Time and Chance

by Jeff Mariotte

  And Lynch had decided, moving here, that he would step back. The kids had matured. They needed to find their own ways in the world, and not look to him for all the answers. He didn't have them anyway.

  He remained available in an advisory role, and once in a while he went into action with them when it was warranted. But mostly, he stood back, observing, keeping tabs on them and on the greater world picture, pointing them in the direction of trouble or injustice when he could.

  He'd brought enough grief into the world. Through these kids, he thought maybe he could make some of it right.

  "Mr. Lynch?" Caitlin said again.

  "Sorry," he replied. "Looking at the view."

  "Where do you think these weapons are coming from?"

  He turned the chair slowly back to face his den. Caitlin sat on a visitor's chair, her impossibly long legs folded under her. Manifesting her powers, in her case, also meant undergoing a physical transformation that changed her from being a slight, near-sighted, frail girl into a tall, voluptuous, muscular goddess.

  Behind her, Grunge leaned on the door jamb. He wore a black tee-shirt over his thickly muscled chest and broad shoulders. His straight hair hung down into his eyes, but it didn't seem to bother him.

  Roxy sat on a couch nearby. Her tight sweater was a magenta shade that nearly matched the streaks in the front of her black hair, with blue jeans.

  "Yeah," Roxy said. "Because, like, if we're going to go up against people with weapons that can kill us, I'd rather just stay home and watch TV or something."

  "A kitchen knife could kill you, Rox," Grunge pointed out.

  "It'd have to get close enough," Roxy said. "Fat chance. But someone with an I.O. plasma cannon could take me out from the other end of Fifth Avenue when I'm coming out of Tiffany's."

  "Like you shop there," Grunge said.

  "I browse."

  Lynch cleared his throat, and the conversation stopped. "Remember when Max Faraday went insane, with his Divine Right power?"

  "And threatened to reshape all of reality to fit his image of what it should be?" Grunge asked. "Hard to forget."

  "As part of that reshaping," Lynch went on, "he shut down International Operations. The organization was one of the few institutions that understood what he was, that knew about the Creation Equation. I.O. might have been able to rally its forces and stop him. Unlikely, but they had a better shot than the FBI or the CIA or any of the other alphabet soups in D.C. He couldn't have that, so he willed the dismantling of the entire organization, office by office."

  "Right," Caitlin said. "And it hasn't been put back together. Congress wasn't willing to fund it anymore, right?"

  "One of the only intelligent decisions Congress has made in the last decade," Lynch replied. "But when those offices shut down, there were people—lots of them—put out of work. Some of those people were angry about it. And some of those angry people had access to information, equipment, even weaponry."

  "Weren't there any precautions—" Caitlin began.

  Lynch cut her off. "Sure there were. But they assumed that, if the agency ever were shut down, there would be some time. It takes months, years, even, to wind down a government bureaucracy like that. No one anticipated that it could be done overnight by an insane pizza-delivery boy with the power to alter the fabric of reality."

  "Some people just don't think ahead," Grunge observed. "Me, I've never trusted 'em. Come to your house, who knows what's inside that flat box?"

  "Yeah, that's usually what comes to mind when I order pizza too, Grunge," Roxy said. "Who worries about whether or not they remembered the pepperoni or the extra 'shrooms? They're just as likely to go berserk and kill you with a razor-studded pie as they are to get your order right."

  "Hey, I don't make fun of your phobias," Grunge said. "Well, yeah, maybe I do. But that doesn't mean you have to make fun of mine."

  "If I could go on," Lynch said.

  "Sure, dude," Grunge offered.

  "Thanks. The point is, ever since I.O. was shut down, the world's black markets have been awash in former I.O. secrets and technology. There hasn't been an intelligence garage sale like this since the KGB went belly up in the '80s. I'm not surprised that we're seeing I.O. armaments on the streets now. I'm surprised it took so long."

  "But you'd think some of the people using it wouldn't be able to afford the prices it must get," Caitlin said.

  "True," Lynch agreed. "It must be going for cheaper than I'd expected. I thought it would fetch top dollar, but I guess not, if street gangs are getting their grubby mitts on it."

  "Maybe they make it up in volume," Grunge suggested.

  "Do you know who or where the likeliest sources for these guns would be, Mr. Lynch?" Caitlin asked. "If you were a New York street gang, where would you go to buy this stuff?"

  Lynch turned to his computer, punched a couple of keys, scrolled down with his mouse. "I can give you a few names," he said. "I don't know anything for sure, but I can point you in some possible directions. You'll have to do some legwork, though.

  "Kat's got the legs for it," Grunge said with a laugh.

  Roxy sighed. "If you were closer, I'd slap you. Just consider yourself slapped."

  "Ow," Grunge said. "Feel better?"

  "Much."

  Lynch sent his list to the printer next to his desk. This is good, he thought. That kind of weaponry shouldn't be on the street. If the kids can clean this up, that'll be one black mark erased from the permanent record of my soul.

  If I live another thousand years, I should be able to get the record clean.

