CHAPTER 1
“Welcome to the Jungle” —Guns N’ Roses
“Hi,” Mike said. The six-foot-tall—as of a recent growth spurt—brown-haired, light-blue-eyed thirteen-year-old held up his Common Access Card, or “CAC.” “Michael James Truesdale. I need a temporary visitor badge for my counsel, Derrick Sterrenhunt.”
He’d had a lot of different names in his time, and still did depending on the setting, but his most public name was courtesy of the US Marshals.
The lobby of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building was, as usual, bustling with activity. There was a long line out front of people waiting to get in to see ICE. When Mike had contacted Super Corps, Tony DiAngelo told him to just use the front entrance.
The building’s two-story foyer was expansive compared to the constrictive, claustrophobic feel he now got in most of the city. Of course, that was a feeling he’d never really experienced in New York before. But that already felt like a lifetime ago.
Even though he hadn’t been away all that long in the grand scheme, there was still a tremendous culture shock returning to darkest New York City after his time in Montana Big Country. Mere days prior, he’d been camping in the open. By “camping,” he meant learning Lakota-style survival from his father. It had been as far from civilization as one could get, and now he was back in what some might call the paragon city of western civilization.
“Sternoot?” the access manager said, looking at her screen. She was in a heavy-duty bulletproof glass enclosure. “I see a visit from a Michael Truesdale to Super Corps, but the designated adult is S-T-E—”
“It’s pronounced Stern-hoont,” Mike said while looking at the big man beside him and nodding toward the counter. “It’s spelled weird.”
Counselor Sterrenhunt produced his Montana driver’s license, which was duly scanned.
Derrick Sterrenhunt was still a little taller than Mike but with much broader shoulders, black hair cut short and graying a bit, blue eyes, high cheekbones and forehead, and an erect carriage that screamed former military. More about his look and moves, a robotic walk that at the same time was graceful like a panther, screamed former operator. Which he was.
Nicknamed “Hunter,” he’d spent his military career in the Combat Activities Group and ended it as a command sergeant major in Joint Special Operations Command.
Beyond all that, he was Mike’s biological father. Though Mike had feared the man might just as soon have told him to pound sand, he’d taken Mike at his word—but verified it with a DNA test. Their relationship proven, Derrick hadn’t hesitated to welcome Mike into the family. And it was quite the ginormous family for one to spontaneously join.
“Okay,” the receptionist said, her eyes still narrowed as if annoyed. “Counselor. Temporary visitor’s badge. You have to have an escort.”
“I don’t count?” Mike asked.
“No,” the receptionist said curtly. “It should be just a moment.”
Mike led Derrick back into the lobby and gestured around.
“My digs,” he said.
“You own the whole thing?” Derrick said. Whether his father was joking, curious, or indifferent, Mike had no idea. His father was far more difficult to read than the average boulder. Of course, as an Earther, Mike had gotten particularly adept at reading your average boulder—especially after his time spent at Pirate Bill’s Rock Emporium off US 2 outside of Kalispell, Montana.
“I do, as a matter of fact,” Mike said. “This is my building.”
He was checking it out under his longer-range Earth Sight. Pretty much the same as the last time he’d been here. He could see all the way to Super Corps headquarters and recognized their “escort.” He couldn’t help but smile.
When Mike’s originally assigned Super Corps handler—for lack of a better term—walked through the security doors, he grinned and raised his hands dramatically.
“Alexander of Alexandria!” Mike boomed in his fruitiest voice. “I greet thee!”
Alexander couldn’t help but laugh. They shook hands and back-slapped.
Alexander Thompson was a six-foot-four slender black man in his twenties, and was turned out as always in dress slacks, neatly cropped hair, and a Super Corps polo shirt.
During his previous tenure in New York, Mike had found out that the guy was nice but so indoctrinated into what Mike knew were Society memetics. He also had found out Alexander was a comic book nerd who was super into the Corps in general and the costumes in particular. Mike was surprised to find out, from others, that he’d gone to Duke on a basketball scholarship, which said words about his skill with hoops.
