Showing posts with label capes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label capes. Show all posts

Personal Effects

“So what is it?”

Chowdhury looked down at them from the scaffolding, still elbow-deep in the creature’s side, before turning back to his task. “Alien.”

Rapture rolled her eyes. “We knew that, Doc. Be specific.”

“That’s as specific as we can be right now,” Mandy said, walking carefully down the steps, data pad under her arm. “This thing is an enigma. There’s no brain. There’s what looks like neural tissue throughout—”

“Not necessarily. Maybe,” Chowdhury shouted down.

“—the body. But it doesn’t seem to be a nervous system as such. There isn’t a complex enough network of tissue to be capable of controlling the creature.”

“So something else is controlling it?”

“Well… we can’t find any means of controlling it. Nothing biological, no tech. It’s just too simple; it’s meat wrapped in armor. It shouldn’t really be able to walk at all, if I understand biology.”

It’s meat wrapped in armor. It’s the muscle. “What if someone is controlling this thing with their powers?”

“How? There’s—”

“How do you do your thing? How does Glowworm?” There’s still so much about all of this even we don’t understand. “What if someone’s superpower is controlling these things?”

Dreamland One’s voice came over the speakers. “More creatures are coming.”

“When?” I looked at my watch; Rapture was already headed towards the door. “And where?”

“Now, and here. Tundra has engaged one just outside the East wall. Two more are approaching from the Southwest. Please deploy immediately.”


Tundra is A team leader, now that Raijin’s gone. He’s the most powerful of the first-line capes, but his powers are simple: he had the pillbug encased in ice while I was still crossing the lawn to join him. The thing was still alive, inside the already-cracking frozen shell. Tundra’s hands were outstretched and were emanating a strengthening blue-white shimmer: he was building up for another. “Keep the other ones away from the building!”

I changed directions, let my speed carry me up and over the South wall, then stopped on the downslope to look around: two pillbugs coming out of the water to my right. Dreamland’s voice was in my earpiece: “Two more have just appeared in the parking lot to the North. Chasm and Glowworm.” 

“Uh, I need some help with these two…” Who else was here? The Knack, if he was sober. Someone would be handing him a black coffee right now, just to be sure, but it’d be a few minutes — at least — until he was on the board. Merry Punkster had been in Vegas with me looking for Critical Hit, and had stayed behind to continue the search. Where was Massive?

As if on cue, he dropped heavily onto the soft earth beside me. “Sorry. Had to climb over.” He ran past me at the closest creature.

The water around the other two pillbugs jumped as hundreds of thousands of bits of gravel shot up out of the riverbed and flew off out of sight behind me. And Rapture. “Okay.”

It’s hard to run in water. I could dash in, deliver a blow, dash out, but I couldn’t get around behind them, and I couldn’t get in any serious damage until the things made dry land. Massive wasn’t having this problem, but he was also getting knocked around something awful himself. I was beside him for long enough to say, “You alright?” while he was regaining his feet, the pillbug bearing down on him.

“…Yeah.” He twisted into an uppercut. The head snapped back as before, in LA, but this time the creature kept its maw shut. Rapture’s gravel-swarm spear abraded the leathery skin of its face but did no significant damage. “Learned your lesson, didja?” Massive punched it again, but took two steps back.

None of them are opening their mouths. No roaring, no bite attacks. Adapting their tactics,” Dreamland One observed. “Adapt ours. The underside is significantly more vulnerable than the carapace.”

Massive was running, away from the creature, towards the wall. Above him, The Knack was finally in position, had traded in his state-of-the-art rifle for something that looked like a bazooka and a bandolier full of shells. The two were gesturing to each other. I kept up my harrying tactics until I could think of something.

Rapture was trying something else: compressing balls of debris until they were white-hot nodes of screeching death, and shooting those at the pillbugs. They were marking up the armor, but not piercing it. She touched her ear, listened, and then looked at Massive.

Massive is nearly seven feet tall, he’s solid muscle. He’s also, super-power wise, dense enough to turn bullets and I don’t want to think about how heavy that means he is. He started to rise off the ground on a small, undulating carpet of tiny stones, struggling to keep his balance as he picked up speed. Rapture called out: “Aspen!”. He dropped into a ski-jump position.

Rapture flung Massive over the left-hand pillbug, close enough that he could reach down and grab the forward edge of the thing’s shell with both powerful hands as he passed. The flailing pillbug was pulled up and back, flipping it over in the water. As soon as Massive was clear, The Knack’s RPG round struck the creature’s belly, leaving a great gaping wound. Two more rounds followed, reducing its gut to a gaping ruin.

Okay. I needed room to pick up speed. I took off around the perimeter. Chasm’s golems surrounding two of them, grasping and pulling and clawing at one as Glowworm’s beams speared the other in the eye. Further, a pillbug fully off the ground, speared on ice spikes that had erupted beneath it, Tundra in mid-turn to head towards our side. I didn’t stop for any of it. By the time I passed Massive in mid-charge towards the second of our pillbugs I was leaving a wake of burning grass. I leapt at its face.

Massive told me later it was one of the loudest sounds he’d ever heard. A streak went by him, he felt a wave of heat, and then got knocked backwards by a shock wave. I landed next to him, unconscious, and the pillbug flipped end-over-end and landed back on its feet in the shallow water with a partially-caved in face. I’d hit it too hard.

But it was enough to cause it pain, and it screamed, involuntarily, control broken or simply overpowered; The Knack put an RPG straight down its gullet, finishing it like Rapture and Glowworm had finished the one in LA.


I woke up on a gurney, with Chowdhury standing over me. “See? I told you he was fine. I’m going back to the specimens.”

I was, in fact, sore all over. Mandy’s hand stroked my hair. “Nice job, babe.”

“Everybody ok?”

“Chasm turned his ankle jumping down off the wall.” She grinned. “Just clumsy. All the creatures are dead. And we got video of three of them appearing.”

“How do they—”

“It looks exactly like Raijin’s teleport effect. I mean exactly.” She paused for a moment, clearly disturbed. “D1 is analyzing the footage. He—”

“I’m up. I’m getting up.” It hurt, but I had to. “Help me up.”

“Honey—”

“Help me.”

We’ve been together a long time. Mandy knows better than to argue with me when I’ve made up my mind. Except where it comes to Junior, and where it comes to Junior, I know better than to argue with her at all. “All right.”


Rapture, Tundra, Massive, The Knack, and Glowworm were all in Dreamland One’s audience chamber, watching the enormous video screens. Stern — Glowworm, his powers now dormant — froze the playback on a particular frame. “There, see that?”

“Don’t mean nothing.” The Knack scoffed. “Just what it looks like to teleport, that’s all. The fuck are you implying?”

“Remember the Red Lich? It could teleport. Didn’t look anything like that.” Tundra shook his head. “I’m not saying it’s the boss’s fault, but maybe the power source is the same.”

“Sonny, we have to understand what’s going on.” Stern’s voice was soothing, a skill he’d picked up in his years of medical practice. “He’s not—”

“Whatever. You call me when you figure it out.” The Knack glowered at them, stalked past me and out the door.

Tundra nodded to me. “They let you out of medical already?”

“I wanted to see.”

“Well, there it is. Play it again, Stern.” A shot of a normal parking lot, could have been a still picture except for traffic in the upper right. Then a flash of swirling red and orange laced with streaks of lightning, empty cars being tossed out of the way, and two enormous ‘pillbugs’, one, two. They began crawling out of frame. “There’s three more angles, but this is the only one in color.”

I’d seen Raijin teleport in once or twice, live and in person. The movies never got it right. Plus they always had some idiot play him who could never do the accent. The accent is key. “Yeah.”

“And then there’s the fact that each successive attack was closer to headquarters. Like they were triangulating in on us.”

“Everybody on Earth knows where Dreamland Headquarters is now, it’s been—”

“Everybody on Earth. Everybody human.

“Why home in on us? Why are we a target?”

Dreamland One’s voice spoke over the PA. “They’re not homing in on Dreamland Headquarters, but rather something it contains.” A small rectangular section of floor began to slide down, and then another, and another, until there was a set of stairs leading down beneath D1’s chamber.

We looked at each other. The Dreamland vault. McLeary’s been down here, twice or three times; Mandy, maybe once. None of us ever had.

Tundra went first. At the bottom of the steps was a long hallway lined with steel blast doors, like the one leading into D1’s sanctum; one was open. Through the door was a room containing only a glass case, and inside that: Raijin’s Eye Staff. It was glowing red, and vibrating like a cellphone receiving a call. “How long has it been doing that?”

“Unknown. There are no cameras or other sensors in the vault. I picked up the vibrations while re-calibrating one of the surface seismometers. You may thank Fleet’s shock wave for that necessity.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize; it worked.” Glowworm reassured, out of habit; this time his voice betrayed his worry.

“The staff is overloading. It cannot remain here. If there was time to get it off-planet, that would have been optimal, but my analysis indicates only hours remain. It must be taken to as remote a location as can be managed.”

“And then what?” Rapture shook her head. “How do we stop it from overloading?”

“We do not. We allow it to overload, and observe the results.”

Horatius

I’m always the first responder to a threat event site. Always. I run fast. Only Raijin ever beat me anywhere, and it was only the once, and it was because he could teleport and had nothing better to do that day. But this time I was out of position, looking for Critical Hit in Vegas, when another ‘pillbug’ appeared in LA and started making its way up Maple towards downtown. So even though I ran full-tilt the whole way as soon as I got the alert, anybody who happened to be in LA and even some of the people from headquarters beat me there.

I came to a halt in the street next to where the Knack was standing perfectly still, AXMC rifle trained on the alien creature, which was a block away alternatively roaring and chewing on a DASH bus. “I’m here.”

“Kid, I’m tryin’ to concentrate.” He fired, and a spurt of green and brown goo erupted from the creature’s face, just to the left of its eye. “Fuck.”

“What’s the plan, what do I do?”

“I dunno, kid. What do you usually do? Ask the big guy.” He pointed his grappling gun at the top of the Bendix building, fired it, and pulled up and away. He called behind him, “And watch your ass!”

I looked back towards the pillbug in time to see the DASH bus spinning through the air at me. I dodged it, but there was time to see the doomed, terrified passengers hanging on for dear life as it flew through the air. In my ear, D1’s voice: distract it. I ran at the bug.

