War Games Pt 7 (Patreon)

Part Seven: Sleight of Hand

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

Miss Militia

Hannah examined the scorched spot on the asphalt, moving the high-powered flashlight carefully from side to side. She wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell, but didn't let it distract her from the matter at hand. Turning to Captain Hastings, she asked, “This was a maser, correct? A microwave laser?”

“Yes.” Geneva was wearing a ship-suit of a slightly different pattern to the one she'd had on when Hannah first met her, though the pulse pistol still rode at her hip. Sartorial accoutrements aside, she didn't seem the least bit fazed by the incident. “I directed Sean to hit the intruder with an unfocused burst, powerful enough to set cloth on fire but not enough to cause more than second-degree burns to exposed skin.” She nodded toward the scorch-mark. “I think it's obvious what happened here.”

Hannah thought so too, but she wasn't leaving anything to chance. After all, Geneva may have spotted something she'd missed. “So walk me through it, so I can brief the Director.” She was beginning to regret accepting the position of liaison to the newcomers, as fascinating as the ship and the people in it were. Not only was the ship equipped with insanely high-powered weaponry, but it also seemed entirely willing to defend itself with them—and this was important—inside a metropolitan area. “You saw someone coming, and then …?”

“Sean acquired the traces of nine parahumans loitering in the area,” Geneva stated at once. She didn't have to explain what she meant by 'traces'. “Three were standing off, on top of a building in that direction.” She pointed. “We've cross-referenced it with a plan of the city, if you're interested in exactly which one. One was approaching the Bond James Bond from the same direction. The other five were in the surface vehicle that was coming at us from the other direction. These were the ones you call the Merchants, correct?”

“Yes,” agreed Hannah. “We'll talk about how you shot at them with a particle beam cannon in a moment.” Oddly enough, in a city with five Tinkers (three of them villains, though Bakuda was now in the Birdcage), she'd never had to actually use that particular phrasing before. “I'm interested in the lone parahuman. What happened then?”

“He got inside the perimeter fence, and we still didn't have a good sensor lock on him,” Geneva said. “Sean and I theorised that he might be one of these Strangers you've got, or perhaps someone with good chameleonwear. Either way, I decided on a low-power shot with the maser array to dissuade him and simultaneously alert the guard force to his presence. A screaming man running around in a burning costume would find it hard to be stealthy, after all.” Somehow, she managed to keep a straight face while delivering that line.

“I would imagine so.” Hannah didn't crack a smile, though it wasn't easy. Someone had died here, after all. “So Sean shot at the intruder, and there was an explosion. Scorchmarks but no body parts. You think it was Fog?” The Empire cape wouldn't have been her first choice, but the logic was inescapable. If the maser had been used at sufficient power to vaporise a human body, the asphalt would've certainly melted as well.

“Sean suggested it, and Dragon concurred.” Geneva shrugged. “She knows far more about the local parahuman scene than Sean or me, including the stuff that's not in the public record. If she thinks it's plausible, then I'm going to go with that for the time being. From all I've read, Geoff Schmidt was a nasty piece of work with more than one murder to his name.” She didn't sound particularly regretful.

“So you think he just went up like a … like a flour bomb?” Hannah had heard of the phenomenon before, but she'd never considered that a parahuman would be susceptible to that sort of thing. It seemed such a … trivial way to go. It was hard to credit that any enemy of the Empire could've disposed of the man with a lit cigarette. “I'm having trouble seeing that.”

Geneva paused, then nodded. “Ah. I understand. Not quite like that. However, if it was Fog, he was dispersed, and the particulates he was composed of were quite possibly organic in some way. A human body can't take serious harm from a brief burst of microwaves, because the cells are packed closely together. Some take extra harm to shield the others, and evolution allows the human body to slough off damaged skin and regrow epidermis in its place. But if the particulates are dispersed widely enough that they all heat up at once, and a significant proportion of them are exposed to energy sufficient to make cloth catch fire, a chain reaction can take place. And the maser was set on dispersal, so as to catch as wide an area as possible in its beam. So … yes, that's our working theory.”

“I see.” Hannah nodded; it definitely made a lot of sense. There was just one more matter to clear up. “You didn't offer a warning before you opened fire? With either Fog or the Merchants?” She wasn't asking so much for herself so much as for the absolute certainty that someone in the chain of command above her was certain to ask her, and she needed an answer she could pass on.

