-ooo-
Recoil
Part 8-7: Ripples
[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
Monday, 29 July 1996
Cauldron Base
Legend
"What is that noise?" Alexandria, pausing in the middle of giving a status update, turned and stared at the door of the conference room. "And where's Contessa? She should be here."
"She said she had to go and see someone about a thing," the Number Man observed helpfully. "I asked her if she could be any more obscure, and she actually growled at me."
Hero's head came up. "It must have something to do with Captain Snow. I've never seen anyone or anything get under Contessa's skin so thoroughly as her." He sounded amused by the concept.
Now Keith could hear the same noise Alexandria had mentioned. It sounded like a squeaky wheel. The trouble was, he didn't think they actually had anything in the base that used wheels, especially wheels that squeaked.
"Entirely understandable." Doctor Mother's tone was tart. "Captain Snow is a loose cannon who should be—"
"Yes, yes, we get it. You dislike the woman because she knows more than she should." Alexandria left her position at the head of the table and went to the door. "But the fact is, she does what she sets out to do, and she's currently our best chance of achieving our aims." Reaching the door, she opened it and stared out. "Contessa? What in God's name are you doing? Who is that?" She paused. "Please tell me it's not—"
"It's not Captain Snow, no." Contessa sounded aggravated. "If you must know, it's Jack Slash."
Seriously? This was suddenly a lot more interesting than a status update meeting. Keith rose into the air and flew over the table, beating the Number Man and Hero to the door only by virtue of superior mobility. When he stepped outside in Alexandria's wake, Contessa was there with a hospital gurney, strapped onto which was a figure bound hand and foot, with a bag over its head.
"Well, I'll be damned. She actually did it." The Number Man, crowding out after Keith, rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm actually kind of impressed. Sure, she's good at what she does, but so is he. Plus, he's usually got a bunch of like-minded capes standing between him and anyone who wants to take him down."
"He did," Contessa corrected him, keeping one hand on the gurney. "I had a little insight while I was bringing him in, and I looked into it. Over the last few years, every time a suitably unpleasant villain has cropped up that might have ended up under his sway, they've been killed off by some person or persons unknown. And the ones he has recruited have proved inadequate to the task."
"You're saying Snow's been doing this," Alexandria said in tones of enlightenment. "Thinning out his recruitment pool."
"It's the best guess I've got so far, lacking a direct line into her actions," Contessa agreed. "He only had three people along when she caught up with him. Screamer, Crimson and Breed. She cornered Screamer in a department store and stabbed her through the heart with a poisoned knitting needle, sniped Crimson at fifty yards through a motel window with a high-powered rifle, shot Breed in the face, and incapacitated Jack Slash with a flashbang."
Keith blinked. "A poisoned knitting needle?" He shook his head. "Has she been reading too many Agatha Christie novels or something? What was the poison? Arsenic?"
"Batrachotoxin," Contessa corrected him. "Poison dart frog toxin. There was enough on the needle to kill Screamer fifty times over. It caused almost instant paralysis, then convulsions, then she died when her heart and lungs just seized up altogether. She didn't even have time to call for help."
The Number Man nodded judiciously. "That does seem to be Snow's MO, yes. Instant overwhelming force, and fuck the opposition."
"So now we have him, what's the plan?" asked Hero.
Contessa raised her eyebrows, as if surprised that he'd forgotten. "We keep him in solitary and feed him extremely bland food until Captain Snow asks for him back. This is her plan, remember?"
"No." Predictably, this was Doctor Mother; late to the party, and contrary to everyone else. "Absolutely not. We are not her minions, or whatever else you want to call it. She does not dictate terms to us."
"Except when she does." Contessa gestured at Jack Slash's bound form. "She clearly sees him as being far more significant to the fate of the world than we do. Every time—every time—I've gone into a situation thinking I knew more than she did about what was going on, I've been wrong. Did you know Eidolon's death would cause the Behemoth to go dormant? She clearly did. So when she indicates he is more important than we think he is, we need to assume she knows exactly what she's talking about, and that we're the ones who are missing something."
"So we interrogate him," Doctor Mother countered. "Find out what he knows and what his powers really are. If he's so important, perhaps he can give us insights as to the inner workings of Captain Snow's mind."
Keith blinked. Hey, that's not such a bad idea—
Contessa shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. Under no circumstance is that going to happen. She made it abundantly clear. We do not talk to him."
"Really?" Doctor Mother turned to the other members of Cauldron, her hands spread in apparent disbelief. "Does nobody find that even slightly suspicious? We're to hold him in our cells, literally keep him incommunicado for ten years, yet the most powerful capes on Earth are not permitted to even talk to him and find out his version of events?"
"Yes, that is exactly correct." Contessa looked as though she wanted to either pinch the bridge of her nose, or punch Doctor Mother. "According to Snow, his passenger is called Broadcast, whereas mine is called the Eye. If he talks to a cape, he can low-level Master them, often twisting them to his point of view. In combat, he can anticipate their moves and gain insights in how to beat them, and they are given bad data on how to defeat him. Snow told me straight-up that if I was facing him on a level playing field, he would likely clean my clock."
"Well then, our course is clear." Doctor Mother tapped herself on the chest. "I'm not a cape. I can handle the interrogation."
"Again, no." Contessa shook her head. "One, you're not even remotely a trained interrogator. Two, she specifically told me that you were not to be allowed access to him. You might not be a cape, but you hate Snow's guts, and he'd be able to convince you to let him free to 'keep her in check' even more easily than he'd be able to talk us into letting him out." She looked around at the group. "That includes everyone here, even the Custodian. He will know if someone can hear him, and he will keep talking until he hits the right buttons."