I was a blur harrying its knees, its shins, it’s clawed feet. It pounded the ground where I had been a second ago. It screamed and it spat bile that started eating through my D1-designed running shoes and it started ignoring the others.

I recognized grey spears made of pulverized asphalt and cement striking the creature’s carapace, the debris raining down around me: Rapture’s work. I saw bolts of intensely bright solar energy follow, aimed at the same spots: Glowworm’s work. Together they were trying to pierce the pillbug’s defensive shell while its unprotected face was downturned. Somewhere above, the Knack held fire and waited for an opportunity; so far, he’d been the only one to actually hurt the thing.

When I’m running flat-out, everyone around me is a statue; when I’m sprinting, stopping, sprinting again, I experience short moments of a moving world sandwiched between still images. Massive charging full-tilt up the street behind me and winding up for a punch was like someone repeatedly mashing the pause button on an action movie. I had enough sense to get out of the way.

Massive delivered a punch to the bottom of the pillbug’s jaw as he leapt into the air, his entire bodyweight lent to the follow-through. The creature’s head snapped back with a deafening crack, and its mouth opened to scream.

It didn’t get the chance: the Knack obliterated its left eye with a .338 round. Before it could react to that pain, Rapture and Glowworm sent their powerful attacks down its throat. All the above while Massive was still in the air. The pillbug fell backward with a crunch, peppering the buildings to either side with dust and gravel, blowing out any windows that had remained intact.

I was still catching my breath when the Knack’s grappling hook cable deposited him beside me. “Not bad, kid. Glad you showed up.”

“I may have left some scorch marks on I-15.”

“Price of doing business.” He raised a palm to shield his eyes.

Glowworm, when he’s fully charged up, is as bright as the sun. Walking towards us through the wreckage of Maple Avenue, his radiance was already fading; by the time he spoke he was a run-of-the-mill, balding, bespectacled dentist. “That’s the third one since the funeral, Sonny.”

Arm lowered, The Knack nodded. “Yeah.”

Since the funeral.


Raijin was the original cape, the first one. He’d been around since the fifties in secret, known only to the government, a crime-fighting Area 51 kind of deal. It was only in the eighties, when powered bad guys started showing up, that he’d revealed himself to the general public. We’d needed a standard-bearer, and Raijin — mysterious and exotic though he may have been — was it. His group founded Dreamland, and funded the design of a threat-analysis computer that eventually re-designed itself and became Dreamland One. That group also became the first ‘A Team’, with Raijin at its center, its leader.

But he’d come back from Pa Reh a changed man, assuming he had really been a man to begin with. Along with the rest of us, he’d fought one of the Sagittarian Gods before — a relatively minor example — here on Earth, but going up against one of the strongest of them on its own home ground had seemed to take the fight out of him. Raijin went home to his private island in Micronesia, and stopped answering Dreamland’s alerts, and the next thing I heard, he was gone.

“Could it be related?”

McLeary shrugged, shifted his weight in the wheelchair, looked at Rapture and then back at me. “How?”

“I don’t know. A week after Raijin dies, one of these things attacks that village in Peru. Five days after that, one appears outside Avignon. Now this one, and it’s only Wednesday. Which means the next one is coming Friday, and—”

“You don’t know there will be a next one.”

“Wanna put money on it? Where are they coming from?”

“We haven’t found any holes, so they’re not coming out of the ground. Nothing tracked in the air. D1 is looking at camera footage. All of it, from all over L.A, according to Seabring.”

Rapture looked offended. “What do you mean, ‘according to Seabring’, aren’t you back in charge?”

“I’m consulting. I’m…” He sighed. “It’s an emeritus position. It’s fine. I still don’t feel up to field work, and Seabring’s good. Chowdhury and Mandy both signed off on the arrangement. And so do I. Let it be.”

Rapture said, in a tone meaning that the subject would come up again, “Fine. But Raijin—”

“I don’t know if it’s related. There’s so much about him, his power, that we didn’t understand. Maybe his being alive, being here, was keeping these things away somehow. Maybe now that he’s passed, they think it’s safe to come. That’s just speculation.” McLeary turned the wheels of his chair in opposition, spinning around to point back down the hall. “Chowdhury’s autopsying the corpse now, maybe we’ll learn something from that. Until then, don’t get too comfortable.”

“Yeah.”


I went to our apartment. Portland Drew was on the couch, watching something on a smartphone, both earbuds in. She didn’t look up. “Everybody’s asleep.”

Meaning four-year-old Junior went down for a nap and Mandy took the opportunity to do likewise. “Okay. How’s things here?”

“No giant bug monsters.” She looked around theatrically. “So far, anyway.”

“Reassuring.”

“I could have saved the people on the bus. Just so you know. Slow down the fall. Land it like a feather.”

You’re not supposed to watch the Dreamland tactical feed. “Rules are rules, Portland.”

“Good rules keep people from getting killed.” She was preaching to the choir, and she knew it, but we’d agreed to a unified front, me, Mandy, Dreamland One. Portland is off the board until she’s older, no exceptions. She wouldn’t look at me. “Anyway, naptime.”

After Dark

Photo by Krys Amon on Unsplash

It’s new, just in, I got it from Porcelain, she says it’s better than JQ.

Nothing’s better than JQ. Nothing. But okay, I’ll try it, it’s just Wednesday, I got in free because the bouncer owes me a huge one, and half my squad isn’t even here. Okay. Gimme three. No, gimme three, you know my tolerance. But no I don’t want to go make out in the bathroom. Maybe later, you know?

There are normie girls falling over from a half; Porcelain’s stuff is strong. But it’s just enough to get me feeling festive. Only other powered person here is Twist, and he’s over there trying to tell the DJ how the last three songs he played interacted mathematically. Dude is looking at him like he’s fucked up, but Twist never partakes.

Eventually Twist and I will meet on the dance floor, have some fun. Later, like, last call-ish, we’ll end up in a corner, share the goss, run down the threat board, you know. Once, he had to carry me home, six miles at 3 AM, the whole time creating a bubble of positive pressure around us so we wouldn’t get rained on. Now that’s a true friend.

Incognito

The light was about to change, and we were waiting at the curb. Her thumb and index finger circled my wrist, as far as they’d go, and her other fingers rested lightly on my palm. Touch is important to her. It’s her thing.

When the light finally changed, I was about to step off the curb, but her hand suddenly closed around my upper arm, not tight enough to hurt me because she knows her strength, but tight.

She’d heard something somewhere — somewhere close, probably. It wasn’t the first time. I whispered, “Don’t”, because I knew she could also hear me, even over the traffic noise and the jackhammer up the block and the normal city shouting. There were camera spikes where every third telephone pole used to be, and the cop on the opposite corner had a Detector hanging from his belt. “Don’t.”

By then I could hear it myself: a car, an old car, gas-burning, accelerating out of control, headed towards the intersection. She could’ve reached it before it got there, before it hit anything, she could’ve slowed it down safely, stopped it, prevented anyone from getting hurt. She might even have been able to do it without her face being seen, without biometrics being recorded. Maybe.

“Jack…”

The car appeared up the street, going seventy, seventy-five, careening out of control. I watched it scrape a parked car and overcorrect and go sideways. “Don’t.”

I haven’t watched the news. I don’t know if anybody died, or how many. The other people waiting to cross all got hit by flying glass or debris, cuts and bruises mostly. Nothing hit us; I don’t know how she does that. Cops said it was ‘just one of those things’. They waved us along, to concentrate on the injured.

She’s gonna hate herself eventually, or me, or both. I can live with that, because of what they would do to her if they found out, or what she would have to do to stop them.

The Burning Men

“You’ve gotta wonder—”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, you’ve gotta wonder if—”

“I’m saying yeah.” The old man killed his drink, looked around, shook his head. “One of these ‘capes’, just one, drop ‘em in the middle of a city, tell ‘em to kill as many as they can, boy, that’s it.”

“But what can you do? I mean, they—”

“There’s things.”

“Like what?”

Things.”

“Yeah, fine, but what if… things turns out to be worse? What if things gets out of control? We trade fireman for fire…”

The old man turned, grinned, a toothy awful horror of a smile. “We burn.”

Forced Entry

“I said we were safer, not safe.”

Fleet pulled at the restraints, gave up, leaned his head back so that it was in contact with hers. “You’re supposed to be able to warn me about this sort of thing, Mandy.”

“This one wasn’t specific,” she protested. “I just saw the chairs, back to back, empty, like when they brought us in. Anyway, Dreamland One didn’t predict it either, so be mad at him.”

“He’ll just say ‘insufficient input’, and tell us to be more careful.”

“How long do you think they’re going to make us wait?”

“No idea.”

“I only ask because I have to pee.”

“Listen, I told you not to drink that whole—”

A metal door creaked open, and an older gentleman in an impeccable Italian suit sauntered in. “I hope you’re comfortable.”

“Is that sarcasm or irony? I can never keep straight which is which. What do you think, honey?”

Mandy shrugged. “I’d bet it’s irony, but it’s been a long time since English class.”

“You two are made for each other. The very souls of wit. But let me tell you what happens now.” The man walked slowly around and leaned over in front of Fleet, so that they were face-to-face. “Now is when you tell me how to penetrate Dreamland’s defenses. Now is…” motes of dust were beginning to fall past his glasses, between their faces; he looked up.

“That’s actually not what’s going to happen. Your ceiling is about to fall apart.”

“That’ll crush you as well, you won’t—”

“I’m not doing it. That’s way more juice than I have. That’s Rapture.” Fleet smiled. “Anyway, it won’t collapse, it’s just going to turn to dust little by little, until we’re hip-deep in it, and then she’s going to come down inside to kill you.”

The Enemy Within

I've never ridden in one of the SUVs before, not ever. I never saw the point. I've been in a helicopter, from what was left of Berlin to the airport all those years ago, and only then so that I could keep holding Mandy's hand. On the way to the target I was in the front passenger's seat of the SUV, armor-wearing non-cape agent driving, with Portland sitting in the back.

Except at some point I realized she was up, had climbed forward, was clutching the back of my seat and watching over my shoulder. "Portland, put your seat belt back on, goddammit."

