/o\
Recoil
Part 3-4: Acceptable Losses
Wednesday, March 16, 1994
Chicago PRT Offices
I stood to attention and saluted smartly. "Major Hamilton, sir."
He returned it. "At ease, Lieutenant Snow." A faint line creased his brow as he observed me. "You have something for me?"
Relaxing a little, I clasped my hands behind my back. "Nothing I can put on paper, sir. It's about that matter we discussed on the playing field."
His head came up. "Shut the door, Snow."
I did as I was told, then returned to my position in front of his desk, at parade rest.
Major Hamilton was old-school military. He had been facing mandatory retirement from the regular army when the opportunity came to transfer across to the brand-new PRT and he had jumped at the chance. His balding head, half-moon glasses and neatly-trimmed white moustache might have given him the air of a kindly uncle, but the brain behind those shaggy eyebrows was still as sharp as a tack.
I sincerely liked the man, and I regretted the deceptions that I had played upon him, that I would yet play upon him, but these were things that had to happen.
Reaching into his desk, Hamilton retrieved a hand-held radio. He tuned it to a popular music station and turned the volume up a little; we would be able to hear one another, but no-one outside the room would be able to distinguish our voices over the background music.
Placing the radio on the desk between us, he leaned forward slightly, picking up a pencil with which to take notes. "Report."
I took a deep breath. "It's either New York or Los Angeles, sir. Not less than one week, not more than two."
His face did not change in expression, but his knuckles whitened. The pencil jammed into the pad so deeply that the tip of the lead snapped off. "You're certain about this, Snow?"
"As sure as I can be, sir. New York will cause disruption; LA already has conflict ongoing with the racial unrest. By my data, either one is a prime target. All the other indicators point to one or the other."
"But it can't be both."
I shook my head. "No, sir. I'm getting real-time data from each one. I'll keep working on it."
His faded blue eyes glinted at me from behind the spectacles. "When do you think you'll have a definite answer?"
"Not sure, sir. The numbers keep changing. But I'll try to get you as long a lead time as possible."
Abruptly, he nodded. "Good work, Snow. Keep me apprised. Was that all?"
Almost, I lost my nerve. Almost, I said no. But I had to lay the groundwork.
My nod was almost tentative. "Sir, there's something else. Something I've been getting a whiff of, while doing my other research." I paused, as if reluctant to go on.
His tone was sharp. "Spit it out, Snow."
I took a deep breath. "The instigator. I might be able to find the instigator."
Major Hamilton stood up so quickly that his chair rolled backward on its castors. There was a soft thump as it hit a filing cabinet; we both ignored it. "The instigator? You're sure of this?"
I shook my head quickly. "Not at all sure, sir. Just a hunch. And I won't be able to confirm anything until after this attack." I looked him in the eye. "And if that doesn't happen when and where I end up predicting it does, I'll have to start fresh. I won't be able to depend on any of my conclusions."
Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. "Understood, Snow. Keep me posted, on both accounts. Dismissed."
"Sir, yes, sir!" I saluted; he returned it. Turning, I opened the door and left his office; as I did so, I heard the music die away.
I headed for my quarters; I had two letters to write.
Saturday, March 19, 1994
Brockton Bay
Andrea's latest conquest was a black college girl, who couldn't have been a day over nineteen. She had been sweet and submissive, with long black curly hair, and had reminded Andrea altogether too much of Taylor. Despite the girl's willingness to stay over, Andrea had called her a cab and sent her on her way before midnight.
The temptation to let her stay had been strong. Too strong. Andrea had sent her away before she could convince herself that letting the girl sleep over a night or three wouldn't do any harm.
Now, she sat at her computer, decrypting the latest pair of letters from Gladys and Danny. The financial information scrolled down the screen, and she carefully copied it down. Then the letter from Taylor to her; sweet and loving, with an aching loneliness that whispered to her from every line. Her lingering inclination to get back in touch with the black college girl grew weaker and weaker, as she read Taylor's words through, carefully and lovingly.
And then came the postscript.
Instructions, on how to get in touch with a certain person. A person who could make things; a Tinker, in fact. A particular item, with very specific properties, that needed to be acquired from that person. Her eyes widened as she took in exactly what the item was supposed to do. Awareness crept into her mind, awareness of exactly how serious Taylor had been, when she had told Andrea what she was willing to do, in order to carry out her goal.
There was one other thing that she had to get, but that was much easier.
Carefully, she noted down those instructions as well. Then she read through the letter again, letting the words fill her soul, warming her from the inside out. Pressing her fingers to her lips, she gently touched the screen, where the phosphor letters spelled out Taylor's name. Gone now was even the slightest temptation to get back in touch with the college girl.
It's time to help save the world.
She wasn't quite sure how what she was getting would help save the world, but she had faith that Taylor knew what she was doing.
Wednesday, March 23, 1994
Chicago PRT Offices
Lisa strapped on the helmet, covered as it was with green metallic scales, and turned toward me, swirling the iridescent green cape around her. "How do I look?" she asked cheerfully.
Well, damn, I commented. I am seriously impressed. I thought nothing could beat your velociraptor wrangling antics.