Captain Hastings raised one silvery, and very expressive, eyebrow. “The Bond James Bond is a warship,” she reminded Hannah. “Sean is a very old and very experienced soldier. Warnings allow your enemy the opportunity to take cover and they let him know you can see him. We used warning shots. And before you ask, a warning shot that misses is wasted ammunition. It's better to hit them non-lethally; this both hampers them and explains to them that yes, we do actually have them targeted. Both of which work wonders against their morale.” She paused, tilting her head slightly, then chuckled. “Sean is reminding me that we deliberately missed with our warning shot against Kramer's ship when we rescued Reynaud. That was a special case; we didn't know where in the ship he might be, and accidents can still happen.”

“Such as with Fog.” Hannah had no particular issue with the fact that an Empire cape was probably dead. Ever since she'd gotten her powers, death had lost its emotional impact on her. However, other people were almost guaranteed to fly off the handle when informed that the time-travelling aliens in the AI-controlled spaceship had almost casually executed someone for getting too close. Not that she saw matters in exactly that light, but some would. Those sympathetic to the Empire's cause—and, in her opinion, there were were altogether too many of those in Brockton Bay—were likely to push that point of view exclusively. Never mind that Fog's presence inside the perimeter could in no way be seen as innocent, or that his presence had been a clear and present danger to both the crew of the ship and the PRT soldiers guarding the vessel. “That was an accident, right? You had no intention of killing him?”

From the look on Geneva's face, she'd figured out exactly what Hannah was trying to hint towards. “It was absolutely an accident,” she confirmed. “The maximum we intended was a painful but superficial burn. People tend to take notice of object lessons, especially when they involve extremely public humiliation, followed by arrest.”

“And the same regarding the Merchants, I suppose?” Hannah switched the flashlight off. There was nothing of note she could pick out with the naked eye, though she'd already given orders to have it cordoned off and investigated more closely come daylight. “Wasn't it somewhat extreme to target them with a particle beam? Couldn't you have used something with a little more restraint?”

Geneva snorted. “As opposed to having Sean spin up the railgun and splatter them all over the street, I'm pretty sure what we did counts as 'restraint'. Our scans didn't show any significant shielding in that junker they were driving, so we dialled it right back and knocked them out without doing any biological damage. The ionising effect was merely an amusing side benefit.” She gave Hannah an appraising stare. “Once word gets out, the remainder of the criminal element in town is likely to be somewhat more circumspect about messing with the Bond James Bond. Is that your assessment, too?”

“Well, considering how you turned night into day for half a mile with those godawful searchlights, I'd be astonished if word didn't get out,” Hannah replied with some asperity. “As for whether the cape gangs would step back, you've just facilitated the capture of one of the two criminal Tinkers left in town. The Empire's shown their interest already, but they probably don't even know what happened to Fog, which might make them hold off for a time. As for the rest of them …”

“Dragon says the rest of them are bit-part players, either hit-and-run specialists like the Undersiders or strictly human mooks like Coil's gang,” reported Geneva. “There's also Faultline's Crew, but they apparently only take out-of-town jobs.” She frowned, as if Dragon's meaning had only just dawned on her. “What, really?”

“Really,” confirmed Hannah. “They don't commit Federal crimes, and they only pull out-of-state jobs. More importantly, they're careful about not hurting innocents. If we're going to have villains in town, I'd prefer to have villains like them.” She smiled under her scarf at Geneva's startled expression. “Not that I'd ever say that anywhere the news crews could hear me, but villains are a fact of life around here. Everyone has opinions on them, especially on PHO.”

Geneva nodded. “I know about that one. Not that I've tried it yet, but Reynaud's apparently taking his account out for a spin right now.” She let out a noise of amusement. “Actually, it's probably a good thing that he doesn't have an aug quite yet. If he's only used to manual Grid access, he'll probably be right at home here. They might not even notice he's from somewhere else.”

That earned her an incredulous glance. Hannah wasn't a regular visitor to the boards, but she found they were a good place to get an idea of how the public was reacting to new events. She'd skimmed them briefly earlier in the evening and found several threads slowly but surely exploding over the Bond James Bond's dramatic debut. How they'd react to the latest incident, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

“Let me ask you a question,” she said, after having rummaged through her mind for several ways to respond to Geneva's comment. “If you went on this Grid back in your time, shortly after a totally paradigm-shifting event occurred, and you claimed to be someone who was part of said event, what would the response be like?” She could only hope Reynaud was resilient enough to weather the storm of attention—both positive and negative—that he was inevitably going to earn from the tinfoil-hat crowd just for merely existing. He seemed to be quick-witted enough, which was a point in his favour.

