The Slippery Slope Pt 19 (Patreon)

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: Celestial Wars is a novel in the process of being written by my beta.  Text from it included with her kind permission.]

Commander Thomas Calvert

PRT Building

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Deputy Director Renick tapped the white-board with his pointer. “As you can see, the Empire Eighty-Eight has actually been keeping their heads down since the Panacea incident. Race-related crimes are down across the board, and they haven't tried capitalising on the hit that the ABB took in their last clash.”

Calvert took notes, but his mind wasn't entirely focused on the briefing. While the Ferguson brat was responding to the regime of pain and psychotropic drugs, getting answers out of him was like pulling teeth. Harder, actually; most of the boy's teeth had already been extracted without the benefit of anaesthetic, and it hadn't improved the quality of his answers much.

The Director cleared her throat. “Where are we on locating the Heberts, or even ascertaining their status?”

“Not very far, I'm afraid.” Renick shook his head. “There's no unusual traffic to or from any of the Empire's suspected safe houses, and none of the hospitals or private clinics have reported a patient of Daniel Hebert's description being dropped off anonymously.”

That's because they're in the damn Medhall building, Calvert wanted to say, but could not. Not least because there was no way he could justify having that knowledge. Medhall had a private clinic on the ground floor; they did treat members of the public but charged more than most, so their patient list was generally fairly short. Which would make it an ideal cover for treating their wounded soldiers. Using medical equipment obtained by Kaiser's own company. If he didn't know it for a fact, he wouldn't have believed it; as one of Brockton Bay's richest men, Max Anders regularly rubbed shoulders with all manner of high society. He was as high-profile as they came. But then, who would have expected a millionaire entrepreneur to be the leader of a white-supremacist gang? It was the perfect cover.

“The ABB's also been quiet, thank God,” Renick reported. “Rumour has it that Lung's regrowing his arm, and nobody's seen Oni Lee since the fight.” He grimaced. “It's too much to hope that he's dead, but even if he's injured, that's a good thing.”

More notes went on to Calvert's pad, but the majority of his attention was on the other timeline. So far, Coil had been told about the Hebert girl's middle name, her flowing hair, her food preferences and how ticklish she was. Ferguson had admitted that she had powers and had alluded to their general capabilities, but was remaining remarkably tight-lipped about her actual limits and ranges.

He tried a different tack, demanding to know about the Empire's future plans as far as she was concerned. Despite all of his efforts to resist, Ferguson let slip two words: 'Friday' and 'Merchants'.

That was interesting data, but Coil wanted to know more. He directed that more drugs be administered; while these lowered his victim's mental defences, they also made it harder to focus on the answers which Coil needed. That was where the pain came in. Inflicting pain was a very effective way to force someone to focus, as well as being quite cathartic in its own right.

“And what about the Merchants?” Calvert asked Renick, just in case there was something he had missed. “I can't imagine that with all this going on, they're sitting on their thumbs.”

Piggot glanced around at him with an appraising stare, which he returned blandly. At the whiteboard, Renick nodded. “You've got a point,” he said. “The Merchants have moved people into a couple of areas where ABB used to be stronger. There's been no fighting yet; they're just taking advantage of the ABB being on the back foot. As soon as the ABB are back up to speed, no doubt they'll kick the Merchants in the teeth again.”

“Is there any indication that the Empire Eighty-Eight is doing the same?” asked Piggot. “They've got the numbers, and they're not the ones who suffered a humiliating defeat recently.” She tapped her pen on her pad. “In fact, given that they've recently acquired a powerful new cape, I'm surprised they haven't already gone out to put on a show for the rest of us.”

That must be what 'Friday' and 'Merchants' means. Calvert suppressed the savage grin of triumph. Her official debut. He restrained himself to a polite nod and smile. “I think you might have something there, Director.”

In the other timeline, he demanded two things from the Ferguson boy; the first was 'when', the second 'where'. Given the amount of drugs in the teenager's system, it was impossible not to answer; however, the trouble lay in picking out the useful answer from the meandering.

And then everything went wrong at once. Gunfire erupted throughout the base, audible even through his closed office door. With it came screams, but both were swiftly drowned out by three different alarms going off at once. Not that he paying attention when the heavy clasp-knife he was holding suddenly and inexplicably snapped shut on his fingers. He stared at his right hand, which was now spurting blood from the stubs of the severed digits; the knife, unheeded, dropped to the floor along with the sliced-off parts of his fingers.

Even as he tried to make sense of what had just happened – Is Taylor Hebert here? How did she find me? How did she make my knife shut on my fingers like that? - there was a stabbing pain to the back of his head, followed by another in his sinuses. His eyes crossed as something pushed out through the front of his mask; after a second or so, he identified it as a long … thin … metal … spike …

“Commander Calvert, are you all right?” He became aware that the others in the room were looking at him oddly. Normally he didn't react to anything that happened in the other timeline, but the sheer brutal surprise of the assault must have wrung some sort of sound out of him, even as that timeline was wrenched away from him.

