-ooo-
Recoil
Part 6-1: Dominoes and Butterflies
[A/N: This chapter beta-read, and greatly improved upon, by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
PRT Department 24; Washington, DC
Saturday, 9 July, 1994
As I put my weight on my left leg, it twinged to remind me that I'd broken it not all that long ago, but I wasn't paying attention to that right now. Flaring my nostrils, I breathed deeply, trying to get the most use out of my damaged lung. There was a slight loss of function there as well, but I treated it as I'd treat any other irritating obstacle; something to overcome and leave behind.
Kinsey stepped forward, hefting his padded staff as if it weighed nothing at all. If his arm or ribs were bothering him, I couldn't tell, and I knew the man better than most. I also knew that he was setting up to bring the fight to me, whether I liked it or not. This is going to hurt. My eyes searched his stance, seeking clues for where he was going with this.
The end of his staff whistled through the air as he brought it around toward my upper arm. Padded or not, a blow that hard would sting like all fuck, and leave a bruise to remember it by. Fortunately, I'd read him correctly, and my staff was in position to take the hit. I didn't try to block it directly, because I had my own plan of action in mind. Instead, I angled the staff and redirected his swing, sending his weapon out of alignment.
That left Kinsey exactly where I wanted him. My sidestep wasn't as fluent as I would have liked it, but it was good enough. In the meantime, with his staff out of the way, his flank was wide open, and I swung my staff in toward his floating ribs. This was going to hurt him more than it hurt me, but it would teach him not to leave an opening like that.
Except … my eyes widened a fraction as he turned into the blow instead of trying to avoid it. His shoulder dropped and his staff slid through his hands as if it was greased. An instant later, the opening had vanished as if it had never been there. Which, to be honest, it hadn't. Unlike me, he obviously felt confident with a solid block, given that when my staff met his, it was like I'd slammed it into a brick wall.
If that wasn't bad enough, he kept turning; his flank opened up again, but now it was my staff that was way out of alignment. Worse, my attention was focused in the wrong direction. Expecting a hit to the shoulder or upper torso, I was watching the high end of his staff; too late, I felt rather than saw the low end swing in hard and fast. The power behind his attack swept the staff through my legs, taking them out from under me and sending me sprawling on to the mat.
Shit fuck. I tried to twist in mid-air; if I could end up on my feet, even in a crouch, I could maybe fend Kinsey off and continue the fight before he could capitalise on his advantage. Unfortunately, I took too long to realise this, and I was reacting far too late. My feet were still in the air when my back hit the mat, the solid impact driving the breath from my lungs with a painful grunt. Dimly, I realised that I'd lost my grip on the staff; with my right hand, I scrabbled for it, while I used my left to push myself off the mat, preparatory to rolling to my feet.
Except that a very large foot came down on my staff before my fingers could close over it. At the same time, I found my eyes crossing in an attempt to focus on the end of the staff that was holding rock-steady, perhaps an inch away from my face. Well, shit.
"Round to you," I grunted and took my hand away from the staff. He'd just taken me down, not quite like a novice, but I wasn't used to losing that hard with staves.
"Round to me," Kinsey agreed, deadpan. His staff moved away from my face, and he leaned in to offer his hand. "You took a hard fall there, ma'am."
Gratefully, I let his massive paw engulf my hand; the burly sergeant heaved me to my feet with as little apparent effort as he used to swing the staff. For my part, I knew that I'd been through a workout; my heart was pounding, I was breathing heavily, and I was more than a little sweaty. "I'll be fine."
Jeez, I used to be in miles better shape than this. Before the Compound, I'd been able to consistently beat Kinsey with staves on the mat, three falls out of four, and barely raise a sweat doing so. Currently, I was losing to him, four falls out of four. This was going to have to change.
Fortunately for my somewhat tattered self-esteem, Kinsey was sweating more than a little, though not as much as I was. He looked fresh enough to go another round or two, which was better than I was doing at the moment. I tried to tell myself that he hadn't been injured as badly as I was in the Compound, but the excuse fell flat. It's not how badly you get hurt, it's how hard you try to get up again.
He raised an eyebrow as I leaned down and retrieved my staff. "You've lost a step, ma'am. Never saw you fall for that one before."
I paused for a moment, trying to decide if he was trying to make a joke. Not even the hint of a smile crossed that craggy face, so I figured that the pun was unintentional. Moving to the side of the ring, I pulled my towel off the rope and wiped my face over. "I know it, Kinsey." Taking his towel, I tossed it to him. "You aren't quite up to scratch either, you know." If I was being honest – and in after-action reports, there was no other way to be – my form had been so bad that he should've beaten me a lot more quickly.
"True, ma'am, but I was still good enough to beat your ass," he pointed out as he caught the towel. "I figure Mrs Knott would've had you on the ground about two seconds after the bell went." I grimaced as he wiped the sweat from his closely trimmed scalp. He was right, of course. Gladys wouldn't have had to pause for breath. Even at my best, I could barely break even with her. And I certainly wasn't at my best, right now.
"True," I admitted. "I've got to get back on the horse. Get fit again." Hanging the towel around my neck, I picked up the water-bottle from where it was sitting next to the post. A good squirt of water went into my mouth, followed by another over my head. I enjoyed the feeling of the cool liquid washing away the warm sweat so much that I did it again. "And if there's a faster way to do that than by getting my ass kicked on a regular basis by you, I don't know what it is."
"Never a truer word, ma'am." He retrieved his own water-bottle and took a drink. "Another round?"
"Later, Kinsey." I began to climb out of the ring. "Going to the range. See how much work I need to do to get back up to speed there, too."
He didn't comment, which may as well have been a rousing cheer and a round of applause. It was all too obvious to both of us that the bad guys would not wait until we were fresh and rested before starting a firefight, so getting in practice while we were sweaty and bruised could only be helpful.
We made our way to the range, where we checked our firearms out of storage. Living on base as we were at the moment, it only made sense. This was not going to be a long-term thing; Chief Director Costa-Brown had made arrangements for us to be housed on base until we had recuperated enough to get back on the road.
I spoke to the range master – a grizzled sergeant – and he gave me a stack of targets. Kinsey and I put on ear protectors – having fired our weapons in anger more than once, we were both fully aware of how punishing gunshots could be to the eardrums. Dividing the targets with Kinsey, I motored my first one out to ten yards and took up my firing position. Let's see how crappy I am at this. Loading the Glock 26, I took aim and fired.
After five rounds, I motored the target back in. I'd seen worse shooting, but I'd definitely done better. Only one had hit the X-ring, while three were in the ten-ring, one had just barely clipped it, and one was a little ways away. Frowning, I put that target to the bottom of the stack, motored the next target out, and reloaded. Okay, let's try that again.
