“I had to go smack down a blackcape,” I say, returning his (inhumanly powerful) grip.
Thunderbolt and Garrison trade a glance, and then Garrison says, “Well, I think I’m gonna turn this over to Peter here; he’s really better at this part of the presentation than I am. And, well, my own powers aren’t really much to write home about, so I think maybe you’ll relate to his understanding a little better than mine.”
Thunderbolt motions for us to sit again, and I take a seat across from him. My earlier disquiet is gone. Karen should have leveled with me, but shit, I’m sitting here talking to Thunderbolt! It’s really hard to be mad at her right now.
“Can I call you Danny?” he asks, and I nod because of course I do. I wonder if it’d be too dorky to ask for an autograph. “Good. Danny, I think you’ve been in the game long enough to notice some of the problems with how superpowers currently work.”
“Uh, I guess? I don’t really know what you mean.”
“Well, for one, most people with powers are in the closet about it,” says Thunderbolt. “It’s all special ability this, peculiar talent that. They might use it for a job—a job!—or just to dick around, but they don’t really get the most out of it.”
The fangirl blush fades a little. “I guess I don’t really see the problem. My job is super dangerous; not everyone wants that kind of life.”
“But you want it, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. New Port kinda needed me. Even if I didn’t like it, I’d probably still do it.”
“But you do like it, don’t you? It’s okay to say you do. I love it,” says Thunderbolt, putting his hand to his chest. “And if someone wants to stay conventional and safe, they can do that. But isn’t it kind of a waste for them to have their powers, if that’s what they want?”
That sounds off somehow. But it’s hard to put my finger on why. In fact, it sounds a lot like what I’ve asked myself when I saw people with powers who were obviously more interested in blending in than standing out. So maybe I’ve never called it a waste. But still. Why settle for normal when you can do the kinds of things that I can do? Hell, look at Calamity, she’s barely superhuman, and she’s still way cooler than basically anyone else in the city. “I…I guess. I mean, waste is a strong word—”
“—but you see what I mean, right?”
“I think I do.”
“Well, what we’re going to do is remove the random chance from who gets powers and who doesn’t. Only people who want them—and who’ve earned them—will get them. The best people should have the best powers. No more supervillains, and no more slackers. That’s what Phase One is all about, and everything else flows from there.”
“What’s Phase Two?” I ask. My trepidation grows.
“That’s not ready to be revealed yet,” says Garrison with an even look at Thunderbolt.
Thunderbolt dips his head and moves away from the topic. “Right now, there’s no efficiency to how superpowers are allocated. A market-based system would be vastly superior, and Richard already showed you how we’re going to bring some creative disruption to that problem. But more important is what it means for the wider world. There’s a lot wrong with the world these days. We’re at a—what’d you call it, Rich?”
“An inflection point of history,” says Garrison. He sips his soda.
“Right. The old world is rotting. There are too many problems that are going unaddressed because of special interests and small-minded politicians. And it’s not just in government; the West’s culture is sick too. Flabby mediocrity is the order of the day. We’re raising generation after generation to believe that the worst thing you can do to someone is offend them. We’re told to pretend that everyone is equal, but excuse me, some of us can fly! Excellence isn’t celebrated anymore, and it’s suffocating humanity.”
Garrison chimes in, “I started homeschooling my daughter because the other students were taught it was okay to shame her for using her powers. They get scared because she can do things they can’t, and so they expect her to stifle herself simply because of their cowardice. And this was at a so-called elite academy in Zurich. It’s like that all over now.” The way he says this makes me think he’s voiced this complaint before. A lot. “There’s no escape. Someone does something outstanding and they get shouted down for not being fair to the people who can’t.”
“Right!” says Thunderbolt. “And that’s who they care about. The people who can’t. There’s no concern anymore for the people who can, the people who do. They’ve murdered the meritocracy! No civilization can thrive if it insists on strangling its best members. We can take the best lessons of history, and abandon the failed ideologies that got us here.”