  Wager stared at the array of screens before him with breathless anticipation. His test subject sat in a steel reinforced chair in a sterilized chamber. Joe Monteleone had been stripped naked and scrubbed, every hair removed from his body, every potential contaminant flushed from his system. He had been fed with bursts of high caliber nutrients, he had endured stoically as subliminal texts were hard-wired into his consciousness to ensure that he possessed all the knowledge necessary to undertake his mission.

  He now knew the names and locations of every crime-lord in New York City. He knew their every proclivity, their routine habits, their endearing qualities, and most importantly, he knew how to get to them.

  All of them.

  And now he was ready. He sat in the white chair, his legs and wrists restrained.

  Wager stared at the man. Joe was scrawny and weak, despite the stimulation and strengthening his muscular-skeleton had already received. Wager secretly despaired that the man would not survive the injection.

  Of course, he knew the odds; he understood that there was currently a fifty-seven percent probability that the subject would not only live, but thrive.

  Still, he couldn't relax. He was tense—and excited.

  He watched as one of his white-robed, blue-masked doctors approached the man, his property, with a syringe. The doctor looked up to one of Wager's many cameras, nodded, and plunged the needle in the man's arm.

  The test subject flinched at what Wager imagined to be the brief sting of the injection, but, other than that, revealed no emotion as the Gen-Active serum was delivered into his system.

  Wager studied the subject's face. He used a digital controller to zoom in.

  At this close range, it became clear that Joe was fighting to rein in his fear, and that gave Wager some assurance—as well as a perverse thrill. Wager studied Joe's face and saw the muscles contract and expand. Joe suddenly shuddered and began to quake as if G-forces had sprung up from nowhere and were now tearing at him.

  Wager pulled back the digital enhancer, returning his view to a full body shot. He didn't want to miss any of what was happening. He had to understand the full scope of the process to which he was still debating on subjecting himself.

  Before his eyes, the test subject changed—and while the metamorphosis occurred, Wager felt like a god.

  Joe bucked against the restraints as every gram of fat in his body turned to muscle, then even more
muscle manifested seemingly from nowhere. His forehead bulged and the veins in his arms, legs, and temples rose up from his flesh and looked as if they were going to explode.

  He became something incredible.

  His skinny arms and legs mushroomed into Olympian proportions. His torso became broad and incredibly defined.

  The hair grew back on his head and in other regions.

  He became… younger. Virile, strong, and—

  The restraints burst as he threw his head back and screamed!

  Just then, a well manicured, feminine hand reached before Wager and tapped the control panel in his lap with a single lovely finger. The image before Wager froze. A time code appeared before the frozen digital recording.

  "He was quite entertaining, wasn't he?" Suzanne Sawyer asked.

  Wager looked over his shoulder at her. If it had been anyone else, he would have had them executed immediately. Yet there was something about Suzanne, the proximity of her, the smell, even the taste, at least, as he imagined the taste to be, that made him forgive the intrusion.

  He hadn't realized until now how he had been panting, his face flushed, his every nerve tingling and alive.

  Suzanne bent low, her blouse falling open to reveal her generous cleavage. "That will be you. The final tests are in. There are no signs of rejection. And his power readings are—impressive."

  She turned and hopped up on the control board, crossing her long legs, which were revealed by her short skirt. "When will you take your injection?"

  "When I feel the odds are with me," Wager said. "The subject hasn't been field tested yet."

  "The subject." Suzanne mused. "I'm sure we can come up with a more colorful field name for him… What about Cipher? It works on several different levels."

  Wager nodded. "Very well."

  "I think things are going to change for us both very soon," Suzanne said. "I just finished briefing Cipher. He's been outfitted and waits only for you to engage the vid and audio links. Then the real fun can begin."

  Wager tapped a button on his control panel and the digital recording of Cipher's creation was relegated to storage.

  "It's interesting," Suzanne said.

  "What is?"

  "You. I understand that your basic preoccupation is domination and submission, but there is more. Your desire to own another human being, to have every aspect of that person's life under your control. It must be quite a thrill."

  Wager raised a single eyebrow. "What are you getting at?"

  She smiled and leaned back a little. It was a practiced, yet still perfectly effective and provocative move. "Nothing. Except that there is something to be said for voyeurism."

  "I'm not a voyeur," Wager said uncomfortably. "I have to know what's going on at all times."

  "You like it," she said in a breathy whisper. "Why do you think I'm drawn to you?"

  "The healthy paycheck and stock options."

  She shrugged and tossed her hair. "Have you ever considered that exhibitionism is the flip side of voyeurism?"

  Wager was… intrigued.

  "Come on. Do you honestly think I'm not aware of the microfilament cameras in my bedroom, and that I couldn't have put them out if there were things I hadn't wanted you to see?"

  "Things," Wager said, gripping the arms of his chair and shifting around. He thought about the body he would soon possess. The beauty of it, the power…

  "Like that night with that young guard or all the other times on my own—"

  'Two," Wager corrected. "There were two guards."

  She smiled. "How I remember. Yessss. Just checking to see if you did." Her hands brushed his console. It jumped slightly in his lap. "Do you save all your favorite moments?"

  He swallowed hard and didn't answer.

