by James Maxey
“Mrs. Knowbokov,” he said.
“I apologize for pulling you away from a busy day of hammering,” she said without looking directly at him. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her tone was flat, neutral.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
“Her prognosis is good,” said Mrs. Knowbokov. “They’ve mapped out her injuries with micrographing MRI and have injected ten cc of surgical nanites into her bloodstream. Assuming her body doesn’t trigger an autoimmune response, the nanites will repair the damage, simulating a month of healing in mere hours. By tomorrow, she should be fully recovered.”
“That’s great,” said Clint.
“You sound relieved,” she said.
“How could anyone not sound relieved?”
“You should have been there,” said Mrs. Knowbokov, her voice still calm and emotionless.
“I can’t be everywhere,” said Clint. “Even if I could, who knows how things might have turned out? I’m told that Chimpion took out five dervishes in the span of a few seconds. That’s better than I’ve ever done against them.”
“This is the earliest we’ve ever intervened,” said Mrs. Knowbokov. “The new generation of metal detectors we’ve been providing free of charge to at risk sites proved to be a wise investment. But we’re still playing defense. I’m furious that you didn’t answer your signal.” She didn’t sound furious as she said this. But she did sound sorrowful as she said, “I’m even more furious that I’ve failed so badly.”
“Failed how?”
“I’ve poured millions into locating the mastermind of these attacks,” said Mrs. Knowbokov. “I’ve pulled the diplomatic strings to organize a worldwide manhunt. The foundation has provided law enforcement agencies with the most advanced CSI tools they’ve ever had access too. What has it gotten us? We still don’t have the first clue to the identity of the mastermind. We don’t know what their goal is.”
“You’re just being politically correct,” said Clint. “We both know this has to be tied to Islamic jihadists. I mean, the beheadings—“
“Mean nothing,” said Mrs. Knowbokov. “Islamic terrorists aren’t shy about claiming credit for their work. The silence behind these attacks—“
“—is meant to increase terror,” said Clint. “And it’s working. If we had a name or a face or some statement of purpose for whoever’s behind this, people would have at least a sliver of hope that they could be stopped. By staying hidden, it increases despair, increases fear. It’s a clash of civilizations. It won’t stop until we have the courage to name our enemy and pin the blame on Islam.”
“Clint, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just parroting the right wing propaganda fed to you by that preacher,” said Mrs. Knowbokov. “She’s a bad influence on you.”
“Sister Amy’s the main reason I’m not one of the bad guys anymore,” said Clint. “She’s the greatest influence a man could hope for. Well, her and Jesus, of course.”
“You’re free to believe what you wish to believe and worship with who you wish to worship,” said Mrs. Knowbokov. “But your prejudices don’t constitute evidence. We’ve already identified the dervish who attacked today. He wasn’t Islamic. He wasn’t religious at all. Until last week, he’d been a physical education teacher at a high school in New Jersey. Nothing about his background suggested any sort of ties to radical Islam, or to any other form of terrorism.”
“So he’s part of a sleeper cell. Pretending to be an ordinary American until he gets the signal.”
“Perhaps. But… what explains the strange ability to split into more than one person? And where are these dervishes getting their weapons?”
“You can order just about anything off the internet,” said Clint.
“Not without leaving a record,” said Mrs. Knowbokov. “And the metal detector he was stopped at… it’s the second one he passed through entering the mall. It’s as if his sword materialized out of nothing, just as it fell apart into little more than dust.”
“Maybe its magic,” said Clint.
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe in magic. There’s some scientific explanation, which makes this all the more frustrating. The world was nearly toppled once by Rex Monday. If he’s returned…”
“I thought he was dead?”
“He is. But I was married to a man who built a time machine. We routinely send the team around the world instantaneously by manipulating math. I’ve come to believe that nothing is impossible.”
“Then it’s not impossible for us to put a stop to this,” said Clint. “We’re making progress. People died today, but we both know it could have been a hundred times worse.”
“It’s only through acknowledging failure that we can move forward. The first step forward is to expand the team. Three heroes aren’t enough for the risks we face. I let the PR challenges and the political costs delay my appointing Chimpion to the team. As of now, I’m fixing that mistake.”
“She certainly proved herself.”
“Yes. But even with her, the team needs to be expanded. Unfortunately, the other candidates who’ve applied are jokes. Which is why I’m sending you and App to find me a new recruit.”
“You want us to find you another chimp?” asked Clint, regretting saying it the second he said it. Mrs. Knowbokov didn’t look to be in the mood for jokes.
“No,” she said, turning to look at him. “I want you to bring me a dragon.”
Chapter Six
Cryptomnesia
“You clean up nice,” said App as Clint walked into the jump room dressed in a dark suit.
“Technically I can’t get dirty,” said Clint. “Not even grime gets through my force field.”
“You know what I mean,” said App. “You look good in a suit.”
“You could see me in a suit every week if you’d come to church.”
“You are terrible at small talk,” said App. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you it’s rude to talk about religion?”
“I never had parents,” said Clint. “My father was a supervillain who raped my mother. My mother died in childbirth, probably because my energy fields killed her.”
