Worm

by John Mccrae Wildbow

  Almost comical. When you saw a bomb disposal team running, as the joke went, you ran to keep up. The same applied to any tinker and a device that flashed like that. Kismet and I ran after him.

  The gun exploded, silently, without fire or light or electricity. There was only a roughly spherical opening carved into the area. It was wide enough to lead into the tunnel above and below us, and had sheared through the five or six feet of solid earth that separated each floor. At the far end, I could see where it had cut into a corner of the previously inaccessible room.

  We approached, and I could see a cape inside, or a parahuman, if ‘cape’ applied. He was disheveled, with dark circles under his eyes, his skin pale, his beard and hair bedraggled. His clothing, by contrast, was opulent, clean: a rich indigo robe, a sapphire set in a gold chain, a gold chain for a belt, and a golden sash.

  And above him, the energy. There were two golden discs, and something almost alive seemed to crackle between them.

  “It’s Phir Sē,” Kismet said, backing away.

  “The glowing thing in the air or the person?” I asked.

  “The person.”

  “Who’s Phir See?” I asked.

  “Sē. He’s one of the reasons the American girl’s PRT can exist,” Kismet said. “When they talk about disbanding it, the PRT only reminds them that monsters like this lurk elsewhere.”

  The man slowly turned to face us. He wasn’t an old man, but he moved like one.

  “Monsters?” I asked. “I’ve fought monsters. Just tell me what kind of monster he is.”

  “The kind that is too smart for all of our good,” Kismet said. He’d frozen the moment the man set eyes on him.

  Phir Sē spoke, “That is compliment? Yes?”

  “Yes,” Kismet said.

  “Then I thank you. Girl? I recognize you from American television.”

  “I go by Weaver, now.”

  “I do remember. You had much power. You turned it down.”

  “It wasn’t for me,” I said.

  “You are more comfortable where you are now?” he asked.

  “Now as in here, in this fight, or as a hero?”

  “Either. Both,” he stated.

  “Honestly? No on both counts. I’m still figuring it out.”

  He inclined his head. “This is to be respected. Making hard choice. The challenge of the young adult. To find identity.”

  “Thank you,” I said, still wary. Everything about Kismet’s reaction was telling me this guy was to be feared, so I had to step carefully. “Can I ask what that thing is?”

  “A weapon,” he said. “A… how do you Americans say it? Time bomb? Only this is joke.”

  “He makes portals,” Kismet said. “Using them, he can send things back in time. Something goes in portal B, comes out of portal A a few minutes earlier. Or the other way around.”

  “Or, as I discover, I make loop,” Phir Sē said. “Weaponize. Simple light, captured in one moment, redoubled many times over. I move gate, and that light will pour forth and clean.”

  I could remember what Particulate had said. More energy than Behemoth had created since arriving in this city. Only this would be directed at a single target.

  “Clean isn’t the word you want,” I said. ”Scour?”

  “Scour,” Phir Sē said, he inclined his head again. ”I thank you.”

  “Behemoth wants his hands on it,” I said. “On that energy.”

  “I want this on Behemoth. Do great harm. Even kill.”

  “Shit,” Kismet said. He backed away a step. “This is-”

  “Stay,” Phir Sē said. His voice was quiet, but it was clear he expected to be heeded.

  Kismet glanced up at the glow, then turned to run.

  He wasn’t even turned all the way around when there was a flicker. A man appeared just in front of Kismet. A teleporter.

  And his forearm extended through Kismet’s chest.

  Then he flickered, like a bad lightbulb, and he was gone, leaving only a gaping hole where the arm had been. Kismet collapsed, dead.

  A teleporter who can bypass the Manton effect.

  “Stay,” Phir Sē told us, again. He hadn’t even flinched, but the space between his bushy eyebrows furrowed as he stared down at Kismet.

  My heart thudded in my throat as I glanced down at the body.

  Particulate said something, spitting the word.

