Security!


Chapter Twenty-Nine: Deadline


Time was indeed a-ticking.

I sat on the examination table in the PRT base, with my shirt and stab vest lying nearby. At the request of the doctors, I had removed the T-shirt I habitually wore under the vest, and they had gotten me to turn around in front of the large perspex window which separated me from them, so that they could look me over for potential injuries.

Normally this enclosed area was designed to protect attending physicians from potentially dangerous pathogens or even patients; in this instance, it was to protect me from them, to prevent them from accidentally stepping too close to me.

Once I had cleaned up the cuts and scrapes with the antiseptic which had been supplied to me, they examined me from a distance and pronounced me effectively healthy.

"Though you could stand to lose a deal of weight," one doctor had observed firmly.

I hadn't bothered responding; at that moment in time, my surplus weight was right at the back of the line as far as my personal health concerns were involved.

"So," I ventured. "Can I put my shirt back on now?"

My words were conveyed through the perspex by an open microphone link; the doctor nodded and waved assent. "I have a question," he replied.

Shrugging into the sleeves, I looked up. "Shoot."

"Why is it that you do not wish a mundane surgeon to even attempt the removal of the device? We do, after all, have surgical waldos."

"Because Bakuda is a tricky bitch," I explained. "Think of it this way; if you were a psychotic supervillain who routinely implanted bombs into peoples' heads, how would you go about making sure they didn't just get a doctor to cut them out again?"

He paused. "Ah. Some sort of failsafe."

"Yeah," I agreed. "She's a Tinker. I'd feel a lot happier with a Tinker or two dealing with it."

"You have a point," he acknowledged. "But in any case, while you're awaiting your preferred surgeon, perhaps we should see if we can get an idea of exactly what it is we're dealing with, and where it is inside your neck."

I nodded. "Makes a certain amount of sense. Let's do this thing."

"We'll escort you to the CT room," he told me.

As I slid off the table, I wondered idly how Amy was doing with her first day of therapy.

=/=

The woman looked up as Amy entered the room. She rose from behind the desk and stepped around it to offer her hand.

"Hello, Amy," she said in greeting. "I'm Mrs Yamada. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Amy shook her hand; the older woman's fingers were long and slim and cool. "Likewise," she replied. She looked around at the office; it was furnished in earthy tones, and resembled the corner of someone's living room rather than a psychiatrist's office. On the wall, a large wooden clock ticked quietly, a short pendulum swinging from one side to the other.

"Wow," she commented at last. "This is not what I expected."

Mrs Yamada chuckled gently. She had Oriental features, warm brown eyes and a ready smile. "I find that people are more at their ease when seated in a comfortable armchair than lying on a couch." She gestured at the two chairs. "Take your pick."

Amy chose a chair, and lowered herself into its embrace; slowly, she relaxed, feeling the tension leach out of her. Mrs Yamada gestured at a counter. "Would you like a drink, or a cookie?" she asked.

"No, thank you, not at the moment," Amy told her.

"Very well," Mrs Yamada assented, seating herself in the other chair and propping a notepad on her knee. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

Amy blinked. "I thought we'd be going straight on to the topics Mike – Security – mentioned."

Again, the gentle, reassuring chuckle. "Not if you don't want to. You can't force therapy on anyone; if they want it, they get it. If they don't, all the doctors in the world cannot help them. So. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

Amy thought about that. Mrs Yamada was … motherly. She was friendly and warm without being over-presumptuous, and Mike had assured her that nothing she said would freak the woman out. But she didn't want to jump into the deep end just yet. Better to test the waters first.

"If – if I say things about my family, will any of it get back to them?"

Mrs Yamada tilted her head slightly. "Not if you don't want it to. Doctor-patient privilege."

Amy nodded. Good. "Well, you already know my father is Marquis."

A nod. "And how do you feel about that?"

"I – I really don't know," confessed Amy. "On the one hand, it's a little bit of a relief to finally find out who he really is. On the other, it's really weird knowing that it's my dad who did all those things in Brockton Bay back in the nineties, before he went to the Birdcage. And it makes sense now, knowing who he is, understanding why Carol's treated me like she has."

"This is your adopted mother, Carol Dallon, yes?" asked Mrs Yamada.

"Yes," Amy replied. "She and Flashbang – Mark – adopted me when they captured Marquis and had him sent to the Birdcage."

Mrs Yamada nodded. "You said you understood why she treated you like she did. How is it that she's treated you?"

"Like I've done something wrong, or I'm about to, and I've never understood why, until now!" Amy burst out. "I mean, I sort of knew my dad was a bad guy, but I never knew who. But Carol's always looked at me like I was just like him, and she was waiting for me to show my true colours."

She sniffled; Mrs Yamada handed her a box of tissues, and waited till she had blown her nose.

"And do you think she was right?" asked the therapist gently.

"No. Maybe, I don't know," Amy replied. "I've just been having these … thoughts, lately."

"Thoughts?" prompted Mrs Yamada.

Amy began to explain, and Mrs Yamada listened patiently. On the wall of the office, the clock ticked quietly, and the pendulum swung, back and forth, back and forth.

=/=

"So how long do you believe you have?" asked the doctor as I climbed on to the CT gurney.

"About twenty-four hours," I told him. "She said thirty-six hours, and I'm fairly certain it's been buzzed about twelve times since then."

He nodded, staying well clear of me. "Well, we'll have a look at the thing, and see if we can't figure a way to get it out of you before too long."

"Sooner rather than later, yes," I agreed. I lay down on the gurney, and felt the machinery engage to push it into the archway that contained the CT apparatus. Lying still, with my arms at my side, I felt the metal tunnel enclose me. As bulky as I am, there wasn't much clearance in any direction.

"Now, lie still so that we can get the best possible picture," he cautioned me. Then he must have activated the microphone. "Director Piggot, we're ready to start."

Her reply came back clearly. "Go ahead, Doctor."

I distinctly heard the click as he hit the switch to begin the scan. I also heard the hum of the machinery powering up. Unfortunately, I heard one other thing, all too clearly.

