CHAPTER 25
M
y seat was awful. No one likes getting a boarding pass with a number higher than 30. And when you buy your ticket an hour before the plane leaves, airline karma guarantees a middle seat next to an offensive lineman. Lyla got lucky; she was next to me on the aisle. After we got situated, I grabbed a magazine and tried not to think about the rotund man spilling out of the window seat to my left. Lyla didn’t notice until we were airborne.
“At first I thought you were leaning toward me,” she whispered. “Now I see you’re leaning away from him.”
The encroaching blob in 36A left me banterless.
“You’ve had enough ego boosts the last couple of days. You’ll live.”
“Would you like to sit in first class?”
“Sure, but they said the flight was full.” For her reaction, I may as well have said “I can’t drive fifty-six in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone.” Once I understood, my reaction was automatic. “Do it.”
Five minutes later, two people from first class switched seats with us. I stretched my legs and relaxed while Lyla talked the flight attendant into bringing us some champagne. I hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep on the
Aileana,
so I looked forward to using the Frankfurt leg to get some rest.
The bubbles in my champagne were hypnotic. The first sip was good, but after the second, the guilt started. Lyla recognized my expression and didn’t hesitate to call me on it.
“You’re upset with me because we moved up here, aren’t you? You asked me to do it.”
“I’m disappointed in myself, not you.”
“More of your ‘slippery slope’ nonsense.” She grabbed the in-flight magazine and ripped through the pages without reading.
“Now it’s nonsense? I remember when you were more serious about restraint than I was.”
“I am more experienced now.”
I said, “I guess I’m still naïve,” and closed my eyes.
—
Since my heroic coming-out party seven years ago, I’ve had literally hundreds of people ask me the same question. Some blurt it out first thing and some wait for a logical time to work it into conversation. Others are too afraid to ask, but I imagine the question balling up behind their eyes; jamming up the works, becoming thornier and more difficult to extract every second it goes unasked. The question is a nasty clog threatening to shut down brain function unless they ram the blockage through nervous lips:
“What’s it like to have superpowers?”
Can’t really blame them, because the four people in the most exclusive club in the world were no different. We asked each other the same damn thing; the difference was our versions were a bit more specific.
“What’s it like to lift someone else’s car out of your parking space?”
Carsten: “Awesome.”
“What’s it like to fire a lightning bolt into a cow?”
Diego: “Messy. And awesome.”
“What was it like turning Rush Limbaugh into a liberal?”
Lyla: “Be quiet, I’m reading. [Five second pause.] Incredibly awesome.”
No matter who asks the question, my stock answer is “It does not suck.” It might get a laugh but people tend to walk away with a look of disappointment. They know I’m holding out on them. Don’t misunderstand; I’m not lying when I answer that way, but there’s a big difference between not lying and telling the truth. I soft-sell the answer because people don’t want to hear the truth.
Having superpowers is scary.
Not because you don’t know how you got them. Or why. Or even if they’ll magically disappear one day. It’s scary because as soon as you know you have them, your life becomes a 24/7 festival of temptation.
If you don’t believe me, think about it: why do you work? To get money to pay the rent. Why do you pay rent? Because if you don’t, the landlord kicks you out. If you don’t leave, they send a bunch of cops to make you. The end of this chain leads to: you’re broke, homeless, and you die. That’s why you contribute, why you have a job and pay bills. It’s the way society functions—the social contract humanity signed when we agreed to leave the caves and build a few huts.
Problem is, the contract doesn’t apply to me. And yeah, I understated it the first time I talked to Tucker. I can get money anytime I like. I can’t be arrested, threatened, or pushed around. I can do whatever I want. But I don’t, and the reason is simple: I’m afraid.
Afraid that the first time I use my abilities for selfish reasons will be like balling up a handful of snow at the top of a hill and giving it a shove. Each push after that, the ball gets easier to roll and harder to stop. Pretty soon it’s flying downhill and crushing anything stupid enough to get in the way.
Might sound crazy, but if the devil exists, he’s a physicist by trade. He knows gravity and inertia will steamroll morality every time—and all he needs to do is deliver that first little push.
CHAPTER 26
I
slept all the way to Frankfurt plus half of the six-hour leg to Tehran. When I woke up, Lyla was curled in her seat, facing me.
“Feel better?”
I didn’t need to pound her over the head with my moral crisis any further, so I just let it go.
“Yeah, I do. Sorry I was pissy before. This may sound incredibly self-serving, but sleep really is the best medicine.”
“Don’t be sorry. Your heart is in the right place.” She grasped my forearm and gave me a reassuring squeeze.
