Hostage Situation Pt 4 (Patreon)

Birdcage

The supply crates for Cell Block W were encased in a vacuum-proof wrapping, saving those contents which were pressurised from exploding in transit from the outside world. Cinderhands heated the tip of one forefinger and drew it along a seam; the plastic melted and parted, allowing access to the crates within. The tough plastic had some useful functions, so he parted another seam and a third, allowing the wrapping to be unfolded from the crates with a minimum of tearing.

Spruce, standing by to assist with the crates, frowned and stepped back as a puff of black dust floated into the air. “What the hell's that?” he asked out loud. “Cinderhands, you didn't set fire to the damn thing, did you?”

Dragon's voice cut in from a speaker set into a corner of the ceiling. “Apologies. An attempt was made to smuggle in a device intended to free one of the prisoners. The culprit was apprehended and the device destroyed in place. The residue is not toxic and poses no threat to health.” The speaker shut down again and the men looked at each other.

“Well, damn,” observed Whimper. “That was ballsy, even if it didn't work. I wonder if they'll be joining us. And who they were trying to free.”

“I wonder if that residue's good for anything,” mused Cinderhands.

“Yeah, that's likely,” Spruce jibed. “She just let us have the residue to nail it home to us that we've got no way out.”

“Still, it might be interesting to analyse it, see if we can figure out what the device was in the first place.”

Whimper rolled his eyes. “What, and retro-engineer it from the ashes, so we can bust out of here? Get real.”

Cinderhands sighed and nodded. “Yeah, you're probably right. Besides, we'd need a lab or something to do that. And it's not like Dragon's going to send one of those down here.” He dusted his hands off. “Let's get these back to the guys.”

<><>

You are indeed correct, Dragon agreed silently. She watched as the men collected the crates and folded the plastic, leaving the delivery area as neat and tidy as it had been before. Marquis was good like that; sometimes abrasive and occasionally cruel, the former crime boss was nevertheless a stickler for neatness and tidiness. He ran his cell block with a strong but fair hand; while some got more than others, nobody starved and nobody was victimised. Dragon could respect that.

<><>

Microdot had been a Tinker capable of working in nanoscale ranges. She had overstepped the mark rather badly when her self-replicating nanobot plague came within a hair of depopulating the city of Christchurch, New Zealand. Her designation as an S-class threat had been quickly followed by a kill order; Dragon had, however, kept samples of her work. Upon receipt of appropriate orders from the Chief Director of the PRT, she had retro-engineered them to create the – non-self-replicating – minuscule drones now wending their way through Cell Block W.

The drones were by necessity unsophisticated. Only a third of them had visual capability; the other two-thirds followed them by signal proximity. The effective lens aperture was smaller than the thickness of a human hair, which cut down drastically on clarity of picture, but she had ways around that. Ironically, the techniques she was intending to use had been developed for getting clear images of stars and even planets at light-year scale distances.

Another third of the swarm had tympani. While their size made it impossible for any single one of them to vibrate in the human range of hearing, it would be a relatively simple task for them to work together to generate harmonics, lowering the effective frequency of their buzzing to the required range. These tympani were also designed to accept incoming vibrations; that is, to 'hear' sounds.

The remainder of the swarm was stringing out behind the main body. Given that the nano-scale transmitters were only capable of sending a signal over a distance of several feet – partly a factor of power consumption and partly to reduce the chance of detection – the swarm needed a daisy-chain of repeaters back to the delivery area in order for Dragon to maintain control of it as a whole. Fortunately, she had quite a few of them.

Entering the main living area, the swarm paused to orient itself. Marquis was overseeing the distribution of cigarettes and other goods from the crates; Dragon could see that much from the overhead cameras. However, given that the swarm was invisible to the cameras, she had to work to determine exactly what they were seeing and where to send them on to.

Reorganising, the visual-equipped nanobots spread out, forming a long-baseline grid array. Each nanocam was only able to take in a tiny amount of the available light, but with Dragon controlling their focus point, she was able to derive a rather impressively detailed picture of the scene.