"That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard—"
"I ran the Paths," Contessa interrupted. "Every single Path where you are given access to him, he ends up coaxing you into letting him go, and giving him Doormaker privileges. Half of those times, he kills you. If he gets the drop on her, things end badly for the world. If he doesn't, Snow either kills him or brings him back, along with some extremely unkind words about our security. On at least one of those occasions, she shoots you in the face, and nobody tries to stop her. So you do not speak with him. Is that understood?"
Hero cleared his throat. "That's as may be, but if he's confined to a cell, I'm fairly certain that one conversation isn't going to force one of us to let him go."
"No, that's true," Contessa said with what sounded like forced patience, "but one conversation would inevitably become two, and then three, and then ten. He'll be in our cells for ten years. Every time he talks to you, he gets to wear away at your resistance, and to capes he is persuasive. So we're not having that first conversation. I'm not having it, and none of you are having it. Nobody in this facility is permitted within earshot of him. End of story." She raised her head. "Like I said, that also goes for you."
There was a brush of wind past her, and then the air fell still again.
Doctor Mother shook her head. "I can't believe all of you are buying so hard into this. He's just a jumped-up street thug, for crying out loud!"
"No, no, she's got a point," the Number Man interjected. "We were only kids when I left the Nine, but he's really got a way with words when it comes to capes. If I went into a cell where he was and talked to him, even knowing what he's like, I couldn't guarantee not being on his side when I came out."
"That's because you were friends with him!"
Keith stepped in front of Doctor Mother and gave her a level stare. "Are you opposing this because of Jack Slash, or because it's Captain Snow doing it? Because if Jack Slash really is just a jumped-up thug, he should be beneath your notice. Putting him in a cell for ten years shouldn't be a problem. He is a serial killer, after all. But if on the other hand, he's as dangerous as Snow and Contessa say, then we shouldn't take the slightest chances with him. He needs to be locked away until Snow asks for him back. Your personal opinion of Snow should have zero bearing on that decision."
Alexandria sighed. "Okay, this argument is starting to get circular. We've all got our heels dug in, and nobody is willing to entertain the other side's point of view, so I'm making an executive decision. We're going to dump him in a soundproof cell for the moment, with nothing that could be even remotely fashioned into a blade. Hero rigs a cell with scanners to check him over daily for health problems, and a remote delivery apparatus for food and other amenities. Access to radio and TV channels can be added as needed. If we need to take him out of the cell for any reason, we render him unconscious first. If he's needed to be conscious, we gag him before we wake him up."
"And if we need to talk to him for some reason?" Doctor Mother pressed.
"Why would you want him to talk?" asked the Number Man.
"I don't know!" she flared at him. "I can't see the future!"
"I can," Contessa reminded her. "There is no applicable Path where we actually need to hear what he has to say."
"We both know your Paths aren't omniscient. You could've missed something."
"Okay, let's all take it easy," Hero offered. "I can rig a system that records his voice then translates it to text, with a ten-second delay so that even if there's a Master effect when he's speaking, we'll be reading his words after the fact."
Contessa shook her head. "It's not a voice effect. It's a him effect. His voice just tells you what he wants you to do. We're going to need to keep him at a distance from us, even when we read the messages."
Alexandria tilted her head slightly. "She's right. I just envisaged snapping his neck for all the people he's killed, and I was actually reluctant to do it. My mind kept throwing up reasons not to."
"Goddamn it," complained Hero. "That's creepy as hell. Okay, I'll get to work on the cell right now."
"Good." Alexandria turned to Doctor Mother. "And can I trust you to be professional about this, or do I have to make it official that you're not to interact with him in any way?"
Legend silently counted the seconds. He was up to ten when Doctor Mother grudgingly nodded.
"Fine," she muttered, with bad grace. "I won't talk to him, about Snow or anyone else, without letting one of you know first."
"Thank you." Alexandria nodded to Contessa. "Go dump him in that cell. Hero, let us know when the new cell is ready. We're taking no chances with this one."
As Contessa wheeled the gurney off down the corridor, Keith couldn't help wondering just how big a ticking time bomb Captain Snow had handed them, if he caused this much discord just by existing.
Saturday, August 17, 1996
Brockton Bay
Ex-PRT Captain Robert Gordon
It had been nearly nine months since Rob had accepted the totally-not-a-job from Lieutenant Calvert. His reports, carefully coded to be entirely innocuous to the untrained eye, had so far been a whole heap of nothing. This was because so far, he'd found a whole heap of nothing.
He'd started by establishing himself in the city, finding an apartment to live in, then putting out his feelers. Intelligence work was something he was actually good at, and he was very familiar with the doctrine of 'softly softly catchee monkey'.
Hollywood liked to put forth epics where the hard-drinking hard-partying so-called secret agents intercepted the stolen nuclear secrets in between seducing the gorgeous-but-treacherous female enemy agent and having a running gunfight down Main Street with the other enemy agents, all in the space of a couple of days. That wasn't intelligence work; as one of his tutors would've called it, that was called hanging a target on one's back.
The smart intelligence agent was the one who took things one step at a time and never, ever drew attention to himself. This was especially important for two extra reasons here. First, he was technically not supposed to be working in any capacity for the PRT, even as an unofficial source for Internal Affairs. Second, Snow had demonstrated an astounding reach throughout all levels of the PRT command structure. He didn't know how many people she had the goods on, but if he was going to give Lieutenant Calvert enough evidence to bring her down, it had to be so incontestable that even her former protectors would wash their hands of her.
He'd started off by going to the Brockton Bay Central Library and delving through their newspaper archives. A long and tedious task, it had rewarded him with the occasional nugget of information. The envelope Calvert had given him had covered what they knew of her early life, including her arrival in the city in 1989; he'd added some to that, mainly dated after the initial investigation had taken place.
