macdjord
Well worn.
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No, that was her step-father; her biological father is not mentioned AFAIK.
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Recoil (a Worm fanfic)
- Thread starter Ack
- Start date
kentter
Versed in the lewd.
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Ahhh. I thought it was her dad, didn't know she had a step. Wasn't he also the one she learned the whole 'predator' spiel from because he told her he could do whatever to her so long as she was to weak to stop him or some shit like that?
macdjord
Well worn.
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I don't... think so? Not explicitly, at least - that might have been the lesson she took away from the situation, but AFAIK he never said anything like that.
Ack
(Verified Ratbag) (Unverified Great Old One)
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Zackarix
Hera's Divorce Lawyer
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What about her brother? Lisa would insist on intervening for him even if Taylor has no interest.
Gaemnomut
Well worn.
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Part 8-2: Changing Things Around
Ack
(Verified Ratbag) (Unverified Great Old One)
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Monday Afternoon, April 17, 1995
PRT Department 04: Chicago
Captain Taylor Snow's Quarters
"Draw!"
Already tense, I was ready for the challenge. My right hand flashed down and folded over the worn grips of my old-style Colt revolver. It came up out of the holster like a living thing, its aim-point already painting a dot on my HUD. Bringing the barrel up, I chopped at the hammer with the heel of my left hand. I was holding the trigger down so there was no obstruction to firing, and my rapidly fanned shots hit the leader of the Bloody Circuits gang right in the breadbasket.
The micro-explosives went off, blasting apart subdermal armour and cybernetics alike; he stumbled to his knees, dropping his laser pistol, which had only just cleared its holster. Slowly, he toppled forward to fall flat on his face. I could see where one of my shots had penetrated all the way through and blown out his back, exposing the stainless steel of his spinal column.
Lisa fired a shot in the air, the concussion causing the air itself to quiver. She worked the lever-action of her replica Winchester, making everyone entirely aware that the next plasma-jacketed round lay in the chamber, ready to blow apart anyone who looked at her funny. "You guys don't want to be making any stupid moves," she said, her words backing up the physical threat.
None of the other gang members tried anything as I walked forward and kicked the gun clear of the cyborg outlaw's hand. Killer-Byte, as he'd styled himself, had been a thorn in the side of the local towns for some little while, but now his time was done. Just to make sure, I accessed my HUD and scanned his body. There were no backup mechanisms, no hidden computer cores.
Killer-Byte had been shut down for good.
Suitably intimidated, the rest of the gang offered no resistance as Lisa and I set about disarming and securing them. All we needed now was a link to the local laser-telegraph line, and we could get the local law out here to take them into custody.
As I walked with Lisa to where our patiently waiting hover-cycles were tethered to the hitching rail, I reached a decision. I can't do this anymore.
"Do what?" She looked at me with concern. "Go on adventures with me?"
I snorted. Oh, no, I'm loving these. No, it's Jack Slash. I know I agreed to wait until he tries to recruit Riley, then nail the gang and put him on ice then, but …
"… but he's going to kill too many people and enable too many villains in the meantime, yeah?" Her look turned sympathetic. "I get it. Trust me, I get it."
Will it change too much if we take him off the board now?
She grimaced. "You know I can't answer that one. The butterfly effect is a very real thing, but it's unpredictable. Something you think will have a huge effect will sink without a ripple, and other things that you figure nobody cares about have long-lasting consequences."
You know why I wanted to wait.
It was her turn to snort derisively. "Well, duh. So she'll be amenable to the idea of being recruited by us. Having a high-end medic of her calibre on call for emergency situations would be ideal. Especially with the crap you've already put yourself through, and given that Panacea's not a guarantee anymore."
Yeah. It was true. Think she'll still be up to it if there's no threat from Jack Slash?
"Hmm." She rubbed her chin. "I might be able to come up with something. Leave it with me."
Okay, cool. I appreciate it. 'Lie, cheat, steal and kill' is all well and good, but leaving people to die when I could have saved them sucked enough with Behemoth.
"I know. I know, I know, I know." She hugged me. "Can you wait another year?"
You're talking about Gray Boy.
"Yeah." She rested her chin on my shoulder. "I have no doubt you could kidnap Jack and kill Screamer—not in that order, of course—but then you'd have that monochrome little twerp on your case, and he'd be really hard to shake. Especially when we don't have any effective way to neutralise his power."
So, wait until Glaistig collects him and turns herself in, then grab Jack? I didn't like having to wait even a year, but at least it was better than ten years.
"It's a plan." She shrugged. "We've got a year to firm it up."
Yeah, okay. We'll do it your way. As she'd known all along.
"Good. Though Winter's in the country now. I can make it so she'll be passing through Chicago in three weeks, if you're okay with that."
Yeah, that'll be good. I thought I was going to have to go to her.
Pulling back slightly, she gave me one of her impish grins. "Having mercenaries available to lay a false trail of contacts is a very useful thing."
And I can kill her, at least? This was a death I could definitely get behind. Winter was a sadistic murderer who specialised in gun-running and dabbled in human trafficking. If she had any positive qualities, I hadn't found them yet. Also, denying the Nine of her membership could only serve to weaken them in the long run.
"Absolutely. I'll make sure Andrea gets all the details."
I knew there was a reason I was keeping you around.
She smirked at me. "And here I thought it was my irresistible charm. Kiss before you go?"
As I kissed her, the wind kicked up. Her lips tasted of dust and blood. A piece of prairie grit stung my eye, and I blinked—
—and opened my eyes, sitting at my desk in my quarters. Before me lay two carefully handwritten letters, one going to Danny and one to Gladys. They were similar in tone but different in actual wording, phrased to sound like chatty missives to old friends. If anyone looked through them before sending them on—as I was sure someone would—they would read as long on sentiment and short on any substance to do with the workings of the PRT.
Individually, they were innocuous. Combined, then analysed by the decryption program I'd written long ago for Andrea, they made up the latest series of instructions for my girlfriend to carry out, as well as a letter intended for her eyes alone. Overly complicated, perhaps, but I couldn't afford to have even the slightest official suspicion attached to my activities, if I were to have a free hand in saving the world.
Getting up out of my chair, I stretched—spending time in a self-hypnotic trance meant I'd been sitting in the same position for a while—then folded the letters and inserted them into the appropriate envelopes. These were already addressed and stamped, but I didn't seal them; they had to be inspected for microdots, pinholes, chemical treatments, contraband information and other assorted spycraft first. I didn't object to such inspections, as I was the one who'd recommended their implementation for all mail entering and leaving the base.
After all, I didn't want anyone else smuggling information out of the PRT on my watch.
Friday Morning, April 21, 1995
Brockton Bay
Andrea's Penthouse
"Where do you want it, ma'am?"
Andrea side-eyed the security guy. She wasn't old enough to be called 'ma'am' by anyone, even if she was paying his salary. "Right here, middle of the floor. That'll do."
"Sure thing, ma'am." He nodded to his offsider, and they hefted the bulky crate off the folding cart and placed it on the thick carpet. "Just sign here, please."
Andrea accepted the clipboard and scribbled an approximation of her signature before handing it back. "Thanks," she said, fully aware that the crate was heavier than her, and she would've had no chance of manhandling it into the elevator and out again. She was just happy the building's highly paid security team had been able to accept delivery and bring it up themselves. There was no way she wanted any grubby strangers tramping through her home.
"You're welcome, ma'am." Both security guys headed back to the elevator, towing the folding cart with them. She watched until the door closed behind them before she turned back to the package.
"So, what do you think, Alec sweetie?" she asked the infant who had been watching the whole show from what she called his BMD, short for 'baby mobility device'. Sitting upright in it, his feet could touch the floor and push himself along, but the carpet offered enough resistance that he couldn't go anywhere fast. Out of it, he seemed on the verge of mastering the art of crawling, so she'd made sure to put up barriers anywhere she didn't want him going.
Taking care of a baby was tiring, but oh, so rewarding.
He gurgled happily in reply and waved his arms excitedly. She'd found he responded well to stimulation, which was good. The last thing she wanted was a moody emo baby; she figured she'd get enough of that when he hit his teen years.
"Yeah, I think so too." Going over to him, she got down on all fours and rubbed her nose against his, something that always made him laugh. Which of course was why she did it. "We're going to have a little …" She paused, considering. "Not sister … cousin. Sure, that'll do. Cousin Dragon. Dang, that sounds badass."
Reaching up, he wrapped his hands in her hair as she was lifting him out of the BMD to cuddle. She was still in no way interested in experiencing the more biological side of motherhood, but she'd found that taking care of Alec was deeply satisfying in ways that she'd never experienced before. While it could get messy at times—how Alec could puke up his own body-weight in the space of twenty-four hours, she never did figure out—she had a cleaning service to deal with that side of things, so she got to enjoy the fun aspects of being a mom. His wonder and joy at seeing anything new touched her deep inside and gave her a whole new enjoyment of life.
Still holding him, she went into the kitchen and returned with a small but sharp knife. This served to slice through the heavy plastic strips holding the crate closed, then she put it safely away before going back to the now-opened box. Both she and Alec peered inside with interest as she lifted off the lid and got a look at the contents.
With a snort, she shook her head. Andy was definitely still as clueless as ever. He'd taken her suggestion on board about making the robot body as lifelike as possible, instead of being some cybernetic horror stalking the streets of Brockton Bay. Folded up in the crate was, to all appearances, a young child. To Andrea's inexpert eye, maybe four or five years old, but as featureless as a Barbie doll.
Still, he hadn't supplied clothing.
"Well, that's gonna be a little bit of a problem isn't it, Alec sweetie?" she asked the baby. "Mommy's going to have to go clothes shopping for Dragon before she can go out in public, isn't she?"
Alec gurgled in agreement, then appeared to concentrate before he made a prolonged flatulent noise. Andrea knew that sound. She checked his diaper and sure enough, he needed changing.
Dragon could wait. Alec needed her.
And tonight, of course, was her regular meeting with Danny, Annette, Gladys and Franklin. No longer hitting the nightclub scene since Alec had come along, they tended to go to quiet baby-friendly restaurants. Gladys wasn't as mother-hennish as Annette (who was by now very noticeably pregnant) but she still enjoyed making Alec giggle.
All in all, ignoring the surreptitious espionage side of things, it was a nice sedate night out, which was just what she needed these days.
My God, she realised, not sure if she should be laughing or horrified. I'm actually getting domesticated, here. When did that happen?
Taylor, she decided firmly, was a bad influence.
Cuddling Alec to her and looking down at the robot kid in the box, she sighed in resignation. Well, I guess there's worse ways to go.
Monday Afternoon
April 23, 1995
Deer Lake, Newfoundland
Andrew Richter resisted the urge to bite his nails as he stared at the screen of his computer. "Should I—" he began.
"Nope." In Brockton Bay, Andrea cut him off before he'd even gotten started. "She's got to learn by herself. If you program it into her, she'll expect to have everything handed to her. This way, she'll learn to be independent sooner."
He wasn't at all sure if he even wanted his latest creation to feel independent. She was a true AI, capable of feelings and emotions, and with the potential to cause an extinction event for humanity once she grew into her full capability. If she ever decided she simply didn't need humanity—or worse, that they were in her way—the consequences could be disastrous.
But Captain Snow had described Dragon as being a warm, empathetic person in the future. Despite having been confined behind multiple barriers holding her back from true freedom, she'd spontaneously offered a hug to a scared, lonely sixteen-year-old girl. Snow had also recommended Andrea for the task of acclimatising Dragon to humanity and the world at large, and he'd long since learned that the reason for bringing an expert in on a job was to let them be the expert.
Having met Andrea, his impression was of someone not totally mature, but utterly comfortable in her own skin and as quirkily human as anyone could get. More so than Captain Snow in some ways; the woman was scarily competent, especially with firearms. As he'd briefly suspected when they'd met back in Deer Lake, she could easily pass for a robot masquerading as a human.
He'd been annoyed with himself when Andrea had scathingly suggested that maybe Dragon might need clothing to go out in public, but the true facepalm came when he saw the pink romper suit Andrea had bought for the purpose. Or rather, the cute baby dragon embroidered on the front.
On the screen, the actual robot attempted once more to get to her feet. She wasn't as clumsy as she'd been five minutes ago after uploading into the body, but the coordination wasn't quite there yet. "This is hard!" she complained in a very childlike voice. "You make it look easy!"
"That's because I've been doing it for years and years," Andrea reminded her in a kindly tone. She gestured over toward where Alec was in his walker, watching the show avidly. The infant had immediately taken to Dragon, gurgling happily and reaching toward her. This had assuaged some of Richter's worries concerning the appearance of the human lifelike model. "See? He's not going to be walking for some time. His brain's still writing the software it needs to do that, and his muscles aren't nearly developed enough yet. You're getting a head start."
"Oh." Dragon was mollified, but not so much that she was about to give up. "Can you show me how?"
"I can definitely do that, sweetie." Andrea sat down beside the artificial child, then swivelled on her butt to lie flat on her stomach. "Come on, let's start with the basics."
"Alright." Obediently, Dragon copied her posture. "What do we do now?"
"Now we get up on all fours." Andrea pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. "We can do that, can't we?"
"Yes." Dragon followed her lead. "But this is where it gets hard."
"Well, yes." Andrea conceded the point. "That's because being on four legs is more stable than being on two legs. But now we get up on our knees." She sat back on her haunches and then rested her butt on her heels as she knelt upright.
"I can do that." Once more, Dragon copied her. "I'm nearly standing up, aren't I?"
"Nearly," Andrea agreed. "Now, get one foot under you, like this." She reached out to Dragon. "Here, I'll steady you."
Dragon held Andrea's hand as she copied the posture. She was wobbly, but to Richter's anxious gaze, Andrea's assistance was making all the difference. "What do we do now?"
Andrea smiled. "Now, we stand up." Still holding Dragon's hand, she drew herself to her feet.
Following Andrea's lead, Dragon also stood up. With her feet planted firmly on the carpet, clinging to Andrea's hand like a lifeline, she looked up at the camera, her face aglow with joy. "I'm standing! Look, father! I'm standing up!"
"Yes." Richter decided that the screen needed cleaning, because it had become blurry all of a sudden. All he could really see was Dragon's beaming smile, and Andrea's proud one, and that was the only thing that mattered. "You're standing. You clever, clever girl."
"Yes, she is, isn't she?" agreed Andrea. "She's the cleverest girl I know."
Letting go Andrea's hand, Dragon took one tottering step and hugged her tightly. "Thank you, mommy Andrea."
Richter blinked. Mommy Andrea? Where did that come from?
And now she was spontaneously hugging. Richter knew he hadn't programmed that into his AI.
On the screen, Andrea was kneeling now and hugging Dragon back. "You're totally welcome, my clever little Dragon."
Is she actually learning to be human?
Maybe there'd been something in what Captain Snow had to say, after all.
It definitely warranted closer study.
Washington Park, Chicago
Saturday, May 6, 1995
1955 Hours
I had one eye on the street and the other on the time as the unmarked car rolled through some of the grimier streets of Chicago. Kinsey, in plain clothes rather than uniform, sat behind the wheel. Likewise attired, I was in the passenger seat. So as not to draw unwelcome attention from the few police officers who might pass through this area, neither of us were visibly armed.
Less visibly, Kinsey had his .44 hand-cannon and his solid fists. I had my Glock, a folding knife and an extending baton. While I was intending on using exactly none of these; as the saying went, it was better to have and not need.
Kinsey also had an unhappy expression on his face. This came as no great surprise to me, as I would've been less than thrilled about this outing as well, except that I knew the real reason for it. All Kinsey knew was that I needed to acquire some information, and the less he knew about the information and the source, the better.
"I'll have eyes in the back of my head the whole time," I said, knowing better than to tempt Murphy by saying anything stupid like, 'it'll be fine', or worse, 'what could possibly happen'. "If something goes wrong, just follow the screams."
He turned to give me a dubious look about then. Of everyone who had ever been a part of my life, he knew me better than most, and I didn't do the 'scream helplessly' thing. It wasn't my thing.
"Their screams," I amended. "Because if anyone tries shit with me, they'll be screaming once I get my hands on them."
"I should still come in, ma'am," he said. "Give you some sort of backup. Bail you out if trouble starts."
"If you walk in there, everyone will ping you as either police or military. Some might even get lucky and figure out you're PRT," I explained. He was constitutionally incapable of looking like anything but a sergeant. "I'd have to be the one bailing you out of trouble then, not the other way around. And do you really want to be the one explaining to Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton how the op got blown, if that happened?"
"I don't want to be the one explaining to the Lieutenant-Colonel if anything goes wrong," he muttered unhappily.
We cruised past our destination and I saw two familiar faces, heading away from the bar. Andrea's mercenaries had done their job once more. Now all I had to do was go in there and close the deal. Unfortunately, there were no free parking spaces available that I could see.
Time was ticking down. My window of opportunity was closing. "Pull over and drop me off here, Kinsey," I directed. The bar was only half a block back. "Drive around the block. If I'm not out the front in ten minutes, come in hot."
"Ma'am." He still didn't like it, but I'd given him a direct order.
He hit the four-way indicators, then pulled to a halt. Before the drivers in the cars behind could get too irate—road rage in this area tended to be consummated with gunfire—I got out and closed the door behind me. I moved in between the parked cars and stepped up onto the sidewalk as Kinsey pulled off again. I could tell he was driving slower than normal, keeping an eye on me as long as possible in the rear-view, and I hoped he maintained a visual on the road ahead as well.
I didn't need for some bright spark who kept up with their PRT personnel to ID me as an intelligence officer—despite my best efforts, I had been on TV a few times—so I'd changed up my look. My glasses for the night were a pair of the old round-lensed ones I'd worn back in the day, and I was wearing a wig of straight brown shoulder-length hair, tastefully braided over the ears. I'd carefully picked out my clothes to not be even slightly revealing—I had no illusions about my looks, but beer goggles were a thing—while still fitting in with the area.
Nobody got in my face as I headed back along the sidewalk toward the bar. I knew the signs of looking like a victim, and avoided displaying them, instead doing my best to project a slight 'done with this shit' air. It wasn't hard; while Winter had been dead by the time I encountered the Nine, she'd still been one of their more prominent members. I didn't need or want her to remain breathing long enough to do it again for the first time, but at the same time, I didn't want to die in the process. Neither did I want someone else to die trying, and alert her. Thus, this rigmarole.
The bar's windows had protective mesh on them, which wasn't exactly a promising sign. I looked up at the sign, then down the road as though searching for a better place. Giving the slightest of shrugs, I stepped inside.
Door security was provided by two guys who looked like they only stopped taking steroids so they could inject horse testosterone. 'Beefy' didn't begin to describe them. They didn't just browse the 'Big and Tall' aisle; they were the 'Big and Tall' aisle.
Not that Kinsey or I couldn't have taken them. Don't be silly.
"Armed?" grunted the one on the left.
"Yeah." I was aiming at 'well, duh, who isn't carrying around here?' and from his chuckle, I was pretty sure I'd nailed it. At his lifted chin, I eased open my jacket and carefully slid my hand in. When it came out, slowly and smoothly, I was holding my Glock between finger and thumb.
He glanced at the other guy, who shrugged and took up a metal-detector wand. I knew the drill, holding my arms outward as he ran it down each side of my body, then front and back, picking up my belt buckle and little else. He didn't do my arms, which was his loss; that was where I was holding the knife and the baton. But maybe they didn't care about anything that wasn't a gun.
Once the scan was over, the first guard nodded at the pistol. "Put it away. It comes out, you better have a good reason or we'll put you down." A gesture to the side revealed a pump shotgun in a shadowed niche.
"Got it." I nodded, re-holstering the pistol. I didn't thank them, and they clearly didn't expect it. Politeness was all well and good, but I didn't want anyone here remembering a tall skinny woman with glasses. Also, I didn't want them thinking I was interested in them. That could complicate matters drastically.
Inside the bar, it was dimly lit, probably so that people could maintain their illusions about who they were drinking with. A TV over the bar was playing a popular comedy show with the sound muted, which made zero sense to me but was probably perfectly understandable to everyone else there. An old-fashioned juke-box, the glass cover cracked and the sides scarred, played a scratchy country & western tune that everyone was talking over. The pervasive smell of stale beer and staler cigarette smoke made me glad that I'd be showering as soon as I got back to base.
The clock over the bar gave me seven minutes to be in position. I moved over to the counter, noting the location of the ladies' restrooms as I did, and ordered a glass of the most inoffensive-looking beer they had on tap. Drinking was never my strong suit, but I could when I had to. In Rome, do as Romans do; in a bar, if you're not drinking, you're standing out from the crowd.
I kept my eye on the glass from the moment the bar attendant picked it up until when he placed it in front of me. I hadn't ordered ice, but there were several large cubes in my drink. It was an old trick; ice was basically free to make anyplace there was electricity, and it significantly reduced the amount of beer they had to put in the glass. Fortunately, he hadn't taken the glass out of sight. No roofies sat fizzing at the bottom of the drink, so I sipped at it, looking around the bar, trying to give the impression of someone who was halfway to nowhere and waiting for her ticket out of town.
The taste was nothing to write home about, but I didn't have an overwhelming urge to gag and spit it out. I was absently grateful for the unasked-for ice, though; it meant there was less beer to get through. But around about the time I was nearly finished, a problem presented itself.
I'd been careful not to make eye contact with anyone; the last thing I wanted was either some guy with romantic intentions or some woman thinking I was leching on to her man. Yet here came the former, smooging up to me with an oily grin. I was taller than him by a few inches, despite the flats I was wearing, but that didn't deter him.
"Hi there," he said in what he probably thought was a smooth and sexy tone. "New in town? I haven't seen you in here before." His clothing was newish but conservative in cut. Just about the sort of thing someone might wear to dress down for a night out on the rough side of town.
I gave him my best 'not interested' look. "Just meeting a friend," I said briefly. Surely that would give him the message that he wasn't in the running.
It went straight over his head, like a Concorde over a particularly dim groundhog. "I can be your friend," he offered. "Let me buy you a drink. Name's Cameron."
This put me on the horns of a dilemma. If I turned him down hard enough for him to actually notice, there was a good chance he'd take offence and start calling me all sorts of names, thus wasting my time and drawing undesirable attention. But if I didn't, he would be encouraged, and I'd have the devil's own time extricating myself from his company in time to do what I was here to do.
So, I took the third option. I lied my ass off.
"Okay, sounds good. I'll have another one of these." I put my glass down on the bar. "Without ice, this time. I'm just going to the ladies'."
If this guy was after what I suspected he was after, that beer would be more roofies than alcohol by the time I returned. It didn't matter; I wouldn't be drinking it. As he turned to the bartender, I got up off my stool and headed for the female restrooms.
The door closed behind me, cutting off the music and multiple conversations and leaving me to plan my next actions. Andrea had specified the first stall to the left, so I turned in that direction … just as the door leading back into the bar opened again.
Shit, was my first thought. The last thing I needed was a witness to what I was about to do.
My next thought, as I saw it was Cameron, was decidedly more profane.
There was no good reason for him to be barging into the ladies' room in the bar after making himself a nuisance to me already. I'd clearly underestimated his determination; as the sole unaccompanied woman in the bar, I'd made myself his target purely by existing. By keeping Kinsey out of the place, I'd traded one issue for another.
Cameron's intention had always been to spike my drink and have his way with me, as had almost happened back in college that one time. Now, it seemed, he'd decided to skip the preliminaries.
I didn't bother speaking rationally to him, yelling at him to get out of the restroom, or even just yelling. Between the volume of the crowd outside, the soundproofing effect of the door and general apathy, I doubted very much anyone would be rushing to my rescue. Also, this had been too slickly done for it to be his first time; I wondered briefly how many other women he'd attacked in this way.
But while I wondered, I acted.
His hands came up to grab my arms at the elbows, probably to immobilise me until he could wrestle me into submission. I didn't give him the chance; a knuckle-jab, up and under the breastbone, drove the air from his lungs. It would've been like having the end of an axe handle rammed into his solar plexus. I knew this, because Kinsey had demonstrated it on me while showing how to do it.
His expression was still transitioning from 'I have you now, my pretty' to 'what the fuck was that' when I kicked him in the groin—there's a reason that's an old favourite—then grabbed him by the hair and rammed my knee up into the middle of his face. As a followup, I smashed his head sideways into the divider between two of the toilet doors, twice. Hard.
That was about the time my brain caught up with my conscious actions. Kinsey had taught me well; every one of those moves had been purely on instinct, one flowing into the next without pausing to wonder what I should be doing. Cameron—if that was even his name—was down, air bubbling through the bloody ruin that used to be his nose. While he wasn't precisely unconscious, he certainly wasn't paying attention to what was going on around him.
Time was ticking on, and a semiconscious man lying on the floor in full view was not what I needed right now. Nudging open the stall I'd been heading to in the first place, I dragged him inside and dumped him on the commode, wondering if he had bricks in his pockets. 'Dead weight' was certainly a thing, as I'd found out before now. Almost absent-mindedly, I frisked him, vaguely curious as to whether his name was actually Cameron or not.
I found three things of note: first, an actual flick-knife. This one was spring-loaded, as opposed to mine, which only used thumb pressure to open. Second, an unlabelled plastic bottle holding a bunch of little pills. Third, a Congolese passport, in the name of Samuel Masters.
Deciding to keep all three items, I grabbed the other item that I'd come in here for from inside the toilet roll—thank you, Andrea's mercenaries—then exited the stall. Carefully, I used the tip of the switchblade to turn the simple lock to OCCUPIED while thinking over what I'd found. 'Cameron', it seemed, was not who he'd pretended to be, or even what I'd assumed he was. He hadn't exhibited any kind of accent that I'd noticed, though the noise in the bar hadn't made listening easy.
There was only one real conclusion I could reach. Samuel was working with Winter in her people-trafficking (and possibly the gun-running), and he'd decided to start the party rolling before she arrived. If I'd been feeling sympathy for the beating I'd handed him (I wasn't), it would've shrivelled up and died, right around that point. But that led to my next problem. I was all out of time.
The door into the bar area opened again. It wasn't either of the Big & Beefy guys, with or without shotgun, here to evict Samuel. Nor was it one of the female patrons, looking to pass on some used beer.