He immediately split the timeline once more. With a shake of his head, he composed his expression and answered Renick's question. “Sorry, a touch of indigestion, I think. I'm fine now.” In the other one, he put a hand to his stomach and claimed illness. This allowed him to get up and leave the room while remaining for the rest of the briefing.

Well, that was relatively fucking terrifying, he admitted to himself as he reached his office/listened to Renick drone on. Nobody said anything about her being able to teleport. And it's not just guns and cars she can affect, but knives as well. What do they have in common? Moving parts? Closing his office door behind him, he gave himself over to the shakes. Okay, note to self. Until I know exactly how to neutralise her power, I don't kidnap the Ferguson boy for real.

He had died many times since he got his power. Usually he dropped the timeline before the moment of truth, but sometimes he had let it run out from morbid curiosity. His many deaths had been bloody, sometimes quite painful, and occasionally surprising. But he had to admit, to have a metal spike punched through the brain from behind was new, especially since he'd had no idea that it was coming. It was very much a once in a lifetime experience.

Seating himself at his desk, he opened his laptop and booted it up. Once it was up and running, he opened a file and conscientiously transcribed the notes for the briefing into a text file. Then he went into the encrypted file where he kept his notes on the Hebert girl, and began to enter what he'd learned about her. When he got the chance, he'd transfer the file to his base computer, but he didn't want to chance forgetting anything.

And in the meantime, he'd be very careful about making any sort of contact with Taylor Hebert.

<><>

Medhall Building

“Hey, Dad.” I squeezed my father's hand as I settled myself into the chair. “How are you feeling today?” I felt the faint squeeze in return and blinked back the tears in my eyes. Soon, Dad. Soon. “Hey, guess what. Peter loaned me a book I've never read before. It's the first part of a fantasy trilogy. I think you'll like it.”

I had actually fallen asleep the previous night reading it, which I hadn't done in years. It was obvious that a lot of work had gone into it; each of the characters was fully realised, even the more-than-a-little-bratty Cora. They were more than just background characters; even this early in the plot, I felt certain that I would be learning more about them as I read on. However, I couldn't just read it to myself. That wouldn't be fair to Dad.

As per Kaiser's suggestion, I was still dipping into my power every few minutes. My mental map of the building was fairly comprehensive, but it was a good idea to keep it updated. On the next go-around, I made the book-stand walk over to where I was sitting. I removed the volume of Wind in the Willows and set it aside, making sure that a bookmark was in place. Then I put the copy of Right of Blood in its place and dropped the powers once more.

“All right, then. Celestial Wars. Part One: Right of Blood. Chapter One.” I took a deep breath and began to read.

“I am not dead–because I cannot die.

“These eight words churned through Avis’ mind as the veil of darkness parted to allow some remnants of his recent history to seep into his pain-numbed consciousness.

“There was a time, when he had considered that to be a blessing. To live, regardless of circumstance. But, as all who would consider themselves above such things learn sooner or later, there are prices to be paid, and masters to answer to. The pain of his twisted frame along with the agony of what once was, caused his mouth to open and filled his still tortured mind and body with silent screams.”

I paused at a knock on the door that connected with the outer room of the apartment. “'Scuse me a moment, Dad,” I murmured, then raised my voice. “Yes?”

“It's us.” I recognised Victor's voice. “May we come in?”

“Of course,” I said, using my power to turn the handle and open the door. “Come on in.”

Victor strolled on in, with Othala on his arm. I stood up from the chair and shared a hug with Othala. “Hi, how are you guys? I didn't see you at breakfast.” Cassie had been there, but she'd had to go off to school. I didn't envy her the school aspect, but it sucked not being able to hang with my friends all day.

“We had it before you woke up.” Othala raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You don't normally sleep in. Stay out a little later than normal last night?”

“More to the point,” Victor put in, “are we going to have to have a word with Ed Ferguson about what his son's been up to with our newest cape?” He mimed throwing a punch into his palm. I was reasonably sure that he was only joking, but I shook my head anyway.

“No, no, Peter dropped me off on time,” I told them hurriedly. “But he loaned me a book and I lost track of time, reading it. It was way late before I fell asleep. He was a …” I paused, rethinking my words. While I would've liked to say that he was a perfect gentleman, those words didn't quite fit all of what we'd done. And my behaviour hadn't been ladylike at all; at the memory, I found myself blushing. “Uh, he didn't do anything he shouldn't,” I temporised rapidly.

“Your voice says one thing, but your face says another,” Victor murmured, sounding somewhat amused. “I'm inclined to suspect that something went on that you're not telling us.”

“Honey, you're embarrassing her,” Othala chided, throwing an elbow into his ribs. “I'm sure everything was totally above board. And even if it wasn't, she's not about to talk about it in front of you. Or her father.” She bent a beaming smile upon me. “Though I do expect details later. Lots of details.”

