“We can prepare a contract, but that only imposes financial penalties,” Mr. Calle answered me. “The PRT could theoretically get it thrown out of court, and that’s ignoring the possibility that you could be sent to the birdcage. It would depend on the penalties you’re able to levy against them…”
He trailed off.
I thought of Tattletale. ”I think I have some ideas.”
“Excellent. But the best way, I’m thinking, is to make it all common knowledge. Let the rest of the country hold them to it. It would depend on whether we could share the details with John and Jane Q. Public.”
“Can we talk about the terms, then?” I asked.
“We can. I got the impression you were able to tell time?”
“It’s one twenty-seven. Six hours and three minutes left.”
“Right then,” he made a pained expression. “A good thing I told my wife I wouldn’t make it to dinner. I’ll get a few of my coworkers on the line. They can pitch in and put an intern to typing things up while we hash this out. You don’t have much ground to stand on, but we can make the legal ramifications as ugly as possible for them if they throw you under the bus.”
■
It took one and a half hours, roughly, to get everything worked out and organized. After that, I had to put up with twenty minutes of waiting while Mr. Calle’s law firm typed it and emailed it to us. It took ten more minutes for my lawyer to run to a nearby print shop and get the paperwork we’d put together. Mr. Calle then insisted on reading the entire thing through. The wait was almost intolerable.
Fifteen more minutes passed as he went through it page by page, with agonizing slowness. I winced a little every time he stopped and went back to check earlier details against whatever it was he was reading.
“It’s bare bones,” he finally said.
“I didn’t expect much else,” I said.
“We could have done better with more notice, I have to say.”
“Too many variables to lay anything out ahead of time,” I said.
“Very well. Let’s bring them in.”
More minutes ticked away as we waited for the others to arrive. Director Tagg, the Deputy Director, Miss Militia, Clockblocker, and Mrs. Yamada… they were gathering in force. Tagg took a seat opposite us, Miss Militia to his left, his second in command to his right.
“Let’s hear it,” he said.
Mr. Calle stood, then walked around the table, handing each person present a copy of the document. I was the only one who didn’t have one in front of me.
“My client, Taylor Hebert, is offering official surrender to the PRT, for a select handful of crimes. This surrender and an admission of guilt would be televised locally, nationally and possibly internationally, dependent on which outlets were prepared to cooperate. In exchange, my client, Taylor Hebert, known by the alias ‘Skitter’, requests some concessions from the Protectorate, PRT and Wards.”
“Televised?” Tagg asked.
“It serves as insurance for my client, and it serves to signal the Undersiders to stand down, should they be considering any sort of aggression for the capture of their leader and friend.”
“Right,” Tagg said. “Let’s pretend she didn’t plan for that. Go on.”
“To begin with, the remaining members of the Undersiders will be given leniency for past crimes. With the understanding that the Undersiders are serving to police this city’s underworld where the Protectorate is unable, the group would cease to be the target of any aggression or harassment on the part of the PRT, Protectorate or Wards. This fact would not be disclosed to the public, but would serve as a truce to allow both sides to carry out their respective duties in the service of Brockton Bay.”
“You’re kidding me,” Clockblocker said.
“You want us to play nice,” Tagg said.
I watched Miss Militia. We’d already discussed this point. I’d gauged her response. Now I was putting it out there in simple, clear terms, making it official. I couldn’t be sure if she’d hold to her word or if it would collapse under the bureaucracy.
I’d tested her once, and she’d informed Tagg of what I was planning. This would be a second test, of sorts.
“Special allowances,” Mr. Calle said, “Would be made for crimes committed in the future, within specific limits detailed on page three of the paperwork you have in front of you.”
“You want to neuter us,” Director Tagg said. “Stop us from policing the criminals who run this city.”
“As my client phrased it, Director, we’re hoping to free you to focus your efforts on real targets.”
“You can want it and begin again,” Tagg said, “But I won’t stand by and watch it happen.”
“Quite alright,” my lawyer responded. He flashed a smile, “I expect that’s why Ms. Hebert has asked that you retire, Director Tagg. Her colleague, known by the alias Tattletale, has apparently confirmed that you’ve put in the requisite number of years. You could collect your pension without issue.”
I watched as Tagg leaned back in his seat. He gave me a smug look. He thinks he got to me.
“You’re dangerous,” I said. “You’ve got a soldier’s mentality at a time when we need peace. You’d let the world burn to… give me a bloody nose. You said it yourself. You’re unyielding, and we need compromise.”
“A reality that Ms. Hebert feels Miss Militia would be better equipped to accommodate,” my lawyer added. “That’s our third term.”
There weren’t any retorts or rebuttals from the ‘good guys’. Instead, they exchanged glances across the table, everyone looking between Miss Militia and Director Tagg.
“The PRT is led by non-capes,” Miss Militia said.
“That can change,” I said. “Nearly a week ago, you and I had a conversation. We talked about the issues within the PRT, the fact that you had to kowtow to non-capes and all the problems that posed. I think the non-capes who tend to find powerful positions in the PRT are getting there by dangerous roads. They tend to have backgrounds with the police, military, and anti-parahuman strike teams. It sets up a combative mindset, where we don’t need one. With a cape in charge of the local team, at the very least, I could hope that there’d be a shared perspective.”