It was Winter herself.
In costume, she wore a hooded cloak and heavy goggles; this tended to adequately conceal her white hair (that contrasted nicely with her dark skin) and black-rimmed irises. As a result, the PRT of this era had never had a good look at her. In fact, she was barely on our radar. This would all change once she joined the Slaughterhouse Nine and hit the big time.
Or rather, it would have. I was here to make sure she ended up as a 'never was'.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "And where is Samuel?"
Her voice held an accent; not one I could readily identify, but if she came from the same place Samuel did, I was willing to give it a tentative tag of 'Congolese'. Not that I was interested in comparing regional accents when my life was on the line, which it was, because right then two more men bulked into the bathroom behind her.
A tiny part of my mind began to seriously wonder if they shouldn't take down the sign saying 'LADIES' and replace it with 'WHOEVER', because the men had just outnumbered the women in the place.
I still had the open switchblade in my right hand, and the epi-pen I'd taken from its hiding place in my left. As the men began to reach into their jackets (I suspected they weren't going for their wallets) I tossed the gleaming blade in the air. The men's eyes were drawn to it, but Winter wasn't fooled; as I started forward, her eyes narrowed and I found everything slowing down. My heart sludged in my chest, my thoughts felt like my brain was crawling through thick mud, and even my movements were impeded.
The knife clattered to the ground, and I wasn't even halfway to reaching her. No matter how hard I tried to push myself forward and focus on my purpose, it felt like I was in one of those dreams where running forever gets you nowhere. But I hadn't gotten where I was in life by giving up when the going got tough. I just pushed harder.
She stepped forward, moving with apparent lightning speed compared to my current snail's crawl, and shoved me so hard that I fell over backward. I was unable to roll with the impact, but fortunately her slowness field let me down lightly, so I was only a little winded. Then she stepped up astride me and deliberately knelt on my chest.
"What have you done with Samuel?" she hissed down at me, her hand wrapping around my throat. "Answer me, or I will stop your heart in your chest."
She could, too; Lisa had been clear about that point. All Slaughterhouse members were scary—they wouldn't have gotten where they were if the team had consisted of creampuffs—but she was one of the worst ones. Between the hand on my throat, the knee on my chest and the tar-like consistency of the air I was attempting to inhale, I simply couldn't breathe. It was a very effective torture method.
I struggled to speak, forcing what little air I had out of my lungs. "I …" Then I stopped again.
Frowning, she let up slightly; not just the pressure on my chest and the hand on my throat, but also the relative thickness of the air around me. "You … what?"
Just for a moment, I used the respite to draw in some much-needed air. Then my left thumb popped the cap off the epi-pen, and I jammed the exposed needle into her thigh. It punched in through her blue jeans, and I knew she'd gotten the whole dose. "Gotcha, bitch!"
Rearing back, she smacked the pen away from her leg, out of my hand. "What—" she began, but that was all she would ever say for the rest of her life. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth gaped in a soundless snarl, her back arched, and she began to convulse.
Andrea had, under my instruction, gotten her pet chemical Tinker to engineer up a particularly nasty dose for the epi-pen. Synth had combined a virulent neuro-toxin, a high-end paralytic, and something that activated all the pain receptors in the body and kept them going at full blast. Cruel, perhaps, but Winter didn't need to move or speak to use her powers, and we didn't want her murdering a city block full of innocents while we were waiting for her to die. Hitting her with so much pain she was unable to form a coherent thought was our only real option.
I just had to hope that the paralytic (which also shut down autonomous systems such as the heart) and the neurotoxin combined to kill her quickly enough that she didn't suffer needlessly long.
But I'd worry about ethical standards later. Her other two mooks were just now realising that I'd done something to her, and I suspected trying to explain how she was dead and no longer their boss wouldn't actually stop them from killing me. On the upside, her power was no longer affecting me at all; on the downside, they'd just pulled guns.
Shoving her (now convulsing) body aside, I rolled frantically as they fired, their bullets shattering chunks out of the grimy tiled concrete I was lying on. I flipped to my feet—not the easiest thing to do wearing street clothing, which was why Kinsey had made me practise doing just that—and went for my own weapons.
But not the pistol, not yet. The only one I had a shoulder holster for was the Glock that I was registered and licensed for, which would have a chance of being identified if I failed to police up all my brass. Hamilton would have my back, I knew that for a fact, but then I'd have to figure out how much to tell him about what was going on. That was an interview I wanted to have with him never.
The knife and baton dropped into my hands. I flicked out the blade with my thumb, then threw it underhand in one smooth move. It hit the guy on the left just under the Adam's apple, and sank deep into his throat. He looked startled and dropped his gun, as if surprised that someone might actually have the temerity to fight back.
As he dropped to his knees, his buddy looked even more astonished. They'd started this fight with me on the floor and at three-to-one odds. Now I was upright and armed, and he was facing me on even terms. I wanted to talk to him, convince him to drop the gun, but I was willing to bet neither one of us could hear a damn thing right then. There was something about the sound reflection quality of tiles that almost seemed to amplify gunshots. He did seem a little disoriented, which was a thing.
Needing a distraction, I snatched off the wig and threw it at his face, darting to the side as I did. He fired instinctively at the flaring shape, but by the time he realised the real threat was elsewhere, I was right next to him. Bringing my baton down on his right hand, I felt his wrist bones shatter as the pistol dropped to the floor.
He responded with what I figured was a scream of pain, from the way he clutched the injured limb, so I laid the baton alongside his jaw, sending him spinning to the floor in his turn. Grabbing up my wig, I shoved it roughly on my head, then retrieved my knife and roughly wiped it on the guy's shirt. Winter wasn't even twitching anymore, much less breathing, so I figured it was mission accomplished. The epi-pen needle had automatically retracted after delivering its dose (a damn good idea, considering its contents) so I retrieved that as well.
The door burst open again and I reacted instinctively, settling the muzzle of my Glock into the eyesocket of the door security guy who just come in. There'd been no conscious thought of drawing or pointing it; it just happened.
He had the shotgun, but it was pointed way out of line, as he undoubtedly knew. While my ears were still ringing, I could hear a little more than before. So when he spoke, I picked up enough to make an educated guess on the rest.
"We heard shooting," he said, almost apologetically. Someone his size wouldn't normally apologise for anything, but having a gun poking one in the eye tends to adjust one's priorities toward survival.
Yeah, sure. You heard shooting, but nobody saw three guys go into the ladies' restrooms.
"It wasn't me," I replied bluntly. Surreptitiously, I slid the epi-pen, folding knife, and baton into my pocket. "These three here started it. They've got a buddy in that stall. I'll be leaving now. Got a problem with that?"
His eyes moved downward cautiously; I pulled my pistol back far enough to give him room to do so. "Uh … no. Hey, are they dead?"
"They started it," I said, just as bluntly. "I don't need the heat. I'm out of here." I put the Glock away, then tilted my head to the side. He moved out of the way to let me pass, probably just as glad to see me go as I was to be gone.
I didn't waste time heading for the door. The bartender made as if to call me over for my drink, now sitting unattended on the bar, but there was no way I was even going to sniff at it. It was time I got out of this place, never to return.
The lone door guy looked up as I went past. "Hey!" he called out. "Hey!"
I didn't know what he wanted, and didn't care. Pushing the door open, I hit the sidewalk at a fast trot. If he wanted to catch me up, he'd have to abandon his post and his buddy. Yes, I'd just killed two people in his establishment, but I doubted that was the only murder ever to happen behind those doors.
The beep of a car horn alerted me, and I looked aside to see Kinsey slowing down alongside. I dashed around between two parked cars, wrenched the door open, and dived in. "Drive," I grunted, slamming the door and fumbling with the seatbelt. "Now-now-now."
Kinsey didn't peel rubber out of there, but he added a little speed, then took corners at random until we were both sure nobody had managed to follow us. I wrenched off the wig and glasses, and replaced the latter with my own pair from the glove compartment.
"Do I need to ask how it went, ma'am?" asked Kinsey, concentrating on his driving.
"Moderately well, actually," I said, spritzing myself with air freshener to try to get rid of the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. "I got what I wanted, but there were party-crashers. That place is a no-go for me, from now on. If it hadn't already been, that is."
"Understood, ma'am." Kinsey set course back toward the PRT base. "Am I going to be reading about any of this in the news?"
I considered the question, thinking back to the bar. "I doubt it, Kinsey. Places like that have ways of getting rid of inconvenient bodies."
"As you say, ma'am."
We spent the rest of the ride back to base in companionable silence.
Brockton Bay General Hospital
Maternity Waiting Area
Monday, June 19, 1995
Andrea hugged my arm, apparently even more excited than I was. "I can't believe it! It's finally happening!"
I glanced around for eavesdroppers, but Danny was pacing back and forth, Kinsey was chatting in low tones with Gladys, and Dragon—now apparently in a ten-year-old body—was watching baby Alec. Meeting this version of the AI for the first time had been interesting; I could see faint echoes of her other-future self, but she was also picking up tiny mannerisms from Andrea. From what I understood, the others knew nothing of Dragon's origins, just that she preferred it as a nickname.
"Well, it should really have happened eight days ago," I said in a low tone. "But butterflies happened, I guess. I'm just glad she's being born at all."
She nodded firmly, still excited. "But think about it. You're going to be the first person ever to meet their own past self! I mean, that's like … wow!"
"I know, I know." I'd read science fiction on the subject, with results varying from beneficial to catastrophic. I was pretty sure the universe wasn't going to implode from us meeting, but there was still a tiny bit of worry about how my past self would see me. "It's huge. I can't wait."
We got up and went over to where Dragon was entertaining Alec. He gurgled at us. Somehow, he was even cuter than the last time I'd seen him. "He's crawling now," Andrea said proudly. "Pretty soon, he'll be walking."
"And I'll be there to help teach him how," Dragon agreed. "Walking isn't easy, but it's so rewarding once you figure out what you're doing."
"You're not wrong there, kiddo," I said. "I remember after the Compound, it took me a little while to get back on my feet again."
"Mommy Andrea told me about that," Dragon replied guilelessly. "She said you were an idiot who rushed in without looking and got yourself hurt."
I snorted with amusement and did my best to raise an eyebrow in Andrea's direction. She stared steadfastly back, refusing to give way on the subject. "And I was right."
"Ignoring the fact that I was actually in a helicopter that got shot down by the bad guys," I pointed out.
"And what were you doing flying so close to where you could get shot down?" she countered.
My lips tightened slightly. I could see the way this was going, and I was losing the argument. "We didn't know they were willing to escalate that hard, or that one of our own was passing information to them."
Andrea rolled her eyes. "Villains? Willing to escalate? Whoever heard of such a thing?"
Dragon raised a finger, went to speak, then closed her mouth and lowered her finger again. "Nobody, in all the history of the world," she agreed, deadpan.
Well, that answered the question of whether Dragon understood sarcasm. "Yeah, yeah," I muttered. "I get it. We dropped the ball."
"Darn tootin'. I think—"
But whatever Andrea thought went by the wayside as a doctor appeared at the door. "Mr. Hebert?" he said.
Danny's head whipped around. "Y-yes?" he blurted. "Anne-Rose? Is—is she okay?"
The doctor smiled. "Mother and baby are doing fine. If you and two of your friends would like to come along …?"
Danny looked at me; I looked at Andrea. Then we both looked at Kinsey and Dragon.
"I'll mind the children, ma'am," he said, before I even figured out how to word the request.
"Thank you, Kinsey." I followed Andrea and Danny from the waiting area, through a series of corridors, to where Anne-Rose lay in a bed, holding a tiny wailing bundle.
"Wow," breathed Andrea. "So cuuuute."
"Mmm." It was weird to look at a younger version of oneself and have that thought. Tiny wisps of dark hair surrounded the newborn infant's face.
Danny was consulting with the doctor as I leaned in and whispered to Anne-Rose, "Well done. How do you feel?"
"Like I've just been beaten up with baseball bats," she replied wryly. "But they said it was an easy birth. No complications."
"Oh, good." I divided my attention, as Andrea was still cooing over the baby, to address Danny. "So, uh, what were you going to call her?"
"Her?" asked Anne-Rose. "It's a boy."
I blinked. "It's what?"
"A boy," repeated Danny. He glanced at Anne-Rose. "We were thinking of naming him after you and Andrea anyway. Tyler, uh, Andrew—"
"Make the middle name Campbell and you've got a deal," Andrea said decisively. "No way is any kid I'm associating with getting called Andy."
Annette smiled at her long-time friend. "Okay then," she said. "His name's going to be Tyler Campbell Hebert."
I was still a little stunned by the unexpected news. It's a boy? How does that even work? It took Andrea nudging me to get me back on track.
"Hey," she said. "Pay attention."
"Right," I said. "Tyler Campbell, huh? I've definitely heard of worse names." Leaning in, I gently took hold of one tiny hand, which clutched convulsively around my pinky finger. "Hi, Tyler," I whispered. "Welcome to the world."
He blinked at me, then wailed again. Apparently, his opinion of the world was not exactly high at the moment.
To be honest, I couldn't blame him.
PRT Department 04: Chicago
Captain Taylor Snow's Quarters
"Draw!"
Already tense, I was ready for the challenge. My right hand flashed down and folded over the worn grips of my old-style Colt revolver. It came up out of the holster like a living thing, its aim-point already painting a dot on my HUD. Bringing the barrel up, I chopped at the hammer with the heel of my left hand. I was holding the trigger down so there was no obstruction to firing, and my rapidly fanned shots hit the leader of the Bloody Circuits gang right in the breadbasket.
The micro-explosives went off, blasting apart subdermal armour and cybernetics alike; he stumbled to his knees, dropping his laser pistol, which had only just cleared its holster. Slowly, he toppled forward to fall flat on his face. I could see where one of my shots had penetrated all the way through and blown out his back, exposing the stainless steel of his spinal column.
Lisa fired a shot in the air, the concussion causing the air itself to quiver. She worked the lever-action of her replica Winchester, making everyone entirely aware that the next plasma-jacketed round lay in the chamber, ready to blow apart anyone who looked at her funny. "You guys don't want to be making any stupid moves," she said, her words backing up the physical threat.
None of the other gang members tried anything as I walked forward and kicked the gun clear of the cyborg outlaw's hand. Killer-Byte, as he'd styled himself, had been a thorn in the side of the local towns for some little while, but now his time was done. Just to make sure, I accessed my HUD and scanned his body. There were no backup mechanisms, no hidden computer cores.
Killer-Byte had been shut down for good.
Suitably intimidated, the rest of the gang offered no resistance as Lisa and I set about disarming and securing them. All we needed now was a link to the local laser-telegraph line, and we could get the local law out here to take them into custody.
As I walked with Lisa to where our patiently waiting hover-cycles were tethered to the hitching rail, I reached a decision. I can't do this anymore.
"Do what?" She looked at me with concern. "Go on adventures with me?"
I snorted. Oh, no, I'm loving these. No, it's Jack Slash. I know I agreed to wait until he tries to recruit Riley, then nail the gang and put him on ice then, but …
"… but he's going to kill too many people and enable too many villains in the meantime, yeah?" Her look turned sympathetic. "I get it. Trust me, I get it."
Will it change too much if we take him off the board now?
She grimaced. "You know I can't answer that one. The butterfly effect is a very real thing, but it's unpredictable. Something you think will have a huge effect will sink without a ripple, and other things that you figure nobody cares about have long-lasting consequences."
You know why I wanted to wait.
It was her turn to snort derisively. "Well, duh. So she'll be amenable to the idea of being recruited by us. Having a high-end medic of her calibre on call for emergency situations would be ideal. Especially with the crap you've already put yourself through, and given that Panacea's not a guarantee anymore."
Yeah. It was true. Think she'll still be up to it if there's no threat from Jack Slash?
"Hmm." She rubbed her chin. "I might be able to come up with something. Leave it with me."
Okay, cool. I appreciate it. 'Lie, cheat, steal and kill' is all well and good, but leaving people to die when I could have saved them sucked enough with Behemoth.
"I know. I know, I know, I know." She hugged me. "Can you wait another year?"
You're talking about Gray Boy.
"Yeah." She rested her chin on my shoulder. "I have no doubt you could kidnap Jack and kill Screamer—not in that order, of course—but then you'd have that monochrome little twerp on your case, and he'd be really hard to shake. Especially when we don't have any effective way to neutralise his power."
So, wait until Glaistig collects him and turns herself in, then grab Jack? I didn't like having to wait even a year, but at least it was better than ten years.
"It's a plan." She shrugged. "We've got a year to firm it up."
Yeah, okay. We'll do it your way. As she'd known all along.
"Good. Though Winter's in the country now. I can make it so she'll be passing through Chicago in three weeks, if you're okay with that."
Yeah, that'll be good. I thought I was going to have to go to her.
Pulling back slightly, she gave me one of her impish grins. "Having mercenaries available to lay a false trail of contacts is a very useful thing."
And I can kill her, at least? This was a death I could definitely get behind. Winter was a sadistic murderer who specialised in gun-running and dabbled in human trafficking. If she had any positive qualities, I hadn't found them yet. Also, denying the Nine of her membership could only serve to weaken them in the long run.
"Absolutely. I'll make sure Andrea gets all the details."
I knew there was a reason I was keeping you around.
She smirked at me. "And here I thought it was my irresistible charm. Kiss before you go?"
As I kissed her, the wind kicked up. Her lips tasted of dust and blood. A piece of prairie grit stung my eye, and I blinked—
-ooo-
—and opened my eyes, sitting at my desk in my quarters. Before me lay two carefully handwritten letters, one going to Danny and one to Gladys. They were similar in tone but different in actual wording, phrased to sound like chatty missives to old friends. If anyone looked through them before sending them on—as I was sure someone would—they would read as long on sentiment and short on any substance to do with the workings of the PRT.
Individually, they were innocuous. Combined, then analysed by the decryption program I'd written long ago for Andrea, they made up the latest series of instructions for my girlfriend to carry out, as well as a letter intended for her eyes alone. Overly complicated, perhaps, but I couldn't afford to have even the slightest official suspicion attached to my activities, if I were to have a free hand in saving the world.
Getting up out of my chair, I stretched—spending time in a self-hypnotic trance meant I'd been sitting in the same position for a while—then folded the letters and inserted them into the appropriate envelopes. These were already addressed and stamped, but I didn't seal them; they had to be inspected for microdots, pinholes, chemical treatments, contraband information and other assorted spycraft first. I didn't object to such inspections, as I was the one who'd recommended their implementation for all mail entering and leaving the base.
After all, I didn't want anyone else smuggling information out of the PRT on my watch.
-ooo-
Friday Morning, April 21, 1995
Brockton Bay
Andrea's Penthouse
"Where do you want it, ma'am?"
Andrea side-eyed the security guy. She wasn't old enough to be called 'ma'am' by anyone, even if she was paying his salary. "Right here, middle of the floor. That'll do."
"Sure thing, ma'am." He nodded to his offsider, and they hefted the bulky crate off the folding cart and placed it on the thick carpet. "Just sign here, please."
Andrea accepted the clipboard and scribbled an approximation of her signature before handing it back. "Thanks," she said, fully aware that the crate was heavier than her, and she would've had no chance of manhandling it into the elevator and out again. She was just happy the building's highly paid security team had been able to accept delivery and bring it up themselves. There was no way she wanted any grubby strangers tramping through her home.
"You're welcome, ma'am." Both security guys headed back to the elevator, towing the folding cart with them. She watched until the door closed behind them before she turned back to the package.
"So, what do you think, Alec sweetie?" she asked the infant who had been watching the whole show from what she called his BMD, short for 'baby mobility device'. Sitting upright in it, his feet could touch the floor and push himself along, but the carpet offered enough resistance that he couldn't go anywhere fast. Out of it, he seemed on the verge of mastering the art of crawling, so she'd made sure to put up barriers anywhere she didn't want him going.
Taking care of a baby was tiring, but oh, so rewarding.
He gurgled happily in reply and waved his arms excitedly. She'd found he responded well to stimulation, which was good. The last thing she wanted was a moody emo baby; she figured she'd get enough of that when he hit his teen years.
"Yeah, I think so too." Going over to him, she got down on all fours and rubbed her nose against his, something that always made him laugh. Which of course was why she did it. "We're going to have a little …" She paused, considering. "Not sister … cousin. Sure, that'll do. Cousin Dragon. Dang, that sounds badass."
Reaching up, he wrapped his hands in her hair as she was lifting him out of the BMD to cuddle. She was still in no way interested in experiencing the more biological side of motherhood, but she'd found that taking care of Alec was deeply satisfying in ways that she'd never experienced before. While it could get messy at times—how Alec could puke up his own body-weight in the space of twenty-four hours, she never did figure out—she had a cleaning service to deal with that side of things, so she got to enjoy the fun aspects of being a mom. His wonder and joy at seeing anything new touched her deep inside and gave her a whole new enjoyment of life.
Still holding him, she went into the kitchen and returned with a small but sharp knife. This served to slice through the heavy plastic strips holding the crate closed, then she put it safely away before going back to the now-opened box. Both she and Alec peered inside with interest as she lifted off the lid and got a look at the contents.
With a snort, she shook her head. Andy was definitely still as clueless as ever. He'd taken her suggestion on board about making the robot body as lifelike as possible, instead of being some cybernetic horror stalking the streets of Brockton Bay. Folded up in the crate was, to all appearances, a young child. To Andrea's inexpert eye, maybe four or five years old, but as featureless as a Barbie doll.
Still, he hadn't supplied clothing.
"Well, that's gonna be a little bit of a problem isn't it, Alec sweetie?" she asked the baby. "Mommy's going to have to go clothes shopping for Dragon before she can go out in public, isn't she?"
Alec gurgled in agreement, then appeared to concentrate before he made a prolonged flatulent noise. Andrea knew that sound. She checked his diaper and sure enough, he needed changing.
Dragon could wait. Alec needed her.
And tonight, of course, was her regular meeting with Danny, Annette, Gladys and Franklin. No longer hitting the nightclub scene since Alec had come along, they tended to go to quiet baby-friendly restaurants. Gladys wasn't as mother-hennish as Annette (who was by now very noticeably pregnant) but she still enjoyed making Alec giggle.
All in all, ignoring the surreptitious espionage side of things, it was a nice sedate night out, which was just what she needed these days.
My God, she realised, not sure if she should be laughing or horrified. I'm actually getting domesticated, here. When did that happen?
Taylor, she decided firmly, was a bad influence.
Cuddling Alec to her and looking down at the robot kid in the box, she sighed in resignation. Well, I guess there's worse ways to go.
-ooo-
Monday Afternoon
April 23, 1995
Deer Lake, Newfoundland
Andrew Richter resisted the urge to bite his nails as he stared at the screen of his computer. "Should I—" he began.
"Nope." In Brockton Bay, Andrea cut him off before he'd even gotten started. "She's got to learn by herself. If you program it into her, she'll expect to have everything handed to her. This way, she'll learn to be independent sooner."
He wasn't at all sure if he even wanted his latest creation to feel independent. She was a true AI, capable of feelings and emotions, and with the potential to cause an extinction event for humanity once she grew into her full capability. If she ever decided she simply didn't need humanity—or worse, that they were in her way—the consequences could be disastrous.
But Captain Snow had described Dragon as being a warm, empathetic person in the future. Despite having been confined behind multiple barriers holding her back from true freedom, she'd spontaneously offered a hug to a scared, lonely sixteen-year-old girl. Snow had also recommended Andrea for the task of acclimatising Dragon to humanity and the world at large, and he'd long since learned that the reason for bringing an expert in on a job was to let them be the expert.
Having met Andrea, his impression was of someone not totally mature, but utterly comfortable in her own skin and as quirkily human as anyone could get. More so than Captain Snow in some ways; the woman was scarily competent, especially with firearms. As he'd briefly suspected when they'd met back in Deer Lake, she could easily pass for a robot masquerading as a human.
He'd been annoyed with himself when Andrea had scathingly suggested that maybe Dragon might need clothing to go out in public, but the true facepalm came when he saw the pink romper suit Andrea had bought for the purpose. Or rather, the cute baby dragon embroidered on the front.
On the screen, the actual robot attempted once more to get to her feet. She wasn't as clumsy as she'd been five minutes ago after uploading into the body, but the coordination wasn't quite there yet. "This is hard!" she complained in a very childlike voice. "You make it look easy!"
"That's because I've been doing it for years and years," Andrea reminded her in a kindly tone. She gestured over toward where Alec was in his walker, watching the show avidly. The infant had immediately taken to Dragon, gurgling happily and reaching toward her. This had assuaged some of Richter's worries concerning the appearance of the human lifelike model. "See? He's not going to be walking for some time. His brain's still writing the software it needs to do that, and his muscles aren't nearly developed enough yet. You're getting a head start."
"Oh." Dragon was mollified, but not so much that she was about to give up. "Can you show me how?"
"I can definitely do that, sweetie." Andrea sat down beside the artificial child, then swivelled on her butt to lie flat on her stomach. "Come on, let's start with the basics."
"Alright." Obediently, Dragon copied her posture. "What do we do now?"
"Now we get up on all fours." Andrea pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. "We can do that, can't we?"
"Yes." Dragon followed her lead. "But this is where it gets hard."
"Well, yes." Andrea conceded the point. "That's because being on four legs is more stable than being on two legs. But now we get up on our knees." She sat back on her haunches and then rested her butt on her heels as she knelt upright.
"I can do that." Once more, Dragon copied her. "I'm nearly standing up, aren't I?"
"Nearly," Andrea agreed. "Now, get one foot under you, like this." She reached out to Dragon. "Here, I'll steady you."
Dragon held Andrea's hand as she copied the posture. She was wobbly, but to Richter's anxious gaze, Andrea's assistance was making all the difference. "What do we do now?"
Andrea smiled. "Now, we stand up." Still holding Dragon's hand, she drew herself to her feet.
Following Andrea's lead, Dragon also stood up. With her feet planted firmly on the carpet, clinging to Andrea's hand like a lifeline, she looked up at the camera, her face aglow with joy. "I'm standing! Look, father! I'm standing up!"