“Then,” Geneva said firmly, “whoever it was would be mobbed to a fare-thee-well. Even before he showed up, conspiracy nuts would be spouting half-assed theories covering a range of interpretations. Once he identified himself, some of them would beg him for the truth of the matter, while others would accuse him of being a fake so they could push their own version of events. And among those who took him seriously, maybe half would actually listen to what he's saying, while the rest cherry-picked what they wanted from it to support their own agendas.” She folded her arms and gave Hannah a satisfied nod. “What's it like in this era?”

Hannah tilted her hand back and forth. “About the same, actually,” she said judiciously. “Don't forget; for nearly thirty years, we've had people with super-powers messing up the world and each other, sometimes on purpose. For almost as long, we've had people watching capes and trying to make sense of their motivations. Which isn't the easiest thing to do, because powers are impossible to predict. Worse, getting powers is pretty well guaranteed to send people off kilter, even if it's only by a little bit. As you can imagine, this has resulted in distinctly bizarre situations from time to time, which the self-styled cape experts then try to analyse and make sense of. And it's amazing how often the weirdest explanation has actually been the correct one.”

“Really? I find it hard to believe a pre-Runcible version of the Grid would be that bad.” Geneva's large eyes went slightly unfocused. “I'm just going to have a look …” A moment passed, while Hannah wondered just how easy it would be to get used to having an aug. Then Geneva blinked a couple of times, the weird secondary eyelids wiping across her eyes and making her look just a little more startled. “Okay, you win. That's some crazy speculation, right there. Just one question: what's a Case Fifty-Three?”

Mentally, Hannah facepalmed. As she'd expected, the tinfoil-hats were out in force. “It's shorthand for capes with inhuman appearances. They're marked out with a C-shaped tattoo and retrograde amnesia. Nobody really knows what that's about, but there's no shortage of theories.”

“Inhuman appearances?” Geneva stared at her. “Reynaud's a perfectly normal seadapt. That sort of genemod's not cheap but it's not priced out of the market either.” She shook her head. “I can't believe that even with super-powers, this sort of thing isn't more common.”

“Perfectly normal for your time, maybe,” Hannah pointed out. “Here and now, powers tend to screw people over rather than help them. There's very few people who could reliably tailor someone else's appearance in a non-harmful way. I can think of maybe two off the top of my head, and I'm not at all certain about Panacea. From everything I've heard, she can only fix things, not change them.” She paused as a disquieting thought occurred to her. “Getting back to Reynaud, are you sure he's okay to be online with that crowd? They can get pretty brutal on occasion, and at least some of them are liable to keep jumping up and down on the Case Fifty-Three button.”

Geneva smiled. “That's the last thing we've got to worry about. Don't forget, Dragon just moved in. She's got sub-minds taking care of business elsewhere while she personally moderates the discussion thread that Reynaud's in right now. If anyone tries to make a personal attack, the comment's deleted before it shows on the screen, and that person gets a warning. Second offence, they get a temp ban.” She chuckled at the look on Hannah's face. “It seems she's taking her Polity citizenship very seriously. I think she's got a future in law enforcement when she gets back home. We'll certainly put in a good word for her.”

“I'm impressed,” Hannah said. “But what I'm most surprised at is that Dragon's a mod on PHO. I never even heard a rumour about that … but then, I guess I don't run in the crowd which would spread that sort of thing around.” She shrugged. “I guess it's not important, anyway. I'm pleased that she's keeping an eye on him.”

Geneva chuckled. “There's exactly three other citizens of the Polity on Earth right now. I go armed and Sean goes very armed, so Reynaud's the only one who really needs assistance at the moment. Besides, I suspect she enjoys chatting to someone who sees AI as nothing special. So she's keeping him company till he gets tired again. Me, I think I'll take a stroll.”

“Wait, what? No!” Hannah stepped in front of Geneva as she moved toward the opening in the barricade around the Bond James Bond. “It's far too dangerous. There's already been two attacks on the ship. If you go off on your own, someone might try something. This is a city where looking different can get you killed, and law enforcement is going to be stretched to the limit in the aftermath of Leviathan. I'm not letting you get hurt on my watch.”

“Okay, I get it.” Geneva looked Hannah in the eye and nodded seriously. “It's the past. A dangerous place to be, and all that.” She brushed her fingers over the pulse pistol at her hip. “But don't forget, I'm the one who rescued Reynaud from Kramer. Sean might've disabled Kramer's ship, but I went in there to extract him. I'm not exactly a stranger to problematic situations.” Raising her hands to shoulder height, she gestured outward. “But I won't be looking for trouble. I just want to go out there, have a cup of tea or something, and see what ordinary folk in Brockton Bay really thinks of people like me.”