“Sure,” I agreed, though I privately decided that certain details were not going to be aired, ever. The only ones who needed to know them were Peter and myself. “Have you come to sit with us? This book's pretty good.”

Victor looked interested. “Yeah? What's it about?” He leaned over to glance at where the book sat in the stand.

I tried to think of a concise way to describe the plot, and came up short. “Uh … well, it's about a god who's sentenced to Hell for mistreating the Lord of Hell's daughter, and what he does once he gets let out again. But that's not all of it. Not by a long, long way.”

“Sounds intense,” he said. “I might borrow it, once you've finished it. Any kickass fight scenes?”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. Typical guy. “Well, there's a scene where this demonic thing called Innis decides to attack Avis – that's the main character – because Avis got let out of Hell before Innis had his turn at torturing him. Innis slashes Avis' face. But Avis is a mind bender, see? Like the Simurgh, only times a hundred.”

Victor nodded. “So what's he do? Mind control him?”

“Heh, no.” I grinned. “He's a lot nastier. He wipes out the last ten years of Innis's memory. Bam, amnesia central.” I had to admit, I had grinned with satisfaction when I read that bit. That power had so many potential uses.

Othala got it first. “So this Innis guy wouldn't even remember why he was upset with Avis?” She grinned. “I like it. You could screw with peoples' heads so hard with that ability.”

“So what happens next -” Victor's words were brought up short by Othala's nudge. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Othala shrugged. “We actually did come in here for a reason. Victor wants your opinion on the new armour he's been working on. I'll sit with your father while you're out. And I might sneak a peek at your book too, if you don't mind.” Her grin turned impish.

“Sure thing,” I said at once. “Just don't lose my place. If you wanted to read out loud, I'm sure Dad wouldn't mind.”

“Hey!” protested Victor. “She always tells me spoilers.” He turned to his wife. “No spoilers.”

She gave him an angelic smile and batted her eyes. “No promises.”

I hugged her again. “Thank you for this. I really, seriously appreciate it. And thanks for the dating advice that you gave to Peter. It was the best night ever. Seriously.” I couldn't wait for Peter to get the photos printed out. I was going to have the candlelit one framed.

Her eyes lit with mischief. “Now I really want to know the details. But you have to go to Victor's lab first, or he'll go all sadface on me, and I can't handle Victor being sad. He's like the world's biggest disappointed puppy.”

“Hey!”

I couldn't resist. “What sort of puppy?”

“Beagle or basset or something like that.” She waved her hands vaguely. “Something soft and fluffy and helpless.”

“Hey!”

I was snickering now. “Okay, when I get back I'll tell you most of what happened.”

She smirked. “Ooh, 'most'? I sense juicy gossip.” She patted Dad's hand as it lay on the sheet. “I'll see you when you get back.”

<><>

I was still grinning as Victor led the way to the elevator. He was armed, as were quite a few other people in the building; while I couldn't see them directly, the guns bobbing along at hip level were a dead giveaway.

As he pressed the button to fetch the elevator, he muttered something under his breath. “Sorry,” I said, dropping my powers so I could concentrate on him. “I didn't get that.”

“Why couldn't she say it was a Dobermann or Rottweiler puppy?” he grumped. “At least those are badass.” I couldn't quite tell if he was upset or just playing along.

“But still cute,” I pointed out. “She was complimenting you.” But I had to draw on my powers again to prevent the grin from stealing across my face. Just to see if I could, I concentrated on the lab, and the armour within it. Even at this range, I could make out quite a few details. More, I suspected, than if I had been looking at it without my powers over the same distance.

He didn't say anything reply to my observation. A few moments later, the doors opened. As I stepped in, I looked at him. “The armour's very impressive.”

Observation: sincere compliments improve relations with allies.

He glanced sharply at me. “You can tell from this distance?”

Tone and expression: surprise.

“I can detect it from a much greater distance,” I told him truthfully. “Some details are still too small to make out, but I can understand most of it, I believe.” All around us, business in the Medhall building went on as we descended via the hidden elevator shaft.

“I think you'll like it,” he said as I dropped my powers once more. “It'll make you look taller and more imposing. And I've been working on the chain.”

“Excellent.” I grinned, eager to see what he'd done.

The Merchants had never done anything to me personally, although they'd hurt a lot of people with their drugs, and probably killed a few as well. It was long since time that they got cleaned out once and for all. I was actually at a loss as to why the PRT hadn't done it. Or the Protectorate. From what I knew of the Wards, they could do it on a lazy Sunday afternoon. For God's sake, New Wave could put them all behind bars with a minimum of effort. The fact that none of the heroes in Brockton Bay had ever bothered to exert themselves to clean up a gang that actually revolved around selling drugs said more about them, and about Brockton Bay, than it did about the Merchants.

