Mastermind

by Steven Kelliher

  “No,” I said, “well, yes, but that’s not what I meant. Key to her power is her ability to adapt her rate of consumption. If she fights in direct sunlight, she recovers much faster. That’s why the first blasts only blew out some windows and knocked some of my guys around, and why the final one took out the group of us. She used her monologuing, and mine, to stall enough to charge her blast.” I swallowed again, and could tell that B5 sensed my nervousness, though Starshot wasn’t here to threaten me now. “Lucky the blast didn’t kill us.”

  “It avails heroes little to kill,” B5 reminded me.

  “She’ll have to be careful how she handles herself,” I noted. “With great power comes… well, I’m sure you know the rest, B.”

  B5 blinked, as though puzzled, so I took some pleasure in leaving him hanging for once.

  “At least we know why she’s into monologuing now.”

  “We only need discover why you share the same predilection.”

  I let out an involuntary laugh. I guess I deserved that.

  “Would you like to know the silver lining to your encounter with Starshot?” B5 asked.

  “Sure,” I said numbly, expecting one of the droid’s stabs at humor.

  “You’ve started a real rivalry now. A few more encounters with her, win or lose, will grant Infamy along with a higher and higher Rivalry multiplier. You’ll tier up eventually if you keep facing her.”

  I nodded at this, although I’d rather not face such a powerhouse directly again if I could help it. I may not have the luxury of choice, though. Starshot was likely to seek me out and be directed by the game to run interference on my plans to build that rivalry; to build that story into something viewers might latch onto.

  “Of course,” B5 went on, “if you truly do want to be done with her, you could always kill her. No Infamy gained, but one less obstacle in your path.”

  I stared at him for a minute, wondering if he’d been reading my thoughts or got his wires crossed. It was a sudden turn into macabre territory. But then, I was standing in a trenchcoat in leather gloves and boots, speaking to an alien robot servant in front of a supercomputer in the bowels of a cave more suited to bats than badasses. I supposed it was time to work on getting used to the seedier aspects of the whole villain thing.

  Perming other players was sometimes a part of the job description, especially if you wanted to make a name for yourself at later tiers or scare some of the bolder heroes in your tier. What you lost out on in the form of Infamy, you might make up for in threat index. It wasn’t a literal, stat-based metric, but players tended to respect the AI’s calculation on who to avoid. And only the bold could take center stage in the eyes of the viewers and sponsors.

  Still, something felt strange about it. It felt hypocritical, to do to other players what Leviathan had done to me. I told myself it was different, that he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but then, perming was perming. Wasn’t it?

  I felt suddenly ill at the thought of taking another player’s build away from them, especially one with such a high and scalable stat roll and origin like Starshot, Righteous Rays aside. In life and in the VR art that imitated it, I’d always been rather good at finding ways to justify my inactions, perhaps more so than my actions.

  “No perming,” I said. “Not unless I have no choice. I’ll have to tier up, but I’ll also need to be careful not to increase my threat index too high at the same time. That means fewer public fights with heroes if I can manage it. It won’t do to end up on Leviathan’s hit list before I’m strong enough to face him, after all.”

  “Indeed,” B5 said, again seeming far from convinced. “So, you plan to attain enough power to challenge Leviathan in combat without achieving a high enough threat index to scare his underlings?”

  “Never said anything about combat,” I said, my eyes glazing over.

  “Then how—”

  “Does a hunter engage a lion in combat, B5?” I asked.

  “I… I suppose not.” He paused as he considered it. “Ah.”

  B5 made his way over to the rack and came back brandishing my kabuki mask. He handed it over.

  I felt silly at the thought of putting it on, but felt infinitely better once I had. It was as if the resin was a suit of armor unto itself, and it was already helping me think.

  “So, then,” B5 said. “In the meantime, how do we stop heroes like that one,” he indicated the screen, “from interrupting our plans? Perhaps we invite Scale along—”

  “Scale is a wild card,” I said, shaking my head. “You said it yourself. He’s unpredictable, especially when he activates Rage. Potent power, but not one I want to be on the wrong side of, and there doesn’t seem to be a right side to be on when he switches it on.”