“The Prodigal returns,” Mike said, smiling. “I hope that the fatted calf has been slaughtered in my honor. I told you I’d be back! I told you!”
“You did,” Alexander said, nodding and looking at Counselor Sterrenhunt.
“Alexander of Alexandria, may I present the right honorable Derrick of the Sterrenhunt clan? Father, Alexander. Alexander, Counselor Sterrenhunt.”
“Counselor,” Alexander said, shaking hands. “Alexander Thompson, deputy administration officer. Honored to meet you. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” Derrick said.
“So . . .” Alexander said, looking back and forth. “Wow. Mike, you’ve . . . changed a lot. I hardly recognize you. Same scar. Weird.”
“I think this is what I’m supposed to look like,” Mike said, waving at his face. He’d hardly noticed his face slowly morphing until he pulled out his old ID and compared it in the mirror. His cheekbones were higher and his chin sharper than it had been.
Much of his face had been reconstructed after a particularly bad beatdown when he was eight. Since the doctors didn’t know what he was supposed to look like, they did their best job. Regenerative healing was morphing his face to what it should be, which turned out to be a lot like his father’s.
“Well, don’t want to keep Mr. DiAngelo waiting,” Alexander said, gesturing to the door. “This way.”
“Mine still work?” Mike asked, waving his card.
“No,” Alexander said. “We locked you out when you took off. Nothing against you, just protocol.”
“I can’t believe you left me out in the cold,” Mike said, sniffing theatrically. “Left me to the fate of this cruel, cruel world.”
“While we had half the DOJ and DHS looking for you,” Alexander said as they walked in the secure area. “And marshals. The marshals were sort of put out they couldn’t find you.”
“Don’t go anywhere they expect you to go,” Mike said. Truth be told, Mike could only consider himself extremely lucky to receive the reception he’d gotten—seeing as he’d disappeared without word to take care of some “business” before tracking down his father.
They proceeded to the elevator, then up to sixteen. Mike showed his badge to the marshal door gargoyle and received a nod.
“Miri!” Mike said as they entered the lobby.
“Mike,” Mr. DiAngelo’s fortysomething brunette executive assistant said from her desk on the other side of the lobby. “Welcome back.”
The lobby of the Super Corps New York office was a little nicer than most such government buildings. Two stories in height, it was about four thousand square feet with decorative marble pillars, a marble floor with the Super Corps emblem on it, wood-paneled walls, and potted plants in selective corners. Directly opposite the entrance was the “flyer exit,” a sliding glass door that led to a small runway for flyers to take off on their patrols.
Pretty much the entire sixteenth floor of the Javits Building was devoted to the Corps despite the fact there were only about a hundred total supers who worked there, and most were out on patrols.
The federal government did not stint when it came to convincing their Supers that they wanted to be part of the team.
“Does the prodigal get a hug?” Mike asked.
“The prodigal does, yes,” Miri said, hugging him. “Despite all the furor. The reason for the prodigality is a valid excuse. Counselor,” she added, nodding at Derrick.
“Ms. Jones,” Derrick said, nodding.
“You have a last name?” Mike said, his eyes wide. “I thought you just had one name!”
“Mr. DiAngelo is waiting,” Miri said, smiling and gesturing at the door. The nameplate beside it read anthony diangelo, chief of super corps, new york office. Absent was his other title, Italian Falcon.
“I’ll wait to show you around,” Alexander said. “Kevin insists on seeing you.”
“And I insist on seeing Kevin,” Mike said as the door unlocked. There was a muffled “Come on!” from the other side.
“Falcone!” Mike said, holding his arms up again. “I told you I’d be back!”