“Hm.” Hannah didn't like this; not in the slightest. However, given that Geneva very explicitly wasn't a prisoner, there wasn't much Hannah could to to stop the elfin woman from going for a stroll if she so wished. Of course, there was a simple solution to the problem. “Fine, but I'm coming with you.” Sean had amply demonstrated that he was capable of taking care of himself already, so she had little in the way of concern there.

For a moment, it looked as though Geneva was going to argue the point, but then she chuckled and linked her arm through Hannah's. “Sure. Sean's located a coffee shop that he thinks I might like. Let's go wow the locals.”

<><>

Geneva

I hope you know what you're doing, lass. Sean wasn't one to needlessly show concern, but she could hear it in his voice now. We don't know anything good about this bug manipulator. This could be a trap for you, or a way to get you out of the ship, or both.

We both know the only extant bug manipulator in Brockton Bay is Skitter, and she's a teenaged girl, Geneva reminded him. Footage of the pre-fight gathering suggests that she's on the outs with her previous team. I'm not sure if she wants to emigrate to the Polity, or something else, but I intend to find out.

I meant anything significant, Sean replied, just a little testily. She's a villain who helped rob a bank and attacked a fundraiser. Her team may have been the ones to reveal the identities of the Empire Eighty-Eight. That caused a lot of collateral damage.

Well, if it turns out she wants to use me for something shady, I'll politely say no. And if politeness doesn't work, I'll shout. She didn't bother mentioning Miss Militia's presence; Sean already knew the Protectorate cape was along for the ride. It was just one more reason to not have to worry about Skitter pulling something untoward.

“You're very quiet.” At Geneva's side, Miss Militia was keeping pace with her. “Is everything okay?” Her words weren't so overt as to suggest going back if it wasn't, but the inference hung in the air anyway. Miss Militia's reasons were easy to understand, and if Geneva hadn't been intrigued by the bug girl's request for help, she would probably have accepted them and not gone to the meeting at all.

But she was going, because Skitter had contacted them instead of the superheroes, which meant the cape was trusting someone from the crew to show up. Reynaud was out for several reasons; mainly, that he was under effective house arrest until the idiotic quarantine could be lifted. In addition, he had no experience at doing this sort of thing, and had little excuse for going to a coffee shop—not that she would've sent him into a situation like this anyway. Given that Sean's telefactors would probably spook the girl into bolting before a word was spoken, it was up to Geneva to see what was going on.

“I'm fine,” she replied cheerfully. “I was just enjoying the night air. It's nice to be out and about in a real gravity well for once. Unfiltered air, actual pollutants, real trash on the ground.” She kicked a soda can to one side. “Shipside, everything's so sanitised and clean all the time that it's a pleasure to get out and about.” A random memory made her chuckle. “Though the one time we visited Cull, I didn't stay outside for long. The locals are weird, and we landed in the middle of a dust storm. Took me days to get the crap out of my hair.”

“I see.” The tone of Miss Militia's voice said she didn't, not really. Geneva wasn't overly surprised; the anecdote had lacked a lot of necessary context. Still, she had to give the superhero credit for trying. “I guess you'd visit a lot of planets. Are these people from Cull … well, aliens? I mean, that's why you called them weird, right?”

“Human stock, actually.” Geneva chuckled again. “Cull's a lot drier than Earth. Reynaud would hate it there. When they first colonised the place, they purchased a genemod that made them better adapted to its environment. But a few side effects crept in and bred true, which led to an odd physical appearance. Now the locals call themselves 'true humans', with the strong inference that everyone else isn't.” She shrugged. “They've also got a bit of an attitude, which was the other reason we didn't stay long. Handed over the guy we'd been contracted to catch, collected our bounty and left. No sightseeing for me.”

“And are there any aliens?” Miss Militia sounded openly curious now. “Or are all the planets inhabited by genemod humans like you and Reynaud?” She shook her head. “I guess I'm still coming to terms with the fact there's a whole universe out there. Or will be, in your world.” Looking up toward the night sky, she gestured at the few dim stars that could be seen past the glow of the street-lights. “I can only hope we manage to get out there in the next few centuries, like you guys did, and meet whoever's out there.” She pointed down the street at where a plate-glass window spilled light across the sidewalk. “Is that where you were looking to go?”

“Yes, that's the place,” Geneva confirmed. “But to answer your question, we've only found the one sapient alien race. There were more, as I said in the Director's office. The Jain, the Atheter and the Csorians. Popular rumour has it they reshaped solar systems, but even the Atheter vanished from the universe about half a million years before humanity arrived on the scene. Though there's a story going around that Masadan gabbleducks are smarter than they look. And hooders are downright terrifying.”