“You think Miss Militia would be easier to manipulate,” Tagg accused me.
“I think she’s a no-nonsense type. I know she’s a respected cape, that her power… it’s not one you want to cross paths with, so there’d be little doubt she could put up a fight if it came down to it. And she listens. She doesn’t always do what I’d want her to, but I can live with that.”
“This sets a precedent,” Miss Militia said. “One that I doubt our superiors would be happy with. One I doubt the public would be happy with.”
“When I showed up the night you guys outed me to the public, Tagg was boasting about your fantastic public relations department,” I said. “How virtually anything could be sold to the public, given time.”
“It’s ultimately up to the Director,” Triumph said, “But what if, hypothetically, we had a figurehead leader, with Miss Militia as the person that was really calling the shots?”
I shook my head. “Not good enough.”
“You actually have the temerity to play hardball?” Tagg asked, his voice rising a notch. “I think you’re missing the fact that you’re securely in our custody, and you already surrendered. If it comes down to it, we can see you shipped off with Dragon and Defiant, keep you airborne and away from any large body of insects until your trial by teleconference.”
“And my teammates?” I asked.
“That’s up to you,” he said, “But I don’t think you have it in you to sacrifice them for… this.”
“I guess I have a higher estimation of them than you do. Don’t tell your people to stop underestimating me, only to slip up and expect to win wholesale against the rest of the Undersiders. I think they’d surprise you. Surprise all of you.”
“You said you need compromise,” Miss Militia said.
“But you won’t budge on this point? A figurehead leader would keep the public content and give you what you’re asking for.”
“What I want,” I said, “Is to set a precedent. Fixing Brockton Bay doesn’t do a thing, if we don’t leave doors open to fix things elsewhere. If one cape becomes head of the local PRT, then it could happen elsewhere.”
Director Tagg drummed his fingertips on the metal table for a few seconds. When he spoke, his tone was derisive. “Your arrogance boggles the fucking mind. You want to change the world, and you think a confession on television and the threat of your friends attacking the PRT will be incentive enough? You’re not that big a fish.”
“I don’t want to change the world,” I said. “I want to make it possible for things to change.”
“Semantics.”
I sighed. My glasses were slipping down my nose. I had to bend over to put them in reach of my hand so I could push them up.
“Is that it?” Miss Militia asked.
“One more thing,” Mr. Calle said. “My client has a request.”
All eyes turned to me. I straightened. “I recognize that I’m asking for some big things. I’m hoping that the… scale of some of what I’m asking for is tempered by the fact that this is all constructive. It puts us in a better place and leaves us prepared to face down the real threats: the impending apocalypse, the Endbringers, the forces who’d want to move into this city and abuse the portal. I’m going to ask for one more thing in that vein. Don’t send me to the Birdcage. Don’t send me to juvie, or hang me for treason. It’s… not constructive.”
“What would you have us do?” Mrs. Yamada spoke up.
“Use me. I get that it wouldn’t work, having me join the Wards. Too much baggage. But… the end of the world hinges on Jack Slash doing something within the next two years. You absolved Armsmaster of his crimes and sent him out to hunt them down. Do the same with me. I can cover a lot of ground in a search, I have experience fighting them, and if you needed it, nobody would even have to know I was doing it. I’d be one more body on the ground, relatively discreet, and maybe that gives us all a slightly better chance of keeping Dinah’s prediction from coming to pass.”
I wasn’t even done talking when I saw the looks, felt a sinking in my gut as the various people in charge exchanged glances. Tagg smiled a little. Miss Militia looked… concerned. The only person who looked as confused as I felt was Clockblocker.
“What?” I asked.
“Your intel is out of date,” Tagg said. His heavily lined eyes were staring at me, studying me.
“What?” I asked. “You already stopped them?”
“No,” he said, and the word was a growl. He didn’t elaborate further.
“Taylor,” Miss Militia rescued me, “Do you know where the Slaughterhouse Nine went after leaving Brockton Bay?”
“A series of small towns, then Boston,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “And they struck one target after Boston. Toybox.”
I remembered seeing the name on Tattletale’s bulletin board. “Who or where is Toybox?”
“What’s Toybox, you mean,” the Director said.
“What’s Toybox?” I asked.
“May I?” Miss Militia asked Tagg. He gave her a curt nod, and she took hold of the laptop in front of him. It took her a few moments to log in and open the page. She unplugged the cord from the laptop and handed it to Mrs. Yamada, who handed it to my lawyer. He set it so we could both see it. Mr. Calle clicked the touchpad to page through the various images and documents.
“Toybox is a black market organization,” Miss Militia said. “Tinkers who operate solo find life rather difficult, due to a lack of resources and the fact that gangs and government organizations are very, very persistent when it comes to recruiting them. Faced with the prospect of spending their lives on the run, trying to avoid being forcibly recruited into one organization or another, most turn to the Protectorate or the Wards. For those few who don’t, Toybox is… was a refuge of sorts. Tinkers would join, share technology, stay in the enclave as long as they needed to build up a reputation and whatever tools they needed, they would share thirty-three percent of any proceeds with the rest of the group, helping to keep others afloat. Toybox sustained itself with barter, by moving frequently, operating between the scope of heroes and villains, and by selling less-than-legal goods to criminal groups.”