Thus oriented, the swarm regrouped and drifted forward over the heads of the members of Cell Block W. Attaching themselves to the ceiling, they settled down to wait.

<><>

Dust drifted down from the ceiling. Marquis glanced up, frowning; there didn't seem to be any cracks in the concrete above his head. He hadn't felt any tremors, any shaking that might indicate inmates in another cellblock fighting one another. Yet, there was dust.

Or at least, there had been dust. Looking down at the table he was sitting at, at the book he was holding, he couldn't see any telltale grey powder. Still … Getting up, he moved to another chair, then settled down to keep reading.

MARQUIS. As he watched, the word spelled itself out across the bottom of the page.

He frowned and rubbed at his eyes. He had slept well the previous night and was not feeling particularly drowsy; there seemed to be no reason for his eyes to be playing tricks upon him. “Hm,” he murmured. “That's odd.”

“You say something, boss?” asked Spruce.

“No, just commenting on the plot,” Marquis lied without hesitation; whether there was something wrong with him or not, even allowing one's underlings to think so would be setting a bad precedent. “It took a turn I did not expect.”

He eyed the page; his name was no longer there. But then, as he watched, he noted a greyness permeating the page, barely noticeable, so thinly was it spread. He continued to watch it intently, wondering who was doing this, and how. And, most importantly, why?

Gradually, it leached down to the bottom of the page, leaving the printed paper pristine once more. This time, he saw it condense to form letters. IF YOU CAN READ THIS, RUB YOUR NOSE.

He hesitated for a long moment, then reached up and casually rubbed his nose.

The letters dissolved and then reformed, somewhat smaller this time. GOOD. I BEAR A MESSAGE FROM YOUR DAUGHTER AMELIA. DO YOU WANT TO SPEAK WITH HER? RUB YOUR EAR IF YOU DO.

As he read the words, his heart pounded in his chest. Casually, he looked around the living area. Nobody was looking at him in a suspicious manner; those in view were watching TV, lifting weights, eating, or idly chatting with one another.

Amelia …

It had been ten years, at his best estimation, since he had laid eyes on his daughter. She's spent two-thirds of her life away from me. He didn't know the date for sure, or even the year; calendars were not something that were brought in regularly. He knew that the Brigade was taking care of her, which was better than handing her over to the foster system, if only just. What's happened to her since? Does she even remember me?

Is this some sort of trap? Do I dare respond?

Slowly, he reached up and rubbed at his earlobe. Yes. Yes, I do.

GOOD. BE IN YOUR CELL, ALONE, BY THREE THIRTY PM. MAKE SURE NOBODY CAN HEAR OR SEE YOU.

Once again, doubts assailed him. Could this be some sort of elaborate trap? But no; he had been alone in his cell many times before. Sometimes, especially in the earlier days, he had even put up a bone screen for privacy. It would be seen as mildly odd, but in no way unusual or out of character.

And besides, who knew about Amelia? She was one of the better kept secrets of his life. Even the Brigade, when they uncovered his secret identity, had not found out about her until it was almost too late. Certainly nobody in the Birdcage knew about her; he knew that, because he hadn't told anyone.

Which meant that this communication came from the outside world, from someone who knew Amelia and knew of their connection. Someone who could make something like this happen. That meant someone with power.

Is Amelia under threat? Are they seeking to coerce me into killing someone, or helping them escape? The former seemed much more likely; nobody had yet successfully escaped from the Birdcage. That he knew of, anyway. There had been attempts, over the years, but those had mainly resulted in the deaths of those attempting, and usually a few unlucky nearby souls; vacuum was unforgiving in the extreme.

Thinking back over the tone of the messages, he did not think coercion was the aim. There was no implied threat; it had said I bear a message from your daughter as opposed to I have your daughter, for instance.

Could Amelia be setting this up, through the person actually causing the message to appear in my book? What sort of influence must she have out there if she can do this at what, fifteen, sixteen?

He shook his head; he didn't have enough data to make an informed guess. It could be the Brigade sending the message, or someone else altogether. He would find out at three-thirty.

<><>

“I need some alone time,” he told Cinderhands. “Don't disturb me unless it's actually an emergency.”