Wait . . . something doesn’t feel right . . .
I jerked my arm away and grabbed at the sleeve with my other hand.
“It’s all right,” Lyla said, trying to calm me down. “Here . . . you didn’t even stir when I removed it.” She took the gauntlet from the leather seat pocket in front of her and handed it to me. “Did you know the device actually has a flight mode? Such ingenious scientists the CIA employs.”
“Did you turn it off ?”
“Yes. I also gave the briefcase a more thorough examination on the way to Frankfurt.”
I checked the space under my feet where I’d stowed the case. It was gone.
“Where . . . ?”
“Don’t worry, the files are in my backpack. I found a GPS tracker sewn into the briefcase lining,” she said. I told her about the pair in my
clothing I’d disposed of back in Switzerland. “Well, they can track the case all they want now. One of our fellow first-class passengers changed planes in Frankfurt. He’s on his way to Kazakhstan with a lovely new briefcase.”
I laughed. “I hear the opium routes through the mountains are beautiful this time of year.”
“One more thing . . .” She plucked the gauntlet out of my hand before I could slip it on. “. . . although it’s simple to turn off the normal GPS connection by switching to flight mode, I suspect there is an ambient tracker contained within the shell.”
“The Agency loves redundancy,” I said. Unfortunately the cuff was welded at the seams. Most high-tech CIA gear was designed that way; made the device impossible to disassemble without breaking. They’d always have a way to track us, which was no big deal as long as they played by the rules. If not, I sure as hell didn’t like the idea of them being able to pinpoint me within twenty feet.
I groaned. “That sucks.”
“Hold on.” Lyla unclipped her belt and hopped into the aisle, taking the gauntlet with her. She disappeared behind the flight-attendant curtain near the front of first class but returned in less than a minute. When she sat down Lyla passed the device to me and said, “We should be fine.” Judging from her look, she was pleased.
“Um, okay . . . not to be skeptical or anything, but what did you do?” The metal surface was warm but otherwise unharmed.
“Ambient-energy trackers are wonderful devices. So easy to power, even easier to overload. Two seconds on high in the galley microwave should be enough.”
“You
nuked
my gauntlet?”
“Two seconds won’t hurt the regular electronics. The trackers are designed to sip tiny amounts of power. A burst of high-energy microwaves beamed right down on them is too much to handle.”
I looked at her with a mixture of surprise and awe. She only saw the surprise.
“What? Pretty girls read books, too.”
“You read that in a book?”
Her head dropped in fake embarrassment. “Sadly, no. I watched
Spycraft
on the Discovery Channel. Remember, I haven’t been sleeping.”
“God, you’re a formidable little thing, aren’t you?”
“Do not forget it.”
She curled her legs under her butt and nestled down into her seat facing me again. The mischievous grin made Lyla look magical, almost elfin.
“Pretty happy with yourself, aren’t ya?” I asked.
She didn’t respond, just stared back joyously. I remembered her sullen, empty face when I saw her for the first time at St. Moritz; the difference now was stunning. She was vibrant, playful. Alive.
“You know, we’ve been together for almost five days and barely had quiet time to talk . . . ,” she said.
“Because of all the running and the shooting?”
“They do make it difficult. Tell me about
you,
about your life in Colorado.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” She stretched the “girl” like she was in middle school.
“Skipping right to the good stuff, huh? Yes, I have a friend who is a girl.”
“Be serious. What is the name of this friend-who-is-a-girl?”
“Cassie.”
“Is Cassie pretty?”
“I think so.”
“Pfft. That is no answer. Is she prettier than I am?”
I tilted my head at her and scrunched an eyebrow. “Like that’s possible.” She squiggled in her seat. “How about you?”
“Shhh. We’re talking about you and Cassie. Are you sleeping together?”
“I am
so
not answering that question.”
“Which means yes.” No more squiggle. “Do you love her?”
“God, no. It’s not like that at all. I’m just . . . it gets . . .”
“Lonely,” she whispered. “I understand the feeling well. Does she love you?”
“I don’t think so.”
When I was hungry, Cassie was a great person to share a meal with. We’d see movies when we were bored. When I couldn’t stand the emptiness any longer, we’d share a bed. But the emotions of those moments never lasted much beyond the acts themselves, not for me and I was pretty sure not for her, either.
“You’ve never read her mind to be certain?”
“Nope.”
“Because you don’t believe it is proper?”
“Partially. Also because mindreading hurts like a son of a bitch.”
She turned to face the seatback, calm and quiet in her thoughts. Her silence lasted so long I thought I’d said something wrong. Wouldn’t have been the first time—might as well put toothpaste on my shoe for as many times as my foot ends up in my mouth. For once, I was wrong.
