by wildbow
Slouching, hands clasped behind her back, String Theory made her way over to Chevalier and Defiant. The petite, odd-looking woman glanced around, not speaking up, but waiting until Chevalier deigned to look at her. Lab Rat, behind her, looked more impatient. He wasn’t good at hiding his feelings.
“I’ll need a lab,” String Theory said. “Tools. My tools, if you can get them.”
“You can prep something in time?” Chevalier asked. He sounded surprised. “We expected the tinkers to take part in the next attempt.”
“I’m not an ordinary tinker,” String Theory said. She tapped her head. “I’ve had four years to think, plan what I’d build if I got out. All up here.”
“Me too, seven years of thinking,” Lab Rat said. “Need a lab. Not sharing one with her.”
“I wouldn’t let you, darling,” String Theory said, condescending. I could see Lab Rat’s lip curl, but I wasn’t sure if it was in irritation or amusement.
“You’ll both have what you need,” Chevalier cut in, before anything could start between the pair.
“Tell me what you need and when,” String Theory said. “You want me to hit him? Tell me how hard.”
Chevalier glanced at Revel and Defiant.
“When you were arrested,” Defiant said. “The—”
“The F-Driver,” String Theory interrupted.
“Yes. Start from there, scale up.”
“Oh,” String Theory said. “Interesting.”
“With a minimum of collateral damage,” Defiant added.
“Less interesting. Next question: when? My work is one-shot, and my best work is on a timer.”
“We attack in… thirty-nine minutes. Time things for forty seven minutes from now. Most of the combatants will be cleared from the field by then, and the rest can move to safety before you put your work to use.”
String Theory nodded slowly, “You’ll hold out for eight minutes after the initial offense?”
Defiant paused. “Make it forty-three minutes from now.”
“Done. I’ll need a fusion reactor. Or a suitably large source of plasma. Something I can draw power from.”
“We don’t have—” Defiant started. Then he reconsidered. “We may be able to find something from tinker materials the PRT has confiscated. Go inside the ship, talk to Tattletale.”
Without another word, String Theory turned to advance up the ramp, disappearing inside.
Defiant looked at Lab Rat. “Your old workshop is still there, sealed off.”
“No. I’d be spending more time cleaning up than working, and the samples would be dead, if you haven’t tampered with them. Something else. A room in a hospital would work. I can stay out of the way.”
“We’re not giving you access to humans,” Defiant answered, his voice hard.
Lab Rat frowned. “Animal shelter? With the animals still present?”
“Fine,” Defiant said. “Thirty-seven minutes. If you’re going to contribute, you should get started. Door, please. To an abandoned animal shelter on Bet.”
The door opened.
“Mm,” Lab Rat grunted. “I’ll figure something out.”
Then he was gone.
“And me?” Bonesaw asked. “I can help.”
“You will help,” Defiant said. “After. When you work, it’s going to be with supervision. Panacea can check your work and vice-versa.”
Bonesaw sighed. “My lab. The alternate dimension, the cloning vats—”
“Destroyed,” Defiant said.
“You’re serious?”
He didn’t respond.
Bonesaw scowled.
I shivered and looked out at those who remained. Panacea hadn’t gone with the other members of New Wave. Instead, she sat on the cliffside with Marquis.
I felt a stab of something ugly, seeing that. I couldn’t justify or explain it, let alone give it a name. It felt fundamentally unfair, and I couldn’t rationalize it. Life wasn’t fair. Good guys sometimes got the breaks and sometimes they didn’t. Bad guys sometimes got the breaks and sometimes they didn’t. Panacea had taken more bad hits than most, and yet I wasn’t able to convince myself she deserved to have that.
Not because she didn’t deserve the chance to sit and stare at the view on this cold mountainside with her father beside her, but because an irrational part of me wanted to have it instead.
Someone to sit beside, to talk with, to discuss things, to be able to talk about stuff without avoiding everything cape related… someone to lean on, who’d been through some of this stuff.
I turned away.
Acidbath had stayed, rather than leave to go get a costume, and was splayed out on the rock of the cliff face, his shirt off and laid out beneath him. Soaking up the rays, insofar as they was any sun to be had.
Just a short distance away, Glaistig Uaine was using her power. A shadowy figure, translucent, was kneeling before her, hands raised in a supplicating gesture. The figure had created a flame in the two joined palms of its hand, and Glaistig Uaine was using the flame to warm her hands.
I hesitated a moment, and then approached her.
“Queen administrator.”
“Faerie Queen,” I responded. “Mind if I share your fire?”
“Not at all.”
I glanced down at the spirit. It wasn’t smoky or blurry, and was fairly substantial, all things considered, but the features of the costume that the figure had once worn had been smoothed over, to the point that the line between costume and flesh was impossible to discern. An overly pointed nose, sweeping up into flames at the sides and top of the head, eyes without irises or pupils, pointed fingertips with more flames at the edges of the wrists. The gender indeterminate.
Odd, that it had picked up on something so integral as costume, but not identity.