Time rolled by. I was aware of shots from other shooting benches, while my own pistol seemed to barely make a noise at all. Slowly, I got into the rhythm of it once more, punching holes closer and closer to the centre of the target.
The target was at twenty-five yards. I was taking my time between shots, letting my eye find its way. Well and truly in the zone, I was only aware of the target, the front sight, and the pressure on the trigger. I could tell instinctively the precise moment when it would break and the pistol would jolt back against my palm. When the pistol clicked dry, I laid it down and motored the target back in toward my position.
The tap on my shoulder startled me; I looked around to see the range master saying something. Reaching up, I pulled one side of the ear protectors away. "I'm sorry, what was that?" I asked.
The sergeant smiled wryly. "Sorry, Captain, but I'm closing the range. You're going to have to come back tomorrow."
"Roger that, Sergeant," I affirmed. "Just let me police up my brass here, and I'll be out of your way." At his nod, I turned back to my shooting bench and dropped the expended casings into the bag provided for the purpose. Some had found their way on to the floor, and I picked them up as well. As an afterthought, I took the target down from the clip and rolled it up with the others.
That task complete – I could have left it for the range master to do, as some others had, but I didn't want to give him extra work – I went over to where he was filling in some paperwork. "I'll be signing these firearms out of the range," I advised him. "They need to be cleaned, and that can just as easily be done in my orderly's quarters."
"Certainly, Captain Snow," he agreed, pulling out the appropriate form. If anyone thinks that the military – any military – doesn't run on paperwork, then they're sadly mistaken. It only took a minute for me to fill it out and give it back for his signature, then we were legally allowed to remove our firearms from the firing range area.
"So how did you do, ma'am?" Kinsey's question was more than just idle curiosity. A medium to good shot himself, he was aware of how well I could shoot a pistol when I needed to. My accuracy at the range would provide another indicator of how well I was recuperating from my injuries.
"Well, I started out here," I told him, unrolling the first target I had used. "Ten yards." Looking at it anew, I winced at how badly I had missed the mark.
Eyeing it, he whistled softly and shook his head. "That's poor, ma'am. Very poor indeed."
"Don't I know it." I made it a statement rather than a question. "Here's where I ended up. Twenty-five yards."
He took the target and looked it over, then nodded slowly. "Much better. Four in the X-ring, one in the ten. At twenty-five yards, very respectable indeed, ma'am."
"I could still do better," I said. It was true; I could. I had done better, and I would be that good again.
"We could all do better, ma'am," he agreed. "Like in the sparring ring. That was terrible."
I looked suspiciously at him. "I agree, but why the change in subject?" Mentally, I ran back over what we had just said. "Kinsey … how did you do on the range?"
"Nice weather we're having today, isn't it, ma'am?" he replied blandly. Almost as if he wanted to divert my attention. Of course, he knew that I knew him that well, so he was being almost blatantly obvious about it. Hiding in plain sight. Cute.
My suspicions came to a head. "That bad, huh?"
"I believe I may need more time on the firing range, ma'am," he agreed, even more blandly.
Translation: 'I may have missed the target entirely a time or two.'
I nodded. "Message received and understood, Kinsey. We both need more time to get back up to speed." We turned the corner leading to my quarters, so I handed off the gear bag holding the two pistols. "These will need cleaning. I'll call if I need you."
He nodded in response, accepting the bag. "Ma'am."
I watched him march off, then turned toward my own quarters. It was a standard bachelor officers' setup; single bed, basic bathroom facilities, minimal ornamentation. I intended to spend as little time as possible in it before getting back on the road.
Before I unlocked the door – it wasn't really paranoia if there was a good chance that people really were out to get you – I checked my telltales. The hair at waist height had been undisturbed. So had the hair at ankle level. Also, the broken-off matchstick I'd placed precisely one finger-width in from the top corner of the door.
There were capes, even now, who could no doubt get into my room without disturbing my precautions. However, while I was quite certain that I was on the shit-list of some of the above-mentioned, mainly due to the proliferation of the Snow Protocols – I hadn't quite managed to avoid getting my name attached to that damn document – I was equally sure that the aforementioned Protocols were in full force in PRT Department 24. Any Strangers with a bone to pick would have to get past those before they got to me.
That was the general idea, anyway.
Still, I was careful about how I unlocked the door. Before entering the room, I gave it a fast visual sweep, pushing the door all the way open to make sure there was nobody behind it. I had left my walking cane leaning against the wall just inside the door; this placement was in no way accidental. Taking it up, I closed and locked the door behind me before easing over and eyeballing the tiny bathroom enclosure. Then I let myself relax, just a little.
In the back of my mind, I could hear Andrea chiding me. She had been the voice of reason all the way through my college years; even now, when I found myself getting too tense over matters, the memory of her bubbly personality was quite often able to bring me back down to earth. You need to slow down, Taylor, she used to say. Relax. Sure, you've got to save the world. You can't do it all at once. Nobody can.
Taking a deep breath, I dropped into my computer chair and switched the machine on. Deliberately, I leaned back and let more of the tension drain away. Thanks, Andrea. It was true that before I met her, I'd been far too focused, to the detriment of my social life. To the detriment of my interpersonal skills in general, if I was being honest with myself. She had brought me out of myself and shown me the silly side of life. I wasn't quite ready to act the clown as she did, but I could certainly learn from her example.
Once it had finished booting up, the computer requested a password. Rolling my chair over to the light switch, I turned the lights out before returning to the computer and typing in my password. I didn't think I was under surveillance, but information security was a thing. If there was a camera peeking over my shoulder, I wanted it to have as much trouble reading my password as possible.
The computer accepted the password, then asked permission to connect to the local PRT intranet. Ordinarily, the connection would have happened automatically, but I didn't want that. I wanted the choice. Given that I had admin access to the intranet, I had instituted a password for that as well. With the Chief Director's permission, I'd gone looking through the network and made it as secure as I could, but there was always the nagging feeling that something would be undone behind my back.
While I was in there, I had tightened it up some, closed a few potential backdoors, and increased the efficiency by a few percent here and there. I'd also left some nasty logic bombs in wait for anyone who tried to access it via unofficial channels; while they probably wouldn't stop Tinkers or Thinkers, it should certainly suffice to deal with talented normals. As for the aforementioned Tinkers and Thinkers, the best defences against those were truly random passwords and air-gap separation for sensitive servers. I'd covered all that and more in the Protocols; it was just up to the PRT to implement the measures.
I'd lost track of the number of complaints I'd gotten regarding the sheer anal-retentiveness of the Snow Protocols, especially where it came to computer security. Of course, barely anybody who had to follow them had any idea that in fifteen years' time, my 'draconian measures' would be seen as standard computer security protocols. Common sense, in fact.
