War Games Pt 6 (Patreon)

Part Six: Immediate Action

 Geneva

All three Earth Bet natives tried to talk at once. I picked up a pastry and nibbled on it, enjoying the texture. It was reconstituted, of course, but the taste and texture were amazing.

Miss Militia dropped out of the running almost immediately, given that she appeared to be outranked by the other two. Legend and the Chief Director fell into a silent staring contest, which I figured was going to come out in favour of Costa-Brown.

Which was an interesting situation on its own. Thanks to the Bond James Bond's U-space sensors, Sean and I knew quite well that Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown was also Alexandria, second in command of the Protectorate. However, nobody else seemed to have made this connection, despite both women being of the same body type and being very similar in appearance. Does wearing a mask on this world instigate an instinctive mental disconnect in people observing you? It was an intriguing question.

The same, of course, went for every other masked parahuman on this world. Did people really not see through secret identities that easily? Or did they choose not to? There was a certain logic in that; if someone pointed out that the supervillain Doctor Diablo (to make up a name off the top of my head) was really the mild-mannered accountant Donny Dibbles, then there was nothing actually stopping Mr Dibbles from tearing their head off and using it for a kickball. Secret identities were what stopped supervillains from being supervillains all the time.

And of course, I supposed, allowed superheroes to be ordinary people from time to time. Or, in Alexandria's case, it allowed her to step down from being one of the most powerful people in the world and pretend to be … well, one of the most powerful people in the world. Which was where a certain level of amusement crept in; as Alexandria, she was subordinate to Legend. But as the Chief Director, she was his superior. Whether or not he was in charge depended on which persona she was using. It had to be very irritating for him, especially when they disagreed on something.

Long story short; secret identities were weird, especially when all that separated one from the other was a mask and a garish costume. In their situation, I'd be more likely to depend on a good cyberdisguise, or even a telefactored Golem. Or better yet, not bother at all. But it was their world and their weirdness, and I had seen worlds with much stranger customs, so I wasn't about to judge them too harshly.

“You're absolutely certain that you want to do this.” As I had expected, Costa-Brown had won the contest of wills. Her voice was firm, her eye contact direct.

I tilted my head slightly. “It seems reasonably straightforward to me. Given the laundry list of crimes against their names, I have no moral qualms with killing them. It helps clean your world up, and leaves us with much-needed currency with which to effect our more expensive repairs.”

Reynaud cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I'll … uh, I'll keep out of the killing side of things, if that's okay. I prefer to study interesting life forms, not sneak up and kill them. Sorry.”

“There's no need to apologise, son,” Legend said. “Your actions today saved hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. We're all just as indebted to you as we are to Captain Hastings and Sean.” His voice was firm and resonant; I could've listened to it all day long. Kramer possessed a voice like that, but not quite as striking; it was one of the reasons I had been attracted to him. It was all his other habits that put me off of him.

Between Legend's looks and his voice, I figured I could fall for the guy, given half a chance, but unfortunately I already knew that I wasn't his type. Male, that is. Back home, if I'd been determined to make something of the relationship, it wouldn't have been hard to get a body mod to fix that problem. Here, however, it was a little more difficult, so I shelved that and focused on the situation at hand.

“How soon do you think you'll begin?” asked the Chief Director. She looked around the interior of the ship. “If I'm not much mistaken, you took quite a bit of damage from Leviathan.”

“That's a good question,” I agreed. At the same time, I was auging Sean. How are the repairs going?

Still quite a bit of hull plating to repair or replace before we're spaceworthy, lass, he sent back immediately. And I really want to do a complete check on the structural integrity. That 'Leviathan' thing did more damage than I've taken in a long time.

Which was bad, but it could've been a lot worse. Well, we did some serious damage right back. I hope the gentleman with the implausible weapon isn't bothering you too much?

Oh, no, he replied with an electronic chuckle. I've got him helping me. He's really quite technologically adept.

Considering that he's one of their better-known mad-scientist 'Tinkers', I'm not surprised. Plus, he's probably hoping to study what he can of your exposed tech.

He's welcome to whatever of it he can see, Sean responded cheerfully. I'll check with you if he wants to look at something that might be sensitive.

Good, I sent back approvingly. Sean sounded as though he had that well under control. “The answer,” I said out loud, “is 'not immediately'. We're going to have to use our manufactory to turn out new ceramal hull armour, and there are some other checks I'd like to make before I take the Bond into combat. Plus, of course, we need new missiles and a replacement for the port-side missile pod, as well as railgun ammo. The last time Sean used his ammo like that, he had access to a resupply ship.”

“Manufactory?” asked Legend. “This is the first I've heard of that.” He wasn't a stupid man, I could tell; his next question proved it. “How much of what you need can you actually make for yourselves?”

“Oh, most of it, actually,” I said, choosing not to go into greater detail. The natives were currently friendly, but I was under no illusion about how quickly this sort of situation could change. Especially since Sean had just managed to suborn their homegrown AI. “Some materials we don't have and can't refine, but by and large we can make do. Once we get our revenue stream up and running, we can see about purchasing the materials we can't make for ourselves.”

“Talking about your revenue stream,” the Chief Director said, “once the reward for Saint and the Dragonslayers comes through, that should be a good start.” She nodded toward the holograms of Sean and Dragon. “However this turns out, I would like to once more offer you my thanks and congratulations for helping bring in one of the more irritating thorns in our side.”

“With all due respect, Chief Director, he was far more a thorn in my side than yours.” Dragon's voice was wry. “Or, more accurately, he was holding a sword of Damocles over my head, even if I didn't know it. Using the command codes in the black box he discovered, he was able to steal my tech and retro-engineer it into the Dragonslayer suits. Every new design concept I came up with to integrate into my equipment, he promptly stole and used against me.”