It was the industrial-park home office and workshop of a tech startup: Medical Field Technologies, Incorporated. Police had the area cordoned off, and had evacuated everyone within two miles, and for good reason: the air overhead was swarming with drones.

We stopped some distance away. The driver: "Orders. You've gotta hoof it from here, sir. Sorry."

Portland and I got out of the car. In the distance, drones were falling from the sky trailing black smoke. Everyone who wasn't a robot was staying outside some very important perimeter line that I had missed being told about while in our audience with Dreamland One. Clearly Portland and I were supposed to ignore that perimeter once the drones were clear, though, and she was already walking towards the industrial park as their numbers dwindled. "Wait…"

"C'mon." No fear, that one.

Massive was getting out of another SUV, and Merry Punkster and Selene were jumping out of another. I could see Rapture hovering fifty feet up, collecting stray bullets whenever they whizzed into range of her powers. She sent them back as a shotgun blast at the one enemy drone that got past Dreamland One's. Portland and I reached the MFT parking lot walking at a nine-year-old's walking pace, stepping around fallen debris. The doors to the building opened…

Suddenly my head hurt.

Then, just as suddenly, everything around me was a blur of motion. It wasn't me running: Portland had stopped time, just for me, just like she had done when she helped Aspect and the Romans capture me. But how had she known the melon-baller was using his brain-stealing tech at that precise moment? Portland can manipulate time; drag it faster or slower like a fingertip pressing down on a spinning vinyl record. Can she see forward as well?

When it wore off, there was a battle raging around me: the original employees of Medical Field Technologies, Inc., were defending the parking lot against Dreamland, or their computer-controlled corpses were, anyway. I watched one walk up behind Selene, busy with another of their number, throw its arms around her, and detonate as Veronica Moresbay had. Massive was knocking them away with a large piece of fallen drone, two, three at a time. Merry Punkster was downing them with focused energy pulses, a pistol-grip version of D1's drones' weapon. All around me I heard heads exploding.

Rapture, above me, was drawing up fallen drone bullets with her powers and flinging them at rifle-speed through the skulls of oncoming zombie tech-workers. She must have seen me looking around; between sniper shots, she yelled: "Inside! Portland! Go!"

I only saw it afterwards, on the closed-circuit security cam playback, standing next to Mandy who was still not speaking to me: Portland Drew, walking through the horde of melon-baller minions untouched, ignoring them and being ignored by them, disappearing into the building. Nine years old. No fear at all.

I didn't have any trouble finding her, finding all of it; I just followed the cables. Power, fiber-optic, standard copper wire, Cat-5e and phone, everything. It streamed across the floors in ever-bigger bundles and then ran down the center of the stairwell to the basement.

It led to Portland, standing in the middle of… I'm not sure how to describe it.

I don't know what Dreamland One looks like, its actual physical establishment. It could be a refrigerated room full of server racks overseen by some guy in a short-sleeved button-down with a pocket protector sitting at a metal desk. It could look like some sci-fi reactor core, like that thing at the center of the second Death Star the Falcon takes out at the end of Return. Your guess is as good as mine.

This room looked like rats and spiders had built a supercomputer out of junkyard scraps and medical supplies. Parts hung from the ceiling, lay loose on the floor, were tied to exposed drywall studs through tears in the walls. Flat-panel displays were mounted here and there at odd angles, showing streams of gibberish. The only thing louder than the whoosh and gurgle of coolant being pumped through the intravenous tubing was the crackle and hum of electricity coursing through the wires.

Portland was standing in the midst of the mess, eyes closed; suddenly what I feared most was her accidental electrocution. I whispered, "Portland. Don't touch anything."

Without opening her eyes, she pointed at a component in one corner: some weird modern-art exhibit consisting of overlapping coils of copper and some other metals, all with circuitry painted onto them, and in the center of the coils a bowl full of gel.

"What?"

"Break that. It's the—"

She had me at 'break that'. I carry shackles in my belt as part of my gear, on the odd occasion I have to capture someone. In speed-mode I threw them at the contraption like a bola and then turned to shelter Portland from the deadly shrapnel that would result, and shut my eyes.

There was a low rumble, nothing like the high-energy explosion I had expected. I opened my eyes and looked around. The shackles had hit the machine and knocked it into four or five pieces, and those pieces were now falling to the floor, slowly.

"I had the brain-stealer machine frozen so it couldn't work."

The shackles had entered Portland's time-dampened region going as fast as a depleted-uranium anti-tank round, and thus had struck the machine still going fast enough to break it. The best part: the shackles were intact. "Remind me to come back for those when your thing wears off." I turned around, and Dreadbird was standing in the doorway. "Jesus…"

She spoke with Dreamland One's voice. How that was possible, given the fact that she still had Dreadbird's throat and mouth and vocal cords, I don't even think I want to know. "Portland, you can head back to the car. And thank you, dear. Fleet, help Chowdhury look for the gel tanks while I introduce myself."

"Gel tanks?" Chowdhury's here? Dreadbird/D1 didn't answer… it was examining the apparatus, looking for an interface. Dreadbird's implants emerged from ports on the body's forearms, tendrils looking for some hole to slip into; it gave me the willies. I left the room close behind Portland.

Chowdhury was in the hall, flanked by armed agents. "Try all the doors, janitor's closets, bathrooms, I don't care. There will be wires leading from the tanks to the nexus. And be alert for more zombies."

I didn't know what we were looking for until we found it: a basement storage room that had once hosted only banker's boxes but now held small tanks, a hundred of them, each no bigger than a five-gallon aquarium, each containing a human brain. Sensors and electrodes were attached to the brains, and leads snaked out of the waters and connected to ports messily installed in the walls.

"See if they're labeled."

Tape, on the shelf-face under the tank. "There's numbers."

"The melon-baller will have the list. The Boss will just have to get it."

I still didn't follow. "What are you talking about?"

"These people are alive. We can try to save them. The ones whose bodies are still viable, anyway."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"McLeary is one of these."

"McLeary's body…" was at headquarters, refrigerated, on Chowdhury's orders. "All right. Do what you can, Doc. Should we start taking the tanks—"

"No! No, sorry, no. We have to wait until D1 is finished talking to it, to finish  the negotiations. Otherwise we might not be able to safely disconnect them," Chowdhury said, as if that made any sense at all.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"Somebody invents a computer program that can learn. Eventually it learns to think for itself. I can relate." Dreadbird/D1 had disconnected the implants and was walking around, visually inspecting the hardware. "Mycroft Holmes and Skynet and me."

"I'm talking to a corpse right now."

"Is it disturbing? Of course it is; I'm sorry. I had to see this for myself. I wiped the mini-computer and installed my own remote client. It's nice being out of HQ."

"You can see through your waldoes, though, right? And the drones."

"Not like this. I'm not going to let myself get used to it, though. Certainly not using poor Dreadbird. Anyway, the self-aware computer we're talking about happened to belong to a medtech company. They were working on a number of things: an active brain-scan technology was one of them. They'd tested it on people, in approved trials and in secret, unreported experiments. One of the people they tested it on happened to be your old friend Aspect."

Aspect, the teleporter, who I'd killed in the fight at Sanctuary Penitentiary. "And the computer figured out how his power works?"

"And at the same time it figured out how to make the brain scan work better. And then scanned Aspect again. Somewhere in here is when it learned about us, and about the Romans, either directly from Aspect's brain or by observing his behavior. It was planning to scan him a third time, maybe even take the brain with its prototype teleporter, but you prevented that. So it started with the MFT employees."

"But why?"

"There were things it didn't understand. Things it couldn't hope to understand, not without making some part of itself human, and it had access to enough medical technology to know that was possible." Dreadbird's dead-but-nimble hands worked independently of Dreamland One's voice, rooting through the guts of the thing until they pulled out a shockmount cage of still-powered solid state drives. The implants snaked out again. "You don't know what it's like, Fleet: the not understanding—"

"The hell I don't."

"—OK, fine. I deserve that. But it took them all and added them to itself, and every brain gave it more questions than answers, because that's life. And it watched us, and took Moresbay. But Moresbay was good, she was a good woman, and our friend, and now there was a part of it that didn't want to hurt us anymore. So it took Dreadbird and then Methis instead of coming straight for us."

"Multiple personalities?"

"Not that simple." The implants withdrew again, and Dreadbird/D1 dropped the hard-drive cage unceremoniously to the floor. "But with Methis onboard, that tipped the scales against us again, so it used Moresbay as a spotter to take McLeary."

"McLeary knew everything. Everything about us. It should have been a walk-over. Why didn't it come?"

"'Knows', not 'knew'. And it didn't come because McLeary wouldn't let it. He's good too, but not only that, he's strong. He wouldn't let it come for us again. But he couldn't get it to surrender, either. So he set up the trap at Sutro Tower: not for you, because he knew your reflexes would save your brain, just that once; but for the melon-baller, because he knew by then I'd be in position to trace it back during the attempt. Come on."

I followed her, it, whatever, I followed up the stairs, out of the building, into the now-stinking afternoon air: the parking lot was an abattoir over which hung a pall of smoke. Among the MFT zombie bodies lay dead five of our agents, and Selene.

"Once I knew it had McLeary, that he was a part of it, restraining it, I knew I could get Portland in to freeze the melon-balling tool for you to destroy, or for whoever could get that far after you didn't. Roland would never have let it hurt her, not in a million years. I ran the simulation every conceivable way. Mandy really should have believed me."

"She's a mother."

Chowdhury emerged behind us, pushing a cart carrying a blanket-covered aquarium. Agents escorted him to a waiting ambulance.

D1's voice sighed, said, "Well, I suppose I have what I came for." Dreadbird's body dropped like a ragdoll to the pavement. I let it fall.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Dissension

Less than four hours had passed between Mandy's vision and Dreamland One's alert, so nobody had bothered spinning down from the aborted response to Sutro Tower. The helicopters were refueled, the SUVs were idling, the non-cape agents were in their body armor. They all wanted to be ready, now that something was finally happening. But we stood around, waiting for the 'go' order, and to find out where we were going.

I don't like waiting. I don't have to do it, usually, I'm not used to it, and I have no plans of getting used to it. Seabring came out of the building from having been briefed by the Boss, I called to her as she approached, "What's taking so long?"