How had Golem put it? Someone who’d had a life, a mother, a father, family. He’d had dreams, had undergone a trigger event or paid a small fortune for powers in a jar. He’d had a story.
Relegated to being a servile handwarmer.
Was there any of the original personality in there? The memories of the person that was? If there were, then it implied something ugly. Glaistig Uaine collected passengers, tapped them for power, and if this thing had memories, then what did that suggest about the passengers?
I didn’t want to be cold and uncaring anymore, I didn’t want to be calculating and efficient. It made sense to ignore this individual, the spirit, to maintain peace with the Faerie Queen, but I didn’t like what it forced me to do.
So, instead, I turned to the spirit. “Hello.”
It opened its mouth to speak, but the words were faint, incoherent, as though it were emulating language rather than actually uttering it.
“Did you have a name?”
“Phoenixfeather,” Glaistig Uaine said.
Bit of a mouthful.
I warmed my hands at the fire. “Thank you, Phoenixfeather.”
He only lowered his head, shutting those featureless eyes that could have been lenses.
I felt a bit of a chill at that.
What if I fell in battle? Would she claim me? Would I become like that? What form would that body take? Skitter, Weaver, or a blending of the two?
“You’re not armed for battle,” the Faerie Queen observed, as if reading my mind.
“No. Soon.”
“Yes. I wait as well. The head that wears the crown bears a heavy burden.”
“You view us both as queens, Faerie Queen?”
“I do. But let us drop the titles when we talk.”
“Okay… Glaistig Uaine. Anyone else?”
“There are others who stand shoulder to shoulder with us, but queen is the wrong word, Administrator. The champion, the high priest, the observer, the shaper, the demesnes-keeper. Why do you ask?”
“Just trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out where you stand.”
“Ah. Do explain.”
“You want to see the faerie rise again, apparently, and Scion’s a b
ig part of that whole equation.”
“Yes. I’m seeing what you’re getting at, Administrator. A conflict of interest?”
“Essentially.”
“We all have our parts to play.”
“Parts.”
“Yes. Like actors taking a role in a play. We wear our human faces and harbor our dramas and fantasies, but it’s the same individuals playing the parts, as the play starts anew on a different stage, with different faces and forms. If it all goes well, a figure from the crowd joins the stage for the plays that follow, and the roles are refined.”
“And us… Queens and Kings. Do we have a bigger part? Leading roles?”
“Everyone’s the lead in their own story, Administrator. Some roles are bigger, some smaller, but none are more important, understand?”
“Yes,” I answered her. “What’s your role in this, then?”
“We’re back to the topic of my… conflict of interest. I have a special role in this. I keep the company of the faerie who have left our metaphorical stage.”
“The dead,” I said. “You keep the company of the dead.”
“Yes. The other nobles, their tasks are more immediate, shorter in term. What makes us truly noble is our role before and after this act. The others sleep, and we toil. We’re practiced, stronger, for that constant effort. The champion and observer ensure the next act goes on without a hitch. The shaper and demesnes-keeper clean up after we are all done here, one way or another. So it goes.”
“And the priest?”
“The high priest,” Glaistig Uaine admonished me. “You and I may be doing without the titles, but we mustn’t offend the others.”
“Right,” I said.
“As for his role, well, you should know.”
“I should know?”
“Yes.”
I could only think of one powerful individual who was on a par with the others she’d named. Contessa and Glaistig Uaine were easily twelves or higher on the power-ratings scale, and I could look to others with powers in that neighborhood to figure out who she was referring to. Panacea, Labyrinth…
Which raised two questions.
Why the hell was I on that list, for one thing?
And was Eidolon the high priest? He was the only one I could think of to fit the role.
“I’m not sure I follow,” I said.
“He doesn’t follow either,” Glaistig Uaine replied. “Which complicates things. We have two courts, but the other court arrived to the stage bedraggled, maddened, and they don’t have any instructions or forewarning, you understand?”
“I believe so,” I said.
Trying to, anyways.
“The high priest is in similar straits to these unfortunates. He stands straight and bluffs through his lines, but he’s wearing the wrong costume and he’s arrived at the wrong time, just like the others.”
“And… what does he think of this?”
Glaistig Uaine shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. But what would you think of it, in his shoes? He’s set this in motion, and there’s no finale, there’s no promise of another play after this one is done. The nobles of our court’s mighty faerie may have no role to play.”
“But you’re not concerned?”
She smiled a little, but didn’t respond.
“If it comes down to it, if we somehow get one over on Scion and if it looks like we might win, are you going to back him up? Because you want to see the next play?”
She used long fingernails to tuck hair behind her ear, turning pale eyes towards the horizon. The sky was still red, but it was more to do with the dust-heavy atmosphere than the sunrise. “I do wish to see it. I’d like to see the spirits of the dead dance through the landscape, even more than they are right now. Yet I’m still carrying out my role, and that’s the evidence I’ll give to my loyalty in the here and now.”
I wasn’t quite putting two and two together, and I suspected that might have been because she didn’t want me to. She was still carrying out her role, which was to collect and comfort the dead. Because… she hoped this all to go according to Scion’s plan?