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

"Fuck!" I yelled. "Turn it off! Turn it off!" Awkwardly, hampered by the fact that I only just barely fit in the tunnel, and that I was on my back, I tried to struggle out of the archway.

"What?" he called back. "Hold still! You're spoiling the scan!"

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

"Turn it off! Turn it off!" I yelled again. "It's running down the timer!"

Grabbing the lower end of the archway, I heaved, pulling myself a few inches downward.

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

I struggled a few more inches, but it was hard going. Fuck, I'll never get out in time.

And then the hum died down; he must have turned it off. I kept struggling, not willing to stop until I was out of there. But then the gurney activated, rolling back smoothly, conveying me out of the archway. I sat up, panting heavily. "That," I observed, "was a really bad fucking idea."

The doctor came over, but remembered to stop outside of the two-yard limit. His face was etched with concern. "What was that about?" he asked. "You said it was counting down the timer?"

"Yes!" I shouted. I started shaking. If I had been in there a few seconds longer ...

The door opened, and Director Piggot stepped in. "What's going on?" she asked. "What happened?"

"Bakuda is a sneakier bitch than I anticipated," I told her heavily. "Which was my mistake. You know when I said that I wouldn't put any booby trap past her?" I indicated the CT archway. "I should have thought that she'd put in detectors for medical sensors."

She grimaced. "How many hours did you lose?"

"Nine," I told her. "And about ten years off my life. I nearly had a fuckin' heart attack."

She stared. "Nine?"

I shrugged. "What I counted. Bakuda's a mean bitch."

"We could try other types of sensor," the doctor suggested. "Ultrasound or x-ray ..."

Director Piggot and I both turned to him at the same time. "No."

I allowed the other two to exit before I followed them, keeping a careful three yards of distance between us.

"So whoever does the surgery is going in blind," Piggot observed, not sounding happy.

"And we've got no more than fifteen hours to get it sorted," I added.

"You don't think it's messed up the timer so it'll go faster?" she ventured, sounding even unhappier.

I turned to her with ice running down my spine. "Oh fuck, don't even think that."

She met my gaze with eyes that had seen more terror, more horror than I ever had. And she looked worried.

"Is it something that Bakuda would do?" she asked quietly.

I paused, wanting to say no. But I couldn't.

" … in a heartbeat," I admitted, equally quietly.

"Oh Christ, I'm sorry," the doctor blurted. "I never thought -"

I waved his apologies away. "Any active sensor would probably have done it," I told him. "No wonder she was so fucking pleased with herself."

"How fast was it buzzing?" Piggot wanted to know.

"Groups of three," I admitted.

"So, fifteen hours compressed down to five then," she decided. "That's the timeframe we'll work with."

"Someone needs to contact Dragon, tell her that the deadline just moved up," I told her. "And what's the latest on Riley?"

"Dragon contacted us about fifteen minutes ago," she told me, sounding pleased that there was some good news to be had. "She'd finished fabricating the surgical waldos and was on her way here with them."

"Might want to light a fire under her," I suggested. "We just lost twenty hours."

"I'll do that," she decided. "As for Riley, she's being conveyed here under heavy guard from DC. I'll tell them to get a move along, to make sure she can get here in time to perform this surgery on you."

"If I can convince her to help," I amended.

She gave me a look I could not read. "Just pull some of your Security bullshit," she told me, and moved off to make the call.

=/=

Amy walked out of Mrs Yamada's office feeling as though her feet were not quite touching the floor. Her eyes were red from crying, but she and Mrs Yamada had made a good start on working out some of the issues that Mike had outlined. She could not believe what a huge relief it was to be able to talk to someone about them. She hadn't even realised the depths of her problems, and how much they had been weighing on her, until she began discussing them with the therapist.

Danny looked up as she emerged, and rose to his feet. "Hey, kiddo," he greeted her. "Mrs Yamada, hi. I'm Danny Hebert."

Jessica Yamada shook his hand firmly. "Amy mentioned you, and how you've given her a place to stay," she observed. "That was kind of you."

He shrugged, watching as Taylor rose and came over to Amy. "A favour for a friend," he commented off-handedly. "But I'm not having any problems. Amy's a sweet kid."

"I've found her so," agreed Mrs Yamada. "This was just the first session, of course, but I think we made real progress today."

Taylor hugged Amy. "So how was it?" Amy felt the slimmer girl's arms go around her, returned the embrace.

"It was … different," Amy decided. "But in a good way. It's ... I don't know how to describe it."

Danny nodded. "That's the general idea with therapy," he agreed. "You don't get better in just one session. But you're feeling good with it?"

"Yeah. I want to come back." She pulled back from the hug and looked at Taylor. "Did you come here from school just for me?"

Taylor grinned. "Well, that, and the fact that we got shut down early." She started for the door.

"Bye, Mrs Yamada." Amy waved to the therapist, and followed Taylor.

"Goodbye, Amy. See you next time."

Danny followed them out, closing the door behind them. The afternoon sun slanted across the pavement as they headed to where the car was parked.

"Well, kids," he suggested, "how about ice cream? My treat. I've got the afternoon off, so we might as well do something fun, right?"

"Sure," replied Amy. "But Taylor, what do you mean, the school got shut down early?"

Taylor hesitated. "Uh … he said not to worry you."

"Who said to not to worry me about what?" asked Amy quietly.

Taylor and Danny glanced at one another. Wordless communication passed between them, then Danny turned to Amy. "Mike," he told her. "He was … there was a supervillain attack. Bakuda and Oni Lee. Oni Lee was driven off. Mike captured Bakuda. But ..."

"Wait, wait, what?" exclaimed Amy. "Captured her?"

"Beat hell out of her, as far as I could see," Taylor supplied. "But first … she, uh, implanted a bomb in his head."

Amy was stricken. "Christ!" she blurted. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"He told us not to," Taylor explained. "He didn't want to interrupt your therapy."

"Fuck the therapy!" Amy snapped. "I should have been told! It's his life, for Christ's sake!"

"Amy." Danny's voice was calm, collected.

She looked at him, suddenly ashamed for swearing. "Uh, yes?"

"I trust Mike's judgement in this. Do you?"