“Okay, you've got to be pulling my leg now,” Miss Militia objected as she pushed open the door of the coffee shop. “There are alien creatures called gabbleducks and hooders? How did that come about?” As Geneva watched, her eyes roved over the customers; a couple, a man on his own, and a bespectacled teenaged girl sitting in the corner booth and reading a book.

Geneva let her eyes skate over the customers as well. None of the adults came close to fitting Skitter's body type, but the girl was a perfect match. That's got to be her. Now, how do I get it to her? Turning slightly away from Miss Militia under the guise of looking over at the counter, she palmed the item she'd brought from the Bond James Bond in her left hand, then wriggled her closed fist slightly. “Those ones were named by the explorers that first saw them, and they have to be seen to be believed.” She paused. “The intelligent aliens we found were the Prador. We've only got a few hints as to what the other races were like, but we know a lot about the Prador.” A heartfelt grimace crossed her face. “There's only a few stories Sean's willing to tell me about the Wars, but they're pretty nasty.”

Miss Militia nodded. “Like the Grant's World one. So what do the Prador look like?” Her curiosity was obviously well alight by now. “I mean, are they humanoid, like Klingons or whatever?” She approached the counter and addressed the server. “I'll have a flat white with one sugar. Also, give my friend whatever she wants. Bill it to the PRT. Both of them to go, please.”

Geneva felt several insects land on her closed fist. Opened her fingers slightly, she sensed one of the multi-legged creatures wriggling into her hand until it touched the device cupped in her palm. From the corner of her eye, she saw the girl push the book into a backpack and get to her feet. She knows I've got something to give her. Is she leaving? Am I supposed to lose Miss Militia and meet her outside? “Think of … a crab,” she said after a moment. “Now, give it a shell a few metres across. Make it fast-moving, carnivorous, cannibalistic, smart, spacefaring, and fanatical. Then add in an utter disregard for any rules of war, and a taste for human flesh.” She gave Miss Militia a flat look. “That's your average Prador soldier, right there. The ones in charge are bigger.” Turning back to the counter, she changed mental gears as she favoured the woman with a smile. “I'll have a cup of Darjeeling tea with one sugar and no milk, please.” She gestured behind the counter. “Your tea is made from leaves that were actually harvested from plants grown in the dirt, correct?” She hadn't had much to do with naturally-produced foodstuffs before now, which made it somewhat of a novelty to her.

The server behind the counter was an overweight woman with skin the same colour as Miss Militia's, and hair just beginning to show grey. Back in the Polity, Geneva wouldn't have been able to tell her age from context; she could've been a genemodded twenty or well into her second century. In this setting, with no anti-ageing treatments available, Geneva's best guess put her somewhere between forty and sixty. She gave Geneva a jaded look. “Far as I know, honey,” she replied tiredly, then her eyes widened as her brain caught up with what she was seeing. “You're the girl from that thing parked in front of the PRT building, right? Kicked nine shades of shit out of Leviathan then lit up the whole damn sky?”

Geneva nodded, suppressing the grin that threatened to spread across her face. This wasn't just due to the woman's greeting; she could also see, on the plot Sean was sending to her aug, the teenager's U-space trace coming up behind her. Perfect. This is one sharp girl. “That's me,” she confirmed. “Call me Geneva.” She held out her hand. “I'm very pleased to meet you … ?”

“Stella,” the woman said reflexively, shaking Geneva's hand. “Shit, how old are you, Geneva? You can't be older'n my youngest. And you went out against that monster?” She shook her head. “It's a terrible, terrible world.”

“I'm older than I look,” Geneva advised her. “But that's okay. I'm just glad we were in the neighbourhood and could help out.” She let go Stella's hand and stepped away from the counter. The teenager was waiting patiently behind her, head down and hands bundled into her hoodie pockets, so Geneva indicated her with a tilt of her head. “Sorry, I'll just get out of your way.”

“It's okay,” the girl said, glancing shyly up at her. “I saw you on TV. You were pretty cool. They say you saved a lot of lives.” She had large, dark eyes behind round-lensed glasses that made them look even larger; Geneva could see the tension and wariness in her gaze.

“You're young to be out and about at this hour,” Miss Militia said, addressing the girl directly. Her tone was sharp and suspicious. “Why aren't you home in bed?” An angular projectile weapon of some sort was strapped to her chest while her hands hung loose and empty, but Geneva had seen her weapon shift and reform before; she was anything but unarmed.