Which made our upcoming raid all the more satisfying; on the one hand, I'd be breaking in the armour and finding out what needed to be improved. On the other, I would be ridding the city of a legitimate problem that didn't even have the dubious cover of racial unity to hide behind. Though I supposed that someone should fill Lung in on the historical relationships between Korea, Japan and China. And ask him exactly what a 'typical Asian' looked like. I snorted with laughter.

“What's funny?” asked Victor as we stepped into the lab. Ahead was the armour; trying to keep my eagerness from showing too much, I made toward it.

“I was just thinking about Lung,” I said as I circled the armour, admiring it. It was certainly taller, standing about seven and a half feet tall. Imposing, it could do. I was also willing to bet on 'terrifying'. “You know how he basically pulls everyone with Asian heritage into the ABB?”

“Yeah?” he asked, leaning against a pillar and crossing his arms. “What's funny about that?”

I smirked at him. “What if he just calls them all 'Asian' because he can't tell them apart?” Drawing on my power, I looked at the deeper details of the armour. There were layered metal plates, as well as extendible rods on the forearms. The latter looked like they could telescope out, with needle-sharp spikes right at the core. And on the back were two separate drums, each holding a mechanism involving magnets and copper windings …

I looked over to where Victor was leaning against the pillar, shaking with laughter. “You built electricity generators. They look good.”

“ … can't tell them apart … oh, god. I'm gonna have to tell Othala that one.” He straightened up and faced me, though I noted a persistent amused expression on his face. “Yeah, it looks good on the drawing board, but I'll be interested to see how it goes in the field.”

“I could test it now,” I suggested.

Assume positive control: armour.

Open armour front.

Turning around, I stepped backward on to the foot-plates inside the armour, a good twelve inches above the ground. However, while my legs fit into the armour's legs, there was no place for my arms to go inside the armour's limbs. There was space inside the torso for them, of course, as well as a pair of grab-bars I could hold on to. This allowed the arms to be longer than my own, and the hands to be much larger than any kind of gauntlet that I'd be able to use. They still looked realistic, but now they supplied serious levels of crushing power, if I ever needed to pop someone's skull like a grape. The layout led to the armour's thighs being proportionately shorter than normal, having to accommodate to my real femur length, but while this could have been a problem, Victor had obviously designed the armour to draw attention away from this aspect.

I had already noted that my head would not protrude into the armour's helmet, which had been designed to look like the helmet of a medieval knight. As the armour closed, a pair of goggles slid over my face; a few seconds later, I realised that it was the bottom end of a periscope that had its viewpoint within the helmet itself. The mirrors were made of some sort of polished metal, and I was able to turn the helmet to attain the same field of view that I would have had normally.

“How's the fit?” At Victor's question, I turned to look at him. When I tilted my head forward, the helmet inclined as well, bringing him into view.

“Comfortable,” I stated. I took a step, then another. The 'boots' were wide and had soles of jointed metal that could be flexed for extra traction. “It is … intuitive. And very stable.” All the internal surfaces seemed to be lined with silicone gel. “Insulated?”

“Of course.” He drew himself up stiffly. “I'm not about to let you electrocute yourself, after all.”

Posture: offended.

Expression: smile.

Analysis: offended posture is exaggerated for humorous effect.

“That's appreciated,” I said, then my attention moved on to something else of interest. “You've stored the chain within the forearms.”

“Correct,” he said. “Have you figured out how to use it?”

By way of answer, I snapped my left forearm out straight and raised the palm to face the far wall. Under my direction, an aperture opened at the base of the palm and the chain emerged at speed, unwinding from the reel within the forearm. I halted the outrush when thirty feet had come out, then turned and lashed the chain at a pillar. It hummed through the air and smashed into the concrete before wrapping around the barrier with almost unstoppable force.

“Christ.” Victor hadn't moved. “You'll terrify those drug-dealing fuckers.”

“That is the idea.” I unwound the chain and retracted it. “Do you have a broom?”

“Storage closet, just over there.” He gestured, but I had already detected the closet. “Want me to get it?”

“No need.” Assume positive control: closet door. The door swung open, and the chain darted past Victor to enter the closet. He jumped back out of the way, even though I had calculated the necessary clearances. I wrapped the end of the chain around the broom handle and brought it back out of the closet. Then I brought the chain out from the right forearm of the suit. The rotary blades within the links were turned so that they would not cut anything or be dulled while in storage; with no effort at all, I brought them to bear and spun them up.

Wrapping the chain with the spinning blades around the top few inches of the broom handle caused that section of wood to disintegrate into a shower of sawdust. I tried again, more carefully, and found that even a casual brush of the chain against the broomstick would slice it through in seconds. By the time I ceased experimenting, the broom handle was two feet shorter, and several short sections of broomstick were lying on the floor.

“Well,” Victor remarked as I fetched a dustpan from the closet – still using the chains, but without the blades – and cleaned up the mess I had made. “They're effective, I'll give them that.”

