by wildbow
“You’re hunting them?” she asked him.
“Yes.”
“Will you do me a favor?”
“If I can.”
“Talk to me? Give me some assurance that some good will come of this? That you’ll be able to track them down, because of what happened here, and that you’ll be able to stop them?”
He stared at the landscape around him, all white, gray and the brown-red of drying blood. It was washed out, stark. The magazines and brochures had been covered by arterial spray and clothing was hidden beneath sheets.
“Give it to her straight,” Dragon urged him.
“He was waiting here,” he pointed to a chair. “The blood and the way the bodies fell, Hookwolf wasn’t holding anything back from the moment he made his move. A walking chainsaw massacre. I’m trying to look at how it played out, so I can read something into how they’re operating and where their priorities are.”
“How?” Goering asked.
He saved the settings of the lens and then switched to a radiograph-ultrasound reading. The world was cast in monochrome, now, and he could see the vague shapes of the bodies under the sheets, light and dark painting a picture of densities rather than light. He closed his mask so the sheriff wouldn’t overhear and spoke into the microphone, “Count the skulls.”
“Twenty two.”
“Twenty two bodies,” he spoke aloud, “In the waiting area alone. It seems like too many for a town this size, this time of night.”
“We’re the only real hospital for this part of the county. We get people from neighboring towns flying in by ambulance or helicopter.”
“I see. Even so, it’s more than I would have guessed. I suspect there was some announcement across the hospital, as the attacks started. The way people were clustered here, they were probably ordered to stay put and stay calm. Your officers enter and Hookwolf attacks. There’s hesitation from the bystanders. People are caught between perfectly rational self-preservation and the authority of the hospital staff who didn’t have the full picture.”
“Don’t assign blame,” Dragon whispered. “The Slaughterhouse Nine are the ones in the wrong here.”
“He lunges across the waiting area to the doors, cutting off retreat and tearing through anyone in his way. This is new to him. He’s used to fighting people who resist, people with powers and law enforcement officers with the technology to fight him. This gives me the impression of a fox in the henhouse. The crowd turns to flee for the hallways, and he cuts them off there, herds them towards the center of the room, finishes them off.”
He could see the pain on the Sheriff’s face, but she was holding up. “And that’s useful?”
Defiant nodded. “Hookwolf was largely content doing what he was doing in Brockton Bay. He viewed himself as a warrior, a general, and there was a degree of honor in what he did. He wasn’t honorable, but he followed a code. The person who nominated him for the group, Shatterbird, is no longer a member. So why did he join? Our working assumption was that there were threats on some level, extortion. But he’s shifting focus too quickly. Adopting a new mindset. It’s possible Jack Slash convinced him in another way.”
“Or he’s under their control,” Dragon said, communicating over their personal channel.
“…Or he’s being coerced,” Defiant said, for the sheriff’s benefit. “An implant, something that’s turned him into a puppet.”
He looked over his shoulder at the Sheriff, but she wasn’t venturing a response.
Back to the job. He pointed with his spear, where Hookwolf had been seated, then traced the path the villain had taken. Front door, then one hallway, then the other. A loose ‘z’. People had clustered around the middle of the room, and he’d leaped into the midst of them to finish them off.
Defiant’s eyes shifted to the front desk. There was blood spatter there, but it was the furthest point from the path Hookwolf have traveled. It would have been his last destination before he moved elsewhere.
Defiant used the lens setting to watch for blood spatter and footprints as he made his way behind the desk.
There were more bodies. One was propped up against the wall, and the stains that were soaking through the sheet were more brown than red. He’d had his lower abdomen opened. The last to die.
With his spear’s point, Defiant lifted the sheet away from the man’s head. Young, head shaved, a tan collared shirt with a star on the shoulder and a kevlar vest. His arms and hands were mangled beyond repair. Defiant studied the area, noting the presence of footprints, then replaced the sheet.
His progress out of the area was slow, and not entirely because he was trying to preserve evidence. He needed to think, to draw the entire picture together and confirm what he was saying before he addressed the sheriff.
“Find anything?” she asked.
“Your deputy went down fighting,” he said. “Tooth and nail.”
Her jaw clenched, and he could see her eyes glisten. She stared hard at the wall.
“He couldn’t have won. Not against Hookwolf. But I think he gave us what we needed.”
“Did he?”
“The aftermath of the fight suggests Hookwolf was in control of his actions. What’s more, I think Jack Slash is grooming him. The general and the cutthroat, playing off one another, educating each other in their respective disciplines, so to speak. Jack’s going to want to keep this interplay going, maintain Hookwolf’s interest and keep him from getting restless. What’s the nearest town?”
“Prescott.”
“Second nearest?”
“Enfield.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m going to talk to my partner, join her in paying a visit to Damsel of Distress if she hasn’t already wrapped that up, then we’ll be leaving. With luck, we’ll be right on their heels.”
“Execute the motherfuckers.”
“I’ll damn well try.”
He extended a hand, and she shook it. He turned to leave, sending nervous impulses to the computer system in his suit, drawing up a map of the hospital and overlaying it with the image he was seeing on his visor. He made his way to the exit and briskly walked toward the field where he’d parked the Uther suit.