None of it had been even remotely incriminating.
A part-time job as a janitor at Winslow (using faked credentials, of course) had given him access to her school records, and he noted a friendship with the current vice-principal, Gladys Knott. He also found out that Snow had joined the school's JROTC program after a scuffle occurred where she sent no fewer than three of her opponents to the school nurse. Not the last time she would injure or incapacitate her fellow students, either. They clearly saw how dangerous she was, even back then, and what did they do? They taught her how to fucking shoot, and gave her a leg-up on her recruitment into the PRT. Goddamn it.
Her medical practitioner at the time had been a Doctor French. There were no positions going for work in French's clinic, and he wasn't able to fake enough medical knowledge to get any kind of employment there, but when he sent a message to Calvert, enough cash was advanced on the expense account to grease the right palm and he got hold of her medical records anyway. While her PRT records contained the broad strokes, the ones he got from Dr French just added weirdness to the situation.
Even as a teen, Snow had been marked up more than some PRT veterans Rob knew. There were scars on her—the type that came from combat, not physical abuse—that even her own doctor didn't know the origin of. He added this data to the ever-growing list of 'who the fuck is this bitch anyway?' and moved on.
Intriguingly enough, he also discovered that Major Ruth Goldstein, who had been Snow's attending surgeon following the debacle with the Brotherhood of the Fallen, had been working for Doctor French just before the first appearance of the Behemoth: and yes, that had been while Snow had been seeing French as her doctor. An odd coincidence, if coincidence it was, but he couldn't read anything deeper into it just yet. Leaving it to one side for later dissection, he moved on.
Having exhausted all written records, it was time to get the truth from the people who had known Taylor Snow during her time in Brockton Bay. Someone had to know something damaging about her, and all he needed was that first string. One tug, and he could unravel the entire overwrought reputation that she'd managed to build up around herself. At long last, once he brought the truth to bear on her, people would see her for who and what she really was.
The suggestion had been bandied about that she was carrying on an illicit relationship with one Andrea Campbell, with whom she had roomed in college. It didn't take much digging to reveal that Ms Campbell was a party girl of the highest order, who apparently slept with anyone who caught her eye. Even with Snow away in the PRT, the Campbell woman was maintaining a friendship with Danny and Annette Hebert, respectively the son of the people she'd lived with before striking out on her own, and his wife. The fourth member of this odd quartet was Gladys Knott, which was also interesting, though it didn't actually give Rob any extra data.
The previous investigation, as authorised by Lieutenant-Colonel (then Major) Hamilton, had established that she'd had a brief fling with Ms Campbell, but that the relationship was over and done with before she joined the PRT. All correspondence between the two (Calvert had supplied copies of them in the envelope) indicated that this was the case, and that the two were only friends from this point onward. If this was indeed the case, it would be just another dead end.
However, if he could prove it a lie, then it would provide blatant evidence of her carrying on a homosexual relationship while a serving member of the PRT, thus bypassing the Don't Ask Don't Tell policy. While this wouldn't be as satisfying as catching her out in any one of the many other illegal activities he knew she absolutely had to be dabbling in, it would definitely open the door to further investigation and cause her protectors to back the fuck off, lest they be caught in the splash zone.
The problem was, he had to find someone willing to spill the beans.
The Campbell woman, though initially promising, was a no-go once he thought about it. Bitter exes could be an absolute treasure trove of dirt on the people they saw as having betrayed them, but the correspondence between them was entirely cordial, which very likely meant she wasn't any kind of ex, especially not the bitter kind. Snow would've explained PRT regulations to her (Snow was very much the type to explain stuff, even when the people she was talking to already knew it) so Campbell would know to deny everything.
But there were other people in Snow's life, people who didn't necessarily understand the ramifications of that particular 'lifestyle'. More importantly, people who disapproved of it. Everything he'd seen from his careful surveillance of the Hebert parents (Danny was a total loss, as he clearly worshipped the ground she walked upon) told Rob that they were strongly religious and very conservative.
Still, he doubted George Hebert would open up to a relative stranger about what he saw as family issues; after all, Snow had lived under their roof for several years. Dorothy Hebert, on the other hand, was outspoken and fearless with her opinions. Rob figured it would be easier to get her started than to shut her up on the topic.
He considered introducing himself at their church, but after three Sundays went by and they didn't so much as glance at him, he decided that they didn't attend to socialise with others. Finally, he decided to bite the bullet and talk to them directly. Which was why he was walking up the front path of the Hebert house at midmorning on a Saturday, dressed in the PRT undress blues that he really should have handed back in, carrying the Internal Affairs ID that Calvert had prepped for him (which he absolutely had no business holding) and looking every inch like a soldier who was there to carry out a routine yet necessary duty. To offset the chance that they'd recognise him from church, he'd shaved his beard off and had his hair trimmed back to military length.
He took a breath and went to attention to get himself back into the mindset, then relaxed into 'at ease'. Then he raised his right hand and rapped twice on the door: one-two. Initially there was no reaction from within the house, but then he heard footsteps approaching. The door opened, and Dorothy Hebert peered out at him.
"Hello?" she greeted him. Then she clearly recognised the uniform, because her hand went to her mouth. "Oh, dear. Has something happened to Taylor?"
"Not to my knowledge," he said smoothly, concealing his internal thoughts on the matter. We can only hope. "But I am here to talk to you about her, yes."
"Oh, my goodness." She turned and raised her voice to a genteel shout. "George, honey, it's a captain from the PRT! He's here to talk to us about Taylor!"
A masculine bellow sounded through the house. "Well, ask him in already, Dottie!"
As if neither one had heard the command, Dorothy turned and smiled at Rob. "Would you please come in? I'm sure we will be more comfortable sitting down while we hear what you have to say."