My enthusiasm has completely drained away. This conversation has more red flags than the Chinese Embassy. Cecilia’s media training is in full effect, and I crack a soda of my own to cover my unease. After a sip, I ask, “Which ideologies are those?”
Garrison and Thunderbolt trade a look. It seems to say well, it’s now or never.
Thunderbolt looks at me and says, “Democracy.”
That’s the moment I realize that a supervillain has literally sat me down in his lair so he and his buddy can explain their Evil Plan over drinks. There is no amount of media training that can keep the incredulity off my face when I say, “I’m…sorry? Are—are you joking?”
“Not at all,” say Garrison.
“Look, I know that’s kind of a lot to take in, but you adjusted to having superpowers,” says Thunderbolt. “I haven’t had the pleasure of working with you, but the capes you’ve fought with who I talked to speak very highly of you. They say you get it, that you’re understanding your role almost instinctively. Now take that shift of perspective to its logical conclusion. Democracy is the political form of equality. One man, one vote, that sort of thing.”
“Uh-huh,” is all I can muster up to say to that.
Thunderbolt rolls on like he’s making perfect sense. “What’s equality, really? It’s make-believe. Not everyone is equally strong. We’re not equally fast, or equally smart. Some of us are geniuses. Some of us are retards. There’s no magic quality we all share equally, nothing that really makes us the same—I mean, come on, who are they kidding? But our obsession with pretending that everyone is equal—or worse, that everyone should be, no matter the cost—has bogged us down as a culture. We’re not all the same. We’re not all equal, and we never will be. That’s why communism didn’t work. And that’s why democracy is falling apart too. Now, don’t misunderstand, we’re not against freedom. We’re the most pro-freedom people around, including the most important freedom, the freedom to rise as far and as fast as you can, without worry about what the flabby mediocrity thinks is polite. And that’s a pretty big thing to say, these days. I know, I know. It sounds crazy, but we’ve got to face the facts as they are.”
Despite Garrison’s plan of having another cape introduce this to me as a way to get me on board, he doesn’t seem to be able to help himself from butting in. The words seem to erupt from him, like a bark of pain after a struck nerve. “We’ve got swarms of refugees in Europe. Recessions in America. Who’s doing well? The Chinese. They don’t give a shit about being PC; they just get things done. That’s what radical inequality does—it lets the cream rise. The people at the top have the resources to set their own path in life, and the people at the bottom get some sort of structure and guidance, which, if the feckless corruption of the Western democracies is any guide, they sorely need.”
“Right, right,” says Thunderbolt, trying to keep things light and conversational.
“We’re trying to create a new society here on Cynosure,” says Garrison. “We’ll be a model to the rest of the world, combining the best in modern thinking with the most timeless and enduring human wisdom.”
“Like what?” I ask. I think Thunderbolt is twigging to the fact that they haven’t made the sale, but Garrison is still so euphoric after coming out of the closet as a fascist lunatic that he answers
without hesitation.
“Hereditary dictatorship. It’s the oldest form of government, and when left alone, the most stable. We’ll have the best and the brightest living in luxury, not just here, but in seasteads all over the planet. Hierarchy is natural. It’s healthy. Why do you think people love stories about kings and queens so much? They’re yearning for the past. They want to pay us tribute. Aristocracy means rule by excellence, and that’s what we’ll be—the excellent, trained from birth to excel, leading the mundane. Trust me, Dreadnought, when they see the benefits of going back to the old ways, they will beg us to save them from themselves, and we will be happy to oblige.”
“No, you won’t,” I say. Garrison’s train of thought derails and he stares at me, confused. I clarify for him: “Because I’m going to beat the shit out of you instead.”