“Talk to me, Colin? What’s the thought process?”
“Hookwolf gutted the deputy and then stood by while he died a slow, painful death. Footprints on the other side of the room are probably Jack’s, if you look through the feed. His back would have been to the filing cabinet.”
“I see it. Hookwolf doesn’t have a reason to inflict a slow, painful death if he’s just a puppet under Bonesaw’s control.”
“That’s my line of thinking. From the looks of it, he was standing there longer than Jack. If Jack moved upstairs, which matches with the gouges in the stairwell, then he was leaving Hookwolf there to watch the man die over the course of minutes. The deputy was someone strong, ferocious, a warrior, which is how Hookwolf identified himself. This wasn’t just killing, but rejoicing in the cruelty of it, the feeling of superiority over the fallen. I think what Jack was trying to instill in Hookwolf, challenging him to alter his code and be something darker.”
“I don’t like it when you try to get into their heads like that.”
“We have to be proactive. Predict. Get ahead of them, so we can stop them before they attack the next hospital, the next neighborhood or school. That means figuring out what they’re thinking.”
“I know. I just don’t like it. Not with the way Mannequin approached you.”
“Mannequin’s dead.”
“And he approached you for a reason.”
He signaled for the Uther’s cabin to open, then made his way inside. It was half the size of a commercial plane, outfitted with basic living quarters, and outfitted with long-range weaponry. The moment he was inside, the systems kicked into life, the pilot’s chair turning to be in position for him to sit, monitors lighting up. He had only to think, and the images changed, the cursor flying across the screen with a thought to click on icon
s.
“…You’re not responding.”
“Sorry. Still getting used to this setup. I feel like a baby, still figuring out how to move my arms and legs.”
“I hope it’s a little more intuitive than that if you’re airborne.”
“Exaggeration for effect. I’m like a toddler, then. I can walk, but I could fall if I don’t pay attention to what I’m doing during the more complicated bits.”
He settled into the pilot’s seat, and his senses opened up with vague ‘tactile’ responses from the Uther. He felt it lift into the air. Monitors in front of him let him note Dragon’s location.
“You didn’t respond to my question, Colin. I was asking if you think I need to keep a closer eye on you.”
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “I don’t know how you could be closer. But it helps, having you there. I appreciated the tips with the sheriff. I would have fucked that up.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“Any notice on Damsel?”
“Seems like we’re too late. They got her.”
His heart sank. “Got her in the sense that she’s dead, or got her in the literal sense?”
“The latter.”
“Fuck!” One more to contend with. He remembered who he was talking to. “Sorry.”
“I swore when I found out. Don’t worry. I’m thinking Enfield. You?”
“We’re on the same page. It’s close enough, but not so close it’s the next place we’d look.” He shifted the Uther into motion and plotted a course for the Nine’s next likely destination. He could see Dragon doing the same with her own suit.
They wouldn’t be able to do this for long. They were only able to track the Nine like this because their quarry was unaware. It would only get harder, with Jack obfuscating the group’s movements, with traps and misdirection, a contest of second guessing, trying to think more steps ahead.
He thought aloud, “We should have fought them sooner. In Brockton Bay.”
“We weren’t ready, on a lot of levels. You hadn’t recuperated, and I didn’t have anything that worked as standalone firepower. Better to wait, confront them with six suits at once.”
He opened his mouth to respond, then stopped.
“Damn,” she said, “I was hoping you weren’t paying enough attention.”
“I’m always going to listen when you talk. What happened to the other three suits?”
“Melusine is out of commission until I can build some replacement limbs. Azazel and the Astaroth-Nidhug were melted down.”
He frowned. “The Undersiders?”
“And the Travelers. I pulled the remaining suits out of the city. Can’t excuse the losses. Not with bigger fish to fry.”
“That’s… irritating.”
“What part? That they get to keep doing what they’re doing? Or that I didn’t mention it?”
“I’m still officially a prisoner. I’m just a prisoner on a manhunt, now. If you want to control what info I get, I’ll live.”
“I can’t tell if you mean that.”
“I can’t either. But right this minute, I’m more focused on the fact that the Undersiders and Travelers could hold their own against the full flight of seven. If they can get that far, couldn’t the Slaughterhouse Nine be able to defeat the suits as well? And us with them?”
“It’s the A.I. Substandard. They followed directions without an issue, but they aren’t creative. The A.I. can’t think outside the box, they don’t plan or get creative. They just do the tasks they were assigned: sequester, fight, detain.”
“It’s your work. I know you’re capable of designing outside of the box.”
“I’m working with my hands tied, Colin. There’s too many redundancies in my code, the rules against me making A.I.? They’re still there. You gave me some detours, some workarounds, ways to get around them, but I’m still stumbling over them.”
He tapped his fingers on his armrest, thinking. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Please.”
“I don’t want to spoil your code. This isn’t my field of study. It’s not even something I’ve dabbled in. As a rule, anything I do to change it is going to make things less elegant.”
“In that one department.”
“And I’m legitimately afraid I’ll do permanent damage if something runs out of control.”
“I have backups. Weekly.”