The backdrop to the latest adventure was … stunning. We were situated in an immense valley, with jagged peaks reaching for the sky far to the left and right. Snow-clad mountaintops reflected the brilliant sunlight; overhead, twin moons showed identical daytime crescents. In the distance, a city apparently composed of various shades of crystal bid fair to emulate the mountain peaks, sending back rainbow scintillations from towers and spires, impossibly tall and slender. Closer to us, a tremendous grandstand was filled with people dressed in multicoloured finery; they waved banners of various colours.
Lisa chuckled. "Sometimes you've got to change things up a little." She clicked her tongue; the enormous creature lying alongside us, clad in the same iridescent green scales as her cape, leaned its huge head down to sniff at her hand; each snuffle sent puffs of warm, spicy air over the both of us.
She stepped forward, reached up, and scratched the dragon behind one spiky 'ear'; it stretched its long neck slightly, and crooned, soft and low.
And then it yawned, six-foot-long jaws opening to reveal fangs as long as my forearm but needle-sharp, and a startlingly pink tongue that curled up at the tip like a cat's. Another gust of warm, spicy breath washed over us.
Wow, I muttered. I think Peter Jackson wants your special effects budget.
She snorted laughter; the immense creature closed its mouth, and one large reptilian eye turned to observe me with interest.
You realise, I went on, that even though this is a dream, there is nothing you can say or do that will make me get on one of those things alone.
"Oh, I knew that," she assured me. "That saddle up there's a double."
Great, I muttered. So instead of getting on a dragon by myself like a certified lunatic, I get to share one with a certified lunatic.
"They're perfectly safe," she insisted, with an almost straight face. "They hardly ever try to eat their riders."
Forget I asked, I replied, rolling my eyes. Oh, and one other thing.
"Yes?" she asked innocently.
I indicated the ground crew, moving around, tending to the dragons. One and all, they were male. Tall, muscular. And not a one of them was wearing a shirt. And when they weren't doing anything, they seemed to just stand there, flexing.
Is that eye candy there for you or for me? I asked bluntly.
She grinned. "Yes."
I raised an eyebrow. Really? You're gonna play it that way?
She sighed. "You have no problem with spacecraft, dinosaurs or dragons, but you have issues with me having good-looking guys in my little fantasy world?"
I - I stopped. There was no way that sentence was going to end well. Point taken. Enjoy your little beefcake show.
"Thank you," she grinned. "I most certainly will."
With entirely unnecessary help from a tall, brawny young man, she ascended to the dragon's saddle. I declined similar assistance, and climbed up there myself. Settling into the saddle, I made sure that the straps over my thighs were buckled down correctly, as was the strap around my waist.
Lisa looked over her shoulder at me. "Ready?"
Ready. I put my arms around her waist, braced myself.
She whistled shrilly. On either side of us, huge iridescent green wings unfurled, spread, lifted … and then beat downward, once.
Twice.
Three times.
We were airborne.
I whooped as we gained altitude, the ground falling away beneath us at a prodigious rate. Lisa was yelling too. From her exultant tone, she was enjoying herself immensely, glorying in the rush of flight. But no more than I was.
It was awesome.
So what's my job? I yelled in her ear, once the dragon's flight steadied out.
"Gunner!" she yelled back. "Down by your right knee!"
Oh, right, I replied. Reaching down, I slid my hand into the grip; it folded around my hand, almost feeling alive as it did so. When I pulled it out, the barrel was a good four feet long, looking like a cross between a short medieval lance and a long-barrelled rifle.
Who am I shooting at? I asked next.
At that moment, she made some sort of signal to the dragon; it flipped a wing and rolled. As it did so, a streak of bright red light, with an actinic violet core, blasted past us, missing by a matter of yards. My head whipped around; not fifty feet behind us, a second behemoth of the skies banked around for another shot, this one covered in red scales. Its rider was grinning beneath his similarly-coloured helmet.
"Them," Lisa explained succinctly.
I extended my arm straight back and snapped off a shot; the gun-lance jolted my arm, but not significantly. My beam was bright green, with a sun-bright yellow centre. The dragon behind us evaded, but that lost him his position on our tail. Our dragon, apparently noting this, pulled up and around in a turn that compressed my spine in ways it probably wasn't intended to go. I tried to keep aim on the other team's dragon, but the g-forces dragged my arm down and off target.
"Good shooting," Lisa praised me.
I missed, I called back.
"Gave 'em a fright," she retorted, turning so that I could see her grin. "They won't be so careless, the next time."
The 'next time' came about half a second later; again, our dragon evaded in a manoeuvre that left both Lisa and me hanging head down, and me, specifically, acutely grateful for the safety straps. I fired three shots during that pass; the opposing crew fired four. I was fairly certain I'd grazed the rider – his left arm was hanging limp – but one shot from the opposition struck our dragon's wing. The great beast began to labour.
But I was learning how this worked, and I tapped Lisa's shoulder with my left hand. Down and around, I instructed her.
"You sure?" she responded. "That'll - "
I know what it will do. Down and around.
"I hope you know what you're doing." She gave the signals to the dragon, which half-turned its head to look quizzically at her. She gave the signals again, more emphatically. It obeyed; I got the impression that it was as dubious as its mistress.
We tilted up on one wing, and dived, then turned at the bottom of the dive. This put us almost directly alongside the other team … but with my left side to their right side. The enemy gunner grinned, taking his time as he brought his gun-lance around to bear on us.
