"Did you hear about that new mess at Technomation?" one of the passengers asked.
"Yeah, what was with those tentacles they were hauling out of there on flatbeds?"
"Weren't they doing some sort of illegal genetics experiments?"
"Don't tell me you think they were growing a giant squid to attack the city."
"Of course not, it was an octopus."
I smirked, but their discussion broke down into petty insults and friendly jibes. I got off on Twenty-First and D, walking the block and a half to the hideout.
Torquespiral was there, fielding questions from Xiv about his life as a hero. The old man seemed to enjoy reliving his time in the limelight, and Xiv lapped up every word. I knew he was there on business, but it seemed mean to interrupt. Instead, I went and changed into my costume. I wore my old mask, but kept the goggles on my forehead. They still came in handy, even if they weren't "classic." Huh. Before Ixa mentioned it, I'd always regarded the domino mask as cliche, not classic. I shrugged it off and donned the wrist computer, now sporting a more appropriate black case. Checking myself in the mirror, I almost looked like I was supposed to be a hero.
I headed back to the garage.
"You know," Torquespiral said, "I've never had such an attentive audience. Even my own grand kids tune me out after a while."
"Why?" Xiv asked, "Your stories are great."
"I think it has to do with media saturation," I said. "They don't take the time to learn the lessons offered."
"Brown-noser," Torquespiral said.
"What's that mean?" Xiv asked.
"It's someone who tries too hard to endear themselves with authority."
"That makes no sense."
"Don't worry too much about it. I have to talk to Shadowdemon now, you be good."
"Yes, Mister Spiral," Xiv said, scurrying away.
"He can probably hear anything said in this entire building," I said.
"No matter. With 'Astroborn' in the sanitorium, and well, you know what happened with Cupric, we have no class-one or -two license holders in the city. Not counting the board. The rest are in Minnesota. It's a poor showing for the headquarters of the Fund."
"Do you want me to step up my vigilance?" I asked.
"For a city this size, two class-threes are inadequate. The board has been discussing the issue and rather than ask established heroes to move out of their home grounds, we decided it would be better to establish a team of class-threes with a couple of traineeships. Being here already, we wanted to ask you and Blue to take part." Before I could respond, Xiv bounded back in.
"Can I join?"
"Xiv..."
"You would need an identity and a sidekick permit," Torquespiral said. "Right now you have neither."
"I don't know how to get those," Xiv said, disappointed.
"Normally, you're born into an identity, but we can help you establish one."
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I said.
"The boy admires you and will follow your lead. And he seems to have a good grasp of right and wrong. There's potential in him."
"Not too long ago, I was a sidekick. I'm not sure I'm ready to train one."
"I'll see who I can tap to help out. Will you at least be on the team?"
"I might as well," I said.
"Good, because your sister already said yes."
"Who else have you got in mind?"
"Cupric's old sidekick, if he doesn't decide to quit. He needs somewhere to learn what Cupric never got the chance to teach him. There are a few others, but I have to ask them first." He stood and walked over to his car. His attractive driver opened the door for him. "In the meantime, keep up your vigilance." He got in, and I interrupted the door before it could close.
"Cupric was point on chasing Doctor Omicron, who's taking over for him?"
"Omicron is an unknown. We don't know what sort of strength we need to take him on."
"Let me take the lead on the investigation," I said. "I'll call for backup when we get a location."
"We'll see," Torquespiral said, pushing me back with his cane. The driver closed the door and climbed in herself. As the garage door closed behind them, I wondered how many people had access to this hideout.
"Mail's here," Nora called out. I didn't see her come in. We didn't actually get mail at the hideout, or the old house. We had a PO box. Nora usually picked it up, because a quick walk for her reached far into the city. "You got a packet from those Leyden Academy snobs, probably wanting to charge you a hundred grand in tuition for two years of prep school." She handed me the oversized envelope.
"Did I get anything?" Xiv asked.
"No one knows you live here, squirt," she said, tousling his hair. I opened the packet and started reading the cover letter. "You got that 'I just stepped in front of a train' look on you," Nora said, "What is it?"
"They're offering me a track scholarship."
"What?"
"They found out I completed a marathon, so they sent someone to watch my meets at school."
"That's creepy," Nora said.
"But it's a full ride," I said.
"Who gives scholarships for track?"
"Leyden Academy apparently."
"You should go."
"You just called them snobs."
"That's when it was a hundred grand. It's the sort of boost that will help you get into a decent university. Dad will say the same thing."
"You're encouraging me even after I cost you your internship?"
"Some friends of ours at the Fund helped me put together a convincing cover story, so the company will let me try again next year."
"This is bad timing," I said.
