Not that she needed his help.
Kit jumped smoothly, drawing her legs up as she rose in the air and twisted. That damn bat she'd had Nunez and his people make for her flicked out as fast as a fencer's blade, the impact against Griffin's ribs hard enough to send a meaty crack reverberating through the air. Her other hand made a flipping motion, a small silver orb sailing through the air to hit Griffin in the back.
As her body spun in the air, she kicked out in perfect time to push her foot off Griffin's passing ankle. The maneuver launched her in the opposite direction. Ray marveled at her grace as she casually flipped and landed, as if that had been her plan all along.
Griffin wasn't as lucky. The force of her kicking off him threw his momentum into chaos, sending the enormous man crashing to the pavement on the other side of the car.
Ray swore again. His line of sight was blocked. He began to move sideways in small steps, making slices to gain view of Griffin while exposing himself as little as possible.
“Stop, Cassidy,” Kit said.
Ray glanced at her. She wasn't looking at him, all her attention on the area around the car.
“Don't give him a reason to come after you. Just stay back. Take a shot if you've got it, but be sure. I can handle him a lot better than you can.”
Ray wasn't a coward, but neither was he an idiot. “Roger that,” he said, somewhat glumly.
The BMW rocked as if shaken by the unseen hand of God. Griffin had probably leaned against it while he gathered his thoughts.
“Listen to me, Henry,” Kit said, her voice deadly calm, almost empty. “My offer is still good, but you have to give up now. If you keep on, that little love tap I just gave you is going to feel like a massage compared to what I'll have to do.”
“Fuck you,” Griffin grunted from the other side of the car. “I could flip this thing over on you right now if I wanted. You aren't taking me down.”
“You could be right,” Kit said in a voice thoroughly convinced he wasn't. “Except you're feeling strangely weak right now. That's because the part of your powers you get from the Surge is being disrupted.”
Ray let out a long breath, happy she hadn't mentioned the EMP on his back. The guy could have just pulled his shirt off to get rid of the thing, though the battery probably wouldn't last much longer anyway. Once it ran out, Griffin was going to be back at full strength.
Kit didn't seem to care.
“I know what you're thinking right now,” Kit said. “You're doing the math in your head. You and I both know your body doesn't just rely on the Surge for your powers. You've had physical changes, too. You're stronger than any five men, even now. You think this gives you an advantage.”
Ray watched her pull several pieces of equipment from the emergency bandolier slung over her chest, holding them tightly in her hand. “It doesn't,” she said. “I'm like you. My abilities have grown past the need to rely on the Surge. I'm not as strong as you, nowhere close. But I'm not some asshole who uses his powers to hurt people now and then. I've spent most of my adult life training to be better than people like you.”
The car rocked again, almost in perfect time with Griffin, who flung himself across the top of the car so smoothly he could have been auditioning for a metahuman version of Dukes of Hazzard. Ray fired but too slowly, the EMP round slapping harmlessly into the trunk of the car.
Kit ducked to her right, throwing her handful of silver spheres at Griffin's face. From the pure speed of it, Ray guessed she was using every ounce of her power to boost the throw. Griffin reacted as any person would, throwing his arms up to protect his eyes.
That was what they taught you in the OSA classes when it came to fighting those more powerful than you; don't think about the strengths they have that you don't. Instead consider what strengths you have that can be exploited against the same human weaknesses everyone shared. Kit had literally written part of the book on it.
Kit's now-empty left hand shot to join her right on the handle of her bat. The wind-up was perfect, if faster than any pro ball player had ever managed, and the swing would have been a home run had it connected with a baseball rather than the side of a giant man's knee.
Ray cringed slightly at the sound of shattering bone, his mouth narrowing into a thin line as Griffin's left leg deformed on the landing. The joint stopped working as intended, a piercing howl tearing from the man's throat as he crumpled to the street.
The cleanup went as well as could be expected once backup arrived. Ray mostly stood back and let the retrieval team work to stabilize and secure the prisoner, taking in the scene and trying to learn from it. Whatever ego he had fostered earlier in the morning had collapsed to dust after seeing Kovacs get injured and finding himself pushed to the sidelines.
He gave Kit a ride into the office after the tow truck hauled her car off to the shop. It was a silent drive, though not the nervous sort of quiet many of the other agents would suffer when stuck in a car with their boss. Ray knew Kit as a person first and employer second, and his own value was high enough to assure him that no amount of small error could cost him his position.
No, Ray was simply embarrassed. During the months of training Kit had personally instructed him in certain aspects of how to understand and manage the limits of his powers. It was a specialty of hers. As a result, he felt no guilt for not being up to the task. Thinking back to the night before and his talk with Archer filled him with shame now that his head had been deflated to a normal size.
How had he let himself get so cocky? Was it his growing control over his powers, making him forget all the lives he'd taken in Fairmont? The idea troubled him deeply.
“I can feel you brooding over there,” Kit said, pulling him back to reality. “Don't have to read minds to know what you're thinking, Ray. This wasn't your fault.”
Ray snorted. “Easy for you to say.”