But I was already acting. In the dive, I'd undone my safety straps, hanging on with my left hand to Lisa's waist belt. So even as we came level, I flung myself out of the saddle, swinging around with all my weight on my left arm. And I brought my right arm – and the gun-lance – into alignment, and fired.
Three shots went into the dragon, then one into the gunner, and one into the pilot. Stunned, they slumped in the saddle; the dragon, ancient instincts taking over, began to glide back down toward the ground, far below.
Lisa grinned as she helped me back into the saddle; the dragon assisted by diving, to reduce my effective weight. "That was damn ballsy," she praised me.
I grinned, doing up my safety straps one-handed. Well, you know me. If I'm doing a Hail Mary pass, it's probably Tuesday.
She nodded. "Can't argue with that."
We glided back down toward the ground, taking a victory roll past the stadium. The spectators waved bright green banners, cheering our victory. As the dragon backwinged and touched down to the ground, Lisa pulled her helmet off and shook her hair out. A new cheer greeted her, as we climbed down to the ground.
"Looks like it's about time for you to wake up," she told me. "Kiss before you go?"
I nodded, and leaned down to her. She kissed me; her lips tasted of dust and blood. One of the ground crew grabbed my shoulder and shook me hard.
-ooo-
I came out of the trance; a hand was shaking my shoulder. Gradually, I responded, lifting my head from my desk. A sheet of paper came with it, glued to my cheek with drool. I peeled it off, glanced at it, dropped it on the desk.
"Lieutenant Snow, how much sleep have you had in the last ninety-six hours?"
Turning toward the speaker, I made a vague attempt at saluting. My glasses were askew; I straightened them.
"Major Hamilton, sir," I mumbled.
Hamilton returned the salute and frowned; my uniform was rumpled, with a coffee-stain on my right sleeve cuff. I knew it was there; I had carefully applied it, some hours previously.
He looked around my office; normally neat and tidy, right now it was anything but. Stacks of paper covered in arcane graphs and charts lay across my usually pristine desk; several had slipped, and quite a few sheets lay on the floor underfoot. On one corner of the desk, a coffee-cup lay on its side, the spilled dregs staining several unfortunate sheets into illegibility. My computer was on, running a repeating image of graphical representations of racial tension in Los Angeles. Post-it notes were stuck to every available surface, bearing cryptic notations, some of which actually meant something.
I was quite proud of the mess; I had spent some time getting it just right.
"Answer the question, Lieutenant," he snapped.
I took a deep breath, pretended to try to focus. "Sleep, sir? Couple of hours 'round midnight, night before last, I think." I got up off the stool, stood to attention, swayed artistically. "I'll be fine, sir, with some coffee in me."
He shook his head. "No, Lieutenant. Your Sergeant Kinsey is going to put you to bed, now. And he's not going to let you up for at least twelve hours." He shot an irritated glance at Kinsey, who was at that moment attempting very hard to blend into the wallpaper. "As he should have done days ago."
"Don't blame him, sir," I protested. "Ordered him to leave me alone so I could work. Coffee. Need coffee."
"Sergeant Kinsey," he snapped. "Escort Lieutenant Snow to her quarters. She is not to leave them for the next twelve hours. Do you understand?"
Kinsey nodded. "Sir, yes, sir!" he barked.
"Sir," I protested weakly. "My work. So close."
His eyes wavered, just for a moment. But then he firmed his jaw. "I can't let you kill yourself doing it, Snow," he told me. "You're my best analyst. You have your orders. Go."
I allowed myself to be guided away from my office. Even if Hamilton brought the other analysts in on this while I was asleep, they would get exactly nowhere. The graphs and charts were mostly meaningless to anyone but me. They were just for show. As was this little act; but I needed Hamilton to believe that I was burning the candle at both ends, to get this data to him in time. I couldn't make it look easy.
Of course, all of this was window-dressing; I already knew exactly when Behemoth was due to attack. But I had to make it look good. And so I allowed Kinsey to escort me to my quarters.
Besides, I was feeling rather tired.
Saturday, March 26, 1994
Chicago PRT Offices
0149 hours, CTZ
The phone beside the bed rang in Hamilton's ear. He came slowly and grudgingly out of a deep slumber, clutching at the shreds of his dream. At his side, Junie rolled over and mumbled something in her sleep.
It took three tries to snag the handset. Only his ingrained sense of duty prevented him from slamming it down again, so that he could go back to sleep. With his other hand, he felt for his glasses on the side table.
"This is Major Hamilton. Make it good." His voice was a sleepy growl. Whoever was on the other end was going to be one very sorry sonovabitch.
"Sir, it's Lieutenant Snow." That got his attention, just a little. Snow was a good girl. She didn't make frivolous calls. But what she said next didn't make any sense at all to his sleep-befuddled mind. "I've – the numbers have matched up. I know where it's going to be, sir."
He barely refrained from blasting her with an onslaught of profanity. "Where what's going to be, Snow? Make sense."
"Behemoth, sir," she blurted. "It's going to attack New York."
Abruptly, he recalled what she was talking about. Some of the sleepiness went away, as did much of the anger, but some still remained. "And you couldn't have waited a few hours to tell me this?" Fumbling his glasses on, he peered at the bedside clock. "It's two in the goddamn morning, Snow."