The two security measures that had drawn the most heat were both password-related. I had stipulated that passwords had to be randomly generated from an alphanumeric matrix at the beginning of each week and handed out to the troops. Once memorised, the notification had to be destroyed; the use of reminder notes was strictly forbidden. Those found violating this rule were subjected to disciplinary measures and their security clearances downgraded.
My name, now I came to think about it, was probably cursed just as much by the average desk weenie who had to adapt to a different password each week as by the Masters and Strangers who had suddenly found themselves frozen out of the PRT. I couldn't help that; I had a job to do, and by God I was going to do it.
The screen cleared showing the intranet menu. I'd sent a message a few hours before, just prior to leaving for my exercise/physical therapy session with Kinsey. Now, the option marked INBOX was showing a (3) next to it. Three unread messages.
It wasn't quite what I was expecting, given that I'd only been tied into this particular intranet for a week or so. One or two messages, maybe, but not three. Well, only one way to find out. Frowning slightly, I skated the mouse over to INBOX and clicked on it. A new window opened, showing the header and first line of each message.
PRT Procedures Manual Update
Update to Procedures Manual Chapter 4, Section A3: Approaching potential suspects not proven to be parahumans …
I grimaced at that one. The PRT still had not hit the sweet spot between 'not enough caution' and 'too much force' when it came to suspected capes. I had no doubt that this update would miss the mark yet again.
Firing Range Request Approved
SNOW, T (Capt) approved for time on firing range between 1600 and 1700 hours, July 10, 1994. KINSEY, J (Sgt) …
I rolled my eyes just a little. Given that I had only recently been released from the hospital, I was on light duties until the doctors passed me as fit to go back into the field. In addition, I wasn't officially on the strength here, which meant that I couldn't just put my name down on the sheet for firing range time. I had to submit a request for each day, and wait for the reply, before I could go ahead and use it. Fortunately, I was able to submit requests a day in advance, which meant that Sunday was all lined up. It was irritating, but that was regs.
Request for Appointment with Chief Director Approved
Captain Snow, your request for an appointment with Chief Director Costa-Brown has been approved, for …
My eyes opened wider, and I hastily clicked on the header. The rest of the message unfolded. It was only a few more words, but it was all I needed.
… the time of 1745 on July 9, 1994.
I blinked at the time. Seventeen forty-five? Shit! Glancing at the computer clock – with the lights off, I couldn't see the clock on the wall – I registered the time as 1721. I had twenty-four minutes to get ready and be there.
Plenty of time. If there was anything the PRT had taught me, it was how to get ready in minimum time under the most trying of circumstances. Still, I wasn't going to waste the time I had. First things first. I scrupulously logged out of the intranet, then cleared my cache before powering down the computer itself.
By now, it was habit to secure my computer properly on a daily basis; not only was it password-protected, but the information within was encrypted using an algorithm that existed on my computer and nowhere else in the world. This was mainly because the information stored on that hard drive was so volatile that I trusted exactly nobody with it, aside from myself.
I had timelines written up, complete with potential actions at certain times, and the projected results of those actions. Every timeline was rated with two numbers; effectiveness of dealing with a particular problem, and potential collateral damage. I liked very few of the number combinations, but some of my choices were quite limited. Hopefully, my interview with Alexandria would improve my odds in certain areas.
At 1744 hours, showered and clad in undress blues, I entered the outer office for the Chief Director of the Parahuman Response Teams. The square-jawed sergeant behind the desk wore immaculately pressed urban-camouflage fatigues and an earpiece with a throat microphone. Physically, if not facially, he was nearly identical to Kinsey; large, muscular and with a closely-trimmed scalp. He ceased typing and stood up as I approached, offering me a salute.
"May I help you, Captain?" he asked. His tone was polite, but not obsequious. We both knew damn well that he was there to prevent anyone getting in to see the Chief Director who wasn't supposed to be there. I knew, as he did not, that anyone who burst in on Alexandria uninvited – or worse, actually tried to harm her – was destined to failure. Anyone who forced her to use her powers to defend herself would likely die in the attempt; Cauldron did not get where they were by being squeamish.
Suffice to say, I had no intentions in that regard.
"Captain Snow to see the Chief Director," I said easily, returning the salute. "I have an appointment." My leg wasn't bothering me at all, but I took a moment to lean slightly on the walking cane anyway.
His eyes took that in, then ran over my medals as he sat down again. We'd met four days previously, and while I had no doubt that many people had gone in to see the Chief Director in that time, remarkably few of them would have been wearing both the Silver Star and the Defense Distinguished Service Medal. Also, it would be in his job description to vet requests to see the Chief Director, so he had to have read my jacket. However, for all the recognition he showed, I may have been a total stranger. I approved.
Pressing a button on his earpiece, he announced, "Captain Snow to see you, ma'am." It took just a moment for her to reply, then he nodded to me. "Go on in, ma'am."
"Thank you, Sergeant Horowitz," I replied and entered the office beyond, my cane tapping the floor beside me. Before the door even closed behind me, I heard the keyboard go into action once more. Stopping before the desk, I went to attention and saluted. "Chief Director, ma'am."
"At ease, Captain." Chief Director Costa-Brown rose from behind her desk and returned the salute, then leaned forward to offer her hand. "It's good to see you once more, Captain Snow. Have you reconsidered my offer?"
My features were schooled as close to neutrality as I could manage without being blatant about it as I shook it. Her grip was firm and brisk, with just the hint of unyielding steel beneath. "Thank you, ma'am. I'm afraid not; I still believe that I can do more good out there in the field."
"Which is a pity," she observed, regaining her seat. "However, given recent events, I can't help but think that you may have something there. Have a seat, Captain." Her keen gaze raked me from head to toe. "You're moving more easily. How's your leg?"
"Mending, thank you, ma'am," I said as I pulled a chair up and seated myself. I hooked my cane over one chair arm, then folded my hands on my lap. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Whether you're on the think-tank or not, you're still an outstanding analyst," she pointed out with a total lack of irony. "If you need to see me, I have to assume there's a good reason. So, Captain, what's on your mind?"
I had already been over this in my mind a dozen times, so I didn't need to stop to order my thoughts. "This is about PASS, and about rogue capes in general. You're aware of it, of course."
"Of course." I couldn't quite read her flickering micro-expression, but she didn't seem to be totally happy about it. "The offer was extended for them to join the Protectorate or the Wards, depending on age, and they all refused. What do you think of their group?"