“So you did, kid,” Italian Falcon said, shaking his head in comically feigned disgust and waving at the chairs. Falcon was five foot eight with broad shoulders, a burly look, brown hair and eyes. He had retained a thick Staten Island accent. “Mr. Sterrenhunt, I’d shake your hand, but you probably want to keep it.”
He looked the two of them over and shook his head.
“You’ve changed your look,” he said to Mike, frowning.
“Told you most of this was reconstructed,” Mike said, circling a finger around his face.
“You two even have the same scar,” Falcon said, nodding. He shrugged and turned his attention to Derrick. “So, Counselor Sterrenhunt, welcome to Super Corps. I’m Anthony DiAngelo, Italian Falcon, invulnerable flyer and office chief for New York Super Corps.”
“Yes, sir,” Derrick said. He settled into his characteristic expressionless stone face, though his eyes still took in everything—always scanning, assessing, calculating, and judging. Even Mike, a kid genius with superpowers, couldn’t help but wonder what his father thought of him.
Tony motioned to the guest chairs and took a seat at his desk. Mike casually took in the office’s impressive view of Tribeca. Looking out across the city, he realized he hadn’t really developed claustrophobia in New York City, it was just that his innate paranoia had returned. This city had eyes everywhere, many of them attached to nefarious people. His deeply ingrained anxiety, his apprehension and distrust in everyone around him had relaxed—for the first time in his life—substantially in Montana. Not only had there been far fewer people and a distinct lack of gangs, criminals, and Society members who wished him dead, but he’d spent most of the time among family.
He’d gone from exactly zero family—after Miss Cherise had been murdered—to a huge family: grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins . . . several gorgeous and brilliant cousins, in fact. Stepping into the strange new world of a large family had been far more disorienting than Acquiring superpowers.
“I will say officially and formally I’m glad this kid is somebody else’s problem,” Tony said, snapping Mike back into the room. Tony grinned to relieve the offense. “Half the time I didn’t know whether to strangle him or try to adopt him. But you’ve got a good kid there. He’s got a good heart. Crazy. But a good heart. So, how are you settling in?”
“We’re not precisely settling,” Derrick said, sitting ramrod straight. “I wanted to discuss that with you personally.”
“Oh?” Tony said, leaning back. “Not . . . settling in? I heard you hadn’t taken the moving package.”
“Mike will be completing his mandatory community service,” Derrick said, “as well as additional time. However . . .”
“They’re making me go to college,” Mike said, his face long. “I got my GED when I was in Montana.”
“Oh,” Tony said, perking up. “Congratulations on convincing him.”
“It wasn’t as hard as you’d think,” Derrick said. “My entire family homeschools, and early entry is sort of normal. Also, he probably won’t be going to college in New York.”
“Oh?” Tony said. He gestured at the window. “We’ve got some great colleges here in the city.”
“And as Mike Truesdale I’m not canceled,” Mike said, tugging his ear. “But . . . I’d feel more at home at a different college. A bunch of my family and their friends have gone to Osseo in Michigan. It sort of caters to homeschoolers.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Tony said, his brow furrowing. “I didn’t realize you were that . . .”
“Conservative?” Mike said shrugging. “I’m not. It’s just I think Osseo will be a better fit than Columbia. Anyway, I’ll be here through the mandatory time plus into the summer. We plan on going back to Montana for a good bit of that. I’m also required to study traditional culture and techniques. I learned to build a fire with two sticks!”
“You did, huh?” Tony said, smiling.
“I went easy on him,” Derrick said.
“I tried to get your military service record,” Tony said. “They told me to take a hike. What I did get was mostly redacted and that was enough. Jeez, Sergeant Major! Fourteen Bronze Stars? Fourteen.”
“They exaggerate,” Derrick said with the slightest tilt of his head.
“Riiight,” Falcon said slowly. The two men stared at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds.
“There’s a couple more points we need to hit,” Mike said. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, out of school, if you agree. The Secretary can be read in but that’s it.”
“Okay,” Falcon said, his brow furrowing again.