“Again, just terrible at small talk,” said App.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Clint.
App sighed. “Whatever.” He adjusted his tie and looked at his reflection in the glass door. He hadn’t worn a suit since, like, forever. It was weird to see himself looking so normal. Since joining the Covenant, he spent pretty much every waking hour in costume. This was mostly by choice. He’d died at the hands of a mad supervillain then woke up a superhero. The streaming feeds in his head were filled with people constantly telling him how awesome he was. Now that he had a taste, he couldn’t begin to guess why Superman would ever pretend to be Clark Kent. Still, he liked the way he looked at the moment. He looked professional, like someone who could be taken seriously.
Katya came into the jump room and handed each of them a tablet computer. “App, I’ve already uploaded this into your memory, but figured it won’t hurt to go over the highlights of what we’ve discovered.”
App frowned at the notion that Katya regarded his mind as nothing more than rewritable media. Still, as Katya spoke, he was struck with an odd sense of cryptomnesia. His mind filled with memories he had no memory of remembering.
“Our dead ex-con was living under the name Mark Porter,” said Katya.
“We have a lead on how he got out of prison? Especially being, you know, dead?”
“We’re not focused on that at the moment,” said Katya. “It’s not important to your mission.”
“Not important?” asked App.
Katya nodded. “Mark Porter has lived a quiet, law-abiding life for the last five years. Not even a speeding ticket. His past has nothing to do with the immediate mission.”
“Care to explain exactly what our mission is?” asked Clint.
“Mark Porter earned his living as an airplane mechanic. He was good at his
job. Two years ago, he met this woman.” As she spoke, a photo appeared on the tablet. “Rebecca Henderson, twenty-six, a decorated veteran. She served in Syria repairing helicopters until an accident left her a double amputee. Both legs gone below the knees. She came back stateside and started working in the same repair shop as Porter. Pretty soon, the two of them had a thing going.”
“They were romantically involved?” asked Clint.
Katya shrugged. “I’m not going to judge whether there was romance, but can confirm they were shacking up.”
“Do people still say that?” asked App. “Shacking up?”
“I’m people,” said Katya.
“Yes ma’am,” said App.
“Anyway, cutting to the chase… does she look familiar to you?”
“She does now that you’ve put her picture into my brain.”
“I mean does she look like the woman you glimpsed inside the dragon?”
App frowned. “Maybe?” He tried hard to remember what he’d seen. It was his own memory, a genuine memory, and yet it was so difficult to see clearly. Then again, maybe it wasn’t his own memory. He’d died. He’d been rebooted, basically rebuilt from scratch. His memories were nothing but synaptic connections, recorded by the belt as a string of numbers, then put back together from subatomic particles. He was a copy of a copy. Was it any surprise his memories were blurry?
“You think she was piloting the dragon?” asked Clint.
“She’s our top candidate,” said Katya.
“Where, exactly, do you buy a robotic dragon suit?” asked App. “I mean, I’m checking Amazon as we speak and coming up zilch.”
“Obviously, this isn’t something you can buy,” said Katya. “It was almost certainly printed with a 3-d printer capable of weaving carbon fiber composites.”
“She built it?” asked Clint
“Or Porter did,” said Katya.
“And he did have a dragon tattoo,” said App. “Still…”
“Don’t forget the steampunk,” said Katya.
“What’s a steampunk?” asked Clint.
“Seriously,” said App. “One day you should visit this century. You might enjoy it.”
“Steampunk is all about not enjoying this century,” said Katya.
“Touché,” said App.
“Steampunk is a sort of aesthetic,” said Katya. “A style that imagines advanced technology as it might have existed in the Victorian era.”
“That can’t be of interest to more than three people in the whole world,” said Clint.
“There are conventions where tens of thousands of people show up in period appropriate costumes,” said App. “Or period inappropriate, I guess, since no one in the real Victorian era was carrying a plasma rifle.”
“Rebecca and Mark went to a half dozen conventions a year,” said Katya, flipping through a gallery on the tablet, showing App photos he recognized though it was the first time he’d ever seen them.
“Cute couple,” said App. He noticed Rebecca was standing in all the photos. “I though you said she lost her legs?”
“She did,” said Katya. “So Mark built her new ones.”
Now App could see her carbon fiber lower legs in crystal detail in his mind’s eye.
“Building new legs has to take some serious engineering skills,” said Clint, looking at the same photo on the tablet.
“Doesn’t it?” asked Katya. “That’s why we’re sending the two of you to talk to her.”
“Why the civvies?” asked App. “Why not go in in costume and apprehend her?”
“The men who were killed at the airport turned out to be known members of the Johannesburg Syndicate. They’re international arms smugglers. If you ever wonder where all the rebel armies that pop up in the third world are getting their guns, it’s these creeps.”
“So the dragon was fighting bad guys,” said Clint. “Maybe she’s some kind of fledgling superhero?”
“We’ll know more after you talk to her,” said Katya. “Mrs. Knowbokov is intrigued by the possibility that there’s a technologically proficient vigilante out there who might be looking for an opportunity to fight crime on a higher level.”