“What are they made of?” I asked. While using them, I had determined that they were composed of a denser, heavier metal than the steel used in the links, but I didn't know what it was.

“Tungsten carbide,” he informed me. “It's not cheap, but it's heavier than lead and a lot harder. I talked to Kaiser and we think it should be able to cut guns in half.”

“That shouldn't be too much of a problem to find out,” I said practically. “There is a damaged firearm on the workbench over there. May I use it to test the blades?” I had little doubt that I would be allowed to do just that, but I decided to wait for permission, so as to maintain good relations with my allies.

Victor glanced at the non-functioning pistol, as if he had forgotten that it was there. “Oh, uh, sure,” he said. “Just let me get some protective gear first. I want to observe this.”

It took him only a few moments to do so; while he was thus occupied, I positioned the frame of the pistol in a vice so that we could observe the effect of the blade on the metal of the gun. By the time he came over, I was experimenting with running up the blades in a ripple effect. This required me to concentrate more closely on using my powers, which I understood to be quite important.

“Okay,” he said, aiming a camera at the gun. “Do your thing.”

Spinning up the blades once more, I swiped the chain across the gun. The noise was quite distressing, far louder than when I had been subdividing the broomstick. Nor was I prepared for the shower of sparks, although I should have been. When we examined the gun, it had not been cut in half, although a sliver had been taken off the end of the barrel and the rest of the gun had sustained several deep slices, most of which would have rendered the weapon useless for any purpose more meaningful than a paperweight.

“Impressive,” Victor decided. He gestured at the gun, careful to keep his hands clear of my chains, despite the fact that the blades were no longer spinning. “Can you wreck it faster by wrapping the chain around it?”

“I believe so.” I waited until he had stepped back, then brought the chain in again. As it wrapped around the vice-trapped gun, the sparks flew everywhere in counterpoint to the screeching of tungsten carbide on steel. It took only a few seconds to destroy the gun this time; by the time I withdrew the chains, the only part of the pistol not in pieces on the bench or floor was the section enclosed by the jaws of the vice.

“Well, that's not scary as fuck at all,” Victor declared.

Tone: sarcasm.

Analysis: opposite of statement is what is actually meant.

Conclusion: chainblades will frighten Merchants.

“Do you believe that Kaiser will approve?” I asked, fetching the dustpan and brush to sweep up the remains of the pistol. I had destroyed it so thoroughly that it was no longer registering as a machine on my senses.

Sound: laughter.

Analysis: amused.

“Taylor, I can guarantee that Kaiser will be thrilled by the results of the testing. Your power, backed by appropriate engineering, makes you one of our most formidable and versatile capes. And that's not even counting your area-denial capability.” He slapped my armour on the shoulder as I retracted the chains back into the suit's forearms. “I am so looking forward to watching you kick ass on Friday night.”

“It will be a good preliminary test for the armour,” I admitted, locking the joints into place and opening the front of the armour. Stepping out of it, I dropped my powers as I stretched my arms and worked my shoulders. “Oh, that's better. It gets a bit cramped in there. Sorry.”

He chuckled and shook his head in wry amusement. “The next model will have more room in it, but this one should be adequate for dealing with the Merchants.” Then he paused. “Wait, 'preliminary' test?”

“Well, I do want to take Lung all the way down for what he did to Peter and Dad. And Oni Lee, for Bronson and Jenna,” I explained. “In fact, so long as the ABB is around, they're a constant threat to my life. I had no beef with them before all this, but they had to keep pushing.” I lowered my eyes and rubbed my knuckles, pushing my thumb down between each joint. “Am I a bad person for wanting to see Lung dead? Or wanting to hurt the ABB?”

“Hey. Taylor.” I looked up, just in time for Victor to hug me. His arms were strong, although he didn't hold me as closely as Peter did. He smelled of grease and oil and burned metal. “No, you're not a bad person. All you want to do is protect your friends and loved ones. It's not pointless revenge if it sends the right message. If someone hurt Othala, I'd be getting pretty medieval on their asses too.”

I smiled into his shoulder. “Thanks. I really appreciate your help. Othala, too. Everyone's, really.”

“Hey, that's okay.” A little awkwardly, he patted me on the back then let me go. “We're all behind you on this, you know. You're our new rising star. Kaiser's incredibly proud of you. We all are.”

The flush rose in my face to match the warm feeling in my chest, and I turned away to pretend to inspect the armour before Victor could see my confusion. I admired and respected him a lot, and I desperately wanted to live up to the praise and not be seen as just another silly teenage girl. If only I knew how to do that.

For a few moments, he didn't say anything; the silence stretched on, becoming more awkward by the second. “Oh, hey,” he said suddenly. “Check this out. Something I was working on. Auxiliary units.”

His words broke the spell; almost before I knew I was doing it, I had turned to see what he was talking about. He was over at another workbench, talking over his shoulder as he fiddled with a bunch of parts that I had only gotten the most basic of machine readings from.

