Hope Comes to Brockton Bay
Part 37
[Author's Note: Two more side-stories. But no more Skidmark for a while. I promise.]
Coil's Lair
Coil sighed and closed his phone. He felt a momentary surge of aggravation toward Tattletale, but then, that was what she did. She aggravated people, and then pulled clues out of their responses.
He had not had time to go through his normal routine of capturing the subject and interrogating them over days, so instead he had asked Dinah, and she had told him.
It wasn't as satisfying as being there, seeing and hearing the subject, but she had given him the information he needed. She had then told him what Tattletale would do with the information, which made him smile a little grimly; the Protectorate had needed a shakeup for months. Maybe this would keep them off balance for a while longer ...
But now, he had to find something else out. He had to find out about Hope.
So he thought about what he would do. And then, behind his eyes, he split the universe in two.
"Pet," he asked Dinah, "what percentage of my operations will be affected negatively by Hope's actions, if she is left unchecked? Over the next four weeks, say."
"In one week, zero point three percent," she replied. "In two weeks, six point four percent. In three weeks, twelve point seven percent. In four weeks, seventeen point six percent." She paused. "May I have some candy?"
He discarded that universe and thought about the answers, then re-engaged his power.
Then he asked her about the chance of Hope's actions continuing to affect his operations if she dropped dead of natural causes on the morrow.
Her influence would continue on for a while after she died, he learned but it would be reduced. In two weeks, her residual influence would have a four point three percent chance of disrupting his operations. In three weeks, eight point nine percent. In four weeks, ten point one percent. After seven weeks, there would be a less than one percent chance that any of his operations would be affected by her previous actions.
He considered that, eyed her strained face, and collapsed that universe.
Opening another alternate, he tried once more.
"What are the chances of failure if someone attempted to assassinate Hope using ... say ... a sniper rifle?"
There was an eighty-four point three percent chance of failure on the first attempt, Dinah informed him. On subsequent attempts, that would rise to ninety-eight point nine percent. Further questioning elicited the information that there was a seventy-six point seven percent chance of the sniper being captured, and a sixty-four point six percent chance of his subsequently giving up Coil's name as his paymaster.
He collapsed that universe, and opened another line of inquiry. This was bothersome, but Dinah was so easily strained these days.
He thought hard about the information he already had. "Pet," he said, "If Hope saw an injured person on the ground, calling for help, as she flew over, what is the probability that she would land and provide assistance?"
Her answer was immediate and positive. The trap he had in mind, using a decoy, would have a ninety-seven point three percent chance of working. However, further questions garnered him the information that neither tear gas nor tranquiliser darts would be efficacious ... but that containment foam would be effective, but only if she was completely engulfed in it.
He collapsed that universe and paused for thought. I can get containment foam, he thought. Now for the hard questions.
He split the universe again.
Time for a test question, he thought.
"Let's play a game of 'let's pretend', pet," he said. "If I had Hope killed tomorrow, and hid the body without anyone knowing that I had it done, what are the percentage chances of my ongoing operations being disrupted by her current actions? Give me a week by week analysis, please."
Dinah blinked, and paused for a long moment. "I can't get an answer. The question is meaningless."
He stared at her. "What do you mean, pet?"
"If you have Hope killed, there is a ..." She blinked, puzzled. "A ... one hundred percent chance that you are uncovered as the agent of her death."
"One hundred percent?" he asked, incredulous. "How is that possible?"
"I don't know," she said.
He felt a cold chill down his spine.
"What is the percentage chance that I go to prison for that?" he asked.
"Zero," she replied flatly.
It took careful questioning, and occasional collapsing of the current universe and a re-opening of a secondary one, but he got his answers, and they worried him.
In ninety-eight point four percent of the cases, he would be killed. Seventy-six percent of the time, Dinah would also be killed. In every single case, the killers would be the capes of Brockton Bay, sometimes even the members of the Undersiders or the Travelers. In that one point six percent of the cases, where he was not killed, he would be forced to flee Brockton Bay before they got to him.
If he stayed in the United States, there was a ninety-three point four percent chance of being hunted down and killed by a parahuman from Brockton Bay. Leaving the country, would drop that to a thirty-two point six percent chance.
He felt he was on the endgame as he opened yet another parallel universe.
"Pet, if I had Hope killed, and promptly fled the country, evading all pursuit, what percentage chance do I have of rebuilding my power base elsewhere?"
She gave him an eighty-two point nine percent chance of rebuilding his power base to a level equivalent to what he had now within two years.
"Oh? What happens in two years?"
"We both die."
Another chill chased down his spine. "Are you certain about that?"
"One hundred percent." Her face was drawn and white. "No more, please," she whispered.
He dismissed that universe. He had learned enough.
Leaning back in his chair, he stared into space; Dinah knew nothing about the series of questions he had just asked her, and he preferred it that way.
He had learned many things. But one stood above all others.
Something uncovers my involvement in Hope's death, no matter what. Hope has a guardian angel of her own. But who?
He dismissed that line of inquiry as useless.
If Hope cannot be beaten, or killed ... perhaps she can be co-opted.
Everyone has their price, after all.
Many miles above, in low Earth orbit, the Simurgh smiled in her sleep.
"Pet?" he asked idly.
"Yes?"
"What are the odds of Hope agreeing to work for me if I asked her to?"
Pause. He amused himself by trying to guess the answer. Low twenties, he imagined.
"Ninety-seven point three percent."
He nearly fell out of the chair.
Elsewhere in Brockton Bay
The room lay still and quiet. Bodies were scattered about the floor, in poses indicating violent death. Blood spattered the walls, gradually cooling and drying. Pools of it lay on the floor. Jagged wounds, still oozing gore, told of the method of death.
Shadows also lay heavy in the room.
Until they stirred, drew together, formed a human shape, forced the change, became human in totality.
Sophia Hess staggered, gasped in air, leaned on a table. The prison sweats, with SPECIAL across the back and down the sleeve, hung loosely on her. She was skinnier than before, the bones of her face standing out more sharply.
She fell into a chair, ignoring the death around her. Hurriedly, almost frantically, she stuffed food into her mouth, chewing and swallowing as fast as she could. A jug of water sat on the table; she poured clumsily, slopping water on the table, and drank thirstily. She ate hungrily, eschewing cutlery for fingers, almost whimpering with each mouthful that she managed to swallow. More water went into the cup, and she drank again, spilling some down her front but never noticing.
When the plate was empty, she scooted to the next plate over and started on that one. And then she froze for an instant, letting out a cry of protest and dismay. Grabbing a dinner roll, she tried to cram it into her mouth.
And abruptly, Sophia Hess was no longer sitting at the table. Shadows flowed and ebbed about the room. And the dinner roll dropped to the tabletop, fell off, and landed in the blood pooled there.
The shadow roiled about the table for a few moments, and then flowed out the half-open door. A voice unheard by human ears whispered, "So hungry ..."
And then, there were only the corpses and the cooling blood.
To be continued ...