“Dad and I had a fight just before Leviathan, so I ran away from home,” the girl replied, biting her words off. “I don't know if the house is still there. I don't even know if he's still alive. I do know I'm not ready to find out. So I'm gonna drink some more coffee, and read some more of my book, then go back to my motel room and try to get some sleep, because it's been a really shitty day. Is that okay with you, or are you gonna get on my case some more?” The raw pain in her voice, Geneva decided, was genuine.

“Listen, I'm going to sit down, okay?” Geneva nodded to the server. “Nice meeting you, Stella.” She gave the teenager an encouraging smile. “And you too.” Stepping around behind the teenager, Geneva brushed past her. By design rather than accident, this brought her left hand in close proximity with the girl's hoodie pocket.

Geneva Hastings was sixty-four solstan years old, but anti-ageing treatments had left her looking as though she were in her late teens or early twenties. Ironically, even though in the Polity her actual age was seen to be on the young side—she hadn't reached her first century, after all—her outward appearance wasn't a factor in how people treated her. Genemods and bodysculpt were a fact of life, after all. Anyone could look like anything, within reason. Here in the past (though of another branch of history) said appearance made people see her as actually being young, despite her being older than most of them. Life was odd, sometimes.

Of course, appearance wasn't as important as experience. Over the four decades and change of her adult life, Geneva had managed to lead an interesting career. Not everything she'd done had been entirely legal, though she never devolved into out-and-out crime in the manner of her idiot ex-husband. However, she had spent quality time getting very good at some time-honoured techniques, such as the one she employed now. Brush passes were older than modern civilisation, but they still had their uses in the bounty hunter business, especially in lower-tech civilisations.

Geneva never broke step and in fact did not seem to make any significant contact with the girl, but when she reached the table she'd picked out, her loosely-closed left hand was empty and the device it had contained was now tucked into the girl's left hoodie pocket. She pulled out a chair and sat down with her back to the wall—old habits died hard—and waited for Miss Militia to join her.

A few moments later, the flag-clad superhero pulled out a chair that allowed her to watch both the door and the teenager, and sat down. In silence, they both watched the girl as she negotiated for another cup of coffee, put down some money, then retreated to her corner booth with the steaming cup.

As the girl took her book out of the pack once more, Geneva turned to Miss Militia. “Any particular reason you were coming down on her like that?” she asked. “Do you know her? Is she someone I should be wary of?” She kept her tone light and her voice curious; anything Miss Militia knew about the girl would be useful, of course.

Miss Militia flickered a glance at Geneva. “No. I just didn't like her getting that close to you. If she'd had a gun or a knife …” She put her hands on the table, and a heavy pistol formed under one of them. “I don't know if I could've stopped it in time.”

“Her hands were in the wrong position, her wrists weren't flexed right, and she would've had to twist her body to line something up on me,” Geneva pointed out, wondering if Miss Militia was just testing her or if she really hadn't seen the same things Geneva had. “Besides, from the way her sleeves were stretched, she had the ends of them wrapped over her hands. I think she's cold, tired and deeply unhappy with the world, but not out to cause trouble.”

“Mm.” The hiss and gurgle of the espresso machine behind the counter raised the ambient noise a few notches, but Miss Militia kept her voice level. “You want to come clean with me about why we're here? You didn't decide to come to this particular coffee shop on a whim. You're here for a reason. Is it that girl?” She tilted her head fractionally in the direction of the teenager in the corner booth. “Do you know her? Was this some sort of meet? Is she one of yours?”

“Really? That's where you're going with this?” Geneva shook her head and smiled. “I don't know her. I've never met her before we walked in here. She's not from off-planet, that much I can tell you.” She leaned closer to Miss Militia. “I've been on-planet for less than twenty-four hours, and in-system for maybe seventy-two. Most of that time, we spent sneaking up to have a good hard look at the planet's defences to make sure we wouldn't get shot out of the sky the moment we showed ourselves. Why, exactly, would I spend the first spare moment I had to go wandering off for a covert meeting with someone I've never met before?”

“I don't know.” Miss Militia's tone was regrettably cynical for someone of her (relatively) tender years. She glanced again at the girl, who was once more apparently absorbed in her book. “But every instinct I have says something is going on here. And she's involved in it, somehow. What is she to you?”

“She's not one of ours.” Geneva made it a flat statement. “See her glasses? They actually have a refractive index. Nobody in the Polity wears glasses any more, except as a fashion statement, or for a heads-up display if they can't use an aug for some reason. This is because eye problems are genetically fixed before birth, and I'm pretty sure our autodoc can't be programmed to create physical problems, at least not so specifically. So she's a local. Anything other than that, I can't tell you. Sorry. Like I said, I've never met her before.” She nodded toward the server, who was just coming out from behind the counter with a tray. “You may as well ask Stella if she's a member of my crew.”