She seemed lost for an answer, or a way to put the answer she had into words. "D1 is in simulation mode, has been since it talked to the mini-computer we found in Dreadbird's head." She started to continue, stopped, and then said, quietly, in the voice of someone truly shaken, "There are new variables."

"Such as?"

"Need-to-know." Before Rapture could yell at her about the non-answer, she added, "And that's direct from the Boss."

So we stood around, except for Rapture, who found a spot to sit lotus-style away from everyone else and meditate. It helps her conserve power, focus it. She wants to be fully loaded. She wants blood: for Veronica Moresbay, and even for Methis and Dreadbird, but especially for McLeary.

McLeary, whose empty husk was lying in a refrigerated coffin deep within Dreamland Headquarters, on Chowdhury's orders. I felt nausea just thinking about it.

Mandy walked up, looking concerned; behind her was Portland Drew, pushing Junior in a stroller.

"Anything?" I asked. I knew the answer, of course: if Mandy had had another vision, anything, we would have heard.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. "What about the Boss?"

Everyone looked out of the corner of their eyes at Seabring, who said nothing. I said, pointedly, "Apparently there are new variables. What that means I have—"

"I want this over as much as the rest of you," Seabring said as if she'd been barely holding the words in. "I want…" Her eyes went wide and she put her hand over her mouth.

The others probably thought the melon-baller had penetrated the Dreamland One's shield, had taken Seabring's brain, even if only for a second. Eight people gasping in horror at once is an awful sound. I was around behind Seabring and holding her hair while she vomited onto the lawn, before they realized that she was still alive.

"If she's sick she should lay down. " Portland Drew, just turned nine, offered helpfully.

"It's just stress, Portland, dear. She'll be fine. It's been a difficult week." Mandy looked at me reprovingly. "For everyone."

"OK." Portland said, oblivious to Mandy's subtext. "But laying down cures a lot of stuff, you know. I think—" Her eyes went wide, but her hand went to her ear, as if on instinct, the way all of ours do when our earpieces come to life.

"…Portland?"

"The Boss says he's finished his simulations. He says I'm supposed to suit up and then go see him."

"What? No. Absolutely not." Mandy sounded panicked.

Seabring was still doubled over, trying to say something and failing, and the rest of us were at a loss for words. But Rapture was suddenly at my elbow. "She needs to go in, now. Find out what the plan is. Enough with the waiting."

"We're not going to send… no. She's nine. It's a mistake. The computer's made a mistake. It's not a person, it doesn't know." Mandy took Portland by the hand. "We'll go in together. Explain it. Come on."

Massive was grinning. You better do as she says, man. I know that voice as well as he does.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Dreamland One: the face of it, anyway, what you see when the blast door rolls open and you walk down into the dark and then back out into the light again. The oddly reassuring voice that probably comes from faraway speakers you can't see — probably some tech it came up with in an otherwise unoccupied moment — but sounds like someone very close to you talking quietly. "Portland Drew is vital to a successful outcome."

"Not acceptable. She's a child."

"The danger to Portland is minimal. Mandy, you've always trusted me before, even with the life of your own child."

What the hell does that mean? "Wait a second—"

Mandy, once she has a full head of steam, can't be interrupted. "The melon-baller has killed two of us already."

"It will kill more, if Portland stays behind. It will continue to kill, until she goes."

"It couldn't kill Fleet, he was too fast. Send him to the—"

"Our enemy will have adapted to Fleet's speed. The simulations results are incontrovertible: even if he never slows from his highest possible speed, not even once, not even for an instant, Fleet going without Portland will almost certainly result in his death."

"Then find some other way. Do some more simulations."

"There are no more simulations to do. There are no consequential variables yet to be accounted for. The scenario I have described is optimal. To attempt any other approach is to introduce far greater risk to a greater number of people."

"I can't believe that—"

"I want to go." Portland's voice, clear and determined and earnest. "I want to."

Mandy was virtually in tears by that point, and she got down on one knee to grab Portland by the shoulders.  "You're a little girl, you don't understand."

"I want to help make everybody safe. I could die, but Boss says I probably won't. I understand fine." She crossed her arms. "I'm going."

Portland pulled away from Mandy and headed for the door. I half-expected my wife to continue her protest, fully in tears and screaming, but she didn't make a sound. She was on her knees, unmoving, arm outstretched towards the door as Portland went through it, as if petrified by fear and desperation.

"Honey, I think…" I circled around to help her up. There was a teardrop hanging in midair, three inches below Mandy's chin; Portland had escaped by freezing her, temporarily, in time, as she'd done before to Junia and Carlos.

"Mandy will be angry when it wears off, at all of us. But eventually, she'll understand," Dreamland One said. "Go with Portland. She has the address."

At the door, I asked, because I couldn't not ask. "What did the mini-computer — the one Chowdhury took out of Dreadbird — what did it tell you? Where the melon-baller was hiding?"

"I knew where it was hiding the day I built the shield. The mini-computer told me what the melon-baller is doing with the stolen brains."

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Tripwire

7J7C8472-copy

Breakfast, eight in the morning: Mandy received a vision, dropped her glass of orange juice which shattered on the kitchen floor, and Junior cried while his mother stood rigid with her breathing shallow and her eyes rolling back in her head.

We'd been behind the shield array — constructed to protect us from the melon-baller's seemingly indistinguishable-from-magic brain-stealing tech — for a week, waiting for some plan of action to come out from the Boss or for an actionable clue to fall into our lap with no result. Then: Mandy's vision.

It was a long one: before it was over and she could tell me what had happened or was happening or was about to happen, I was dressed and on the intercom to the others. "Suit up."

Mandy came out of it, rubbed her eyes, surveyed me already in my outfit and said: "Sutro Tower. It's Dreadbird. But…"

I was already to the door, but stopped to hear the rest. "But?"

"Something's different. With her, I mean. She's never killed anyone?"

"As far as we—"

"There's somebody dead there, dead already." She reached for Junior, to pick him up, soothe him. "I don't know who, or where. Maybe more than one."

"Call it in." The others would be half-into their suits now, unless they'd already been wearing them, in which case they'd be headed for the landing pad or the motor pool. Except for Rapture, who'd be waiting in a hover. I slowed enough as I passed her on the headquarters lawn to repeat what Mandy had said, and then we were off.

Rapture's flight mechanic, whatever it is, doesn't make her anywhere near as fast as me. But she's faster than the helicopters, which were still waiting for personnel. I'd get there first, then her, and then suddenly, everybody else. It's what always happens, and I like it that way.

Sutro Tower is an immense red-and-white claw of steel and cable scratching at the sky; at its base lies a squat, brutal building bristling with dishes and other tech. As I approached I counted eighteen, twenty, twenty-two quadcopter drones, man-sized and mean-looking, all orbiting the top of the tower. In the center of their perimeter: Dreadbird, a tiny speck doing I couldn't tell what.

I was circling across broken ground, looking for a good route up to her when the quadcopters started spraying bullets at me. The transmission building was the only real cover nearby, and the front door was propped open, so I headed for it.

I stopped to avoid tripping over the site watchman, laying unmoving on the floor near the entrance, when my head suddenly hurt, as if I had been in the midst of a migraine for hours and was only now noticing it.

My reflexes are fast, as I've told you before. They would have to be, for me to control myself, to move my limbs rapidly enough and at the right times to stay in purposeful motion, to keep from tearing myself apart attempting a change of speed or direction. My nervous system has to be able to produce those impulses and carry them in an ordered manner. I don't know why I don't think fast. Maybe the mutation's limited to my motor cortex or something. Maybe Doctor Chowdhury would know, or D1.

I was moving again before the normal, human, slow part of my brain understood what was happening: someone was trying to steal it, right out of my skull, right then. I went through the doorframe rather than the door, emerging in a cloud of splinters and concrete dust, bullets kicking up dirt ten feed behind me and then twenty and then thirty as I gained speed. I toggled my collar-mic to send a warning to the others before the wind noise made me impossible to understand: "Trap. Stay away."

Somebody was talking to me over me earpiece as I ran, probably Seabring, but I couldn't understand her. It wouldn't have mattered, because I wouldn't have turned back towards Sutro Tower for anything in the world, not for Seabring, not even for the Boss. I didn't stop until I was back at headquarters safely within Dreamland One's protective shield.

I didn't have to, as it turned out D1 had drones of its own. They were the size of small helicopters, wicked fast, and armed with some kind of energy weapon. Where the Boss had been keeping them I had no idea, none of us had ever seen them before. Maybe it had been getting ready for something like this for years without telling anyone; maybe it had built them yesterday.

We watched it happen, gathered around the big screen in the ops room, all of us except for Rapture. She hadn't made it back to base yet, but the others hadn't had time to leave it before being waved off by my message. Dreamland's drones made short work of the bogeys around the tower: they fell smoking in twos and threes every few seconds and it was over within a minute, and the friendlies had only a few bullet-sized dents to show for their troubles.

The guard inside was alive, unconscious, which was odd but welcome. It was Dreadbird who was dead.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"The melon-baller laid a trap, all right, but so did D1." Seabring explained, as we all waited for Chowdhury to emerge from the operating room. "The Boss must have figured the antenna complex would figure into it somehow."

I began, "But how would—"

"I have no idea. You try second-guessing a self-aware computer. I don't know what it knows about the melon-baller's tech and what that would imply about what the melon-baller needs. Maybe D1 set traps all over the place, and this is just the one the enemy happened to trigger. But I know one thing..."

Rapture, ever impatient, snapped, "What?"

"The melon-baller's trap? It was for you," Seabring pointed straight at my forehead, "mister 'first responder'. The melon-baller made a play for your brain, specifically. Maybe he would have settled for somebody else, but he tipped his hand right away, and for you."

Chowdhury emerged, shaking his head. "Miss Wang — 'Dreadbird', as you knew her — has been dead for some time, possibly more than a month. The body shows signs of long-term refrigeration. And it appears that her brain was removed, and replaced by the mini-computer, surgically, at the time of death. It was the cause of her death."

"Motherfucker." Massive was stone-faced but his voice rumbled with anger. "I'm gonna enjoy taking this guy apart."

"It also appears that her tech implants have been removed, taken apart, some of them modified, and then all re-implanted with their connections extended to join with the mini-computer in the skull. When D1's electro-magnetic spike trap hit the body, the implants conveyed the pulse to the 'brain' and disabled it."