She blinked. Remembered the heavy-set man entering the bank, talking to her calmly, walking her out, just before it was robbed. Changing her life.

He had never hesitated, never flinched, even in the face of what he had known what was coming. What had nearly happened to her, but for his intervention.

"I … I guess," she mumbled.

He nodded. "Good. Now, the bomb's got a proximity sensor and a timer. If anyone gets within two yards of him, the timer ticks down an hour. The timer's good till sometime tomorrow afternoon, so they're getting a specialist in to do the surgery, using remote waldos. Probably sometime tonight or tomorrow morning."

Amy shook her head. "That's too long. I could do it right now. I could push the bomb right out of him."

Taylor looked uncomfortable. "Uh … he said to tell you no," she confessed.

"What? No! Why not?"

Danny took a deep breath, then released it. "Tell you what," he decided, pulling out his keys and unlocking the car. "Let's go talk to him. He can tell you."

"Good idea," replied Amy, climbing in. "Let's do that."

=/=

"Are you sure you want to talk to him?" asked Miss Militia. "You were involved in his capture, after all."

I paused outside Lung's cell. "Well, Riley still isn't here, so I may as well pass the time doing something constructive."

She tilted her head. "Constructive?"

I gestured at the cell. "We're gonna need him on side, sometime relatively soon. No time like the present for laying the groundwork."

She frowned. "But … he's going to the Birdcage."

I shrugged. "Maybe."

She shook her head, and keyed the door open. Massive bolts pulled back from their recesses, and the door swung slowly aside. Within was a set of heavy steel bars, backed on my side by a perforated sheet of perspex. And on the other side of the bars … was Lung.

He was impressive. I seemed to recall that even in rest state, he was still a formidable Brute. Bald, muscular, over six feet tall, he had shed his shirt to show off a truly impressive set of tattoos on his chest and neck and arms, all to do with dragons of one sort or another.

"Lung!" snapped Miss Militia. "Visitor!"

Slowly, he turned his head to observe me.

"I do not know you," he growled.

I took a few steps forward. "We've met. You can call me Security."

"It must not have been a very memorable meeting," he stated dismissively, turning his head away.

"I was wearing a mask at the time," I reminded him. "You tried to rip my guts out. I shot you a few times. Then Weaver deafened you and fed you a pepper spray canister."

His head turned back to me. "That ... was you?" he grated.

I nodded. "That was me. You're one tough sonofabitch."

"How did you survive my claws?" he asked me, curious despite himself.

"I was wearing a stab vest. You pretty well ruined it."

He chuckled briefly. "Lucky."

I tilted my head. "Not luck. Preparation and planning."

His eyes narrowed. "So. You have come to gloat?"

"No. I've come to make you an offer."

Slowly, he stood, and he moved over to the bars. "Who is to say that I will accept any offer you make, fat man?"

I looked up at him; I stand nearly six feet myself, but he was taller than me. "That's up to you, once you hear the terms."

"Wait," he growled. "Turn your head to the left."

With a sigh, I turned my head. The reddened scar was made plainly visible.

"Bakuda," he spat. It seemed that he did not approve of her practice of putting bombs in people.

"Got it in one," I confirmed.

"You are one of hers now?" Then he reconsidered. "But no, they would not allow you in here."

"No," I agreed. "Not one of hers. I beat shit out of her, after she did this to me."

He took the news of her beating with equanimity. "And Oni Lee?"

"He was being attacked the same way you were, with bugs. He left. We haven't seen him since."

"Hm." The sound was a growl. "So, how much time do you have?"

He was more perceptive than he seemed. "Long enough."

"Which means, not long," he noted. "So, fat man, what is your offer?"

"I want you to join me," I told him, deadpan.

He stared at me, face blank, for a long moment, then he burst out laughing. I folded my arms and watched him. Eventually, he calmed himself, but a savage grin was still lurking about his face as he composed his features.

"That was a good joke," he allowed. "Now tell me why you are really here."

I sighed in impatience. "Let's start with how you ended up in this cell," I told him. "I knew exactly where you would be, and when. I knew how many men you would have with you. I took a brand-new cape with me, one who had never been in a single fight. I told her exactly how to defeat you. And she did. Handily. Lung, the toughest cape in Brockton Bay, the man who went toe-to-toe with Leviathan, was taken down by a teenage girl with the assistance of one old, fat security guard."

His face darkened. "So, you came to gloat after all," he snarled.

I shook my head. "Hardly. That was just a demonstration."

He stared at me; I didn't elaborate. Finally, as I knew he would, he broke the silence.

"A demonstration of what?" he asked.

"That things are changing," I told him flatly. "The world is changing. And if you don't change yourself, you'll get left behind."

"Changing?" he growled. "In what way?"

"The Slaughterhouse Nine are done," I informed him. "Eidolon killed all but two of them, just the other day. I told him how to do it." It was stretching the truth, but not very much.

His eyes widened fractionally. "Even Crawler?"

I nodded. "Even Crawler."

He shrugged. "They had made enemies of the civilised world. It was inevitable."

I dropped my bombshell. "And the Endbringers are finished."

That got his attention. He stared at me. "You joke."

I shook my head. "Nope. I have taken steps, and the Endbringers are no longer a factor."

He stared at me, seeking any sign of deception. I stared back, holding his gaze.

"I have faced an Endbringer in combat," he growled. "I know their strength, their power. Do you?"

"I know far more about Endbringers, and their strengths and weaknesses, than you ever will," I retorted. "And I have neutralised them as surely as you were taken down, once upon a time, in a drug house in Japan, years ago. Remember? When your face was pushed into the white powder, and you were choking on it, before you triggered. Do you remember, Kenta?"

His stare hardened, sharpened. "How do you know of that?"

I chuckled. "Sorry. You're not cleared to know that."

"Do not taunt me, fat man, or I swear -"

I shook my head. "No taunt. It's the simple truth. Director Piggot isn't cleared to know that." I showed my teeth in a grin. "Even Chief Director Costa-Brown doesn't have that clearance."

He paused, apparently thinking. "Then who do you speak for?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Myself. And the world. I'm here to save it. And I'm going to need your help."

