It was no longer one more act in a long sequence of hoops and events. This was the main capes of the Protectorate, all here in one place, for them.
“Well,” Hero said, clapping his hands together. “I’m not good at the formalities. Being in charge isn’t my thing, as much as those three like forcing the job on me. So what do you say? Let’s crack open the soda bottles, cut the cake and celebrate our inaugural Wards team.”
The mouse girl’s team cheered and whooped. Nobody else really joined in with even half of the enthusiasm, but there was more of a response than there might have been before the rest of the Protectorate had showed up. Chevalier even allowed himself a cheer, joining in with the clapping.
It was exciting. Exciting and a little scary. Like stepping out over a chasm.
As the others made their way to the table, Chevalier stood from his chair, then glanced down at the army girl. “You want cake?”
She raised her head. “Yes.”
“What do you want to drink? I think there’s cola, ginger ale, sprite…”
“The brown drink,” she said.
“Coke, then.”
He left her sitting in the chair, paying far too much attention to her weapon, and grabbed two paper plates.
“I’m curious why you sat next to Hannah,” Hero commented, as he served himself some cake.
Chevalier glanced at the girl with the weapons. He felt uncomfortable, “People are making it a bigger deal than it is. It was just me sitting down. I didn’t put much thought into it.”
“Maybe,” Hero said. He laid a hand on Chevalier’s shoulder. “But it’s good that you did. She could use a friend. Might make a world of difference, in the long run.”
Chevalier shrugged, stepping up to the tray and placing a slice of cake on each plate.
“We’re all ignoring the obvious reason,” the girl with the mouse ears said, getting in Chevalier’s way as she reached for a plastic fork. “He thinks she’s hot. He wants the poontang.“
Hero cleared his throat in a very deliberate way.
“Don’t be juvenile,” the leaf-boy told her, from the front of the line.
Chevalier shifted awkwardly. The girl with the mouse ears was in his way, and he couldn’t move down the table to get a drink. She wouldn’t budge until this was resolved.
“I got the vibe she and I are similar,” Chevalier said. It was honest. The images he’d seen, of the girl…
And it was apparently the wrong thing to say, because mouse-ears was only more insistent, now. She smiled, cooing the word, “Similar?”
“You didn’t figure it out yet? Chevalier’s the vigilante that went after the Snatchers,” the leaf-boy said.
Hero turned around, and his voice was a little hard, “Reed. That’s not your story to share.”
“It’s okay,” Chevalier said. “They’d find out eventually.”
Mouse-girl looked confused. “The Snatchers? Are they supervillains?”
“No,” Chevalier said. He used the distraction to push past her and get to the area where the two-liter bottles of soda were lined up. He poured the drinks for himself and Hannah. “They were ordinary people. Bad people, but ordinary. Except maybe the leader.”
“Maybe?” Mouse girl asked.
“I didn’t give him a chance to show me.”
Her eyes widened.
Chevalier felt strangely calm as he spoke, “Not like that. Alexandria caught up with me at the very end. When I was trying to decide what I’d do with him. She told me she’d stand by and let me kill the guy, if I really had to, but I’d go to jail afterwards. That, or I could come with her. Come here.”
Hero frowned, glancing at Alexandria, who had gathered at one corner of the room with Eidolon and Legend. They were looking at the kids, talking, smiling. “I’m glad you made the right choice.”
Chevalier shrugged. I’m not sure I did.
He was still angry. Still hurt. His little brother’s absence was still a void in his life.
“Maybe now you can stop asking questions,” Reed told the mouse girl.
“Never!”
Reed sighed.
“Everyone has their baggage,” Hero said. “Sometimes it’s in the past, sometimes it’s in the present, other times it’s fears for the future. But this is a fresh start, understand? I’m pretty mellow, believe it or not, but I’m going to be upset if I hear that anyone’s holding any of that stuff against a teammate, or if you’re letting it hold you back. Understand? This is a second chance for everyone. You’re here to support one another.”
There were silent nods from Chevalier, Reed and the mouse girl.
“Good. Now go. Eat cake, drink soda, be merry. And when the party is done and us adults are gone, with you kids left to your own devices, check the empty room, the one that isn’t assigned to any of you. I stocked you guys with video games and movies.”
“No way,” Reed said, smiling genuinely for what might have been the first time.
“Yes way,” Hero said, returning the smile. “But we’re not going to tell the higher-ups, are we? It’s a bit of a secret, and you don’t betray that secret by letting yourself slack on the training or the schoolwork, right?”
Reed’s smile dropped a little in intensity, but he nodded.
“Go on,” Hero said, still smiling, “And don’t get me in trouble.”
Reed hurried back to his chair, as if getting there sooner meant the party would end earlier, speeding up his access to the treasure trove Hero had hinted at.
Wordless, Chevalier managed the drinks and two plates as he carried them over to Hannah. He gave her a plate and a cup, and she smiled without thanking him.
“A toast,” Alexandria said, stepping forward. “To the first Wards team of America.”
“To second chances,” Hero said.
“A brighter future,” Eidolon added.
“And to making good memories,” Legend finished.
“Memories,” Hannah said, under her breath, nearly inaudible as the room clapped and cheered. She was looking down at the machete that she’d placed across her lap, the paper plate with the cake balanced on the flat of the blade.