Miss Militia gave her a hard look, but refrained from saying anything as Stella reached the table. “One flat white, one Darjeeling tea with sugar.” She beamed at Geneva as she put the cups in front of them. “Forgot to say earlier, my brother and his family were in the shelter under the library. He says he's gonna have nightmares for the rest of his life about the scratching noises when Leviathan tried to get in. So thank you for that, too.” Also on the tray was a selection of pastries on a plate, which she placed on the table. “These are on the house.”

“You know, Miss Militia and the rest of the Protectorate were out there as well,” Geneva ventured. “It wasn't a solo thing. Beating Leviathan was a joint effort.” She nodded toward the superhero across the table from her. “Everyone did their bit. I even heard there were supervillains out there fighting as well.”

“Yeah, but that's just so they'll have someone to rip off once everything goes back to normal,” Stella said; for all the cynicism in her tone, Geneva couldn't fault her logic. The server looked at Miss Militia. “Don't get me wrong; we appreciate what you heroes do. But every year, it seems like there's more and more villains in Brockton Bay. When are you guys actually gonna do something about them?”

“It's not as easy as that,” Miss Militia replied, the practised tone in her voice alerting Geneva to the distinct possibility that she'd answered this question many times before. “You understand, I'm not allowed to talk about PRT and Protectorate policy outside of official communications.” She leaned closer to Stella and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “But just between you and me, Geneva and her crew helped capture the Merchants just a little earlier tonight. So that's a good start.”

“Huh.” Stella gave Geneva an approving look. “That's good to hear. Those assholes even give villains a bad name.” She paused, looking a little awkward. “Um, I don't want to pry, but is looking like that a power thing? Because my niece already told me over the phone she wants to grow up to be you.”

Geneva shook her head. “Nope,” she said solemnly. “I'm actually a time traveller from nearly six hundred years in the future. This is a commercially-available genetic modification that anyone can buy. I'm sorry, but she can't grow up to be me.” Her eyes twinkled as she let a grin creep across her face. “Though I have no idea who any of my ancestors were this far back, so her great-to-the-power-of-fifteen-granddaughter might do just that.” She decided to let the 'alternate timeline' aspect go by the wayside; explaining it would take too much time and spoil the punchline.

“Well, shit.” Stella stared at Geneva. “Are you pulling my leg?” She looked at Miss Militia for confirmation. “Is she serious? She's a time traveller?”

Miss Militia sighed, sounding aggravated. “Captain Hastings, I would like you to accompany me back to your ship. Stella, I need you to not spread that around. We're trying to keep that particular aspect of the situation quiet. You can understand why, can't you?” She shot Geneva an irritated glance.

“It's that ship you got here in, isn't it?” Stella said to Geneva, ignoring Miss Militia's words. “That's your time machine, right? Why'd you come back? To save us from the Endbringers?” The glow of hero-worship in her eyes could've lit up the room.

Picking up her tea, Geneva sipped from it. Though subtly different from the beverage as dispensed on board the Bond James Bond, it was still very good. “I'm sorry, but we're here more or less by accident,” she confessed. “We'll do what we can to help out while we're here, but this wasn't any kind of deliberate mission.” She turned to Miss Militia. “Well, I've got my tea. We can go now, if you want.”

Miss Militia nodded, then glanced over toward the corner booth. Geneva looked that way as well, knowing what she'd see; the cup still stood there, but of the girl there was no sign. This was because she'd gotten up and strolled out while Stella was distracting Miss Militia, which only raised Geneva's opinion of her. Sean was tracking her, of course; she was currently half a block away, following a network of alleyways as if she'd been moving through them all her life. She probably has.

“That girl who was over there,” Miss Militia said. “Do you know her name? Does she come in here often?” Her voice wasn't quite interrogatory, but she didn't do much to hide her interest.

Stella tilted her head. “Uh, not that I recall,” she replied. “But you know, there's been a few people in here who I've never seen before.” She shrugged. “I guess some of the other places got hit by Leviathan, so they're coming here?” With a smile at Geneva, she added, “Would you like me to put the pastries in a bag for you?”

“Certainly, thank you.” Geneva returned the smile. “This is a very nice place. I think I'll be coming back.” The part of her that enjoyed such things registered amusement at Miss Militia's semi-hidden frown. She waited, sipping at her tea, while Stella fetched the bag and put the pastries into it.