"Thank you, Mrs Hebert." Rob nodded politely to acknowledge the invitation and removed his peaked cap as he entered the house. He'd never actually liked the berets, preferring the more formal cap, even though it was really supposed to go with the dress uniform.
She led him through into the living room, where George Hebert was getting up from his armchair. Older than Rob by at least ten years, the Hebert patriarch was a large man, solid and muscular with brawny forearms. His handshake was firm, with just a hint of 'I could break your hand if I really wanted to, so don't try me' in the mix.
"Well, Captain … McCarthy, was it?" Hebert asked, barely hesitating as he glanced at Rob's name-tape. "What's this about Taylor, then? And is this something she should be here for?"
"McCarthy, yes, sir." The honorific slipped out without his meaning it to, but it seemed to put them more at ease. "This is merely a routine investigation into her background, speaking to the people who know her the best. We do them all the time."
"Well, have a seat then." Dorothy bustled into the kitchen. "Do you like oatmeal cookies, Captain?"
"Yes, please." Rob sat down on the sofa, his mood buoyed by how well this was going so far. All I need is that one bit of information …
"Do you know Taylor?" asked George, while Dorothy was in the kitchen. "We've only met her Sergeant Kinsey. A reliable man, I thought." He lowered himself back into his armchair.
Rob shook his head as Dorothy came back into the living room, with a plate of cookies. "Thank you, ma'am. No, if I knew her, I wouldn't have been picked for this investigation. Too much chance of a conflict of interest, you see." He took a cookie and bit into it to stop himself from talking too much. It was delicious.
"I know about that sort of thing, yes," George agreed. "So, what's this about?"
"What I'm about to tell you doesn't go any farther than this room." Rob paused for a moment to let that sink in. "You may be aware that Captain Snow has achieved remarkable deeds in the service of the PRT." Well, some people seem to think so, anyway. Personally, I think she stole glory from a lot of other people.
"She's said a few things, but only after we asked her about them, and that was only after we'd heard about it from others," Dorothy ventured. "She's never been the boastful type, and we know all about how most of what she's done is classified."
George cleared his throat. "If you're here to ask if Taylor's been talking about things she shouldn't have been, you're looking in the wrong place. It's hard enough to get her to talk about the things she's allowed to discuss."
Goddamn it. Rob had been hopeful, but that wasn't his plan A. "Not in the slightest," he lied through his teeth. "What I was going to say is that she's being considered for a project at the very highest level of classification. Merely telling you the name of the project would see me court-martialled. However, in order to ensure that she's a good fit for the project, we need to be certain that she hasn't got any potential vulnerabilities that would allow hostile elements to gain a hold over her and get access to the project."
George frowned. "Vulnerabilities?" he asked. "What are you driving at there, Captain McCarthy?"
His wife, by contrast, shook her head firmly. "You clearly don't understand our Taylor, Captain. She's the most stubborn, hard-headed, self-confident person I know, and I've been married to George here for over twenty years. The person who could gain a hold over her and bend her to their will hasn't been born yet, and never will."
"That's been said about other people, too," Rob said, nettled that she was dismissing his line of attack before he really got started. "But if they've got a lifestyle or unsavoury habit that could be held over their head, even the most independent people can fold. Especially if they want to maintain a high-ranking position."
"You're clearly leading up to something, Captain," George stated in a bullish tone. "How about you quit beating about the bush and just come out with it?"
Rob hadn't wanted to jump straight into it, but the Heberts struck him as people who preferred straight talk, and he wanted to keep them amenable to what he was saying. "Alright, I will. First, have you ever witnessed her to be under the influence of illicit substances? Marijuana, or any of the harder drugs? Did she ever drink while she lived here?" He didn't think the answer would be positive, but this would give them a sense of security and establish a precedent for them answering his questions.
George snorted derisively, while Dorothy shook her head. She glanced at her husband, but he simply waved at her to speak.
"Young man, that's even less likely than the other. Taylor was always extremely responsible, in every aspect of her life. Do your records show that she was gainfully employed even before she left high school, maintaining the computers in the Port Authority building?"
"Yes, they do," he said, though he had no idea whether that was true or not. "She has a reputation for being good with computers." He'd thought he was good with them, until he tried to break past her passwords to see what she was working on, and utterly failed to make any headway whatsoever. Worse, she had somehow detected the attempt after the fact, and called him out on it.
"Was there anything else you wanted to know about her?" asked George, his shaggy brows lowering.
"Yes, actually." Rob forced himself to clear his throat in a nervous-sounding gesture. "Now, this may seem harmless in the real world, but above a certain clearance level it is strictly forbidden for men or women to indulge in same-sex relationships. Where she is now, this doesn't affect her …" He was lying through his teeth again, of course, "… but if she were to be placed into that project and then it was found after the fact to be the case, she could get into a great deal of trouble." He looked Dorothy in the eye. "Ma'am, has Taylor ever, to your knowledge, had a relationship with another woman?"
Mentally, he braced himself for the thicket of excuses Dorothy Hebert would doubtless throw up for Snow's behaviour, which would at the same time assist him in finally nailing that damned woman to the wall. Either that, or she would crack and throw Snow to the wolves. She did not give the impression of someone who readily accepted someone else breaking the rules she set for them.
Three or four seconds passed while she looked him over, then she spoke in icy tones. "No. She has not, Captain, and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking otherwise. Taylor's behaviour, for all the time I have known her, has been nothing short of impeccable."
For the first time since he'd entered the Hebert house, Rob was taken entirely off guard. "What? But … are you sure? Andrea Campbell—"
"—is a delightful young lady, and is welcome in this household any time she wishes to visit." Dorothy stood up from the other end of the sofa. "You, on the other hand, have outstayed yours. Please leave this house, immediately."