“I also was able to establish who my biological mother was,” Mike said. “She is deceased.”
“Sorry to hear that, Mike,” Falcon said with genuine sympathy. After a moment, he frowned. “How’d you find them at all? We did look on DNA stuff.”
“Yeah,” Mike said, nodding. “And I appreciate that. You remember when youse guys got Mama’s phone from the marshals to pass to me?”
Whenever Mike was talking with someone, he tended to take on their accent. When he talked with Falcon, he’d slowly start to sound like he was “bridges and tunnels” in the local lingo.
“Yeah,” Tony said.
“My friend at Baltimore PD said that the one thing the street ladies would say is she wanted me to have her phone when she died,” Mike said. “Which was sort of weird and didn’t make any sense. But then when I looked through it, ’cause I had the open code, it was mostly all the same stuff. Lots of selfies of Mama . . .”
He paused at that point, but not for dramatic effect. Miss Cherise had been the closest person he’d had to a real mother growing up and it still hurt. He distracted himself by stretching his Sight out and around to somewhat lazily check on the goings-on elsewhere in the building. The first time he’d been in this office, he’d academically known Sight was possible but hadn’t any concept of how it worked.
He visually scanned down to look through the windows of the gym across the street, where Mike had once strained to search for the beautifully athletic bodies of spandex-clad young women working out. However, now he instinctively examined their bone structure with Sight rather than drinking in their curves. He really had changed more than he realized.
“I’m sorry she, uh, didn’t get buried,” Tony said, frowning. “We were looking at, uh . . .”
“Oh, I got her buried,” Mike said, waving his hand. “I got some people to contribute. Sort of a crowdfund thing. What with MS-13 not liking me very much, I didn’t attend the service. But she got buried.”
“Glad to hear that,” Tony said, nodding. “I know she was important to you.”
“Yeah,” Mike said then perked up. “But I’ve got, like, forty relatives now, so . . . Moving on. There was one photo that stood out on Mama’s phone. It was completely different than the rest. Can I use your plasma?”
“Sure,” Tony said. He hit a couple of buttons, and a wooden panel retracted to reveal a large flat-screen TV.
Derrick had questioned the wisdom of sharing the information with Tony or even discussing their plans regarding the inheritance this soon, but Mike had vouched for Tony’s trustworthiness. It said a lot that Derrick already trusted Mike’s judgment. Mike had spent most of his life with almost no one to trust, but now he seemed to have an abundance. It was an even stranger feeling than suddenly having a family.
Mike linked in and brought up the photo. It was of a couple sitting at a table at what was obviously a formal event. A younger Counselor Sterrenhunt was wearing a dinner jacket seated next to a petite blonde in a low-cut dress with a sweater on her shoulders.
“This was what I had,” Mike said. “And I had to wonder who those people were. It was out of place with the other photos. The photo had a metatag on it that listed it as ‘Master Sergeant Sterrenhunt and plus-one Anna.’ You recognize the woman?”
“No,” Tony said, shaking his head. “Pretty. That your bio mom?”
“Yes,” Mike said.
“At this point, proven by DNA,” Counselor Sterrenhunt said.
“Okay,” Tony said.
“It was about a one-day news item,” Mike said, bringing up a cropped version of the photo. “When it hit the news, I was here in New York and saw this photo. So, when I saw the full photo, I recognized her right away.”
He pulled up a banner headline from the New York Post with the same photo in it.
REMAINS OF DEAD HEIRESS MISSING!
“Oh, shit,” Tony said, putting his hand over his mouth. “I remember this story. That’s your bio mom?”
“Yes,” Mike said.
“She’s worth, like, a billion dollars!” Tony said, looking at them.
“Yes,” Mike replied. “I don’t think I got left in an alleyway. No way Mama had that photo on her phone if she didn’t know who my mother was.”
“That makes sense,” Tony said, frowning. “And that’s the one where the chief of security ended up in the East River.”