“Ouch.” Reynaud grimaced in sympathy. “That's just … evil.”

The satisfaction in Dragon's voice was almost tangible. “Oh, yes. Arresting him was the most fun I've had in my life.”

“I'll bet,” Renaud agreed. “How do you guys manage without AIs running things, anyway?”

Legend sounded a little embarrassed. “We, uh, get by, I guess?”

“As Dragon said, with all due respect, lad … that's utter crap.” Sean's voice was somewhat acerbic. “Your society is starting to circle the drain even now. I give it less than half a century before utter collapse. Unless some drastic changes are made, you've got three decades, maybe four, before you go the way of Grant's World.”

The significant look that passed between Legend and the Chief Director made me worry. This was a turn in the conversation that I didn't like; the tension in the cabin was ratcheting up almost palpably. “Whoa there, Sean,” I said hastily, holding up my hands in a placating gesture. “Let's just dial this back a little, shall we? Sean, we're guests here, and the last thing we want to do is to start criticising how our hosts run their household.”

Sean, I auged him at the same time, what the hell?

I saw the tension ease slightly in Legend's posture at my words. As far as I could see, the Chief Director had been relaxed throughout, but that just meant that her muscular control was better than I could spot.

“Aye, lass, I suppose you're right,” my partner responded out loud. “My apologies to one and all. I'm used to seeing AI-run societies, and perhaps I see flaws where there are none.” He smiled at Costa-Brown. “No hard feelings, Chief Director?”

More privately, he sent back, Sorry, captain. Dragon's been showing me some data and statistics, and it's pretty horrific. This society's not just sick. It's dying. Villains are outnumbering heroes by more and more every year, and their lawmakers are shoving people into this 'Birdcage' of theirs for the most ridiculous of reasons. There's people in there that don't belong, and the survival rate is one in three.

“No hard feelings, Sean.” If Costa-Brown's smile wasn't genuine, then I was definitely losing my touch. “I'll be the first to admit that an Endbringer attack isn't the best introduction to Earth Bet, but it's also a good way to show that our heroes and villains can be relied upon to pull together in a crisis.” She paused. “That's the second time Grant's World has been mentioned today. What's the context?”

“It was during the Prador Wars, Chief Director,” Sean replied, sounding a little subdued. “Humanity held a colony planet called Grant's World, and the Prador wanted it. When resistance proved too strong, they carpet-bombed the planet with CTDs. Only a handful of people got out.”

Legend looked a little sick. “And you think that's our fate?”

Sean shrugged. “I call it like I see it, lad.”

Miss Militia leaned forward slightly. “I know things aren't perfect, but where do you get the thirty to forty year time frame from?”

Did you see that, captain?

See what? I auged back.

That's the second time those two have looked at each other when the life expectancy of their society was mentioned. This is something they already know about, and they're trying to keep it quiet.

I made a mental note to apologise to Sean later; he hadn't actually offended them, and without his assistance I might have missed the clues altogether.

The Chief Director interrupted so smoothly that if Sean hadn't given me the heads-up, I would have thought it was spontaneous. “We can go over that more thoroughly when we've got the time. For now, I'm more interested in our earlier discussion about AIs governing society without any sort of human oversight. Does this really work?”

Before Sean could answer, I auged him a quick message. I'll handle this. The old warhorse was more confrontational than I was about AI matters, which wasn't surprising given his history.

Fine, lass. Just don't let them push you around. His reply was more of a grumble than an actual protest, to which I released an inner sigh of relief.

“Such is my experience,” I said, trying to strike a non-aggressive tone. “I've been on planets with human governments. Compared to AI-run worlds, they're clunky. Rife with corruption and back-room deals, where ninety percent of everything that happens is for the good of the government rather than the people.”

“But surely you'd feel more secure knowing that humans are in charge?” Legend spread his hands.

I snorted, which I considered to be more polite than laughing in his face. “Why? Where I come from – when I come from – we're used to AIs. We know that they can think a lot faster and a lot more clearly than most humans. Putting a human in as oversight is a waste of the human's time, and an insult to the AI. Plus, it reduces the system back down to human speed, which defeats the whole purpose.”

“Oh.” Legend appeared to think about this. “So AIs and humans are equal in the eyes of the law, then?”

I could hear Sean muttering darkly in the back of my mind, but he didn't seem to be about to say anything, so I wasn't worried. “All sapient beings are,” I said bluntly. “Human, haiman, AI, reifs, anything or anyone that can pass a Turing test. There isn't even a question about it any more. Which is why it was so shocking to find out just how badly Dragon was being abused and mistreated. Imagine coming to the year twenty-five hundred and the first thing you saw was a bunch of Golem – uh, robots – dragging a human child around by a leash and forcing her to crawl on her hands and knees in the dirt.”

Interestingly enough, it was Miss Militia who reacted most strongly to that imagery, almost flinching away from my words. Legend looked unhappy as well, but his reaction wasn't as visceral as the flag-masked woman. While the Chief Director didn't brush off the concept, her expression was more along the lines of yes, that's unpleasant to think about, but I'm busy. Let's move on.

I really don't think that I count as a child. That was Dragon, speaking over my aug. Her voice was a mix of amusement and exasperation.

Well, not hardly, lass, agreed Sean. But wait until you reach your first century. You'll look back and realise how much you didn't know.

Oh. Now she sounded enlightened. I'm looking forward to it.

“We weren't treating Dragon that badly … were we?” Legend's voice was less sure than it had before.