  "Good." She leaned down and only barely brushed her lips with his. "To the future."

  Wager busily engaged the vid and audio links hooking him to Cipher. "To the present."

  * * *

  Joe Monteleone studied the chiseled, godlike being staring back at him from the silver mirror in the mission launch room.

  He almost didn't recognize himself.

  And he felt damn sure that Margaret, Elyse, and Joe Jr. wouldn't recognize him at all. At least, not from any stray video footage that might be picked up by one of the news stations or some reporter with a 35mm in his pocket. He was going to be visible. Major league visible.

  That was part of the plan.

  Drawing a deep breath, Joe ran his hand over the emblem on his chest—a snake eating its own tail. He looked at his silver and black gloves, the visor and headgear he wore, the armlets circling his biceps and thighs, the boots and gleaming trunks. He truly looked like something out of one of his son's comic books.

  "I'm ready," Joe said.

  He waited. There was no reply. He tapped his earpiece and waited. There was still no reply.

  The launch room was a small, deserted ruin of an office. It reminded Joe of something from a '40s detective movie. There were gadgets hidden everywhere, but at a glance, it just looked like another hollowed out section of this soon-to-be-condemned length of brownstones.

  "Wager?" Joe asked. "Hey, is anyone—"

  "Speak when you are spoken to, not before," came a familiar voice. The voice of his "master."

  He took that voice very seriously and fell silent.

  Joe was kept waiting, in the room, in perfect stillness, for eighteen and a half minutes. He knew it was precisely that long because of an array of digital readouts in the interior of his visor.

  Wager was teaching him a lesson.

  "You have been informed that your code name will be Cipher," Wager said at last.

  Cipher waited.

  "Respond."

  "I was told the name was pending your approval, sir."

  "You know what a cipher is, don't you?"

  "There are several meanings."

  "But only one applies to us. And that is, 'a person or thing of no value or importance.' You are easily replaced. Keep that in mind."

  Cipher nodded. "Yes."

  "Now you will go about your function. Engage your cloaking abilities."

  Summoning his power, Cipher felt his nerves jangle a little as his body—and costume—faded into his surroundings.

  "Exit the room."

  There was no door. Nor did there need to be one. Cipher walked through the walls, into the glaring sunlight of mid-day.

  Three people walked through him without ever noticing that he was there.

  "Proceed to Milo Face's domain."

  Cipher walked a dozen blocks and soon stood before the entrance to a posh hotel.

  "Make your presence known."

  Allowing himself to become tangible and visible, Cipher walked to the curb, picked up a taxi, shook it twice on its side to dislodge its screaming passengers, then hurled it toward the front door.

  The doorman leaped out of the way as the cab smashed through the double glass doors. A half-dozen armed security men had appeared before the mangled cab had even stopped bouncing in the lobby, and before all the shattered glass had stopped falling like snow in a Christmas globe.

  "Deal with them," Wager commanded. "Non-lethal force."

  Cipher broke several bones and left all the guards unconscious in less than eight seconds. He was quick, as well as strong.

  "The penthouse. Go there."

  Cipher entered the hotel. He ignored the screams. A guy in a black suit drew down on him and unloaded a full clip from an automatic into Cipher.

  The bullets were trapped by his dampening field, and fell harmlessly to the ground. They wouldn't have done him harm in any case, but they might have injured the equipment linking him to his benefactor.

  He was the only one to take the elevator. It stopped one floor short. Cipher reached through the control panel and manipulated the circuitry to prompt the elevator to continue on its journey.

  When he reached the penthouse, he held his head high, impassively, just like the Term
inator. That was his role in this. Stoic. Unmovable.

  He played the part well.

  Tendrils of searing white force reached out for him as the doors opened. Cipher became intangible with plenty of time to spare.

  "Excellent," Cipher said.

  Cipher stepped into the penthouse apartment of one of New York's leading crimelords. He didn't even look at the guards who were leveling the precious antiques and setting fire to priceless original paintings in their efforts to fry him with various bits of I.O. weaponry they had acquired.

  He moved through them like an avenging spirit, become tangible only long enough to disarm the various guards.

  "Hurt them some. I like when the bones crack," Wager said.

  Cipher obliged. He tried not to think of these people as human. When they had passed him on the street, they had certainly not seen him in those terms. They were obstacles, nothing more. Unpleasant objects to be moved out of the way so that he could perform his function. Nothing more.

  Still… The smell of urine as one relieved himself, screaming at a bone jutting from his bleeding arm, feces from one he had all but crippled with a single blow, the salt of tears from another who begged for his life, unaware that Cipher was not here to kill anyone.

  Though…

  What would he do if that became part of the deal? He hadn't thought of that when he had made his agreement.

  "Tell them what you want," Wager said.

  "I want to see Milo Face," Cipher said. "I know he's here."

  A shower of bullets came at him now, along with screams and the blasts of a pair of sawed-off shotguns.

  All useless.

  He brushed aside the spent slag and turned to his new assailants. The pale, moon-shaped face of his target was now in full view. Milo Face wore a silk kimono and was surrounded by three heavily armed and startlingly under-dressed Asian women.