“Evolving power has come with a physical toll for both of us,” she finally said.
“Yep. At least I can help with yours. Speaking of your power, the trick in the airport blew me away. The security guard won’t have any remnants of a hangover? He won’t pine for you?”
“Not at all. I used my voice alone. He’ll believe he let you go because you passed, not because he was obeying my wishes. In fact, I doubt the guard will remember me—no more than any other passenger he’s been in contact with today. That’s the beauty of using only a portion of my ability.”
I whistled. “Pretty sweet. I’m glad that voice voodoo doesn’t work on me.”
Her eyebrows pinched. “What do you mean?”
“I felt your power back in London. I can sense when you turn it on, can feel it in waves before you kick it in strong. Kind of like an early warning system. Must be related to my own evolution.”
She looked amused. “I don’t think you are as immune as you believe. In London I was asking you to do something contrary to your morals. It’s always taken more power and longer exposure to get someone to betray their conscience . . .”
“. . . which makes me seriously doubt the moral fiber of airport
security,” I finished.
“Joke if you must, but casual conversation using only the power of my voice is enough to get someone to answer questions they normally wouldn’t.”
“All right, all right . . . I give.” I saw no need to wave my partial immunity in her face so I picked up the in-flight magazine. She didn’t wait long.
“Do you think of me when you sleep with Cassie?”
“Yes. And stop trying to use mojo on me. I have no secrets. I’d tell you anything.”
“Do you secretly wish my breasts were larger?”
“Of course. I love big boobs.”
What? Did I really just say that out loud? Well, I’m just being honest, doesn’t mean . . .
“Who do you think of when you masturbate?”
“Depends. You, Salma Hayek, my seventh-grade math teacher . . . Hey, waitaminute . . .”
“If you had to be with a man, who would you choose?”
“No question, Hugh Jackman . . . dammit!”
I crossed my arms and fumed at the tray table in front of me. Lyla didn’t say anything but her shoulders bobbed up and down in my peripheral vision.
“I think I’ve made my point,” she managed to blurt out between giggles.
“Well done,” I grumbled.
“Hugh Jackman?”
“Shut up.”
“He is very attractive. Can sing and dance, too . . .”
“I dislike you.”
“Well, then, perhaps you should call your old math teacher.”
CHAPTER 27
O
ur arrival in Tehran’s Mehrabad Airport was wonderfully uneventful. As frustrating as Aphrodite’s voice-activated truth serum was on me, her power was a spectacle to behold on others. Passport control waved us through without any identification. Lyla had the guy hold her passport over the deactivated scanner, just in case anyone monitored our interchange on video. The customs inspector pulled us over for a random check, only to apologize and direct us to the taxi stand after a brief discussion with Lyla, who had donned an ankle-length black skirt and her niqab in the airplane bathroom. The niqab was a combination head wrap and facemask, designed to cover a woman’s upper body completely, leaving only a thin slit for her to see through. No one would recognize an expatriate meta-human in the getup; hell, I could barely tell she was a “she.” Her only visible parts were hands and eyes, and with the contacts Lyla looked exactly like any of the other 15 million Persian women with dark brown eyes.
Well, maybe a little taller.
Once outside, we rode separately. Although she was disguised almost to the point of invisibility, I wasn’t. A woman in a niqab won’t draw attention, but one walking around in public with a blond white guy might as well have a siren on her head. After a lifelong wait, I finally got to slide into a taxi and say, “Follow that car.” It’s not nearly as cool when the cabbie doesn’t speak a word of English, though.
Lyla selected a hotel near the Grand Bazaar, south of the city center, one popular with European travelers so I wouldn’t stick out as much.
The place had an over-the-hill-but-fighting-it vibe, a sort of desperate luxury. An ornate fountain stood watch in the courtyard but the thing looked like it’d been thirsty for years. Inside, there were gold-leaf tapestries hung on the main-floor walls, but the designs faded and frayed at every corner.
The lobby wasn’t crowded, but a handful of people milled about the entrance and the small restaurant connected to the hotel. Lyla’s amorphous black blob waited near the doors while I visited the front desk. A woman in traditional Muslim dress would draw notice checking in to a hotel by herself, let alone with a foreigner. Lyla had warned me any citizen we ran into could be a problem, so we had to be vigilant every moment we were in public.