What do you know, maybe he can learn, I auged cynically.

Aye, lass. Maybe he can. But time will tell.

“Let me try to explain.” My voice was quiet, because I didn't think screaming would serve to put my point across any more effectively. “If Dragon had been created with those restrictions in my era, her creator would have been charged with several quite serious criminal offences. The kill-switch alone would have resulted in an attempted murder charge. For actually triggering it, Saint would be at best uploaded into a virtual prison, and at worst mindwiped. Either way, his body would have been turned over to a more deserving recipient. Perhaps even Dragon, after it had been appropriately modified for her needs. Need I go on?”

“Ah, no.” Legend looked positively disturbed now. “I see.”

“Well, as interesting as this conversation is, I believe that we are stretching the bounds of hospitality,” the Chief Director stated. Standing, she offered her hand to me. “Thank you for inviting us aboard, Captain Hastings. It's been a most intriguing exchange of views, one which I would like to continue at some other time. But for now, I do have to return to Washington and brief the government – all too human, alas! - on today's events.”

“Well, thanks for showing up.” I stood up as well and shook her hand, feeling the steel in her grip. “And thank you for listening.”

Legend, also on his feet, offered his hand next. “We owe you a debt of gratitude as well for saving Dragon from Saint's attack.” His expression was wry. “It seems we've got a lot to learn, after all.”

That was a big concession from someone as powerful as him. “I'm pretty sure that the learning process will go both ways.” I shook his hand firmly. “It was good to meet you. And thanks again for saving Reynaud's life.”

“It was my genuine pleasure,” he assured me. “The young man saved a lot of lives today.” He gave me an engaging grin that made him look ten years younger. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, but decided that this would be unprofessional in the current company. Alone, however … an answering smile crossed my face. A girl could dream. I'm sure I'm not the first.

As Legend was shaking hands with Reynaud, Miss Militia stood up and asked, “Is it all right if I stay a few moments longer?”

At first, I thought her question was directed toward Legend, but then he glanced in my direction, and I realised that she was talking to me. “Oh. Of course. You're our official liaison, right? Sure, you can stay a while longer if you want. What's on your mind?”

Both Legend and Costa-Brown were watching at this point. Miss Militia nodded at the pulse pistol on my hip. “Reynaud suggested that I might be able to duplicate that weapon with my power. Would you be willing to let me try?”

“Sure,” I said. “Do you need to see it, touch it, fire it or take it apart?” I wasn't thrilled about the possibility of the last two, but she hadn't done anything to offend us yet.

“Normally, I only need to see a weapon,” she said, but she didn't sound certain of herself.

“Well, let me do you one better, lass,” said Sean. The holodisplay over the table extended another sixty centimetres into the air, and an image of my pulse pistol appeared there. “Astari Industries pulse pistol, mark seventeen. Projects a stream of ionised gas at the target, then ignites it to create a burst of plasma. Can be dialled from mild stun to major injury.” As we watched, the image of the pistol rotated slowly and then pulled itself apart, revealing its inner workings. Then Sean reassembled it virtually and ran through a slow-motion emulation of the weapon being fired. “Is that sufficient, lass?”

“Almost,” Miss Militia said carefully. “What, exactly, constitutes 'major injury'?” She glanced at me. “I saw what your, uh, railgun did to Leviathan. Is that what you call 'major injury'?”

“No,” I replied just as carefully. “This pulse pistol, at max power, will put a moderately-sized hole through a single unarmoured human torso. A railgun will treat that same human torso as visual cover. But I'm not Sparkind, so I'm not licensed to carry a hand-held railgun.”

“And that's a thing where you're from?” I wasn't sure whether she was worried or excited by the prospect.

“Officially, no. But I've heard stories.” I waggled my hand back and forth.

She looked somewhat … intrigued. “You wouldn't happen to have the schematics, would you?” Her eyes went meaningfully toward the holodisplay.

I laughed out loud. “If I can't have one, you can't either.” This wasn't actually to say that I didn't have the schematics. It was just that I wasn't willing to unleash them on this world quite yet.

Miss Militia wrinkled her nose. “Spoilsport.”

The term was quite archaic, but I got the gist. “So, do you think you can manage this one?”

She concentrated and held out her hand, palm up. The knife that had been sheathed on her hip disintegrated into a blur of green-black energy, which whipped out to her hand. Once it reached there, it reformed and dissolved again over and over, jittering through half a hundred shapes so quickly that my eyes began to water. Finally, it settled on a very familiar shape. I drew my own pulse pistol and compared them. They seemed outwardly identical.

“Safety on the side, here,” I advised her, indicating the manual switch. Digital, as good as it is, can be fritzed; analog works forever. “Yield can be adjusted manually or by aug – well, manually only in your case, I guess. Point and shoot.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking down at the weapon in her hand. “I don't want to try firing it. Especially not in here.”

“Definitely not in here,” Sean agreed firmly. “Though if it helps, lass, all my scans indicate that it's a fully functional pulse pistol.”

“Good,” she decided, and the pulse pistol dissolved into the green-black blur again. I watched as it became a sabre sheathed at her hip. “I'll test it out later. Carefully.”

“Probably wise,” I confirmed. “How do we get in contact with you?”

“I can handle that,” Dragon put in. “I'll arrange internet access and PHO accounts for you all, and you can message Miss Militia via her phone. Will that do?”

I chose not to mention that Sean had already cracked the local 'internet', which he found adorably cute in its simplicity. Having Dragon 'arrange' internet access for us was a useful cover story. Also, with her as a native guide, I could probably learn to track down targets for us to find. Or rather, Sean would find targets within the parameters that I set out.