  Phir Sē said something in Punjabi, then turned to me, “Is rude, to speak in language you cannot understand. He call me evil, so I not speak to him further. But you understand, do you not? You know what form this war take? The danger we all face, from monsters like that, from others?”

  “I don’t think many top the Endbringers,” I said.

  “Maybe not so. Maybe. But you have tried being cold. Killing the enemy, yes? Because ruthless is only way to win this war.”

  “I met some people. I think they were your adversaries,” I said. “Glowing eyes? Reflective? Like mirrors?”

  “Yes. Enemy. They petty evils that walk this city. Organize crime. Slave, prostitute, murder, mercenary. My side, we root out corrupt. Ruthless. Government prefer them to us. Paint us as evil, pay them to carry on. But you know what this is like, yes?”

  “More or less,” I said, not breaking eye contact. “And those guys, they’re ruthless in the same way you described, I guess?”

  “More, less,” he said, as if he were trying on the phrase, “Yes.”

  “You want to hit Behemoth with this… time bomb,” I said. “But… I think that’s what he wants. He’s holding back. My thinker friend, she said so. He’s taking more hits than he should, and I’m just now realizing he might be doing it because he wants to be ready for when you hit him with this. He’ll push it out into the ground, or into the air.”

  “Yes. This is likely,” Phir Sē said. “This is what he may want. I hoped for the Second or Third. This will have to do.”

  “They’ve tried this stuff before,” I said. “Nukes, gigantic railguns, tricks with teleportation and portals. It doesn’t work. You won’t do anything except get a lot of people killed as collateral damage.”

  “We time this. Strategic,” Phir Sē said, calm, as if he were talking to a panicked animal. “Come. Step in.”

  Right, I thought. Approach the temporal bomb.

  But I did. No use ticking off the guy with the murder-teleporter on call. Particulate followed me as I navigated the way to the room’s interior.

  There were television screens all across the wall. Five showed the ongoing destruction from distant cameras. Two showed grainy camera footage. The last showed what looked to be an Indian soap opera.

  “Thirsty,” Phir Sē commented.

  The teleporter flickered into existence, then disappeared. Phir Sē had a bottle of water in his hands that he hadn’t held before. He turned our way, bushy eyebrows raised as a faint smile touched his face. “Might I offer you anything?”

  I shook my head. My stomach was a knot, my heart was pounding.

  Particulate said something, but Phir Sē ignored him.

  “We watch the First,” Phir Sē said. “He let his guard down, I strike.”

  “I’ve seen an Endbringer fool another brilliant man who thought he had a surefire way to win,” I said. “They’re cleverer than we think. What if Behemoth fools you?”

  “Then New Delhi pay for my mistake,” Phir Sē answered me. “I have daughter there. She join bright heroes, popular ones. She pay for my mistake, if she still lives. I live, down here, spend life mourning.”

  He looked genuinely upset at the idea.

  “You want to win?” I asked. “You take that thing, aim it for the sky. Deplete it, so Behemoth’s entire goal for coming here is gone.”

  “Is a chance,” Phir Sē told me. “To strike them harder than anything yet. You tell me, is that not worth it?”

  “Worth risking this city? Your daughter? The lives of the heroes here?”

  “Yes. Is worth.”

  “No,�
� I retorted.

  He looked at me, and I could read the unhappiness in his expression. Not a condemnation or even him being upset with me. Disappointment in general.

  The woman in the suit told me there were people with their own agendas. Monsters. This is one of them, and he thinks we’re kindred spirits.

  “I tell you because you are ruthless, Weaver. Do not stop me,” he said. “I die, focus waver, time bomb explode. Aimless, no direction.”

  “Indiscriminate,” I supplied a better word.

  “Indiscriminate,” Phir Sē echoed me. “India gone. You die, even down here.“I raised my head, staring up at the two golden discs and the current that seemed to run between them. I would have thought it would be brighter.

  “Hero fall. We wait,” he said. “When fight cannot be won, I strike.”

  I tensed as I watched the fighting on the screens. They flickered intermittently in a delayed reaction to Behemoth’s lightning strikes.