His voice was scornful. "One so powerful as you, and you say you need my help, one who you defeated so easily."

"There is power and there is power, Kenta, known as Lung. There is the power that comes from knowledge, and the power that comes from a strong right arm. I have the former. You have the latter. And as useful as knowledge is, sometimes you just need someone who can hit, really, really hard."

He tilted his head to one side. "And what do you need me to hit?" It wasn't surrender, or even agreement. He was feeling out the territory, seeing what I wanted.

I shook my head slightly. "Not yet. I just need to know if you're on board. Because if you're with me on this, you're accepting a new world, a new way of doing things. You're stepping away from the ABB. They're the past. This is the future. Are you stuck in the past, or are you a part of the future?"

He was silent for a long moment. While he was still thinking, Miss Militia cleared her throat, and gestured back out of the cell. I nodded.

"Think about it, Kenta," I invited him. "But don't take too long. The world's not about to stop changing. I'm not done yet."

I stepped back out, and the door swung shut with a heavy clunk. Automatically, it locked, the bolts sliding into their recesses.

"Riley's here?" I asked.

Miss Militia nodded. "They just landed. And you have visitors. Weaver, her father, and Panacea."

"Oh boy," I muttered. "Here we go."

As we walked along, a careful two yards apart, she turned her head to face me. "What you said to him in there ..."

"Yeah?"

"How much of that was true?"

I shrugged. "All of it, more or less."

She was silent for a few moments, processing that information.

"So why were you asking him for help?"

I turned to look her in the eye. "Because we're gonna need him. Sooner or later, we're gonna need everyone's help."

She didn't have a response for that; we walked on.

=/=

Alan Barnes looked over at Emma as he drove her home. She huddled, silent, on the passenger seat. The paramedics had pronounced her healthy, with just a few bruises and contusions to show for her ordeal. These had been cleaned on site, and she had been released into her father's care.

"Emma?" he asked. "How are you feeling?"

She sat up slightly then, and looked around at him.

"I … think I'll be all right," she managed. "Eventually. After I get over all of this."

He nodded. "I just want you to know that your mother and I will be right beside you all the way. If you want to stay out of school for a while ..."

She shook her head. "No. I'll be fine. It's not like the last time."

He remembered the last time. Eighteen months previously. The ABB ambushing the car, dragging his daughter out through the broken window. The stuff of nightmares. He'd had them, for several weeks afterward. Hers had lasted longer, it seemed.

"Not the same?" he asked curiously.

She nodded, jerkily. "This time I had a choice. Sort of. And Mr Allen saved me. After I saved Mr Gladly. He was saved, wasn't he?"

Alan nodded. "From what I understand, his vitals were strong when they took him away."

In truth, he had no idea what state the man had been in, but he had to encourage this line of thought.

"Good," she replied.

"Emma …" he began. "You did a good thing. You saved his life. But … as your father … please don't ever do that again." His tone was pleading. A tear ran down his cheek.

Slowly, she shook her head, her hand stealing up to touch her throat. "Don't worry about that, Dad. I died a thousand times while that thing was around my neck." She drew a deep breath. "But I think I learned something really, really important."

He tilted his head, glancing toward her. "Learned something?"

She nodded. "I was wrong. Sophia was wrong. Badly wrong."

"About what?"

She took a deep breath. "About strength. It's not about pushing people down. It's about helping them. If you can help others, then that's strength."

He didn't disagree. The rest of the drive passed in silence.

=/=

Getting me up and down in the elevator involved a certain amount of thought. I wasn't about to climb all those stairs myself; a heart attack just might do what the bomb failed to do. But we figured it out. Miss Militia went first and then sent the lift back down to me; it was just too small for two people to stand six feet apart, even diagonally. I got in, hit the 'express' button, and the doors interleaved shut.

Waiting for me, when I got up there, were Danny, Taylor and Amy. Danny looked concerned, Taylor looked serious, and Amy looked pissed.

"Hey, guys - " I began, but Amy cut me off.

"Don't you go 'hey' to me, Michael Allen!" she snapped.

"Whoa, hold on a second," I protested. "What's going on? Why so upset?" I thought I knew, but I figured I'd ask, just in case.

"I'm upset because you don't trust me to help you!" she accused me. "You're just like -"

She cut her words off then, but I heard the next one loud and clear. Carol.

The realisation hit me harder than Lung had done, on that warm Sunday night. Oh. I'm a moron. She's been living in an atmosphere of mistrust for ten years. And then I go and do this.

"Oh shit," I exclaimed. "No, sorry. I didn't mean it like that. And I didn't mean to make you think I didn't trust you. Of course I bloody well trust you."

She took a deep breath. "Then why didn't you call me?" she shouted.

I chose my words carefully. "Because it's not your job. Because you're off duty, young lady."

She had a full head of steam, ready to blast more anger at me. But my words caught her up short. "You know I – what?"

"You heard me. You're off healing duties for a month. That started this morning. You promised that you'd lay off healing people, and you'd attend therapy, all month. Right?"

"I – yes, I promised, and I am going to therapy, but -"

I raised my eyebrows questioningly. "But what?"

"But you need me to help you! That's more important!"

I waited a few beats, then I shook my head. "No."

She blinked, the rug pulled out from under her. "What?"

"I said no. Nothing is more important than you getting your head together. And if you decide that my problems are more important, then what's to say that tomorrow someone else will be more important? Then before you know it, you'll be sneaking out to go to the hospital again, and you'll be feeling twice as guilty, because you'll still be burning out, even as you know you should be holding off."

"But you might die!" she wailed.

"Anyone could die before tomorrow," I told her. "Earthquake. Meteorite strike. Sudden unexplained Endbringer attack. Your next door neighbour manifests super-powers and flattens your house by accident. A portal opens to the Star Trek universe and your house is swamped with Tribbles. It's a strange, strange universe." Stranger than you know.

She giggled despite herself, then sobered. "But why won't you let me help you?" she persisted. "I'll do therapy for an extra day."