Without turning my head away from Garrison, I kick a leg out at full power and smash the low table into Thunderbolt’s legs. It crashes against him in a wave of shattered glass, but I’m already closing the gap and driving him across the room into a man-sized divot in the wall, slamming punches into his face. Thunderbolt’s fist crackles with power, curling snakes of lightning, and he cracks a good one across my jaw, another at my throat that I choose to take on the shoulder. My skin is alight with the burny-numbness I’ve learned to associate with electrical burns, and I am thankful all over again for the extra insulation Doc Impossible put in the soles of my boots. With a vicious combination of hooking punches, Thunderbolt forces me back long enough to flit clear of the wall and take a fighting stance.
The door to the side room bangs open, but I barely pay attention to the pair of goons with pistols who charge out. In an eyeblink I’ve covered the space Thunderbolt opened between us, and we’re locked in a flurry of attacks and counters. I get good shots in. So does he. We can both fly, but we’re content to keep this one intimate, stay in close and wail away at each other. My nerves are singing with the first strains of battle joy, and my grin has gone feral.
Then my fist lands on Thunderbolt’s kidney, and my wrist seems to explode. Hot, deep pain blasts up my arm to the elbow. Thunderbolt doesn’t even seem to have felt a blow that should have doubled him over in agony. I duck back in surprise, try to check the lattice to see what the hell has happened.
I can’t.
It’s gone.
• • •
I try to fly and can’t even leave the ground. I screw my eyes shut and try to force the lattice to appear, but there’s nothing. The goons I’ve discounted tackle me and twist my arms behind my back to click handcuffs around my wrists. I try to pull away, but their arms are so much stronger than mine. The handcuffs should be like tissue to me, but they hold fast when I jerk on them. One of the goons hauls me into a kneeling position by my bound wrists, and my shoulder sockets scream. From there, I’m yanked to my feet and held fast between the bodyguards.
Garrison is crossing the room, pulling his rings off. “I told you my own power wasn’t very impressive. And it’s not. Power is about change, and mine are more the creation of absence. But I find that there are many places where a carefully considered disruption is more useful than anything else.”
Garrison’s first punch lands like the end of the world. It hurts so much. I’ve been shot, and it didn’t hurt that much. My head swims. My lip stings.
“I’m disappointed in you, Danielle. Here I thought you could overcome your degeneracy. You seemed bright, at least. I could have made you rich. I mean true wealth, not that chicken feed the city is paying you. But more than that, you could have been in on the ground floor of the next evolution of humanity. For the sake of pragmatism, I was even willing to overlook your gender issue, since you seemed different from the rest of the filth.” More punches. Thunderbolt is watching from the side, his face hard.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt her!” It’s Karen. She’s standing at the hallway, aghast, terrified.
“Get the fuck out of here!” shouts Thunderbolt. “You got what you came for, now go!”
Karen turns and runs, and Thunderbolt goes after her.
Garrison grabs my chin and forces my attention back on him. “We’re going to rule this planet like gods. The peasants will know their place, and we will have the worship that is our due. Governments will tremble to defy us, and all the world will be ours, as is right. You could have been one of us, and you spit in my eye.” He spits in mine. “She was right. You’re just another degenerate, after all.”
An absurd thought jags through my mind: This really hasn’t been my day. After that, there’s no more room to think. Only rage, struggling to be heard over the fear.
And the blows continue to fall.
Chapter Fifteen
They throw me in a hole. No light in this cell, just a hard cot and a combination toilet and sink I’ve got to find by touch. No light until there’s nothing but light, searing white from the ceiling, and a squawking buzzer to jerk me awake. My hair is soaked through with cold sweat. The echoes of one nightmare resolve into the shape of another I can’t wake up from.
My suit and cape are gone. Instead I’ve got rough cotton clothes on, a plain green top and bottom, and a thick steel collar around my neck. My ear is painful and irritated where they tore the glued-in earbud out with some pliers. I grope for the lattice, but it’s not really there. I can feel…something. More at least than I did last night during those awful seconds when it was sinking in that Garrison had muted my powers. But not enough to do anything with. Vague hints of the strands underlying everything, ephemeral and flimsy to the point where I can’t decide if I actually see them, or if that’s simply what hope looks like.
