by David Reiss
I poured a mug of hot (92.5 degrees, Celsius) water for Shrike and floated closer to deliver the mug, saucer and tea-bag. The Knights tensed as I approached, and my drones hummed a quiet warning to dissuade any sudden moves. “Milk or sugar?”
“No. Just the tea.”
“Very well.” I drifted back to the front of the classroom. I dared not settle upon my feet; my left leg was a ruin and would require reconstructive surgery before the night was over.
“We won't tell you anything!” Blizzard interjected, lifting his chin defiantly.
“You know,” despite my amusement, the Mk 34's vocoder made my voice sound menacing, “when I approached, I fully intended to promise that no harm would come to you if you chose not to answer my questions. And yet, you attacked me, unprovoked—”
“It was a lawful attempt to apprehend a known criminal.” Psion interrupted. “There’s still an arrest warrant issued against you.”
“And a hefty reward offered as well, I would imagine,” I countered derisively.
“If you'd like to submit, we'd be happy to arrest you for free,” White Tigress spat. She'd reverted to her human form when unconscious, but her voice still sounded bestial and rough. It was easy (and amusing) to imagine an invisible tail lashing with irritation.
“Thank you for the offer, but I'm afraid that I must decline.”
“What do you want, then?” Wildcard bit out.
“Answers,” I replied simply.
“You can't make us talk!” Blizzard declared proudly.
“You're wrong,” I sighed, “but that route involves a great deal of unpleasantness that I'd rather avoid.”
“Do you promise let us go if—” Shrike began to ask but was interrupted.
“Don't negotiate with Doctor Fid!” Psion ordered. “We don't bargain with villains.”
“Do you promise?” Shrike appealed.
“I do.”
“Dammit, Shrike!” Blizzard glared. “You coward!”
“If you do this, you're off the team,” Psion warned.
An uncomfortable silence fell upon them. I could tell that Wildcard and White Tigress were taken aback by the ultimatum. Shrike swallowed, smiled sadly, and was about to speak...but I beat him to it.
“Both of you are idiots.” My voice, Doctor Fid's voice, was quiet. “Shrike isn't afraid of what I'd do to him to get answers. He's not afraid of pain...He's afraid of what I might be willing to do to the rest of you. He's considering parlay, disobeying and leaving the Knights... just to save all of you from me. It would destroy him and he knows it, but he's willing to make that sacrifice. That's not cowardice; it's love. You unworthy morons.
“You can keep the mug,” I told Shrike. “I'm leaving.”
Defeating the Knights in battle was one thing. Standing by and letting them defeat themselves, on the other hand, felt petty. I began to float towards the door; my drones would guard my exit and follow after me.
“Wait.” To my surprise, it was the White Tigress who spoke. She was glaring at Psion, daring her to interrupt. “What'd you want to know?”
“In your home dimension,” I asked, “how long was the Legion on earth?”
Five pairs of eyes stared at me in wide-eyed horror and apprehension.
“We're, uh, not from another dimension!” Blizzard lied badly. “Why would you say that?”
With my expression hidden by my badly-defaced helm, they could not sense my incredulity. I looked to the other Knights. “If you allow this man to play poker for money, you are greater villains than I.”
“Hey!”
“So, judging from Blizzard’s response…not only are you refugees from an alternate dimension, but you also would prefer that knowledge remain hidden. You are all from an interdicted world, then?”
Shrike sipped loudly at his tea.
Psion cleared her throat, nervously, “What do you want us to do?”
“I’m not trying to blackmail you!” I threw my hands up, irritably. “I’m attempting to gather information regarding the Legion. That’s all.”
“They burned the Earth,” White Tigress mourned. “Our earth, I mean. What else is there to know?”
“How did they make first contact?”
“With orbital bombardment.” Psion’s expression was distant. “There was no ultimatum, no warning…Just an attack from the skies.”
“That’s not true,” Shrike shook his head. “They kidnapped people, first…did some kind of weird testing.”
“That was just a rumor,” Blizzard scoffed.
“Triumph swore it was true!”
“Triumph was, ah, troubled,” Psion murmured gently.
“He was nuts!” Blizzard countered, shifting in his seat.
“He wasn’t like that,” Shrike’s voice was softer. “Not before they took him. He said that they had some kind of mind control, but he was able to fight it off. He escaped off of their ship and they attacked the next day.”
“Like I said: Nuts.”
“The Legion does have telepathic mind-controllers, in this dimension at least,” I offered. “It’s interesting that this ‘Triumph’ was able to fight off the effects. It was my understanding that such was unheard of.”
“Triumph wasn’t the only one. There were others trying to escape!” Shrike set down his tea, elated that (what I presumed to be) his friend’s story was vindicated.
“If some percentage of the human population could withstand the Legion elite’s mind-control, their choice to attack your earth rather than conquering it seems logical,” I stated gravely. “According to refugees from Legion space, their Empire relies heavily upon telepathic agents to enforce their rule.”
“That isn’t much comfort.” White Tigress hugged her arms about her own torso, shivering.