I sighed. "Because the bomb has a proximity sensor," I told her. "If you came within two yards, you would kick the counter down an hour. And I've only got four or five left."

"I could get the bomb out in that time," she insisted. "It would take ten seconds, tops. Maybe less."

"And can you deal with any booby traps that Bakuda has built in to stop just that from happening?" I asked gently. "Suppose she's set it up that if it gets taken out while someone's in proximity range, it goes off?"

Her face paled, the freckles standing out in sharp detail. "I – I didn't think of that. Would she do something like that?"

"She already made it so that when we tried to get a CT scan of it, it set the timer on to triple speed," I advised her. "That's why I've only got five hours. My best bet is to go with another Tinker. Actually, two Tinkers. I'm just going to talk to one of them now."

She frowned. "Who?"

I shook my head. "You know how I've said there's things you're better off not knowing?"

"Um … yes?"

"That's one of them."

Her expression turned outraged. "What? But ..."

"Sorry, but that's the way it's got to be," I told her. "Though ..."

She looked hopeful. "Yes?"

"If you could maybe stick around? There's a small but non-zero chance that this will go bad without actually killing me. If that happens, there's no-one I'd prefer to try to piece me back together, afterward." I imagined Riley piecing me back together, and shuddered.

She looked determined. "You bet."

I gave Danny a nod, which he returned. For Taylor, I mimed a fist-bump gesture, which she copied, despite the fact that we were three yards apart.

I turned to Miss Militia. "So, where is she?"

She gestured back toward the lift. "This way." Of course. Basement level, in the cells.

And off we went, to speak with Bonesaw.

=/=

Principal Blackwell sat at her personal computer. Winslow would be shut down for a couple of days, until the PRT bomb disposal teams were sure that the building was clear of the lethal little devices that they had found scattered liberally through the classrooms. Fortunately, it was Friday, so the curriculum would suffer as little disruption as possible.

Talking of disruptions …

The three girls at the centre of the Winslow hostage situation had acquitted themselves well; Emma had offered herself as a hostage to spare Mr Gladly's life. Madison and Julia had assisted Mr Allen in saving Gladly from bleeding out altogether.

Taylor Hebert will be attending Arcadia. There will be no danger of this particular situation recurring. And perhaps the girls have learned an important lesson of life.

With Gladly in the hospital, she simply would not have the staff to oversee the girls in their in-school detention. She could still uphold the ban on sports and other activities, but allowing them to return to their studies … that was only fair.

As for the gangs …

She opened a new page in her word processor program.

Gang activity, she typed, is no longer permitted within Winslow High School. Any persons wearing the insignia of, or expressing support toward, the gangs known as Azn Bad Boyz, Empire Eighty-Eight or the Merchants – or any other criminal gang – will undergo immediate punishment.

She paused, thinking about the next few lines. And how it would be received by the student body. And the staff.

First offenders will be warned. Failure to immediately dispose of the insignia or to cease the gang activity will lead to suspension without appeal. A second offence will lead to the summary expulsion of the student or students involved.

She typed a few more lines, then saved the document and attached it to an email intended for the school governors, for their approval. After what had happened in Winslow – it was plastered all over the evening news – she doubted that they would object.

The PRT had taken away Mr Allen, without releasing much in the way of information regarding his situation. She suspected some sort of potentially serious injury, perhaps inflicted by a super-powered opponent. In any case, she doubted that he would be fit to return to duty on Monday morning.

After a few moments of introspection, she opened the email and began typing again.

As our current security guard, Michael Allen, is likely to be unable to be fit for work, we will need able-bodied guards if the above notice is to be enforced. I hereby request that you contract another guard from Wolfhound, or perhaps two more.

Closing off the email, she sent it away.

I will admit that I did not like the man, but the fact remains that he did his job, and did it well. I can only hope that whoever they send me can do their job half as well as he did, against the criticism we all levelled at him.

And that job, she knew, would be cut out for them.

=/=

The lift doors interleaved open once more. Earlier, I had been impressed by the technology. Now, I was just pleased that the lift was fast enough to get me where I wanted to go without excess delay.

As I exited, the sound I was dreading to hear echoed through my skull once more.

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

Miss Militia looked at my face and immediately knew that something was wrong.

"What happened?" she asked.

"The Director was right," I informed her grimly. "I just got a countdown warning. Three buzzes. I've got four hours left."

She nodded in understanding. "Then let's make this count."

Bonesaw's cell was not unlike Lung's, although it was in a different section, and the guards wore full environmental gear. This was where they kept the real problematic cases, I gathered.

There was the main door, then the sheet of perspex; only this time, it wasn't pierced. The air on her side of the barrier stayed on her side of the barrier. Like Lung's it no doubt had hidden containment foam sprayers, ready to encase her at a moment's notice if she tried anything strange.

I stepped into the space before the perspex sheet; Miss Militia carefully kept out of my way.

Beside the door, there was an intercom button and a speaker. I pressed the button.

"Excuse me, Riley? Do you have a moment?"

The child on the other side of the barrier looked around at me in some surprise. I was jolted; somehow, I had expected her to show some outward sign of her years in the Slaughterhouse Nine. But she was as cherubic as any normal twelve year old. Blonde hair, now cut short; kid-size prison sweats. I wondered where they'd gotten those; it would not be as if there were many child supervillains.

And then, I realised, there were. Starlet, August Prince, Bambina, just to name three.

How many kids must trigger and turn to crime these days?

Lisa, Brian, Rachel, Alec …

Wow.

This world is hurting.

One more reason to try to fix it, reduce the amount of conflict going around.

"Um, who are you?" she asked, approaching the perspex. "Are you my lawyer?"

I shook my head. "No, Riley. But I can maybe help you more than he can." If she even gets one. As I recall, there's a standing kill order on all members of the Nine. I doubt they'd even get a trial, let alone a lawyer. "My name's Mike."

She frowned. "Why are you calling me Riley?"

I shrugged. "Because it's your name. Had you forgotten?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I hadn't forgotten. But how did you know it? No-one knows my real name."

My voice was gentle. "Because Jack never let you use it, did he? You weren't Riley. You were his little Bonesaw."