“Sure, I understand,” his second in command agreed. “Are you going to be getting a woman?” While Marquis indulged in the practice far less than some of the others from his cell-block – and strictly enforced a rule that such women who were brought in must be treated correctly – he had done so a few times over the years. He could thus understand how Cinderhands might think that this was such a time.

“No,” he decided, after a pause calculated to make Cinderhands think that he was considering it. “I just … need to be alone.”

“Got it,” the other man agreed. “I'll let the others know.”

“If you would,” Marquis told him. “As I said, if there is an emergency, don't hesitate to get me. But if you can handle it yourself, do so.”

So saying, he turned and strode toward his cell. As befitted the block leader, it was twice the size of the other cells, although, like theirs, it had no door. Nearly everyone rigged some sort of curtain for privacy; the more technically-minded ones actually constructed makeshift doors from leftover crates and hung them on homemade hinges. Marquis preferred a curtain; his powers would do a far better job of protecting him than any simple physical barrier.

Entering the cell, he drew the curtain and sat down on the bunk. On the inside of the doorway, hidden from the casual eye, was a frame of bone completely surrounding the opening. He renewed this every few days, keeping it relatively fresh and easy for his powers to work. From it, spikes could shoot out in all directions, filling the cell with needle-pointed razor-edged shards of bone in less time than it took to blink, skewering anyone unwise enough to invade his sanctum sanctorum uninvited. This had happened a few times over the years as well, until people had gotten the message.

This time, he merely extended the bone across the doorway, creating a solid barrier that dug into niches in the concrete. By the time he was finished, it would have taken a battering ram to dislodge the bone wall from the doorway. And should that occur, he would be well prepared by the time it fell.

Preparations complete, he checked his watch. Almost three-thirty. “Well,” he stated. “I'm here.”

<><>

Seconds passed, then minutes. He waited; he could afford to be patient. Time was, after all, what every single inmate of the Birdcage had in abundance. The silence was almost absolute, with just the faintest murmur of voices from the cell block outside to remind him that other people existed. His breathing was noisy in his ears; he quieted it. Still, nothing happened. He kept waiting.

And then he heard the faintest buzzing in his ears. For a long moment, he thought that this was some kind of artefact generated from the silence, but then the buzzing ceased to be merely noise.

First, it separated into pauses and then began to exhibit tonal differences. Is this a voice?

“I cannot hear you clearly,” he stated out loud. “All I hear is buzzing with intervals in between.”

As if guided by his voice, the buzzing suddenly sharpened and words became audible. “Can you hear me now?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Still a little fuzzy, but yes. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you quite well,” the mysterious voice told him, the buzzing smoothing out even more.

He could swear that the tones were feminine and almost familiar. “Wait a minute … Dragon? You're the one contacting me? Why in this fashion?”

“Because this is officially not happening and we did not want the other inmates listening in on your private conversation.”

“Very well. I am officially intrigued. But why are you even doing this?” He paused. “Was the mention of my daughter merely a ruse to get me here?”

“No, it was not. You will be speaking to her shortly. First, I will be passing you on to Director Costa-Brown.”

“Wait, I -” But he was speaking to dead air.

“Marquis.” The voice was colder, harder. A different regional accent, possibly Californian. “I am Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown. Do you recall who I am?”

“Of course,” he agreed, inclining his head slightly, despite the fact that he could not see her. “The head of the PRT. So you're still in charge, after all these years. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Now, as for the purpose of this communication. It is indeed about your daughter.”

Marquis was feeling more than a little confused. “You know who she is? Why am I being contacted like this? What's this all about?”

“Marquis, be quiet and listen. Your daughter was adopted by Flashbang and Brandish of the Brockton Bay Brigade. Shortly afterward, they renamed themselves New Wave. Since then, she has manifested powers of her own; specifically, she is a healer of great capability and flexibility. Her codename is Panacea, which should give you an idea of how good she really is.”

Marquis leaned back, sighed. “Good god. A healer.”

“Precisely. There is no injury, no disease, no physical condition which she cannot fix. She can cure cancer, regrow missing limbs and even make people physically younger, by a factor of decades. However, she poses a distinct problem to us.”