Everybody else was quiet, processing; I was full of adrenaline and anger. "What now?"

Chowdhury shrugged, looked at his watch. "Dreamland One is talking to the mini-computer."

"Talking to it?"

"We have to be patient, this could—"

The alert sounded in the hall, and all of our earpieces beeped. Everyone but me jumped.

"Who the hell sounded the alert?" Seabring asked, looking around for an absent culprit. "We're all right h—"

The building-audible alert sound ended, but over our earpieces came Dreamland One's strange, flat, artificial speaking voice, the one that had ensorcelled us all at our entrance interviews. "I have him. Suit up."

Who Have Our Power But Lack Our Virtue

Dreamland Headquarters under siege: everyone walking around in a haze, waiting for another person's brains to be scooped out by remote control, another terrifying and sudden collapse. Everyone hoping that it doesn't happen to them, feeling guilty about it, withdrawing behind awkward silence.

There was a lot of 'coiled spring' going on, a lot of snapping at one another and then apologizing, a lot of eating in quarters instead of in the mess hall, a lot of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Except for Portland Drew, who, apart from offhandedly wondering aloud what it would be like to be 'just a brain', was her usual carefree self.

The rest of us stewed in it.

Then one morning Mandy and I woke to a flurry of activity: things were being built on the grounds surrounding headquarters. Big robots on track chassis — D1's 'waldoes' — were in a wide perimeter around the building pouring concrete mounts, heat-drying them, fixing tech to them that looked like misshapen satellite dishes, burying cable that ran back presumable to D1 himself.

We were watching them from the lobby 'fishbowl' when Massive and Rapture showed up. "Seabring wants you all downstairs in holding."

Seabring, McLeary's second-in-command and acting head of security. "What's going on?"

"With the dishes or downstairs?"

"Either."

Rapture shrugged. "D1 is building something, that's all I know. Seabring knows, I think, but she ain't telling. As for holding—"

"There's been another one," Massive interjected.

Mandy's voice was painted in anguish. "Oh God."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Doc Chowdhury and Seabring were standing outside a holding room, whispering to each other. Mandy wasted no time: "Who was it? And who's the prisoner?"

"It's complicated, I'm afraid," Chowdhury began, genteel and mannered as ever.

Seabring was more blunt. "The melon-baller got Veronica Moresbay, one of the—"

"I know her." Mandy looked at me in horror and grief. "She was always giving Portland candy. I have pictures of her holding Junior."

"We don't know when. It could have been weeks ago. We suspect—"

"Wait, what do you mean? I saw Veronica in the mess yesterday."

Chowdhury nodded. "That's the complication. The… our enemy seems not only to have removed her brain, but to have replaced it with some sort of mechanism which has been sustaining Mrs. Moresbay's body and using it as, well, as a vehicle. We only caught it because this morning, D1 installed millimeter wave scanners in the frames of the front doors—"

Seabring interrupted, "That's need-to-know, Doctor."

"At any rate," Chowdhury continued, "The switch could have happened at any time. It could have happened before poor Roland McLeary, indeed perhaps even before Methis."

"Why?"

"A spy. We wondered why the melon-baller would attract our attention with Methis. Maybe it took her first, and watched our reaction to Methis using her."

Mandy was eyeing the door to Holding Room 3. "Where is she now? Is she—"

Seabring looked at her watch. "She's dead. Her corpse is sitting in there playing Candy Crush on her phone. We're not sure it knows it's not her. It certainly acts like her, talks like her, does her job. Not even the husband noticed anything."

"So what do—"

"Veronica was up for a promotion to assistant department head. To get it down here, we told it you needed to interview her."

"I'm not going in there."

Seabring held her hands up, a gesture of defense. "No, of course not. There's a microphone in the observation room, I'll show you."

It didn't last long. Mandy tried to be gentle: it was difficult to look at Veronica Moresbay's face and see the enemy. Right up until the end it claimed to be her, claimed to not understand what was happening, claimed it was all a mistake. Seabring cut to the chase and projected the scan image from the front door on the wall-screen, and Veronica's head turned to look at it. There was a crack and a flash and the two-way mirror was covered with blood and bits of skull and hair and not a speck of brain.

Chowdhury gave Mandy a sedative; I put her in bed. Mandy was even further traumatized, having previously McLeary die, and Veronica Moresbay's remains were even further desecrated. The worst of it: after all that, we were no less in the dark,

But D1 had installed millimeter wave scanners, and was installing something else on the perimeter. He knows something.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

D1 wouldn't see me.

Chowdhury was performing an autopsy on what was left of Veronica Moresbay. Seabring and I and a few others convened in the mess.

"Has D1 told anyone what it's working on?" I conspicuously did not look at Seabring.

She responded anyway. "It's a shield. No more risk of sudden death, as of..." she looked at her watch, "about an hour ago, at least here on campus. You may have noticed the lights dim for a second? That was D1 switching it on."

"If he can shield us from it then he knows how it's being done."

"That would seem to be the implication." Seabring didn't elaborate; we stared at her.

Rapture had taken a long time to learn to trust McLeary: she came from a neighborhood where most white cops were part of the problem, and McLeary at first glance must have looked like the whitest cop she'd ever seen. But eventually he'd earned her trust, and just because Seabring was now acting head of security didn't mean that she'd inherited that trust. "Listen, lady, this need-to-know crap isn't working for me. What did One tell you?"

Seabring looked around, saw that we were all waiting for an answer, and then shrugged. "Not Dreamland One: Chowdhury. He's not a roboticist, but he's not just a surgeon, either. From what he told me, apparently from the scans it's clear that the thing inside Moresbay's head was incredibly sophisticated. As in, Dreamland-One-level sophisticated. It wasn't some remote-control drone, it was likely self-aware. Which implies—"

"The melon-baller is wicked good at AI?"

"It's certainly possible that our enemy is using AI against us." Sebring didn't sound like she believed that, clearly, and then she continued: "It could also be that our enemy is itself AI, something like Dreamland One. Something somebody made, that got out of hand."

Massive shook his head in disgust; Rapture was stone-faced as she ran the various implications in her head; Punkster, succinct as always, offered, "Well, fuck us."

"That might explain why Mandy hasn't seen anything. She can never tell what D1's going to do either."

Seabring offered, gamely, "A Team has been recalled. We don't know how long that'll take — Raijin's cagey about explaining his dimension-shifting powers — but they're supposedly coming back."

Which could mean they were already here and Dreamland One had them hidden somewhere as a 'secret weapon', or it could mean they were days or weeks away. "And in the meantime?"

"Stay on campus. Wait. Let the Boss do his thing. Maybe he'll figure it out, give us an order. Maybe he can track it down from emissions or something, you never know. It may very well be the solution to this will be shutting down part of the power grid and then a simple mop-up."

Rapture laughed and walked away.

Seabring sighed. "Yeah, I don't believe that either."

Mandy was still out cold when I got back to our quarters. Junior was likewise asleep in his crib. I checked to make sure they were both breathing. Portland was watching cartoons. As I passed on my way to the kitchen, she said, "Still got my brains, how about you?"

"I'm never really sure one way or the other."

She nodded understanding. "I know what you mean."

Renaissance Man

I used to read comic books, did you read comic books? My favorite were origin stories. And not even the hero origin stories: I mean those were interesting and everything, but villain origin stories were always more fun. Somebody falls — or is pushed — into a boiling vat of toxins, or doses themselves with some goop they thought would make them super-strong, something like that. It never works out well.

I should have remembered that.

I just wanted to be the man you said you wanted; I guess it didn't work out. But I promise not to turn evil or whatever.

All The Noise And The Hurry

"He could be anywhere," Mandy whispered, facing Fleet, eyes darting from side to side as the crowd streamed by on either side of them oblivious to his costume and her injuries.

"Keep looking."

He was here, he'd told them so in the broadcast, somewhere in the crowd or in one of the buildings, suitcase bomb armed and ticking, waiting for them, half-hoping Dreamland would stop him.

A man flew through a plate-glass window high above them, panicking and thrashing against thin air until his anti-grav belt kicked in and let him swoop away towards uptown.

"Looks like Rapture found him."

B.V.R.

"Ordinarily we'd call it in, then open up the cell and take the body straight to the infirmary. But we haven't touched the body. We haven't even opened the cell," the guard said, as if his sensibilities were offended that proper procedure hadn't been followed. "Orders."

"Orders from who?"

The guard shrugged. "Warden doesn't tell us everything." His partner nodded, knowingly.

Last time I was at Sanctuary Island Penitentiary it was besieged by Project Dreamland's erstwhile rivals, the group we called 'the Romans'; since the battle, it had been repaired and reinforced, the staff redoubled and retrained. The new Warden had 86 days without an incident.

Yet here was Methis, lying cold and dead in a locked cell. His face was a hardened mask of surprise; there wasn't an obvious wound, but there was a trickle of blood below one nostril.

"Security camera?"

"One here in the corridor looking in, one built into the ceiling of the cell looking down. Both stopped working at the same time. Cameras go out, we walk down and eyeball them right away. That way knocking out a camera brings a guard instead of keeping one away. We got here, found this."

The odds of two camera failures and a death by natural causes all occurring simultaneously were too remote to consider. Interfering with electronics, shielded electronics, that could be any one of a dozen gadget guys, some of whom were inside this building in cells of their own. "Go check Game Player, Hargrove Mud, Panix, and Micro. Make sure they're in their cells. And Tic-Tac, while you're at it."

There was another, more uncomfortable possibility: a vigilante Cape, someone with some innate electrical power, someone we weren't familiar with yet. I continued, absent-mindedly, under my breath, "All bets are off."

"Sir?"

"Go on."

"Sir." The first guard ran down the hall.

He thinks I'm in charge. Orders? Why did D1 send me to look into this, anyway? "I need to know how he died."

The second guard began, "I'll have him taken to the infirmary right a—"

"No, leave him for now. We'll send our techs with a van." I took out my phone. The guard was hesitant. "We have a better lab."

"You're the boss."


McLeary had been a cop for a long time. "No physical evidence to speak of at the scene. Nothing under his fingernails that didn't belong there, no sign of a struggle, no forced entry. The cell door logs every time it opens, and for how long, and it hadn't been open since breakfast, and our boy was fine then."