  “Astute observations.”

  “And I know you made them first, B,” I said with exaggerated annoyance. “You were right. Scale is much better suited to doing my bidding when it isn’t so obvious or in his face that it’s my bidding. Patrol the docks, keep other villains from snooping too closely, eye potential new recruits. He gets a cut of the bronze, we get the lion’s share, and he doesn’t catch another beating at the end of Sebastian and the boys’…” I trailed off, recalling the brute’s absence.

  “We need weapons, B,” I said. “Not guns and bullets. At least, not the kinds Madam Post has squirreled away in her myriad rotting attics. We need real guns, things that make them look like antiques. I need them, and the next crew I assemble needs them even more.”

  “We need money for more advanced, tech-based weaponry,” B5 said. “Unless you’re planning on raiding a hero or villain’s stash, which seems like a bit of a ‘one step forward, several steps back’ approach.”

  “No,” I said, stroking the bottom of my mask like a second chin. “That’s not what I’m thinking, B.”

  “Well, in the meantime, bronze continues to pass through Madam Post’s – through your – docks.”

  “Nice catch.”

  “Thank you,” he said without irony. “Bronze and other products. I can see about flipping some of it with other gangs, increasing profits. In time, we’ll have amassed enough to make more substantial investments, as well as to offer more significant incentives to prospective recruits.”

  “Don’t let me catch you doing business with Blackstrike’s boys,” I said. “If Madam Post avoids that one, we’d do well to mimic her.”

  “I don't think Blackstrike does business with NPCs in the same way you do, General.”

  “Blackstrike isn’t our concern right now,” I said with my usual shooing motion. “It’s going to take ages to earn enough the honest – well, the dishonest way.”

  “But Madam Post isn’t going to give you such time,” B5 said bluntly. “She wanted payment, and now I imagine she’ll want her pound of flesh as well.”

  “I know, B. With each day my reputation will only decline with her, quicker than I can amass money to pay her off. Another heist is risky, and even if we pull it off it’s a toss-up between acquiring tech to defend myself with or reputa—”

  I halted mid-thought. The answer, the glorious, simple and decidedly difficult solution presented itself to me. “Unless… unless we achieve both at once.”

  “I’m afraid I do not follow,” B5 said.

  I rounded on him then, my ideas taking form. It was the only course.

  “Post wanted money for a reason, B. She wanted it to buy tech, just like I do. And she even mentioned who she wanted to buy it from, one Luther Smith. I’m thinking I should pay this Luther a visit, on behalf of Madam Post, of course.”

  B5’s eyes lit up. “Assuming you can Influence him, that would indeed solve both problems at once. Tech for you and tech gifted to Post directly should amend your reputation with her.”

  I grinned. “And here I was, thinking you were going to suggest that I hand him over to her.”

  “I don’t see why you would.”

  He really didn't have a sense of humor, this one.

  “Computer
, pull up information on Luther Smith,” I said.

  Luther Smith

  Inventor

  Mind: 50

  Brawn: 5

  Agility: 5

  Armor: 10

  Charisma: 1

  Key Trait: Tinkerer

  Along with the stats came a map window and red dots pinpointing Luther’s known locations. His high mind stat gave me pause. It was as high as Madam Post’s, and I’d failed to Influence her. Yet she was a faction leader, and had been surrounded by many minions in her own territory. Luther was just one man. Perhaps that would help make things easier.

  I got the feeling that B5 was about to launch into another salvo in the opening of our next grand debate over whether or not I should attempt to Influence the tinkerer, when he froze, his eyes blinking more rapidly than they did when he was running complex diagnostics.

  “Accessing south-facing security cameras now,” B5 said.

  My heartbeat quickened as the computer screen started shifting for my benefit, shifting and pulling up the grainy footage from just outside the base. I half expected to see the shining hero floating just outside, or else Madam Post and a host of her royal street rats. Maybe Blackstrike had heard of my weakened network – if he had heard of me at all – and had plans to introduce himself. Could Scale have learned of my recent failure and come knocking?