He frowned. “She sounds like someone to cherish rather than see as a problem.”

“Normally, yes. But there are two factors which you are missing. The first is that she has recently found out about you, despite New Wave's best efforts to keep that information from her. The second is that she is, as you might understand, internationally famous as the girl who can heal anything, cure anyone.”

“She's found out about me? Who told her and why?”

“According to her, she recently encountered an old minion of yours, who spent the last few weeks telling her about you and the circumstances of your capture.”

“An old minion? This late in the game? Do you know who?”

“Apparently, his name was Francis Jones, but he went by the nickname 'Fred'. Does that ring a bell?”

Marquis couldn't help it; he laughed out loud. “Fred Jones! That old reprobate! Do you know, he once took a hit from Radian for me? Is he still kicking around?”

“I'm sorry to have to tell you that he died last week, in your daughter's company. This was apparently the trigger that caused the problem.”

He paused for a moment. "Jones was one of the best. The world is poorer for his passing." Then he looked up. “You still haven't told me what the problem is and how I come into it.” But he was starting to get an inkling.

“The problem is that she has had her powers for three years now and, quite apart from the other healing she does in her own time, the Protectorate has become somewhat dependent on her being able to bring any one of us back up to full health in a matter of seconds. However, as of yesterday, she has laid down an ultimatum. Specifically, until you are released from the Birdcage, she will cease her healing activities altogether. No more Endbringer battles, no more civilian healing, no more healing superheroes. You can see the position into which this places us.”

“Hah!” For just a moment, he felt a surge of pure delight. Amelia, you are beautiful. Just beautiful. Way to stick it to 'em. But then a thought intruded. “Hold on a minute. Won't this cost her the income that all this healing brings her? And in fact, if she gets paid by contract, wouldn't she be breaking the terms if she does this?”

There was a momentary pause; when Costa-Brown spoke, he could almost swear that she sounded embarrassed. “Marquis … she doesn't get paid. She's been doing this all for free.”

“You have to be joking.” There was no answer. “You're not joking.” Still no answer. “She's been doing this for free? When she could have been charging? Damnation, if I could cure cancer, I would never have gone into villainy. How many people has she cured, how many lives has she saved, since she started?”

“I could not tell you. Thousands for certain, possibly tens of thousands. I suspect that even she has lost count.”

“Good god. A healer, and she isn't even charging. She could have been richer than me by now, with one-tenth the effort.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, let's see if I have this right. She wants to have me let go or she stops giving out her free healing. Which you, and the Protectorate, really don't want to have to deal with. Your mention of her international fame suggests that you don't want word getting out about her relationship to me, or the fact that she wants me out of here. How am I doing so far?”

“Your grasp of the situation is impeccable.”

“Okay. So. Why are you even telling me this? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to talk her out of it. Failing that, I want to see what sort of man you are.”

He wanted to laugh out loud once more, but this time he restrained himself. “You're not joking, so … right. She's a hero in a hero team. She's been healing all this time – for free – but now she wants something for it. Namely, my freedom. If word gets out that she wants to free a notorious supervillain, it could bounce back on … what did the Brigade rename themselves again?”

“New Wave.”

“Stupid name. So there's backlash on New Wave. But they're an independent team anyway. Where's the problem? Even if people get upset with Panacea for wanting to have her supervillain dad released from the Birdcage, all she has to do is take the mask off and be Amelia for a few days. There's always another scandal.” He paused. “What aren't you telling me?”

“My apologies. It is hard to remember that not everyone knows this. When the Brigade changed their name to New Wave, they also unmasked, publicly, in the name of 'superhero accountability'; this was accompanied by a huge publicity campaign. Apparently they hoped that heroic capes across the nation would follow their example, bring secret identities into the light and usher in a new era of acceptance of capes.”

The information, and the ramifications of it, took a few moments to sink in. “Oh, you have to be kidding. They went public? And they unmasked Amelia as well? Oh, good god. What sort of idiots are they, anyway? Wait, don't answer that. I fought them several times. I know exactly what sort of idiots they are. Optimistic idiots.”