I looked down at the fire that her shadowy specter was creating, then to the specter. To Phoenixfeather.
I’d watch Glaistig Uaine for trouble. I thought of the other major players who I already was keeping mental tabs on.
“What is Scion to you? He’s the director of this… play?”
“The audience, as well. The metaphor falls apart at this. He’s our father, our child, our creator and now our destroyer.”
I could grasp that much. Was there another I could ask about, that I wasn’t so sure about?
“Doctor Mother,” I said, without even really thinking about it. “Can I ask what role she plays on this stage?”
“Ah, now you’re asking me to answer questions that could make enemies.” Glaistig Uaine glanced up at me, and there was an implicit threat in the glance.
“I wouldn’t ask you to answer questions if it was inconvenient, Glaistig Uaine. I’m sorry.” Be polite, keep in her good books.
“I should hope you wouldn’t,” she said, and there was an admonishment in her tone. Then, her tone lighter, she replied. “No matter. She’s not one of ours. A prop, nothing more.”
“No powers, then.”
“Like I said, a prop.”
“She doesn’t seem that unimportant,” I said. “She has a lot of power.”
“A prop can be important. The grail was a subject for innumerable quests and tales. A message can decide the outcome of a war. A living prop…” she trailed off.
“Forgive me, Faerie Queen,” I said. I saw her start to object, then hurried to continue, “I’m using your title because I’m about to be rude, and I do want to show you the respect you’re due. It’s been a hard day. I’m not quite so distanced from this as you are, not so willing to be the actor rather than the act, if that makes any sense.”
“Perfect sense,” she responded.
“That means I’m not connecting the dots as well as I should. Instead of wasting your time, I’ll be blunt and say that I’m not following. That’s the rudeness I was mentioning. Can you elaborate? A living prop…”
“I can’t elaborate. They watch and listen for mention of doors, so they can take us from one stage to the next, and they’re listening to every word we utter. If I continued, it would upset everyone in question.”
“I see.” So there’s something more. Something the Doctor is keeping up her sleeve.
I wasn’t surprised.
“I should prepare for battle soon,” Glaistig Uaine said. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to discuss, Administrator?”
“There is. I’m sorry. My role. What’s my role in things?”
“In this act or in the greater plan?”
“Either. Both.”
She reached up, placing a hand on the side of my face. It was warm from the fire. Her thumb brushed along my cheekbone, the long nail coming dangerously close to my eye.
She could kill me right here. Pull my passenger away from me and claim it.
“I already told you,” she said. “I don’t like to repeat myself. Now come, bend down.”
I bent down.
She gave me a kiss on one cheek, then the other, then stepped back. “I look forward to collecting you, Administrator, or to meeting you at the end, if you outlive me. We can have long discussions.”
“They can talk?” I asked, looking down at Phoenixfeather.
“No. But we can discuss. You’ll understand, sooner or later.”
I nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Administrator,” she said. “Things become a great deal easier once you realize how temporary it all is.”
My loss?
She knows?
She stepped away, raising one hand. Like an explosion occurring in reverse, Phoenixfeather condensed into a point in her hand as she closed it into a fist.
She opened her hands, and two figures flanked her. Agai
n, the blending of costume and flesh. The blurring of identity. Both were women, but one had perhaps been mutilated in death, or she had been a case fifty-three. She was four-legged, her two arms different lengths.
They worked together to fashion Glaistig Uaine’s costume, discorporating the modified prison uniform she’d fashioned into a shroud and reforming it into a proper cloak and robe, with a texture that scintillated green and black, as though it were made up of thousands of scales the size of grains of sand.
I took that as my cue to leave.
“Door. Chicago Protectorate Headquarters.”
The portal opened.
I stepped through onto the roof of the headquarters.
There was a strong wind, and the heavy clouds of moisture and dust were soaring across the sky. I looked down, and saw an empty city. No people in the streets, no moving cars. During the morning runs, even, or the dead of night, Chicago had been full of life.
I could sense some life, though. I reached out to the bugs that populated the empty city and drew them to me.
I knew why they had placed me on the roof. Moving the bugs through the building, I could feel the cracks in the structure, the broken concrete, the fallen boards of plaster from the ceiling of the office level. Something had shaken the building and it was at risk of collapse.
The opening on the roof for flying heroes was ajar. I sent my bugs inside, all too aware of echo to the event that had led to the ironic case of my joining the Wards.
They collected fabric, collected materials and fit themselves into the channels of my spare flight pack. Then they made their way up to me, everything on hand.
The swarm circled around me, and they deposited every item, straightening the things out, spacing it evenly around me, a kaleidoscopic pattern. Spare costumes, costume concepts, weapons, gear.
I’d wondered what form my body would take if Glaistig Uaine were to seize me. The core costume was the same, but the details, the features… clawed fingertips of Skitter or the extra armor of Weaver’s, with a spare coil of silk hidden beneath an armor panel at the back of the hand?
Black? White? Gray? Red? I had silk bodysuits in every color, from when I’d tested dyes and worn the bodysuits to see how the color held up when the suit was stretched over my body.