“Forgive me for being dubious of her good intentions,” said App. “She did choose to kill me instead of surrendering.”
“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” said Clint.
“I think it’s going to take something a lot harder than a stone to take her down if she doesn’t cooperate,” said App.
“Which is why Servant’s going with you,” said Katya.
“Because he’s no good at talking, and I’m no good at fighting dragons,” said App.
“I would say this has been a successful mission briefing,” said Katya.
“I know all I need to know,” said Clint. “Let’s go. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I can get back to Texas.”
As Katya left the jump room, App said to Servant, “You’re still working on that New Jerusalem crap? You ever think you might be wasting your talents as a carpenter?”
“Jesus was a carpenter,” said Clint.
They waited for a few seconds as the atmosphere in the jump room grew chilly, dry, and smoky. Technically, the space machine could grab them from any place and put them down anywhere. The advantage to using the jump room was that the room was manipulated to match the atmospheric conditions of the target site, reducing the vertigo that some people experienced upon transposition.
App blinked and discovered that they’d already arrived. They were standing in what looked like a junk yard. All around them was old farm equipment, hundreds of rusting bikes, and numerous huge gears the size of manhole covers pulled from God knows what sort of heavy machinery. In the center of the field of junk was a small mobile home, sitting next to a metal garage three times the size. Smoke rose from a black pipe in the mobile home’s roof, the chimney of a wood stove, App guessed.
“Should we knock?” App asked.
“I don’t see why we’ve bothered wearing suits if the plan was to bust down her door,” said Clint.
They walked across the yard, with App keeping his eyes open for a dog. It looked like the sort of yard that would host a Rottweiler. They made it to the door without anything growling at them. The door had a charming sign on it with a hand holding a gun and the text, “Protected by Smith and Wesson.”
“I’ve a hunch she’s a Republican,” said App. “You should speak her language.”
“What makes you think I’m a Republican?” asked Clint.
“All the religion talk?”
“I honestly don’t get bogged down in politics,” said Clint. “Once you catch a glimpse of God’s larger plan, the day to day squabbles just seem petty.”
“We aren’t ever going to have a conversation that doesn’t come back to God, are we?”
Clint smiled as he pressed the doorbell. The doorbell didn’t ring.
“They repaired airplanes but couldn’t fix their doorbell?” asked App.
“They have a picture of a gun on their door,” said Clint, knocking. “Maybe they didn’t want company.”
They waited for five seconds, then ten.
“She had a late night,” said App. “Avenging a lover and killing an internationally beloved superhero. She’s probably asleep.”
Clint knocked again, harder. “You have x-ray vision, right?”
App shook his head. “You’re confusing me with Superman. I can see in expanded spectrums, but there’s not enough background x-rays in nature to let me see through stuff. If it was night, infrared would let me see if anyone was inside but daylight more or less blots out that power. Luckily, my eyes aren’t what we need here.” He frowned. “Though the suit’s not really going to put her at ease if she does open the door.” He shrugged, then said, “Bat mode.”
Instantly, his ears were about eighteen inches tall. He knocked again and turned his head from side to side as the sound echoed through the interior. His brain built a reasonably clear pictu
re of what lay on the other side of the door, though there were a few big voids, probably from padded furniture not reflecting any sound waves.
“I don’t see any movement,” he said, whispering. “Hear any, I mean.”
“Maybe she didn’t come home,” said Clint. “If she’s smart enough to build a dragon, she’s gotta be smart enough to get out of town.”
App snapped his fingers, then winced. That wasn’t a great sound to hear when his aural nerves occupied so much of his brain. “Bloodhound mode,” he said.
His ears vanished. His nose tripled in size, with enormous nostrils, and his whole head felt off balance from his enlarged sinuses.
“Did you catch her scent last night?” asked Clint.
“No,” said App, removing his tie pin, revealing the small, sharp spike on the back of it. He placed it against his thumb and jammed hard, clenching his jaw. He pulled the pin out of his thumb and watched the bead of red blood well up.
“When she flew away, her claws were covered in my blood,” said App. He sniffed the wind, and turned toward the big garage. “She’s in there. At least, the dragon is.”
“We would have searched there even if you hadn’t hurt yourself.”
“Yeah, but know we know she’s here. Or at least, it’s here. We should be prepared.”
“Prepared for what?” asked Clint. Because he’d been dumb enough to provide the cue, at that moment the whole garage exploded.
Chapter Seven
I Warned You
App found it troubling that he’d become such an expert at getting blown up. If the blast was from a high powered explosive like C4 or Semtex, he never felt a thing. The supersonic shock would pulverize his brain tissues before any pain registered. Plain old dynamite, though, that could really hurt, with the shockwave hitting hard enough to rupture eardrums and organs, but not always hard enough to shut down his brain. The worst type of explosion, though, had to be fuel mixtures, stuff like gasoline or propane tanks going off. The concussive force might stun you, but it wouldn’t spare you from the hell flames licking at your flesh.