Guide to Illinois,
Eighth Edition
T he Undergoths’ tunnels were lit by naked bulbs that hissed and flickered when Iridium passed by.
Boxer jerked at his tie, chin weaving from side to side. “This place gives me the damn creeps, Iri.”
Iridium didn’t slow her steps at all, but she created a light globe that floated gently through the dank, stinking air over hers and Boxer’s heads.
His mouth twisted up at the side. “Thanks.”
“This guy better not be jerking me around,” Iridium muttered. “There won’t be anything left of him for this purported vigilante if he is.” She cracked one gloved fist against the other. White unikilt, black stockings, black gloves, black boots. Say what you wanted about the rest of the Academy, their Hero Branding and Fashion course was solid. Iridiumknew that at almost six feet, in her costume, she looked positively intimidating—and she intended to use that to her full advantage against the Undergoths.
A solid-steel access door loomed up out of the gloom, flanked by two gangsters in the colored battle kilts and leather vests accented by bolts and other found metals that characterized the Undergoths. Iridium could recite gang lore in her sleep, but all that mattered now were the bullet points.
The Undergoths were an old gang, populating the tunnels after the waters from the Flood of ’09 receded. They followed a single leader and a council of generals. They tended toward edged weapons, petty larceny, and hit-and-run heists. Far from their Rome-sacking ancestors, the Undergoths were major power players in New Chicago’s criminal faction in only one way: They controlled every tunnel, every illegal access port, every trapdoor and passageway that ran through the ruins of the old city.
And they stank to high heaven.
“Stop,” said the gangster in the blue kilt.
“We have a meeting,” said Iridium, cocking her hip. By her side, Boxer moved his hand to the butt of his plasgun pistol. Iridium held up her hand to him. “I’m sure we won’t need it, Box. These boys don’t look old enough to shave, never mind fight.”
As New Chicago had rebuilt grid after grid and closed off square miles of ruined blocks, the Undergoths’ territory had grown exponentially. Rival gangs that ran in the sewers and transport tunnels without leave told stories of bodies ripped limb from limb, pipe trees with severed hands for fruit, and screams that echoed for days through the Rat Network. Frankly, Iridium thought their reputation was highly overrated.
The Undergoth clenched his fist. “Shut your mouth.”
“I know you’re not being rude to a guest of your leader,” said Iridium. “That’d just be bad for business.”
“Be quiet and let me pat you down,” he snarled, pulling a Talon cutter from his belt.
Iridium let one eyebrow go up. Talons were police-issue rescue weapons, designed to bite through the tilithium hides of floatcars and cleave brick like butter.
“Freudian hang-ups are an ugly thing,” she said. “You should channel that aggression into something productive, like holohockey. Or taking a shower. I can smell you even in this rotten air.”
“Shut up,” said the Undergoth for the third time, and reached for her.
Iridium
pushed
at him, felt her power sizzle against the oily fog of the air, then the Undergoth was encased in a column of light, as if he’d been a statue on a podium in Heroes’ Hall.
He started screaming almost immediately as the light burned white-hot around him, snapping dully as the Undergoth beat against it. The skin on his face and bare torso started to blister, then to flake away.
“UV rays,” Iridium told Boxer, when her companion’s lip curled in disgust.
Boxer shrugged and focused on a lizard skittering along the tunnel’s ceiling, its seven-toed feet tapping out a syncopated rhythm and its rat’s tail swishing as the gangster’s cries floated around them.
Iridium felt the sweat creep over her again. Just as Jet had to fight to
Eighth Edition
T he Undergoths’ tunnels were lit by naked bulbs that hissed and flickered when Iridium passed by.
Boxer jerked at his tie, chin weaving from side to side. “This place gives me the damn creeps, Iri.”
Iridium didn’t slow her steps at all, but she created a light globe that floated gently through the dank, stinking air over hers and Boxer’s heads.
His mouth twisted up at the side. “Thanks.”
“This guy better not be jerking me around,” Iridium muttered. “There won’t be anything left of him for this purported vigilante if he is.” She cracked one gloved fist against the other. White unikilt, black stockings, black gloves, black boots. Say what you wanted about the rest of the Academy, their Hero Branding and Fashion course was solid. Iridiumknew that at almost six feet, in her costume, she looked positively intimidating—and she intended to use that to her full advantage against the Undergoths.
A solid-steel access door loomed up out of the gloom, flanked by two gangsters in the colored battle kilts and leather vests accented by bolts and other found metals that characterized the Undergoths. Iridium could recite gang lore in her sleep, but all that mattered now were the bullet points.
The Undergoths were an old gang, populating the tunnels after the waters from the Flood of ’09 receded. They followed a single leader and a council of generals. They tended toward edged weapons, petty larceny, and hit-and-run heists. Far from their Rome-sacking ancestors, the Undergoths were major power players in New Chicago’s criminal faction in only one way: They controlled every tunnel, every illegal access port, every trapdoor and passageway that ran through the ruins of the old city.
And they stank to high heaven.
“Stop,” said the gangster in the blue kilt.
“We have a meeting,” said Iridium, cocking her hip. By her side, Boxer moved his hand to the butt of his plasgun pistol. Iridium held up her hand to him. “I’m sure we won’t need it, Box. These boys don’t look old enough to shave, never mind fight.”
As New Chicago had rebuilt grid after grid and closed off square miles of ruined blocks, the Undergoths’ territory had grown exponentially. Rival gangs that ran in the sewers and transport tunnels without leave told stories of bodies ripped limb from limb, pipe trees with severed hands for fruit, and screams that echoed for days through the Rat Network. Frankly, Iridium thought their reputation was highly overrated.
The Undergoth clenched his fist. “Shut your mouth.”
“I know you’re not being rude to a guest of your leader,” said Iridium. “That’d just be bad for business.”
“Be quiet and let me pat you down,” he snarled, pulling a Talon cutter from his belt.
Iridium let one eyebrow go up. Talons were police-issue rescue weapons, designed to bite through the tilithium hides of floatcars and cleave brick like butter.
“Freudian hang-ups are an ugly thing,” she said. “You should channel that aggression into something productive, like holohockey. Or taking a shower. I can smell you even in this rotten air.”
“Shut up,” said the Undergoth for the third time, and reached for her.
Iridium
pushed
at him, felt her power sizzle against the oily fog of the air, then the Undergoth was encased in a column of light, as if he’d been a statue on a podium in Heroes’ Hall.
He started screaming almost immediately as the light burned white-hot around him, snapping dully as the Undergoth beat against it. The skin on his face and bare torso started to blister, then to flake away.
“UV rays,” Iridium told Boxer, when her companion’s lip curled in disgust.
Boxer shrugged and focused on a lizard skittering along the tunnel’s ceiling, its seven-toed feet tapping out a syncopated rhythm and its rat’s tail swishing as the gangster’s cries floated around them.
Iridium felt the sweat creep over her again. Just as Jet had to fight to
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