"I think that it's past time that someone did what they're setting up to do," I said bluntly. The Fallen had abducted them to use for breeding material, in order to create new capes for the twisted cause of worshipping Endbringers. Countless other women, lacking in powers of any kind, had been taken and brutalised for far more mundane goals throughout history, even into the modern age. I would have had to be insane, or more desensitised than I believed possible, to disapprove of what PASS was intending to do. In fact, I would have thrown all the weight of my resources behind them, were it not for the fact that I reluctantly considered saving the world to be of a higher priority. Once I was done with that, however …
"So you're advocating that the PRT supports them?" she asked. "You do understand that they're very likely to break laws to get what they want." I knew where she was going with this. The PRT would not and could not condone capes breaking the law in such a blatant fashion; it certainly would not publicly ally itself with PASS once this happened, no matter the cause.
"I understand that, and I'm not advocating it," I said, keeping my voice firm and even. The last thing I wanted was to give the Chief Director the impression that my emotions were running away with me. "But there's a large gap between supporting them and persecuting them. I'm asking that we … turn a blind eye, as much as possible. After all, we know their goals, and I personally support them in that, even if I can't do so officially. It's not like they'll be trying to topple governments or crash the economy. There will always be other cape crimes to deal with. My suggestion is that we simply assign them a low priority."
Director Costa-Brown steepled her fingers and looked over them at me. "Gaming the system now, Captain? How very … political of you." This time, I read the subtext loud and clear. You're trying to manipulate me? That's so adorable.
"Not at all, ma'am," I said respectfully, even though we both knew I was lying through my teeth. "Once the aims of PASS become public – and they've got no reason to hide them – they will gain a following. The more women they save from situations like that, the more popular they will come. If the PRT is seen to be cracking down on them, that could cause us to be seen in a negative light. Ignoring the rights of women, even."
A line appeared between the Chief Director's eyebrows. "But … I'm a woman!" she said, more in disbelief than anger. Unspoken was the question How can they say I'm against women's rights? "And when capes get away with breaking the law, it makes the PRT look bad."
"Public perception is a fickle thing," I said neutrally. "You know that better than anyone. This is just what I see coming. It's your chance to work out your policy before the event. After all," I added with a tight smile, "there are more women in the world than there are capes."
"Hm." Her pause for thought was almost theatrical. That she had thought about it, I had no doubt, but I was equally sure that she had reached her decision in far less time than the several seconds that she pretended to deliberate. "I suppose that your suggestion of de-prioritising their actions has a certain amount of merit." Pausing, she pinned me with a hard stare. "Of course, if they do go so far as to attack the government of a sovereign nation, or commit some other crime that the PRT can't ignore, then we will come down on them."
"If they do that, then whatever happens to them, happens," I agreed. I'll just have to make damn sure that they know where the line is and not to cross it.
"Indeed," she replied, answering both what I had said and what I had not. She was a sharp enough operator to pick up on both messages, of course. "Was there anything else, Captain?"
"Actually, yes, ma'am, there was," I said. I thought I saw a flicker of surprise, but it may have been my imagination. "About rogue capes in general."
"What about them, Captain?" she asked. "They've chosen not to join the ranks of the heroes, and they haven't committed any crimes. Until they do one or the other, they're essentially out of our purview." Which wasn't quite true. I knew all too well that the PRT maintained dossiers on rogue capes, documenting powers and threat ratings on the off-chance that the cape decided to turn toward villainy. If they could get the cape's real name, they did that too. The 'unspoken rules' of my day had yet to be really formulated yet, much less reach any sort of commonality; if the PRT could arrest a villain at his home, they did. It just wasn't publicised very much.
I might have to do something about that, too. I made a mental note, then put the thought away. It was something that I'd have to deal with at another time.
"All very true, ma'am, except for the last part," I said, drawing on my experiences with Kinsey to inject a bland tone into my voice. "The PRT does have a very real influence on them. Specifically, with the use of the 'rogue' designator."
"I'm not certain where you're going with this, Captain." Her gaze was direct. "Are you objecting to the name itself?" I was reasonably sure that she was lying, but she wanted me to spell it out.
Well, if you want it that way. "The word 'rogue' has a negative connotation," I pointed out. "It was almost certainly coined to make undecided capes choose to be heroes rather than go their own way, back when capes using their powers to do something other than fight crime was seen as kind of dirty or self-serving." In fact, I knew it was; I'd checked. "It implies that capes like that are only one step up from villainy."
"And how do you propose we fix that, Captain?" The Chief Director raised one eyebrow, emulating Spock. Of course she can do that. She probably practises in the mirror. "Or, for that matter, why do we even need to? We need all the heroes we can get, after all."
"I'll answer that one in a moment, ma'am," I said. "Pursuant to the rogue issue, I'm about ninety-five percent certain that in the next three to five years, legislation will be proposed that's designed to severely curtail parahuman involvement in business and media. This will be backed, of course, by non-parahuman big business interests, specifically intended to force up-and-coming parahuman-based businesses out of the marketplace." I was more than ninety-five percent sure, of course; the NEPEA-5 bill and the transformation of the Uppermost into the Elite were old news where I came from.
She blinked once; I took that to indicate surprise. "You're very sure of your conclusions."
I inclined my head. "I am. If the PRT doesn't step in, the bill will almost certainly pass." My tone was matter-of-fact.
Her eyes searched mine; I met her gaze steadfastly. I knew I was right. "Assuming this is true, Captain," she said, "what does it matter to us? Rogues are rogues. Business is business. The PRT doesn't get involved in civilian affairs. We've got enough on our plate dealing with villains."
I took a deep breath. "Just now, ma'am, you said that we need all the heroes we can get. That's not precisely true." Three … two … one …
Her voice could have carved tungsten carbide. "Explain." Even in the climate-controlled office, the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees.
I forced myself to maintain eye contact. I had actually managed to irritate her, which was not something any sensible person wanted to do to Alexandria. "A slightly more accurate statement, ma'am, would be that we need as few people becoming villains as possible. Calling non-heroic capes 'rogues' will set the expectation in their minds that if they can't cut it legally, they may as well become villains. And in the scenario that I've just outlined – which I do believe is going to happen – the bill being passed is likely to cause a very substantial number of previously law-abiding capes to decide that if the law can be changed to screw them over, then why should they follow it? Lots of people get hurt, and we suffer a significant PR backlash."
There was silence in the room, then, broken only by the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall. The Chief Director stared back at me. I forced my muscles to remain relaxed; the last thing I wanted was to make her think I was tense or apprehensive. I was a little of both, of course, but years of self-hypnosis had given me a certain amount of control over my parasympathetic responses.
"You're serious." Her voice was mild, as if she were discussing the weather.
I nodded. "Yes, ma'am." I had to admire her control; she seemed as calm as if I had never raised the subject in the first place.
"Your scenario is troubling. Do you have any idea of how to avert it?" Good. She actually seemed to be taking me seriously.