"Yes." Richter decided that the screen needed cleaning, because it had become blurry all of a sudden. All he could really see was Dragon's beaming smile, and Andrea's proud one, and that was the only thing that mattered. "You're standing. You clever, clever girl."
"Yes, she is, isn't she?" agreed Andrea. "She's the cleverest girl I know."
Letting go Andrea's hand, Dragon took one tottering step and hugged her tightly. "Thank you, mommy Andrea."
Richter blinked. Mommy Andrea? Where did that come from?
And now she was spontaneously hugging. Richter knew he hadn't programmed that into his AI.
On the screen, Andrea was kneeling now and hugging Dragon back. "You're totally welcome, my clever little Dragon."
Is she actually learning to be human?
Maybe there'd been something in what Captain Snow had to say, after all.
It definitely warranted closer study.
-ooo-
Washington Park, Chicago
Saturday, May 6, 1995
1955 Hours
I had one eye on the street and the other on the time as the unmarked car rolled through some of the grimier streets of Chicago. Kinsey, in plain clothes rather than uniform, sat behind the wheel. Likewise attired, I was in the passenger seat. So as not to draw unwelcome attention from the few police officers who might pass through this area, neither of us were visibly armed.
Less visibly, Kinsey had his .44 hand-cannon and his solid fists. I had my Glock, a folding knife and an extending baton. While I was intending on using exactly none of these; as the saying went, it was better to have and not need.
Kinsey also had an unhappy expression on his face. This came as no great surprise to me, as I would've been less than thrilled about this outing as well, except that I knew the real reason for it. All Kinsey knew was that I needed to acquire some information, and the less he knew about the information and the source, the better.
"I'll have eyes in the back of my head the whole time," I said, knowing better than to tempt Murphy by saying anything stupid like, 'it'll be fine', or worse, 'what could possibly happen'. "If something goes wrong, just follow the screams."
He turned to give me a dubious look about then. Of everyone who had ever been a part of my life, he knew me better than most, and I didn't do the 'scream helplessly' thing. It wasn't my thing.
"Their screams," I amended. "Because if anyone tries shit with me, they'll be screaming once I get my hands on them."
"I should still come in, ma'am," he said. "Give you some sort of backup. Bail you out if trouble starts."
"If you walk in there, everyone will ping you as either police or military. Some might even get lucky and figure out you're PRT," I explained. He was constitutionally incapable of looking like anything but a sergeant. "I'd have to be the one bailing you out of trouble then, not the other way around. And do you really want to be the one explaining to Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton how the op got blown, if that happened?"
"I don't want to be the one explaining to the Lieutenant-Colonel if anything goes wrong," he muttered unhappily.
We cruised past our destination and I saw two familiar faces, heading away from the bar. Andrea's mercenaries had done their job once more. Now all I had to do was go in there and close the deal. Unfortunately, there were no free parking spaces available that I could see.
Time was ticking down. My window of opportunity was closing. "Pull over and drop me off here, Kinsey," I directed. The bar was only half a block back. "Drive around the block. If I'm not out the front in ten minutes, come in hot."
"Ma'am." He still didn't like it, but I'd given him a direct order.
He hit the four-way indicators, then pulled to a halt. Before the drivers in the cars behind could get too irate—road rage in this area tended to be consummated with gunfire—I got out and closed the door behind me. I moved in between the parked cars and stepped up onto the sidewalk as Kinsey pulled off again. I could tell he was driving slower than normal, keeping an eye on me as long as possible in the rear-view, and I hoped he maintained a visual on the road ahead as well.
I didn't need for some bright spark who kept up with their PRT personnel to ID me as an intelligence officer—despite my best efforts, I had been on TV a few times—so I'd changed up my look. My glasses for the night were a pair of the old round-lensed ones I'd worn back in the day, and I was wearing a wig of straight brown shoulder-length hair, tastefully braided over the ears. I'd carefully picked out my clothes to not be even slightly revealing—I had no illusions about my looks, but beer goggles were a thing—while still fitting in with the area.
Nobody got in my face as I headed back along the sidewalk toward the bar. I knew the signs of looking like a victim, and avoided displaying them, instead doing my best to project a slight 'done with this shit' air. It wasn't hard; while Winter had been dead by the time I encountered the Nine, she'd still been one of their more prominent members. I didn't need or want her to remain breathing long enough to do it again for the first time, but at the same time, I didn't want to die in the process. Neither did I want someone else to die trying, and alert her. Thus, this rigmarole.
The bar's windows had protective mesh on them, which wasn't exactly a promising sign. I looked up at the sign, then down the road as though searching for a better place. Giving the slightest of shrugs, I stepped inside.
Door security was provided by two guys who looked like they only stopped taking steroids so they could inject horse testosterone. 'Beefy' didn't begin to describe them. They didn't just browse the 'Big and Tall' aisle; they were the 'Big and Tall' aisle.
Not that Kinsey or I couldn't have taken them. Don't be silly.
"Armed?" grunted the one on the left.
"Yeah." I was aiming at 'well, duh, who isn't carrying around here?' and from his chuckle, I was pretty sure I'd nailed it. At his lifted chin, I eased open my jacket and carefully slid my hand in. When it came out, slowly and smoothly, I was holding my Glock between finger and thumb.
He glanced at the other guy, who shrugged and took up a metal-detector wand. I knew the drill, holding my arms outward as he ran it down each side of my body, then front and back, picking up my belt buckle and little else. He didn't do my arms, which was his loss; that was where I was holding the knife and the baton. But maybe they didn't care about anything that wasn't a gun.
Once the scan was over, the first guard nodded at the pistol. "Put it away. It comes out, you better have a good reason or we'll put you down." A gesture to the side revealed a pump shotgun in a shadowed niche.
"Got it." I nodded, re-holstering the pistol. I didn't thank them, and they clearly didn't expect it. Politeness was all well and good, but I didn't want anyone here remembering a tall skinny woman with glasses. Also, I didn't want them thinking I was interested in them. That could complicate matters drastically.
Inside the bar, it was dimly lit, probably so that people could maintain their illusions about who they were drinking with. A TV over the bar was playing a popular comedy show with the sound muted, which made zero sense to me but was probably perfectly understandable to everyone else there. An old-fashioned juke-box, the glass cover cracked and the sides scarred, played a scratchy country & western tune that everyone was talking over. The pervasive smell of stale beer and staler cigarette smoke made me glad that I'd be showering as soon as I got back to base.
The clock over the bar gave me seven minutes to be in position. I moved over to the counter, noting the location of the ladies' restrooms as I did, and ordered a glass of the most inoffensive-looking beer they had on tap. Drinking was never my strong suit, but I could when I had to. In Rome, do as Romans do; in a bar, if you're not drinking, you're standing out from the crowd.
I kept my eye on the glass from the moment the bar attendant picked it up until when he placed it in front of me. I hadn't ordered ice, but there were several large cubes in my drink. It was an old trick; ice was basically free to make anyplace there was electricity, and it significantly reduced the amount of beer they had to put in the glass. Fortunately, he hadn't taken the glass out of sight. No roofies sat fizzing at the bottom of the drink, so I sipped at it, looking around the bar, trying to give the impression of someone who was halfway to nowhere and waiting for her ticket out of town.
The taste was nothing to write home about, but I didn't have an overwhelming urge to gag and spit it out. I was absently grateful for the unasked-for ice, though; it meant there was less beer to get through. But around about the time I was nearly finished, a problem presented itself.
I'd been careful not to make eye contact with anyone; the last thing I wanted was either some guy with romantic intentions or some woman thinking I was leching on to her man. Yet here came the former, smooging up to me with an oily grin. I was taller than him by a few inches, despite the flats I was wearing, but that didn't deter him.
"Hi there," he said in what he probably thought was a smooth and sexy tone. "New in town? I haven't seen you in here before." His clothing was newish but conservative in cut. Just about the sort of thing someone might wear to dress down for a night out on the rough side of town.
I gave him my best 'not interested' look. "Just meeting a friend," I said briefly. Surely that would give him the message that he wasn't in the running.
It went straight over his head, like a Concorde over a particularly dim groundhog. "I can be your friend," he offered. "Let me buy you a drink. Name's Cameron."
This put me on the horns of a dilemma. If I turned him down hard enough for him to actually notice, there was a good chance he'd take offence and start calling me all sorts of names, thus wasting my time and drawing undesirable attention. But if I didn't, he would be encouraged, and I'd have the devil's own time extricating myself from his company in time to do what I was here to do.
So, I took the third option. I lied my ass off.
"Okay, sounds good. I'll have another one of these." I put my glass down on the bar. "Without ice, this time. I'm just going to the ladies'."
If this guy was after what I suspected he was after, that beer would be more roofies than alcohol by the time I returned. It didn't matter; I wouldn't be drinking it. As he turned to the bartender, I got up off my stool and headed for the female restrooms.
The door closed behind me, cutting off the music and multiple conversations and leaving me to plan my next actions. Andrea had specified the first stall to the left, so I turned in that direction … just as the door leading back into the bar opened again.
Shit, was my first thought. The last thing I needed was a witness to what I was about to do.
My next thought, as I saw it was Cameron, was decidedly more profane.
There was no good reason for him to be barging into the ladies' room in the bar after making himself a nuisance to me already. I'd clearly underestimated his determination; as the sole unaccompanied woman in the bar, I'd made myself his target purely by existing. By keeping Kinsey out of the place, I'd traded one issue for another.
Cameron's intention had always been to spike my drink and have his way with me, as had almost happened back in college that one time. Now, it seemed, he'd decided to skip the preliminaries.
I didn't bother speaking rationally to him, yelling at him to get out of the restroom, or even just yelling. Between the volume of the crowd outside, the soundproofing effect of the door and general apathy, I doubted very much anyone would be rushing to my rescue. Also, this had been too slickly done for it to be his first time; I wondered briefly how many other women he'd attacked in this way.
But while I wondered, I acted.
His hands came up to grab my arms at the elbows, probably to immobilise me until he could wrestle me into submission. I didn't give him the chance; a knuckle-jab, up and under the breastbone, drove the air from his lungs. It would've been like having the end of an axe handle rammed into his solar plexus. I knew this, because Kinsey had demonstrated it on me while showing how to do it.
His expression was still transitioning from 'I have you now, my pretty' to 'what the fuck was that' when I kicked him in the groin—there's a reason that's an old favourite—then grabbed him by the hair and rammed my knee up into the middle of his face. As a followup, I smashed his head sideways into the divider between two of the toilet doors, twice. Hard.
That was about the time my brain caught up with my conscious actions. Kinsey had taught me well; every one of those moves had been purely on instinct, one flowing into the next without pausing to wonder what I should be doing. Cameron—if that was even his name—was down, air bubbling through the bloody ruin that used to be his nose. While he wasn't precisely unconscious, he certainly wasn't paying attention to what was going on around him.
Time was ticking on, and a semiconscious man lying on the floor in full view was not what I needed right now. Nudging open the stall I'd been heading to in the first place, I dragged him inside and dumped him on the commode, wondering if he had bricks in his pockets. 'Dead weight' was certainly a thing, as I'd found out before now. Almost absent-mindedly, I frisked him, vaguely curious as to whether his name was actually Cameron or not.
I found three things of note: first, an actual flick-knife. This one was spring-loaded, as opposed to mine, which only used thumb pressure to open. Second, an unlabelled plastic bottle holding a bunch of little pills. Third, a Congolese passport, in the name of Samuel Masters.
Deciding to keep all three items, I grabbed the other item that I'd come in here for from inside the toilet roll—thank you, Andrea's mercenaries—then exited the stall. Carefully, I used the tip of the switchblade to turn the simple lock to OCCUPIED while thinking over what I'd found. 'Cameron', it seemed, was not who he'd pretended to be, or even what I'd assumed he was. He hadn't exhibited any kind of accent that I'd noticed, though the noise in the bar hadn't made listening easy.
There was only one real conclusion I could reach. Samuel was working with Winter in her people-trafficking (and possibly the gun-running), and he'd decided to start the party rolling before she arrived. If I'd been feeling sympathy for the beating I'd handed him (I wasn't), it would've shrivelled up and died, right around that point. But that led to my next problem. I was all out of time.
The door into the bar area opened again. It wasn't either of the Big & Beefy guys, with or without shotgun, here to evict Samuel. Nor was it one of the female patrons, looking to pass on some used beer.
It was Winter herself.
In costume, she wore a hooded cloak and heavy goggles; this tended to adequately conceal her white hair (that contrasted nicely with her dark skin) and black-rimmed irises. As a result, the PRT of this era had never had a good look at her. In fact, she was barely on our radar. This would all change once she joined the Slaughterhouse Nine and hit the big time.
Or rather, it would have. I was here to make sure she ended up as a 'never was'.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "And where is Samuel?"
Her voice held an accent; not one I could readily identify, but if she came from the same place Samuel did, I was willing to give it a tentative tag of 'Congolese'. Not that I was interested in comparing regional accents when my life was on the line, which it was, because right then two more men bulked into the bathroom behind her.
A tiny part of my mind began to seriously wonder if they shouldn't take down the sign saying 'LADIES' and replace it with 'WHOEVER', because the men had just outnumbered the women in the place.
I still had the open switchblade in my right hand, and the epi-pen I'd taken from its hiding place in my left. As the men began to reach into their jackets (I suspected they weren't going for their wallets) I tossed the gleaming blade in the air. The men's eyes were drawn to it, but Winter wasn't fooled; as I started forward, her eyes narrowed and I found everything slowing down. My heart sludged in my chest, my thoughts felt like my brain was crawling through thick mud, and even my movements were impeded.
The knife clattered to the ground, and I wasn't even halfway to reaching her. No matter how hard I tried to push myself forward and focus on my purpose, it felt like I was in one of those dreams where running forever gets you nowhere. But I hadn't gotten where I was in life by giving up when the going got tough. I just pushed harder.
She stepped forward, moving with apparent lightning speed compared to my current snail's crawl, and shoved me so hard that I fell over backward. I was unable to roll with the impact, but fortunately her slowness field let me down lightly, so I was only a little winded. Then she stepped up astride me and deliberately knelt on my chest.
"What have you done with Samuel?" she hissed down at me, her hand wrapping around my throat. "Answer me, or I will stop your heart in your chest."
She could, too; Lisa had been clear about that point. All Slaughterhouse members were scary—they wouldn't have gotten where they were if the team had consisted of creampuffs—but she was one of the worst ones. Between the hand on my throat, the knee on my chest and the tar-like consistency of the air I was attempting to inhale, I simply couldn't breathe. It was a very effective torture method.
I struggled to speak, forcing what little air I had out of my lungs. "I …" Then I stopped again.
Frowning, she let up slightly; not just the pressure on my chest and the hand on my throat, but also the relative thickness of the air around me. "You … what?"
Just for a moment, I used the respite to draw in some much-needed air. Then my left thumb popped the cap off the epi-pen, and I jammed the exposed needle into her thigh. It punched in through her blue jeans, and I knew she'd gotten the whole dose. "Gotcha, bitch!"
Rearing back, she smacked the pen away from her leg, out of my hand. "What—" she began, but that was all she would ever say for the rest of her life. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth gaped in a soundless snarl, her back arched, and she began to convulse.
Andrea had, under my instruction, gotten her pet chemical Tinker to engineer up a particularly nasty dose for the epi-pen. Synth had combined a virulent neuro-toxin, a high-end paralytic, and something that activated all the pain receptors in the body and kept them going at full blast. Cruel, perhaps, but Winter didn't need to move or speak to use her powers, and we didn't want her murdering a city block full of innocents while we were waiting for her to die. Hitting her with so much pain she was unable to form a coherent thought was our only real option.
I just had to hope that the paralytic (which also shut down autonomous systems such as the heart) and the neurotoxin combined to kill her quickly enough that she didn't suffer needlessly long.
But I'd worry about ethical standards later. Her other two mooks were just now realising that I'd done something to her, and I suspected trying to explain how she was dead and no longer their boss wouldn't actually stop them from killing me. On the upside, her power was no longer affecting me at all; on the downside, they'd just pulled guns.
Shoving her (now convulsing) body aside, I rolled frantically as they fired, their bullets shattering chunks out of the grimy tiled concrete I was lying on. I flipped to my feet—not the easiest thing to do wearing street clothing, which was why Kinsey had made me practise doing just that—and went for my own weapons.
But not the pistol, not yet. The only one I had a shoulder holster for was the Glock that I was registered and licensed for, which would have a chance of being identified if I failed to police up all my brass. Hamilton would have my back, I knew that for a fact, but then I'd have to figure out how much to tell him about what was going on. That was an interview I wanted to have with him never.
The knife and baton dropped into my hands. I flicked out the blade with my thumb, then threw it underhand in one smooth move. It hit the guy on the left just under the Adam's apple, and sank deep into his throat. He looked startled and dropped his gun, as if surprised that someone might actually have the temerity to fight back.
As he dropped to his knees, his buddy looked even more astonished. They'd started this fight with me on the floor and at three-to-one odds. Now I was upright and armed, and he was facing me on even terms. I wanted to talk to him, convince him to drop the gun, but I was willing to bet neither one of us could hear a damn thing right then. There was something about the sound reflection quality of tiles that almost seemed to amplify gunshots. He did seem a little disoriented, which was a thing.
Needing a distraction, I snatched off the wig and threw it at his face, darting to the side as I did. He fired instinctively at the flaring shape, but by the time he realised the real threat was elsewhere, I was right next to him. Bringing my baton down on his right hand, I felt his wrist bones shatter as the pistol dropped to the floor.
He responded with what I figured was a scream of pain, from the way he clutched the injured limb, so I laid the baton alongside his jaw, sending him spinning to the floor in his turn. Grabbing up my wig, I shoved it roughly on my head, then retrieved my knife and roughly wiped it on the guy's shirt. Winter wasn't even twitching anymore, much less breathing, so I figured it was mission accomplished. The epi-pen needle had automatically retracted after delivering its dose (a damn good idea, considering its contents) so I retrieved that as well.
The door burst open again and I reacted instinctively, settling the muzzle of my Glock into the eyesocket of the door security guy who just come in. There'd been no conscious thought of drawing or pointing it; it just happened.
He had the shotgun, but it was pointed way out of line, as he undoubtedly knew. While my ears were still ringing, I could hear a little more than before. So when he spoke, I picked up enough to make an educated guess on the rest.
"We heard shooting," he said, almost apologetically. Someone his size wouldn't normally apologise for anything, but having a gun poking one in the eye tends to adjust one's priorities toward survival.
Yeah, sure. You heard shooting, but nobody saw three guys go into the ladies' restrooms.
"It wasn't me," I replied bluntly. Surreptitiously, I slid the epi-pen, folding knife, and baton into my pocket. "These three here started it. They've got a buddy in that stall. I'll be leaving now. Got a problem with that?"
His eyes moved downward cautiously; I pulled my pistol back far enough to give him room to do so. "Uh … no. Hey, are they dead?"
"They started it," I said, just as bluntly. "I don't need the heat. I'm out of here." I put the Glock away, then tilted my head to the side. He moved out of the way to let me pass, probably just as glad to see me go as I was to be gone.
I didn't waste time heading for the door. The bartender made as if to call me over for my drink, now sitting unattended on the bar, but there was no way I was even going to sniff at it. It was time I got out of this place, never to return.
The lone door guy looked up as I went past. "Hey!" he called out. "Hey!"
I didn't know what he wanted, and didn't care. Pushing the door open, I hit the sidewalk at a fast trot. If he wanted to catch me up, he'd have to abandon his post and his buddy. Yes, I'd just killed two people in his establishment, but I doubted that was the only murder ever to happen behind those doors.
The beep of a car horn alerted me, and I looked aside to see Kinsey slowing down alongside. I dashed around between two parked cars, wrenched the door open, and dived in. "Drive," I grunted, slamming the door and fumbling with the seatbelt. "Now-now-now."
Kinsey didn't peel rubber out of there, but he added a little speed, then took corners at random until we were both sure nobody had managed to follow us. I wrenched off the wig and glasses, and replaced the latter with my own pair from the glove compartment.
"Do I need to ask how it went, ma'am?" asked Kinsey, concentrating on his driving.
"Moderately well, actually," I said, spritzing myself with air freshener to try to get rid of the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. "I got what I wanted, but there were party-crashers. That place is a no-go for me, from now on. If it hadn't already been, that is."
"Understood, ma'am." Kinsey set course back toward the PRT base. "Am I going to be reading about any of this in the news?"
I considered the question, thinking back to the bar. "I doubt it, Kinsey. Places like that have ways of getting rid of inconvenient bodies."
"As you say, ma'am."
We spent the rest of the ride back to base in companionable silence.
-ooo-
Brockton Bay General Hospital
Maternity Waiting Area
Monday, June 19, 1995
Andrea hugged my arm, apparently even more excited than I was. "I can't believe it! It's finally happening!"
I glanced around for eavesdroppers, but Danny was pacing back and forth, Kinsey was chatting in low tones with Gladys, and Dragon—now apparently in a ten-year-old body—was watching baby Alec. Meeting this version of the AI for the first time had been interesting; I could see faint echoes of her other-future self, but she was also picking up tiny mannerisms from Andrea. From what I understood, the others knew nothing of Dragon's origins, just that she preferred it as a nickname.
"Well, it should really have happened eight days ago," I said in a low tone. "But butterflies happened, I guess. I'm just glad she's being born at all."
She nodded firmly, still excited. "But think about it. You're going to be the first person ever to meet their own past self! I mean, that's like … wow!"
"I know, I know." I'd read science fiction on the subject, with results varying from beneficial to catastrophic. I was pretty sure the universe wasn't going to implode from us meeting, but there was still a tiny bit of worry about how my past self would see me. "It's huge. I can't wait."
We got up and went over to where Dragon was entertaining Alec. He gurgled at us. Somehow, he was even cuter than the last time I'd seen him. "He's crawling now," Andrea said proudly. "Pretty soon, he'll be walking."
"And I'll be there to help teach him how," Dragon agreed. "Walking isn't easy, but it's so rewarding once you figure out what you're doing."
"You're not wrong there, kiddo," I said. "I remember after the Compound, it took me a little while to get back on my feet again."
"Mommy Andrea told me about that," Dragon replied guilelessly. "She said you were an idiot who rushed in without looking and got yourself hurt."
I snorted with amusement and did my best to raise an eyebrow in Andrea's direction. She stared steadfastly back, refusing to give way on the subject. "And I was right."
"Ignoring the fact that I was actually in a helicopter that got shot down by the bad guys," I pointed out.
"And what were you doing flying so close to where you could get shot down?" she countered.
My lips tightened slightly. I could see the way this was going, and I was losing the argument. "We didn't know they were willing to escalate that hard, or that one of our own was passing information to them."
Andrea rolled her eyes. "Villains? Willing to escalate? Whoever heard of such a thing?"
Dragon raised a finger, went to speak, then closed her mouth and lowered her finger again. "Nobody, in all the history of the world," she agreed, deadpan.
Well, that answered the question of whether Dragon understood sarcasm. "Yeah, yeah," I muttered. "I get it. We dropped the ball."
"Darn tootin'. I think—"
But whatever Andrea thought went by the wayside as a doctor appeared at the door. "Mr. Hebert?" he said.
Danny's head whipped around. "Y-yes?" he blurted. "Anne-Rose? Is—is she okay?"
The doctor smiled. "Mother and baby are doing fine. If you and two of your friends would like to come along …?"
Danny looked at me; I looked at Andrea. Then we both looked at Kinsey and Dragon.
"I'll mind the children, ma'am," he said, before I even figured out how to word the request.
"Thank you, Kinsey." I followed Andrea and Danny from the waiting area, through a series of corridors, to where Anne-Rose lay in a bed, holding a tiny wailing bundle.
"Wow," breathed Andrea. "So cuuuute."
"Mmm." It was weird to look at a younger version of oneself and have that thought. Tiny wisps of dark hair surrounded the newborn infant's face.
Danny was consulting with the doctor as I leaned in and whispered to Anne-Rose, "Well done. How do you feel?"
"Like I've just been beaten up with baseball bats," she replied wryly. "But they said it was an easy birth. No complications."
"Oh, good." I divided my attention, as Andrea was still cooing over the baby, to address Danny. "So, uh, what were you going to call her?"
"Her?" asked Anne-Rose. "It's a boy."
I blinked. "It's what?"
"A boy," repeated Danny. He glanced at Anne-Rose. "We were thinking of naming him after you and Andrea anyway. Tyler, uh, Andrew—"
"Make the middle name Campbell and you've got a deal," Andrea said decisively. "No way is any kid I'm associating with getting called Andy."
Annette smiled at her long-time friend. "Okay then," she said. "His name's going to be Tyler Campbell Hebert."
I was still a little stunned by the unexpected news. It's a boy? How does that even work? It took Andrea nudging me to get me back on track.
"Hey," she said. "Pay attention."
"Right," I said. "Tyler Campbell, huh? I've definitely heard of worse names." Leaning in, I gently took hold of one tiny hand, which clutched convulsively around my pinky finger. "Hi, Tyler," I whispered. "Welcome to the world."
He blinked at me, then wailed again. Apparently, his opinion of the world was not exactly high at the moment.
To be honest, I couldn't blame him.
End of Part 8-2
Last edited:
silentorphan
Versed in the lewd.
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Beer in a glass? With ice? What kind of US dive bar is this? 
Ack
(Verified Ratbag) (Unverified Great Old One)
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I don't understand the question,Beer in a glass? With ice? What kind of US dive bar is this?
silentorphan
Versed in the lewd.
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All of the dive bars I've been in, the bartender just opens up a bottle of beer and plonks it down in front of you. Nothing from the tap/keg...because they don't have any. The glass and ice (or without ice, if the place is really, really cheap) only come with harder alcohol. (I've heard of one bar in Johannesburg, SA which doesn't even do that--harder liquor comes in 50 c.c. plastic bottles, sans glass.)
Ack
(Verified Ratbag) (Unverified Great Old One)
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Huh.
I personally don't drink, and I've never been in a dive bar.
She went to a high-class dive for this one
Gaemnomut
Well worn.