“No, I suppose that it wouldn’t be. You have my sympathies.”
“How did you find out about us?!?” Wildcard bit out, his voice rising angrily. “Why are you bringing all of this up? We got away, we’re safe now!”
“Do any of you have the mathematical background to understand high-energy inter-dimensional physics?” I asked.
Disappointingly, none of the Knights raised their hands. The actual process of discovery had been quite ingenious, and it would have been pleasant to share the calculations with an appreciative audience. In that moment, I missed Starnyx terribly.
“In that case, suffice to say that I studied the effects of the weapon Skullface used in his attack on the UN building. It caused several dimensional breaches, and I tracked them all.”
“But how did you know about the Legion?” Wildcard pressed.
“The Legion’s starship engines cause a specific ripple in space-time when they are used within a gravity well. That ripple was detected from the portal to your Earth.”
After analyzing the data Joan the Glassblower had provided, I’d confirmed the danger Joan had warned of, had her refugee vessel attempted landing. I’d begun a more detailed search through a broad array of sensor logs to make sure that the phenomena had not been observed here. Hacking a military data-center whose stored information included Skullface’s attack had yielded an unwelcome surprise.
“They were landing ships?” Psion laughed harshly. “Why?!? There wasn’t much left.”
“The Legion’s telepathic agents apparently have limited range. If they were searching for remaining survivors, they would need to fly low.” Hidden within my armor, I winced, “Were there instances of people just…walking off, or disappearing without a trace?”
“Yes,” Psion whispered. “Oh, God…Yes.”
“That is, unfortunately, their known modus operandi.”
“I told you Triumph wouldn’t just run off!” Shrike’s eyes were wet with unshed tears. “I told you and none of you believed me…He said they were trying to get back in his head...Kept shaking, apologizing, sweating like he was sick...you just said he was crazy!”
Psion left her seat to wrap her arms around Shrike in a consoling hug. He leaned aga
inst her and sobbed, not even cringing as his broken arm was jostled.
“What is all this about?” Wildcard asked, more gently this time.
I considered, then decided on honesty. “A transport ship filled with refugees from Legion space crash-landed in Colorado four years ago. A friend was investigating a possible scandal connecting those refugees to the New York Shield; he was, unfortunately, killed before his inquiry was complete, and I decided to finish his task.”
“Did you find a scandal?”
“I did, yes. The leader of the New York Shield, Sphinx, spent several years traveling the galaxy due to a teleportation mishap; she apparently knew something of the Legion, because she ordered the heroes to attack the refugee ship before the aliens’ transmitted pleas for assistance were translated. When the attack was called off, she privately ordered one of her team-mates to disable their engines.”
I’d scoured through sensor logs and generated a sufficiently-detailed model to determine that Peregrine had struck the ship in exactly the right place to force the engines offline. It couldn't possibly have been an accident or miscommunication; he’d had to orbit the entire planet in order to make his approach undetected.
“Nine hundred and thirty-one refugees died in the crash,” I finished.
“My God,” Psion whispered, and she was not alone. All of the Knights shared expressions of wide-eyed disgust and confusion. “Why? She’s a hero!”
“Presumably, to keep this planet from suffering the same fate that yours did.”
That brought them up short.
“Still...Nine hundred and thirty-one.” Shrike looked as though he were torn between horror and compassion. He was right to be divided; the enormity of the Sphinx's decision was staggering. “There must have been a better way.”
“I agree,” I replied. “She knew enough to identify the ship's origin, to recognize the threat, and how to mitigate the danger. She also had time to plan, execute, and completely hide her responsibility for the crash. So, yes. I am certain that there must have been a better way. But she chose the way that allowed her to keep her secrets, instead.”
“Why?”
“I don't know,” I answered flatly. “But I intend to find out.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It took six hours for surgical robots to rebuild my left knee but most of my other injuries were minor. There were a few contusions, a concussion, a cracked lip, a few strained muscles, and bruised organs that would all heal quickly on their own (with medical nanites speeding the process along). The broken rib was only slightly more significant and required that my chest be wrapped for several days.
All in all, my visit to the Brooklyn Knights had been a successful outing.
The Mk 34 had been disassembled; significant portions of the armor were unsalvageable, and the rest was dissected for re-use in future designs. I was torn between the options of upgrading the Mk 28 Medium Combat suit to include improved stealth technology, or taking apart the Mk 28 for components and designing a new Mk 36. I’d had a few breakthroughs in force-field integrity since the Mk 28 had first been designed and much of the communications equipment built into that suit had since been made redundant by other optimizations.
I blinked tiredly. Mk 35, not 36; the Mk 34 had been my most recent design. Lightweight, fast and sleek, the suit had been crammed full with every stealth and anti-surveillance technology that I could compress within the armor's confines. It had served admirably in conflict with the Knights, but the Mk 34 had originally been intended solely for covert tasks. A surprising percentage of successful villainy lay in preparation: watching a target, exploring, and careful examination. The ever-increasing capabilities of my army of microdrones could manage much of that drudgery, but I'd found that there were many times that a more personal approach was warranted. Still, a more heavily-protected suit would be preferred for the future as precaution against unexpected violence.