Mentally, I girded my loins. I seemed to be rewriting PRT policy on the fly a lot, these days. Well, at least she seems receptive. "The first thing that we've got to do is officially change the name 'rogue' to something else. Perhaps 'independent', or 'unaffiliated'. Those are neutral enough to not garner a negative response."
The Chief Director tilted her head slightly. "I agree, but not to those words specifically. We need a word that's short enough to be used in regular conversation. Also, 'independent' is already in use to describe heroes without a team, or more broadly, heroes who haven't joined the PRT." She didn't say 'yet', but I heard it all the same. "And while 'independent' can be abbreviated to 'indy', 'unaffiliated' has no similarly useful short form. However, I do have a suggestion of my own. You even used it yourself. 'Neutral'. It says exactly what it means." She smiled briefly, apparently appreciating the joke.
I didn't even see that one. And that's why we don't underestimate Alexandria. Like, ever. "That's … actually perfect. It works, on so many levels. I can't believe that I didn't see it."
She didn't comment about that, but I saw the pleased expression cross her face. "Indeed." She was all business now. "As for your projected scenario, I presume that your recommendation is to oppose such bills if and when they arise."
I nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Something else occurred to me, and I started to think it through.
The Chief Director interrupted my musings. "I foresee one problem; parahuman-run businesses are likely to run normal businesses out of the marketplace, simply through normal operating procedures. If they're using powers to gain an unfair advantage over the competition, then that could be a serious problem."
I had to nip this in the bud. "Ma'am, business is all about unfair advantage. If one business has a more efficient procedure than another, it will prevail. So long as the economy is not affected – and no, I'm not advocating allowing Thinker day-traders into the stock market – then market forces will find a new equilibrium. There will always be supply and demand, and if people are willing to pay for a parahuman-created product, then let them buy it. Legislating against parahumans just because they're able to do something better and faster and cheaper is protectionism, pure and simple. Worse, it sends a message to the cape community – especially the neutrals – that their rights don't matter. Do you want them taking that message to heart? Because I don't."
I had half-risen during this speech; fortunately, I had not raised my voice much, but there was a certain intensity there. Slowly, I sat down again. "Uh, sorry, ma'am. I got carried away a little there, at the end."
"No offence taken, Captain." She smiled and leaned back a little in her chair. "You make some excellent points, even if your grasp of certain economic matters is a little rough and ready. If I'm correct, your overall message here is one that you've presented before; that parahumans are here to stay, and that the world is going to change."
I couldn't recall exactly when I'd said that before, but it sounded familiar. It's probably in my dossier somewhere. "Yes, ma'am. It's already changed, and the changes are going to keep coming. It's best to get out in front and run with them, because trying to hold them back simply isn't going to work."
The Chief Director nodded slowly. "I tend to agree, Captain. I'll think about what you've said, and how best to implement it. It may well be that you've assisted the PRT in dodging a very large and nasty bullet. Was there anything else?"
"Not at the moment, ma'am." I was having thoughts about how to give young criminal parahumans a second chance instead of locking them into the villain mindset once they'd committed their first crime, but I needed to shake that down before presenting it to anyone. Not letting Armsmaster talk to them when they're trying to do the right thing would be a good start, I decided wryly. Also, mandated therapy for Protectorate and Wards alike was definitely something to think about. I'd have to work things out in my mind and bounce it off of Lisa before I could present it properly. And finally, there was still the 'unspoken rules' thing. I'd have a relatively narrow window of opportunity between Marquis and Nilbog, so I'd have to make the most of it.
"Very well, then." She rose. "It's been very illuminating speaking to you, Captain Snow."
I stood up as well and saluted. She returned it. "Dismissed."
Taking up my cane, I left the office, closing the door quietly behind me. Once I was fit to leave DC, I needed to get back down to Texas. I just need an excuse to be down there.
PRT Department 14; Austin, TX
Wednesday, 24 July, 1994
" … and done." I clicked the mouse button, locking in the changes that I had performed on the system. "Intranet secured and passworded, and half a dozen dodgy looking back doors locked up."
The security chief, a guy called Lang, shot me a look. He was a tall rangy man with a thick shock of white hair, who looked incomplete without a Stetson and a gunbelt. "I thought we'd already secured our computers."
"For a given definition of 'secure', Mr Lang," I told him cheerfully. "What you had before would hold out against your average garden-variety hacker or cracker, but anyone with talent could've waltzed straight past your firewalls. The way I've got it set up right now is that if anyone tries to back-door into the system, they'll go into a sandbox and set off a system alert. It'll backtrack their location data and slow down the logon process just a little, to give your guys a better chance to nab them." I stretched, causing my back to pop; it had taken me two solid days to go through the system and ferret out all the bugs and potential intrusions. This had been in between regular meals (as mandated by Kinsey) and equally regular training sessions (also mandated by Kinsey).
Lang looked less angry and more lost. "What's a sandbox?" he asked.
"From the inside, he'll think he's in your system," I explained. "He can fiddle around and change things, but it won't do anything to the real system. But any time he tries to do something sensitive, the system will throw up a processing error, slowing him down yet again. By the time he realises something's wrong, someone should be kicking his door down." I knew that this was a best-case situation, but right now Lang needed reassurance more than he needed a reality check.
"So has anyone been in the system?" asked Lang. He looked more than a little apprehensive, which I didn't begrudge him.
"It's possible," I said. "Even probable. But whatever they got, it wasn't from any of the secure servers."
"So nothing about any secret identities or dossiers?" His voice held a hint of worry. Which was understandable; Lang was ultimately responsible for all security in PRT Department 14. For a major breach to happen on his watch without him even noticing would not look good.
"I didn't find any indication of that," I assured him. "They'd been trying, yes, but that information is behind an air gap, and they haven't been able to physically gain access to the server room to switch it into the system." Which is the whole point of multi-layered security systems, I thought but did not say.
Normally, Lang spoke in a slow Texas drawl; today, it was anything but slow. He was back to being angry again. "How did they even get in?"
"Most new systems have a few bugs here and there, especially when you're trying to secure a system with as many nodes as a local intranet." I tapped my fingernail on a basic schematic of the Austin PRT headquarters. "If anyone can break in anywhere, they'll have a window of time to play around before things are tightened up. The dumb ones grab stuff or vandalise the system before they're booted. The smart ones try to set up a back door so they can come back whenever they want."
"Oh." He looked a little mollified. "But you've locked all these back doors down, yes?"
"Tighter than a drum, Mr Lang." I turned back to the computer and cleared the cache before beginning the shutdown process.
"Thank you, Captain Snow," he said. "Director Grantham had good things to say about you when he heard you were coming. I see what he meant, now." Turning, he headed for the door. "I'll just go and pass on the good news."