“Yes,” Mike said.
“There’s a lot hinky about those guys,” Tony said. “Follett, right?”
“Yes,” Mike said.
“And you’re going to try to get a piece of it.”
“Yes.”
“Yeah,” Tony said, thoughtfully then chuckled. “Sorry for laughing, but I was starting to think ‘This kid might be in a little danger.’ Then I remembered.”
“Right,” Mike said, also chuckling.
Derrick gave a barely audible grunt and shifted.
“I sincerely doubt the Follett Trust would take direct action in the case of my son,” Counselor Sterrenhunt said. “They’ll probably try to just brand him a kook. Character assassination versus actual assassination. But I did drag my feet a touch on bringing Mike to New York. I made the excuse that there were personal matters to clean up in Montana—which was true. The personal matter, though, was establishing his claim by DNA testing.
“When Mike made the decision that he would like to bring suit to inherit, the issue was evidentiary DNA. With the remains in Philadelphia missing, that was an issue. We managed to find an old sample that had been kept from a juvenile arrest. It has been tested by a forensic lab I’d worked with before. Mike is, unquestionably, the son and sole living heir of Annabelle Follett—who, I might add, was the only person I slept with during the time when he would have been conceived.”
“Right,” Tony said, nodding.
“That photo,” Mike said, gesturing at it. “It was taken by the Fort Myer Officers Club official photographer and is still up on Annabelle Follett’s Facebook memorial page. That one doesn’t have the metatags. FB strips them as part of compressing the file. And that photo, cropped admittedly, showing Annabelle in the company of the person proven to be my biological father, is pretty hard evidence in itself. But I’m sure the Trust isn’t just going to roll over.”
Tony shrugged in agreement but also squinted one eye as the wheels visibly turned in his head.
“My life, my problem,” Mike said, shrugging. “But that’s going to be going on.”
“Hopefully that’s not going to cause too many problems,” Tony said. “But it’s your life.”
“Secretary should be informed,” Mike said. “There will be quiet questions from senators when Mike Truesdale, aka Stone Tactical, goes after a billion-dollar inheritance. I do not want to sideswipe her on that. Cannibale, yes. This, no.”
“Thank you for that,” Tony said. He took in the view and sat silent. After a moment, he turned back and brightened a little. “How was Montana?”
“Mountainous,” Mike said, smiling. He sighed while looking out the window again. “I told Dr. Swanson that what I really needed was somewhere to heal. Somewhere where people weren’t beating on me, psychologically or physically. Kalispell was a good place to heal. I’m in better shape, psychologically, than I think I’ve ever been in my life. Though it’s incredibly quiet! No sirens! No traffic noise! It’s weird. That took some getting used to.”
“So, you’re not going to be here permanently,” Tony said.
“We anticipate being here most of the next six months,” Derrick replied. “After that, decisions will have to be made.”
“And while I may not be full time with the Corps,” Mike said, “I do intend to be at the very least Corps Reserve. So, I’m not breaking with the Corps even over the suit. About which . . .”
“We need to not say nothing,” Tony said, waving his hand dismissively. “And I almost broke that omerta.”
“We’ve got a meeting with the attorneys handling the suit tomorrow,” Derrick said with a glance at Mike.
“Where you at?” Tony said. “Where are you staying?”
“Rental condo in SoHo,” Derrick said.
“Nice digs,” Tony said.
“Fortunately, the reward money for Cannibale came through,” Mike said. “’Cause otherwise that would have been tough. Anywhere in New York would have been tough for temporary housing.”
“If we can get Mike into college, I’ll probably be heading back to Montana,” Derrick said. “I was recruited after I retired for various law firms with offices in New York and Washington. If I wanted to be in New York, I’d be in New York.”
“Some people won’t live anywhere else,” Tony said, shrugging. “That’s me. Some people think it’s hell.”