“Which means we’d have to bring you up to speed on the mission here. I’m saying it’s dangerous. I like the you of right now more than the you of a week ago.”
“That sounds almost romantic.”
He smiled a little.
“Saw that.”
He smiled wider. “You’re bordering on the obsessive now.”
“I can dial it back. How are the prostheses?”
“Holding up. Eye’s working great.”
“I saw,” she replied.
He smirked.
She sounded legitimately embarrassed as she said, “Whoops.”
“Don’t worry. I knew you were watching. It’s fine, good to have an extra set of eyes on the scene. Um. The other parts are fine. I made a note to fix my leg. I think it’s a little too perfect. Feels uncanny. But I suppose you heard that.”
“I don’t listen in on any personal notes, just like I won’t pry into any journals you keep or personal mail. The deal we struck with the PRT was that I would make sure you followed the rules. That’s what I’ll do. But your thoughts are your own.”
“Alright.”
“You don’t sound overly concerned either way.”
“I’m not, really.”
“You let me know if you do start feeling uncomfortable.”
“I can do that. Listen, there’s no use in me getting deep into your code when we’re going to get there in a matter of minutes. I’m going to look at my knees in the meantime, then maybe I’ll refresh myself on your code if I have time before we land.”
“Alright.”
He glanced at one monitor, and windows opened to show images of the leg. He was able to draw the crude shapes that represented individual devices even when he wasn’t looking at the screen. A triangle here, a circle there. Another window opened up with a line connecting it to the triangle, and he drew an identical triangle, began filling it with more shapes. By the time he had a fourth subwindow open, he was drawing from previous notes to copy over other schematics of older work, seeing where things could go. Everything could fit together. The waste energy of one system could help power another. Even on a molecular level, there were ways to harness the ambient radiation that was emitted by everything in the known universe. Some was infinitesimally small, but it was usable. That energy could be heterodyned, or redirected into loops long enough that they were near-infinite. Hyperefficient, dense energy generation that could benefit from being hooked up to more devices. It was the fundamental basis of his work: efficiency.
Which suited him well. Efficiency, intensity, focus were all the same thing in a sense, and they were his strengths. The flip side was that they weren’t strengths when they were applied to relationships. Or to human relationships.
It seemed to be working for him with Dragon so far. Someone else might have bucked at the closeness of their partnership, the intimacy of it, her unending presence and watching eye. He understood that she thought faster, that she didn’t sleep, didn’t stop. She was fond of him and she was programmed to emulate people. Maybe she came across as intense at times, but that was simply a poor translation, normal behavior overclocked and given no chance to pause. He would watch for any problems just as she was keeping an eye out for the part of him that had drawn Mannequin’s attention.
For now, his own obsessiveness, arrogance, and goal-oriented mindset would keep him focused on the Nine, push other concerns to the periphery of his attention. He could adjust to any of Dragon’s peculiarities in the meantime. He could even enjoy them.
His lips quirked with another smile. She was amusing.
“
Okay. I’m done for now. Want to look it over while I get into the code?”
“Sure. You have eight minutes before you should get your stuff together.”
He’d had to make a program just to get a handle on the code. It wasn’t working with a fixed structure, but was instead a torrential waterfall of data, a river of lightning, a trillion eels weaving through one another in a singular mass. Deciphering it required that he think in an entirely different way. To actually change it was something else entirely. The rules Dragon was obligated to follow were a fundamental part of her self, and everything she remembered filtered through that.
He isolated a part of the program and set it to run in a loop so he could study what it was doing.
“Your design doesn’t work,” Dragon informed him.
“Does too.”
“You inserted the nanomachine thorn generator into your leg, but your power source vents straight into your calf. You’d gradually roast your flesh from your bones.”
“I’m inserting more of the same into my calf. Daisy chain.”
“More self-alterations? Colin—”
“We’ve been over this.”
“I was going to suggest we take some time tonight, play another round of ten by ten. At the rate you’re going, there won’t be a point.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Not by much.”
He could have responded, but he held back, stayed quiet. No use starting a fight now, not when they might be fighting the Nine shortly.
Ten by ten. The ‘game’ involved some interplay between him and her android self, physical contact, and rating the sensitivity of the contact on two scales of ten. It had started out as a means of calibrating the various sensations her ‘body’ experienced and ensuring his own prostheses weren’t causing any damage to his nervous system, but things had progressed to inevitable, intentional conclusions.
Not the obvious conclusion. There was more to be done in refining her body and expanding her capabilities before they could take things that far.
Would he be more machine than she was by the time they got there?
On the other side of the coin, he had to wonder: could he afford to hold back? They were engaged in a battle of attrition against the Nine. In the grand scheme of things, there were also the Endbringers to consider. He’d gone too far in Brockton Bay, but the fundamental principle was right. They had to be stopped, if it was even possible, and he wouldn’t complain if it was him who did the deed. If it was a question of going all out, holding nothing back, showing no compunctions and finally stopping the abominations, well, he’d do it all over again. He wouldn’t trust the nano-thorns to the same extent; they apparently couldn’t cut through the entirety of an Endbringer, but he’d do the same thing again.