  “Very soon,” he said, his eyes fixed on the monitor. “You stay.”

  24.04

  Particulate said something, and the amount of invective in his tone was enough to make it clear, even if I couldn’t understand the language.

  Phir Sē said something in response, his voice calm, almost as though he were talking to a child, then took another drink of his water. His eyes didn’t leave the screens.

  Behemoth had nearly reached India Gate. The defense continued to be staggered. One to four parahumans working together to slow him, to impede his progress and buy time for the others to wear him down. When they failed, the measures circumvented or the capes in question killed, he advanced, the heroes retreated as best as they were able, and they enacted the next counteroffensive.

  But each time they fought, he did damage. Capes perished, tinker devices were turned into lumps of hot metal. Each time the capes mounted a defense, the defense was weaker.

  “Something is wrong,” Phir Sē said.

  “Chevalier was attacked,” I answered. ”They were planning a coordinated defense, I think, but someone beheaded our group at the worst possible time.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not going to ask any questions about how you guys operate, but it’s obvious you’re organized.”

  “Careful,” Phir Sē told me. He didn’t even look at me. The defensive line was using Clockblocker, now. They’d erected a loose grid of wires, almost invisible, but for the flashing lights set at regular intervals. Alexandria and Eidolon were trying to hammer the Endbringer into the barricade.

  “You’ve got secrets to protect. Fine. Cool. I’m not going to pry. But maybe we’ve walked similar paths. We had similar practices, probably.”

  He cast me a momentary glance over his shoulder, meeting my eyes for a second before he turned back to the screens. An acknowledgement, without accepting or denying my point.

  “My old team wasn’t nearly as effective as you guys seem to be. But we operated in secret, we understood some key elements. The need for information, having to know when to go on the offense, being unpredictable against enemies who are already expecting you to try and catch them off guard.”

  “Talk slower, please,” Phir Sē told me. ”My English is not strong, and I am very tired.”

  He looked like he might drop any minute, like he’d barely eaten, hadn’t slept…

  “How long has it been since you slept?” I asked.

  “Three days. We thought an Endbringer would attack soon, so I prepared, to be ready when the time came. Too early, I had to stop, restart. This time, he came, but I am weary. The talking, is good. Distracting without being dangerous. Continue, please.”

  What happens if he nods off? I wondered, looking at the ‘time bomb’. The same thing he’d stated would happen if he were killed or knocked out?

  “Okay,” I answered. I took a second to compose my thoughts. ”You mentioned how you have to be hard, heavy handed if you’re going to succeed in a situation where your enemies are as scary as the people you and I have gone up against.”

  “Yes. Heavy handed. Like the judge’s hammer…”

  “Gavel,” I supplied.

  “The gavel. Harsh justice. Crush the enemies who cannot be converted to your side or convinced to do otherwise.”

  “Yes,” I said. I thought for a second, then made my argument. ”And you know the power of having all of the information. The power of having a group that can communicate that information. Communication is key, and a group that doesn’t even need to communicate because they function so well together is better yet.”

  “You had this.”

  With the Undersiders. “We were close. And losing that, it’s scary. Maybe the least fun part about being a hero. But you understand? You agree, about information and communication?”

  He didn’t respond, as he watched the screen. Is he going to nod off right here?

  On the monitors, a successful hit on Eidolon’s part struck Behemoth into the grid of wires. It had taken time for the Endbringer to approach the wires, set safely outside of his kill range, and some were already coming free of Clockblocker’s power. Still, they sank deep, cutting a diamond-shaped pattern into his hide, shoulder to heel. Alexandria charged, trying to drive it home, and Behemoth struck out with one claw, a swipe.

  He must have captured all of her forward momentum and motive impact and redirected it at her, because he didn’t move an inch in response to the hit, and she crashed into the ground at a shallow diagonal angle. Her body carved a trench a few hundred feet long, judging by the cloud of dust that rose in her wake.

  Behemoth lurched forward, and the grid of wires cut him again on their way out. Chunks of flesh were carved free.