“Precisely. Now, you see the sort of trouble that your daughter could get herself into if this gets into the public eye, especially with no secret identity to hide behind.”

“However, if I talk her out of it, you get your tame healer back, who does it all for free. Whereas if I don't … I get out of here and you still get her back.”

“No matter which way this goes, there is no guarantee that you will be leaving the Birdcage.” There was a note of warning in her voice.

“I'll take that chance. Now, what was that about seeing what sort of man I am?”

“It has been posited that if you were released, and gave your daughter your solemn word that you would no longer pursue a life of crime, then you would stick to your word. At least, that was the sort of man you were when you were incarcerated. Are you still that man?”

He snorted. “As if I would answer anything other than 'yes' to that question. How would you know if I were lying?”

“Because I am very proficient at cold reading people and this prior conversation has given me quite a good baseline on your reactions. Also, I'm monitoring your pulse rate and skin conductivity. So; you haven't actually answered the question yet. Are you that man? If you gave your solemn word to your daughter to never take up crime, would you stick to it?”

“If I answered 'no',” he replied slowly, “or if I said 'yes' but you decided I was lying … would I still get to talk to Amelia?”

“Of course,” she answered briskly. “It would simply change the way the situation was handled subsequently.”

“Hm.” He decided that he didn't want to know exactly what she meant. “Well, yes, as it happens, I am that man. If she asked me to forswear a life of crime, then I would give her my word and I would keep it, come hell or high water.”

“Hm.” Her voice was non-committal. “And if I were to ask you the same favour?”

“Then I would tell you, with all due respect, that you have not earned the right to make that request of me.”

“All the respect that you believe I am due, you mean?”

He bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. “Precisely.”

“Very well. We understand one another, then. Here is your daughter.”

There was a long pause of dead air, then a voice spoke hesitantly. “Uh, hello? Can you hear me?”

<><>

Marquis caught his breath. “Yes,” he replied, his voice ragged. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, I can hear you. Amelia? Is that you?”

He had not heard her voice for ten years or more, but it awoke an echo of a memory; then, she had been just six years old, her voice higher pitched. Now, she was in her teens. Her voice was lower, but still … there was something there, hauntingly familiar despite the differences.

“Yes.” A catch in the voice, suggesting emotion. Was she crying? “Yes, Daddy … uh, Dad, I'm here. It's me. You look so different to what I remember.”

He blinked. “You can see me? You can remember me?”

She sniffled. “Yeah, sort of. I kind of needed reminding, but once I saw your face … um, I've been told that there's nano-scale microbots in there with you that are sending this signal out. That's how I can see you.” She giggled, damply. “I never thought my dad might have a beard.”

“Razors are in relatively short supply, in here,” he pointed out. “But you can see me. I can't see you. What do you look like?”

“Um … I guess my hair's the same colour as yours,” she began. “I, uh …”

Another voice cut in, also young and female, but unfamiliar to him. “Let me tell him, Ames. I can see you. You can't.”

“Who's that?” he asked sharply.

“This is Vicky,” the new girl told him. “Glory Girl. Amy's sister. It's nice to meet you.”

“... sister, right,” he noted. “Brandish's daughter, I presume?”

“That's me,” she agreed brightly. “Okay, Amy's making weird faces at me, so I'll describe her, then you can keep talking. She's got the same colour hair as yours, about as long. A little bit frizzier than yours, though. Same eyes. She's got freckles across her nose. Her face is a little rounder than yours. She's a little bit shorter than me, like about five foot four. Not fat, not skinny. No boyfriends, though I keep introducing her to good looking boys. And she's an awesome sister and I'll shut up now.”

“You'd better,” Amelia told Vicky severely. “Seriously, my dad does not need to hear about you introducing me to boys. I'm not even seventeen yet.”

“Why, what's the date?” asked Marquis.

“April fifteenth, two thousand eleven,” Amelia replied promptly. “Don't they even tell you what date it is?”

“We can keep track of the days, but the months and years tend to fall by the wayside,” he admitted. “With no seasons, it's hard not to lapse on that sort of thing.” He paused. “So … you're a superhero? A healer?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I am. They call me Panacea. I'm with New Wave.”