"Mr Lang?" I called after him as I started to unplug the cords preparatory to packing up my computer.
He reappeared in the doorway. "Yes, Captain Snow?"
"The system will need maintaining. Ask the Director if there isn't room in the budget for a systems administrator. Most other PRT departments have them already." I waved around the room, indicating the base and the intranet by proxy. "All this can fall down without warning if the wrong bit of software or hardware decides to fail. Just saying."
He nodded. "Message received and understood, Captain." Turning, he left.
I kept packing up the computer. Showing up at the Austin PRT station and upgrading their intranet gave me a good excuse for being in Texas, but it was time I moved on to the real reason.
One Day Later
On the Road to Kari Schultz's Hometown
The highway wound through low hills, covered intermittently with trees and scrubby vegetation. It was hot out; we had the windows up, with the air conditioning emitting cool air from the dashboard. Soft country music spilled out of the speakers; not all of the local radio stations played it, but most seemed to prefer it. That didn't matter; I liked country music. However, I was bored and a little tired. "Kinsey?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
We were going with civilian clothing for this leg of the trip. When we got to where we were going, I didn't want to draw undue attention to the people we were meeting. Kinsey was wearing jeans and a work shirt with rolled-up sleeves, but even that just made him look like a soldier wearing civvies. Well, it was the thought that counted. With luck, we wouldn't draw too much attention.
"I don't want to be the person saying 'are we there yet', but how long until we arrive?" I had opted for a light summer-print dress, large sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat; the latter lay in my lap. Currently I was leaning back in my seat with my eyes closed.
There was a brief pause, then he answered. "I figure it to be another eighty miles or so, ma'am. Maybe an hour."
If Kinsey said it was maybe an hour, then I was going to bet on somewhere between fifty-five minutes and an hour five. I reclined my seat a little farther. "Thank you, Kinsey. I'm going to catch some sleep."
"Roger that, ma'am. Did you want me to turn the radio down?"
"Just a little. Wake me when we're five minutes out." I stretched a little, then relaxed, letting the gentle motion of the car lull me.
"Will do, ma'am." The music level was reduced to a background whisper. It made it very easy to drop off to sleep.
I clung to a hand-hold as the oversized cabin cruiser pounded across the waves, the engines bellowing deep. Lisa, beside me on the flying bridge, slitted her eyes against the spray as she spun the wheel. As it began its turn, I braced myself; the prey was in sight.
Up ahead, three white lines running just under the water broke the surface and revealed their true nature; robotic sharks, eighty feet from nose to tip, composed of gleaming grey cerametal, with mouthfuls of razor-sharp synthetic-diamond teeth. A highly advanced military project, they had eaten the team of scientists working on them and gone rogue from the testing base. Now they were heading for Los Atlantis, a semi-underwater city on the Cali-vadan coast. The civilian authorities were evacuating the population, but there wasn't enough time. If we didn't stop these things, it would be a slaughter on a grand scale.
You just love these scenarios, don't you? I said into my throat mic.
"Who, me?" She even managed to get in an innocent tone while shouting at the top of her lungs. Taking her hand off the wheel for a moment, she punched a button on the console. The bulky shapes on either side of the flying bridge unstowed themselves to reveal wicked-looking miniguns, while the nose-cannon and torpedo tubes likewise readied themselves for action.
Yes, you. Any advice for talking to Joanna and the others? I hung on as the boat leaned into another turn, lining up for a firing run. Up ahead, the formation split; one shark dived, while the other two peeled off to left and right, curving back toward us.
"Yeah. She'll be open to the deal you worked out with the Chief Director. However, Calvert's called in some markers from his Intelligence contacts to have their phones tapped off the books, so you'll get some brownie points for pointing that out." She didn't have to explain the benefits of that. Helping out PASS and annoying Thomas Calvert was a win-win situation. Even pre-Coil, he had a habit of trying to get his hooks into everything. This wasn't going to happen here.
Noted. Anything else? The sharks were stealthy as fuck, but our upgraded sonar could just about pick them up. I pointed at the glowing dot on the screen which had just separated itself from the bottom clutter. Lisa nodded and slammed the throttles to a full stop. I braced myself yet again as torpedoes launched to left and right. The sharks flanking us sheered off, but they weren't the target.
"Yeah. Dana got her contract from the PRT. They think they're being sneaky, slipping a few clauses which look innocent on their own but if they're violated, lock her into an exclusive-client deal with them. Sections eight, fourteen and twenty-one." She shoved the throttles wide open again. On the screen, the shark below us was twisting and turning, but the torpedoes were tracking its every move. The left-hand shark got a little too close, and the minigun on that side opened up with a high-speed brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Eight, fourteen and twenty-one. Got it. I felt the sub-surface detonation as the torpedoes impacted with the target. Chunks flew off the left-hand shark, then Lisa was powering the boat into a hard turn to starboard.
"He's running!" she shouted. The nose cannon opened up then, ranging on on the fleeing shape of the right-hand shark. I could both hear the rapid-fire bark and feel the vibrations as they thrummed through the deck; a line of waterspouts crept steadily closer to the retreating robot. A sharp detonation and a bright flash marked the end of its short but eventful career. "Got him! Where's number three?"
Looking around, I saw that the third shark had turned and was now bearing down on us from behind. On our six, I reported.
Lisa glanced over her shoulder. "Sneaky little bastard!" she yelled, her broad grin belying her tone. "Oh, wait, you're about to get a visitor."
Wait, what? I was somewhat disappointed; I wanted to see how this turned out.
"Sorry, but the real world awaits. Kiss before you go?" She leaned in toward me, and I kissed her. Her lips tasted of dust and blood and salt spray. A droplet of water caught me in the eye and I blinked -
"Ma'am, wake up. We have a situation." Kinsey's voice was calm, with an undercurrent of urgency.
Opening my eyes, I blinked a few times, then brought my seat-back up to its normal position. "I'm awake, Kinsey. What's … oh."
'Oh' was right. Hovering over the road, about a hundred yards ahead of us and rapidly getting closer, was a caped figure. Against the brilliant blue of the Texas sky, it was hard to make out details at first, but then it clicked. "I believe that's Eidolon."
"Should I pull over, ma'am?" He showed no uncertainty or apprehension. If I gave the order, he was willing to defy the man who was seen as the most powerful cape in the world.
"Do it, Kinsey." I was more than a little irritated; I didn't have the groundwork in place for dealing with the Eidolon situation quite yet. However, if the man wanted to speak to me, I supposed that it would probably be a good idea to see what he wanted.
Smoothly, Kinsey pulled the car over to the side of the road. I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out, surreptitiously stretching just a little. My hat went on to my head as I turned to face Eidolon, even as he glided in for an effortless landing. Behind me, I heard Kinsey's door open and close as well.