"Sir, no, I couldn't," she hurried on. "Sir, it's happening today."
He froze. Adrenaline surged through his bloodstream, chasing down any remnants of sleep and beating hell out of them. He strove to calm his racing thoughts, to put them in some sort of order.
"Sir?" asked Snow in his ear. "Are you still there?"
He took a deep breath. "Say that again," he ordered.
"Sir," she reported crisply. "My best analysis is that Behemoth is going to strike New York City sometime in the next twelve to twenty-four hours."
Her words, unexpectedly, calmed him. He hadn't heard wrongly. There were protocols to be followed. He felt centred, certain of himself. His thoughts began to fall into order. He knew what to do.
"How sure are you of this, Snow?" He had to ask the question, no matter how insulting it sounded.
He heard an indrawn breath, a deep one. "I'd stake my reputation on it, sir," she told him quietly.
"You may just be doing that right now," he told her grimly. Now that he was thinking more clearly, he had time to wonder about something. "Why are you awake at this misbegotten hour, anyway?"
"I – I've been up for a while, sir," she confessed. "Working on this."
Which meant that she hadn't slept that night. Which meant that she'd probably gone back to working straight through, once Kinsey had let her leave her quarters.
If she hadn't … she might just have missed the deadline. He might have woken up to find the attack under way.
I'll let it go, this time.
"You go to bed now, Snow," he told her gruffly. "You've done enough. I'll take it from here."
"Thank you, sir," she replied; he thought he heard a yawn after the end of the last word. "Good night, sir."
"Good night, Snow," he replied, and hung up.
Then he sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and switched on the bedside lamp. At his back, Junie mumbled a protest and pulled the covers over her head. He ignored her; taking a deep breath, he dialled a number from memory.
It's not only Lieutenant Snow's reputation that's at stake, here.
It was a credit to his faith in her that he did not pause in dialling the number, all the way to the last digit.
Two rings later, the phone was picked up.
"Chief Director Costa-Brown speaking."
"Ma'am, this is Major Brian Hamilton, PRT Intelligence Division, Chicago offices," he reported.
"I know of you, Major," she replied coldly. "Why are you ringing me at this ungodly hour?"
"Ma'am, my best analyst, Lieutenant Snow -"
"Snow?" she interrupted. "Lieutenant Taylor Snow?"
"Uh, yes, ma'am," he agreed. "She, uh, just woke me with a piece of very frightening information." There was no further interruption, so he carried on. "She tells me that Sierra Mike Alpha is going to be attacking New York City in the next twelve to twenty-four hours."
She didn't hesitate for a moment. "And you believe her?"
"Ma'am, she's brilliant and eccentric and makes intuitive leaps like no-one I've seen before. And she's right far more often than not. Plus, she just about killed herself over the last week, trying to work this out for me. So yes, I'm strongly inclined to believe her."
"One more question, Major. Why am I speaking to you, rather than Rankine?"
He decided to go for broke, and spoke as frankly as he dared. "Because I didn't want to have to spend time convincing him, then giving him enough information to convince you, ma'am. I believe Snow is correct. We do not have a moment to waste."
Some of the frost had left her voice when she replied. "Well done, Major. We'll speak again." She hung up.
Shakily, he lowered the handset to the cradle, the switched off the light. He lowered himself to the mattress once more, then Junie rolled over.
"What was that all about?" she mumbled.
He sighed. There was no sense in worrying her. "I'll tell you in the morning. Go back to sleep."
He climbed out of bed and went to his study. Picking up the phone there, he dialled a number.
"Director Rankine? Hamilton. Yes, sir, I know how early it is. There's something you need to know … "
Saturday, March 26, 1994
New York City
When the Behemoth – tagged by the PRT as Sierra Mike Alpha, for 'Subterranean Menace A' – first emerged from the Marun Field in Iran, there had been no thought that it would ever return. After all, it had faced the massed power of all the parahumans that had been able to arrive in time. Casualties had been taken, but it had been driven away.
And then, it had dug itself out of the earth once more, in Sao Paolo. The destruction had been even more devastating, the casualties more horrifying. More parahumans had faced it; more had died. It had been driven away once more, but at a terrible cost. No more was it thought to be just a Middle Eastern problem, or even an Asian problem. It had emerged on the other side of an ocean, on a whole different continent.
After the second emergence, hasty think-tanks were convened, not to find ways to kill it – that was left up to the parahumans – but to minimise the death and destruction that it left in its wake. Shelters were posited, in which cities could hide their populations; not unlike the bunkers left under many cities in the aftermath of the nuclear-war scare of the sixties. But these would take time to design, to install, even with parahuman – especially Tinker – assistance.
In the meantime, the other wartime staple, the air-raid siren, had been revived. Emplacements around every city, broadcasting on every radio and TV channel, would warn the population of a city of the approach of the Behemoth. Optimistically, this would give them time to find some sort of shelter, or get out of the city.
New York, as one of the bastions of the PRT and the Protectorate, had sirens aplenty installed by the morning of the twenty-sixth of March, nineteen hundred and ninety-four.
In the chill of the morning, at two minutes past three, these sirens began to wail.
Saturday, March 26, 1994
New York City
8:34 AM, EST
Alexandria hovered over New York City, scanning the rooftops below, her expression intent, as if she could divine the location of the Behemoth by willpower alone. Legend moved up alongside her.