"No." Rob tried to argue. "You don't understand. This is serious. Snow is dangerous. If she—"
George came to his feet as well, his expression thunderous. "PRT officer or no, when a lady says you are no longer welcome, then you should already be on the way out. Dottie, get the door. Mr McCarthy is leaving now." He took a step toward Rob, his hands flexing with intent.
Rob weighed the possibility that he wasn't about to be bodily thrown out on his ear, and found it distinctly lacking. "I'm going, I'm going," he said hastily, jumping up and snatching his cap from the coffee table in front of him. Under George's glowering eye, he beat a judicious retreat toward the front door.
He didn't stop moving until he was down the front path and at his car; only then did he turn and look back at the house. George Hebert stood on the front porch, his arms folded in a time-honoured stance: and stay out.
While it would've been emotionally satisfying to throw some stinging retort at the man, perhaps telling him that they had endangered their precious Taylor's career, he refrained. He got in the car, carefully telling himself that this was because he didn't want to give away sensitive information and not because he was physically intimidated by Snow's foster father, and started the engine.
As he drove out of there, he was aware of one fact.
If he was going to get dirt on Taylor Snow, he would have to look elsewhere.
Sunday, September 1, 1996, 5:46 PM
Brockton Bay General Hospital
Maternity Waiting Area
Danny
"—and as Mom put it, she sent him away with a flea in his ear."
"Ha!" Alan Barnes shook his head and grinned. "I love your parents to death, but I will never, ever see them as pushovers. So, did you ever find out who he really was?"
"Yeah. Dad contacted Taylor, and she asked a few basic questions then ID'ed him as a guy who got booted out of the PRT for what amounts to terminal idiocy. Also, he's tried to torpedo her career on multiple occasions, so this was basically karma in action. It sounds like he was pulling one last throw of the dice to discredit her so he could get back in."
"And your folks just kicked that door shut in his face. Good." Alan leaned back in his chair, looking deeply satisfied.
"Yeah." Danny took a deep breath and looked toward the doors through which they'd taken Zoe. "Does it ever get easier? This right here, I mean? Not knowing what's going on?"
Across the other side of the room, Anne-Rose and Andrea were distracting young Anne (just turned seven, due to start third grade in the next day or so) with some kind of silly counting game. Dragon, who had shot up in height since the last time Danny had seen her, was sitting off to the side, reading a book and watching fourteen-month-old Tyler and nineteen-month-old Alec as they napped in their respective strollers.
The whole scene looked amazingly domestic; a word Danny never would've picked to associate with Andrea. But now she was a mom to Alec, a part-time mother to Dragon, and a volunteer aunt for Tyler, and apparently enjoying it immensely.
With the neon pink dye job (which could have looked a lot worse than it did) and the pigtails, Dragon looked like a typical teen, though she was remarkably mature for her age. However, he did have to wonder what people were thinking these days when it came to naming their children. It was true that Dragon's father was a Newfoundlander (his dad would've used the pejorative term 'Newfie'), but that didn't exactly excuse such naming practices. On the other hand, he had heard of people called Reindeer or Snowflake hailing from those parts, so he supposed 'Dragon' was at least more imaginative than most.
"Well, I know Zoe's up to the task," Alan admitted, taking up the change in topic without hesitation. "She's very much a take-charge sort of person. With Anne, when I started going green around the gills, she ordered me out of the room. So this time I'll be waiting out here until they let me know I'm allowed back in."
"Right." It made a certain amount of sense. After the rough time Anne-Rose had had with Tyler's birth (the doctors had said it was easy, but she begged to differ) he was pretty sure they were going to stop at one. He hadn't been in the room for Tyler's birth, but he suspected his presence wouldn't have done a blind bit of good, in the moment. "So, uh, how are you going to handle birthdays, coming just before the start of school?"
Despite the strain, Alan was still able to muster a smile. "Oh, it'll give her every chance in the world to show off her new stuff to all her friends. Talking about friends, you think our kids will get along?"
Danny considered what Taylor had told him over the course of several long and involved conversations. "Totally. So it's a girl, is it?"
"Oh, we haven't been telling anyone, but yeah. That's what the test said." Alan leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, and let out a groan of aggravation. "But do you think we can agree on a name? Like hell we can. Everything I suggest, she shoots down, and everything she comes up with, I can't stand."
Danny shrugged, recalling the conversation. "How about Emma? Emma's a nice name."
"Emma." Alan tested the name, saying it slowly. "Emma Barnes. Emma. Hm, I like it." He raised his voice slightly. "Hey, Anne-Rose. Danny says Emma would be a nice name. What do you think?"
Anne-Rose nodded. "I agree." She, of course, had been privy to the same conversation. "Andrea?"
Danny knew from Andrea's smirk that a smartass answer was incoming. "Well, so long as Gothic High Priestess of Almighty Cthulhu is already taken, I guess Emma's okay for a second choice."
To his credit, Alan took it in his stride. "Uh, yeah, we'd already decided against that one. Far too common, you understand."
Dragon snorted with amusement and turned the page of her book, but didn't otherwise comment.
7:36 PM, Sunday, November 3, 1996
A Modest House in the Suburbs
Vice-Principal Gladys Knott
The duties of a vice-principal were many and varied; more were being laid on Gladys' shoulders every year as Principal Woodbine got closer to retiring, but she didn't mind. She still had the chance to teach Computer Studies, and Paul (once she got to be his vice-principal, they were on a first name basis when in private) held the strong opinion that if she was going to be running the school one day, she needed to know how it all ran.
Winslow was a good school, in her opinion. She hadn't had a great time in the first couple of years, but meeting Taylor Snow had turned that all around. With Taylor's encouragement, she'd learned to stand up for herself and even acquired useful skills such as staff-fighting, boxing and shooting.
