, okay. Now, let’s get back to business. Did you get the materials I sent you for the civics project? ...

“Good. See what you can do with all of that, and if you have any questions, give me a call. Okay? ...

“Okay, I will. I have to go to a meeting now. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? And take it easy on your mom....

“Okay. Goodbye now, dear.”

Sturmer replaced the receiver in its cradle. She exhaled sharply and smiled at the aide as she replaced the bulky gold earring that she had removed while talking on the phone. “Whooof!” she said. “I’m sorry about that, but some things take priority.

“Come, let’s get to the meeting. You can brief me on the way.”

The Honorable Charlene Sturmer had come of age in the mid-1960s. Like so many of her contemporaries, she had felt a burning desire to change what was wrong with American society. Yet, unlike so many of her contemporaries, she didn’t see the point in trying to tear down the institutions of the Establishment. Instead, she believed that she could have a much greater impact in the long run by lending her efforts toward preserving the things that did work and improving the things that didn’t. Instead of trying to break down the walls from the outside, she imagined that it would be easier to try to change things from the inside.

However, she soon learned that before she could work from the inside, she’d first have to get through the door. And getting through the door proved to be anything but easy. These were the days before the women’s movement and sex discrimination suits. In government circles—and too many others—women still were seen as little more than potential secretaries and decorations. She worked her butt off for months, going door to door to campaign personally for a seat on the local city council. And even after she landed the seat, she found her opinions ignored by a chauvinistic, patronizing mayor. Once, he’d gone so far as to respond to Sturmer’s revolutionary plan for streamlining the entire city budget by literally patting her on the head.

Despite it all, though, Charlene Sturmer hadn’t been raised to be a quitter. She worked long and hard for years, doing her level best to fight for the people she represented.

Her big break came when she was offered a shot at running for lieutenant governor under Governor Zachary Yale—the first time a woman would be running for the office. Sturmer had no illusions about the reason why the higher-ups in the party had picked her; from their perspective, it was a political move, motivated by a desire to capture the female vote.

But whatever motives anyone else might have had, Yale didn’t care about Sturmer’s gender. He studied her record and was impressed by what he saw. If she was willing to work, then he was willing to listen. At first, Sturmer smiled and nodded, shrugging his words off as typical political rhetoric. Soon, though, she came to realize that he meant every word of it.

Under Yale’s tutelage, Sturmer blossomed. She’d already read all the books, and learned the rules and regulations. But with Yale as her mentor, she soon learned how to negotiate the unwritten rules as well.

It took years of sweat and toil, but little by little, Sturmer fought her way up the ladder to make a name for herself. And now, here she was, thirty-five years later, on Capitol Hill. She’d grown into an accomplished legislator and a valued member of the House Ways and Means Committee, a driving force in determining exactly how the United States government spent its money each year. Sturmer’s dogged determination and commitment to her principles had won her the respect of even those colleagues who constantly disagreed with her.