"I'm thinking of turning the sirens off," he commented. "I think everyone's gotten the message."
She became aware once more of the sirens; they had been sounding non-stop for the last five hours and more. In her concentration, she had tuned them out.
"No," she decided. "If we turn them off, then some idiots are going to think that it's all clear, and start coming back. And we can not afford that."
"Hm," he agreed, but didn't go away. Instead, he just hovered there, biting his lip. He was rarely this hesitant; normally, he would come right out with what he wanted to say.
"Spit it out," she invited him.
"Well," he began hesitantly, "this information you've got … what if it's wrong? One PRT analyst, in Chicago, decides that Sierra Mike Alpha is going to attack New York, today? Specifically?"
She fixed her gaze upon him; he didn't flinch, he didn't back off. Slowly, she nodded. "You make a good point," she admitted. "But the timing is about right. The location – well, we don't have anything to go on for location, save for the last attack, when it emerged in a populated area. There's nothing to say that it won't do that again." She paused. "But that doesn't mean much, I agree. However, there's one last factor."
"What's that?" he asked.
"I've met the analyst in question," she replied. "She … impressed me. She's the one who came up with the improved Master-Stranger protocols. And half a dozen other things, all of which have improved the running of the PRT without ever making the public eye."
Legend raised an eyebrow. "Christ. Someone impressed you? That would have taken some doing."
Alexandria tilted her head in acknowledgement. "She has a reputation for brilliant intuitive leaps, for hunches that pan out more often than not. Even before the PRT formed, she had a degree in parahuman studies, criminology and psychology. Her commanding officer rang me directly; I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. And besides … "
He nodded. "Yeah. And besides, it's better to run the sirens for a day and call it a 'drill' than call it off, just before the monster leaps up out of the earth and kills eight million people."
-ooo-
The day wore on. The sirens continued to wail, to remind everyone that the Behemoth was coming. More and more parahumans arrived every hour, were assigned regions to patrol. Each was issued a radio and given strict instructions; if the creature emerged, they were to keep well back, and call for assistance. All the assistance.
Heavy vehicles rumbled through the otherwise deserted midtown streets, carrying those parahumans without some sort of Mover ability. Radios crackled, but no-one called in a sighting. Overhead, the largest assemblage of flying parahumans that had ever come together in one place orbited the city, touching down here and there on the tallest buildings.
Elsewhere, every roadway, every bridge, every tunnel, was packed bumper-to-bumper with cars. Traffic jams were broken up whenever possible, by grim-faced, heavily-armed NYPD, SWAT and even PRT troopers. All traffic was decreed outbound only; both sides of every bridge and tunnel were given over to such traffic.
In New York Harbour, every boat that could be considered even remotely capable of doing so was dropping its moorings and putting out to sea. The surface of the water was dotted with craft crowded so closely together that only the fact that they were all travelling in roughly the same direction was preventing several collisions a minute. Horns and sirens sounded non-stop, echoing over the water. Several harbour patrol boats, backed up by Coast Guard cutters, were doing their best to keep order, but it wasn't easy.
Among the parahumans, the initial apprehension, the enthusiasm, began to wane. They had arrived keyed up for a battle, but it had not eventuated. Food supplies were flown in, served in shifts to parahumans, who went out again, to resume the endless patrolling. Grumbling, at first here and there, became widespread. If this was a drill, people asked, then why didn't they call it a day? And if it wasn't, then where the hell was the creature?
And then the first of Hero's seismic devices began to register something. A disturbance, moving closer.
Coming to the surface.
The word went out. Parahumans stopped grumbling as the apprehension took hold again. They began to converge on Central Park, where the strongest mini-quakes were being registered.
It was no hoax, no drill.
Behemoth was coming to New York City.
Saturday, March 26, 1994
New York City
1:16 PM, EST
"Surround the park!" Legend's voice was urgent but steady. "Brutes to the fore, flyers in the air. We'll try to contain the creature here; force fields and barriers, behind the Brutes. Be warned; it can leap high and far. Be ready to take cover at a moment's notice; it can use sound and lightning as a weapon."
His voice carried to the other parahumans, even as the PRT troops that had delivered them to the site fell back. Normal humans, without even the meagre gifts the lowest-tier parahumans boasted, stood no chance at all in this coming battle.
Beside him, Eidolon pointed. "There."
Below the Protectorate – the four heroes who formed the core of the larger teams – the water of the Reservoir was rippling in an odd manner. Waves splashed up on the shore, then receded dramatically. And then steam began to boil from the centre of the large body of water.
"How deep is that?" asked Hero, hovering on the steady thrust of his jetpack.
"Up to forty feet in places," Alexandria replied absently.
"Christ," muttered Legend. "The Behemoth is at least forty-five feet tall. What's the bet that the water doesn't hamper him at all?"
Eidolon turned to him. "We can at least make it tougher on the bastard."
Legend nodded; he and Eidolon struck downward at the same time, using their powers in concert. Where Legend's blue beam hit, the water froze, ice radiating outward at a spectacular rate. Eidolon's ray was more subtle; it struck, without seeming to have any effect whatsoever. But the waves stilled, and suddenly, from within, the water began to freeze. The two effects met, combined, and the Reservoir was frozen solid.