Miss Militia led the way out. Geneva noted with approval the way she checked the street before giving the go-ahead to start moving. There'd been soldiers she knew back in the Polity who weren't as conscientious about their duties. She stepped out on to the sidewalk and started back toward the Bond James Bond, nibbling at a pastry and sipping her tea. It really was a very pleasant evening. Or night, or whatever.

“Please don't tell anyone else you're a time traveller.” The words came from Miss Militia's mouth without preamble. “It could cause all sorts of complications.” She didn't look at Geneva as she spoke; as far as Geneva could tell, she was quartering the street ahead and behind them at all times. For a moment, Geneva wondered if she should tell Miss Militia about how Sean had full scan going on their surroundings so she'd get ample warning of anyone trying to sneak up on them.

Nah, she decided. I'll let her feel useful. Besides, if I told them of Sean's true capabilities, they'd probably get upset. Keeping the PRT on side was a very good idea; it would open many doors that would probably slam shut otherwise. And while she didn't intend to act against the PRT or Protectorate, it was only common sense to not tell them anything they—or any moles—didn't need to know.

Geneva, lass. The girl's figured out the comm, and she's got a job for us. Want to say hello?

At last. “Sure thing,” she agreed cheerfully enough. “How's your coffee?” Internally, she flicked open the channel that Sean had indicated to her. It was time to find out what was going on.

<><>

Taylor

At first, Taylor hadn't thought anything of how the exotic-looking young woman had brushed by her. But then she felt the tiny lump pressing against the back of her hand inside her hoodie pocket, and knew that she'd just been passed whatever the woman had been holding in her closed hand. It had been so slickly done that Taylor suspected super-powers; maybe telekinesis or teleportation. However it had been done, she waited until she got back to her seat and had the book open in front of her before she examined the object she had cupped in the palm of her hand.

At first glance, it didn't look like much. Shaped vaguely like a mushroom, about the size of the end of her thumb, it sat on her hand and did nothing whatsoever. Carefully, she turned it over and got her first clue as to its function; on the broad blunt end was a line drawing of the human ear. Okay, so that's what it is. Overcoming the urge to shove it in her ear immediately, she slid it back into her pocket and went back to pretending to read. After all, Miss Militia was glancing her way with more than a little suspicion, and doing something obvious like reaching toward her ear would crystallise those suspicions into certainty. She wasn't sure exactly what the hero would do in that situation, but being detained and questioned by the PRT was not something she wanted to happen, especially as this would immediately out her.

So she waited until the discussion between Miss Militia, Geneva and the server became rather intense before she slid her book into the pack and got up. Moving toward the exit at a normal walking pace rather than a mad dash took self-control, but she managed it. She was half a block away before Miss Militia finally looked at her booth, if the senses of her bugs were anything to go by. Even then, she didn't slow down; despite having her swarm there to warn her of any threats, she wasn't going to feel totally safe until she had four walls around her.

Eventually, she reached the motel, but she didn't relax until she was inside the room with the door locked behind her. The feeling of security was illusory at best, she knew; there were any number of capes who could go through wall or door like so much papier-mache. Several of these lived in Brockton Bay. But between her swarm and the fact that she was out of sight, she felt better than she had when she was outside. Lowering herself into the room's sole armchair, she retrieved the mushroom-like object from her pocket and gingerly pressed it into her ear.

Nothing much happened at first, then she felt pressure as it seemed to expand, fitting into the contours of her ear canal more and more snugly by the second. When it had finished, she could've sworn that it wasn't there at all. More impressively, it didn't cut down on her ability to hear from that ear at all. Still, there had to be more. Raising her hand, she gently investigated the exterior of the thing she had stuck in her ear. Her questing fingertips encountered a slightly raised lump; a button? Only one way to find out. She pressed it.

There was a bone-deep click, then a voice with a Scottish brogue spoke. “Good evening, lass. I see you got the comms unit. My name is Sean. Who may I say is calling?” The clarity was amazing, such that Taylor almost looked around to see if there was someone in the room with her.

“Uh …” She hesitated for a long moment, then made her decision. Screw it, she's already seen my face. “My name's Taylor Hebert.” Taking a deep breath, she forged on. “I want to talk to Geneva about getting the PRT to help me rescue a kidnapped girl.”

“Kidnapped, you say?” Sean's voice went from warmly amused to deadly serious in those four syllables. “Aye, Miss Hebert. I'll get her for you directly.”

When Sean—whoever he was, maybe the fish guy?—said 'directly', he meant it. Taylor had time to draw one long breath before a different voice impinged on her eardrum. This one, she'd heard not so long ago.

“Miss Hebert, my name is Geneva Hastings. I'm Captain of the Bond James Bond, and I understand you've got a job for us. I'm listening.”

 Part 8