“Not really,” Kit replied evenly. “I'm your boss, which means ultimately I'm responsible for what happens to my agents. I know you feel guilty—because I know you—and that's totally normal. But it's not on you. I got a couple reports while we were cleaning up, and you didn't do anything wrong. The guy you were sent to bring in got the drop on you, and nothing you could have done would have made a difference.”
Ray frowned, staring out the windshield as sparse drops of rain began to patter against it. “Archer sent us out to make a point. He knew I was getting a little full of myself.”
Kit nodded. “I'm sure that was part of it. That's what good managers do; they make sure their people are mentally prepared for anything, even failure. It's part of the job. Sometimes things go sideways and it can't be helped. Today was good for you, I think. There's a lesson to be learned here, and no one had to die to teach it.”
Ray's frown deepened. “But Kovacs got hurt. That is on me.”
Kit shook her head, a small smile playing across her lips. “Trust me, he's had much worse. I've seen his dossier. A few cracked ribs and a day off in the hospital with some painkillers is the closest he's had to a vacation in five years.”
Ray bristled, but didn't argue. Kit seemed to sense his frustration, because she put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Trust me, Ray, this was a good thing. Lessons like these can be a lot worse.”
Kit
The next few days were busy, though no more hectic than any other time since the attack on the facility four months earlier. If anything, things were getting better. Kit had taken the lead in managing the repairs and new construction required after poor Thomas Maggard died in a scene of furious destruction.
The boy had torn a path through dozens of offices and into the main hub of Research and Development, requiring a breathtaking amount of money to fix. Since most of the damaged areas hadn't been updated in the years since the place was built, Kit took it upon herself to make sure that happened. Which included the new data center housing Operations and its analysts.
Construction was done, though it would have taken only weeks instead
of months had she been allowed to contract Next to do the work. With the added load of that project lifted from her shoulders, the day-to-day paperwork and other aspects of directing the facility with Archer felt immensely less difficult.
The proof was obvious in her surroundings if nothing else. Before the attack her office had been neat and tidy, almost Spartan. In the intervening months it had undergone a slow descent into entropy, filling with piles of paper, discarded items, and a dozen other small proofs of how busy she had become. That trend had been reversing for a while now; the office was mostly clean. The squashy couch was in disarray from the last time she'd fallen asleep here, but otherwise the place was serviceable.
After years of living in semi-isolation at the Helix base, Kit was now in the world again. She had an apartment. A car. Clothes for more than simple utilitarian uses. She had even gone on dates. Her mother would be proud. For the first time since her Next abilities had awakened, Kit's life was coming together.
Just as the thought came to her, the sense of impending achievement coalescing into a conscious idea, her intercom beeped.
“Singh,” she said absently as she sorted through the papers on her desk.
“Director, this is Agent Waid in Ops,” the caller said in a familiar voice.
“You're the analyst I worked with the other day,” Kit said.
“Yes, ma'am. There's a flag on our system to notify you or Director Archer whenever a possible Next-related homicide is reported within a thirty mile radius. I just got a request from Louisville Metro for a consult. They're asking for a full response unit.”
Kit paused her sorting. In murder cases the locals didn't usually request a full unit. Typically a pair of agents would be sent out to determine if the crime required OSA oversight. Every agent had training aimed at recognizing the signs of superhuman involvement, though it was far from a definitive analysis.
If the locals were asking for a full forensics and investigative unit they had to be certain what they were dealing with. It was the sort of thing she or Archer might leave the office to oversee. She looked at the half-sorted pile of paperwork and smiled to herself.
“If they want a full team, then we should send one. In the spirit of cooperation I'll even go check it out myself. Wouldn't want those officers to think my record keeping is more important than their case,” Kit said.
What might have been a muffled chuckle echoed from the phone. “No, ma'am. Wouldn't want that.”
The door connecting Kit's office to Archer's opened, the big man stepping through. “I need to talk to you,” Archer said.
“Hang on, Waid,” Kit said, and put him on hold. “We're private. What's up?”
Archer fidgeted, rolling his shoulders inside his rumpled suit. “Right when you took that call, another one came in. From Robinson. He said you need to call him back, that it's urgent.”
Their eyes met, and though neither said a word—unsafe to say certain things out loud, even in their own offices—an entire conversation seemed to pass between them in a moment. Robinson, Secretary of the Department of Superhuman Affairs, was their boss. An almost legendary behind-the-scenes figure in Washington, the man was a war hero who knew much more about the destruction of Fairmont and the appearance of the Next than he let on.
He had recruited Kit twice; years before as a trainee agent in the newly formed Helix program, and again four months earlier as his backup. There were pieces of information that had to be preserved, he had explained, and Kit was the person who would hold onto them in case of his death. It was a position of trust, one which allowed Kit opportunities to ferret out exactly what secrets the old man was keeping.
It was dangerous, of course. Kit had to take what information Robinson would give, as asking the wrong question could tip Robinson off that she knew something of his role in the events leading to Fairmont.
Every meeting with the man was a gamble, another chance to bring new data back to the small conspiracy Kit and Archer had formed with the few people they trusted. Those meetings always came with the risk that Kit wouldn't return.