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I really liked this update. Baby Dragon is a treasure, Winter was appropriately menacing, and your writing was enjoyable to read overall as always.
The reveal of Tyler at the end was an interesting twist as well, wonder how that's going to shake out.
At this point, has Manton already abandoned Cauldron and drunk his vial? Does Taylor ave any plans to prevent his slide into insanity, or has that already happened?
The reveal of Tyler at the end was an interesting twist as well, wonder how that's going to shake out.
At this point, has Manton already abandoned Cauldron and drunk his vial? Does Taylor ave any plans to prevent his slide into insanity, or has that already happened?
Ack
(Verified Ratbag) (Unverified Great Old One)
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Manton has not done this yet.
Taylor has plans.
As for Tyler, he's going to have as good a life as his parents and Aunts Taylor and Andrea can arrange for him.
Death by Chains
За родину и свободу!
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I have to admit I'm just as mystified, though I also have to concede that the first (and last) time I actually ordered a beer in an actual bar of any kind was during my student days, in the late '90s, and student pubs are a little more, uh, genteel than this establishment apparently is. (These days I generally drink at home, at a rate of about one six-pack per year.) People actually put ice in beer, instead of just chilling it?
Not a criticism, BTW, simply a baffled observation.
Not a criticism, BTW, simply a baffled observation.
Ack
(Verified Ratbag) (Unverified Great Old One)
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Like I said, ice is cheaper than beer.
It's just a dodgy way to get more money for less beer.
All the regulars have learned to say, "no ice".
SlickRCBD
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I can count the number of times I've been to a bar on one hand with fingers left over unless you include ordering a non-alcoholic drink (almost always pop) at the bar of a restaurant while waiting for a table.Beer in a glass? With ice? What kind of US dive bar is this?
That said, I could swear I recall one bar that delivered the drink in a disposable plastic cup like SOLO or Dixie.
The last time I recall going to a bar proper was over 10 years ago after I had gone back to night school to upgrade from associates to bachelors and after the Capstone about 2 dozen of the IT majors went to a bar to celebrate. We got a big table they set up and ordered several pitchers of beer and all the snacks and they gave us glasses with ice for the beer.
It was the Bar Louie chain, the one in Mount Prospect next to Randhurst. Not quite Chicago, the NW suburbs about 35 miles from The Loop. Only time I've been there. Not that it was bad, I just don't drink. I ordered a 7-up. Especially since I was driving home by myself. Most everyone was driving themselves and only had one or two beers before ordering something non-alcoholic or water.
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The LA Situation and Aftermath
Ack
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Crossposted from SB, where someone asked the question.
The LA situation got resolved.
Andrea had already withdrawn her mercenaries, so the only people left causing trouble were the ones who'd wanted to cause trouble anyway and just needed a nudge. Taylor passed on to Alexandria exactly where to find all the ringleaders, the weapon caches (which had existed before all this), the whole nine yards. Taking out all that basically snuffed out the whole thing in less than a day.
Dynamax went in front of a tribunal, where evidence was presented (via a strategically left-behind videotape where someone was 'accidentally caught on camera' briefly discussing how they were going to frame a hero for the whole thing) that exonerated him. He was moved to another part of LA and underwent a few sessions aimed at keeping up his situational awareness. It wasn't a fun time for him, but he ended up being a better hero because of it.
The tape was 'accidentally' leaked to the news services, and Manny Cruz went overnight from 'victim of racism' to 'patsy of terrorists'. After Alexandria had a quiet word with him, he confessed to his part in it (not naming any important names, because he didn't know any) and this also became part of the tribunal evidence. He's now serving time as an accomplice.
The guy who died absolutely intended to truck-bomb a government building. He was no innocent.
Andrea was dubious, but the end result convinced her that it was overall a good thing (especially after Lisa confirmed that Eidolon was accidentally controlling Behemoth, and there had been more to come). She did have a few words with Taylor about the whole 'starting riots' thing. Taylor apologised, and promised she wouldn't do that specific thing again.
Just talking to Eidolon would have had extremely unpredictable results, given that the Endbringers came out because he wanted to be the world's greatest hero. Taylor knew that she only had one shot at getting him to do something, and this was the most likely to succeed. Even if she'd spoken to him normally and gotten him to agree, there was a distinctly non-zero chance that he would've talked himself out of it again by the time the situation came around.
The LA situation got resolved.
Andrea had already withdrawn her mercenaries, so the only people left causing trouble were the ones who'd wanted to cause trouble anyway and just needed a nudge. Taylor passed on to Alexandria exactly where to find all the ringleaders, the weapon caches (which had existed before all this), the whole nine yards. Taking out all that basically snuffed out the whole thing in less than a day.
Dynamax went in front of a tribunal, where evidence was presented (via a strategically left-behind videotape where someone was 'accidentally caught on camera' briefly discussing how they were going to frame a hero for the whole thing) that exonerated him. He was moved to another part of LA and underwent a few sessions aimed at keeping up his situational awareness. It wasn't a fun time for him, but he ended up being a better hero because of it.
The tape was 'accidentally' leaked to the news services, and Manny Cruz went overnight from 'victim of racism' to 'patsy of terrorists'. After Alexandria had a quiet word with him, he confessed to his part in it (not naming any important names, because he didn't know any) and this also became part of the tribunal evidence. He's now serving time as an accomplice.
The guy who died absolutely intended to truck-bomb a government building. He was no innocent.
Andrea was dubious, but the end result convinced her that it was overall a good thing (especially after Lisa confirmed that Eidolon was accidentally controlling Behemoth, and there had been more to come). She did have a few words with Taylor about the whole 'starting riots' thing. Taylor apologised, and promised she wouldn't do that specific thing again.
Just talking to Eidolon would have had extremely unpredictable results, given that the Endbringers came out because he wanted to be the world's greatest hero. Taylor knew that she only had one shot at getting him to do something, and this was the most likely to succeed. Even if she'd spoken to him normally and gotten him to agree, there was a distinctly non-zero chance that he would've talked himself out of it again by the time the situation came around.
Part 8-3: Plotting and Planning
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Saturday, August 26, 1995
Chicago
Taylor
The diner was nicely appointed, with solid partitions between the booths. I hadn't been here before, but if the food was worthwhile, I figured I might come back. However, as I pushed on the door, I wasn't thinking about the food. Kinsey, as ordered, waited out near the car, ostensibly watching the road.
Ruth—Major Goldstein—was seated in the far end booth, where it would be almost impossible to eavesdrop on our conversation without either of us knowing. This was a good thing, because I didn't want this conversation going any farther than the Major. As it was, I wasn't quite sure what her reaction would be, because I was about to drop a bombshell in her lap.
The trouble was, I couldn't really see a palatable alternative.
"Hello, Taylor," she said as I slid into the seat opposite her. "How've you been?" She was in civilian wear, as was I. I had to admit, she could carry off the look better than me.
"Pretty good, recently," I said, and reached into my bag. A hand mirror, cupped in my palm, let me survey the underside of the table. There was nothing attached to the wood that didn't look like it belonged. "Danny and Annette had a kid back in June. A son. Five pounds, three ounces. They're calling him Tyler. I wasn't able to stick around for the christening, but I'm the unofficial godmother."
"A son?" She blinked. Ruth Goldstein knew enough of my history that the significance of the date and the name were clear to her. "I … understand."
I gave her a smile as I put the mirror away. "Cute little tyke. Can't wait to see what he grows up like. How are your folks?"
"Fit and healthy, the last I heard," she allowed, her raised eyebrows the only sign that she'd seen my surreptitious examination. "They both enjoyed meeting you and Sergeant Kinsey very much. You know you're welcome to visit, any chance you get."
"If I'm ever back in Seattle, I'll make a point of it," I promised, and I meant it. The Goldsteins were genuinely nice people, and so was Darlene Hobbs.
A waitress approached our booth. "Good afternoon," she said brightly. "Would you ladies like menus, or are you okay to order now?"
It would be a good idea to order something, or we'd draw notice. I scanned the menu written on the chalkboard above the counter. "I'll have a pot of tea and a slice of your pecan pie, thanks."
Ruth nodded. "And I'll have coffee, and a plate of your home-baked cookies. Thank you very much."
"Coming right up." The waitress hastened away.
Leaning back in my seat, I composed my features into 'nothing to see here' blandness. "So, how's things been with you?" I already knew, of course, but it was only polite to ask.
"I've been doing well," she said; her words and tone said one thing, but the curiosity in her eyes told another story altogether. It said a lot for her faith in me that she'd come up to Chicago on the strength of a simple request without asking for any real kind of details. Of course, now that she was here, I would totally have to give her some. "How has the redoubtable Lieutenant Piggot been faring?"
"Thriving, actually," I said truthfully. I didn't spend a lot of time socialising with Emily, mainly because I didn't want any suggestion of favouritism to be bandied about, but we crossed paths from time to time. "She's fitting in well. Kinsey says there's been no grumbling in the lower ranks about her."
Ruth chuckled. "Ahh, yes. The infamous E-4 mafia. You're lucky to have Sergeant Kinsey, you know. He must be a tremendous asset to you."
"I'd say oh, you have no idea, but you do have a good idea," I agreed. "I remember when you went head-to-head with him over you coming along on that thing in Seattle."
She nodded complacently. "I've had my unfair share of dealing with people who want to stop me from doing something I need to do."
"I just bet you have." Thanks to Lisa, I'd looked over a comprehensive dossier on Ruth Goldstein, neé Aster Anders, and I knew more about her than she did about herself. A little unfair, some might have called it; I personally held the view that every advantage is a fair advantage when you absolutely had to win.
Not that Ruth was the enemy; far from it. She was just as dedicated to the cause of saving the world from Scion as I was. (Well, originally I'd agreed to go back in time to save everyone from Behemoth. That was done and dusted, and now I faced the real end-of-level boss, as Regent would put it). But sometimes I had to manipulate even the people I saw as allies to get what I wanted.
Did I like it? Absolutely not. But my likes and dislikes hadn't factored into my important decisions for … well, for years now. If the answer to will it help save the world? was unequivocally 'yes' then the chances were that I'd go ahead and do it.
The waitress returned with a tray and a practised smile. With quick, efficient motions, she unloaded everything onto the table. "Here you go, ladies. Pecan pie and cookies fresh out of the oven, one pot of coffee, and one of tea, plus chilled milk. Holler if you need anything."
"Thank you," I said. "We'll do that."
With one last beaming smile—were rude customers so uncommon that she wasn't used to civility?—she hurried off again. Ruth began to open her mouth, but I made a shushing motion and took her plate of cookies. With my fingertips, I explored the bottom of that as well as the smaller plate holding the slice of pecan pie. Then I eyeballed the teacup, the coffee cup, the saucers and the actual pots. There were no intrusive electronic devices; not that I'd expected any, but I'd rather check for bugs and be wrong than not check for bugs and be wrong.
"Okay, now I'm officially intrigued," Ruth said quietly. "Checking the table is one thing; assuming that the crockery might be compromised is quite another. What's on your mind?"
"Two people," I said, keeping my voice equally low as I poured myself a cup of tea. It wouldn't help matters if someone had a laser-mic aimed at the window from anywhere along the street. All I could really do was rely on Lisa's assurance that nobody who knew about this meeting had any plans to do anything about it. "The first one is Jack Slash."
"I'm aware of his existence," Ruth allowed. "Are you going after him next?"
Not once did the tone of her voice suggest that such would be acutely perilous (which it would). I'd told her that I was there to take down Behemoth, and Behemoth was still immobile in the middle of Jakarta.
"I'm going to leave that until next year," I said. Pouring just a little milk in, I stirred my cup. "Gray Boy is a distinct problem, so I have to wait until he's out of the way."
"I remember something about that …" Ruth frowned. "Isn't it Glaistig Uaine who takes him down? Then gets herself admitted to the Birdcage?"
"Correct on both counts," I agreed. Cauldron, I knew, was actually behind the first event. The second would be all her idea. "But once he's gone, I've got a clear run at Jack Slash. Well, a mostly clear run. Screamer's still a stumbling block. Fortunately, one that can be solved with a bullet at the correct time and place. Gray Boy's just not that convenient."
"And are you going to 'solve' Jack Slash with a bullet as well?" Ruth raised an eyebrow. "You know, you could probably do that now, even with Gray Boy in the picture. Just do it from a great enough range and you'll be fine."
I shook my head, then took a sip of tea. "I hate it that I've let him go so far, and there's nothing I'd love more than to introduce his skull to a piece of high-velocity copper-jacketed lead. But I can't kill him, and I can't let anyone else kill him, either. What I need is to get him away from the Nine, alive and able to talk, and find a way to put him on ice for …" I frowned, calculating in my head. "… about nine years, give or take a couple of months. Then I can make alternate arrangements for the next six years after that."
Ruth fixed me with a stare, and took up a cookie. She ate it, still giving me that dead-level no-shit stare, then poured herself a coffee and added creamer. Finally, she took a sip of the coffee.
"I've got perfect memory," she said eventually.
"Yes," I said. "I know."
"I've just been over every significant interaction we've ever had, and never once have you mentioned the need to abduct the man who is possibly America's most detestable serial killer, and keep him alive for the next fifteen years? Why this, and why now?"
I took a deep breath. "Because originally I had intended to leave him run his path for the next ten years while I whittled away at the strongest members of his potential crew, so that by the time I confronted him, he wouldn't have strong enough backup to stop me. At that point, I wouldn't have need of your help. But it turns out my stomach isn't strong enough to green-light ten years of mass murder and other atrocities, so now I'm just going to wait until Gray Boy's out of the way. Which, like I said, will be next year."
"And what makes you think I've got the capability to just … 'put him on ice', as you so succinctly phrase it?" asked Ruth. "Yes, I'm a doctor, but …" She let her voice trail off. We both knew what she wasn't saying. Ice wasn't her thing. Molten steel and high-temperature plasma, certainly, but not ice.
I tilted my head slightly. "I was hoping you could ask Contessa for a favour."
She froze. I'd timed my words so she wouldn't spill coffee on herself, but her hand shook briefly as she put her cup down. I could see the concentric ripples on the surface of her drink.
"How, exactly, do you know that name?" she asked carefully.
"The same way I know a lot of other stuff," I said. I knew I wasn't being helpful, but I had to assume that Contessa could intuit any knowledge she possessed, so I was keeping the extraneous information to a minimum.
I was fully aware that the next time Contessa met with Ruth, the Cauldron enforcer would find out that I was aware of her shenanigans. How she'd react, I wasn't sure. Hopefully, ending the threat of the Endbringers had earned me some goodwill in that regard. The fact that since Eidolon's demise I'd had zero encounters with stylishly dressed strangers, with or without fedoras, seemed to indicate that Cauldron considered my ongoing progress to be a net positive. It would be nice if this continued to be the case.
Ruth frowned. "That makes no sense. You know a lot of things, but that's because you basically cheated." Which was kind of a harsh way to describe using my future knowledge to alter events in the here and now, but I couldn't argue with it. If you're losing, you aren't cheating hard enough. "But this isn't something …"
"No," I agreed. "It's not. I'm still cheating. And I'll continue to cheat. Can you accept the fact of my knowledge without me telling you how I know?" Because I respected Ruth Goldstein to the ends of the Earth and back again, but there were some things I didn't want getting out.
She let out an unhappy sigh. "I can accept that 'need to know' is a thing. I don't have to like it, but I can accept it. So, what about her? Wait." Her brow furrowed as she clearly recalled my wording. "A favour? How's she likely to be able to put him on ice?"
Well, that was interesting. I knew for a fact that Cauldron had any number of cells they could use to dump Case 53 prisoners into, no matter what powers they had. Ruth, apparently, didn't. Which suggested to me that Contessa had never told her about Cauldron.
I was going to have to play my cards close to the chest on this one. Telling Ruth about Cauldron could very well get her killed, and I didn't want that to happen. But maybe I didn't have to.
"That's not my place to say." I took a sip of my tea. "But the next time you see her, could you ask her if she's willing to put a troublesome parahuman away for ten years, no questions asked? If she says no, that's fine. I can think of other options. But if she says yes, it'll be a great help to me."
"I can ask her, certainly." Ruth sounded troubled, for which I couldn't exactly blame her. "What do I tell her when she asks me why?"
I affected an unconcerned shrug. "Tell her exactly what I said to you about needing to put Jack Slash away. But don't press her on the subject of whether or not she's able to, or how or why or where. She's got her secrets, too."
She gave me an irritated look. "You know, Taylor, you're really not making this easy for me. I know your whole thing is all about saving the world, but look around; it's been saved. Behemoth hasn't so much as twitched a finger in months, the stock market is up, people are actually stepping back and taking a breath. You won."
While I hadn't actually confided in her that I was the one behind Behemoth's defeat, I wasn't overly surprised that she'd made the deduction (or maybe just assumption) herself. I was literally the person who'd been sent back in time to do that exact thing. Of course, she was almost certainly unaware of ninety-nine percent of what had gone on behind the scenes to make it happen, but she was still personally certain I was ultimately responsible. Because, as it just so happened, I was.
"That battle's done," I said. "The war isn't over yet." I was being oblique again, and I knew it.
She frowned. "What do you mean? Do you think the others will still be showing up? I thought you'd managed to do something to stop them for good."
If by 'do something' she meant 'kill Eidolon' she was spot on the money, but this conversation was going in directions I hadn't wanted it to.
"They weren't the only threat," I said, trying to keep things as minimal as possible. "When I first came back, I thought they were. Then I learned differently. There's something else I've got to beat. In order to do this, I need Jack Slash alive and well in sixteen years' time. I would also much rather he didn't kill anyone during that interval. You see my dilemma."
"Wait, another threat?" Ruth kept her voice down, but the intensity in her tone could've etched glass. "When, exactly, were you going to fill me in on this?"
I met her eyes and matched her, tone for tone. "When and if it became necessary to do so. This is not a bear I want anyone poking, if I can possibly manage it."
"What's more powerful than—" She paused, her eyes widening, and I knew she'd figured it out. "No."
I gritted my teeth. "Ruth—"
"No," she said again, and shook her head. "You can't be serious. Sci—"
"Do. Not. Say. The. Name." I put every ounce of command voice I had into those five words. "Don't even think it, if you can possibly avoid doing so. Our only chance of survival involves not getting his attention until all my pieces are in place, plus backup plans."
She stared at me. "You've got a plan to …" Getting ahold of herself, she cut off her own words. "What am I saying? You're Taylor Snow. Of course you've got a plan."
"Something that can pass for one in poor light, at least," I admitted. "But like I said, it's going to take about sixteen years to carry out, and Jack Slash is required to be alive and well at the far end of it."
Her gaze was intense. "Does she know?"
It only took me a couple of seconds of thought to figure out which 'she' Ruth meant. "About the threat, yes. About my plans, no."
Her knuckles whitened around the handle of the coffee cup. I hoped the tension wouldn't overcome her natural self-control; the last thing we needed was to draw attention by breaking stuff. "So … what do I tell her if she asks about this meeting?"
I knew damn well that Contessa would be able to learn everything Ruth knew without asking, but I didn't want to endanger Ruth by telling her that. "Everything. We're on the same side, in the end. She wants to save the world; I want to save the world." I just had a better idea of how to do it, and I didn't have Path to Victory nudging me toward conflict with every suggestion I followed.
"And what if she can't or won't help with … with imprisoning Jack Slash?" She sounded like she couldn't really believe she was saying his name like that.
I shrugged. "I have other options. She's just the best one."
"Hmm." She tilted her head. "Maybe you should … I don't know … join forces? Team up? I mean, you have your thing going, and she has hers going, and if you're both working toward the same goal, why don't you combine your efforts?"
"No." I took a sip of my tea. "Several reasons, some of which I'm not going to share with you. The major one is that there would be a clash as to who was in charge. This would get in the way of efficiency."
"And if you chose to … well, swallow your pride, and let her be in charge?" She let go the coffee cup and spread her hands. "Would it kill you to let someone else actually give the orders for once? God knows you've never gotten into that habit yet."
I gave her a level stare, over the top of my glasses. "I reiterate. This would get in the way of efficiency."
She frowned slightly. "I don't know. She seems pretty efficient to me."
"There's short-term efficiency and long-term efficiency." I took up my spoon and cut into my slice of pecan pie. "I know what I'm doing, for the most part. I've done the math. The probabilities are on my side. She's throwing stuff at the wall to see what works. I already know what won't. All I have to figure out now is what's got the best chance of working, and how to apply it most effectively."
"And you'll know it when you see it?" I could tell she was trying to sound hopeful. "Do you have any options at all, right now?"
"Three, at the moment," I told her. "More may arise. The shortest time to implementation is sixteen years; that's the Jack Slash one. Fortunately, neutralising Behemoth pushed our time-scale all the way out. With him and the others pushing matters, we had about fifty years before the inevitable collapse of civilisation as we knew it. Now, we've got about three centuries." I put the piece of pie in my mouth and sat back. It was actually quite nice.
She stared at me. "So, it's going to be just like that?"
I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I waited until I had finished the piece of pie before I spoke. "Just like what, exactly?"
Her tone was more than a little exasperated. "When you asked me to come and meet you, I wasn't sure why. I thought perhaps you were going to inform me of what we both already knew; that the threat of Behemoth was done with, and that we could afford to relax and live our best lives. But instead, you unload an entirely new threat on me. I believe I could possibly have faced off against Leviathan, but I have no chance against him."
"Nobody does," I said quietly. "Even Eidolon, on his best day, had a weak point. This isn't a battle scenario. This is a preparation scenario. Of course, along the way, I'll be removing the odd threat from society, so by the time we do get around to being able to doing something about him, there'll be fewer problems all round." I gave her a tight smile. "And that's where you'll be coming in, if and when you're able to help out. High-temperature jets of molten steel make so many problems just … go away."
Ruth sighed. "That's basically what she said. My life would be so much simpler if you two could learn to work together."
I raised an eyebrow. "Can you see her following my orders without creatively reinterpreting them? Honestly?"
"Much like you'd do with her?" Ruth considered that for a moment, then shook her head. "No. I really can't. You two are scarily alike."
"I'm nothing like—" I tamped down the hot anger that rose in my chest. "I'm nothing like her. Any similarities are cosmetic at best."
"If you say so." It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "I had to play hardball to make sure she backed away from any suggestion of doing something stupid like abducting you, you know."
I was aware of the incident; Lisa, hugely amused, had related the entire conversation to me. But Contessa didn't need to know about Lisa, and so neither did Ruth. "That was nice of you. I appreciate it."
She snorted indelicately. "I did it as much for her protection as yours. While I think there would be an immense benefit to the two of you working together, having you go head-to-head … it would not go well, for anyone."
"It certainly would not," I agreed. My best bet, if confronted with a Contessa who was determined to enforce her will on mine, would be to go into a self-hypnotic state and hope Lisa could jam her ability long enough for me to disable her. I couldn't guarantee it working, and I really didn't want to find out the hard way that it wouldn't. "So, you'll ask her?"
"I will," she agreed. "I can't guarantee a positive answer, or even any answer straight away. Right now, I suspect she doesn't know you're aware of her existence. I certainly didn't know you were, though in hindsight it makes sense, considering she was around then, too."
"She was," I confirmed, without actually making it clear whether or not I'd met the woman then. I hadn't, but there had been some close encounters.
"I thought so." Ruth nodded, as if I'd said more. "So, uh, just to be clear, I think she'll be happier if I can tell her straight-out that you're not planning to instigate the deaths of any more members of the Protectorate."
"Not planning on it, no." I stole one of her cookies. "If they look like getting in my way, I'll try to give adequate warning."
"I'd appreciate that." She held the coffee cup between her palms and looked down pensively into its depths. "As I recall, it was Hero who died originally, to make the first Triumvirate. Is he still …?"
"No," I told her firmly. "I know exactly how and where to stop that from happening. That's one of the things that's on my to-do list to prevent."
"Oh," she said, looking a little taken aback. "Good."
I grinned at her. "What, did you think I was going to say no?"
"Quite possibly, yes," she confessed. "With how serious this discussion had become, I half-expected you to explain that his death was necessary for a certain thing to happen in the future."
"Hah, no." I shook my head. "As the saying goes, sometimes shit just happens because it feels like happening. In this case, it's gonna un-happen."
She smiled. "Well, that is good to hear."
"I thought so, too." I checked my watch. "I think it's time for me to start back to base. Thanks for the talk."
She rose, as did I. "Thank you for being so candid. I'll pass on your request."
"Much appreciated." I waved at the table. "I've got this." Pulling out my wallet, I wedged enough notes under the pie plate to cover the bill plus a substantial tip.
Ruth preceded me out of the diner, giving Kinsey a measured nod on the way past. He returned the gesture as I joined him. Together, we watched her as she headed off down the sidewalk.
"So, how did it go, ma'am?" he asked as we got into the car.
"Very well indeed, Kinsey." I smiled as I strapped myself in. "It's always nice to see Major Goldstein again."
The message had been sent. Now, all I had to do was await the answer.
Sunday, September 17, 1995
Cauldron Base
Contessa
"Wait, I was going to die?" Hero sounded uncertain of himself. "Why am I only hearing about this now?"
Contessa rolled her eyes. "Because I had other priorities than to ask her for a day-by-day detailing of a possibly inaccurate future history. Congratulations; you're no longer going to be torn in half by a naked tiger-striped monochrome woman."
"And I was going to lose my eye." If anything, Alexandria seemed even more disturbed by this knowledge. "Just how powerful was … is … will be … this 'Siberian'? Other capes have gone after my eyes before, thinking they were weak points. They're really not."
"Remember, Metal Storm was just an infant, back then," Contessa said. "Her memory of events is patchy, because she only knows what she saw on the news. But she recalls the Siberian as being unstoppable in a very definitive way. The woman had a truly horrific body count and was impervious to basically everything."
"So how was she stopped? How was she killed?" Legend spread his hands. "How does Captain Snow, an unpowered PRT officer, intend to stop her?"
"I don't know," said Contessa simply. "Because Metal Storm doesn't know. She just said that if Taylor Snow promised it wasn't going to happen, we could take that to the bank."