  Instead, I found myself blinking and then shaking my head.

  “Is that…?”

  “Sebastian,” B5 said, his voice sounding bored rather than alarmed.

  “And what’s that he’s carrying?” I asked, pointing and squinting. The big man seemed to be wandering on the edge of the rushing river. He approached one of the bridge supports and began pressing bricks at random. I hadn’t brought any of my recruits to the base yet. Maybe my own NPCs knew where I was on instinct, like homing pigeons. He still had an ‘I” brightly emblazoned over his head, and he still wore the same suit he’d had on the day before during the bank job, albeit a more tattered, torn version of it.

  “It looks to be a sack,” B5 said.

  Sebastian turned and started off in the other direction, his expression forlorn, but the symbol on the other side of the sack confirmed my dawning realization.

  “TD,” I said.

  “Titan Dominion,” B5 echoed.

  “Bring our boy in,” I said, sounding like a proud father.

  When I saw the loveable NPC oaf emerge from the tunnel above our cold, stalagmite-strewn platform and start his way down the iron staircase clutching the sack of gold like a baby, it felt like seeing an old friend.

  “Sebastian!” I called, and the surprise at hearing my voice seemed to overwhelm his programming for a moment. He momentarily lost his balance, and for an instant I thought he’d go right over the edge, carrying all that gold with him. Luckily, B5 was there to steady him with a skinny metal arm that possessed more strength than I’d have thought.

  “Remind me to install Sebastian-sized railings, B,” I called as the big man made his way down. He had to turn sideways at the bottom of the flight, and even then he barely fit through the natural gate formed by two stalagmites.

  He dropped the sack as he approached me, and the jingling of loose precious metal sounded like a chorus of angels. Before he reached me, I read his intent to gather me up in those burly arms, but I wasn’t a sack of gold, and my HP had only just climbed into the yellow. I stayed him with an upraised hand and steadied him with a smile.

  “Welcome back, my wayward son,” I said. “And, before we indulge in other pleasantries, do tell me how in the hell you managed it.”

  “Managed what?” he asked. I laughed heartily before I realized he was serious. He looked at B5 for an explanation, which the droid didn’t offer.

  “How did you escape? How did you get the gold? How did you get here, Sebastian?”

  He smiled, all too happy to share. As it turned out, his tale was less a saga and more a series of stage directions. I don’t know if he’d forgotten the details or simply found them too complex to recount.

  “The police convoy was attacked by Post’s shadow crew,” he said, apparently forgetting that he was once, until very recently, a part of said crew. “I was in the back of one of their vans. Big van. They got out. I got out.”

  “The back door was unlocked?”

  He nodded, then gave me a quizzical look, as if he couldn’t quite remember. Then a lightbulb seemed to go off in his head.

  “I smashed the door,” he amended happily. “And I smashed the cop that put me in back. But,” he tapped the side of his head, immensely proud of himself, “I asked him where the gold was first.”

  “And he told you?” I asked, incredulous.

  “I told him I’d smash him if he didn’t, and his friends were busy trying to capture some of the others in all the commotion.”

  “His friends…” I shook my head and had to smile. “You did smash him, Sebastian.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you got the gold anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, what, walked here with it?”

  “Across Silver Bridge.”

  It was so simple it was almost poetic. It wasn’t unheard of for NPCs to be so incompetent, in the case of the police, and so competently incompetent, in the case of Sebastian, a lowly thug, albeit a strong one, in Titan Online. In fact, I had a sneaking suspicion the system was designed that way, with cops being well-meaning stooges better at shouting through megaphones than making arrests and criminals being better at daring prison escapes than pulling off jaywalking without drawing blue lights. That was how it seemed to be in the comics, where the heroes were always there to save the day.

  Which prompted a less happy thought.

  “And what about Starshot?” I asked. B5 examined Sebastian, intent on his response.