"Good afternoon, Eidolon," I said politely. "It's an honour to meet you." There was nothing to be lost by saying something nice, after all. "Can I help you?"
Against the scrubby trees and burnt-orange ground, his blue-green costume stood out much more effectively than it had against the sky; the green glow from his hood and sleeves added an interesting contrast. He walked forward to meet me; I noted that he was actually an inch or two shorter than me, for all that his air of purpose and intent made him seem taller.
"Captain Snow." His voice was deep, with a certain resonant effect. "We need to speak privately."
Just a little theatrically, I glanced around. "We're in the middle of nowhere. This is as private as it gets."
For an answer, he cleared his throat meaningfully and turned his head toward Kinsey for a moment. It didn't take a college diploma to read his meaning.
I let a little of the irritation I was feeling show through in my voice. "I would tell you that whatever you have to say to me, Kinsey can hear as well, but you won't accept that, will you?"
Again, he chose not to answer verbally. His hood swept from side to side, twice. I had to admit, he played the silent enigmatic hero quite well.
"Very well, then." Momentarily, I considered just getting back in the car and leaving, but now I was actually wondering what Eidolon wanted. Ten gets you a hundred that he wants help with his declining powers. "Kinsey."
"Orders, ma'am?" Despite the fact that he was out of uniform, Kinsey straightened to attention.
"Secure the perimeter, sergeant. On the double." Which was a fancy way of saying 'get out of earshot', but in such a way that I wasn't just dismissing him. Even though I was doing just that. Eidolon wasn't earning himself any brownie points with me.
"Ma'am!" He double-timed it up the road, head turning, eyes searching for any potential eavesdroppers. Even though he knew it was a make-work order, he was still carrying it out to his full ability, but that was James Kinsey.
I turned to Eidolon. "We have privacy. What did you need to talk about?" Idly, I wondered how he made his mask glow under his hood like that. Is it a power effect, or Tinkertech? If I cared enough, I'd ask Lisa the next time I spoke to her.
He clasped his hands behind his back. "You're the analyst who predicted New York. I need to ask you about that. How you did it. What methods you use. What you base your findings on."
Ah. Not the powers, then. I couldn't very well deny that I'd done exactly that. "I don't use the scientific method, exactly," I hedged. "A lot of my analysis is done by the seat of my pants. It's like … have you ever been diving?" I knew he hadn't, unless he'd done so after getting his powers.
"Well, no." Now he seemed puzzled. "Why?"
"I spoke to someone who was scuba-diving once, and a whale swam past him. He said he could feel the pressure wave ahead of the whale before he ever saw the whale itself. It's like that with me. I don't get these insights fully-grown in my head -" Which was a lie. Thanks to Lisa, that was exactly what I did. Fortunately, Eidolon didn't have the same cold-reading capabilities as Alexandria. "- so much as I feel the hints, the potentials, of something likely to happen. Everything affects everything else. I gather all the data, and try to put together a picture that makes sense. It's like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the middle of a howling thunderstorm by the flashes of lightning, where ninety percent of the pieces are the same blue sky, and someone's thrown a handful of fake pieces in on top of it. And there are no edge pieces." Total bullshit all the way through, including the whale story, but it sounded good. I hoped.
With any luck, it would satisfy Eidolon. I did have business with him, but not at this time and not in this place. I wanted to prepare the setting first.
"And yet, you get results." He wasn't going to give up on this. "I need to know whatever insights you can give me."
"Okay, fine." I leaned back against the car. Time to dispense with the bullshit and start giving him some hard facts. See how he handles them. "I don't normally tell people this much, because they don't want to hear it, but do you remember how a lot of people were so certain that the first appearance of the Behemoth was a one-time event?"
He folded his arms, and now he seemed a little taller. Glancing downward behind my sunglasses, I could see that his feet had drifted off the ground. Showoff. "I remember," he said bluntly. "They were idiots."
"Hindsight is always twenty-twenty," I said lightly. Let's see how he reacts to this. "What would you say if I told you I'm seventy-five percent certain that the Behemoth isn't the only one of his kind?"
He stiffened, and dropped back to the ground. Well, that rang his bell. " … What did you say?" he asked harshly.
"I think there's more where he came from," I said quietly. "I think in the next few years – four, at the outside – we're going to have another one. I don't know if it'll be the same, or different. All I know – all I think – is that things aren't as bad as they can get, quite yet." Wow, if you could see the world in fifteen years' time …
Reaching up under his hood, he rubbed at his face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Who knows about this?"
"You. Me." I shrugged. "I haven't presented it in a report yet. Still firming up the numbers." I'd have to do a report, now. Because as sure as Amy Dallon had daddy issues, Eidolon would be flapping his mouth about this. "And, you know, working on the next Behemoth event."
That got his attention. "Any ideas on that?"
"This year, late. Probably not December. Not the continental US. Probably not even the northern hemisphere." I could almost feel his attention sharpening as I pretended to narrow it down. "That's all I've got, at the moment."
"But how can you even know that much?" he demanded. I felt mild amusement at his frustration. "How can you figure it out at all?"
Okay, fine. I'll throw him a bone. "Conflict," I said, almost at random. "The key word here is conflict."
"Conflict?" he asked, sounding a little confused.
"Correct." I stepped away from the car and started pacing, my hands behind my back. "My working theory is that the Behemoth is attracted to places where either there's lots of conflict, or where his arrival will cause maximum chaos and conflict after he leaves. But not just any conflict. Conflict between parahumans. So I keep an eye on the ebb and flow of conflict around the world. The patterns. A clash here triggers a brushfire war there, which inspires a coup in the next country over. Everything affects everything else. And when the time is ripe for the Behemoth to show up again, wherever the most conflict or potential conflict is, that's where he'll strike."
He stood still for almost a minute. I leaned against the car again and watched him; it was almost certain that he'd have more questions to ask me. Hopefully, I hadn't broken his brain by telling him what I had. I needed him to still be in a position of authority in the next few months.
"Snow." His voice was harsh.
"Yes?" I put all the polite interest I could into it.
"Are you a Thinker?" He was leaning forward now, and I could almost feel the intensity of his scrutiny.
On the one hand, the question wasn't entirely unexpected. On the other, it had been a while since I'd been asked it. "I … beg your pardon?"
"It's a simple question. Are you a Thinker, Snow? Are you using powers to pull answers out of mid-air?" Eidolon didn't ask the next part of the question, but I figured it out anyway. Or are we supposed to believe that a twenty-two year old Intelligence captain is smarter than the rest of the PRT combined?
I huffed out a sigh of resignation. "You got me. I'm a Thinker."