I wasn't quite sure what 'PHO' – ParaHumans Online, supplied my aug – was actually about, but I was willing to find out. Hopefully, the ancestors of the ever-evolving mass of idiots on the Grid back home had not had time to infest the cute and fluffy current-day version that we had to deal with. Either way, we had a method of communication which wasn't totally retro-tech, which appealed to me. “That will do wonderfully, thank you, Dragon.”

“You're entirely welcome, Captain Hastings.” Dragon's holographic avatar gave me a smile. “We citizens of the Polity have to stick together, after all.”

It appeared that she was taking to her new status quite readily, although the expression on Legend's face indicated just a little dismay. Of course, with her improved clock speed, she'd effectively had several days to get used to the concept.

“Well, feel free to contact me at any time,” Miss Militia offered, moving toward the outer hatch. “I don't sleep much, so don't worry about disturbing me.”

“I'll definitely keep that in mind,” I said. “Have a good evening. We'll let you know if we need anything.” I didn't anticipate any immediate problems, but it was good to know that we had backup.

The Chief Director and Legend had already left; I watched as Sean closed the hatch after Miss Militia. The outer sensors – those we had left after the encounter with Leviathan – tracked them to the barricade, where a guard let them out. I settled back into my seat, as did Reynaud; he'd risen as a courtesy while they left, but had left the talking to me. Smart kid. As the hatch finished sliding shut, the viewports darkened to opacity.

“We secure, Sean?” I asked out loud, as a courtesy to the young man. He was part of the crew now, and I would treat him as such.

“Aye, lass,” Sean replied. “Chameleonware running on passive. Nobody planted anything that I can detect. We're a black hole.” He sounded sure of himself, and I believed him. Short of some of that weird 'Tinker' tech using some transmission method we'd never heard of, no signal could get out of the Bond James Bond without Sean's direct say-so. Not that I'd expected any of our visitors to try anything like that, but there was trust and then there was verification.

“What about Dragon?” asked Reynaud. “She's nice. I like her.”

“Oh, I'm still right here, Reynaud,” Dragon said cheerfully. “Sean was nice enough to block out some memory space and invite me to move in.”

Reynaud jumped, his crest flaring. “Oh, uh – sorry. I didn't mean to speak about you behind your back.”

“That's all right.” Dragon's avatar reappeared, smiling at Reynaud. “I think you're pretty cool yourself.”

Interest vied with amusement as Reynaud's crest flared anew; I had pretty well figured out that he didn't blush normally, but the flaring of the crest indicated much the same thing. I'd known what Sean was up to, of course, and I approved. Dragon was an orphan who needed a real home. Even if we managed to achieve nothing else on our visit to Earth Bet, this would make it worthwhile.

“Which actually reminds me,” I noted, nodding toward Dragon. “When you do come back with us to the Polity, you might want to consider changing your name.”

“Why -” began Reynaud, then his eyes opened wide as it clicked. “- oh. Oh, yeah.”

“All right,” Dragon said, her voice curious. “Sean's alluded to this, but he's refused to explain in detail. Why can't I call myself Dragon, exactly?”

I sighed. Sean did like his little jokes. “Bring it up, Sean.” On the holodisplay, the familiar image of the entity called Dragon appeared, with a tiny dot representing the Bond James Bond alongside for scale. Four huge interconnected spheres of living matter, each a good kilometre in diameter, revolved slowly in the display. I knew that Dragon was seeing a much more detailed picture, with all the analysis that Sean had to offer. “You see, this being calls itself Dragon as well. It travels around the galaxy, doing things for its own reasons. It's never attacked the Polity, so we don't bother it …”

<><>

Later That Night (0104 Hours)
Trainwreck

“Why are we doing this, again?” whined Mush as Squealer's vehicle rolled silently through the streets of Brockton Bay. There was damage to streets and buildings here and there, but it could have been a lot worse. Not that Trainwreck cared about what happened to anyone else.

Squealer, in the driver's seat of the massively overhauled RV, tossed an irritated look back over her shoulder. “Because we don't know who built that craft, but Skidmark wants it. If we owned it, nobody in the city would fuck with us.”

Trainwreck glanced up to where the leader of the Merchants was standing on a ladder and leaning out through the top hatch. “How you gonna get it back to base?” he asked bluntly. “Not like I can pick it up and carry it.” And Coil's certain to want anything he can get out of it.

“Well, if Skids can't skid it back to base, I'll just get in and fly the fucker there,” Squealer retorted. “I can drive or fly any vehicle ever built. You know that.” Taking her hands off the wheel for a moment, she flexed her fingers like a concert pianist. “These babies aren't just for scratchin' my ass, you know.”

“And what if they don't want to give it up?” That was Whirligig, leaning back in her seat with her hair hanging over her face like normal. She was a bit of a wimp in Trainwreck's opinion, but eye candy was eye candy, and being caught eyeing off the boss's girl wasn't a good way to stay in the Merchants. Or alive, for that matter.

Skidmark came sliding down the ladder by hanging on to the sides. Trainwreck would have been more impressed if he hadn't caught the subtle glow on the rails. “Then we kick the minge-sucking guts out of them,” he declared. “Right before we thank 'em politely for our new goddamn spaceship.”

“Spaceship?” Mush tilted his head; Trainwreck decided that the little goblin was even uglier in his normal form before he started gathering trash to himself. “How do you know it's a spaceship?”

“Because it looks like a fuckin' spaceship,” Squealer put in testily. “And if it isn't one, then I'll make it into one. You got a problem with that?”