Doctor Mother glowered. "The more I hear about this woman, the more I want her sequestered away in a quiet room, where I can get access to every last secret she's keeping from us. If it could help us stop Scion—"
"She's already working on that," Contessa interrupted her. "She knows about Scion, and she knows about me. I got the strong inference that she knows about Cauldron, but she did not reveal that information to Metal Storm."
Absolute dead silence fell across the room, while everyone stared at her. If dust particles had been allowed to fall, the minuscule impacts would have been audible.
Alexandria broke the deadlock with a yell that echoed off all four walls of the cavernous meeting room. "You could have led with that!"
"There were several things I could have led with," Contessa replied calmly. "I considered the news that we would not be losing yet another member to be a little more significant. Also, I wanted to get the subsequent discussion out of the way before opening the subject of Scion. According to Metal Storm, Snow has a tentative plan in mind, with a couple of alternate possibilities in case the first one fails."
"Well, given the good Captain's track record to date," remarked Legend, "I'd be willing to back a tentative plan from her over anything we've come up with so far."
"So, what do these plans consist of?" asked Hero. "Because I'll happily assist with anything that's got more than 'throw capes at him and hope' as a tagline."
"Again, she was frustratingly vague," Contessa confessed. She'd already decided not to share the discussion regarding how well she and Captain Snow would be likely to work together. If both Ruth Goldstein and Snow herself felt that way, then it was probably a done deal. "But she did pass on a request in relation to the initial plan, which was apparently the reason for the entire meeting. Snow intends to capture Jack Slash sometime next year, and she wants us to hold him incommunicado for the next nine years, then return him to her, alive and well."
"Next year …" Legend rubbed his thumbnail across his lips. "Right about when we're planning to have Glaistig Uaine remove Gray Boy from the playing field, perhaps?"
"It would seem so, yes," Contessa agreed. She'd already made that connection, and assumed that Captain Snow was aware of the machinations she had in motion to kill the problematic cape.
It occurred to her a moment later that in the normal run of things, they would have removed one devastatingly dangerous monochrome cape from the roster of the Nine, only to have him replaced with an even more lethal one. In this particular case, she was happy to leave the pattern broken.
"What I want to know," Hero commented, "is how does Jack Slash fit into all this? He's basically one step above a common street thug. Now I grant you, his ability to keep that bunch of murderous misfits all marching to the beat of his drum is impressive, but some people just have that sort of charisma. However, the ability to cut someone's throat from across the street is not going to help with Scion, not even a little bit."
Contessa frowned. "Metal Storm said that Captain Snow would be able to take him back about nine years after she handed him over; there was a mention of 'alternate arrangements' for the next six years, presumably until the rest of her preparations were complete. Then, apparently, she'll be doing whatever she intends to do, and … the Scion problem goes away."
"How are matters going to change in sixteen years?" asked Legend blankly.
"A new cape," Alexandria decided. "It has to be."
"Two new capes," Hero corrected her, holding up that number of fingers. "One at the ten-year mark, and one at the sixteen-year mark."
"And Snow intends to leverage that into somehow killing or disabling Scion?" Legend shook his head. "I don't buy it. Right here in this room, we're four of the most powerful capes in existence, and I doubt we could put him down for good."
"From what I've been able to guess at his capabilities," Contessa advised him, "we really could not."
"So, how's she going to do it with three?" wondered Hero. "Especially with Jack Slash involved. I'm willing to bet that if we offered the man a million dollars to kill Scion—and he was capable of doing so—he'd make the fight look great, but throw it at the last moment, just to see the looks on our faces. He's that kind of vindictive asshole. Even if Snow brings in these other capes."
"Alright then, enough discussion." Legend looked around the table at the others. "Show of hands; who's willing to accede to Captain Snow's request? At least for the moment?"
Contessa put her hand up at once. Doctor Mother, her face set in a grim scowl, kept her hands flat on the table. "This is a bad idea," she stated flatly. "Letting an outsider dictate terms to us. It sets a terrible precedent."
Slowly, Alexandria put her hand up. "I think maybe we should take this chance."
"What?" Doctor Mother stared at her. "You yourself told me that you couldn't read her, no matter how hard you tried! How can we trust someone like that?"
"She stopped Behemoth," Contessa said. "It's what she set out to do, and she did it."
Hero looked undecided. "And she killed Eidolon in the process."
Contessa shook her head. "No, Eidolon killed himself, once he figured out what she was trying to tell him—without, mind you, alerting anyone else in the room. And she was right. Once he died, Behemoth stopped."
"She killed him!" shouted Doctor Mother. "What part of that are you not understanding?"
"How many people would Behemoth have killed since, if we didn't come up with some other way of stopping him?" retorted Alexandria. "We weren't exactly covering ourselves with glory on that front, were we? Also, I'm pretty sure that she's balanced the scales by arranging matters to save Hero's life. He would have died, yes?"
"That's what Metal Storm remembers," Contessa confirmed. "You became known as the Triumvirate then, too."
Hero nodded. "Yeah, okay, good point. I'm in." He raised his hand.
Legend nodded. "And that makes three votes for, one against, and I'm abstaining. Motion is carried."
"This is a mistake," insisted Doctor Mother. "You're all making a mistake."
"If it's a mistake, then we'll correct it," Alexandria told her. "But I've done something you haven't."
"What's that?" asked Doctor Mother incautiously.
Alexandria smiled briefly. "I've looked into her eyes, and I've taken her measure. I'm inclined to go along with what Contessa says. We carry on with our own plans, but we assist Taylor Snow with hers when convenient. And as Metal Storm says, we don't get in her way."
"Especially when it comes to saving my own sorry ass," Hero quipped.
Contessa chuckled along with Legend and Alexandria, but she was already thinking of the next step in the Path.
Friday, November 24, 1995
A Café in Springfield, Illinois
Robert Gordon
It's just not fair.
A brisk wind blew down the sidewalk outside, fluttering the last of the fallen autumn leaves from one place to another, but its chill was as nothing to the bleakness filling Rob's soul. He'd had a good career—a great career—doing what he loved, and he'd been better than anyone else there. People had looked up to him and respected him.
And then she had intruded into his rightful domain. Too young to really know what she was doing (certainly too young to be promoted to Captain), she'd somehow managed to fake it well enough to fool Hamilton, or perhaps the old man allowed himself to be fooled for the sake of a little feminine attention. Not that she was really good-looking; too tall and skinny to be really attractive. Rob had only turned his interest in her direction out of pity. Show her a good time, improve her self-image, that sort of thing. But she'd ignored his every hint, and somehow fluked her way to a win with every bet he made that was aimed to get her into bed.
Worse, she'd turned on him. Even when he thought he was rid of her, she'd somehow intuited the existence of his stash of harmless contraband, and had him punished because of it. And then, when she returned from exile, she and that damned sergeant had murdered both Christine and Elijah, in cold blood, right in front of him. And then he'd been the one court-martialled and booted out of the PRT. And because of the trumped-up accusations of being Mastered, he was banned from serving his country!
He'd walked away from the PRT, vowing and declaring that he didn't need them. Robert Gordon was a winner, a survivor. He could make his own way, so long as that way led to a path where he could finally see justice done for the persecution he'd suffered.
He hadn't anticipated much trouble in getting a job that would let him get back on his feet. After all, his skills in information analysis were up to the minute, and he was good with computers. Also, he had good people skills; better than Snow, any day of the week.
Unfortunately, that damned court-martial and the separation from the PRT now hung around his neck like a putrefying albatross, stinking up every job interview he attended. No matter how he attempted to draw attention to his years of service and his many positive fitness reviews, they insisted on asking why he'd been separated from the PRT. Even when he elided over that fact (after all, it wasn't really important, was it?) they somehow found out; after that, it was always the same. So sorry, but we can't really see fit to employ you at this time. Best of luck, and so on and so forth.
Rock bottom came when he accepted a job working in a fast-food restaurant. His manager was a spotty teen at least ten years his junior, who called him 'old guy' and didn't appreciate the fact that Rob had once been a Captain in the PRT. Worse, Rob's attention to detail allowed him to notice the numerous health code violations that the manager either didn't see or (more likely) didn't care about.
The numerous indignities mounted—washing dishes was bad, but scrubbing the restrooms was worse—and there was no end in sight. Rob's breaking point came when he was on the register and three teenage girls were spending forever deciding exactly what sides they wanted with their burgers. In a calm, concise, firm military tone, he requested that they decide on their orders. Now.
So, of course, they were friends with the manager, and they flocked to him to complain how the 'creepy old guy' had yelled at them. The manager had confronted him, backed by all the McAuthority his McManagement position afforded him. Not only was Rob supposed to apologise to the girls, the snotty little brat declared, but he was now expected to pay for their meals.
Rob decked the guy, took the shitty apron off and dropped it on top of him, and walked out.
That had been half an hour ago. His knuckles were still sore.
He sat in the café, cradling the cup of coffee he'd bought when he walked in. He had savings, but without regular income (or really, any income at all) they were gradually dwindling, even in the el-cheapo accommodations he was living in. The coffee wasn't really warm anymore, and the heating in the café wasn't so great, but he didn't notice. What kept him warm, or at least afforded him the illusion of warmth, was his seething anger at the system that had failed him, and most of all the person who had turned the system against him.
Taylor Snow.
He didn't know how he was going to avenge Christine and Elijah's deaths, or punish Snow for her myriad of lesser (but still significant) crimes, but it was going to happen. I just have to find a way.
He was so wrapped up in his revenge fantasies that he didn't notice for a moment when someone dropped into the seat opposite his. A plate of hot pastries, the enticing smell tickling his nostrils, ensured that this state did not last for long. It had been a long time since breakfast, and his stomach woke up and started paying attention.
Still, Rob hadn't been an intelligence officer for nothing. Nobody sat down at a stranger's table without wanting something from them. He lifted his gaze to the person opposite and said, "This table's taken."
The newcomer was a tall, skinny black man. He also held himself with a certain amount of authority. "I can go if you want," he said, his eyebrow lifting in amusement, "but I believe there's a person of interest we have in common."
Rob also knew about leading questions. His expression didn't change as he looked back at his interlocutor. "And who might that be? Also, more to the point, who might you be?"
Interlacing his fingers before him, the other guy gave Rob a look as if to say who are you trying to bullshit here, we both know who we're talking about. "I'm Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT Internal Affairs. Currently, I'm investigating Taylor Snow."
The last three words were what grabbed Rob's attention by the throat and refused to let it go. "Investigating her? What for?" Finally! he exulted. Someone's doing what needed to be done long ago!
Calvert cleared his throat. "Captain Taylor Snow is an enigma that I'm trying to unravel. Far too much about her doesn't add up, but you're the only person I've encountered who's actually interested in finding out what's going on with her." He gestured discreetly at their surroundings. "And see what happened when you got too close."
"The fix was in from the beginning," Rob spat. "I never had a chance. They wouldn't listen to a word I said."
"Trust me, I know what you're talking about." Calvert smiled, a warm and reassuring expression. "You were railroaded so hard I'm surprised they didn't fit you out with a steam whistle. To make sure that didn't happen to me, I've had to take a more discreet approach. Right now, I'm digging into her background to see what she's really about. But I can't stray too far from Chicago, so I need someone to do the legwork for me. Are you interested?"
Rob tried to keep his excitement in check. This sounded too good to be true, and every trained instinct he had told him that 'too good' meant just that. But … Snow. He leaned forward slightly in his chair. "I'm listening."
Calvert
Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT (but not Internal Affairs, for all that he was carrying ID to say he was) took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and passed it across. "Here, look this over."
Gordon took it, but his expression drooped a little. "Uh … isn't it against regulations to hire me to work for the PRT?"
Tom chuckled. "Hire you? No such thing. Have you signed a contract? No, I'm talking about a gentleman's agreement. I give you access to an expense account, and you look up matters entirely on your own volition."
Pretending a supreme lack of concern, he sat back and ate a pastry as Gordon went through the contents of the envelope. Everything he knew about Taylor Snow was there, assuredly enough to give Gordon a head start on delving into her deeper secrets back in Brockton Bay. That she had secrets, he was certain. Even the most transparent of individuals had them, and she was more enigmatic than most.
What he sought was blackmail. Anything he could hold over Snow's head and make her dance to his tune would be worth his time and money. Her star was still rising, he could tell, and although she'd done her best to shrug him off before, Thomas Calvert was nothing if not persistent.
Still, he'd had no way to force a chink in her armour until the slow-motion self-destruction of Robert Gordon came to his attention. Tom had followed the case with interest, then kept tabs on him once he was separated from the PRT. Each time it looked like Gordon would land secure employment, Calvert had quietly contacted them with the real details of why the man was no longer with the PRT. The idea had been to keep him hungry and desperate, and (like many of Calvert's plans) it had worked beautifully.
The pièce de résistance had been when he'd slipped the fast-food restaurant manager a couple of hundred bucks, not to fire Gordon but to make his life unpleasant. He wasn't even sure it had been necessary; from what he'd heard, working fast-food retail was one step down from the nine levels of Hell. But Tom had always been a suspenders-and-belt type of person.
And now it had panned out. The moment Gordon accepted the envelope instead of turning it down—they both knew the line about not officially hiring him was a fig leaf at best—he'd been hooked. Tom could see it in his eyes. All Gordon had to do now was admit it to himself.
Finally, the ex-Intelligence officer closed the envelope and put it on the table in front of him. Tellingly, his hands stayed on top of it, as though preventing it from being taken away. He looked Tom in the eye.
"I'm in."
Thomas Calvert smiled, as though this had not been a sinecure from the beginning. "Good to hear it."
Chicago
Taylor
The diner was nicely appointed, with solid partitions between the booths. I hadn't been here before, but if the food was worthwhile, I figured I might come back. However, as I pushed on the door, I wasn't thinking about the food. Kinsey, as ordered, waited out near the car, ostensibly watching the road.
Ruth—Major Goldstein—was seated in the far end booth, where it would be almost impossible to eavesdrop on our conversation without either of us knowing. This was a good thing, because I didn't want this conversation going any farther than the Major. As it was, I wasn't quite sure what her reaction would be, because I was about to drop a bombshell in her lap.
The trouble was, I couldn't really see a palatable alternative.
"Hello, Taylor," she said as I slid into the seat opposite her. "How've you been?" She was in civilian wear, as was I. I had to admit, she could carry off the look better than me.
"Pretty good, recently," I said, and reached into my bag. A hand mirror, cupped in my palm, let me survey the underside of the table. There was nothing attached to the wood that didn't look like it belonged. "Danny and Annette had a kid back in June. A son. Five pounds, three ounces. They're calling him Tyler. I wasn't able to stick around for the christening, but I'm the unofficial godmother."
"A son?" She blinked. Ruth Goldstein knew enough of my history that the significance of the date and the name were clear to her. "I … understand."
I gave her a smile as I put the mirror away. "Cute little tyke. Can't wait to see what he grows up like. How are your folks?"
"Fit and healthy, the last I heard," she allowed, her raised eyebrows the only sign that she'd seen my surreptitious examination. "They both enjoyed meeting you and Sergeant Kinsey very much. You know you're welcome to visit, any chance you get."
"If I'm ever back in Seattle, I'll make a point of it," I promised, and I meant it. The Goldsteins were genuinely nice people, and so was Darlene Hobbs.
A waitress approached our booth. "Good afternoon," she said brightly. "Would you ladies like menus, or are you okay to order now?"
It would be a good idea to order something, or we'd draw notice. I scanned the menu written on the chalkboard above the counter. "I'll have a pot of tea and a slice of your pecan pie, thanks."
Ruth nodded. "And I'll have coffee, and a plate of your home-baked cookies. Thank you very much."
"Coming right up." The waitress hastened away.
Leaning back in my seat, I composed my features into 'nothing to see here' blandness. "So, how's things been with you?" I already knew, of course, but it was only polite to ask.
"I've been doing well," she said; her words and tone said one thing, but the curiosity in her eyes told another story altogether. It said a lot for her faith in me that she'd come up to Chicago on the strength of a simple request without asking for any real kind of details. Of course, now that she was here, I would totally have to give her some. "How has the redoubtable Lieutenant Piggot been faring?"
"Thriving, actually," I said truthfully. I didn't spend a lot of time socialising with Emily, mainly because I didn't want any suggestion of favouritism to be bandied about, but we crossed paths from time to time. "She's fitting in well. Kinsey says there's been no grumbling in the lower ranks about her."
Ruth chuckled. "Ahh, yes. The infamous E-4 mafia. You're lucky to have Sergeant Kinsey, you know. He must be a tremendous asset to you."
"I'd say oh, you have no idea, but you do have a good idea," I agreed. "I remember when you went head-to-head with him over you coming along on that thing in Seattle."
She nodded complacently. "I've had my unfair share of dealing with people who want to stop me from doing something I need to do."
"I just bet you have." Thanks to Lisa, I'd looked over a comprehensive dossier on Ruth Goldstein, neé Aster Anders, and I knew more about her than she did about herself. A little unfair, some might have called it; I personally held the view that every advantage is a fair advantage when you absolutely had to win.
Not that Ruth was the enemy; far from it. She was just as dedicated to the cause of saving the world from Scion as I was. (Well, originally I'd agreed to go back in time to save everyone from Behemoth. That was done and dusted, and now I faced the real end-of-level boss, as Regent would put it). But sometimes I had to manipulate even the people I saw as allies to get what I wanted.
Did I like it? Absolutely not. But my likes and dislikes hadn't factored into my important decisions for … well, for years now. If the answer to will it help save the world? was unequivocally 'yes' then the chances were that I'd go ahead and do it.
The waitress returned with a tray and a practised smile. With quick, efficient motions, she unloaded everything onto the table. "Here you go, ladies. Pecan pie and cookies fresh out of the oven, one pot of coffee, and one of tea, plus chilled milk. Holler if you need anything."
"Thank you," I said. "We'll do that."
With one last beaming smile—were rude customers so uncommon that she wasn't used to civility?—she hurried off again. Ruth began to open her mouth, but I made a shushing motion and took her plate of cookies. With my fingertips, I explored the bottom of that as well as the smaller plate holding the slice of pecan pie. Then I eyeballed the teacup, the coffee cup, the saucers and the actual pots. There were no intrusive electronic devices; not that I'd expected any, but I'd rather check for bugs and be wrong than not check for bugs and be wrong.
"Okay, now I'm officially intrigued," Ruth said quietly. "Checking the table is one thing; assuming that the crockery might be compromised is quite another. What's on your mind?"
"Two people," I said, keeping my voice equally low as I poured myself a cup of tea. It wouldn't help matters if someone had a laser-mic aimed at the window from anywhere along the street. All I could really do was rely on Lisa's assurance that nobody who knew about this meeting had any plans to do anything about it. "The first one is Jack Slash."
"I'm aware of his existence," Ruth allowed. "Are you going after him next?"
Not once did the tone of her voice suggest that such would be acutely perilous (which it would). I'd told her that I was there to take down Behemoth, and Behemoth was still immobile in the middle of Jakarta.
"I'm going to leave that until next year," I said. Pouring just a little milk in, I stirred my cup. "Gray Boy is a distinct problem, so I have to wait until he's out of the way."
"I remember something about that …" Ruth frowned. "Isn't it Glaistig Uaine who takes him down? Then gets herself admitted to the Birdcage?"
"Correct on both counts," I agreed. Cauldron, I knew, was actually behind the first event. The second would be all her idea. "But once he's gone, I've got a clear run at Jack Slash. Well, a mostly clear run. Screamer's still a stumbling block. Fortunately, one that can be solved with a bullet at the correct time and place. Gray Boy's just not that convenient."
"And are you going to 'solve' Jack Slash with a bullet as well?" Ruth raised an eyebrow. "You know, you could probably do that now, even with Gray Boy in the picture. Just do it from a great enough range and you'll be fine."
I shook my head, then took a sip of tea. "I hate it that I've let him go so far, and there's nothing I'd love more than to introduce his skull to a piece of high-velocity copper-jacketed lead. But I can't kill him, and I can't let anyone else kill him, either. What I need is to get him away from the Nine, alive and able to talk, and find a way to put him on ice for …" I frowned, calculating in my head. "… about nine years, give or take a couple of months. Then I can make alternate arrangements for the next six years after that."
Ruth fixed me with a stare, and took up a cookie. She ate it, still giving me that dead-level no-shit stare, then poured herself a coffee and added creamer. Finally, she took a sip of the coffee.
"I've got perfect memory," she said eventually.
"Yes," I said. "I know."
"I've just been over every significant interaction we've ever had, and never once have you mentioned the need to abduct the man who is possibly America's most detestable serial killer, and keep him alive for the next fifteen years? Why this, and why now?"
I took a deep breath. "Because originally I had intended to leave him run his path for the next ten years while I whittled away at the strongest members of his potential crew, so that by the time I confronted him, he wouldn't have strong enough backup to stop me. At that point, I wouldn't have need of your help. But it turns out my stomach isn't strong enough to green-light ten years of mass murder and other atrocities, so now I'm just going to wait until Gray Boy's out of the way. Which, like I said, will be next year."
"And what makes you think I've got the capability to just … 'put him on ice', as you so succinctly phrase it?" asked Ruth. "Yes, I'm a doctor, but …" She let her voice trail off. We both knew what she wasn't saying. Ice wasn't her thing. Molten steel and high-temperature plasma, certainly, but not ice.
I tilted my head slightly. "I was hoping you could ask Contessa for a favour."
She froze. I'd timed my words so she wouldn't spill coffee on herself, but her hand shook briefly as she put her cup down. I could see the concentric ripples on the surface of her drink.
"How, exactly, do you know that name?" she asked carefully.
"The same way I know a lot of other stuff," I said. I knew I wasn't being helpful, but I had to assume that Contessa could intuit any knowledge she possessed, so I was keeping the extraneous information to a minimum.
I was fully aware that the next time Contessa met with Ruth, the Cauldron enforcer would find out that I was aware of her shenanigans. How she'd react, I wasn't sure. Hopefully, ending the threat of the Endbringers had earned me some goodwill in that regard. The fact that since Eidolon's demise I'd had zero encounters with stylishly dressed strangers, with or without fedoras, seemed to indicate that Cauldron considered my ongoing progress to be a net positive. It would be nice if this continued to be the case.
Ruth frowned. "That makes no sense. You know a lot of things, but that's because you basically cheated." Which was kind of a harsh way to describe using my future knowledge to alter events in the here and now, but I couldn't argue with it. If you're losing, you aren't cheating hard enough. "But this isn't something …"
"No," I agreed. "It's not. I'm still cheating. And I'll continue to cheat. Can you accept the fact of my knowledge without me telling you how I know?" Because I respected Ruth Goldstein to the ends of the Earth and back again, but there were some things I didn't want getting out.
She let out an unhappy sigh. "I can accept that 'need to know' is a thing. I don't have to like it, but I can accept it. So, what about her? Wait." Her brow furrowed as she clearly recalled my wording. "A favour? How's she likely to be able to put him on ice?"
Well, that was interesting. I knew for a fact that Cauldron had any number of cells they could use to dump Case 53 prisoners into, no matter what powers they had. Ruth, apparently, didn't. Which suggested to me that Contessa had never told her about Cauldron.
I was going to have to play my cards close to the chest on this one. Telling Ruth about Cauldron could very well get her killed, and I didn't want that to happen. But maybe I didn't have to.
"That's not my place to say." I took a sip of my tea. "But the next time you see her, could you ask her if she's willing to put a troublesome parahuman away for ten years, no questions asked? If she says no, that's fine. I can think of other options. But if she says yes, it'll be a great help to me."
"I can ask her, certainly." Ruth sounded troubled, for which I couldn't exactly blame her. "What do I tell her when she asks me why?"
I affected an unconcerned shrug. "Tell her exactly what I said to you about needing to put Jack Slash away. But don't press her on the subject of whether or not she's able to, or how or why or where. She's got her secrets, too."
She gave me an irritated look. "You know, Taylor, you're really not making this easy for me. I know your whole thing is all about saving the world, but look around; it's been saved. Behemoth hasn't so much as twitched a finger in months, the stock market is up, people are actually stepping back and taking a breath. You won."
While I hadn't actually confided in her that I was the one behind Behemoth's defeat, I wasn't overly surprised that she'd made the deduction (or maybe just assumption) herself. I was literally the person who'd been sent back in time to do that exact thing. Of course, she was almost certainly unaware of ninety-nine percent of what had gone on behind the scenes to make it happen, but she was still personally certain I was ultimately responsible. Because, as it just so happened, I was.
"That battle's done," I said. "The war isn't over yet." I was being oblique again, and I knew it.
She frowned. "What do you mean? Do you think the others will still be showing up? I thought you'd managed to do something to stop them for good."
If by 'do something' she meant 'kill Eidolon' she was spot on the money, but this conversation was going in directions I hadn't wanted it to.
"They weren't the only threat," I said, trying to keep things as minimal as possible. "When I first came back, I thought they were. Then I learned differently. There's something else I've got to beat. In order to do this, I need Jack Slash alive and well in sixteen years' time. I would also much rather he didn't kill anyone during that interval. You see my dilemma."
"Wait, another threat?" Ruth kept her voice down, but the intensity in her tone could've etched glass. "When, exactly, were you going to fill me in on this?"
I met her eyes and matched her, tone for tone. "When and if it became necessary to do so. This is not a bear I want anyone poking, if I can possibly manage it."
"What's more powerful than—" She paused, her eyes widening, and I knew she'd figured it out. "No."
I gritted my teeth. "Ruth—"
"No," she said again, and shook her head. "You can't be serious. Sci—"
"Do. Not. Say. The. Name." I put every ounce of command voice I had into those five words. "Don't even think it, if you can possibly avoid doing so. Our only chance of survival involves not getting his attention until all my pieces are in place, plus backup plans."
She stared at me. "You've got a plan to …" Getting ahold of herself, she cut off her own words. "What am I saying? You're Taylor Snow. Of course you've got a plan."
"Something that can pass for one in poor light, at least," I admitted. "But like I said, it's going to take about sixteen years to carry out, and Jack Slash is required to be alive and well at the far end of it."
Her gaze was intense. "Does she know?"
It only took me a couple of seconds of thought to figure out which 'she' Ruth meant. "About the threat, yes. About my plans, no."