“Auxiliary units?” I stepped up beside him, embarrassment forgotten for the moment, though the warmth in my chest lingered. Mr Anders is proud of me! But now I was distracting myself; a deep breath and a quick dip into my powers dispelled most of the surplus emotions, and I was able to observe with a level head. “How does that work?”

He had almost finished assembling one item; to an uncharitable observer, it would have resembled a toy helicopter with most of the important bits missing. Which, I figured, it kind of was. There was no engine and no control mechanism, just the rotors and stuff. Which is all I need. A smile spread across my face. “Is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it's a drone that nobody can hijack or jam the controls of, you're absolutely correct.” He tightened the last screw and put the drone on the bench. “Go ahead, see how well you can control it.”

I pulled up my powers and let them loose on the device before me. Its capabilities unfolded in my mind.

Assume positive control: 'auxiliary unit'.

Set rotor-blades to deliver downward thrust.

Spin up rotor-blades.

Problem: Torque is causing 'auxiliary unit' to revolve on the spot.

Solution: Spin up tail-rotor to counter torque.

Adjust rotor-blades to deliver positive lift.

Balancing the turning speed of the main rotor and the tail rotor, I piloted the auxiliary unit from the benchtop. Carefully at first, then with greater and greater ease, I piloted it about the workshop, getting a feel for its reactions and manoeuvring capability.

“Damn.” Victor watched as I brought it in for a landing on the bench. “You picked that up almost as fast as I would've, and I know how to fly choppers.”

“My power makes it almost intuitive,” I said. “Are these intended to deliver payloads to the enemy?” I had taken note that there seemed to be an empty space beneath the 'body' of the drone, but I wasn't sure what was supposed to go there.

“Well, it could actually do that,” he said. “Huh. Gonna have to explore that one. But the main idea is to put a camera there with a wireless link to a heads-up display inside your armour. This would let you scout out places where your armour can't go.”

I dropped my powers. “Could it carry a gun?” I asked. Picking up the device, I looked it over. It didn't look very sturdy. “Or would that be too heavy?”

He grinned, looking remarkably pleased with himself. “Not a gun. But something that's even better. Check this out.” Leading the way to the bench closest to the door, he pointed out a tray holding an aluminum bar and what looked like a pile of dull-grey darts of some sort. I picked up one of the 'darts' and looked it over with interest. Pointed at one end, it had three short silvery fins at the other. I figured it to be two inches long and maybe a sixteenth of an inch in diameter, though I could've been wrong about that last number.

“Okay,” I confessed. “I give up. What is it?” As I asked the question, I noticed something else weird; if I wasn't totally mistaken, it felt heavier than it really should have.

“Tungsten flechette, with aluminum fins,” Victor said cheerfully, answering the question that I probably would've asked next. “It goes in here.” He picked up the aluminum bar; at a guess, it was about four inches by two by one.

Now that I was looking properly at it, I could see a lot of tiny holes in a lattice pattern in the four-by-one side. Each hole was circular, but had three tiny slots radiating out from it. After a long moment, my brain went duh! and I inserted the 'flechette' point-first into one of the holes. It fitted perfectly, the fins fitting into the slots as if they'd been designed that way. Which, of course, they had. Dipping into my powers for a second confirmed that yes, the dart – or rather, flechette – inside the block now counted as a machine. Specifically, a machine that would allow me to launch the flechette from the block at a very high speed. That is, a gun.

Which, I realised a second later, had a backplate, meaning that the only way to launch the flechette I'd just put into it was backwards. I rolled my eyes at my own idiocy and exerted my power to make the offending projectile pop out of the hole again. Turning it around, I pushed it into place, feeling the point against my fingertip as I did so.

This was more than just a gun. Judging from the very large number of holes in the block, it consisted of lots and lots of one-shot guns. For a few seconds, I tried to count them by eye, then gave up. “Okay, fine. How many can this shoot at once? And how are we supposed to load these things before the end of the week?”

He grinned smugly at me. “To answer your first question, that block can shoot a hundred and fifty flechettes before reloading. As for the other question, I've got a machine to do it for me.” He took the bar from me and tapped the backing plate. “And it doesn't even put them in backward.”

I stuck my tongue out at him as he tried to extract the flechette once more; after a few seconds, I exerted my power and pushed it out an inch. Pulling it the rest of the way, he dropped it into the hopper of a device attached to the same bench. I'd ignored it before, because I didn't know what it did. Now I was getting an idea.

I watched as he picked up the tray of flechettes and dumped them into the hopper. Flicking a switch on the side of the machine, he observed it carefully as it started shuddering from side to side. There was a slot underneath that he slid the aluminum bar into, making sure it was solidly in place with the holes uppermost. A few moments later, the machine shut off by itself; when Victor removed the bar from the slot, every hole had the pointed tip of a flechette visible within. Keeping it so that the flechettes pointed upward, he handed it to me. I took it, noting the extra weight of the projectiles; together, they made the lightweight bar feel as heavy as steel.