It was worth it, however nerve-wracking the situation might be.
Kit's brain processed everything at many times the speed of a normal human, so the pause after Archer's words wouldn't have been noticeable to most observers.
“Okay,” she said casually. “I'll give him a ring before I head out on this murder consult.”
Archer nodded. “You want me to stay?”
Kit shrugged. “Sure, if you want.” She took Waid off hold, told him to get the team ready but to wait for confirmation before leaving. Then she called Robinson's direct line, a number known to only four people, one of whom was the leader of the free world.
“Kitra,” the old man said in his polished-stone voice, forgoing empty chatter. “You need to be in Washington.”
Kit blinked. “When?”
“Now,” Robinson replied. “Don't stand by your coffee table.” The phone clicked as he hung up on her.
“Stand back,” Kit said. “Incoming douchebag.”
Archer stepped back just as a blinding light filled the room, resolving into the shape of a man.
“Directors,” Wes Christjansen said as he stepped forward. Robinson's personal mode of transportation was a familiar face, one Kit had been indifferent toward until being recruited as the old man's shadow. Kit suspected the man was angry to be overlooked for the job, but Kit didn't really see why it was anything to be jealous over. All it did was make her a target, information being the coin of the modern age. Whatever the reason, he had been cold toward her bordering on hateful ever since.
“Christjansen,” Archer said. “What's this all about?”
“No idea,” the other man replied. “I'm just the ride. Speaking of which...”
Kit put up a finger. “Hang on a second,” she said. She turned to Archer. “You should go on that run, the cops asked for a full team, you know how weird that is. Use Waid as your analyst, he's really good. Oh, and you might want to take whatever intern trainees need field time along with you. It'll be a good learning experience for them.”
Archer nodded, a bemused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sure. Anything else?”
Kit gave him a mock-serious look. “Your sarcasm is noted.” Her expression melted into one of genuine worry, hidden from Christjansen, who was half a dozen feet behind her. “Wish me luck,” she mouthed to Archer, who winked.
“Let's go, then,” she said, then vanished in an explosion of light.
Teleportation varied depending on several factors. Most Next who were capable of it managed the feat in different ways. Some simply poofed away with no fanfare to reappear elsewhere, like they'd stepped through an unseen door. Others, like Christjansen, made a sort of hole in the world, one they had to step through. The light spilling from that portal was otherworldly, flooding across her skin like water, though without any sensation at all.
The trip itself twisted her stomach in knots. However Christjansen's power worked, it took some getting used to. Kit had been traveling with him off and on for months, but the nausea and disruption to the delicate machinery of her inner ears seemed to have plateaued at tolerable (if still fairly shitty) levels.
Months of these last-minute, random trips had given Kit a solid set of reactions. She didn't speak even to ask where they were. While most of her jaunts were mundane in nature—meetings with Robinson to learn some vital secret or another, usually—twice they had appeared in highly dangerous situations.
That didn't seem to be the case today, but Kit played it safe. The room around them was old, the walls bedecked with centuries-old paintings, expensive molding framing the place top and bottom. The floor was marble, the lights ensconced rather than being overhead. The room wasn't large, and while Kit was sure she had never been in it before, the place had an unmistakably familiar design.
She caught Christjansen's eye, but the man remained silent. Kit choked back a derisive snort, instead turning her mind to
trying to figure out why the place seemed so familiar.
It took a few seconds to click, and the realization sent a spike of ice through her guts.
“Are we in D.C.?” she asked quietly.
Christjansen's eyebrows raised slightly, but it was enough to confirm she was right. Before Kit's imagination could gear up into full-blown panic, the carved double doors opened on silent hinges. Robinson stood framed in the open doorway.
“Thank you, Wes,” he said, nodding to his valet. “I'll signal when we're done.”
“Yes, sir,” Christjansen said, vanishing in another flash of brilliant light.
Robinson faced Kit, and as always she was struck by him. He was older, hair beginning to turn solid white in places, though he always carried an air of vitality. There was none of the weight of middle age on him, and in the years Kit had known Robinson he hadn't slowed a step.
He allowed the doors to swing closed as he stepped into the room. His eyes appraised her openly with the hawkish scan of an old veteran.
“You're looking better than the last time I saw you,” Robinson remarked.
Kit grunted. “I'm just trying to be prettier than you, sir,” she quipped.
Robinson smiled. “Tall order. Now, we need to get moving. The hearing starts in a few minutes.”
Her mouth fell open. “Hearing? What are you talking about?”
“I told you there would be a hearing when your psychological evaluation was over,” he explained.
Kit frowned. “Yes, you did. But I still have a couple months left with the doctor.”
Robinson shook his head. “Things have changed, and the committee was getting impatient.” He hesitated, then added, “I tend to think they want to do the hearing when you're off balance and not prepared.”
Kit gave him a searching look. “Which you don't agree with, or you wouldn't have said anything.”
Robinson shrugged. “I've watched you for years, Kitra. I recruited you into Helix personally. If I didn't think you were trustworthy and could handle the job, you wouldn't have it.”
The Next Chronicle (Book 2): Damage Page 4