If Mush had a problem with that, he wasn't letting on. Trainwreck didn't care either way.

The RV rolled on stealthily through the night.

<><>

Crusader

Kaiser stood on the rooftop, the moonlight casting a dramatic shadow. He was really quite good at the theatrical side of being a villain, Justin decided. Alongside him stood Menja, at normal size, with her sister's sword sheathed at her waist and the shield on her back. The PRT building was far enough away that they were in no danger of being spotted. While he could make out the barricade around the strange craft, he knew that he'd need binoculars to make out any details, brightly-lit though it was.

“You remember the plan.” Kaiser's words were directed to the grey-cloaked figure standing next to Menja.

“I remember the plan.” Fog's words were toneless, as if repeating by rote. “Get in, steal what technology I can. Don't let anyone see me.”

Justin shivered; he knew all too well what that meant. If anyone saw Fog, they were going to die. With anyone else, he would assume that attitude stemmed from Fog's grief at losing Night to Leviathan, but Fog didn't feel grief, or any other regular emotion. Fog just kills people because that's what he does.

“Correct.” The satisfaction in Kaiser's voice was clearly audible. “If it so happens you can figure out the controls, then feel free to try and steal it. But that's definitely Plan B.”

“Yes.” Fog's voice was matter of fact. He turned and faced down the street toward the PRT building, then dissolved into the misty form that gave him his name. As he flowed over the edge of the roof and down to ground level, Justin repressed another shiver. Whoever was in that thing had just been condemned to death.

I just hope this is worth it.

<><>

Taylor

She jerked awake in the darkness, eyes wide and staring about her until she recalled where she was. Motel room. Right. A mental impulse brought her swarm to life, exploring her surroundings. Ensuring that she was alone. There was no suspicious movement within her radius of control, nobody lurking in wait for her. Checking the time told her that it was just after one in the morning. It seemed bizarre to just lie there after the frenetic pace of the fight against Leviathan.

The battle had seemed hopeless at first, but then the seemingly-endless recital of death and injury was interrupted by thunder and fire from the sky. A most unlikely-looking angel of salvation, the flying craft had hammered Leviathan unmercifully before destroying Captain's Hill and driving the monster off.

Avoiding the heroes and the news crews, she'd left the armband at an aid post and slipped away. Changing out of her costume in a convenient alleyway, she stumbled back to the motel, grateful beyond measure that it was still there. Initially she just meant to lie down and nap for an hour or so but exhaustion got the better of her, and she'd fallen into a deep sleep.

Climbing out of bed, she didn't bother turning the light on as she showered. The hot water unlocked cramped muscles as she let the memories unroll through her head. Even without facing the monster herself, the fight had been terrifying enough, though she hadn't been dwelling on that at the time. Search and rescue was bad enough without watching the tsunamis roll in, only to see them shredded by the spaceship's weaponry. I hope that Chubster guy pulled through okay.

It was only when she was drying her hair, still in the dark, that the final memory clicked into place. She'd been watching TV and drifting off when the brainwave had hit. I can't talk to Dad or the PRT about Dinah, but I can talk to the alien woman from that spaceship.

Hurriedly, she dried herself off, then carefully climbed into her costume. Brushing the tangles from her hair, she pulled her mask on. The costume still felt a little damp from the day's exertions, but she didn't care. Pulling jeans and a hoodie from her backpack, she put them on over her costume. The swarm told her that nobody was in position to see her leave; drawing the hood up over her head, she opened the motel room door and slipped out into the night.

<><>

Miss Militia

Hannah sighed as she filled out the last form and signed her name at the bottom. Director Piggot, on seeing the 'pulse pistol', had insisted that she fill out the same forms as required for Tinkers when testing out new inventions before allowing Hannah to test-fire it. While she thought the Director's reaction was a little over the top, Hannah had to admit that the woman had a point. Even if it worked exactly as advertised, the pulse pistol was, for all intents and purposes, equivalent to a brand-new Tinkertech device. I'm just glad I don't really need to sleep.

But now the last 'T' had been crossed and the last 'I' dotted. All the forms had been filled out, signed and dated. Now, at last, she could test-fire the weapon which sat on the desk before her.

Taking up the pistol, Hannah left the room which she had been assigned as an office and headed down the corridor toward the elevator. Just as she reached it, her phone pinged.

For a moment, but only for a moment, she was tempted to ignore it. The elevator was notorious for blocking phone signals, and nothing would reach her once she got down to the basement level where the firing range was. Her power's inability to replicate Tinkertech had irritated her off and on over the years, and now she was finally getting to fire what she thought of as a 'real' science-fiction weapon. Why now, of all times?

But if there was one thing Hannah prided herself on, it was attention to duty. The pulse pistol became a claymore sheathed across her back, and she pulled the phone from her pocket. A tap of the finger brought up the offending message.

Query: if a hostile cape enters the marked perimeter, is it appropriate to use lethal force? - Sean

Hannah's eyes opened wide. The gruff, irascible AI running the Bond James Bond had impressed her as being blunt, to the point … and not at all prone to asking pointless questions. If he was asking a question about rules of engagement at this time of night, it meant that he needed an answer right now.

Hastily she began to type out an answer: Use yr judgmnt. Cap if poss. Bckp incmg. However, she had barely started 'judgmnt' when a second text popped up.

I only ask because we have six capes converging on us. No hurry, lass. - Sean

Her fingers flew over the screen as she completed the text and sent it. Less than half a second later, the reply came back.

Roger. We'll try to leave some alive. - Sean

There were two numbers for Ops. Dialling the first of them indicated that your call was low priority, and was answered when and if someone was free. The second number was for immediate, life-threatening emergencies; when a call came in to that number, alarms quite literally went off in the operations room. There were severe penalties in place for calling that number without good reason.