“Care to try it out?” he asked lightly. “Use the corkboard as a target if you want. It won't be hurt by a few more holes.” He indicated the battered board, twenty feet away. It had several pieces of paper tacked in place.

“Sure.” I held the bar in both hands, being extra careful not to have any part of my fingers in front of those holes, then drew on my power.

Assume positive control: flechette launcher.

Aim at target.

Launch single flechette.

With a startling crack and a solid jolt, one of the flechettes left the bar; at the same time, I saw a tiny puff of dust from the corkboard. I looked at Victor. “Do you want me to shoot more?”

“No, that'll be good for now. Let's go see what we did.” Locating a pair of pliers, he hurried over to the corkboard. I put the bar on the bench and released my powers, then followed him.

“Did that flechette just break the sound barrier?” I asked as we inspected the board for the projectile. It wasn't sticking out, which made me wonder where it had gotten to; while it had been travelling very fast, the wall behind was made of concrete. While I believed that I had seen a puff of dust, it may have been my imagination. I began to wonder if I'd even hit the board. Had the flechette simply disintegrated on launch?

“You know, I think it did,” he said happily. “The Merchants are going to be pissed as hell on Friday night. I can almost guarantee it.” He paused and dug at a spot on the board with a screwdriver. “Damn,” he muttered. “I thought I saw it.”

“I think it might have gone in there,” I said, pointing at a dimple in the board. It was where I thought I'd seen the puff.

“Okay, let's check it out.” He dug away at the cork with the screwdriver, but came up empty, the tip scraping against the wooden backboard. “Nope.” He paused, and dug deeper. “Wait.”

“What?” I asked, leaning closer.

“Supersonic tungsten darts are more armour-piercing than I'd thought.” He dug a little more, then showed me what he'd found; a neat hole in the backboard as well.

In the end, we had to remove the corkboard. As we did so, small pieces of concrete from the wall behind fell to the floor. Now it was easy to see the impact point; the hole was a couple of inches across and an inch deep. Within, it was just possible to see the dull grey metal of the base of the flechette. It looked like the fins had been stripped off when they hit the concrete.

“Well.” Victor eyed the tiny grey spot in the middle of the small crater. “That's gonna be a cast-iron son of a bitch to get out.” Using the screwdriver, he dug a small pit around the shaft of the flechette, then got a grip on it with the pliers.

Which did absolutely nothing. No matter how he grunted, heaved, twisted and did his best not to swear, the tiny dart remained stubbornly in the wall. An incautious jerk pulled the pliers free and he yelped in pain as he skinned his knuckles. I hastily dipped into my powers to avoid laughing. Suspiciously, he looked at me; dropping my powers again, I gazed back innocently.

“Look, why don't you go back upstairs again?” he said. Quite plainly, I heard go back upstairs so I can swear and kick things. “The armour's definitely workable, and so are the drones and the flechette-guns. I'll let you know when I've got something else for you to test.”

That made sense. “Okay,” I said. “Do you want me to send Othala down?” As impersonally as I could, I nodded toward his hand, where blood oozed from the scrape.

His lips tightened. “If you could, yes, please.” An appreciation of the humour of the situation crept into his eyes. “Thanks for not laughing.”

“Laugh?” I asked as I did my best to hold back a smile. “Me? I'd never do such a thing.” Heading for the lift, I turned my head away so that he couldn't see the broad grin now on my face.

At least, I thought he hadn't seen the grin; as the lift doors began to shut behind me, a screwed-up paper ball bounced off the back of my head. “Nothing wrong with my aim either, wiseass,” I heard him say as the lift doors finished closing. On the way up, I let myself giggle a little, but composed my expression as I came to the top. Victor was my friend, after all.

<><>

“Hi.” I waved to Othala as I opened the door into the apartment. “How's he doing?”

She looked up from the book. “Oh, hi, Taylor. You're back already?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I've been down there for a little bit. I destroyed a broomstick and a gun, after all. What page are you up to?”

She looked down at the book again. “Oh. Wow. I just got carried away. I love the way the gods are portrayed. For an angel, Uriel's a real asshole, isn't he?”

I had to chuckle. “Hello? He is the crown prince of Hell. And the archangel of Vengeance, as well.”

“Oh. Right. Good point.” She got up and placed the book back in the book-stand. “So do they meet any other gods? I mean, so far it's only been Hell and a mention of Heaven, or at least angels.”

I nodded as I sat down. “Yeah, they meet a few. I've gotten as far as where they have a bit of a standoff with the Norse gods. Loki and Thor are very unhappy with them.” Taking Dad's hand, I squeezed it. It may have been my imagination, but the return squeeze felt a fraction stronger.