I could see the images, grainy black and white photos of various tinkers huddled together, or standing behind tables loaded down with ray guns and the like. There was a chronology of sorts, to the point that I could see the group evolve, some leaving as others joined, the enclave shifting from a group as small as four members to as many as fifteen.
“The Slaughterhouse Nine attacked them at the end of June,” Miss Militia said. “In doing so, they appropriated all of the tinker technology and all of the tinkers that were staying with the group. See page thirty-six and on.”
Mr. Calle paged forward until the images showed up.
Pyrotechnical. A tinker focusing on flame manipulation, special effects, guns.
Cranial. A tinker specializing in neurology. Brain scans, draining thoughts, recording thoughts.
Big Rig. A tinker who built drones that built things in turn, particularly buildings.
Bauble. A girl who specialized in glassworking and glassworking tools, including tools that could turn inorganic matter into glass.
Dodge. A boy, twelve, who made access devices for pocket dimensions.
Toy Soldier. A powersuit user with a suit the size of a small building.
Glace. A tinker specializing in cryogenics and stasis.
“The Nine have access to all of their work?” I felt an inarticulate feeling of horror creep over me. I couldn’t imagine anything particular, but anything that enhanced the capabilities and options that Slaughterhouse Nine had at their disposal?
“And access to the work of Blasto, a cloning specialist they assaulted and kidnapped in Boston,” Miss Militia said.
I sat back and the chain of my cuffs went taut, my arms stretched out in front of me. “This doesn’t change things. If anything, you need all of the help you can get. This is serious.”
“It’s complicated,” Miss Militia said.
“Seems pretty damn simple,” I said.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Because they’re gone. They stopped.”
I shut my mouth, staring.
“The Slaughterhouse Nine attacked Toybox, taking the group’s devices for themselves, and they disappeared. We suspect they used Dodge’s devices to exit into a pocket dimension, and by the time we’d found a way to follow, they’d exited elsewhere.”
“They’re dimension hopping?”
“Dodge’s devices only exit from Bet to pocket worlds he creates with his devices, back to Bet. We believe they exited somewhere on Bet, possibly in another state, then used another device to hide. Which would be where they are now. Without knowing where they entered that particular pocket, we can’t hope to find them,” Miss Militia said. “We know their patterns. They tend to cut a swathe of destruction across North America, and it’s rare for even a handful of days to pass without them taking any action at all. Between the PRT’s past experience with the group, our thinkers, and the fact that they haven’t made an appearance in nearly ten days, we believe we’ve worked out what they’re doing.”
I stared at the laptop. It was still on the last page. Glace.
“Cryogenics,” I said.
“Stasis,” Miss Militia agreed. “The pressure grew too intense, with Defiant and Dragon’s pursuit, they weren’t recovering from losses fast enough. They’ve gone into hiding, and we think they plan to wait.”
Wait, I thought.
“How long?” Clockblocker asked.
“We can’t know for sure,” Miss Militia replied. “But if they’ve put themselves in a cryogenic sleep, they could wake and resume their normal activities days, weeks, months or years from now. Depending on the reso
urces they have available, they might well emerge with clones of their current members at their side.”
Tattletale should have told me, I thought, even as I knew why she hadn’t. Her power had been out of commission. She’d been out of commission. We’d known the Nine attacked the Toybox, but we’d missed what that meant in the grand scheme of things. Through a combination of Tattletale’s ailment and a hundred other small distractions, we’d missed out on the reason Defiant and Dragon had been able to abandon their hunt for the Nine and visit Arcadia.
“Does Jack know?” I asked. “I mean, I know he knows he’s supposed to end the world, but does he know he sets it in motion within two years?”
Miss Militia shook her head. “We don’t think so. Which means that, unless there’s something specific they want to wake up for, we can’t even begin to guess when he’ll have his team wake up.”
Silence hung in the air for long seconds.
“Now you know. These are your demands?” Tagg spoke up.
“We’ll need to discuss things and revise our terms with this new information in mind,” Mr. Calle said, glancing at me. I nodded once.
“Better do some heavy revision,” Director Tagg said. “And do it fast, because it’s not that long until sundown, and I won’t be accepting any of your terms as they stand. You said it yourself, nobody wants this fight.”
I frowned, watching each of them making their way out of the interrogation room.
Tagg joined Miss Militia’s side, and I couldn’t help but notice the way she adopted a guarded position, folding her arms as he approached. It gave me a flicker of hope.
Until the bugs I’d planted inside the fold of Tagg’s collar caught a fragment of something he was saying.
“…her father.”
22.03
The door slammed shut as the last of the heroes departed. They joined the PRT uniforms and Wards who had gathered just in front of the elevator, leaving me and my lawyer to talk in private.
Worm Page 353