Except for a thirty-foot-wide space in the middle, which was still boiling steam. Mud and rocks began to spit upward as well.
Both Eidolon and Legend, without even bothering to confer, turned their respective beams on the last unfrozen section. For a moment, even, it seemed that they would succeed; the water became sluggish, and the rocks seemed to freeze in motion.
And then the central hundred feet of the frozen lake exploded up and outward, huge chunks of ice flying through the air. Only the reflexes of Legend and Eidolon, who vaporised the largest sections, and the force fields that had already been set up, managed to prevent anyone from being seriously injured.
But now, in the hole that had been created, the monster now stood. Sierra Mike Alpha, better known as the Behemoth, had arrived.
Alexandria was the first to react. With a battle cry, she rocketed downward at the foe. It answered with a roar that shook the leaves from the trees, shattered the ice filling the Reservoir, and broke many nearby windows.
Eidolon and Legend followed shortly after; Hero stayed aloft to provide fire support.
The Battle of New York had begun.
Saturday, March 26, 1994
Chicago PRT Offices
1832 hours, CTZ
Once the battle was over, the monster routed, the news began to roll in from the stricken city. Aerial shots of the devastation in Central Park, the charred remains where he had blasted his way out of the force-field cordon, were brought to us in living colour. The damage total was immense; several buildings had been brought down by the monster's rampage through the streets of New York. Others had been severely damaged, but not destroyed.
The death toll had been horrendous; not everyone had been able to get off the island. There had been those who had been trying to leave, and those who, despite the official warnings, had stayed on because they couldn't or wouldn't leave. These had still been in the city when Behemoth arrived, and many had paid the price. More numerous were the PRT troopers, the police officers, the firefighters, the military and reservists, who had done their duty while fire and destruction were raining down about them.
And of course, the capes. They had faced Behemoth directly. Heroes and villains had stood shoulder to shoulder, had faced the unbeatable, had bought time for more civilians to get away, and had died doing so.
For New York, it was a victory, dearly bought with the blood and lives of its defenders, a horrible victory, but a victory nonetheless. For the PRT, it was a public-relations coup like none other. Heroes and villains alike had heeded the call, had fought side by side.
Had died, side by side.
I was reminded, viscerally, of the devastation, the losses, of the last time I had faced the monster. Intellectually, I knew that today was a victory; Behemoth had been driven off with a relatively low death toll. Barely a tenth of the capes who had faced him were dead. More were injured, but most of those would recover. The civilian casualty list was only in the low thousands.
Only.
I couldn't watch it, not when I knew that if I had told Hamilton earlier, more lives would have been saved. Would it have been so bad, to have told him the day before? To give the population of New York another six or twelve hours to evacuate?
The timing had been critical; too soon, and it would look too easy. Too late, and far more people would have been dead. No matter which way I looked at it, I could not find a perfect answer.
I thought it would be easier than this.
-ooo-
There was a sharp rapping at the door to my quarters. I ignored it, curled on my bunk, tears still fresh on my cheeks.
"Lieutenant Snow!" It was Hamilton's voice. "Please open your door; you have a visitor."
I staggered off my bed, ran my fingers through my hair. Found my glasses. Stumbled to the door. Opened it.
Chief Director Costa-Brown stood there, alongside Director Rankine.
I came to attention, saluted. "Chief Director. I'm sorry, I … " My voice trailed to a halt.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," she told me bluntly. "May I come in?"
I stepped back. "Uh, yes, ma'am. Sorry for the, uh, mess."
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and eyed my quarters critically. My office had been disarranged with a purpose in mind; here, the mess was less deliberate and more spur of the moment. When I had gotten here after watching the images of the aftermath of New York, I had been … distraught. Many of my small knick-knacks lay about on the floor; I had thrown everything I could get my hands on, at the walls, at the floor. I had screamed curses until my throat was raw. At the height of my temper, I had kicked a hole in the thin wall-boarding. And then I had collapsed upon my bunk, sobbing.
"Sit," she ordered me, pointing at the bunk. Obediently, I sat.
Bending down, she picked up my chair from where it was jammed beneath the small desk – I vaguely recalled kicking it there, partway through my mental break – and righted it, turning it to face me. Sitting down upon it, she observed me.
"You've done some very fine work," she began.
"Uh, thank you -" I began.
She cut me off. "That didn't require an answer. It was a statement of fact. I was impressed by you when I first met you at the White House; were you aware of that?"
I blinked. "I – no, I didn't know that, ma'am."
Her smile was faint, rather dry, but it was a smile. "After that meeting, I made it a point to keep up with your work. You are known to be brilliant on occasion, intuitive when it suits you, and right far more often than you're wrong." She shook her head slightly. "But today … "
I waited, but she did not continue. "Uh, today, ma'am?"
Her gaze upon me sharpened considerably. "Today, you astonished me. You managed to do something that none of our Thinkers, none of our precogs had managed to do. You predicted, accurately, the time and place that the Behemoth was due to emerge. How did you do that, exactly?"
I took off my glasses, scrubbed my face with my hands. "Ma'am, I look at the data and things just … fit together. I can't tell you how I know things, I just know them."