"Why?"
"It's a little hard to meet Leyden academic standards, compete in track and be on the team Torquespiral's putting together at the same time. I'd die from sleep deprivation alone."
"I'm sure we'll figure something out by the start of the school year."
I don't know what it was about going on patrol that helped me think. It could be the solitary nature of moving about on the rooftops, in the relatively clean air between the street dust and the smog layer. Or, it might be the sense of control from being proactive in seeking out problems to correct. I was still bereft of a line launcher though, which made crossing thoroughfares tricky. This time it was the Avenue K bypass, a four-lane elevated road going around a tacky mega-mall. It ran above a span of Avenue J. From what I gathered, no one was a fan of the Avenue K Bypass, but everyone drove on it anyway. Staring down at the double stack of roads, I wondered if I even wanted to cross it. I would end up going through the mall. If I bypassed the bypass, I'd get to the other end of the city.
Only, I wasn't really sure that's where I was headed. So I crouched on the roof of a small office block and watched the traffic pass below. I was trying to think about my future and the time-management nightmares coming up. All that came to mind was that there were a lot of people in an awful lot of hurry to get to and from what must seem like meaningless jobs. A sign on the mall caught my eye-- they were designed to do that I guess: "All work boots 50% off." The picture showed a pair of brown steel-toed boots. My attention wandered to the laces, the eyelets and in particular, the grommets reinforcing them. Such a seemingly insignificant piece of hardware, but for a fraction of a cent per unit, it increased the usable lifespan of the boots worn by the workers putting together the most noticeable parts of society. Somewhere in the traffic hurrying past might be someone who worked for Fowler Heavy Machinery. Perhaps the secretary who maintained the calendar for the person who organized the logistics for the factories that made the machines that made the grommets that improved the reliability of the boots of the workers who put together the Avenue K Bypass.
It wasn't the
sort of introspection I'd come looking for. Someone, however had apparently been looking for me. They were less adept at crossing rooftops than I was; probably lack of practice. I wasn't sure how long they'd been following me, but the occasional muffled curse and minced oath indicated that they were getting closer. I lowered my goggles and looked behind me as they climbed onto the next roof over. Female, athletic build, dressed in tactical gear. Looked like commercially-available hardware, including the pistols gracing her hips. The night vision gear she wore had only a single lens, probably screwed with her depth perception. Made leaping alleyways tricky. A long braid swung behind her. It looked familiar: Nikki Greeler.
I stood up as she hopped the narrow gap between the office block and the next structure over. "I knew you'd show your face sooner or later," she said, drawing the handguns.
"It might not be a good idea to fire," I said, "There's a mall and a freeway back there, and bullets tend to keep going until they hit something."
"If you don't move, that would be you, so the people back there won't be in danger."
"Since you've not yet shot me, I think you have something to say."
"Do you ever once think about the people whose rights you stomp all over while running around in tights like you own the world?"
"Nikki Greeler was it?"
"Does it matter? How many people who can't track you down want to ask the same question?"
"I does matter, because--" The report of the pistol was quieter than expected, and the impact didn't hurt nearly as much as I expected. "Rubber bullets?"
"Not the whole clip, but I figured I'd need a few 'shut the hell up' rounds."
"So you want to lecture me on rights?"
"You think? You go and break into people's homes without cause, rifle through their things and beat them up if they try to stop you. The government gives you a license, then the courts claim you're not an agent of the government? If you don't answer to them, then who do you answer to? It sounds like you're an end-run around the rule of law and basic liberty."
"Do you have any idea what your stepmother is up to?"
"So that's your defense? The ends justify the means? Excuse me, but they don't. If the means are wrong, the ends are tainted."
"So if your means are summary execution on a rooftop? What sort of--" A second rubber bullet cut me off. Those buggers hurt. Yeah I flinched, okay, maybe more than just flinched. I noted that both times, she fired from the gun in her left hand. The one in her right probably had solid shot.
"I'm not the one pretending to be a 'hero,' now am I?"
"Then what are you? You're trying to achieve something."
"How about avenging the abuse of power?"
"Isn't that being a hero?" I was baiting her, and she took it, firing a third rubber bullet into my gut. I clutched the point of impact, pretending to be in more pain than I really was. I primed the gas piston on the wrist computer. Coming up, I fired. The tracer hit the inside of her right wrist. The impact mostly startled her, but it caused her to drop that gun. I charged forward, vaulting an AC unit to kick her in the midriff. It was a poorly-calculated move, as she started to tumble over the side of the building. Snagging her wrist, I caught the lip of the roof with my knee, which promptly went pop. I realized that her remaining pistol was pointed more or less at my heart. Even with rubber bullets, a shot at this range would be lethal.