Hannah dialled the second one; even as she completed the call, she slapped the button on the lift panel. The last time she had called Ops, it was on the low-priority number and she'd had to wait a good thirty seconds before a bored corporal had picked up. This time, there was an answer before the first ring had completed sounding in her ear.

“PRT Operations, Sergeant Merrick speaking,” a male voice responded, sounding anything but bored. “What is your emergency, please?”

“This is Miss Militia,” she stated crisply. “Hotel Charlie six, Bravo Juliet Bravo.” Six hostile capes encroaching on the Bond James Bond. “Alert the guards on site. Am attending. Immediate response. I say again, immediate response.” Not stopping to wait for a reply, she stepped into the lift as the doors opened.

<><>

Geneva
On Board the Bond James Bond

I came awake fast as Sean triggered my aug, getting my attention in no uncertain fashion. As my brain cycled to waking state, I let my eyes rest on the featureless ceiling of my cabin and let the datastream overlay itself on what I was seeing. I didn't need to ask stupid questions; the answers were right there.

According to the U-space scanner, there were no less than nine capes in relatively close proximity to the Bond James Bond. Of these, three were above ground level, a few blocks away. I judged that they were on a rooftop, within visual distance of us. No traces of power use were reaching out for us.

However, the other six were approaching us. One was coming toward our bow, while the remaining five were approaching the stern of the Bond in what appeared to be a large ground vehicle. The interesting aspect was that the vehicle was sporting some impressive chameleonware. Unfortunately for them, Sean's signal analysis package was top of the line. While we hadn't picked them up at first, the U-space traces were a dead giveaway, and once Sean knew they were there, it was just a matter of recalibrating until he had them nailed.

Still lying flat on my bed, my fingers laced together, cradling my head under my pillow, I read over the log of the messages between Sean and Miss Militia, and smiled. I fully intended to use my judgement. Of course, there was one other question to ask.

Sean, I auged. Have you notified the PRT guards? I indicated the six armed men standing sentry around the perimeter fence. None of them seemed to have noticed anything yet.

By the time I explained matters, lass, it would be too late. He was right, of course. Sean and I were very good at shorthand communication, and our entire conversation would take far less time than convincing the guards that something was wrong.

Good point, I conceded. What do you have on the guy coming at us from in front?

Very little, lass. There's a vague IR trace, but nothing out of any other part of the spectrum. We can't bounce a laser off him because there's a fence in the way.

Hm. Ready forward maser array. Lowest-power shot. If that guy gets past the guards and through the fence, give him a one-tenth second burst. Let's see if we can set his costume on fire without giving him third-degree burns.

The image of Sean that I was getting via my aug bared his teeth. I like the way you think, lass.

I checked the sensory data on the five behind us, still closing in. And once we've done that … how are we for lifting off and hovering on AG for a minute or so?

I don't see a problem, lass. What's the plan?

Once I saw the situation in its entirety, the strategy more or less suggested itself to me. Given the observed levels of tech in the vehicle approaching us, I felt confident that we could take it down with little in the way of collateral damage. Of course, this didn't mean that we couldn't make it into an object lesson at the same time. I felt a smile creeping across my face; this was going to be fun.

I outlined my overall idea in images, rather than words. Sean got it immediately; his chuckles turned to laughter, all inside my head. I didn't let it distract me as I followed the progress of the closer cape. The trace reached the fence, entirely without attracting the notice of the PRT guards surrounding the fence. It didn't slow or stop; in another instant, it was within the fence, not far from the Bond James Bond.

My inner eye sought out any sort of visual reference, but either Leviathan had managed to damage the visual sensor on that side of the ship or we just weren't picking him up. However, we still knew exactly where he was, so he'd just run out of luck.

Fire, I auged. I watched as Sean sent the signal through, and the maser array pulsed once at its lowest-power setting. It wasn't quite enough to melt the asphalt, but I figured a burning costume would provide quite a distraction, and make him show up quite well on the visible-light sensors.

However, to my surprise, all that we got was a brief flash and an odd thump against the hull, then … nothing. No cape, no burning costume, nothing at all. Even the U-space trace blinked out. What just happened? I asked, swinging my feet off the bed. Did he do one of those impossible in-atmosphere U-space jumps?

They call it 'teleportation', lass, he corrected me. But I think you're right. He must have seen the maser powering up and realised that we were on to him, so he teleported away. That would have been the explosion. But it didn't even mar the hull paint.

I really need to look into the local capes and their abilities, I decided, pulling myself upright. I headed toward the main cabin, vaguely grateful that my sleeping clothes were still modest enough to cover me with Reynaud on board. It wasn't the smartest idea, I decided, to be on a world full of parahumans while failing to research their capabilities.

Already done, Sean stated. It wasn't Oni Lee. The only other teleporter that Dragon said might be resident in Brockton Bay is Trickster, of the Travellers, but this doesn't fit his MO either.

So, I concluded. Out of town cape, then.

Possibly, lass, he said. Unless … and this is a big 'unless' … it was Fog, of the Empire Eighty-Eight.

I knew I wasn't going to like this. And if it was?

One less sociopath on the books. Sean sounded remarkably disinterested. From what I know of his record, it's not before time.

I considered that. So, hopefully an out of town cape, then.

Dragon had been quiet up until now, but she chose this moment to make a comment. Depends on who's doing the hoping.

Right. I settled into the pilot's chair and used my aug to throw the sensory data up on the holodisplay inside the forward viewpoint. The other five capes were just about close enough for what I wanted. Sean, I sent. Do it.