  “She left,” he said, simply.

  “When, Sebastian? Try to remember. Did she see where Post’s crew went?”

  “No,” he said, and then, once he’d had more than a second to think about it, “yes? Maybe. Sorry, boss. I don’t have the best memory. One too many knocks, the boys say.”

  I was annoyed, but not with him.

  “It’s okay, Sebastian,” I said, coming over to take him by the elbow. I guided him to a natural chair I’d only recently found. There were a whole bunch of them seemingly formed into the obsidian mounds. The player who had found or made this place had taken it seriously. I wondered if he’d ever left the cave.

  “If she saw us, she would have stopped us,” he said, undoubtedly trying to make me happier.

  “Unless she was out of energy,” B5 offered.

  “Unless she’s as intent on nurturing a rivalry with a villain she can knock around,” I put in. “She probably saw the whole thing. Saw Post’s crew race across Silver Bridge, right toward the docks.”

  “It’s possible,” B5 said.

  I sighed. “B, I think I’m officially being farmed for XP.”

  Eleven

  The Smith

  I’d never been this far into War Town.

  In my previous builds, my hero builds, the AI had judged me noble and had dropped me amongst the shining silver arches and golden billboards of Titan City.

  Not this time. This time, it had sent me splashing into the dingy, graywater docks of War Town, in Madam Post’s back yard. At first, I had wanted to fight against it. I’d gazed at the silver and quartz towers across the bay with resentment, but also with envy. I missed those paved streets. I missed the innocent NPCs on their familiar, nostalgia-inducing rails: the too-blue cops, the red and white paramedics, the old women with their walkers and the old gentlemen with their canes.

  I missed seeing the other heroes, some flying, some racing, some lounging in the park between missions, conversing with other heroes and discussing their latest take-downs, rivalries, and waxing poetic about the evils of the shadowy place across the bay.

  Now, I found myself hunkered between gothic buildings, dark modern sto
ne poured in the place of glass and iron. There were different towers here. Not great silver giants that shone golden in the artificial sun, but stacks, tall and bathed in shadow. The sky here was always dark, and it wasn’t just the work of artificial cloud systems conjured by the AI to keep up appearances. It was also because of the smoke, the smog, the corruptions of the stacks.

  The alley was littered with the sort of sanitary refuse you’d see in 1980s action blockbusters. Way more flittering newspaper clippings than in the real world, and of course, one steel trash can with a slightly ajar lid. Across the street, a squat warehouse that was more a garage was just visible over a chain-link security gate. It was squeezed between a pair of three-story apartment buildings, the tenants of which were likely shady NPC characters, your odd drunk, drug dealer and malcontent. You know, because nobody good lived in the ghetto, at least according to the game devs in their virtual ivory towers.

  Titan City was an escape for people like me, while War Town was much closer to reality. Sure, there hadn’t been supervillains patrolling the darkened neighborhoods of my youth, but there were villains. Still, it wasn’t all bad. Lots of good people come from bad places. Lots of bad people come from good places.

  Before I could get pulled down another Leviathan-fueled track, someone roughly yanked me back into the alley, and I nearly lost my balance and went over. When I recovered, I saw Scale looming over me like a tower unto himself. For an instant, he had a murderous look, and I feared I’d strayed too far from Sebastian and the rest of the crew, who were busy surveilling the surrounding area, checking for nearby villains and keeping alert for signs of exterior defenses the tinkerer might have in place.

  But Scale’s eyes were fixated on something across the road. Something to the south, passing by the gated garage we were preparing to storm.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “Blackstrike’s domain,” he said. “If you’re going to be active in his territory, you should take care to avoid notice.

  I didn’t respond to Scale, but Blackstrike did make me nervous, loath as I was to admit it. I hadn’t been able to look up his superpower using the alien core, since Blackstrike was a tier-four villain. He had managed to carve out quite the territory for himself, running the plants of War Town, where all manner of seedy deals took place beneath the smoke and stacks that would put Madam Post and her programmed shipments to shame.