Nikki looked down. "You are an idiot," she said.
"And you thought your plan through any better?"
"So what, you're going to threaten to drop me if I don't give up or something?"
"No," I said, "I'm trying to pull you back up, I'm just at a very bad angle. Drop the gun and give me both of your hands." She safetied the pistol and tossed it onto the roof. Taking both of her hands, I was able to swing her to the side and onto solid footing. She rolled over the pistols and snatched up one of them. "Which one is that?" With a balaclava and the goggles, I couldn't see her expression, but she paused, then checked the safety.
"Looks like jacketed hollow points."
"Do you really want to kill me?"
There was a long moment where I started to think she actually might pull the trigger.
"Before you run off, tell me what Jasmine has been up to."
Part 16
I don't think I convinced Nikki of anything, but I don't think she was much of a fan of Jasmine Greeler to begin with. She did let me leave without a bullet in me. I loitered a block away, hoping to collect the tracer after she'd left. It wasn't on the rooftop, so I started a trace. It had moved south-- way south. Definitely not someplace it could have fallen on its own. It must have snagged on her web gear. She'd have noticed if it stuck to her wrist. Since Daisy Towers was the other way, I started to wonder where she was going. What was down there? Office blocks, light industry, warehouses, the sort of place a vigilante might want to keep a secret stash.
I followed the tracer into a corner of the city I rarely visited. It was new developments: cheap buildings put together atop a reclaimed landfill. You didn't want to dig there without planning permission, as it was hard to tell what you'd dig up. Especially since people had a history of not paying attention to safety precautions in discarding waste materials. The only upside was that it didn't cost much to set up shop there. Most people who had to work in that part of town were desperate or ignorant of the health hazard. So why was a girl who could afford three-thousand-dollar handguns and top-of-the-line tactical gear headed there?
The walk was only a couple of miles, but crossing town on foot was slow, and whatever I'd done to my knee was starting to hurt. The tracer stopped at a warehouse between two slightly different-colored warehouses. Getting close to the prefabricated cement-board walls, the tracer pointer indicated up. I shimmied up between the buildings, bracing against the neighbor. I tried not to curse the whole way up from the pain in my knee. Flopping onto the roof, I found a bank of solar panels. They were positioned to be out of sight from the road, and a network of struts held them away from the roof proper. At first glance, the gap seemed nonsensical, but closer examination showed actuators linking the struts to the panels. They were built to track the sun. Being night, they lay parallel to the roof.
I wormed my way through the space between the panels and the roof, the struts providing ample foot- and hand-holds. Not that the roof was steeply pitched anyway. Nikki was crouched by a vent from which she'd pried the cover off. As I slid closer, I could hear voices in the warehouse below.
"Enough games," Jasmine Greeler said. "I've gotten you the contracted amount, I've even gotten you two replacement labs. Now you owe me what was promised."
"I believe you're referring to the serum," the resonating voice of Doctor Omicron said. "One of my bots is bringing it to you now, along with the instruction manual."
"It's about damn time," Jasmine said. "This is in German!"
"And?" Omicron said. "I speak a dozen languages. From what I've seen of modern society, the only barrier to education is money. With the amount you move around, you've had ample opportunity to learn." There was a distinct pause. "Ooh, perhaps you should have read the manual before you did that."
"What are you talking about?"
"You see, the serum in question was part of a bundle of research I stole while escaping German custody in the early forties. Had you read the manual, you would have seen that it had a rather negative reaction with melanin. The Nazis didn't regard this as a problem. In those of say, the Caucasian persuasion, the effect is merely a nasty rash over the entire body, insomnia and hair loss. For those with a more olive complexion, it's severe chemical burns. For someone of your ethnicity, the skin literally melts off. I gather its rather painful. But blood loss will soon rectify the discomfort. Had you read the manual, it includes the formula, which you could have made a fortune selling, or even tried to improve upon. Instead, yo
u had to go and use an unfinished project."
"You said it gave people powers," Jasmine said, clearly biting back the pain.
"Oh, it does, if you survive the process. Unfortunately, I never had the time to fix the little melatonin reaction. I did slow it down a bit. Perhaps an albino would be the best person to administer it to." As Omicron mused, Jasmine began screaming in agony. "Oooh, quite nasty." The roar of automatic gunfire split the air.
"A hologram!" Jasmine shouted, "Son of a bitch sent a hologram!"
"You have a tendency to be heavily armed," Omicron said. Another rip of automatic weapons fire tore out. "And that's why I like that model of bot: cheap, durable, and eminently replaceable with a machine shop and a junkyard."
Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus) Page 20