A slot in the door clacks open and a tray of food slides in. It’s like a microwave dinner, but with breakfast food. Mushy, lukewarm waffles and syrup that tastes of industrial chemicals. Orange juice that’s mainly yellow water with some pulp in it.
How could this get any worse is a question I am scared to find an answer for. But then the door opens, and there’s Graywytch, and oh, that’s how. Armed goons in green polo shirts slip into my cell and seize me by the arms. No speaking, no orders, they simply rush in, grab me, and haul me up on my feet. Graywytch watches me with pinched lips, like I’m a rabid dog being carried away by animal control.
We’re somewhere deep in Cynosure. There are no windows, and the halls are austere nautical architecture all the way—steel, raised lips at every hatch, naked fluorescents shining down on blue linoleum. No portholes. I bet we’re under the waterline.
About halfway down the hall, I make my first break for it.
I feint one way and dive hard the other, slamming one guard into the lip of a hatch and spinning to try and kick the other in the—
My head is pounding when I wake up. The blue linoleum has little silver swirl patterns in it, which I notice because my cheek is pressed hard against it. My stomach and sides sing with new bruises. Another kick comes in, and all my breath whooshes out of me.
“That’s enough,” says Graywytch. “I need him healthy.” She steps into my line of view, looms over me with a disgusted sneer. Little flits of shadow dance around her fingers, and as I watch they suck back up into one of her rings and disappear. “No more of that, boy.”
I suppose I’d like to say I have something witty to say, but I don’t. The fear is so tightly packed into my chest I can barely breathe, barely think. I don’t nod or shake my head or even glare. At this point, I’m proud that I haven’t shit myself.
The guards haul me to my feet and click handcuffs tight around my wrists. We start walking down the hall again, and we come to an operating theater. Well, that’s what it looks like at first. A crane with lights coming down from the ceiling, a reclining dentist’s chair beneath it. Every wall crammed with glass-doored cupboards, and a few rolling surgical carts with locks on the wheels. But then I start noticing the other stuff. Like how each wall has a carved stone sitting in something that looks like a torch sconce. How the dentist’s chair has manacles buil
t into it. The large brass spell circle built into the deck, inlaid with silver and copper.
“Strap him in,” says Graywytch. She disappears into a room just through another hatch, and the moment she’s out of sight I’m trying to make another break—
Wow, getting punched in the kidney really hurts when you don’t have superpowers. My legs buckle underneath me, and the guards heave me onto the chair while I’m still trying to figure out how to control my body below the waist again. The handcuffs come off, and they strap my wrists down to the arms of the chair. My legs are strapped in as well.
Graywytch returns with a bowl of water and begins splashing my forehead, my chest, my stomach, my groin. She sets the bowl aside and retrieves a needle from somewhere behind me. It pinches into my elbow, but she misses the vein. That’s okay, though, since she’s not at all shy about digging around inside my arm until she finds it. After she’s got her blood sample, she pulls the needle out and lets the wound trickle until the bleeding stops on its own. She’s moved on to cutting my shirt off with a pair of surgical scissors and snipping my bra away as well. With my own blood she begins painting squiggle figures on my chest and down my stomach. She’s muttering under her breath, some kind of chant.
Through it all, I am silent. I’m holding myself in tight, because if I don’t I will start screaming, and I’m not sure I’ll stop. I am not giving this bitch the satisfaction.
Then Graywytch turns on the lights, and there’s some quality in them, some ineffable weirdness in the pale blue light that the blood responds to. It starts to bubble and hiss and BURN oh God I’m burning it hurts IT HURTS so—
So despite all my best intentions, I’m screaming.
And I was right.
I don’t stop.
Back in my cell, the door clunks shut behind me, a fusillade of locking thumps as the bolts engage. A few moments later, the slot clacks open and another terrible meal is shoved through the hole. I’m barely finished with it before the lights die, plunging me into pitch darkness. And that’s the day.
Sovereign Page 13