She swallowed. "You'd better be careful. He'll come for me soon. You don't want to be here when he does."

"Jack?" I shook my head. "He's dead. Eidolon made sure of it."

It was her turn to shake her head. "Nobody can kill Mr Jack. They've been trying since before I was born. And he'll come for me, and he'll be angry."

I raised an eyebrow. "Angry at me, for being the one who helped Eidolon capture you, or angry at you for being caught?"

She didn't answer; she just hugged one arm around herself, clasping her other arm. The gesture tore at my heart.

'Well," I went on, "Jack is well and truly dead. So you don't have to be his Bonesaw any more. You can go back to being Riley."

She dug a bare foot into the rubber matting, then looked defiantly at me. "You can't tell me what to do!"

I grinned at her, and leaned against the wall. Slid down till I was sitting on the floor. "Good. That's good."

Riley frowned, confused. "What?"

"Talk back to me. Get angry. Think about what's going on around you. Bonesaw was the good girl who did what people told her. What Jack told her. She was the good girl, because that's what your mommy told you to be, right?"

Her frown deepened. "How do you know that? How do you know what she said?"

I shrugged slightly. "Same way I know you loved Muffles and Drew too, even though you fought with him."

Every little girl loves her pet, and every girl fights with her brother. I had a little sister, myself, and I recalled some epic arguments.

Her mouth dropped open. "How do you – no fair! You know stuff about me that no-one knows!"

"Yup. And that's how I know Riley's still inside there. Waiting to come out. Because six years is a long time."

She shook her head. "No. That's not true."

"Isn't it?" I asked gently. "Are you absolutely certain … Riley?"

"No," she insisted. "I've done too much, hurt too many people. I'm not Riley any more. I'm Bonesaw. Riley doesn't do things like that to people."

"No," I agreed. "She helps people. Which is why you're here. I need help, Riley. I need your help."

She blew a raspberry. "Like I'd help you. You got me in here. You got Mr Jack and the others killed. What am I gonna get if I help?"

"A pat on the back," I observed truthfully. "And a little more leeway. More comfort. They'd give you the option to reverse the surgeries you've done on yourself. Start making amends. Helping people."

She rolled her eyes. "As if anyone would allow Bonesaw to even get close to them. People don't forget, Mike. With all the will in the world, they'd still reject me. And they'd be correct to do it." A perceptive glance. "What you need help with … will you die, otherwise?"

"It's a very real possibility," I admitted.

"And if I help you, and you die anyway, they'll say I did it on purpose. And maybe I would. I don't like being forced to do something."

"I can understand that," I agreed. "Like they forced you into the Nine, in the first place."

She shook her head vigorously. "No. No. They recruited me, fair and square. Mr Jack said so."

My expression was deadpan, my voice expressionless. "Really."

"He said so!" she insisted.

I shook my head. "Do you know what Jack's powers were?" I asked quietly.

She frowned, puzzled at the change in topic. "That … knife blade thing," she said at last, waving her hand vaguely.

I nodded. "That's one of them. His powers were based around communication. One part of it physically communicated a cutting edge as far as he wanted it to. Another part let him know exactly what another parahuman was going to do before they did it – his power communicated with their powers, you see. And the third part let him talk to people, to know exactly what to say to them to get them to do what he wanted them to do. Particularly parahumans. That's how he managed to dance between the raindrops for more than twenty years."

She stared at me. "That … that makes so much sense," she responded at last.

"Does, doesn't it?" I agreed. "Anyway, the way they recruited you? Forcing you to bring your family back to life – your mommy, your daddy, Drew, Muffles – over and over again, until you were too tired to think straight, until you simply couldn't face it any more. That was Jack's doing. He knew how to break you. What to do, what to say. When to ask you if you really loved your mommy. How to phrase it so that you'd decide that you didn't, just to break out of the endless cycle of fixing them, just to watch him and his friends kill them again ..."

I trailed off. She was staring at me, eyes wide. I waited; she didn't seem to have much to say.

"Your mommy told you to be a good girl," I went on. "And so you did. You ate your vegetables, and you didn't use bad words, and you did what you were told." I spread my hands. "Of course, the person doing the telling was a sociopathic monster, and you learned to use your powers to pretend to be a monster as well, to enjoy it, because that way he would be happy with you. Stockholm syndrome; it's a thing."

She was shaking her head again; not in negation, but in denial. "No," she insisted. "No, it's not true, it can't be true. Mr Jack didn't do that to me. I decided to do it all by myself."

I considered using Contessa's 'breadth and depth' line on her, but decided against it. It had worked for Contessa because, well, Contessa. At that precise time and place, it had worked. Here and now … I wasn't Contessa. I only had access to Path to Victory via second hand use, if I was lucky. Here and now … not so much.

"I don't believe that, Riley," I told her flatly. "And nor do you. Inside, you're still the same girl who loved her parents and her brother and her pet. You're a good girl; not the 'good girl' Jack made you into, but an actual good girl, who wants to help people, not hurt them. I know it, just like I know all the other things about you."

She ran her fingers through her cropped blonde hair. "How do you know those things, anyway?" she demanded again. "Who told? Mr Jack?"

"Not Jack," I told her. "I just know them. And I know one other thing."

"What's that?" she asked.

"That right now, I need your help. I need the help of the best surgeon in the world."

She looked me up and down. "You've already said that, but you didn't say what for." She paused. "What's that scar on your neck?"

I nodded slowly, then turned my head to give her a better look. "Bakuda put a bomb in my head; as far as we can tell, it's somewhere up under the base of my brain. But she included booby-traps to make surgical extraction as hard as possible."

She spread her hands. "So get someone like Panacea to make it pop out of you. Problem solved."

My voice was flat. "Maybe you weren't listening. Bakuda. Booby traps. Including a proximity sensor that kicks the timer over if someone gets within six feet of me. And another that speeds it up if we try medical sensor equipment."

"Both of which have already happened, I'm guessing," she observed, pressing closer to the perspex to get a better look at the scar.

"Got it in one," I admitted ruefully. "Started with thirty-six hours. Lost ten hours beating her up. Lost another couple pissing about here and there, waiting for you to turn up and suchlike. And lost nine when they put me under a CT scan."