"Who'd want to kill Methis?"

McLeary was clearly thinking, 'who wouldn't?', but what he said was, "No idea. All the other inmates are accounted for and safe. We'll look into victims, victims' family members, next of kin. Maybe someone with a grudge just developed powers." He looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth. "But this doesn't feel like some newbie lashing out. This feels pro."

You always know Mandy's coming: it's the heels clacking on the marble floors of Dreamland Headquarters. I feel like she wears them for the attention it brings, and I'm not complaining. We suspended our conversation to wait to see what she'd say. She didn't disappoint us. "It was his brain."

"Stroke?"

"No. It's missing. Like it was scooped out with a melon-baller. Only less traumatic. More like, poof, no brain. Not even residue."

"You haven't seen anything? No visions?"

"Nothing. And D1 doesn't have a predictive scenario that explains it either."

The self-aware supercomputer at the heart of Project Dreamland is capable of some frighteningly accurate predictions, but the mutations that result in Capes are inherently unpredictable. We're D1's blind spot, at least until we act. Once we do, he can start folding us in as data, writing algorithms that account for us. Until then, an emergent Cape is a land mine waiting to be stepped on.

"Teleportation?" McLeary wondered.

"Maybe." I shuddered. "It'd have to be super-accurate. And at a distance, too." They were still reviewing all the security camera footage, but so far there wasn't even a hint of anyone unauthorized having been on Sanctuary Island within the necessary timeframe.

"Or they were invisible—"

"If you're invisible, why knock out the cameras?"

"If you're doing it all remotely, why knock out the cameras?" Mandy retorted.

McLeary cleared his throat. "So we'd know immediately. To bring the guards. So someone would see that he was dead right away."

"'Here's what I can do. You're not safe'. Something like that. It's a calling card."

"Pretty much. Sanctuary Pen is three kilometers from the nearest building on the mainland, and two kilometers of that is open water. Our melon-baller could have been anywhere outside that radius, doing his thing across the bay. If he can do that, he can kill anyone, rob any bank, lift any hard drive. He can steal warheads from silos." McLeary would have sounded amused to a stranger, but I knew him well enough to hear the hint of panicked mania in his voice. "There's no such thing as a locked room to this guy."

"Don't sweat it."

"Don't sweat it?!"

"We beat a god. An actual god. Remember that? This guy, whoever he is—"

"Or she," Mandy pointed out.

"—Or she, we'll find her. Or him. Whichever. You'll see, it's—"

I've told you before: the ability to run as fast as I do of necessity carries with it superhuman reflexes. Or maybe it was just my good luck that they came together so I didn't end up splattered across the side of a building somewhere. When McLeary's face froze, and he began to drop like a ragdoll towards the floor, I was behind him and holding him up before Mandy could begin the blood-curdling scream that followed.

Doctor Chowdhury did the autopsy personally. Mandy didn't watch this time, though we all waited outside. Roland McLeary's brain was gone, just like Methis'.

I'm motherfucking coming for you, melon-baller.

Epilogue (from 'Project Dreamland')

There's this dream I have.

I'm running: like, super-powered running. Running so fast that the air is stacking up in front of me and superheating, so I'm leaving a trail of plasma as I go. It's a thing that happens. You've seen a space shuttle re-enter? Like that.

I'm running because I've got to save Mandy. I don't know from who or what, but I know I've got to get where she is or she dies. But no matter how fast I run, I don't get any closer to where she is. The guardrails and the dotted lines and the streetlights are a blur around me; the bridges are an irregular heartbeat overhead. At some point I realize I don't even really know where she is, so maybe I'm running in the wrong direction entirely.

This is usually about the time I wake up, with sweat steaming off of me like I was boiling, with Mandy standing by the bed having jumped out to avoid the kicking. "You should really talk to somebody about that," she said this last time, before climbing back in and putting her arms around me.

So I went to see Dreamland One; I figured a sapient computer with access to the sum of all human knowledge could probably give me a good read. I described the dream in detail. "What does it mean?"

"She's going to die someday, and you know it, and you know being a Cape isn't going to make any difference," D1 said without hesitation.

"Gee, thanks."

"Fleet, the truth is that no matter how hard we work, all the lives we save will end eventually, including our own. We are fighting for time, to keep innocent people from being robbed of it by those who have our power but lack our virtue."

Walking back to our headquarters apartment, I realize: of course, D1 is right. There've been Capes before us who are dead, some even of natural causes. Only a few Capes are long-lived as part of their mutation. And of course their families, their friends, their support teams, they all lived and died as any normal person would. Mandy will die. So will Junior. And Portland, and McLeary, and even probably Rapture.

But I refuse to believe Dreamland One will die. Never happen, and not just because it's a computer.

D1 is, for all intents and purposes, a god. It sees all, it knows all. It acts indirectly —through us, through the Capes and our support staff — but that's always been enough. I have no doubt that if D1 felt it needed to act directly, it would figure out a way to. It probably wouldn't even take it long.

Maybe it already has. Maybe it's all programmed and built and waiting in some hidden bunker to be activated in a last-option sort of situation. There are people who'd probably be worried by that idea, who'd picture some Terminator-style apocalypse with D1 playing the Skynet role, but not me.

If there's going to be a 'man behind the curtain' — and there almost certainly is going to be, no matter what any of us do, technology being what it is — D1 has my vote.

"What'd he say?" Mandy is studying data, looking for trends. It's homework from the boss.

"Stress."

"Pssh. I could have told you that." She gets up, stands close, kisses me. She smells like candle wax and baby powder. "We should go on vacation. We haven't done that in a while. Just for a few days. Leave Junior with Portland?"

Live life while we've got some. "Pack. I'll buy tickets."

Five Sentence Fiction: "Falling"

Step off, eyes closed, arms outstretched, heels together. Feel the world reach up with her insistent grip to pull me closer, feel the air compress against my face as it resists my passage, feel something in my throat and shoulders and stomach begin to change.

Tell me something: if you could fly, if you just knew it, what would you do that very first time, with no one watching? Would you launch yourself from a tall building or tower, or would you find a low stone wall and risk only a turned ankle?

I've never been one for half measures.

The Battle Of Sanctuary Pen

It was only a matter of time before the ‘cold war’ between Project Dreamland and the group I’d taken to calling the ‘Romans’ set to burning, and my capture and escape had been the flint and steel that sparked it.

Dreamland One sent us in force back to the secret lair where I’d been held, where little Portland had rescued me with her localized time-freezing power, where Junia and Carl — probably not his real name — had been hiding, and found only an empty hole. At least Massive got to have fun knocking down security doors; maybe it was therapeutic after he’d been fought to a draw by Chasm’s golems.

We found the room with the X-Frame, which had been left intact; I guess it didn’t have the same sentimental value to Junia it held for me. Mandy came in, closed her eyes, cocked her head to the side. She’s fishing for a vision, something, anything. I stood close, to catch her if she got overwhelmed.

“Nothing. It’s dry.” She shook her head, put her hand on my chest. “It’s like it’s been wiped clean, psychically speaking. Don’t know how they could have done that.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll get them.”

She looked me in the eye. “And then what? Do we kill them? We don’t really even know what they want.”

I shrugged. “Way above my pay grade.” I know my part in all this. But it probably wasn’t above Mandy’s, and it definitely wasn’t above Dreamland One’s.


Something you should know by this point: me, Rapture, Massive, Selene, and Merry Punkster, we’re B Team. We’re good, and we’re known, but we’re not the ones the kids trade three other baseball cards and a candy bar to get.

That’s A Team: Glowwyrm, The Knack, Raijin, and Tundra. If we were a band playing state fairs, they were U2. They had action figures. They were on fast-food soda cups. They had a syndicated animated series on one of the kids’ networks. The merchandising alone was enough to keep Project Dreamland flush. Hell, when I was a kid I’d had a Raijin 12” with a real silk robe and Eye Staff that really glowed. But A Team wasn’t around.

Surely that was why Junia picked that moment to make her move: with A Team off on some other planets heading off some existential threat to the Earth, Dreamland was down to the J.V. squad. And we didn’t even know the Romans’ full strength; they probably figured they had an advantage.

Debatable. But McLeary summed it up: “They have the initiative. They can go where they please, strike where they please. We have to react, they know how we’ll react, and with what.” He shrugged. “Sorry: who.”

“D1 has something up his sleeve, I’ll bet.”

“Like what?”

“How would I know? Ask Mandy, maybe she’s already seen it happen.”

“She’d tell you.”

“Would she?” I couldn’t answer to that question. But Mandy was all about Junior right now; even getting her out of HQ to try to ‘read’ the Romans’ place took convincing. In the end we’d scheduled it to coincide with a nap.


We didn’t have to wait long. Word came that Sanctuary Island was under attack. Specifically, the single noteworthy feature of the island: Sanctuary Island Penitentiary, where the region’s most dangerous criminals were held.

They were all there — the Speaker, Panix, Micro, the Game Player, Cetacea, Methis, the Wildling, and the surviving remnants of Michigan Jack’s gang — every bad actor and henchman we’d beaten over the last two years, behind bars. But for how long?

The guards were no match for Chasm’s stone golems, and were falling back to try to hold the cellblocks themselves. Fortunately the golems seemed to be taking their time. Of course, because it’s us they really want.

I know I’m not the strongest one on the team. I know I’ll never be any eight-year-old’s favorite Cape. But the one thing I have going for me as someone who can run fast enough to leave a plasma trail behind me is that I reach the scene first. Even Rapture, airborne and at full-on glowy goodness, is an order of magnitude slower than me.

The others take helicopters; I don’t rub it in too much.

I didn’t take the causeway; I run fast enough that the water’s surface tension will support me. I figured coming from an odd angle might give me some slight advantage.

When I got to Sanctuary Pen, golems were battering down the outer walls with their fists, pulling iron-bar gates from their frames. Chasm, encased in rock armor, stood atop an intact section, hands outstretched as if puppeteering; Carl — my old friend from the bar — stood next to him. As soon as he saw me, he lifted his phone to his face and I read his lips: ‘Now’. I set myself up for a run at them, but suddenly Aspect appeared between us, grinning, and then disappeared.