“Oh, I’ve lived in hell,” Derrick said. “It’s not hell. Just not my style.”
Alexander led Mike and Derrick down the wide hallway leading to Kevin’s expansive fitting room. Displayed on both sides were some of Kevin’s proudest creations—the iconic California Girl outfit, Tony’s original Italian Falcon costume, the matching outfits of power super couple Summer Storm and Bonfire, and more. Notably absent were the outfits of Electrobolt, currently incarcerated pending trial for sexual assault on both Jorge Camejo—Hombre de Poder—and Mike, aka Stone Tactical. The other more notable absence was the costume of Lieutenant Colonel James King, aka Major Freedom. But then, one wouldn’t display the outfit of the man who’d become the Nebraska Killer.
The double doors at the end of the hallway flew open with a flourish.
“Kevin, dahling!” Mike said, holding out his arms for a hug.
The Designer clasped his hands to his face.
“My little Michelangelo’s David is back!” Kevin squealed.
Kevin Winchard was about five foot six, with a sandy blond coif—the only word to use—that cascaded to his shoulders, and a well-preserved fifty or so courtesy of extensive but well-done plastic surgery. He was trailed by his invariably silent, gender-uncertain assistant, Maureen.
They hugged and did the side-kissy thing, and Kevin held him at arm’s length.
“You’ve grown,” Kevin said, professionally. “And your face has changed.”
He stood back and looked at father and son.
“Yes, you’re definitely becoming the little Native American brave,” Kevin said, clasping his chest. “So handsome!” he added, looking at Derrick. “I love the erect carriage.”
“Twenty-three years in the Army will do that,” Derrick said.
“Even the same scar,” Kevin said, waving at the left side of his face.
“Yes,” Mike said. “If I may formally introduce: Counselor Derrick Sterrenhunt, The Designer, Kevin Winchard. Kevin, Counselor Sterrenhunt.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Kevin said, extending one languid hand.
“Likewise,” Derrick said, shaking his hand. “Mike talked about you.”
“All lies and vile calumnies, I’m sure,” Kevin said, primly.
“Actually, he said you were the nicest guy he’d ever met,” Derrick said. “Also, something about his first costume.”
“We all have our little moments,” Kevin said, wincing.
“I kept a copy,” Mike said. “I showed it to him.”
“You didn’t!” Kevin said, grimacing. “In retrospect . . .”
“Every genius has that moment, Kevin,” Mike said. “Have you ever seen Fabergé’s spider brooch? It’s hideous.”
“So, I don’t know anything about you, sir,” Kevin said, turning to Derrick. “Just that Mike had found his biological father in Montana of all places! And that he was an attorney. No one mentioned military.”
“Twenty-three years Army special operations,” Derrick said.
“Delta Force,” Mike whispered from behind his hand.
“Oh, my!” Kevin said with dramatically wary eyes and chin tucked to the side. “Well, that explains a few things! Michael, we’re going to have to refit you for your formal costume. I’d barely gotten the first one done when you disappeared on me! You shameless, naughty boy!”
“I was looking for my father,” Mike said with a shrug. “And I’m not sure when I’d wear it.”
“I was hoping you’d be wearing it for the press conference for capturing Cannibale,” Kevin said. “But they didn’t even trot you out. There will be a time. But we do need to get you remeasured. You had a growth spurt.”
“I did, yes,” Mike said.
“So, we’ll have to schedule it,” Kevin said. “No time today.”
“My schedule hasn’t been fixed, yet,” Mike said. “I took the GED when I was in Montana, so I’m done with primary schooling. And I’ve been convinced to go to college but probably not ’til next fall.”
“Oh, excellent,” Kevin said. “Columbia?”
“Probably not,” Mike said. “It’ll probably be out of New York. But I’ll be back from time to time to do Juniors. Just . . . there are things. Right now, we’ve got some scheduled meetings. But it’ll be easier to fit it in the schedule without having to arrange around school. And I’m done with that.”