I grit my teeth against a sudden headache, then created a new file for the Mk 36. There was much to do.
◊◊◊
A slight limp was still detectable in my gait when I returned to work the following Monday, but I'd found that having a young girl as a ward made for a simple explanation for almost any minor injury. A rueful laugh and a complaint about chasing butterflies was all that was required to earn expressions of sympathy from all coworkers who had children of their own.
“Hey, boss-man.” Willy Natchez, one of the more irreverent post-docs that worked in microbiology, knocked on my open door. He was a decent looking kid, with the high cheekbones, broad features, black hair and dark eyes characteristic of his Native American heritage. “You got a moment?”
“Of course!” I waved him in. “Come in, William.”
“Hey, uh, listen...” The tall, deeply-tanned young man closed the door behind himself, so quickly that he nearly caught the edge of his open lab-coat. “You know that there've been reporters sniffing 'round, right? Because of the trial?”
“They aren't supposed to come onto company property,” I frowned. After Whisper's citizenship hearing had been canceled without explanation, I'd begun a lawsuit; the 'non-human rights' angle had been attracting media attention. “If someone's been harassing you—”.
“No,” he shook his head, then winced. “Well, yeah, but that's not what this is about. Sort of.”
“What is this about, then?”
“Okay, there's this one reporter from the Globe. Gary Ephron? He's been ambushing a couple of us younger guys in the parking lot, right?”
“Go on.” Using my neural implant to tap into public records, I started a profile on Gary Ephron. His articles were decently written and a fair number of his stories had been picked up by the Associated Press. More recently, he'd been focusing on editorials; a worrying percentage of those had been brutal opinion pieces. If any of that well-articulated vitriol were aimed towards Whisper in public, there was a non-zero percent chance that Doctor Fid might be compelled to forswear his oath to the eff-tee-dub.
“Anyway, we've mostly just been blowing him off. But yesterday, I was at Tulley's and I saw Aaron Schwartz across the street, eating at that Italian place, the one with the lasagna?”
I did, in fact, know the Italian place with the lasagna.
“So, Aaron was having dinner with Gary Ephron,” Willy finished. “I, uh, thought you should know. I know you 'n Aaron are tight.”
“Thanks, Willy,” I forced a smile. “I'm sure it's nothing. I'll talk to him.”
Aaron Schwartz was a good man and a good father. I'd welcomed him into my home, and left Whisper at his house to spend evenings visiting with his daughter. I could not believe that Aaron would willingly betray me. The thought of even an accidental treachery, however, opened wounds in places I'd thought long since calloused over.
◊◊◊
Segment from the transcript of Markham v. the State of Massachusetts
Doctor Cavanaugh: My patient demonstrated a range of emotional reactions consistent with a girl of ten years of age. She knows the difference between truth and fiction, and is able to extrapolate and make guesses based upon provided information. She had preferences in subject and styles of play, and has exhibited creative thought. She has manifested empathy, and the capability to make choices in her own interests and in the interests of others. My patient is a delightful little girl, and it was a pleasure having the opportunity to work with her.
Prosecuting Attorney: Thank you, Doctor. The prosecution has no further questions.
Judge: Would the defense like to cross-examine the witness?
Defense Attorney: Yes, your honor. Thank you. And thank you, Doctor Cavanaugh.
Doctor Cavanaugh: You're welcome?
Defense Attorney: Your presentation was very thorough. The video of the subject playing with her favorite doll was, quite frankly, adorable.
Doctor Cavanaugh: Thank you. And yes, it was.
Defense Attorney: As a lay person, I have to admit that I'm thoroughly convinced.
<
br /> Doctor Cavanaugh: I'm glad.
Defense Attorney: A lay person...Someone without professional or specialized knowledge in a particular subject. When it comes to judging the psychological well-being of a child, I would definitely be considered a lay person, do you think?
Doctor Cavanaugh: I do, yes.
Defense Attorney: And (forgive me if this is a non-sequitur), are you familiar with the Turing test?
Doctor Cavanaugh: I am.
Defense Attorney: Can you describe the Turing test to the court?
Doctor Cavanaugh: I'm not an expert...
Defense Attorney: Even so. You can provide a basic explanation...?
Doctor Cavanaugh: Very well. The Turing test was an early proposed method to determine if a machine is capable of thinking. It consists of a human judge...a lay person, I suppose...who asks questions that are answered by two subjects: A human being, and a machine. If the judge can't reliably guess which is human and which is machine, the machine is declared to be capable of mimicking human thought. As I understand it, the theory was that conversational language requires abstract reasoning, empathy and leaps of logic beyond that which can be mimicked by simple pre-programmed responses.
Defense Attorney: Would it surprise you to hear that experts have told me that sufficiently advanced chat scripts have been passing versions of the Turing test for years?
Doctor Cavanaugh: It would not. Those scripts are created by highly trained professionals and a layman lacks the nuanced understanding of language and psychology to identify flaws in those scripts.