  The Endbringer clapped his hands together, and forcefields went down, defenses and defending capes falling in response to the impact.

  Clockblocker’s grid of wires dropped out of the sky, blinking white lights falling like sparks from a large firework. I suspected that I knew what it meant.

  Shit. I hoped he was okay. Clockblocker wasn’t a bad guy, as heroes went.

  “I agree,” Phir Sē told me, belatedly. ”And I think I see what you are going to say.”

  “Let’s communicate with them. With everyone. Half the screwed up crap I’ve seen, it’s been because we’re fighting between ourselves. The best achievements, the truly heroic stuff I’ve seen? It’s been when we worked together. So let’s maximize our chances.”

  “You have been doing this how long? A year?”

  “Months.”

  “I have been doing this for ten years. I admire you for retaining your…” he trailed off.

  “Idealism?”

  “Not a word I’m familiar with, Weaver. Faith?”

  “Faith works.”

  “I have none left, after ten years. No faith. We are a wretched, petty species, and we have been given power to destroy ourselves with.”

  “Ironic, given what you’re trying to do here. You’re going to kill people, kill bystanders, on a gamble.”

  Phir Sē peered at me. ”What chances would you give this gamble?”

  “One in three?”

  His stare was cold as he met my eyes. ”One in three. That is… perhaps unfair. No matter. If I’m wrong, we lose this city. If I’m right, we kill Behemoth. I would take those odds, Weaver. I would take them, I would watch this city be wiped from the earth, knowing that people I am fond of would die. I live in a civilian guise most days, waiting until I have a task from those more powerful than I. I would perhaps be killing the butcher I talk to every day when I walk to the store for food. I would kill the widow who lives next door to me, her child, if they have not evacuated. I have mentioned my daughter, much like you in her abundance of faith in people.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call myself an idealist to that extent,” I said. I paused. ”Phir Sē-”

  We’d started talking at the same time. He talked over me, half of his attention on the screens. ”I will take this gamble and perhaps kill those people
in the process. I will kill those people who can make me smile and feel more human than I am, I will grieve their deaths, and then I will take that gamble again. Because one city, however grand, is worth that chance.”

  I thought of doing that, of rolling the dice like that, with my father, with the people in my territory. ”Easier to say than do.”

  “I have done it, Weaver,” Phir Sē told me. ”My wife, my sons, years ago. A similar problem on a smaller scale. I can walk through minutes, I could have walked back to save them, but I let them die because it meant a monster would remain gone. What merit is a gamble, a sacrifice, if you stake things that matter nothing to you?”

  I stared at him. He was young, no older than thirty-five, but the lines of his face, the slumped posture, the slowness with which he moved… they spoke of a horrendous exhaustion.

  I didn’t have a response for Phir Sē’s question. He smiled a little, and turned back to the screens.

  Behemoth was roaring, a sound that didn’t reach us underground. With the monitors on mute, it didn’t translate there either. Still, the images vibrated, the flickering intensified, and the defenses the heroes had established were crumbling. India Gate was damaged, an incidental casualty of the fight more than a target.

  My bugs sensed motion to my left. I glanced at Particulate, and saw him holding his scanner behind his back.

  It was pointed at Phir Sē’s ‘time bomb’.

  His other hand was drawing a slender gun from a pocket in his combination lab coat and jacket, a gun like something from retro science fiction, with no barrel. There was only a small extension on the end, much like a satellite dish.

  Another disintegration gun?

  He saw me looking, glanced at Phir Sē, who had his back turned, then looked back at me. His eyes flicked over in Phir Sē’s direction, his intention clear.

  He had a solution in mind. A way to disable the explosion and stop Phir Sē.

  I had only an instant to decide, before the teleporter intervened, or Phir Sē noticed what was going on.

  I met Particulate’s eyes and nodded once, curt.

  The scanner disappeared into a pocket, and he drew something like a grenade from within his flowing coat. Then he drew the gun on Phir Sē. I felt the tug of the thread in my hand, attached to the gun.