"Which leaves fifteen hours, more or less," she noted. She was a sharp kid, of course.

I shook my head. "The bout with the CT scanner sped up the timer. I've got a little less than four hours to go."

I looked directly at her. "Bakuda is really inventive with her booby-traps. Let's just say that this is a challenge to you; can the master surgeon remove something that the master bomb-builder put in someone's head?"

She rubbed her chin, frowning. Not convinced yet. Still looking shaken by the information I had forced on her. "I'd need tools -"

"Surgical waldos, built to fit your hands and eyes, have been fabricated and are being flown in," I pointed out.

She tilted her head. "Who by?"

"Dragon. She's going to assist in this operation, and help deal with the booby-traps as they come up."

Riley actually looked impressed for a moment. "Surgical tools built by Dragon?" And then the expression gave way to one of suspicion. "Why do you rate this? Why do you rate me?"

I shrugged slightly, modestly. "People seem to think I'm important for what I know."

"Huh." She stared into thin air. "Dragon-made surgical tools ..."

"So you'll do it?"

Immediately I uttered the words, I knew I had been too fast, too eager in saying them. Too rattled by the encroaching deadline.

Her defences came up again. "I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to manipulate me, just like Jack did."

I noted the lack of the honorific, but chose not to comment on it. She was still talking.

"The Nine killed my family, yeah, but then they became my family. In a really twisted way, but they were all I had. And now you helped Eidolon kill them, and you're trying to talk me into doing something for you. Why should I do anything for you?"

I spread my hands. "I … because it's the right thing to do?"

She laughed mirthlessly. "For you, sure. For me? What do I care if you live or die? You're all like him. Telling me what to do!"

I tried, one more time. "Riley -"

Stubbornly, she folded her arms and turned away. "Leave me alone. I don't do what anyone tells me, any more." Walking to the far corner of the cell, she sat down, cross-legged, facing the wall.

"Riley!" I called out.

She put her hands over her ears.

Fuck. I was so close.

With a certain amount of effort – extra weight and stiff joints will do that to you – I levered myself to my feet. Miss Militia eyed me with concern.

"Let's go," I told her. "I got nothing here."

=/=

I met Dragon in the area that was being set aside for the surgery. She had a suit of what looked like power armour; I guessed the humanoid remote form was still under development.

Pausing a few yards from her, I held up a finger. "Just checking; not a Cadfael?"

She shook the armoured helmet. "No. May I ask how you knew about those?"

"In time," I told her, moving gingerly closer. "It's good to see you."

She shook my hand. "You as well, Michael. I'm glad that you requested my help."

I gave her a halfway grin. "I'm glad you said yes."

"Well, of course," she protested. "I could never repay the debt I owe you."

"Nothing is owed," I corrected her. "But I accept the favour." I paused. "And how's things with …?"

She took my meaning, as I had known she would. "Progressing," she informed me, and I heard the smile in her voice.

"Good," I told her, and meant it. But it was time to get back to business. "However, I ran into a snag at my end."

"Which is …?"

"I was going to get Bonesaw to be the primary surgeon, while you assisted. And I thought I nearly had her talked into it. But I put my foot wrong, and she spat the dummy, and now she's not talking to me."

She tilted her head. "Spat the dummy …?"

Oh shit. That's an Australian term.

"Uh, got angry. Refused to listen."

Her voice was concerned. "Oh dear. With her doing it, you would have had a very good chance at success."

I nodded. "Which is why I would like you to install the controls in her cell anyway. Just in case she decides to have a change of heart. But prepare to run the surgery yourself."

Concern had turned to worry. "I don't have much in the way of experience with surgical procedures, Michael."

I gave her what may have passed for a grin. "Then you've got three hours to learn. Plenty of time."

=/=

I lay on the surgical table. By the clock, it had been two hours since Dragon had arrived. You couldn't tell it by me; one moment, it felt like five minutes, the next it felt like three and a half eternities, stacked one atop the other. Every time that damned triple buzz sounded, I thought Oh shit, here it comes, I've miscounted and I'm gonna die.

But I hadn't. My skull was still intact, and Dragon was preparing for the surgery.

The surgical waldos loomed over me like an over-enthusiastic spider poising for the kill. Scalpel blades, probes, other tools I could not name, all controlled by a computer setup the size of a shoebox.

Dragon, of course, was plugged into the system wirelessly; her 'suit' stood beside me, ready for whatever on-the-spot action the waldos could not handle.

Personally, looking at the multiplexity of them, I couldn't think of such a situation.

"I believe that I have reached the point of diminishing returns," she told me evenly. "Further study would be compromised by the chance of not being able to finish the surgery in time. If I am to operate, then I must do it now."

Now was the time, I knew, to make a dramatic and stirring speech, to rally those I left behind, in case I didn't make it. But I had every intention of making it; even as I did everything I could to maximise my chances of survival, I had faith in Contessa doing something – anything – to save my sorry arse.

Of course, she was best at acting behind the scenes, so if she was doing something, no-one was seeing it.


I sighed. "Let's do this thing."

Lying back, I tried to relax as one of the waldo arms moved closer, a needle probing toward my skin - "Wait!" I shouted.

The waldo stopped, inches from me.

"What?" asked Dragon. "Is there something wrong?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "Just out of curiosity, injecting anaesthetic into me will alter my blood chemistry, right?"

"Yes," agreed Dragon. "But why – oh!"

"Oh, is right," I agreed heavily. "No anaesthetic. Just in case."

She even told me that she didn't use anaesthetic. Was it a hint or a warning?

"This is going to hurt terribly, Michael," Dragon warned me.

"Yeah, don't I know it," I muttered. "Listen, you're gonna have to strap me down."

"Are you sure -?"

I shook my head. "No. But she'd do it. You know that and so do I. We can't take the chance. Strap me down."

=/=

Riley glared at the waldo controls that had been installed in her cell. They awaited her touch to come alive, to activate. The screen over the top was not intended for use when she was actually working the waldos, but for anyone who was standing back for the action.