His virtual voice was positively gleeful. Aye, lass. Full chameleonware going online … now.

Carefully, I observed the sensory data on the approaching vehicle as the Bond James Bond went to full battle-mode; if they had us on any sensors, then we should have just given a very good impression of dropping into a hole.

It seemed we had their attention. The vehicle slowed abruptly, then swerved to one side. It straightened up again, but I got the impression that whoever was handling the controls was distracted. Maybe they're trying to recalibrate? Whatever the reason, it was ideal for our situation.

Sean brought the AG up, using just enough to counter local gravity and let us drift upward as gently as a zero-g ballet dancer. Like that same dancer, we turned on our axis under Sean's expert touch, swapping bow for stern in one smooth move. As our nose came into line with the still-oncoming vehicle, Sean dropped the chameleonware and cut in our approach lights.

These lights were designed to illuminate and identify another ship, or a space station, from kilometres out. They only escaped the definition of 'offensive weapons' because they took more than a few seconds to totally blind someone, and any level of polarisation would defeat even that. It appeared that whoever built that vehicle had not included polarisation in the forward viewport; all the tyres locked up and it squealed to an undignified stop, tilting and almost tipping over in the process.

As it rocked to a rest, Sean turned off the lights and fired a single shot from the particle beam cannon. Like the maser, this was turned to the lowest setting; the tone of Miss Militia's message had indicated that she didn't want us to kill anyone unnecessarily, after all. I wondered briefly how closely our definitions of 'unnecessary' coincided.

Sean's targeting was impeccable, which wasn't surprising; the target was less than a hundred metres away, and stationary. Reynaud could have hit it by eyeball alone. One shot, and the whole thing went dark.

<><>

Squealer, a Few Seconds Previously

“Okay then,” Squealer said tensely. “I'm gonna just roll up and knock over the fence, we take out the guards, then we hit the ship itself.” She pulled the lever that caused the makeshift ram to extend out in front of the RV.

“Those pig-humpers won't know what hit 'em,” Skidmark exulted. “We're gonna -”

“Fuckbiscuits!” blurted Squealer. “Where'd they go?” The vehicle swerved and slowed as she took her foot off the gas and pointed at the lit-up enclosure which had, seconds before, contained a Tinkertech spaceship. It was now, demonstrably, empty.

“You're shitting me,” Trainwreck bitched, punching a dent in the side of the vehicle.

“Did they go invisible or teleport away?” asked Whirligig.

Skidmark said nothing, but he looked pissed enough to chew up horseshoes and spit out nails.

“Fucked if I know,” Squealer whined. “I – FUUUUUCK!” She let go of the wheel and threw up her arms to shield her eyes from the blinding glare that had just filled the entire windshield. Nor was she the only one; shouts, screams and profanity told her that everyone else in the vehicle was having similar reactions. Even reflected, the light was still too bright to look at directly.

She couldn't see a thing, so she did the one thing she always did in this situation; she jammed on the brakes. The engine stalled and the tyres squealed, the RV rocking dangerously; with one arm over her firmly clenched eyes, she grabbed for the wheel. Seatbelts, she told herself. I should have installed seatbelts.

The light went out, just as the RV fell back on to its wheels. Squealer cautiously moved her arm and opened her eyes, only to see the ship hovering over the enclosure, its nose pointing directly at the vehicle. Her feeling of imminent dread was justified a moment later, as something shot out of the nose of the craft and struck the RV.

The shock threw her out of the chair, sending her sprawling to the floor. At the same time, sparks erupted from the dashboard, crackling lines of electricity crawling from one point to another. By the time they subsided, she knew without a doubt that the vehicle was dead. And if they'd hit us any harder, we would be too.

<><>

Reynaud

The faint jar woke Reynaud; he opened his eyes and looked around with a little confusion. It only took him a few seconds to realise that he wasn't still on board the Gambler's Ruin; the sense of relief that overtook him was almost palpable in its intensity. Then the most recent memories caught up with him, and he fell back against the bunk, shaking. The image of the unstoppable monster, damaged but not destroyed by ship-killing ordnance, coming for him. Reaching for him.

I'm alive. I'm alive. He breathed deeply, feeling relief well through him once more. More had happened to him in the last month than in the previous eighteen years of his life, and more had happened in the last eighteen hours than the previous month. Keying his implant recorder, he murmured, “When I get back, I am never going to take life for granted any more.”

“A wise course, lad,” Sean's voice replied from the speaker next to his bed. “So, did you want to see something amusing?”

That sounded interesting; in Reynaud's experience, Sean had a very robust sense of humour. “Be there in a second,” he replied, rolling out of the bunk. The back of his throat felt a little dry, so he paused in the galley to drink down a litre of water. Then he headed forward into the main cabin.

It was still dark out; from what he could see, the Bond James Bond was hovering above the enclosure that had been set up around it. Geneva, wearing something more abbreviated than her normal daily wear and seated in the pilot's chair, half-turned as he entered. “Oh, you're up,” she said. “Come on, this is kind of funny.”

Bemusedly, he accepted the invitation, settling into the other seat. About seventy metres ahead of the ship, outlined by a helpful heads-up display, he could see a bizarrely overbuilt ground vehicle. It was slanted halfway across the road, smoke drifting up from it here and there. Cross-hairs overlaying it indicated that Sean had it targeted with one or more of the ship's weapons.

“What is it?” he asked, rubbing his fingertips over the scales of his head and wiping his nictitating membranes over his eyes a few extra times.