Amusingly enough, this had had some unforeseen knock-on effects. She liked to get in some bag work in the gym most mornings before she showered and went to home room, and word had gotten around that Vice Principal Knott could knock you on your ass if you disrespected her. Also, she had a standing invitation from Joe Campbell to attend the JROTC firing range at any time, to show the little snot-noses (his term, not hers) how to really shoot.
As a result, she was thoroughly respected by the vast majority of the student body, and everyone in her Computer Studies class paid close attention to what she had to say. Even the would-be tough guys from the poor side of town spoke quietly in her presence. For her part, she made sure to treat everyone equally and did her best to ensure bullying of any kind was stepped on, hard.
Outside of school hours, her marriage to Franklin was the other highlight of her life. For obvious reasons, he knew only the safe-for-civilians version of the 'camping' trip she'd been on with Taylor; the part where they'd snuck out, crossed the border, and sniped a supervillain was entirely unknown to him. Even though that one act had undoubtedly saved an unknown number of other women from being victimised by him, she still wasn't proud of having taken a human life, and would happily have lived the rest of her days having never done it.
As far as her devoted husband was concerned, she was nicely predictable (or perhaps that was predictably nice), dedicated to her students, albeit with a few impressively athletic hobbies. She knew this because he'd said so himself, on more than one occasion. Their home life was a reflection of that; quiet, orderly, and predictable.
Which made the phone call all the more of a shock when she picked up the phone halfway through sorting out Tuesday morning's pop quiz. "Hello?"
"Hey, Gladys," Taylor said breezily. "Can you talk?"
The question could have only one meaning. Taylor wanted to discuss something Gladys would not want Franklin knowing about, and she was checking to see if free conversation was possible.
Gladys pretended to stretch, looking around as she did so. Franklin was in the living room, visible through her study door though not in earshot, especially as he was engrossed in his favourite car show. She wanted to say no, but she was also aware that Taylor wouldn't have called if it wasn't serious. "I can talk."
"Excellent. You might be aware of the ongoing labour dispute at Lord's Port. It's going to come to a head tomorrow morning. There are agents provocateur in the city, seeking to stir up trouble for their own ends, so there will be violence. I can't get there in time—I'm in the middle of dismantling a plot to bomb the Kansas City PRT building—but Danny is going to need sniper overwatch, come sunrise."
On the verge of speaking, Gladys closed her mouth again. She was not law enforcement. This was not her job. Taylor was law enforcement … but she wasn't here, and the PRT didn't oversee labour disputes, and she was talking about Danny.
She liked Danny and Anne-Rose. They were really nice people, and young Tyler was a sweet kid who had a hug for her every time she visited them in their apartment. From the way Taylor was talking, Danny's life was going to be in jeopardy.
Aaargh. Why me?
Taking a deep breath, she let it out again, slowly. "I'm not killing anyone for you. Not again. Not this time." Even as she spoke, she could feel herself retreating toward a compromise. She hadn't said she wasn't shooting anyone, just not going for a kill shot. Arguing with Taylor was irritating like that.
"No deaths are required," Taylor agreed. "But someone is going to be pointing a gun at Danny, and they will pull the trigger unless you do it first. A flesh wound is entirely acceptable."
And that was the big question, wasn't it? Am I willing to hurt a stranger to save a friend?
She pondered on the problem for several more seconds, aware Taylor was waiting for an answer, but equally aware that she wasn't being pushed into the decision. What finally tipped the balance was the memory of the last time she and Franklin had visited the younger Heberts, and the look of joy on Tyler's face as he came to her for a hug. There was no way in hell 'Aunt Gladdy' was willing to let that kid get hurt by losing his dad so young in life.
"Okay, fine," she grumbled, fully aware that she'd been manipulated but unwilling to hold a grudge on the matter. "Details?"
"Bring wire cutters. Site security will be down toward the southern end of Lord's Port, containing the protestors. The northernmost crane will be farthest from the action. If you park on Wilson Street, you can cut a hole in the fence to get through. Climb the crane and keep an eye on the big container ship that's anchored across the mouth of the harbour. That's where Danny's going to be. Once you've dealt with the threat, climb down and exfiltrate, the way they taught us. Got all that?"
"Yes, but I don't have to like it." She grimaced. "Can't we just tell Danny not to be there?"
"If he sends one of his friends and they get killed, he'll wear the guilt for that for the rest of his life. I trust you to get it right."
Slowly, Gladys nodded. "Okay, yeah. Gotcha. You owe me big-time for this, you do know that, yeah?"
There was a smile in Taylor's voice as she answered. "Next time I'm in Brockton Bay, I'll take you and Franklin out to the fanciest restaurant in town and let you spend as big as you like."
"I'll hold you to that." Gladys sighed. "When does it all end? When can we relax and say, enough?"
Taylor paused before answering, almost long enough that Gladys thought she wasn't going to. "When I figure it out, I'll let you know."
"Yeah, I hear that. Later, Taylor."
"Later." There was a beep as the call ended, and Gladys put the phone down.
She sat there thinking for a few minutes, then she got up and headed into the living room. "Hey, hon?"
Franklin looked around from the TV. "Yeah?"
"I was just about to make myself a hot drink. You want one too?"
He nodded, giving her the big goofy smile she'd fallen in love with. "Thanks, dear. That would be amazing."
"No problem." She started past his chair toward the kitchen, then he reached out and grabbed her hand. Stopping, she looked back at him.
"I love you so much." He squeezed her hand, causing a sharp pang of guilt to pierce her chest, all the way through her heart and out the other side.
Forcing herself to smile, she squeezed back. "Love you more."