He did not miss the flatness of her voice, the lack of life in her tone. “Something tells me that you aren't happy there.”

She hesitated. “I … I guess I am. I get to do a lot of good. Helping people.”

“For no pay, no recompense.”

“It's what a hero does.”

“Do you even believe that, or are you just repeating what other people have told you?”

“I have to be a hero. I have to do the right thing. I don't want to …”

“Don't want to do what? Be seen as human? Have a life of your own?”

“I don't know!” The outburst surprised him. “For years I kind of knew that my real father must have been a supervillain, because Carol and Mark would never tell me who you were. But I didn't know who, just that you were a villain. And I was always worried that I was going to become a villain too, especially when I started getting tired …” She cut herself off.

“Tired?” His voice was gentle. “Tired of what?”

“Of healing people.” She sighed; it was almost a sob. “All these people. I heal them and they get to go on and have their lives. But my life is just healing. Over and over. It never fucking stops. There's never an end to it.”

“Ames …” It was the other girl, Vicky, sounding shocked. “I never knew you felt that way.”

“There's a lot you don't know about me, Vicky,” Amelia told her. “So yeah, I met one of your men. He told me a lot about you. And I decided, what the hell. Why can't I have what I want, for once. So I told Director Piggot that I wanted you out of the Birdcage. And here we are.”

Marquis wasn't sure who this 'Director Piggot' was, but he wasn't going to waste time asking. “And so you should. Let me tell you something, Amelia. If you want something in life, you should go and get it, because it'll be a cold day in hell before someone else hands it over to you free of charge.”

“Excuse me for butting in again, but that sounds awfully like what a villain would say,” Vicky interjected.

“Hardly,” Marquis told her. “Every athlete, every entrepreneur, every aspiring inventor, every novelist has had to put themselves out there, to make a leap of faith. To get what they wanted, they've had to go for it, ignore what the opposition was telling them. Because there'll always be someone who will be trying to hold you back, saying no, stop, that's the wrong way. Trying to please everyone, never rocking the boat, that just makes you into everyone's doormat.”

“But … helping people, never asking for compensation, that's what makes a hero,” argued Vicky.

“Once again, hardly.” Marquis, knowing he was visible to the girls, shook his head. “Or are you going to say that a police officer isn't a hero for walking out on the streets and facing down dangerous criminals? A firefighter, for running into burning buildings? These people don't have powers, are far easier to kill than most capes, yet they put themselves in harm's way to help people. Are you saying that just because they accept a paycheck for what they do, they're not heroes? Because I'm a damn villain, and I can appreciate that they do good work.”

“But if you accept money for using your powers, you're a rogue, not a hero.”

“And what's wrong with that, Vicky? In fact, Amelia, you should be charging for the use of your powers. In my little chat with the Chief Director just before -”

“I thought she'd been talking to you,” muttered Amelia.

“Yes, and that's why I thought you should know,” he agreed. “Anyway, as I was saying, in that little chat, your powers came up, as well as the fact that you aren't charging. Which I personally think is ridiculous. As I said to her, if my powers had been anywhere near as versatile and downright useful as yours, I would have gone the rogue path and I would have charged through the nose for them.”

“But … what about those people who can't afford high medical bills?” That was Amelia. “It's why I go into the hospital at all. Those people are being charged thousands of dollars and not getting any better. I'm fixing them, letting them go home.”

“So pick out the people who can afford it and squeeze 'em for all they're worth,” Marquis suggested cheerfully. “A millionaire's got cancer? Charge him five hundred thousand to make it go away. He'll pay. A minimum wage waitress has, I don't know, kidney failure? Fifty bucks. It'll cut into her earnings enough that she'll feel it, but she'll be able to afford it.”

“But that's unfair!” Vicky's voice came through again. “Charging different people different amounts? That's discrimination!”

“So what?” Marquis retorted. “Not allowing some people to get life-saving treatment because they can't afford it, that's not discrimination? Face it, if you want this power to be worth it, you need to charge an appropriate amount. And if you drop the charges to the point that everyone can afford them, you'll be back to square one, with everyone demanding your time, all the time. So the ones who can afford to pay more, get to pay more. Call it a health tax.”