He jumped at least six inches into the air and didn't bother coming down again. His voice was sharp with triumph; I was pretty sure that he was just barely preventing himself from fist-pumping. "I knew it!"
"Yeah," I went on, raising my voice slightly. "I'm so damn smart that when I discovered I had Thinker powers, I busted my ass for eighteen months in college so that I could sign up and go through boot camp, just to be an officer in the PRT." I raised my eyebrows at him. I had no idea what his expression was showing, but he wasn't stopping me, so I ploughed on. "Which has put me in the line of fire more than once, for the dubious privilege of wearing the uniform, to follow regulations every hour of the day, and – this is the really special part – live on about one-third of the annual salary of a PRT parahuman consultant. With a staff of exactly one, most of the time. Yeah, I'm a Thinker … I don't think." I couldn't help dipping into a certain amount of sarcasm, there at the end.
It took him a moment to get it. "So … you're not a Thinker." It was almost a question, the way he phrased it.
"No." My voice was flat. "I'm not a Thinker." Which was, as far as I'd allow myself to consider the question, I wasn't. Lisa was the Thinker. I was just along for the ride.
"Then how are you doing it?" he demanded. "My powers aren't capable of giving me the answers that you're getting. No precog that I know of can get those answers. Alexandria's the smartest person I know, and she can't do it. If you don't have powers, how are you doing it?" Even with the echoing tone overlaid on his voice, I could hear the frustration clearly. Here was a man who had the power to solve every problem he encountered … except the problems he most desperately wanted to solve.
Irony, thy name is parahumanity.
I couldn't help it; I smiled, just a little. Not enough to make Eidolon think I was laughing at him, even though I was, in a small way. He already had his own answer; it was actually true that powers could not predict Endbringers. I may have even chuckled.
"What's so funny?" I would have bet good money that right then, he had every Thinker power he could muster trained on me.
"You don't see it, do you? You don't see that you just answered your own question." I wasn't trying to bait him, not really. But if I just gave him the answer he was burning to hear, he might not recognise it as such. Or believe it. Especially as a good part of it was pure bullshit. Very high-grade bullshit, but bullshit all the same.
He shook his head. "What do you mean? How did I answer …" He paused, and I knew that he had it. "... My own …" He paused again. "Question. Oh, no." The tone of his voice told the whole story. My main regret was that I could only hear his voice. His expression would have been amazing.
"That's correct. I'm sorry." And, for a certain value of 'sorry', I really was. It's never kind to rip the foundations of a man's life out from under him. Especially with lies. Even if it's for a good cause.
Slowly, he descended to the ground again. "So … powers can't see it? At all? It actually does take a talented normal to see this sort of thing?"
I let myself relax, just a bit. "Some people can play chess like a master, the moment they learn the rules. Others can solve a Rubiks cube in literally seconds. There are people with perfect pitch, whose singing voices would make you weep with envy. These are normal people. I can't do any of that. I can, however, see the influence that parahuman powers have on the world. And I've learned to quantify it. To learn what's really going on."
He leaned forward avidly. "Tell me."
Son of a bitch. He bought it. Hook, line and sinker. I composed my face. "There are two things I can tell you right now. The rest is smoke and mirrors. The first one is something you're going to have to brace yourself for, because it's a real doozy. It goes against everything I thought I knew. But it's true. It has to be. Nothing else fits." I let worry creep into my voice.
"I'm listening." His voice was tense.
I took a deep breath. "Scion … is not what he seems to be. There's something about him … I don't think he's a hero. I think he's … wrong, somehow. Pretending. Playing a role."
This, of course, was something he already knew. But it's an old trick; say something that the mark knows, but which the con man shouldn't be able to know, and that makes the mark wonder exactly how much the con man does know.
"That's … very disturbing," he said, with real concern in his voice. "Have you told anyone else about this?"
"Hah, nope," I replied, almost flippantly. "Think anyone would believe me? I mean, Scion? Get real."
"I think it would be a good idea if you kept it to yourself for the time being," he said, his tone still serious. "I'll definitely follow up on it, but don't put yourself in harm's way over it." I felt bad all over again, from the tone of protectiveness in his voice.
"Thanks. I'll do exactly that," I said. "I'm kind of squishy, and I like living." Which was all true; the irony was that I had never been planning to tell anyone else.
"Good." His whole attitude was now 'valiant superhero, defender of the weak'. It looked good on him, if a little pretentious. "What was the other thing?"
"It's a line of inquiry that I'm following," I said. "I've got nothing solid yet, but I think if I keep working at it I might be able to firm up some numbers in two or three months. So, don't get excited, but … I think I might be closing in on where Behemoth came from. Why he's so tough, and how to maybe kill him." I held up my hand as he started forward. "Right now I've got nothing I can give you, just a whole series of unrelated hunches. But … well … everything I've got started out as a hunch. With any luck, I'll have something before he shows up next. And you'll be the first to know."
"And if there's more of them, then knowing how to kill the Behemoth will show us how to kill the others, right?" He sounded excited, which didn't surprise me. For someone with his set of issues, I was more or less a Godsend.
"That's exactly correct." I made sure to keep my voice level and calm. I'm going to hell for this.
"Captain Snow." His voice was calm again, but vibrating with hidden excitement. "Your knowledge – your talent – will help save the world. And I will make sure that you are recognised for it."
Yeah, that's what I'm worried about.
I climbed back into the car, feeling unutterably weary. Eidolon's form ascended into the sky and blurred away into the distance. A green flash made me blink, and then he was gone. The driver's side door opened, and Kinsey climbed in.
"Do I need to know what that was about, ma'am?" His voice was calm and measured. I knew that he would be satisfied with whatever I told him.
"Not right at this moment, Kinsey," I said quietly. "In fact, it's better that you don't know, for your own safety." If he needed to know, I'd fill him in; so long as he didn't, people couldn't get the information out of him.
"Roger that, ma'am." He glanced at the odometer as he started the car. "We should be there in half an hour."
"Thank you, Kinsey." I settled back and closed my eyes again.
What I had just done to Eidolon, what I was going to do to him, most would find unforgivable. I found it pretty damn icky myself. But the fact of the matter was, with the stakes as high as they were, doing the unforgivable was sometimes not just an option but quite often unavoidable. As I had said to Andrea, I was willing to lie, cheat, steal and kill in order to get the job done. I'd done it before, and I'd do it again.
I knew how to end the Endbringers, but my solution wasn't one that Eidolon would anticipate. Or live long enough to appreciate.
As with most magic tricks, as they say, it all came down to knowing that one extra fact.
However, even knowing that I was going to be using my knowledge to save the world … I still felt bad about it.
But I wasn't going to let that stop me.
End of Part 6-1