Her knuckles whitened around the handle of the coffee cup. I hoped the tension wouldn't overcome her natural self-control; the last thing we needed was to draw attention by breaking stuff. "So … what do I tell her if she asks about this meeting?"
I knew damn well that Contessa would be able to learn everything Ruth knew without asking, but I didn't want to endanger Ruth by telling her that. "Everything. We're on the same side, in the end. She wants to save the world; I want to save the world." I just had a better idea of how to do it, and I didn't have Path to Victory nudging me toward conflict with every suggestion I followed.
"And what if she can't or won't help with … with imprisoning Jack Slash?" She sounded like she couldn't really believe she was saying his name like that.
I shrugged. "I have other options. She's just the best one."
"Hmm." She tilted her head. "Maybe you should … I don't know … join forces? Team up? I mean, you have your thing going, and she has hers going, and if you're both working toward the same goal, why don't you combine your efforts?"
"No." I took a sip of my tea. "Several reasons, some of which I'm not going to share with you. The major one is that there would be a clash as to who was in charge. This would get in the way of efficiency."
"And if you chose to … well, swallow your pride, and let her be in charge?" She let go the coffee cup and spread her hands. "Would it kill you to let someone else actually give the orders for once? God knows you've never gotten into that habit yet."
I gave her a level stare, over the top of my glasses. "I reiterate. This would get in the way of efficiency."
She frowned slightly. "I don't know. She seems pretty efficient to me."
"There's short-term efficiency and long-term efficiency." I took up my spoon and cut into my slice of pecan pie. "I know what I'm doing, for the most part. I've done the math. The probabilities are on my side. She's throwing stuff at the wall to see what works. I already know what won't. All I have to figure out now is what's got the best chance of working, and how to apply it most effectively."
"And you'll know it when you see it?" I could tell she was trying to sound hopeful. "Do you have any options at all, right now?"
"Three, at the moment," I told her. "More may arise. The shortest time to implementation is sixteen years; that's the Jack Slash one. Fortunately, neutralising Behemoth pushed our time-scale all the way out. With him and the others pushing matters, we had about fifty years before the inevitable collapse of civilisation as we knew it. Now, we've got about three centuries." I put the piece of pie in my mouth and sat back. It was actually quite nice.
She stared at me. "So, it's going to be just like that?"
I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I waited until I had finished the piece of pie before I spoke. "Just like what, exactly?"
Her tone was more than a little exasperated. "When you asked me to come and meet you, I wasn't sure why. I thought perhaps you were going to inform me of what we both already knew; that the threat of Behemoth was done with, and that we could afford to relax and live our best lives. But instead, you unload an entirely new threat on me. I believe I could possibly have faced off against Leviathan, but I have no chance against him."
"Nobody does," I said quietly. "Even Eidolon, on his best day, had a weak point. This isn't a battle scenario. This is a preparation scenario. Of course, along the way, I'll be removing the odd threat from society, so by the time we do get around to being able to doing something about him, there'll be fewer problems all round." I gave her a tight smile. "And that's where you'll be coming in, if and when you're able to help out. High-temperature jets of molten steel make so many problems just … go away."
Ruth sighed. "That's basically what she said. My life would be so much simpler if you two could learn to work together."
I raised an eyebrow. "Can you see her following my orders without creatively reinterpreting them? Honestly?"
"Much like you'd do with her?" Ruth considered that for a moment, then shook her head. "No. I really can't. You two are scarily alike."
"I'm nothing like—" I tamped down the hot anger that rose in my chest. "I'm nothing like her. Any similarities are cosmetic at best."
"If you say so." It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "I had to play hardball to make sure she backed away from any suggestion of doing something stupid like abducting you, you know."
I was aware of the incident; Lisa, hugely amused, had related the entire conversation to me. But Contessa didn't need to know about Lisa, and so neither did Ruth. "That was nice of you. I appreciate it."
She snorted indelicately. "I did it as much for her protection as yours. While I think there would be an immense benefit to the two of you working together, having you go head-to-head … it would not go well, for anyone."
"It certainly would not," I agreed. My best bet, if confronted with a Contessa who was determined to enforce her will on mine, would be to go into a self-hypnotic state and hope Lisa could jam her ability long enough for me to disable her. I couldn't guarantee it working, and I really didn't want to find out the hard way that it wouldn't. "So, you'll ask her?"
"I will," she agreed. "I can't guarantee a positive answer, or even any answer straight away. Right now, I suspect she doesn't know you're aware of her existence. I certainly didn't know you were, though in hindsight it makes sense, considering she was around then, too."
"She was," I confirmed, without actually making it clear whether or not I'd met the woman then. I hadn't, but there had been some close encounters.
"I thought so." Ruth nodded, as if I'd said more. "So, uh, just to be clear, I think she'll be happier if I can tell her straight-out that you're not planning to instigate the deaths of any more members of the Protectorate."
"Not planning on it, no." I stole one of her cookies. "If they look like getting in my way, I'll try to give adequate warning."
"I'd appreciate that." She held the coffee cup between her palms and looked down pensively into its depths. "As I recall, it was Hero who died originally, to make the first Triumvirate. Is he still …?"
"No," I told her firmly. "I know exactly how and where to stop that from happening. That's one of the things that's on my to-do list to prevent."
"Oh," she said, looking a little taken aback. "Good."
I grinned at her. "What, did you think I was going to say no?"
"Quite possibly, yes," she confessed. "With how serious this discussion had become, I half-expected you to explain that his death was necessary for a certain thing to happen in the future."
"Hah, no." I shook my head. "As the saying goes, sometimes shit just happens because it feels like happening. In this case, it's gonna un-happen."
She smiled. "Well, that is good to hear."
"I thought so, too." I checked my watch. "I think it's time for me to start back to base. Thanks for the talk."
She rose, as did I. "Thank you for being so candid. I'll pass on your request."
"Much appreciated." I waved at the table. "I've got this." Pulling out my wallet, I wedged enough notes under the pie plate to cover the bill plus a substantial tip.
Ruth preceded me out of the diner, giving Kinsey a measured nod on the way past. He returned the gesture as I joined him. Together, we watched her as she headed off down the sidewalk.
"So, how did it go, ma'am?" he asked as we got into the car.
"Very well indeed, Kinsey." I smiled as I strapped myself in. "It's always nice to see Major Goldstein again."
The message had been sent. Now, all I had to do was await the answer.
-ooo-
Sunday, September 17, 1995
Cauldron Base
Contessa
"Wait, I was going to die?" Hero sounded uncertain of himself. "Why am I only hearing about this now?"
Contessa rolled her eyes. "Because I had other priorities than to ask her for a day-by-day detailing of a possibly inaccurate future history. Congratulations; you're no longer going to be torn in half by a naked tiger-striped monochrome woman."
"And I was going to lose my eye." If anything, Alexandria seemed even more disturbed by this knowledge. "Just how powerful was … is … will be … this 'Siberian'? Other capes have gone after my eyes before, thinking they were weak points. They're really not."
"Remember, Metal Storm was just an infant, back then," Contessa said. "Her memory of events is patchy, because she only knows what she saw on the news. But she recalls the Siberian as being unstoppable in a very definitive way. The woman had a truly horrific body count and was impervious to basically everything."
"So how was she stopped? How was she killed?" Legend spread his hands. "How does Captain Snow, an unpowered PRT officer, intend to stop her?"
"I don't know," said Contessa simply. "Because Metal Storm doesn't know. She just said that if Taylor Snow promised it wasn't going to happen, we could take that to the bank."
Doctor Mother glowered. "The more I hear about this woman, the more I want her sequestered away in a quiet room, where I can get access to every last secret she's keeping from us. If it could help us stop Scion—"
"She's already working on that," Contessa interrupted her. "She knows about Scion, and she knows about me. I got the strong inference that she knows about Cauldron, but she did not reveal that information to Metal Storm."
Absolute dead silence fell across the room, while everyone stared at her. If dust particles had been allowed to fall, the minuscule impacts would have been audible.
Alexandria broke the deadlock with a yell that echoed off all four walls of the cavernous meeting room. "You could have led with that!"
"There were several things I could have led with," Contessa replied calmly. "I considered the news that we would not be losing yet another member to be a little more significant. Also, I wanted to get the subsequent discussion out of the way before opening the subject of Scion. According to Metal Storm, Snow has a tentative plan in mind, with a couple of alternate possibilities in case the first one fails."
"Well, given the good Captain's track record to date," remarked Legend, "I'd be willing to back a tentative plan from her over anything we've come up with so far."
"So, what do these plans consist of?" asked Hero. "Because I'll happily assist with anything that's got more than 'throw capes at him and hope' as a tagline."
"Again, she was frustratingly vague," Contessa confessed. She'd already decided not to share the discussion regarding how well she and Captain Snow would be likely to work together. If both Ruth Goldstein and Snow herself felt that way, then it was probably a done deal. "But she did pass on a request in relation to the initial plan, which was apparently the reason for the entire meeting. Snow intends to capture Jack Slash sometime next year, and she wants us to hold him incommunicado for the next nine years, then return him to her, alive and well."
"Next year …" Legend rubbed his thumbnail across his lips. "Right about when we're planning to have Glaistig Uaine remove Gray Boy from the playing field, perhaps?"
"It would seem so, yes," Contessa agreed. She'd already made that connection, and assumed that Captain Snow was aware of the machinations she had in motion to kill the problematic cape.
It occurred to her a moment later that in the normal run of things, they would have removed one devastatingly dangerous monochrome cape from the roster of the Nine, only to have him replaced with an even more lethal one. In this particular case, she was happy to leave the pattern broken.
"What I want to know," Hero commented, "is how does Jack Slash fit into all this? He's basically one step above a common street thug. Now I grant you, his ability to keep that bunch of murderous misfits all marching to the beat of his drum is impressive, but some people just have that sort of charisma. However, the ability to cut someone's throat from across the street is not going to help with Scion, not even a little bit."
Contessa frowned. "Metal Storm said that Captain Snow would be able to take him back about nine years after she handed him over; there was a mention of 'alternate arrangements' for the next six years, presumably until the rest of her preparations were complete. Then, apparently, she'll be doing whatever she intends to do, and … the Scion problem goes away."
"How are matters going to change in sixteen years?" asked Legend blankly.
"A new cape," Alexandria decided. "It has to be."
"Two new capes," Hero corrected her, holding up that number of fingers. "One at the ten-year mark, and one at the sixteen-year mark."
"And Snow intends to leverage that into somehow killing or disabling Scion?" Legend shook his head. "I don't buy it. Right here in this room, we're four of the most powerful capes in existence, and I doubt we could put him down for good."
"From what I've been able to guess at his capabilities," Contessa advised him, "we really could not."
"So, how's she going to do it with three?" wondered Hero. "Especially with Jack Slash involved. I'm willing to bet that if we offered the man a million dollars to kill Scion—and he was capable of doing so—he'd make the fight look great, but throw it at the last moment, just to see the looks on our faces. He's that kind of vindictive asshole. Even if Snow brings in these other capes."
"Alright then, enough discussion." Legend looked around the table at the others. "Show of hands; who's willing to accede to Captain Snow's request? At least for the moment?"
Contessa put her hand up at once. Doctor Mother, her face set in a grim scowl, kept her hands flat on the table. "This is a bad idea," she stated flatly. "Letting an outsider dictate terms to us. It sets a terrible precedent."
Slowly, Alexandria put her hand up. "I think maybe we should take this chance."
"What?" Doctor Mother stared at her. "You yourself told me that you couldn't read her, no matter how hard you tried! How can we trust someone like that?"
"She stopped Behemoth," Contessa said. "It's what she set out to do, and she did it."
Hero looked undecided. "And she killed Eidolon in the process."
Contessa shook her head. "No, Eidolon killed himself, once he figured out what she was trying to tell him—without, mind you, alerting anyone else in the room. And she was right. Once he died, Behemoth stopped."
"She killed him!" shouted Doctor Mother. "What part of that are you not understanding?"
"How many people would Behemoth have killed since, if we didn't come up with some other way of stopping him?" retorted Alexandria. "We weren't exactly covering ourselves with glory on that front, were we? Also, I'm pretty sure that she's balanced the scales by arranging matters to save Hero's life. He would have died, yes?"
"That's what Metal Storm remembers," Contessa confirmed. "You became known as the Triumvirate then, too."
Hero nodded. "Yeah, okay, good point. I'm in." He raised his hand.
Legend nodded. "And that makes three votes for, one against, and I'm abstaining. Motion is carried."
"This is a mistake," insisted Doctor Mother. "You're all making a mistake."
"If it's a mistake, then we'll correct it," Alexandria told her. "But I've done something you haven't."
"What's that?" asked Doctor Mother incautiously.
Alexandria smiled briefly. "I've looked into her eyes, and I've taken her measure. I'm inclined to go along with what Contessa says. We carry on with our own plans, but we assist Taylor Snow with hers when convenient. And as Metal Storm says, we don't get in her way."
"Especially when it comes to saving my own sorry ass," Hero quipped.
Contessa chuckled along with Legend and Alexandria, but she was already thinking of the next step in the Path.
-ooo-
Friday, November 24, 1995
A Café in Springfield, Illinois
Robert Gordon
It's just not fair.
A brisk wind blew down the sidewalk outside, fluttering the last of the fallen autumn leaves from one place to another, but its chill was as nothing to the bleakness filling Rob's soul. He'd had a good career—a great career—doing what he loved, and he'd been better than anyone else there. People had looked up to him and respected him.
And then she had intruded into his rightful domain. Too young to really know what she was doing (certainly too young to be promoted to Captain), she'd somehow managed to fake it well enough to fool Hamilton, or perhaps the old man allowed himself to be fooled for the sake of a little feminine attention. Not that she was really good-looking; too tall and skinny to be really attractive. Rob had only turned his interest in her direction out of pity. Show her a good time, improve her self-image, that sort of thing. But she'd ignored his every hint, and somehow fluked her way to a win with every bet he made that was aimed to get her into bed.
Worse, she'd turned on him. Even when he thought he was rid of her, she'd somehow intuited the existence of his stash of harmless contraband, and had him punished because of it. And then, when she returned from exile, she and that damned sergeant had murdered both Christine and Elijah, in cold blood, right in front of him. And then he'd been the one court-martialled and booted out of the PRT. And because of the trumped-up accusations of being Mastered, he was banned from serving his country!
He'd walked away from the PRT, vowing and declaring that he didn't need them. Robert Gordon was a winner, a survivor. He could make his own way, so long as that way led to a path where he could finally see justice done for the persecution he'd suffered.
He hadn't anticipated much trouble in getting a job that would let him get back on his feet. After all, his skills in information analysis were up to the minute, and he was good with computers. Also, he had good people skills; better than Snow, any day of the week.
Unfortunately, that damned court-martial and the separation from the PRT now hung around his neck like a putrefying albatross, stinking up every job interview he attended. No matter how he attempted to draw attention to his years of service and his many positive fitness reviews, they insisted on asking why he'd been separated from the PRT. Even when he elided over that fact (after all, it wasn't really important, was it?) they somehow found out; after that, it was always the same. So sorry, but we can't really see fit to employ you at this time. Best of luck, and so on and so forth.
Rock bottom came when he accepted a job working in a fast-food restaurant. His manager was a spotty teen at least ten years his junior, who called him 'old guy' and didn't appreciate the fact that Rob had once been a Captain in the PRT. Worse, Rob's attention to detail allowed him to notice the numerous health code violations that the manager either didn't see or (more likely) didn't care about.
The numerous indignities mounted—washing dishes was bad, but scrubbing the restrooms was worse—and there was no end in sight. Rob's breaking point came when he was on the register and three teenage girls were spending forever deciding exactly what sides they wanted with their burgers. In a calm, concise, firm military tone, he requested that they decide on their orders. Now.
So, of course, they were friends with the manager, and they flocked to him to complain how the 'creepy old guy' had yelled at them. The manager had confronted him, backed by all the McAuthority his McManagement position afforded him. Not only was Rob supposed to apologise to the girls, the snotty little brat declared, but he was now expected to pay for their meals.
Rob decked the guy, took the shitty apron off and dropped it on top of him, and walked out.
That had been half an hour ago. His knuckles were still sore.
He sat in the café, cradling the cup of coffee he'd bought when he walked in. He had savings, but without regular income (or really, any income at all) they were gradually dwindling, even in the el-cheapo accommodations he was living in. The coffee wasn't really warm anymore, and the heating in the café wasn't so great, but he didn't notice. What kept him warm, or at least afforded him the illusion of warmth, was his seething anger at the system that had failed him, and most of all the person who had turned the system against him.
Taylor Snow.
He didn't know how he was going to avenge Christine and Elijah's deaths, or punish Snow for her myriad of lesser (but still significant) crimes, but it was going to happen. I just have to find a way.
He was so wrapped up in his revenge fantasies that he didn't notice for a moment when someone dropped into the seat opposite his. A plate of hot pastries, the enticing smell tickling his nostrils, ensured that this state did not last for long. It had been a long time since breakfast, and his stomach woke up and started paying attention.
Still, Rob hadn't been an intelligence officer for nothing. Nobody sat down at a stranger's table without wanting something from them. He lifted his gaze to the person opposite and said, "This table's taken."
The newcomer was a tall, skinny black man. He also held himself with a certain amount of authority. "I can go if you want," he said, his eyebrow lifting in amusement, "but I believe there's a person of interest we have in common."
Rob also knew about leading questions. His expression didn't change as he looked back at his interlocutor. "And who might that be? Also, more to the point, who might you be?"
Interlacing his fingers before him, the other guy gave Rob a look as if to say who are you trying to bullshit here, we both know who we're talking about. "I'm Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT Internal Affairs. Currently, I'm investigating Taylor Snow."
The last three words were what grabbed Rob's attention by the throat and refused to let it go. "Investigating her? What for?" Finally! he exulted. Someone's doing what needed to be done long ago!
Calvert cleared his throat. "Captain Taylor Snow is an enigma that I'm trying to unravel. Far too much about her doesn't add up, but you're the only person I've encountered who's actually interested in finding out what's going on with her." He gestured discreetly at their surroundings. "And see what happened when you got too close."
"The fix was in from the beginning," Rob spat. "I never had a chance. They wouldn't listen to a word I said."
"Trust me, I know what you're talking about." Calvert smiled, a warm and reassuring expression. "You were railroaded so hard I'm surprised they didn't fit you out with a steam whistle. To make sure that didn't happen to me, I've had to take a more discreet approach. Right now, I'm digging into her background to see what she's really about. But I can't stray too far from Chicago, so I need someone to do the legwork for me. Are you interested?"
Rob tried to keep his excitement in check. This sounded too good to be true, and every trained instinct he had told him that 'too good' meant just that. But … Snow. He leaned forward slightly in his chair. "I'm listening."
-ooo-
Calvert
Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT (but not Internal Affairs, for all that he was carrying ID to say he was) took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and passed it across. "Here, look this over."
Gordon took it, but his expression drooped a little. "Uh … isn't it against regulations to hire me to work for the PRT?"
Tom chuckled. "Hire you? No such thing. Have you signed a contract? No, I'm talking about a gentleman's agreement. I give you access to an expense account, and you look up matters entirely on your own volition."
Pretending a supreme lack of concern, he sat back and ate a pastry as Gordon went through the contents of the envelope. Everything he knew about Taylor Snow was there, assuredly enough to give Gordon a head start on delving into her deeper secrets back in Brockton Bay. That she had secrets, he was certain. Even the most transparent of individuals had them, and she was more enigmatic than most.
What he sought was blackmail. Anything he could hold over Snow's head and make her dance to his tune would be worth his time and money. Her star was still rising, he could tell, and although she'd done her best to shrug him off before, Thomas Calvert was nothing if not persistent.
Still, he'd had no way to force a chink in her armour until the slow-motion self-destruction of Robert Gordon came to his attention. Tom had followed the case with interest, then kept tabs on him once he was separated from the PRT. Each time it looked like Gordon would land secure employment, Calvert had quietly contacted them with the real details of why the man was no longer with the PRT. The idea had been to keep him hungry and desperate, and (like many of Calvert's plans) it had worked beautifully.
The pièce de résistance had been when he'd slipped the fast-food restaurant manager a couple of hundred bucks, not to fire Gordon but to make his life unpleasant. He wasn't even sure it had been necessary; from what he'd heard, working fast-food retail was one step down from the nine levels of Hell. But Tom had always been a suspenders-and-belt type of person.
And now it had panned out. The moment Gordon accepted the envelope instead of turning it down—they both knew the line about not officially hiring him was a fig leaf at best—he'd been hooked. Tom could see it in his eyes. All Gordon had to do now was admit it to himself.
Finally, the ex-Intelligence officer closed the envelope and put it on the table in front of him. Tellingly, his hands stayed on top of it, as though preventing it from being taken away. He looked Tom in the eye.
"I'm in."
Thomas Calvert smiled, as though this had not been a sinecure from the beginning. "Good to hear it."
End of Part 8-3
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LanzCorporalAssWipe
Flamin' Lenin
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Oh Thomas..... Karma isn't a bitch. She's Taylor's friend and she's gonna enjoy playing with you.
LuridThrone
Sitting On The
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Oh look twiddle dee and twiddle dumb.
macdjord
Well worn.
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Every time I think I've seen the worst, Coil find some new low to sink to.
SlickRCBD
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I was just rereading this and I take issue with this line:
It's ironic, because in the summer of 1995 Chicago had a summer hot enough that killed thousands (though just under 800 directly) and prompted the city to create the country's first Heat Emergency Plan and invented the "Heat Warnings" and "Heat Emergencies" common today.
I don't recall the summer of '93 being particularly hot by Chicago standards, unlike '88 or '95, but there are ALWAYS several 90-95 degree days in July and August and quite a few 85+ degree days. Worse, because of the Lake our summers are humid and thus 85 degrees here is worse than 95 degrees in some place dryer like Phoenix, Arizona.
In any case, my point is that Chicago summers are hot, and our winters are a bit on the cold side. We get it all.
I've spent my entire life in the NW suburbs of Chicago.
Just commenting that July and August are HOT in Chicago, and the "never be hot" is especially ironic considering what July of 1995 will be like. If your story has Taylor in Chicago in July of '95 it would be funny to reference this chapter and have her eat her words.
It's not clear if she spent the entire summer in Chicago because you skipped from April to August of 1995, but if she was in Chicago in July or August, she'd have been scorched.
Heck, I can't see how anyone whose been in Chicago for July or August of any year wouldn't say that things get hot in Chicago. If you consider 85-90 to be hot then you can get hot days any time from May through September, and it's not unusual to need air conditioning in October or April, although would need to alternate between a/c and heat in those months.
Heck 2012 was an unusual in that we had 85 degree days in March, but that was a weird year. We got May in March, March in April, and April in May, then went to a repeat of '95 in a scorcher from June-October.
It's ironic, because in the summer of 1995 Chicago had a summer hot enough that killed thousands (though just under 800 directly) and prompted the city to create the country's first Heat Emergency Plan and invented the "Heat Warnings" and "Heat Emergencies" common today.
I don't recall the summer of '93 being particularly hot by Chicago standards, unlike '88 or '95, but there are ALWAYS several 90-95 degree days in July and August and quite a few 85+ degree days. Worse, because of the Lake our summers are humid and thus 85 degrees here is worse than 95 degrees in some place dryer like Phoenix, Arizona.
In any case, my point is that Chicago summers are hot, and our winters are a bit on the cold side. We get it all.
I've spent my entire life in the NW suburbs of Chicago.
Just commenting that July and August are HOT in Chicago, and the "never be hot" is especially ironic considering what July of 1995 will be like. If your story has Taylor in Chicago in July of '95 it would be funny to reference this chapter and have her eat her words.
It's not clear if she spent the entire summer in Chicago because you skipped from April to August of 1995, but if she was in Chicago in July or August, she'd have been scorched.
Heck, I can't see how anyone whose been in Chicago for July or August of any year wouldn't say that things get hot in Chicago. If you consider 85-90 to be hot then you can get hot days any time from May through September, and it's not unusual to need air conditioning in October or April, although would need to alternate between a/c and heat in those months.
Heck 2012 was an unusual in that we had 85 degree days in March, but that was a weird year. We got May in March, March in April, and April in May, then went to a repeat of '95 in a scorcher from June-October.
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Ack
(Verified Ratbag) (Unverified Great Old One)
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I looked up temperature averages, and they seemed to be on the moderate side of things.
Maybe because I was matching them to everyday temps where I live. In the summer, it rarely goes below 30 C. We've had heatwaves where it was sitting on 28 C at night.
Imma put it down to "Scion did it".
But if/when Taylor comes back to Chicago for August, she will note the extreme heat.
SlickRCBD
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The last chapter skips from April to August of 1995.
That said, we have a common saying in Chicagoland that "It's not the heat, it's the humidity". The humidity from the Lake causes temperatures over 85 degrees to be far more miserable and dangerous than the same temperatures in more arid climates.
Also we get some cooler days, but also lots of 86+ (call it 30ºC degree days). Summer of '95 was notable for having nearly two weeks without a break, where usually it spikes in the 90's for a few days, then goes back to the low '80s.
Also it's normal to have 90+ degree days in Chicagoland, again what was unusual about '95 was the unbroken string of them, lots of which were over 95 (35ºC).
I know you used Celsius, and Worm does too, but I'm using Fahrenheit because that's what temperatures are reported in in the newspapers, radio, and TV around here (NW suburb of Arlington Heights, about 15 miles from O'hare where temperatures are officially measured and reported). I'd have to make a spreadsheet and do conversions.
Part 8-4: Combat Rescue from Hell
Ack
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Recoil
Part 8-4: Combat Rescue from Hell
[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
Part 8-4: Combat Rescue from Hell
[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
21:45; Friday, December 22, 1995
Somewhere in Colombia, South America
Joanne Sanderson, AKA 'Jazz'
Two of the buildings were on fire, but Joanne didn't give a fuck. If the asshole who owned this compound thought it was a good idea to take kidnapped girls from the States and farm them out as whores, then he deserved whatever was coming to him. She was bulletproof—she'd learned that the hard way—but Brianna (AKA 'Beamer') wasn't, so as far as she was concerned her Blaster teammate was fully justified in shooting first.