He's going to get Dragon to do the operation, she realised. And he's going to make me watch. And when she screws it up – in her mind it was 'when', not 'if' – it's supposed to be all my fault because I didn't help. But I never asked for this. I don't want to be here.

What's he ever done for me?

"A great deal, actually."

The cool voice behind her made her jump violently. She turned fast, bringing her defensive systems online, those that had not been neutralised by the PRT surgeons.

The woman stood placidly, arms folded. She had pale skin and dark hair, and wore a black suit. Riley could not shake the impression that the woman owned the space around her, wore the cell like a second skin.

"What is this? Where did you come from?"

The woman smiled enigmatically. "Do you really need me to answer those questions?"

Riley frowned. "I guess not. You're from … where I was being kept, before they brought me here." A thought struck her, and she glanced around. "The cameras?"

"Taken care of," the woman assured her. "As far as they're concerned, this conversation never happened."

"Fine." Riley looked back at her. "So what do you want?"

"I want you to perform the operation on Michael Allen, and successfully remove Bakuda's bomb from next to his brainstem."

Riley snorted. "He already asked me. Didn't give me enough of a reason why I should." She looked up at the woman. "Are you going to threaten me now?"

The woman shook her head. "It wouldn't work. You're not that sort of person. I'm just going to ask you politely. But first, I'm going to tell you the reasons why you should, the ones he was too modest to tell you. Perhaps for fear that you would think he was exaggerating for effect."

Riley rolled her eyes. As if.

And then the woman began to speak, quietly but compellingly.

And Riley listened.

=/=

Straps had been hastily procured and affixed to the surgical table. They were fastened to me by Dragon, checking at each step that my circulation was not cut off. The second last strap held my head in place, as immovably as a part of the table. The last strap went between my teeth, at my own insistence.

"I do not like this, Michael," Dragon told me. "There are too many things that can go wrong."

I spat out the strap. "And if you do nothing, then it will definitely go wrong," I assured her. "Now put the strap back in my mouth, and get that damn bomb out of me."

Obediently, she placed the strap back into my mouth.

I shut my eyes tightly as the first scalpel eased into position, other waldo arms ready to perform tasks such as mopping blood.

The first touch of the cold steel stung my flesh. I clenched my teeth.

"You're doing it all wrong."

Had I not been strapped down, I would have jumped, and quite possibly cut myself badly on the scalpel blade. Fortunately, Dragon possessed no such reflex.

"Riley," Dragon greeted her urbanely. "Do you wish to observe and perhaps advise?"

"Observe, hell. Step aside. This is my schtick. I'll be damned if I let some jumped-up bomb-builder beat me in surgery."

"With pleasure," Dragon replied. "Be aware, the patient has refused anaesthesia for very good reasons."

"I know. I was listening. It doesn't matter. I never use the stuff myself. But if you nick the nerves here … and here … and here ..."

I didn't have time to cry out as three loci of pain blossomed on my skin, nowhere near the point where Dragon had been about to cut. They weren't that painful, I realised. Surface cuts only.

'"… should deaden sensation to that entire area. Let's see now."

A gentle pressure on the side of my neck. My eyes flicked up to the screen that carried the imagery of the ongoing surgery; I had insisted on being able to see it myself. The scalpel blade was opening my skin, the flesh of my neck, like a knife through hot butter. And it felt no more painful than running one's fingernail across the skin.

It was very, very creepy to watch.

"Actually," Riley commented. "What the hell. Let's turn him off for the duration."

No – I thought, but it was too late. One of the waldo arms did something, and I plummeted into an endless pit of darkness.

=/=

Michael Allen lay inert, as the waldos carefully probed the surgical wound in the side of his neck, up under the base of his skull. Dragon and Riley murmured to one another as the surgery progressed, half-sentences that one began and the other finished.

They had gotten as far as finding the bomb itself; snuggled up next to his brainstem, as Contessa had told Riley, it was going to be trouble getting out. Especially as Bakuda had apparently planted a pressure switch against one of his vertebrae.

Riley identified booby traps and worked out ways around them, and Dragon implemented the solutions. Occasionally, this worked the other way around. They were making progress, but Dragon feared that it was too slow. Time was getting close. Too close.

"Riley," she ventured. "Is it connected to anything important?"

"Can't see it if it is," the bio-tinker replied absently, a scalpel delicately severing a wire. "She's good at booby-traps. Real good. But when it comes to wetware, I'm better."

"Can you repair damage from hypothermia in that immediate area?"

"You've got a plan?"

"Liquid nitrogen, then pluck it."

"You realise, L-N or no L-N, that plan ends in boom."

"This remote unit has a reinforced internal storage compartment. I did not pick it at whim."

"Hm. We are running low on time. Good thing I put him out. He might protest."

"Or he might urge us to go ahead."

"Good point. Let me open the way."

Later, it would never be certain as to whether it was the proximity of the scalpel waldo itself, or something else, that triggered the final sequence on the bomb. Fortunately, Dragon's suit held many finely tuned sensors. She picked up the electrical impulses within the tiny, deadly device.

"Riley!" she snapped.

The waldos pulled back out of the way with eye-defying speed. Liquid nitrogen hissed, and white clouds rose. The detonation sequence was slowed, fractionally.

Just long enough for nimble waldos to reach in, get a grip, and pluck the bomb from its niche. Dragon's hand closed over it; the suit turned and took two fast strides away from the bed, a compartment already opening in its chest.

Just over one whole second from the beginning of the detonation sequence, the bomb went off.

The storage compartment was shielded, which was fortunate; the first part of the explosion blasted microwaves in all directions, in sufficient quantities to cook a human brain to tapioca in an instant. Then came the actual detonation, which served to blow a large chunk out of the suit. Slowly, it fell over, several important systems destroyed.

From her cell, Riley turned the waldo cameras to observe the smoking wreck of the remote suit.

"Well, damn," she commented. Even as PRT troops entered the room, she began to repair the damage done by the supercooled liquid to the tissues of Michael Allen's neck.

He'd have a sore neck for a while, but he would survive.


End of Chapter Twenty-Nine