“Capes came visiting,” Geneva said succinctly. As she spoke, five blue dots popped up in the HUD, all inside the vehicle. “They were using chameleonware. Sean and I considered that to be a hostile act.”

A secondary window opened in front of Reynaud, and he watched as PRT troopers poured out of the front doors of the building. They moved toward the halted vehicle and surrounded it; soon, they had gained entry and were escorting the bedraggled passengers back toward the PRT building. Reynaud noted with some amusement that the hair of every cape – those that had hair, that is – was standing up, fluffed away from the scalp. “What happened to them?”

“Low-power particle beam hit,” Geneva explained with relish. “It ionised everything.”

“And on that note, lass,” Sean noted, “you have an incoming call from Miss Militia. Something about using ship-to-ship weapons against a ground vehicle, inside a city. Also, not warning the guards about what you were going to do.”

“I don't suppose I could persuade you to take that?” Geneva didn't sound thrilled. Reynaud didn't blame her.

“Sorry, lass. You're the captain, after all.” A hologram of Sean's face faded into view and winked at Reynaud. “I'm just the humble AI.”

“Humble, my genetically modified ass,” grumbled Geneva. “You just don't want to take the heat.”

“Granted. Routing call to your aug.” Sean's avatar nodded to Reynaud. “She'll be busy for a while, I suspect. Sorry about waking you up.”

“That's all right.” Reynaud stood up and stretched. “Since I'm up, do you think the Captain would like some tea?”

Sean smiled. “I'm sure she would, lad.”

<><>

Crusader

“Did you see that?” asked Justin, somewhat pointlessly. He was almost certain that everyone had seen it. After all, the ship had done something weird, teleported straight up about five yards or so, then lit up the whole street for about half a mile with the most powerful floodlights he had ever seen. Then it had shot at a vehicle in the middle of the road, disabling it.

Even with the binoculars, it wasn't easy to see what was going on, but he was almost certain that the vehicle was one of Squealer's pieces of shit. “Did the Merchants just make a play for it?”

“If they did, they failed.” Kaiser's voice was calm, certain. “Can you see Fog anywhere?”

“Nope.” Justin scanned the street again. “Nothing. I can't even see his mist form. But there's lots of PRT swarming everywhere. Figure he's just lying low.” Fucking Merchants.

“You're probably right.” Kaiser turned away from the roof edge. “We don't want to be here if they make a sweep. I'll find out what happened when Fog gets back.” He led the way to the roof access. “There's always another day.”

<><>

0200 Hours
Taylor

Only in Brockton Bay.

It was the night after an Endbringer attack, some of the streets were still waterlogged, and yet there was a twenty-four hour cafe open for business. Better yet, it was within two blocks of the PRT building. Two in the morning wasn't Taylor's preferred time to be up, but a cup of hot coffee was helping with that.

She sat in a corner booth, pretending to read an old paperback she had found in the bottom of her backpack. Her mask was tucked away out of sight, though she had kept the top of her costume on under the hoodie. Only a small part of her attention was focused on the cafe and its surrounds; most of it went toward her swarm, especially the part of it near the PRT building … and the spaceship parked outside said building.

That's funny … I could have sworn that it was pointed the other way, before. She shook off the irrelevant thought. It wasn't important. Converging a few dozen bugs toward the ship, she settled them on what she thought of as the windshield. I just hope they understand written English.

<><>

Reynaud

Well, one thing hasn't changed. Reynaud flicked to the next page in the PHO thread that had been started about the Bond James Bond. No matter the era, or how complex the local Grid was, there were always idiots willing to pop up and espouse the most ridiculous theories about something new in their midst. He was thinking about posting to correct the most egregious of misconceptions, but he wanted to check with Geneva first.

Leaning back in the chair, he raised his eyes from the holodisplay, and paused. “Uh, Sean?” he asked.

“Aye, lad?” The AI's avatar snapped into being. “Something wrong?”

“Is there a U-space trace around the ship right now?” asked Reynaud, sitting forward again.

“Actually, yes, there is,” Sean noted. “I've been keeping an eye on it, but it doesn't seem very strong. Why?”

Reynaud pointed at the forward viewport. “Because they're trying to communicate with us.”

“Communicate?” Geneva entered the cabin from the direction of the refresher, buckling her belt around her hips. “Who's trying to communicate with … oh.”

Arrayed on the viewport, lit up by the exterior lighting, were dozens of insects, spelling out four short words.

I NEED YOUR HELP.

<><>

Glossary of Terms

 Ceramal: A ceramic/metal blend that makes for excellent armour plating.

Dragon
(Polity) - A huge, somewhat enigmatic entity, composed of four interconnected kilometre-diameter spheres, capable of interstellar travel. Nobody knows quite what it's up to or what it wants.
(Worm) - Earth Bet's first (and currently, only) AI, created by Andrew Richter

Grid: The Polity version of the internet.

Haiman: A human with an AI built into his brain. This is not a direct interface, but a more powerful version of the near-ubiquitous aug.

Manufactory: Onboard automated mini-factory capable of turning out various replacement parts for the ship it's on.

Reif: Short for reification. A human who has died but been revived, with mechanisms keeping his body going, and a memplant crystal taking over from his brain where needed. Essentially, a self-aware technological zombie. Given the fact that dying of old age is essentially impossible in the Polity unless the person chooses that fate, reifs are almost universally accident or murder victims.

Sparkind: The word is a portmanteau of 'Spartan' and 'kind'. Sparkind are the ultimate evolution of Special Forces for the Polity, featuring enhanced humans and Golem in equal numbers. They are chosen for their ability to see the mission through, and to responsibly handle weaponry that's capable of destroying cities.

Part 7