Once in the kitchen, she started preparing the hot drinks, adding an extra spoonful of sugar to his, the way he liked it. While the water was still heating in the electric jug, she ducked into the bathroom and grabbed a sleeping pill from the medicine cabinet.
She crushed it easily into a white powder with the help of a pair of spoons, and dosed his cup with it. As much as she hated doing this, and hated herself for doing it, it was the only way she could think of keeping him separate from any repercussions that might happen as a result.
If this is the right thing to do, why do I feel like shit?
5:45 AM, Monday, November 4, 1996
Lord's Port
Danny
The sun had yet to rise, though there was a distinct glow on the eastern horizon that told Danny it wasn't far off. A chill wind cut through the port, making the high-vis vest he was donning flap briefly before he fastened it shut. His father stood a little distance away, giving orders to the other members of the Dockworkers' Association.
They'd been given ample warning of this via Taylor's dossier, and George had been able to weed out the troublemakers from among his own ranks, sending them home or pairing them with men who'd make sure they didn't do anything stupid. But that didn't help much when the other side also had people who were more interested in causing chaos than reaching an equitable agreement. However, forewarned was forearmed, and men were being sent to each of the potential trouble spots that Taylor had warned them about.
They hadn't been able to do much about the container ship NES Puckatawney moving during the night and anchoring across the mouth of the harbour. Even with the influence Danny's father had with the Association, he couldn't give orders to ship captains, not if someone with more perceived authority gave a conflicting order. However, that wasn't to say he didn't intend to do something about it. Whatever it was, Danny had faith in him.
The men he'd been talking to moved off on their appointed tasks, and George turned to Danny. "Son, you'll be taking a crew out to the Puck."
"What?" Danny stared at him. "But you'll need me here—"
"I need a reliable man out there on that ship, one I can trust to use his head and get it right." A solid forefinger prodded Danny in the middle of the chest. "That's you. Don't do anything rash once you get out there, and don't let them do anything rash either. Where that ship's placed, if something happens to it, it'll block the whole harbour in." They both knew that was one of the potential events Taylor had included in her folder of information. "I'm depending on you to not let that happen."
"Right." Danny still half-suspected his father was sending him out of harm's way, but it was also a vital task. "I won't let you down, Dad."
George slapped him heavily on the shoulder. "I know, son." He pointed at the launch tied up at the bottom of the steps, with the men in it waiting for Danny. "Now get out there."
Danny headed down the steps and climbed into the launch; the men, nearly all of them older than him, respectfully made way for him. "Are we going now, sir?" asked Burkholt, a rugged Dockworker who was at least twice his age.
He nodded, then found a seat. "Cast off. Let's get out there before anyone does anything stupid."
"Aye, sir."
Gladys
The cranes were goddamn tall; Gladys blessed the regular exercise she'd been taking, which ensured that by the time she got to the top, she wasn't a totally useless mess. Still, it took her several valuable minutes to ease the quivers out of her hands and open the rifle case. Wind whistled through the framework around her, making her glad that the heavy black clothing she'd picked for the excursion was winterproofed. She'd shot under worse conditions, but it was never fun.
The .308 Winchester she'd gotten from Taylor for a wedding present shot clean and true every time, especially with the 20x scope she kept carefully zeroed. Lifting it out of its padded home, she looked it over minutely for any problems, then pulled the bolt back. The breech was empty, so she took the magazine and slotted it into place, then worked the bolt crisply to chamber a round for real.
When she rested the rifle on a rail and peered down at the harbour, the only thing moving was a small boat apparently heading out to the container ship. That was where Taylor had said Danny was going to be, so she snuggled her cheek up to the cold stock—it would warm up with her body heat—and peered through the scope, her finger well outside the trigger-guard. Sure enough, the skinny form of Danny was easy to see among the other Dockworkers as the boat forged its steady way across the expanse of water.
"Overwatch in place," she whispered to herself. "Let's do this."
Danny
The trip across the harbour was almost peaceful. This close to the water, there was barely any wind, so the surface was like glass. Later, he knew, the heat of the day (such as it was) would stir up more wind, and what few swells could get in past the Puckatawney would start the ships in the harbour rolling gently, but right now it could've been a still life.
As they got closer to the massive container ship, he watched the huge rusty hull rise cliff-like before him, and he began to feel very much inadequate to the task. However, this was the first time he'd been trusted with a job of this magnitude and there was no way in hell he was letting his father down. "Get in close," he said, just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the launch's engine. "The pilot's gangway is still down. We'll go up that way."
Burkholt, who was manning the tiller, had already been steering in that direction, but the nod of approval he gave Danny told him that he'd made the right decision. More importantly, he'd made it before it needed to be hinted to him. Maybe I can actually do this. It was something he clung to.
As they pulled in next to the pilot's gangway—a mobile stair that would be let down for the harbour pilot to board—a shout of alarm came down from above, and the noise of cranking ensued. Gradually, the gangway began to rise. It appeared that the crew of the NES Puckatawney were not welcoming to visitors.
"Go!" Danny snapped. "Get up there! Burkholt, once we're on, sheer off and hold position!" He didn't know where the words had come from, but they sounded right.
The other men thought so too, because they grabbed the rising gangway and swarmed onto it. Danny tried to climb up, nearly lost his grip, then a brawny arm grabbed his and hauled him up and onto the gangway. "Careful there, sir. Don't want to go swimming. It's mucky in there."
And then they were bolting up the gangway, racing the crew who were trying to get to the head of the stair and block Danny's men from coming on board. Something solid was thrust into Danny's hand, and he looked down to find that he was holding a length of wood that had been sanded and smoothed off to a useful length. The other men were already holding their own weapons of choice; he was the only one who hadn't thought to bring one along.
"Don't start anything!" he tried to shout as he ran. "We're here to keep things peaceful!"