Making sure she kept a lookout for any new assholes—they seemed to have discouraged the latest lot, but that could change at any moment—she let the assault rifle fall back onto its sling and reached up to the pressel that hung beside her neck. "Jazz to Shade, how are we doing on the loading, over?" The familiar action served to keep her calm, when she really wanted to be getting the fuck out of there.
PASS—Parahumans Against Sex Slavery—had been a big, beautiful idea when she and the other rescuees from the Compound had come up with it in the days and weeks following. The concept of them being able to use their powers—the very reason they'd been victimised in the first place—to strike back against the oppression of women by men had seemed so right, so proper. And they'd been poised to jump straight into it, until they spoke to Taylor Snow about it.
Some members of the group were disinclined to give her their full trust, because she was a captain in the PRT, and the PRT's job was to oversee parahumans and make sure they didn't do anything stupid … like, say, go where they weren't supposed to go, and rescue kidnapped women. But she'd voiced her personal support for their mission, as well as offering support in a totally different way for the other girls, which had taken a huge worry off their minds. While she couldn't officially endorse PASS, she'd pulled strings in the PRT to ensure that their methods weren't scrutinised too closely, so long as they didn't make a great deal of noise in what they did.
The other thing Taylor had done was to tell them that they weren't ready for what they wanted to do. Having powers was one thing, but powers in conjunction with proper directed training was something else altogether. And as it happened, she was able to refer them on to a bunch of ex-military mercenaries who were willing and able to give them the training they needed.
It had been an interesting experience. Their trainers—mainly women—had been simultaneously hard on them to force them to exceed their limits, while being willing to back off when they hit a sensitive point. Evidently, whoever gave these people their orders knew what Joanne and the others had been through, and was allowing for that. In between times, therapists were on call to talk them through difficult patches, which had helped tremendously.
Initially, Joanne had thought she didn't need much physical training; being able to lift a truck and tank a hit from a moving car was pretty damn good. But she'd never had training in hand-to-hand combat or fired a gun in her life, and her endurance was woeful. Between actual training sessions with an ex-Marine Corps instructor, she sparred with one of the few men set to work with them, a big guy with rock-like skin and glowing red eyes who'd said to call him Crag.
Crag was literally the only person there who could take a full-blooded punch from her and get up as though nothing had happened. Joanne might've used him as a punching bag from time to time when things got too tense in her own head, but he always came back for more punishment, sometimes ribbing her about not hitting him as hard as she could. There was never meanness in it, though, and between the sparring sessions and the long laps of the running track, she'd managed to exorcise some of her own personal demons.
Captain Snow had warned them that there were essential skills that they needed to know before they could be truly effective in their chosen task, and she'd been right on the money. In between the physical training and weapons drills, they'd learned about infiltration, exfiltration (which she hadn't even known was a word), radio procedure, information gathering and so much more. The training had been long and arduous, but they'd learned so much about what they needed to be able to do that in the end, nobody begrudged the time and effort.
Their first two missions had taken place within the borders of the United States; the feelers they'd put out had returned information allowing them to locate missing girls being held captive. Vanessa, who called herself 'Scope', had artificial eyes surgically implanted by their associate Dana (AKA 'Interface') to replace the ones the Brotherhood of the Fallen had cut out. These apparently worked just fine with her powers, allowing her to examine the locations from a distance with what she called her 'penetrating vision' and determine that there were indeed captives on site.
In each case, Joanne had taken point, backed up by the energy blasts generated by Brianna and the high-speed scouting of Leanne (or 'Lightfoot', as she preferred in the field). They'd gone in hard and fast, making good use of their intel to subdue the opposition and free the kidnapped girls. The temptation to hurt the captors more than strictly necessary had always been strong, but Joanne had heeded Captain Snow's warning: the forces of law and order would not necessarily be on the side of PASS, and they did not want to give such people the slightest excuse to come down on them.
In the aftermath of the second such mission, they'd been on top of the world. They were good at what they did, and there were people out there who needed their help. So, they'd spread their net of feelers ever wider, asking in the dark and secret channels that they'd been shown if people knew about vanished girls.
And they got a hit. A gangster, more a celebrity than a criminal in his own country, but a total asshole all the same. He had a compound in Colombia, overlooked by the local authorities (via copious bribes, no doubt) where he ran drugs, guns … and girls. Most of whom, if not all, were there unwillingly from the States. It appeared his clients had certain tastes, and he liked to meet that need.
There'd been no mention of capes on his payroll, which was both a relief and a slight disappointment. A relief because realistically, Joanne knew they'd need to get a few more missions under their belts before facing off against supervillains for real. But also a disappointment, because deep down she wanted to face a criminal cape and punch his goddamn face in for all the times she'd been victimised by the Fallen.
(Yeah, maybe she still had a few issues.)
So here they were now. The raid on the compound had gone well, with their heavy-lift chopper waiting back a ways, its pilot well-paid to ferry them and the rescued girls—all fifty-three of them—across four hundred miles of land and ocean to Panama City. Once there, they'd deliver the girls to the American embassy then make their own way home. It was a simple, effective plan.
Still, she had the jitters. With the guards disabled or driven off—she had no idea what had happened to Señor Asshole himself, though she would've loved to have a word in private with him—they were free to load the girls into the canvas-topped trucks that seemed to be the main form of transport around here, but it was taking so long. And it had been drummed into her that every minute spent standing still in enemy territory made it so much easier for the bad guys to find you.
"Shade to Jazz, we're done," Tori reported suddenly. "Let's go. I'm in the first truck, with Scope." As she spoke, the diesel engine rumbled to life.
"Copy that." Jazz headed for the cab of the third truck. "Lightfoot, take number two. I'll take the third one, with Beamer as tailgunner." The girls would be cramped in the back, with eighteen crammed into each vehicle, but that was something they were just going to have to live with. It would probably be even more uncomfortable in the hold of the Chinook. She certainly wasn't going to complain.
"Beamer, in position, over."
"Lightfoot, in number two, over."
Joanne swung up into the driver's seat and pulled the door closed. Making sure the rifle was on safe, she clipped it into the bracket behind the seat. She turned the key—they'd all been given basic driving training with four-by-fours, trucks, and motorcycles—and shoved in the clutch. As she put it into gear, she hit the pressel again. "Move out, keep your eyes peeled. We're not home free yet. Jazz, out."
"Shade to Jazz. Moving out." The first truck started off, and Leanne's vehicle fell in behind it. Joanne let the handbrake off, and her truck joined the convoy as they rumbled into the darkness.
They'd actually practised this next trick. Vanessa's Thinker ability—various types of special vision—allowed her to see in the dark as well as zooming in and seeing through objects. If she switched too rapidly between vision modes she got nasty headaches, but right now it was a massive boon. Only the first truck needed to run on headlights, and Tori was keeping them on low-beam.
Even without a light on in the cab, Vanessa was able to read the map and see the road ahead with daylight-level clarity, and advise Tori about problems or which way to go on the branching roads. In the meantime, Leanne and Joanne would each drive on parking lights alone, following the taillights of the truck in front. This would theoretically make it harder for them to be spotted from the air.
They rolled on through the forest, turning off the main paved road as soon as Vanessa and Tori found the right side-track. Thereafter, things got a lot bumpier; these clearly didn't get maintained anywhere near as frequently as the one between the compound and the outside world. Joanne was okay with that. The less travelled the road was, the less likely the pursuit would find them down it.
Long minutes stretched by, and Joanne's eyes began to ache from the strain of watching for obstacles in the roadway. Two green dots danced in her vision, after-effects of focusing on the red taillights of the truck in front. They had to be getting close to where the chopper was waiting.
"Beamer here, I hear choppers, plural. Coming up behind us, over."
Ice-water deluged down Joanne's spine. More than one helicopter, and the direction of approach, meant that it wasn't their ride. Someone from the compound had called in serious backup.
I knew they had an in with the local authorities, but geez, being able to call up choppers?
She'd hoped to avoid pursuit altogether by disabling all the other vehicles they'd found at the compound, but that had clearly not been enough.
Reaching up, she squeezed the pressel. "All stop," she ordered. "Lights out. Radio silence. Jazz, out." There was a chance that the opposition could detect their transmissions, or even listen in. No sense in leading the bad guys right to them.
Obediently, Leanne's truck began to slow down; her taillights brightened as she applied the brakes. Joanne downshifted and pulled her truck to a stop as well. With the handbrake set, she killed the engine and switched off the lights. Immediately, darkness rushed in on all sides. Over the ringing of her ears from the constant noise of the engine, she heard the sharp-edged whupwhupwhup of the incoming aircraft.
If the opposition had IR gear, the trucks would stand out like a road flare at fifty feet, and she tensed for that possibility. Brianna would be out of the truck with Tori pointing out the location of the choppers to her. At the first appearance of an attack run, she'd hit them with her best eye-blast.
The one major problem with Brianna's ability was that while it could vastly outrank an assault rifle in damage done, it did cumulative damage to her eyes if she used it at anything above a gentle shove. Her vision deteriorated, as did her aim, the ability to focus the blast, and the overall strength of the attack. While her eyes regenerated this damage, it was slow; she'd performed a few good blasts at the compound, so she wouldn't be back up to scratch yet, but hopefully she'd be able to bring down at least one of the choppers if it became necessary.
Breathing as quietly as she could, as though the men in the choppers above could hear her, Joanne leaned out through the open window and looked upward. The lights in the sky showed her where the choppers were, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief that they didn't seem to be following the road the trucks were on. As one of the choppers banked over, she saw a bright light shining over the trees below it, and knew they didn't have IR; if they did, they wouldn't need a floodlight.
But they were travelling in roughly the same direction as the trucks had gone, which suggested to her that someone from the compound had seen which way they'd turned off, or they had the ability to pick up the radio transmissions, or both. Either way, Joanne and the others weren't out of the woods yet (literally or figuratively), not by a long shot. Just keep going, she told them mentally. Then turn around and miss us again, and go back and report that we were never here.
As the sound of the helicopters faded, she heard a truck door open. There was no accompanying light, mainly because she had personally ensured that the interior lights of each truck were smashed beyond repair; if they wanted light, each of them was carrying a flashlight. Her eyesight was beginning to fill in details; they'd picked a moonless night, but there was still enough light from the boundless stars overhead to see outlines by. Dark figures were now visible, coming back alongside the trucks.
Opening her own door, she climbed out, taking the rifle with her. Behind her, she heard Brianna drop down over the tailgate of her truck. She went forward to meet with Tori and Leanne and Vanessa, between her truck and Leanne's; Brianna joined them a moment later.
"How are they going back there?" she asked Brianna, keeping her voice down from habit.
"Spooked, but quiet," Brianna replied just as softly. "There's a few bruises from the road—I know my butt's gonna be sore—but nobody's complaining."
"I've just been telling them that we're waiting for the search party to go away." That was Vanessa. "How long before we can get going again?"
"They have to pass us by, going in the other direction," Joanne decided. "The last thing we want is to run into them with headlights blazing. They'd be able to strafe us before we ever saw or heard them."
"Our chopper's out that way," Tori pointed out. In the dim light, she seemed to stand out more than the others; it was a quirk of her Stranger powers. "What if they spot it?"
"God, I hope not." Leanne let out a shaky breath. "That'll only happen if they fly right over it, yeah?"
"Or if Manny panics and tries to take off when he hears them coming." Joanne hoped that wouldn't be the case. They'd hired Manuel after going through a few shady connections, as a pilot who was willing to fly them when and where they wanted, irrespective of such minor considerations as national boundaries. He'd been paid half of his handsome fee up front, with the remainder ready to go once they were safe and sound in Panama City. With any kind of luck, the promise of that money would keep him on the ground until the searchers gave up and turned back.
"Fuck, don't jinx us." Brianna's eyes flared briefly. "He'll be there. He promised."
Joanne knew what the promises of most men were like. She'd been thoroughly soured to the gender after her experiences with the Brotherhood of the Fallen, and had only encountered a few since who were worth her time. Crag was one, and Sergeant Kinsey was another. Manuel had come across as a distinctly shifty character, who might well promise far more than he could deliver. She certainly wouldn't trust him in a dark alley.
It was only because she was barefoot that she felt the faint vibration through the ground. "What was that?"
"What was what?" asked Tori and Brianna at the same time.
"I felt something." Joanne pointed uselessly at the ground. "Through my feet."
Just then, she felt it again, this time as a visceral rumble in the air. A few night-birds squawked as they took to the sky.
"Did you hear that?" asked Leanne. "Because I just heard something."
"Shit, give me a boost." Vanessa turned to Joanne. "I need to get up high."
"Gotcha." Joanne moved back alongside the cab of the truck, then leaned down with her hands cupped. "Alley oop."
"Thanks." Vanessa stepped into Joanne's hands and steadied herself with one hand on the truck as Joanne stood up and then hoisted her upward. She climbed onto the cab of the truck, the metal denting inward with a doink, as she stared northward. "Shit."
"What?" But deep down, Joanne knew. "What is it?"
"Something's on fire. Right where we left the chopper."
"Motherfucker." In that moment, Joanne knew what she had to do. "Tori, get everyone out of your truck and into mine and Leanne's. Vanessa, we're taking that truck to check it out. Leanne, you're coming with. Tori and Brianna, if something happens to us, get the girls as far away from here as possible. Don't stop for anything. Got it?"
"But—" Tori bit off her objection before it began. "Okay, got it." That was another one of the things that had been drummed into them; if shit went sideways, doing something was far preferable to arguing about it.
Joanne gave her a brief hug. "We'll be back as soon as we can."
Tori hugged her back. "You better."
Vanessa half-scrambled down from the cab of the truck, and Joanne helped her the rest of the way. "Think it's the chopper?"
"You tell me." Joanne followed her forward to where Tori and Leanne were urging the girls and young women—the youngest was twelve, the oldest nineteen—out of the back of the truck. They didn't make a sound, which Joanna could totally understand. She'd been there herself.
Brianna met them alongside the truck. Her eyes were flickering visibly, as though she wanted to blast something but had no targets to aim at. "You three take care, you hear me?"
"I hear you." Joanne put a hand on her shoulder. "How are your eyes?"
"Nearly back to full." Which meant they were still damaged from the firefight at the compound. "Chopper comes over, I'll drop the sonovabitch." She paused. "Unless … if they've captured you guys …"
Vanessa grabbed her other shoulder. "Even if you see me on board that chopper with a gun to my head, you blast the fucker into a thousand pieces. I am not going back into that."
"Me neither," vowed Leanne, coming up behind them. "Girls are out, let's go."
They climbed into the cab of the truck. The bench seat could fit three across; fortunately, Vanessa and Leanne were somewhat skinnier than Joanne, who was just bigger in all directions. Leanne took the passenger side door, while Joanne clipped the rifle into the rack and got behind the wheel. She started the truck and it rumbled forward, low-beams on once more.
Cautiously, they rolled through the night, barely letting the engine go above an idle as Vanessa stared ahead through the windshield and gave instructions. Joanne felt the tension growing as they neared the rendezvous point. Ahead, only visible when she cut the headlights now and again, was a glow against the sky.
Finally, they trundled up onto a round-topped hill, and Vanessa held up her hand. "Stop."
Joanne jammed on the brakes and clutch at the same time, then killed the lights. "What is it?"
"There." Vanessa took Joanne's hand from the wheel and used it to point with. "Pretty sure it's the chopper."
Joanne peered in that direction. Gradually, details formed out of the darkness. There'd been a large clearing, with some buildings at one end; perhaps an installation of some kind, gone broke. Whatever treatment they'd done to the ground had prevented new trees from growing, so it had been a perfect place to set down the Chinook. Unfortunately, it seemed the bad guys had also known about it, because the twisted wreckage of the heavy-lift helicopter lay burning atop some destroyed trees, and the two new helicopters now sat where it had been.
Leanne opened the passenger side door. "I'll be back in a sec. Just going to get a closer look."
"Be careful." Joanne closed her eyes as the speedster flashed off between the trees, and thumped her head against the butt of the rifle behind her. "Why didn't we pick a spot that was harder to find?"
"Because they already know all the places around here that a chopper can land," Vanessa said from beside her. "Wherever we picked, they'd be looking there pretty damn quickly. Who the hell gives a drug lord access to armed choppers, anyway?"
"People who owe them." It was clear to Joanne in hindsight. "They must've called in all their markers for this."
"Bad news." Leanne climbed back into the truck. "Manny's alive, and it looks like they're interrogating him. I couldn't get too close, but he looked fit enough to spill all the beans."
"And he'll absolutely spill every bean he's got, if it means staying alive." Joanne was already factoring him out of the equation. "Okay, let's get back to the others. Time for plan B."
"Plan B?" asked Vanessa. "What's that one?"
Joanne reached into her thigh pocket and pulled out the bulky satellite phone she'd been carrying there all this time. "We call for help."
"Call for help?" Leanne sounded dubious. "Who the hell can we call?"
-ooo-
Nine Hours Earlier
Brockton Bay
Captain Taylor Snow, PRT
I stifled a groan as I got out of the hire car Kinsey had driven in from the airport. "Even flying, it's still no fun getting here from Chicago."
"It could be worse, ma'am." Kinsey was as deadpan as ever as he went around to the trunk to fetch the suitcases. "We could still be driving around the country, performing your arcane magic on the computer systems."
"Thanks for the reminder." I twisted one way and then the other to pop my back into place. "I saw more road miles during that time than I ever want to see again."
"Roger that, ma'am." He hefted the cases out and closed the trunk, then picked them both up before I was able to get there and grab mine. "Though if I may say so, it's good that the Lieutenant-Colonel was able to spare you for the next five days."
"Why, Kinsey." I put on a tone of mock censure. "Is that concern I hear in your voice?"
A corner of his mouth quirked up in an unmistakeable smile. "The Captain must be mistaken. I was merely alluding to the fact that Ms Campbell hasn't seen either one of us in quite some time."
In other words, he thought I was working too hard, and needed some time off to relax with Andrea. Which, to be honest, I couldn't disagree with. While my work behind the scenes had slacked off marginally—I still needed to murder Screamer before I could take advantage of Gray Boy's death to remove Jack Slash from the board—there was definitely enough work both in my legitimate role and the sub rosa side of things to keep me busy for a long time.
"I'm actually interested in seeing how Alec is going," I said, leading the way to the door. "In her last letter, she said he's standing, if briefly. I want to see if he's walking yet." Dragon was reportedly fascinated with the whole process, which didn't surprise me. The adolescent AI, indistinguishable from a biological teenager by any but the closest examination, was diving headfirst into learning about humanity by immersion. I had high hopes for her.
We weren't visiting Andrea in her penthouse apartment for the simple reason that Kinsey didn't know about it yet, and I didn't want to give him reason to wonder about exactly where Andrea got the money for it. So, after I let him in through the front doors, I headed up the stairs. It was good exercise, and I could feel my leg muscles uncramping as I climbed.
When I tapped on the apartment door, it was opened a moment later by Dragon herself. "Captain Snow!" she exclaimed delightedly, enfolding me in a hug. "It's so good to see you!"
I hugged her in return, enjoying the spontaneity. Once upon a time, long ago and years to come in a world that would never happen now, Dragon had hugged me when I was at one of my lowest points, as a gesture of comfort and solidarity. Despite all the time that had passed since, I had never forgotten the incident. That Dragon had had her human mannerisms programmed into her, then built upon by careful study of people from afar. This version was learning them first-hand from one of the most human people I knew.
"You can call me Taylor, hon," I said, noting her purple hair with some amusement. I wondered if it was a wig, or if she'd talked Andrea into letting her dye it that shade. Not that Andrea would've needed much convincing; she was very much a 'let's see what happens' sort of person. "I like the hair."
"Thank you." Her carefree grin reminded me a lot of Andrea at that moment. "Mom Andrea and I are watching anime shows at the moment, and she helped me dye it because some of the characters have purple hair and we thought it might look good on me."
"Well, it's certainly striking," Kinsey said diplomatically, coming in behind me. "And is it just me, or have you had a growth spurt? I could swear you've grown six inches in as many months."
Dragon nodded happily. "Something like that. We had to go get whole new outfits for me, just the other day."
Translation: she got a whole-body upgrade. "I remember being like that, back in grade school," I agreed. "Once I started my growth spurt, Dad and Mom said I shot up like a weed."
"Cutest weed ever," Andrea put in from where she'd just entered the room, carrying Alec. At almost a year old—he was just weeks away from his first birthday, which I was seriously regretting having to miss—the little tyke was a lot bigger than when I'd last seen him. "Hi, Taylor. How's it been, Jim? Taylor behaving herself?"
"The Captain has managed to not get herself injured again recently, so I would consider that an affirmative," he replied blandly.
"Hey, I don't get hurt all that much," I protested. "And it's never my fault."
Andrea marched over to Kinsey while Dragon stood aside. She handed Alec to him, then stepped up to me. "You listen to me, Taylor Snow," she said intensely. "You getting hurt even once is once too often. The Brotherhood of the Fallen damn near killed you, and that monster in Seattle would have if Kinsey hadn't been there. And that's not even counting that damn Mathers woman in Chicago, the idiots in that gas station, that thing with Marquis, and …" She trailed off and I realised that she'd been just about to mention the Heartbreaker mission, the one Kinsey still hadn't been filled in on.
"Those ones, I had under control," I pointed out. Okay, the situation with the Mathers mother and child had very nearly gone seriously haywire, but thanks to Kinsey's sheer bulldog willpower and our long practice on the range, we'd come through it. Thankfully, she didn't know about the time I'd killed Winter in a dingy dive-bar restroom, or she'd be twice as pissed at me. "I'm fit again. We both are."
"Well, I want you to stay that way." She stepped closer and turned her head to look up at me, her cheek brushing my chest. "When you finally get around to leaving the PRT for good, you're going to have a family waiting for you, and I want you intact enough to be able to appreciate it."
That was perhaps the sweetest thing anyone had said to me for a long time. I took her in my arms and held her close, feeling her arms slip around my waist. "So do I," I said softly. "But right now I'm a little wiped. So, do you think the three of you could handle entertaining Kinsey while I take a shower and a fifteen-minute nap? I might have stayed up a little late last night."
Andrea's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline as she looked up at me, then over toward Kinsey. "A 'little late', Jim?"
Kinsey glanced up from where he was letting Alec grasp his little finger. "The Captain may have stayed up until four or five this morning, despite several reminders about this trip."
I was shocked at the betrayal. How could Kinsey just throw me under the bus like that? Oh, right. Andrea. She already had him wrapped around her little finger. "I had important preparations to make," I explained. "Making sure our people had an idea what was coming for the next few days."
Andrea snorted and let me go. "Same old Taylor. Go, have your shower and your nap. Maybe later, you might be able to convince me to give you an old-fashioned massage, like I used to do in college."
I knew damn well that her massages were conducted naked and usually preceded a seduction attempt (not that I tended to resist too hard) but at the same time, I probably needed one. Scratch that; I definitely needed one. Though I'd probably disappoint her by falling asleep afterward, like that one time we still both laughed about.
"Like I need to twist your arm," I retorted. While Kinsey's attention was taken up with Alec—for a man who could scare a bunch of recruits into quivering silence, babies seemed to see him as a big teddy bear—I took up my suitcase and headed for Andrea's bedroom. "Fifteen minutes is all I really need. If I'm not out in thirty, come wake me up."
Andrea had other ideas. "If you're not out in thirty, I'm just gonna let you sleep. That'll give me and Dragon more time to find out all the gossip from Jim here."
She totally would, too. That was Andrea all over; no respect for military protocol. The fact that Kinsey would only tell her what he thought she needed to know didn't help. She had ways and means of worming more information out of him about my activities than I felt comfortable with her knowing. Being aware that they both had my best interests at heart didn't actually help.
Still, the shower was amazing. I relaxed as much as I was able and let the hot water ease some of my tense back muscles, but old habits died hard; I found myself out and getting dried in under three minutes. After towelling my hair dry and changing into loose, comfortable clothing, I headed along to Andrea's bedroom. The mattress was almost sinfully soft and comfortable, and the pillow smelled like Andrea's shampoo.
Crawling onto the mattress, I snuggled in and let myself drift. Here, in this place, I was safe and secure. I could relax and afford to let my guard down. With each subsequent breath, I could feel my tensions ebbing away. Maybe Andrea was right, and I did need more than thirty …
-ooo-
"Finally. It's only taken half a day of prodding to get you to close your eyes long enough."
I looked across from the rather comfortable chair I was reclining in, to where Lisa was sitting in an identical chair. She had a complicated-looking drink in her hand; the glass contained both fruit and an umbrella. Beyond the patio we were sitting was a stunning vista of a gorgeously coloured sandy beach, a deep blue ocean stretching out to a green-clad volcanic island … and beyond it all, a huge ringed planet gradually rising over the horizon.
What, no grand adventures this time? I jibed. Are you settling down?
"Taking a breather," she retorted. "I'll have you know there are megalodon in that ocean, and just down the coast, the surf is amazing."
I'll take your word for it. Lifting myself up on my elbow and gave her a serious look. So why did you pull me in? Is there something going on?
"Yeah." She took another sip of the drink and put it down, then handed me a tablet. "Your protégés are about to land themselves in hot water, and I figured we should maybe do something about it before it's too late."
I accepted the tablet and looked over the data while things that weren't quite seagulls swooped and squawked outside the patio. Joanne and her friends had taken well to the training that Andrea's mercs had given them, and acquitted themselves well with two operations inside the States. But they were in the process of biting off somewhat more than they could chew. If I didn't do something, and quickly, they were likely to end up dead or in the worst kind of captivity.
If I contacted them now, could they abort before they go in-country?
"They could, but they won't." Lisa swung her legs over the side of her chair and sat up. "There's fifty-three captives in that compound. They're committed to going in there and getting those girls out, no matter the odds against them, and I have to kinda admire that. But … they're going to be calling the number that connects to your satellite phone in about nine hours, once they realise how deep they're in it."
Fuck. I ran my hand through my hair. How fast can I get down there?
"Not fast enough to prevent them from getting into trouble." She didn't finish the sentence.