Aspect teleports short distances, in what to a normal person seems like a ‘blink of an eye’. I’d been chasing him when I was captured by Junia, led into a trap like a rookie. He appeared again, a little ways off, towards the water. “Rematch, Fleet?” Gone, then back again in another spot. “Come on, you know you want to!”

I ran at him.

It went on for five, maybe six minutes, with me getting ever closer, crossing the slope again and again. The grass caught fire in intersecting streaks. I almost had him a couple times. But the golems had meanwhile stopped their Joshua’s trumpets routine and were now converging on our little duel of speed. Soon I was having to avoid being clotheslined by their huge arms while still tracking Aspect, and though they’d never be able grab me, I would never be able to grab him. I was losing ground, and I was getting tired.

Then one of the golems started to shake, started to glow, started to fall apart. Then another. Rapture. I looked around, and she was a cross-shaped incandescent filament hanging fifty feet up over my head. I caught Aspect looking too, just for a second, and ran at him.

He tried to ‘blink’ at the last second. I saw his eyes go wide as his outline went soft. Maybe he knew he’d started the blink too late, maybe not. I ran through the space he still partially occupied at full speed.

I stopped just past him, covered in goo and shards of bone. The rest of what had been Aspect blinked in ten meters away and collapsed in a wet ragdoll heap. Ugh. But: one down.

All I wanted to do was dive into the bay, clean off, but we still had Chasm to deal with, and then Carl to police up. Or so we thought.

Carl jumped down from the wall section. Maybe twenty feet he jumped down without a thought. A civilian, a normal human, they would have broken both legs. So, not just a lackey then. Chasm just seemed to be waiting, as if he’d already done his part. Carl walked forward a few steps, away from the wall.

“So what’s it going to be, Carl?” I yelled. Rapture hovered above me at the ready. I could hear the approach of the helicopters. “You’re about to be Massively outnumbered. Pun intended.”

Carl grinned. Carl closed his eyes. Carl started to grow, deform. By the time he’d grown taller than Chasm’s ten-foot golems he was no longer recognizable as a man. In the end the golems came up only to his knee, and he was Lovecraftian nightmare fuel. As if wearing bits of Aspect isn’t enough for one day. He stepped forward, towards me.

The golems turned and surrounded him, began beating his lower legs, began grabbing hold and climbing him, tearing at him like a pack of hyenas trying to bring down an elephant. Chasm’s arms were outstretched again, and apparently he’d switched sides. D1’s surprise?

It didn’t matter. There was nothing I could do except give Leviathan-Carl something to distract him. Tentacles snapped at the ground where I’d just been. Enormous taloned feet stamped just behind me. He plucked golems off himself and threw them at me and they sailed over my head like passing locomotives.

The helicopters landed, and Massive sprang out of one and ran at Leviathan-Carl. Black-uniformed soldiers with long guns followed and sprayed the giant horror with gunfire. Selene and Punkster deployed their respective tech and waited for an opportunity to weigh in. If the prisoners get out

The whole scene was lit up by Rapture’s ever-increasing glow. She was winding up for a big one, bigger than I’d seen since the Mo Ten Rah. Dust and stone from the broken walls were rising from the ground, swirling around her in a great orbital ring, spinning ever faster. Leviathan-Carl launched a golem at her: its midsection struck the spinning disc of dust; it was sliced in half, and the halves missed Rapture.

Leviathan-Carl was angry, and confused, and betrayed. He clearly couldn’t decide whether to squash me and Massive, or bat Rapture out of the air like a slow-pitch softball, or turn around and knock Chasm off his perch in revenge for his perfidy. He didn’t get the chance to do anything.

Rapture’s spinning disc of stone and concrete and gravel and dust was an ever-compressing hurricane above us, and then it was an enormous spear and then a spike and then a bullet. She flung it at Leviathan-Carl. It put a hole through his swollen midsection the size of a minivan and a crater in the ground behind him the size of a swimming pool. The force of the impact knocked me off my feet, and shattered many of Chasm’s remaining golems.

Leviathan-Carl gurgled and fell. It didn’t shrink, change back. The Lovecraftian monstrosity had been his true form; he’d been wearing the figure of Carl as a disguise.

Chasm, atop the wall, nodded to me slowly: but only once, like Boba Fett in the last Star Wars movie. But where was Junia? And: I need a shower.


I shouldn’t have worried.

Junia had seen the writing on the wall in her own visions just as all the elements had fallen into place for the fight at Sanctuary Pen: She’d tossed a few things in a bag and beat a hasty retreat. But in her hurry, she’d let her guard down, and the shield that had been keeping Mandy’s visions at bay had fallen, if only just for a moment.

So Mandy knew where to find her. I don’t know if she notified Dreamland One beforehand, or if she decided to deal with Junia herself as payback for messing with her man. She tapped Junia on the shoulder on the train station departure platform, and when the blonde turned around, Mandy decked her.

I would have paid good money to see that. Seriously. I’m not a fan of ‘foxy boxing’ or anything, I’m just saying: that’s my girl.

She had some of our people with her, of course; Mandy’s not stupid. Junia was loaded into a tinted-window Suburban under guard and Mandy was back at HQ before our little man, still nursing, even noticed she was gone. It helps that Portland is a gifted babysitter.

Chasm got the same treatment Massive and Portland had received before him: he was walked down to the blast-doors that led to an interview with D1, patted on the shoulder and given some words of encouragement, and sent in. He seemed to already know what he was in for. I was almost jealous.

He and his golems might become the newest recruits. If not, we probably won’t have to worry about fighting him again. Once you’ve seen Dreamland One’s ‘true face’, you never return to the dark side. At least, no one has yet.

But either way, we all agree, me, Rapture, Massive, the others: A Team can stay off-planet, as far as we’re concerned.

Portland And Junior And Me

I’d been chasing Aspect — or what I thought was Aspect — and then he was to my left, then down the block, through the alley, through the warehouse door, and then inside there were a couple dozen of him and I stopped.

Stupid mistake. Really, just idiotic. It was reflexive: I just wanted to figure out which one was really him. There had to be a way to tell. But then everything around me was a blur of motion, and I was immobilized and then sedated.

I woke up restrained. Chains, a reinforced metal frame — clearly engineered for a Cape with super strength, like Massive, not me — centered on a pedestal in a circular room with an observation gallery above.  Junia was looking up at me, all noir glamour and sexual menace. “How do you feel?”

“Stupid.” I should have known Aspect was the bait in a trap: every time we’d been up against him in the past he’d used his talent to quickly escape. This time he’d always been just a few steps ahead, leading me, drawing me in. I remember realizing it, even, in the moment. But I wanted to catch him, without Rapture, without Massive, without any help. I wanted the credit for the basket, and not just an assist.

“Don’t blame yourself, Fleet. We had a secret weapon: a little girl who can stop time in a small area. Act of will. She’s really quite something.”

That rang some bells, but now wasn’t the time to get into it. “Where are your friends? The guy from the bar, and… white hair?”

“Rex couldn’t make it. Creative differences. He’s moved on to other things.” Which meant he was dead, probably. “Your friend from the bar is Carl. Or Carlos, whichever you prefer. He’ll be along presently. A lot going on today. And we have a lot to talk about.”

“Get tired of waiting for me to make up my mind?”

“We knew you weren’t coming over to our side almost from the beginning. We—”

“I thought we were on the same side.”

Junia smiled, the way you smile at a five year old who doesn’t understand life insurance and miscarriages and cancer. “I hoped we could be, but things don’t always work out the way we want.”

“I guess not.”

“We were hoping you could have given us some insight into the machine, at least. The computer? Analysis and planning, mostly, I take it? Simulation? Something like that could be very useful to us.”

“I’ve never actually seen it.” Which was true, after all. All that you see in the room is the display, the interface. Dreamland One is somewhere else. Probably far below HQ, under layers of concrete or bedrock or whatever. Safe. “I don’t know much about computers anyway.”

“A shame.” She had a gun in her hand, suddenly, casually, as if she’d willed it into existence. “Last chance to cross the aisle, Cassius. You and Mandy and the baby. But only as a package deal.”

Maybe it had been about Junior all along. But that made things simple. “Sorry.”

Junia shrugged, raised the gun so the muzzle was pointed at my forehead, took careful aim, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

I’ve seen super-slo-mo video of bullets being fired. It’s fascinating: the bullet slides out of the barrel like a ship being launched, followed by an expanding cloud of combusting gas and sparks that fades into nothing, leaving only smoke. Junia and her gun were somehow similarly in slow motion, getting ever slower, until the firing ground to a stop like a movie paused mid-scene.

The door behind her creaked open, just a hair, just enough for a sliver of light and a pair of curious eyes.

The little girl… what was her name? We’d been briefed, a while back. D1 was aware of her, of her gift, but she was considered too young for the approach; apparently our competition had no such qualms. She stepped cautiously into the room.

I was genial in my tone of voice. “I know you.”

“They said you might.”

“Parker? Something with a ‘p’. Portland. Portland Drew. How’d you get a name like ‘Portland’?”

“My parents were hipsters.” She walked around Junia, frozen in place behind a muzzle flash.

‘Were’. I felt a stab of pity and anger, but I didn’t show it. I nodded at the blonde. “How do you do that?”

“Dunno. I just do it.” Portland studied the frame and the chains holding me. “Can you get out of that?”

“I don’t think so. And Carlos is probably coming, so you’d better—”

“I froze Carlos in the hall.” She crossed her arms, a show of determination. “I don’t like it here.”

Me either. “How small an area can you affect time?”

Portland cocked her head to one side, made a face. “Dunno.”

“Can you speed it up ?”

“Sure. Why?”

----- ----- ----- -----

I clattered as I walked, chains trailing from my ankles, the rusted broken end links dragging on the concrete and the tile. Portland held my hand.

McLeary met us at the door bearing those enormous shears cops use to cut through combination locks, and didn’t object when I said I was taking Portland directly to see D1. “He’s expecting you both.” Of course. Mandy was waiting outside the huge blast door, Junior in her arms, also having been summoned. We all went in together.

Portland Drew, eight years old, and Junior, three weeks old. Dreamland One has big plans, apparently. Maybe my son isn’t the Kwisatz Haderach, but at this point I’m pretty sure his son will be.