“I … never really thought about things like that before.” Amelia's voice was thoughtful. “No, shush, Vicky. I'm still talking. If I did this, should I charge superheroes more, or less?”

From the shocked gasp that Marquis heard, this question obviously hit Vicky where it hurt, but she stayed quiet. “Well, that depends. The Protectorate has a fairly hefty budget. Gouge them for all they're worth. If we're talking about independents … that would have to go on a case by case basis. Not so much that they wouldn't be able to afford it, not so little that they'd see it as a trivial expenditure. In fact, they should be able to pay for it via medical insurance.” He chuckled. “Actually, thinking about it, you could set up an ongoing insurance policy for any particular hero, where he pays you a monthly sum and you arrange to go heal him when he needs it. Or a bulk sum, for the Protectorate as a whole. A very large bulk sum.”

“Wait – what you're talking about is extortion,” Vicky exclaimed. “Charging them just in case they get injured and you have to come heal them?”

“That's insurance for you,” Marquis reminded her. “The big companies do it all the time. And they call us villains. At least I only ever robbed anyone once.”

From the sound of it, Vicky had been stunned into silence. Amelia, however, had not. “Wow. I just had not thought of it like that before.”

“That's because nobody wanted you to think about it like that,” he explained gently. “They all wanted Panacea, the healer who could fix anything, on call all the time. For free. Well, the free ride's over.”

“Well, almost,” she told him. “I agreed to do one week of healing as normal, in return for getting this conversation with you.”

“Hm,” he mused. “Let me guess. Director Costa-Brown?”

“Yeah. I thought she was gonna shut me down, but she didn't.”

“Because she knows which side of her bread is buttered. And it's the side that says 'keep Panacea happy'.”

He was starting to get to know the sound of her voice; when she spoke next, she sounded almost cheerful. “Yeah, I guess so. It's a weird feeling. Like, what I want matters to other people.”

“Get used to it, Amelia. Whether they like it or not, your needs matter and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is just trying to sell you short.” He paused. “So … was there a question you were going to ask me?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” She sounded a little flustered, as though she had forgotten the question was there to be asked. “If you were let out of there and I asked you to not commit crimes any more, would you?”

“Little Amelia,” he began. “You are my daughter and the one person I love most of all. The year we had together was the happiest time of my life. If you were to ask that of me, I would give you my solemn promise to never again embark upon a life of crime and I would hold to that promise through thick and thin. I guarantee it.”

“Oh. Oh wow. You'd do that for me?”

“For you and only for you, Amelia,” he promised. “But yes, I would. Without hesitation.”

“Right. I'll – uh, I'll tell them.”

“I doubt you'll need to,” he advised her dryly. “This conversation is almost certainly being monitored and recorded. Isn't that right, Dragon?”

For a moment, there was silence, then the Tinker's voice came on the line. “Yes, Marquis. You're correct. Sorry, Panacea. I had my orders.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't think you'd give me a really private conversation,” Amelia replied. “But are you satisfied? Can you let him out now?”

“It's not as easy as that, Panacea,” Director Costa-Brown replied, not altogether to Marquis' surprise. “But it will help a great deal.”

“Can I talk to him again, then?”

“We can discuss that later.”

“Fine,” his daughter replied. “Just remember. One week. That's all you get.”

“I hate to interrupt this,” Dragon interjected, “but I'm going to have to shut down the feed. You have two seconds.”

“Talk to you later, Dad,” Amelia hastened to say. “Love you.”

“Love you too, pumpkin,” he replied, but by the time he finished talking, there was nothing but silence in his ears.

Slowly, he lay back on his bunk, lacing his hands behind his head. He had a lot to think about.

My daughter is a hero, a healer. She's also overworked; badly so, if I'm reading the signs correctly.

She's putting her heroic career on the line to get me out of here.

When I get out of here, I'm having words with Brandish.

Doubts cropped up; he squashed them ruthlessly.

My little girl is getting me out of here. 

Part 5