He couldn't tell if they'd heard him or not, but when he got to the top, he found his men in a tense standoff with the crew of the Puckatawney. Nobody had swung a weapon yet, thankfully. He pushed his way to the front, looking around for somebody who might be in charge.
"What is this?" The man who stepped forward held himself with a certain amount of authority. "I'm the master of this vessel. What are you doing here?"
"I'm Danny Hebert. My father's the head of the Dockworkers' Association, George Hebert." Danny felt the man's attention centre on him, and forced himself to keep talking. "We're not here to cause problems, but we got word that things are going to heat up today, and we wanted to make sure nothing went wrong on this ship. Who gave the order to anchor across the harbour mouth, anyway?"
The man didn't answer, but instead glanced sideways. Danny followed his eyes and saw someone whose expression held real hostility, rather than the dull dislike from the rest of them. "I did. What are you going to do about it?"
"And you are?" Danny stepped forward. He was taller than the man, though skinnier.
The new speaker also moved into the empty space between the two groups. "None of your business. You and your men are leaving this ship, right now."
The first rays of sunlight struck across the harbour, but Danny had no eyes for it. "That's not going to happen. We're here to make sure nobody sabotages this ship, and the port stays open." He clenched his hand around the length of wood he'd been given.
Reaching into his jacket, the man pulled an automatic pistol and pointed it at him. "You will get off this goddamn ship, or I will shoot you and throw you off it."
All of a sudden, the club Danny was holding felt remarkably inadequate to the task at hand. He tried to think of what Taylor would do. She'd already have a pistol pointed at him. Or Sergeant Kinsey would grab him and drive him into the deck like a tent peg. Yeah, neither of those things is going to happen.
He took a deep breath. "Put the gun down. We can talk about this."
"Nope." The man's expression became a sneer. "By the time we're done, your Association will be finished." His finger began to tighten on the trigger.
Danny realised he was going to shoot far too late to do anything about it. So, he did the only thing he could think of. He launched himself forward, knowing he was going to be shot but determined to bowl the bastard over anyway.
Gladys
"Fuck," she murmured, as the fresh sunlight glinted on the pistol. Her crosshairs drifted over the gunman, then steadied. There was no single place in the human body that a high-powered rifle bullet could incapacitate with a guarantee of not killing, but she could definitely aim for a less than instantly lethal shot.
Her target selected, she breathed out as she took up pressure on the trigger. Half a mile away, a paid saboteur did the same. She got there first; the rifle let out a spiteful crack as it jolted against her shoulder. Holding her aim, she watched to see if she needed a second shot.
Danny
Suddenly, the guy lurched sideways; he let out a high-pitched scream as his kneecap exploded in blood and gore. The pistol jerked off at an angle and fired, the bullet punching into a shipping container. Danny stumbled to a halt as one of the other men darted forward and kicked the weapon free from the hand of the stricken man. Distantly, a rifle-crack echoed over the harbour.
"What the hell?" he asked. "Who fired?"
The master of the Puckatawney shrugged, his hands carefully held out away from his body. "I don't know. We don't carry guns."
Danny looked back at his crew. None of them seemed to have a clue, either.
"Okay, secure him and give him medical attention." He nodded to his men. "Then go through this ship. Keep an eye out for any of his friends and make sure they haven't already done something to screw things up." Looking in the general direction of where the shot seemed to have come from, he waved his arms in a general 'no more shooting, please' gesture. As no other shots were fired, he figured he'd gotten the message across.
"Aye, sir."
Gladys
Nobody seemed to have figured out where the shot came from by the time she climbed back through the hole in the fence, her rifle securely in its case over her shoulder. Once back to her car, she pulled off the watch cap and dark sweater, then drove sedately home. Franklin would be still asleep, thanks to the sleeping pill in his drink; if he did wake earlier than expected, she'd be able to pass off her absence as an early morning jog.
This was just one more thing she'd never be able to talk about, except maybe to Taylor herself.
Gee, thanks a bunch.
Danny
With the harbour pilot on board this time, the NES Puckatawney was returning to its place in the harbour anchorage as Danny rode the launch back across the port. They'd located scuttling charges placed here and there on the ship, and disarmed them, and the ship's crew had pointed out several more members of the saboteur's group. These were all under close guard, which made the launch somewhat crowded, but he didn't care. He'd been sent to do a dangerous job, and he'd succeeded.
Dad's going to be so proud of me!
Already phrasing the question in his head for his father about the sniper—for there was nobody else he knew of who could've arranged for one—he was the first to jump out of the launch onto the cracked concrete steps of the jetty. Catching the rope that was slung to him, he tied the boat off, then hauled it in so that others could climb out. He waited until it was properly secure, then headed up the steps, two at a time.
"Where's Dad?" he asked the first Dockworker he encountered. "We got a big one."
The surprised look in the man's eyes should have warned him. "Jesus, Danny. I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" He frowned. "What for?"
"You don't know?" Now the guy was looking guilty.
"No!" Worry flooded across him, sending ice-water through his veins. "What happened? Tell me?"
The story came out in fits and starts. Most of the troublemakers had been locked down, but one bunch had broken out and tried to cause real damage. George Hebert had been in the forefront of those who met them head-on and stopped them in their tracks, but he'd gone down in the fray and not gotten up again.
"They say he's alive," the Dockworker told him. "But they've taken him to the hospital. It was his heart. I thought you knew."
"No," Danny said wretchedly, all his elation gone; drained away and turned to ash. "No, I didn't know."
He stumbled off toward where he'd left his car, because there was no way in hell he was going to let someone else break the news to his mother, and get her to the hospital.
And when his father woke up, he intended to be standing by the bed.
Please be okay, Dad.
Please.
End of Part 8-7