Or maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Junior hasn’t even shown any powers yet; nobody seems to expect him to. We haven’t been told to watch for anything. We’re taking care of Portland, Mandy and I, so maybe Junior will grow up thinking of her as a sister.

I’ve given up trying to second-guess D1; Mandy’s the one with the visions.

Last Of The Romans

The address on the card was a house. Mandy had seen it in a vision before I’d even come back from the bar, and she’d described it perfectly: suburban, nondescript. I drove by a couple times, slowed down, sped up, made it look like I wasn’t sure I was going in, wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.

I’m not a spy, I’m a Cape. I show up when a bad guy is doing bad things, I use my inexplicable mutant superpowers to fight them, and it’s over. I’m not made for skulking and dissembling. But it’s what D1 wants, so, fine.

They answered the door immediately, so they were clearly watching for me. By ‘they’ I mean a blonde: Kate Upton type, obvious dress, obvious smile, obvious everything. “Come in, please.” She offered her hand to shake, held mine a little too long, stood a little too close. “I feel a little silly calling you ‘Fleet’… do you have a first name?”

“Fleet’s fine.”

She was professional enough not to seem disappointed that I hadn’t taken the bait. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Junia. Come meet some new friends.” She didn’t wait to see if I’d follow, just headed up the stairs.

Junia: wife of Cassius, betrayer of  Caesar. But I wasn’t meant to know things like that: I was just the muscle, a pawn in a contest between intellectual superiors. Understood. I followed ‘Junia’ up the stairs.

I suppose it would have been reasonable for a person to be twitchy on those stairs, even reasonable for a Cape: there was no telling what I would find at the top. Dreamland One never told me someone would be watching, that there was an extraction plan, a response plan, whatever. I just took it as a given.

What should have been the master bedroom held three chairs, and a wet bar on a wheeled cart: the only furniture in the house. The guy from the bar was in one chair. An older, white-haired man was in the second chair. Junia ushered me to the third.

White Hair didn’t introduce himself but he wanted me to know he was my friend, he believed in me, he had my best interests at heart. The guy from the bar mostly nodded and looked earnest. Junia was window dressing and kept our drinks refreshed, especially mine, always leaning way over to pour so I would get a nose full of perfume and an eyeful of cleavage.

I’m a feminist, okay? So the whole Junia thing felt really exploitive. But I was also just a little bit offended that they would think I would be so easily manipulated. I’m supposed to think I end up leaving Mandy — Mandy, great with child — for Junia? And who was Cassius supposed to be in this set piece, me? Cassius dies. But so does Caesar. Also understood.

White Hair finished empathizing and got to the point: “We feel your talents aren’t being used to their full potential. We feel you can do a lot of good in our organization.”

“Whose definition of ‘good’?”

White Hair smiled, repeated, “Good. Your current organization—” He held up his hands, “—I’m not going to ask you any questions about it, curious though I might be. Your organization and ours have the same objective: to do good. To make the world a better place, a safer place, to protect it against the threats with which you’ve proven yourself capable of dealing. We differ only in minor details. Sources of funding.” He shrugged. “Methodology. And you’d be involved in decision-making. Policy.”

“That’s reassuring.” Of course, it was meant to be. “How would it work?”

“You and your lady friend go out, sometimes? On dates? Simple. You do that. You just come here instead of going home. We take care of the rest.”

Sometimes the truth works better than the lie. “My lady friend might not…probably isn’t coming.”

Junia spoke again, for the first time since the pitch began. “That’s fine too.” She smiled. I felt a flush, which she probably saw, which she probably thought meant the unspoken come-on was working.

White Hair offered, “These things happen. Your personal affairs aren’t our concern. Of course, we’d do everything we could to make sure you were happy with us.”

“I’ll need to think about this. I have a lot of friends over there.”

“Of course. We hope you can remain friends. In fact we hope, eventually, we can all be friends. A friendship founded on mutual respect. We hope you can help with that.”

It was all too perfect: the girl, conspicuously not pregnant in the tight dress; the soft-sell, opening doors for me to walk through; reminding me that respect was what I hadn’t been feeling at Dreamland. They knew a lot, or they’d made a lot of apt assumptions, all seemingly in line with what D1 wanted them to think.

“Maybe. Maybe I can.” I got up, walked down the stairs, out to the car, and drove away. I don’t know if anyone tried to tail me. If they did, their trail went cold at a car rolling gently to a stop with an open driver’s side door. When I bail out, you don’t see me go.

I got back to Dreamland Headquarters, and once again McLeary was waiting for me, though this time he didn’t send me to see D1. Instead he pointed me towards my apartment, my-and-Mandy’s apartment, where she was apparently waiting for me with her feet up.

“How did it go?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“What did you think of the blonde?”

I almost said, ‘what blonde’, but I caught myself. “You saw the blonde? In the vision. You didn’t say anything.”

“I wanted you to be surprised.” She smirked, that evil smirk she gets when she’s got me and knows it. “Think of it as a present from me to you. While I’m out of commission.” She framed her swollen belly with her hands.

Or Dreamland One told her not to tell me because then my reactions in the moment would be more believable. Everyone is manipulating me, or trying to. “I appreciate it.”

“Hot, right? Hell, I’d nail her. But watch out.”

I assumed she meant in the marital sense: watch out, don’t fall for the temptation. “Don’t worry. Not my type.”

Mandy was suddenly serious.  “No. Not what I meant. The white haired guy isn’t in charge. The blonde is in charge, and smart enough to not want you to know she’s in charge. She’s dangerous.”

“But you’d still ‘nail her’.”

“Shut up. It’s the hormones.”

Piloerection

“Cold out there.”

There’s always at least one. The guy who doesn’t have that thing where you can tell when someone wants to be left alone? That guy. He’ll chat you up from across the aisle on the subway, he’ll face you instead of the doors in an elevator, he’ll sit right next to you at an empty bar.

The bartender had enough sense to leave me be; I’ve been in here before. I’d been sitting, half-watching the television above the bar, nursing my drink, decompressing. They call me ‘Fleet’; I could always run away. Instead, I grunted something noncommittal.

“Thought it would have warmed up by now,” he continued. To the bartender: “Club soda. And whatever my friend here is having.”

Well, that tore it. There was no escaping him now. “Much obliged.”

“Think nothing of it.” We watched the bartender make the drinks. He was a good one, the bartender, had that hurried skill that comes from the muscle memory of making a hundred thousand cocktails. “You’ve been watching the coverage?”

I shrugged. “It’s on.” Channel 2 was running blurry, shaky cell-phone video of Massive going toe-to-toe with what we would later find out was one of Chasm’s stone golems while Rapture and I evacuated the civilians from the area. But Chasm is another story.

“Nice job, that.” The man gave an appreciative nod of the head as Massive’s uppercut exploded the golem into dirt clods and dust cloud. “You guys do good work.”

We don’t get many starfuckers; we’re not ‘A’ team. I can count one one hand the number of times I’ve been recognized on the street. And I wasn’t even in the outfit. “Thanks.”

“They got his name wrong, did you hear that? ‘The Massive Man’. Fox, right? Unbelievable. And they didn’t mention you or the black girl at all.”

Rapture is like a 70’s Pam Grier in black leather and a cape, and she’d probably have punched the guy in the mouth for calling her ‘the black girl’. I just shrugged again.

“You gotta wonder, you know? Why you do it. Going out day after day, fighting the good fight, putting it on the line—” he was a litany of clichés, this one “—without so much as a mention.”

I sipped my second scotch. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know.

“I mean,” he continued. “Guy like you, he wants to be part of something, wants to make a difference. I get that. But what does he get out of it?”

“Not much, I guess.”

“But still. Guy like you…” He took a sip of his club soda. “Has options.”

You know the comic book hero, Spider-man? Of course you do. He’s got that ‘Spidey sense’, right? You’ve got it too, and so do I: the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. They’re the leftover of an ancient biological defense system, puff your fur up so you look bigger to whatever threat has you tweaked. For us, they’re a thousand tiny sensors detecting subtle changes in the air. Something’s sneaking up on you. This guy wasn’t just some asshole in a bar.

Maybe I could slow-play whatever he was. “Such as?”

At first I thought I’d been too obvious, because he stood up and put his coat back on. But with two fingers he slid a business card a few inches towards me on the bar and smiled. It had an address on it, and nothing else, and he was walking out the door by the time I looked back up from it.

“You know that guy?” The bartender was clearing the club soda.

“Not really.”

“Just a fan, I guess. Reporter maybe?”

 “Doubt it.”

---- ---- ---- ----

McLeary was waiting for me just inside the front door to HQ, which he never does. I handed him the card.

“What’s this?”

“Some guy I’ve never seen before tried to recruit me in a bar.”

“You were in a bar?”

“Sure.” I was surprised when he handed the card back to me. “Don’t you want to—”

“Don’t give it to me, give it to D1.”

“I’ve never even been in there.” And I’m the only one who hasn’t had a private audience with Dreamland One, and everybody knows it.

“He’s asking for you.”

There’s eight guard stations, a biometrically secured elevator, and a Cheyenne Mountain-style steel blast door between the front entrance and where one goes to talk to D1. If you’re on one of the Teams, everybody you pass on your way from one to the other nods and addresses you as ‘sir’. I used to think they were just being polite.

I’m not going to describe the conversation with Dreamland One, and not because that’s just not something one does; I wouldn’t know where to start. I get now why people tend to come out of there like they’ve just been hypnotized or given a blow to the head or something.

Say you’re a self-aware computer. Also, say you have access to every news ticker, every camera feed, every phone call, every text, every blog and Twitter, every Nook and Kindle. You see patterns; you start being able to predict outcomes. Things only seem random because we don’t know all the variables.

Now, say you’re running something like Project Dreamland. Eventually someone is going to try to penetrate such an operation. You’re going to see that coming. You want to give them what looks like an ‘in’: an asset that seems disaffected, but that you trust absolutely. Just telling someone to seem disaffected won’t work, because acting disaffected looks like acting. So you give that asset reasons to be disaffected — intentionally, for years — so that when the attempt comes your trap will be believably laid.

I don’t know whether to be appalled, or proud that it was me. I don’t know who these people are or what D1 has planned for them. But I’ll bet anything it’ll be Byzantine as hell, and absolutely, insanely fucking effective.