But I can get them out again?
She shrugged. "You've got the resources."
Shit. I grimaced. I'd just weathered one lecture about putting myself in harm's way. Andrea's gonna kill me, isn't she?
Lisa laughed and held up two fingers, close together. "Only a little bit."
Fine. I sighed. Let's do this.
"Go be the big damn hero. You know you want to." She leaned closer. "Kiss before you go?"
Her lips tasted of dust and blood and fruity alcohol. An errant sea breeze tickled my eye, and I blinked.
-ooo-
Drawing a deep breath, I opened my eyes to see Andrea sitting on the side of the bed. Her expression was unhappy, which gave me the clue as to what was coming next. "You've got to go?" she asked.
"I've got to go," I confirmed, then sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. "How much did you pick up?" When I was conversing with Lisa, I tended to subvocalise my side of the conversation, which meant an outside observer could sometimes figure out the gist.
She shrugged, but didn't look any happier. "Something about you needing to get someone out of somewhere. I know what that means. You're about to go and do something stupid again."
"Technically yes, but no." I moved until I was sitting beside her, and put my arm around her. "I need to get down to Colombia as soon as possible, while not raising any sort of public attention, and I need to bring a significant amount of firepower with me. So, have your mercenaries been training with those tilt-rotors I told you to buy for them?"
"Extended over-water operations and everything, just like you specified." She gave me a suspicious look. "Did you know you were going to be using them to invade a foreign country?"
"Know? No. Suspect enough to prep for it? It was bound to be on the cards, sooner or later." I got up and started rummaging through my suitcase for appropriate clothing. "Besides, we won't be invading, as such. Just extracting. Assisting in the final stages of a rescue."
She stared at me. "Assisting who to rescue who?"
So, I told her.
-ooo-
Sergeant James McMartin Kinsey, PRT
Jim looked up from his conversation with Dragon as the Captain emerged from the rear of the apartment, somewhat earlier than he'd anticipated. His attention sharpened when he saw her attitude and her stride; her jaw was set, and she was almost marching to cadence. Also, she was wearing a set of hard-wearing fatigues he'd packed in her suitcase in case she needed to attend the police precinct again for any reason. Over them, she was buckling on the shoulder holster for her pistol.
Andrea, behind her, was looking decidedly unhappy but equally determined. He wasn't quite sure what had happened back there, nor was he going to pry—the Captain's private time was private—but he knew something had. "Ma'am?" he asked.
"Kinsey." The Captain stopped in front of where he was seated on the sofa, feet apart and hands clasped behind her back. "You said awhile ago that you were okay with me running off-the-books operations. Is that still the case?" Her tone, like her posture, was almost formal.
He stood up and came to attention, matching the level of gravitas she was projecting. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."
"Good." She nodded once, thoughtfully. "I've just been alerted to the need for another one. It's going to be considerably more questionable than what you've seen to date, which means you have a choice in the matter. To go along with me and be prepared to forget everything you see and hear, or to remain here for the next twelve hours and cover for my absence."
His curiosity spiked hard at that one—she's been out of my sight for ten damn minutes! Who got a message to her, and how?—but he reined it in. "Ma'am, I'm here for your protection. I can't protect you if I'm here and you're not." He had faith in the Captain that she wouldn't be pulling an operation that he had a moral objection to.
"Understood, and thank you. So, sitrep. Remember the girls we rescued from the Compound last year? They've formed that team they were talking about, gotten some training, and are currently setting up to pull some kidnapped girls out of basically the same situation they were in. However, they are going to find themselves ass-deep in alligators in the next eight hours or so, due to faulty intel. With me so far?"
Jim had already decided not to ask how she knew this. It was a given that the Captain worked in mysterious ways. "Yes, ma'am. I have three questions."
She raised her eyebrows. "No, they wouldn't abort even if I told them the odds. Fifty-three women and girls. Ages twelve and up. They're determined to get them out. Was that one of the questions?"
"It was, yes, ma'am." And it even answered questions he hadn't thought to ask. "The other two are, how are we going to get to wherever it is, and what can we do that they can't?"
That was when she smiled. It was an expression that did not bode well for the opposition. "The answer to both questions is the same. We're bringing the cavalry with us."
"The cavalry, ma'am?" Belatedly, he looked around at Andrea (who seemed to know what was going on) and Dragon (who didn't). "And should we be speaking of this, here, now?"
"You'll see, Kinsey. And yes; it's fine. They know the score."
As a dutiful NCO and subordinate, there was only one thing left for him to say. "Permission to get changed, ma'am." If the Captain was gearing up to go into a combat zone, then he was damn well going with her.
She nodded briefly, and a smile crossed her face. "Granted."
-ooo-
Taylor
Three hours later, we were airborne and heading south at something over six hundred miles per hour. Kinsey had chosen to wear his fatigues, and we'd both donned light jackets to conceal our respective armaments from the casual observer. Once we were in the privacy of the charter jet we'd boarded at a private airfield—both were owned, via a maze of legal cut-outs, by Andrea herself—we'd unzipped them again.
This wasn't to say we were alone on the aircraft. A little farther back, choosing to stay in their own little clique, were a bunch of Andrea's mercenaries, numbering eight in all. They evidently knew of our presence, but they'd just as clearly been given orders to not interact with us on the flight at least. This apparently suited them; they joked and talked between themselves, enjoying the low-alcohol refreshments that the impassive male flight attendant served them.
They'd gotten on the plane when we made a quick stop at an airfield somewhere south of Brockton Bay; though exactly where it was, the pilot had somehow neglected to mention to us. I could tell Kinsey was less than totally thrilled by all this cloak-and-dagger business, but from the expression on his face, he was also adding two and two together. That was fine. I didn't care what conclusions he came to, so long as he didn't shout them out to the world at large.
"Ma'am," he said quietly, "I seem to recall a trip to another airfield, just outside Seattle. Does this have any connection?"
"Well done," I murmured. "Yes, it does. Also, for the duration of this operation, I will be going by the callsign 'Weaver'. You've been given the callsign 'King', though you can change that if you wish."
"No, ma'am, I'm fine with that." He paused for a moment. "I understand my callsign being easy to recall and similar to my name, but may I ask the significance of the name 'Weaver'?"
I sighed; I didn't need access to Lisa's omniscience to have known that was coming. "It's part of my past, long ago and far away. One day, when we're both out from under the yoke of our current duties, I may share a few tales. Alcohol will absolutely be involved."
His eyebrows rose; he knew how little I liked drinking. Knowing the man as well as I did, I could also tell that he was refraining from mentioning that I'd been barely out of my teens when I joined the PRT. Prior to that, my history was available to anyone who cared to pry, back to nineteen eighty-nine when I'd been hauled out of the water off Brockton Bay.
He did not yet know about my past before then; hell, even Andrea only knew bits and pieces about it. Ruth Goldstein knew the most, having seen me sometimes on TV as a baby. I wasn't yet sure when (or if) I was ever going to tell the whole story to anyone.
In the meantime, I was damn sure going to try to make sure most of it didn't fucking happen.
-ooo-
The Present
Jazz
Still watching the flickering flames, Joanne woke up the bulky satellite phone. Carefully, she dialled the number that had come with the phone. She didn't know how much good it would do, but right now their options were narrowing down fast.
The phone rang once, then twice. There was a click, and she heard the static of an open line. "You've got Snow." In the background, she could hear the whine of turbines running flat-out.
Hearing Captain Snow's voice, she could have wept from relief, but the shit they were in was far from sorted. "Uh, Joanne Sanderson here. We're kind of in trouble, but if you're busy—"
"I'm aware of the situation, Jazz." Snow's voice, while not curt, was definitely clipped. "We're niner-zero minutes out. The closer you can get to the coast, the better. Find a wide-open area, suitable for rotorcraft, and bunker down. I'll be going by callsign Weaver. My companion will be callsign King. Current status of your people?"
Joanne blinked. "We're all fine. But—you knew? How? I mean—"
Again, Snow cut her off. "PRT Intelligence. It's my job to know. Now, get your people moving. The choppers will be back, and there will be ground pursuit. Weaver, out."
The call ended, leaving Joanne staring at the handset. "What … the fuck?"
"What?" demanded Vanessa. "What do you mean, she knew?"
Joanne shook her head, then started the truck. Carefully, she turned it around and started back toward where they'd left everyone else. "She's already on the way. Said she's an hour and a half out, and that we should head north. Find a place that choppers can land."
"An hour and a half?" Leanne sounded startled. "How the hell …?"
"PRT Intelligence," Joanne recited, as though that explained everything. "But we've got to get moving. She said there's ground pursuit coming. Plus, the choppers."
"On it." Leanne opened the door; an instant later, it closed again, and Joanne briefly saw her zipping ahead in the beam cast by the headlights.
"Okay, I get it that Captain Snow's PRT Intelligence," Vanessa objected. "But we're not even inside the United States right now. How did she specifically know that we were in the shit?"
Joanne shrugged. "Would you prefer she didn't?"
"Well … now that you mention it … no."
They trundled on down the rough track, until they reached the spot where the trucks had halted. Leanne was waiting there, and she swung up into the cab when Joanne stopped. "Done," she reported. "They've gone on ahead. We should be able to catch up with them pretty quickly."
"Good." Joanne started the truck moving again, turning onto the track that Leanne indicated. She knew that even if the road branched, Vanessa would be able to spot the signs of recent passage; her eyesight was bullshit like that.
With that in mind, Joanne pressed on harder, wanting to catch up with the miniature convoy before the hour was up, and definitely before the choppers took to the air again. She wasn't at all sure what Captain Snow was bringing to the party, but the PRT captain probably didn't want to start a firefight on foreign soil. Even for someone with her insane level of connections, it wouldn't look good for her future career prospects.
It took less time than Joanne had thought to catch up with the trucks. This was because they were stopped in the road when she got there. Tori and Brianna were showing signs of readiness to fight, right up until Leanne flashed ahead to reassure them that all was (technically) well.
Pulling the truck to a halt, Joanne climbed down and headed forward. "What's going on? Why've you stopped?" Her palms itched with the need to keep moving.
"Tori broke the front truck." That was Brianna.
"I did not!" Tori turned to Joanna. "There was a really deep pothole. I didn't see it in time. It threw everyone around, and now the wheels are all wonky."
"Let me see." Vanessa went around the trucks to look at the front one, with Joanne following behind. From the way she sucked in her breath between her teeth, Joanne could tell it was bad; even from the glow of the headlights from the second truck, it was possible to see that the front wheel was decidedly off-kilter.
"Busted axle?" guessed Joanne.
"Looks like," agreed Vanessa. "That truck's going nowhere."
"Okay, then." Joanne went to the back of the truck and peered in. The human cargo, packed in as they were, stared back at her silently. "Everyone out. Into the rear truck. We've got to move on, and this one's going nowhere." She dropped the tailgate to emphasise her point.
Silently, stoically, they started climbing out and heading back along the line of trucks. Nobody uttered a word of complaint, despite the fact that they had to be bruised and hurting. She knew this was because right now they were in 'rescue mode'; they were elated that there was a chance they were getting out, while at the same time being terrified that they might be left behind if they complained.
When the last one dropped to the ground, she scanned the interior of the back, then opened the driver's side door and checked for any personal belongings in there. Nothing; it was as clean as when they'd first liberated it.
"How are we gonna get the other trucks past?" asked Leanne, at her elbow. "This isn't exactly a two-lane highway, and there's nowhere to push it off the road to."
"I got this." Joanne flexed her hands. "Get everyone back out of the way." Moving up to the middle of the truck, she crouched and shuffled under the chassis, then began to lift.
The truck wasn't light, but she'd done this before in training. Despite her rational brain telling her that it was far too heavy for her, she gradually straightened her legs and heaved upward. When the tyres left the roadway, she knew she was most of the way there. Gradually, as more and more of the weight passed over the tipping point, the strain became less, until it was balanced, then she gave it one final shove. With a mass crackling and snapping as it overwhelmed a whole thicket of small trees, the truck rolled onto its side, leaving the roadway clear.
"Okay," she said, dusting her hands off. "Now, let's …"
Two sounds interrupted her. The first was the distant yet distinct sound of helicopters taking to the air. Just as unwelcome was the unmistakeable growling of four-by-four engines, more than one or two by her estimation. She couldn't be sure, but she thought they were coming closer. Ground pursuit. Well, she called it.
"Everyone, in the trucks now!" she shouted. "We're leaving!"
"We're loaded!" Vanessa yelled back from the passenger seat of the front truck. "Just waiting on you!"
Right. Bolting past the first truck, she swung around the open door of the second one, and clambered inside. The engine was already running, so she slammed the door and jolted it into gear. Tori was waiting for her, which meant Leanne was driving the front truck. "Brianna?" she asked.
"In the back," Tori confirmed.
"Good." Joanne hated using the girl as mobile artillery but the fact was, she'd volunteered. The truck in front moved off, and she followed.
With Vanessa navigating and Leanne driving, they made some damn good time, especially considering that they were no longer worried about keeping things quiet. Captain Snow had said she was an hour and a half north, which meant that every mile they covered was a mile she didn't have to travel to get to them.
Still, that didn't mean they could be totally reckless. When Brianna spotted the choppers in the distance, they pulled over again. With all lights off, at a standstill, there was a good chance they'd escape notice, unless the choppers went straight over the top of them.
Opening the door, Joanne grasped the frame and jumped upward, heaving herself onto the roof of the cab. Crouching there, she reached back down. "Rifle."
"Copy." From inside the cab, she heard Tori unclipping the assault rifle from its bracket. A moment later, the stock was thrust into her hand.
"Thanks." Going to a kneeling position, she snuggled the rifle butt into her shoulder and let her eye fall in behind the sights. The four-by-fours didn't sound any closer, but that could've been a trick of acoustics. Of course, they'd been hammering the trucks through the forest pretty hard, too.
However, the choppers didn't have to deal with the vagaries of terrain. Joanne could clearly see them; their flight path, unless they veered off, would take them straight over the trucks. Making a split-second decision, she raised her voice. "Lightfoot, move on! Shade, get them out of this truck and send them after Lightfoot! Now!"
Thankfully, there was no argument. She heard the tailgate drop at the same time as the front truck rumbled to life again. Tori was out of the truck and urging the rescuees forward as fast as they could stumble; Joanne tuned them out and focused on the oncoming aircraft.
They couldn't outrun choppers, and those birds were armed with something that could take down a Chinook. The only chance they had was to bloody the nose of the opposition, and leave a roadblock that would hold up ground pursuit. It would be a tight fit, getting all fifty-three girls into the last truck, but they had little choice in the matter.
With less than twenty seconds before the choppers—still not deviating a hair from their course—would pass over the lone truck, Joanne heard Brianna's voice from beside the truck. "Ready when you are."
"What?" Joanne didn't look away from her sight picture, but she pitched her voice so her teammate could hear. "Get back with the others!"
"You can't bring them down with that! I can!" Brianna's voice was full of resolve.
Fuck. Five seconds. The noise was almost deafening. "When I say run, run!" she yelled.
The first chopper swept over the truck, its floodlight almost blinding Joanne even through squinted eyelids. She knew they'd been spotted when it pulled around in a tight circle, its mate standing off a ways. As it came back, she focused on the light itself.
Originally, she'd intended to try to hit the pilot through the windshield, but two problems occurred to her. First, it might well be bulletproof. Second, she couldn't see anything but the floodlight.
Oh, well. Aiming at the brightest point of the blinding glare, she fired off a couple of controlled bursts. The first must have missed, but the second connected; with a shower of sparks, the light went out.
"Down!" yelled Brianna; instinctively, Joanne threw herself flat on the top of the cab.
A crackling, actinic beam blasted up past the truck and—from what she could see—nailed the chopper square in the middle of its fuselage, just as it began to swing away from Joanne's shooting. Joanne could feel the heat from where she was, and everything was lit up for dozens of yards in every direction. The effect on the chopper was even more dramatic; there was a muted explosion, then the rotorcraft began to spin in ever-expanding circles as it started to lose altitude.
And that was when the other one came in for an attack run.
"Fuck!" Diving off the truck cab as the first of the heavy-calibre rounds hit the vehicle, Joanne scooped up Brianna bodily and sprinted off down the road. Behind them, she could hear the thunder of the autocannon as it sprayed ammunition all over the truck and surrounding area. She wasn't slowing down to look back; when it was time to run, it was time to run.
The first chopper blazed overhead, flames pouring off it and briefly giving her the chance to see where she was going, before it vanished again. She heard it hit the trees, followed by another explosion. Good. I hope you all die.
When the second chopper finished its assault on the truck, she felt it was safe to slow to a walk. Besides, she couldn't see a thing, and didn't want to either run into a tree or trip over a rut. "You okay?" she asked Brianna, expecting the girl to tell her that she could walk on her own.
"Yeah." Brianna sounded subdued. "My eyes hurt, though."
Shit. That meant she'd damaged them badly; from the intensity of the blast, Joanne wasn't surprised. "Can you see?"
"Can't really tell."
Double shit. "Okay. That's okay. We've got this."
"Hey, guys?" It was Vanessa. "Over this way." Joanne felt a hand on her arm, guiding her. "Right foot, watch that pothole."
"Thanks. You heard?" Behind her, she heard the second chopper move to hover over the crash site of the other one.
"Yeah. Good news, they're going to be a lot more careful about chasing us now."
"Bad news," Brianna piped up, "I can't see or blast jack shit right now."
"But they don't know that," Joanne reminded her. "Nobody wants to charge a Blaster face-on. Money's good, but they're going to want to live to spend it."
After a few more minutes, they caught up with where Tori was leading the twenty-six rescuees toward the last truck. Joanne's vision had recovered to the point that she could barely make out facial expressions by now, but all she got from them was that they were willing to walk until they dropped, if it meant freedom. Yeah, I get that.
Loading them into the back of the sole remaining truck was a pain, but it had to be done. The youngest were crammed into the cab, half a dozen taking up two-thirds of the bench seat, with Vanessa driving. Brianna went into the back, with Leanne scouting ahead and Joanne and Tori on the running boards to each side.
Off they drove again, on their seemingly endless odyssey. By Joanne's imperfect estimation, it had been about an hour since she'd made the satphone call, so they had half an hour until rescue arrived. Things were getting tight, with the opposition nipping at their heels, but they were still free, and they'd slowed the bastards down.
She couldn't help wondering again exactly how Captain Snow had figured out they were in trouble quickly enough to have incoming assets just ninety minutes off the Colombian coastline. She'd studied charts of the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, and knew it was nearly two thousand miles from Colombia to the US in a straight line northwest, through the Yucatan Channel (from Colombia to Key West was only about a thousand miles, but she was reasonably sure the Cubans would get snippy about Americans overflying their airspace without good reason). This raised an important point; unless Snow was in something that was supersonic, she had to have been over international waters when she took the call.
There was good. There was very good. And then there was damn near miraculous.
She shook her head. It was highly likely that she'd never know.
-ooo-
Taylor
"We just went feet-dry. Welcome to Colombia, folks."
The pilot's voice, sounding altogether too cheerful, came across the earpieces in the helmets we were each wearing. Kinsey turned to me and leaned close; this wasn't hard, considering the canvas seats we were sitting in were up against each other as it was. But instead of querying our location, he had another question to ask.
"Ma'am, whose tilt-rotors are these, and where did they get them from? Because I'm almost certain no military has adopted them yet. In fact, I thought they were still in trials."
I nodded to acknowledge his points. "Hypothetically, if someone had enough money to field a large mercenary group, would it be a problem for them to also own an aircraft manufacturing concern? And a defence contracting company, where they could get access to the blueprints for the latest prototype designs?" There was more to it than that, of course. Lisa had supplied the appropriate upgrades so that Andrea's aircraft were free of the problematic bugs that would've plagued military tilt-rotors for years after they came out. But Kinsey didn't need to know that part.
"Ah." He nodded. "Thank you, ma'am."
"You're welcome. I'm going to make a call."
"Ma'am."
Hauling out the satellite phone, I unbuckled my helmet and set it in my lap. I set up the call, then held the phone firmly to my ear.
When the call connected through, I heard sporadic gunfire, and distant shouts. "Weaver, if that's you, we need extraction now!"
"Weaver here." I kept my voice calm and controlled. "We just crossed the coast. Sitrep me."
I heard a sigh, as of relief. "Lightfoot found us an old logging camp after the last truck ran out of fuel, and we've bunkered down there. But the bastards found us five minutes ago, and they've been trying to overrun us ever since."
"Logging camp. Got it." I knew where they were now. It was one of several potential locations Lisa's tablet had shown me. "Incoming, five minutes. Hold tight. Weaver, out."
Shutting down the phone, I stowed it away, then pulled my helmet on again. Flicking the intercom to 'pilot', I pressed the talk switch. "Weaver to Shadow One Actual. I've got final coordinates for you."
There was the briefest of pauses. "Shadow One Actual. Go."
Taking a deep breath, I recited the coordinates that danced in front of my eyes, courtesy of my self-hypnosis. "Be aware, it's a hot zone. Hostiles trying to breach the perimeter."
"Shadow One Actual, that's a solid copy, hot zone." I knew he'd be switching channels and passing on the information to the other aircraft, but that was my job done.
In all honesty, I could've done this bit from perfect safety back in the States, but that had never been my style. I felt responsible for Joanne and the others, dammit, and I wasn't going to send men in to get them out—and maybe die trying—without putting some skin in the game myself. It was a habit I was going to have to try to break someday, but not today.
-ooo-
Jazz
Had it been ten seconds, five minutes, or half an hour? Joanne didn't know, and she didn't have time to check. The last mag on her assault rifle ran dry, causing a four-by-four to run out of control and crash, but she didn't have time to celebrate. More were coming in.
Guns were terrible for throwing; they were lighter for their bulk than any hand-to-hand weapon, and their aerodynamics sucked. Besides, there was the chance she could get more ammo for it, turning it back into a useful tool again. Scooping up a fist-sized rock instead, she hurled it at the closest bunch of bad guys. One went over with a yell, giving the rest pause.
She'd already heaved a bunch of trees that had been felled but never processed around into the equivalent of a fortification. Brianna and the fifty-three rescued girls and women were huddled behind it, while Tori and Vanessa fired through gaps with their pistols. Leanne was out there somewhere, trying to disrupt the oncoming assault, but Joanne had no idea where the speedster actually was.
Grabbing a sizeable branch, Joanne vaulted over the parapet and ran toward the group, screaming at the top of her lungs. A couple stopped and stared, but several shot at her. As hyped up as she was, the bullets did little more than sting. Not bothering to slow down, she went straight up to them and swung the branch like a baseball bat. It splintered, but three of them went down. On the backswing, she got a fourth, destroying the rest of the branch.
One of the men still standing swung a knife at her, and she caught the blade, pulling it from his hand. She moved in, grabbing him by the collar, while she reversed her grip on the knife. As he watched in horror, she stabbed the blade all the way through him, her arm going in up to the elbow.
His last remaining upright comrade screamed in terror and dumped the entire mag into both of them. She felt like she'd been attacked by a swarm of bees, but the guy she'd stabbed was well and truly dead now. Dragging her arm back out of the sucking wound, she pulled the guy's rifle off him, then punched the other guy so hard his jaw disintegrated, along with most of his skull.
She wasn't quite sure if she'd intended to draw their fire this literally, but when the guns opened up all around her, it seemed that she was the sole target. Nothing penetrated her skin, but she could feel herself bruising, and it was really starting to fucking hurt. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she fired back with her captured rifle; some of the men went down, but then she was out of bullets … and they weren't.
And then there was thunder overhead, along with a massive downdraft. She had just enough time to think, 'oh shit, the chopper's back', when there was a "Wooo hoooo!" from above, terminating in a crash that took out three of the opposition. And when she saw the shadowy form get up and the red eyes open, she knew who it was.
"Hey, Jazz!" yelled Crag. "Learn to share, will you?" So saying, he grabbed two men by their arms and swung them around in a circle, hurling them at their comrades.
"Hey, I brought enough for everyone!" she shouted back, grabbing up another one and sending him flying into the trees.
"Good!" He hooked a rough grey thumb back toward the clearing. "Go. We got this." As he spoke, a burst of fire cut down another bunch of assholes, and what looked like an armoured beach buggy roared past, a gunner standing up behind the driver. When she looked around, several more were heading into the forest, firing sporadically as they went.
"Jesus," she said in the sudden quiet. "Where did they come from?"
Crag pointed, and she looked; properly, this time. One of the weirdest helicopters she'd ever seen hovered overhead, while three more sat on the ground back behind the parapet, rear ramps open. The rescuees were being urged on board by helmeted men; standing next to one of the aircraft were two people Joanne would've recognised anywhere.
"Thanks," she said, but she was already heading for the parapet. Behind her, the occasional shot still sounded back in the forest, but it seemed they hadn't been prepared for a determined resistance.
Loping back toward the clearing, she vaulted over the parapet, fully aware that she was going to be feeling every one of those bullet strikes in the morning. Captain Snow, as impassive as ever, nodded to her. "How are you doing?"
"A whole lot better now." Joanne slung the rifle she was holding and spread her hands. "All this … how?"
Sergeant Kinsey fielded that one. "I've learned not to question these things too deeply, miss."
"Okay, okay." Joanne nodded as she accepted that. "So how do we get back to the States? What's the range on these things?" Helicopters, she knew, just couldn't cover that distance, not without refuelling.
"Just far enough." Captain Snow spoke with absolute assurance. "We'll be leaving the gun-buggies behind." She seemed to tilt her head to catch one last burst of firing. "Once they finish having their fun, of course."
"Right." Joanne shook her head. "All I can say is … well, thanks."
"That's okay." Captain Snow gestured at the nearest aircraft. "Shall we?"
"Good idea." Joanne accepted the invitation and they climbed on board, joining the rescuees and the other members of her team. The ramp began to close behind them.
"Let's go home."
End of Part 8-4
Last edited:
silentorphan
Versed in the lewd.
- Joined
- Apr 14, 2019
- Messages
- 1,864
Hi, Ned. Glad to see you're still hanging around with Taylor's crew, and a little surprised to see you show back up in the story proper again.