“Because of what Avis has been up to,” she guessed. “I can't wait to read that bit.” She touched the page. “I'd just got to there when you came in, where Uriel's making Avis crawl.”

I took her hand and squeezed it as well. “Thanks again. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help in all this.”

Leaning over, she kissed me on the forehead. “You're one of us. We help each other because that's what we do.”

When Peter first told me about that, I thought he was full of shit. Boy, was I wrong. I couldn't stop the smile from spreading across my face. Not that I really wanted to. “Oh, yeah. Talking about helping. Victor's skinned his knuckles, trying to pull a supersonic tungsten dart out of a concrete wall with a pair of pliers. He might need you to go and kiss it better.” One corner of my mouth twitched as I tried not to laugh at that image.

She snorted. “Okay, now this I have to see. Talk to you later, Taylor.” With a beaming smile and a wave, she left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

My sigh of contentment was heartfelt. I had love and support from all sides. Peter and Cassie, Victor and Othala, and even Kaiser himself; they were all there for me. Even Dad was still alive, and getting better every day. Once he woke up, my life would be complete again.

Raising my eyes to the book, I began to read out loud.

"Uriel’s expression darkened as he approached and he made a grand gesture with one hand for Avis to keep going.

"With a heartfelt moan, Avis rolled back to his stomach and turned towards the arctic wastelands before him. On his naked stomach, this was going to hurt—a lot. And by forcing him to do this without laying a finger on him, Uriel would be keeping his word of not personally causing him any further harm. To everyone else, it would appear as if Avis had decided to push himself through the punishment of The Ninth Level one last time to prove his sincere regret at his treatment of Clarise; something Uriel could never be held accountable for. Rot his shining hide. Heaven’s influence or not, there was still a big part of that bastard that was a sneaky, manipulative demon."

<><>

Later That Afternoon

ABB Territory

The nondescript vehicle stopped near the ABB drug house. As the guards took notice, three men climbed from the car. They were armed, but their hands were empty. Their clothing was identical; dark jackets over dark clothing. They may have been wearing body armour, or they might just have been that bulky. While their hair was cut close to the scalp, they didn't have the look of Empire skinheads. Two stayed by the car, while the third approached the front steps of the drug house. The two guards raised their guns and aimed them at him. “Hold it, white boy,” snapped one of them. “Turn around and walk away, right the fuck now.”

The man stopped. “Got a message for your boss,” he said plainly. “Something he'll want to hear.”

After sharing a glance with his partner, the guard stared at the newcomer. “What, Jin?” he asked blankly.

“No, your boss,” the man said patiently. “The guy who's in charge of the ABB. You know. Lung.”

“Oh.” The guard blinked a couple of times. “You want to talk to him? Because he probably doesn't want to talk to you.”

“No. I've got a letter for him to read.” Moving carefully, the newcomer held his jacket open to show the letter in question, in an inside pocket. “I'm gonna take it out now.”

Both guns were trained on him now, fingers on triggers. “You be real careful about that.”

Ignoring the admonition, the man hooked the letter out with two fingers, then let it fall to the asphalt at his feet. He nodded to them, then turned and began to walk away.

“Wait!” called the guard. “Who are you working for?”

“He'll figure it out.” The man was back at the car by now. All three of them climbed back in; moments later, the vehicle was out of sight.

After looking around carefully, the guard trotted down the steps and retrieved the letter, holding it carefully. On the front was written Lung in careful script. “It's for him, all right” he said.

“What do we do with it?” asked his colleague.

The answer was obvious. “We make fucking sure he gets it.”

Neither one even considered opening the letter.

<><>

PRT Building

Wards Base

That Night

Sophia stared at the rectangular white object on her bed. It hadn't been there when she went out to go to the cafeteria, but now it was. Someone had come into her personal, private area – about the only private area she had any more – and left a letter on her fucking bed. Snatching it up, she prepared to storm into the common area and find out whoever had left it there, so she could shove it up their ass … then stopped.

Wait. Mail doesn't get delivered here.

That one fact got her attention. The other thing that caused her to stop and think was the fact that there was something small and bulky inside the envelope. Ripping open the letter, she tipped it, and a small key fell into her palm. The type of key, to be precise, that could be used to remove and deactivate her ankle bracelet without setting off alarms.

What. The. Fuck.

There was a note in the envelope; grabbing it, she unfolded it and read the careful writing.

Taylor and Daniel Hebert are living in the Medhall building.

Taylor Hebert is a cape of some power.

Taylor and the rest of the Empire will be busy on Friday night.

Certain interests are willing to pay quite a large amount for Daniel Hebert.

If you are interested, send a text to the following number within 48 hours.

There was a number appended. Carefully, Sophia tore that number away from the rest of the letter. For the next five minutes, she ripped the letter and envelope into small pieces; later, she would visit the bathroom and flush them all away.

In the meantime, she was content to sit on her bed and plan out her revenge. At fucking last. Things are going my way.

She couldn't wait.

Part 20