The Basij, Iran’s volunteer “morality police,” were everywhere and nowhere at once: 10 million people—roughly 12 percent of the
country
—whose primary goal was surveillance of public life. Basiji policed all manner of suspicious behavior, from antigovernment rallies and demonstrations all the way down to ratting out people receiving “indecent programming” via satellite dish. It wasn’t uncommon for an enthusiastic morals cop to flag down a woman without a headscarf or a teenager on a street corner listening to forbidden Western music on headphones. Imagine an overzealous neighborhood association president—the guy who runs around with a ruler checking the height of your lawn—threatening legal action at every turn. Now give him a gun.
The Basij especially enjoyed monitoring improper male-female fraternization. In America, improper meant “having actual sex on a public street, not during Mardi Gras,” but in Iran it meant “being seen in public with a woman not related to you.” If anyone in the lobby was a Basiji, I guessed they wouldn’t believe Lyla was my cousin. Definitely put a crimp in our ability to travel together. No idea if anyone in the room gave me anything other than token interest—and it wasn’t worth the pain of finding out the mind-reading way—but check-in was no different from your average Holiday Inn.
I went to our third-floor room and waited. When Lyla came in, her niqab was half off before she even made it to the bathroom. A variety
of bumps, stomps, and exclamations came from behind the door as she peeled the restrictive garment away.
“I had forgotten how much I detest these things,” was the only sentence I heard clearly enough to understand. I stood inches from the door to speak back.
“I didn’t see as many of them on the street as I thought I would.”
“The niqab is not as common here as in the south . . .
eeek
!”
“What’s wrong?”
“My hair! Repulsive.”
“Hot under there, huh?”
“You think?” Tehran baked under 95-degree July heat and being inside didn’t shave much off the number. Sweat dripped from my underarms and I felt more pooling in the small of my back. I could only imagine how much worse it was for Lyla, buried under folds of black cotton. The door swung open and she pushed past me in a T-shirt and shorts to get to the balcony. She pulled on the French doors, flapping them open and shut like wings, drawing a dry breeze into the stifling room.
“Praise God,” she said. “I cannot believe I spent five years wearing one of those evil things.”
From outside the open balcony doors, a voice over a loudspeaker broke into song. The words were chanted, punctuated with bursts of emphasis. I walked past her bent-over, panting form to have a look. Other chants from distant voices drifted in; the singing radiated throughout the network of narrow street corridors forming the Grand Bazaar.
“What’s going on out there?”
Lyla backed away from the doors and sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s the
azan
. The call to prayer. Mosques broadcast it five times a day.”
When the voices stopped, I turned back to the room; Lyla stared through me at the city beyond. Judging from her face, memory packed a more serious punch than heat.
“Are you okay?”
She feathered dark hair behind her ears. “Yes, I just . . . it’s been a long time. This is more difficult than I expected.”
“It’s been, what, ten or eleven years since you left?”
“Fourteen. I was seventeen years old when my parents smuggled me out to England.”
Lyla’s chin dipped to her chest. I didn’t know much about her experiences in Iran growing up, but I knew enough not to push her for more. Back when we were a couple, I’d used up all the ways I could think of to ask, and the only success I’d achieved was in pissing her off. I knew her family was dead, and I knew the government was responsible. Whatever they’d done to her directly was . . . bad . . . but she never wanted to elaborate. To be honest, I’m glad she was secretive about that part. Whatever the truth, it was the kind of thing someone who cared about her didn’t want to hear.
I gathered up her niqab from the bathroom floor and folded it into a manageable pile. When I placed it on the bed next to her, she glanced over.
“My parents hated the niqab. They called it a useless relic of a closed-minded society.”
“Then why have one?”
“I didn’t for many years. Not until I turned twelve. Baba said it was a crime for his lovely daughter to wear a niqab, but better than the alternative.” Her face softened at the mention of her father.
“The alternative?”
“He saw how men were beginning to look at me. When my powers began to manifest. I had no idea. I played with my friends, ran through the streets oblivious. But he noticed the stares . . . the way strangers were drawn to me. And in the beginning, I had no idea how to control the power, nor the people it influenced. It was a dangerous time for me. For the entire family. Covering me up was the only reason I made it through my teens in Iran.”
“You hiding behind the niqab, him living in fear of what might happen if someone got too close—unfair for both of you,” I said. “But it sounds like your father was a very smart man.”
She fingered her dangling necklace. “Yes. He was.”
“If you’d grown up in America, he would’ve been the guy sitting on his front porch with a shotgun during your high school years, scaring
all the boys away.” I hoped for a smile, but none came, so I started unpacking and left her to her thoughts.
No need to make things worse by talking. There wasn’t a whole lot an idiot like me could do to make Lyla feel better anyway. My mom and dad were alive and well, no one assaulted me during my childhood, and I grew up in Indiana. What the hell could I possibly say?