"I see." Her gaze upon me was razor-sharp, flaying away the layers of my pretence, or so it felt. "When we last met, I asked you if you were a parahuman, if you had powers. You told me that you did not." She leaned forward. "Is this still the case?"
I put my glasses back on, met her gaze. "Ma'am, I'm not the world's foremost expert on parahuman powers. But I know a good deal about how they work, how people get them. How to spot them. I would know if I had powers. And to the very best of my knowledge, I do not."
She held my gaze for a long moment, but I refused to look away, refused to fidget. I was telling the absolute truth; I did not have powers. Lisa had powers, but Lisa wasn't me. I believed that, implicitly.
I had to.
Because I didn't want my best friend, my last link with the world I had left behind, to be dead.
She nodded once, sharply. "Very well. Be that as it may. I would like to extend to you an offer to come work directly with the upper levels of the PRT. A high-powered think-tank. You have proven yourself to be a problem-solver of the highest order, and your input would be greatly valued."
I stared at her, then shook my head convulsively. "Ma'am," I whispered. "Thank you, but I can't."
She stared at me; I wrapped my arms around myself.
"What do you mean, you can't?" she demanded.
I began to rock back and forth on the bed, hugging myself. "I'm sorry," I whimpered. "I can't do that. Not again. I can't make that sort of decision over life and death. Please don't make me."
"Snow," she stated flatly, "people would have died no matter what you did today. What you did saved lives. You can't blame yourself."
I shook my head. "And the people who wouldn't have even been there? The people who died in accidents, trying to get away? The people who died when Behemoth collapsed the Holland Tunnel? I killed them, as surely as if I had put a gun to their heads, myself. I can't do that, not again. I can't face it."
I was hunched over, not looking at her, not wanting to face her. Not wanting her to see my deception. Part of what I was saying was true; I didn't want to become part of a group tasked with solving problems. Certainly, I could help make the world a better place. But the problems I would be faced with solving would not be the problems I wanted to solve. And I've always done much better without oversight.
"Snow," she began.
I put my hands over my ears, shaking my head. "No," I whimpered. "No, no, no."
Alexandria knew how to read people; I knew how to fake psychological reactions. It just remained to see who would give up first.
She tried to speak to me a few more times; I refused to listen. I heard her get up, walk to the door. She paused then, and spoke. "If you ever change your mind, Snow, let me know."
I gave no indication that I had heard her; after a moment, she sighed, opened the door, and left.
A few minutes later, I heard the door open again. Footsteps trod across the floorboards, paused in front of me.
"Snow."
Major Hamilton's voice was soft; I barely heard it. He knelt before me. "Lieutenant Snow," he asked quietly, compassionately. "Are you all right?"
Lieutenants do not hug Majors. It's not a done thing. There are probably regulations about it, somewhere. But I flung my arms around him, and did my best to pretend to burst into tears.
He must not have read that regulation either, because he put his arms around me, and patted me gently on the back.
After a while, I found that I didn't have to pretend; the tears came all too easily.
Chicago PRT Offices
Sunday, March 27, 1994
I stood at attention before Major Hamilton's desk.
"I'm very sorry, sir," I told him, my voice subdued. "It won't happen again."
He shook his head impatiently. "Snow," he told me in a tone of voice that combined amusement with exasperation, "you did nothing wrong. You were overwrought and were suffering from a lack of sleep."
I took a deep breath. "Sir -"
He raised a finger. "I wasn't finished, Snow."
"Yes, sir." I waited.
He leaned forward on his desk with his elbows. "What you did yesterday was nothing less than a miracle, Snow. You warned us in enough time that a great many people were able to evacuate the city. The damage and the casualties were both far less than they could have been. Whatever did happen there was not your fault."
I knew better; even without my input, Behemoth would have been driven away with only relatively minor damage to the city. Less now, due to me, but my warning hadn't been crucial. Nor had it allowed them to drive him off with no casualties, no damage. I had merely … shifted things around, a bit.
After a pause, he went on. "And as for how you reacted afterward; well, I can't blame you for that either. You're a brilliant young officer, but you've never seen large-scale casualties before."
Oh, how wrong you are.
-ooo-
I had been in Endbringer battles before, and more, but two things were different now. The first was that I had normally been able to put my emotions away from me, into my swarm, to allow me to think and act with clarity. The second was that previously, I had been in there, in the action. Not responsible for it. This time around, I had made decisions, supplied information. Caused a lot of it to happen.
It was sobering, jarring. But in a way, it was comforting. It made my next big step just a little easier. Because for that step, only one person was going to have to die.
-ooo-
I took a deep breath. "I still should have handled it better, sir."
He chuckled warmly. "Lieutenant Snow, if you believe that you're the first young officer to have cried on my shoulder, then … well, to be honest, you'd be correct, but there are many that have come close. And I must admit, it was a first to have to ask your Sergeant to help me tuck you into bed, but it was somewhat refreshing to find that there were feet of clay under your perfect exterior, after all."
I was a little startled. "I, uh, sir, I don't think I'm -"
"Perfect?" He smiled paternally. "Of course you don't. But that's the appearance that you present. You try so hard to get it right every single time. And you do get it right so often." He leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. "I'll let you in on a little secret, Snow."
"Uh, a secret, sir?"
A nod. "Yes. You see, I've been in this game since before 'military intelligence' became a joke phrase. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that even if you do manage to get the right information to the right people at the right time, nine times out of ten, it's either obsolete, they ignore it, or it doesn't make a difference anyway."
I blinked. "Oh."
Lowering his glasses, he looked at me over them. "'Oh' is right, young Snow. So often, we suffer disappointments. What just happened yesterday, no matter what else it was, was not a disappointment. We made a difference. Never forget that. And just for the record? Although I am officially unhappy that you turned down Director Costa-Brown's offer, I am unofficially rather pleased. I am selfish enough, you see, that I don't want to lose my best analyst to Washington."
The feeling in his voice was plain enough that I felt a flush rising in my cheeks. "I, uh, I like it here too, sir."
"Good." He cleared his throat, sat back in his chair, and squared his shoulders. "And in other matters, it has apparently been decided that our contribution to the victory yesterday was sufficient to warrant a promotion and a medal for you, and a promotion for myself. The medal will be forthcoming in a ceremony this evening, but I am pleased to state that the promotions are effective immediately. Congratulations, Captain Snow."
He stood, walked around his desk, and solemnly shook my hand. I gripped his hand firmly. "This means that you're a lieutenant colonel now, sir?"
His eyes twinkled behind the half-moon glasses. "As sharp as ever, Captain Snow. Well done." His uniform jacket was hanging over his chair; he put it on, revealing his new rank insignia.
Of course. He didn't want me to make the connection until he told me.
"I'm not sure that I'm really ready, sir," I ventured. "After yesterday and all … "
He nodded understandingly. "I can see why you would feel like that, Snow. Which is why I am also authorising four weeks of convalescent leave for you, effective as of tomorrow morning. Doctor Oaks has signed off on it. Go home, reconnect with your friends and family. Smell the flowers. Unwind." He smiled again, warmly. "It will all still be here when you get back."
I smiled back. "Thank you, sir. And congratulations on your promotion as well."
"I couldn't have done it without you, Captain. And that's the honest truth. Dismissed."
I saluted, about-faced, and marched from his office.
I was now a captain. Another step complete.
-ooo-
When I got back to my quarters, Kinsey was laying out my uniform jacket. Without much in the way of surprise, I noted that it bore captain's insignia.
"You knew," I noted.
He turned and treated me to a parade ground perfect salute. "Captain Snow," he greeted me; it seemed to me that there was a smile hidden somewhere on that impassive visage.
I saluted him back. "Sergeant." I paused. "When did you find out?"
"The lieutenant colonel spoke to me about it last night, ma'am."
I raised an eyebrow. "But you didn't see fit to tell me about it this morning."
Not a flicker disturbed his expression. "It did not seem to be my place, ma'am."
I sighed and gave up. "Well then, I presume he told you that I'm taking four weeks off, as of tomorrow. So you're going to have to find something else to do."
"Oh no, ma'am," he replied blandly. "Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton has assigned me to accompany you on your leave."
I stopped, stared. "You're joking."
He shook his head. "No, ma'am. Where you go, I go. Those were almost his exact words."
"We'll see about that," I retorted grimly, and left the quarters at the double.
-ooo-
I knocked once on the frame of Hamilton's office door, then entered. He looked up mildly at me as I saluted.
"Ah, Snow, you're back," he greeted me genially, returning the salute. "Was there something you would like to discuss with me?"
Standing at attention, so that I would not be tempted to bang my fist on his desk, I gritted out, "I understand that you're assigning me Kinsey as a nursemaid on this leave, sir. I would like to register a protest."
A pronounced line formed between his bushy brows as he stared at me. "A nursemaid, Snow? Surely not."
"What else would you call it, sir?" I retorted. "I'm going on medical leave. For a mental breakdown. Is Kinsey along to make sure I don't do anything stupid, like hurt myself, or go AWOL?"
His brows lowered. "Are you likely to do something like that, Snow? No, no, don't answer that. The question is both insulting and ridiculous. No, of course Sergeant Kinsey isn't along for anything so mundane as that. If I thought that was ever a danger, I would not be sending you on leave; I would be sending you straight to therapy."
His reasonable tone, his open expression, allowed me to collect my thoughts. I began to feel more than a little foolish. "I … uh, sorry, sir. Then may I ask why you're sending Kinsey along with me?"
"To protect you from Director Costa-Brown, of course," he replied, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. "She wants you on her team; after all, you predicted New York. Just having you there would be a huge feather in her cap. So Sergeant Kinsey will be going along, to run interference for you. Just in case the Chief Director's people have decided to not take no for an answer, and choose to approach you there."
The last of the anger drained away from me. " … oh." I flushed. "I'm really, really sorry, sir."
He smiled gently at me. "I value you quite highly, Captain Snow. Both as a person, and as an analyst. I would not have you forced into any decisions that you did not agree with."
I nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I appreciate the forethought, sir." Coming to attention, I saluted. "May I be dismissed, sir? I suspect I may need to apologise to Sergeant Kinsey."
Casually, he returned the salute. "Dismissed, Captain."
By the time I had left the office, he was already scanning the papers before him once more.
I didn't go immediately back to my quarters. I had a bit to think about.
Hamilton sending Kinsey along with me to Brockton Bay wasn't something I had anticipated, but it was something I could work around, given time.
I was just going to have to be careful about it.
End of Part 3-4