Chevalier didn’t respond. His eyes were on the phantom images, barely visible.
■
The screen displayed the list. Chevalier scrolled down, his expression grim.
Marun Field, December 13th, 1992. Behemoth.
São Paulo, July 6th, 1993. Behemoth.
New York, March 26th, 1994. Behemoth.
Jakarta, November 1st, 1994. Behemoth.
Moscow, June 18th, 1995. Behemoth.
Johannesburg, January 3rd, 1996. Behemoth.
Oslo, June 9th, 1996. Leviathan.
Cologne, November 6th, 1996. Behemoth.
Busan, April 23rd, 1997. Leviathan.
Buenos Aires, September 30th, 1997. Behemoth.
Sydney, January 18th, 1998. Leviathan.
Jinzhou, July 3rd, 1998. Behemoth.
Madrid, December 25th, 1998. Leviathan.
Ankara, July 21st, 1999. Behemoth.
Kyushu, November 2nd, 1999. Leviathan.
Lyon, April 10th, 2000. Behemoth.
Naples, September 16th, 2000. Leviathan.
Vanderhoof, February 25th, 2001. Behemoth.
Hyderabad, July 6th, 2001. Leviathan.
Lagos, December 6th, 2001. Behemoth.
Shanghai, April 23rd, 2002. Leviathan.
Bogotá, August 20th, 2002. Behemoth.
Lausanne, December 30th, 2002. Simurgh.
Seattle, April 1st, 2003. Leviathan.
London, August 12th, 2003. Simurgh.
Lyon, October 3rd, 2003. Behemoth.
“Stop,” Chevalier ordered. The artificial intelligence halted the scrolling. The scroll bar wasn’t even at the halfway mark.
Brighter future indeed.
He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling very weary. Nothing worked out like it was supposed to. The Wards were supposed to be a safe haven for teenaged capes,
buying them time to prepare themselves, to train and figure out what they needed to figure out. Somewhere along the line, some Wards had joined the fight. Locals, defending their homes, naturally.
As the ranks of adult capes were whittled down, more had attended the fights, as if unconsciously acknowledging the need, or as if they were under a subtle pressure to do so. Just like that, the ideals and ideas that had helped form the original Wards team had eroded away.
He swept a hand in front of him, and the ship read the gesture, a new image appearing on the monitor. The two screens on either side showed Behemoth’s attack on the city. He hadn’t ventured far from where he’d emerged.
Chevalier only glanced at the screens from moment to moment, his focus more on the infrastructure, the resources at his disposal.
San Diego, absent. They’d lost too many members, abandoned by those who’d lost faith in the Protectorate, with the remnants cannibalized to support other teams in need. San Diego was more or less stable, so there’d been little pressure to resupply them with new members.
Except that Spire, San Diego’s team leader, hadn’t felt confident walking into the fight. There’d been the human element, the fears, the concerns. He’d had cold feet at the last second, decided not to come. An integral part of their defense, gone, forcing them to adapt.
There were so many elements like that. Little things. He’d heard so many complain about how the Protectorate handled the attacks. How they were disorganized, inefficient.
Maybe he’d shared in that sentiment, to a degree. That had changed when he’d participated in his first fight, when he’d seen just what it meant to be in the fray, against an enemy that couldn’t truly be stopped. But still, he’d harbored doubts.
Then he’d taken command of a team, and he’d seen the process of trial and error, as they learned their opponents’ capabilities, saw how Leviathan or the Simurgh could keep tricks up their sleeves for years, before using them at a critical moment. Even now, they didn’t fully understand the Simurgh’s power, how long it might take someone to recover, if recovery was even possible.
And now he led the attack.
He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled.
Focus on the present. He’d lose it if he dwelled on the pressures, on the fact that every attack to date was another added pressure, a set of losses to avenge, a step towards mankind’s fall.
Vegas was absent too. They’d turned traitor, walked away. Satyrical had turned down the offer for a ride to the battle, claiming they’d make their own way. It was disconcerting, to think they had access to transportation in that vein. Teleporters? A craft that could and would carry people halfway around the world fast enough? Disconcerting to think they had access to resources like that so soon after defecting.
But not surprising.
Brockton Bay, in large part, was sitting this one out. Hannah wasn’t a true asset against Behemoth. Besides, the truce was in worse shape than it had been even in the beginning, and the portal too important.
He allowed himself a moment to think of Hannah. They’d dated briefly, then separated. It had been a high school romance, and they’d both been too busy to really pursue things. What had been one or two dates a week became maybes, then had ceased to happen at all. He’d graduated to the Protectorate, changed cities, and they hadn’t said a word on the subject.
Chevalier had seen her grow, though. That was what he kept in mind to assuage his disappointment over the way things had gone. She’d come into her own, confident, intelligent.
In a way, he was glad she wasn’t coming.
He turned around to face Rime and Exalt. He could see the shadows, as he now thought of them. Rime’s younger self accompanied her, sitting on the bench beside her, arms folded around her knees, face hidden. The real Rime was sitting on the bench, a fold-out table in front of her, a laptop open.
And Exalt? His ‘shadow’ was barely visible, impossible to make out. When it came to the fore, though, Chevalier knew it would look much as Hannah’s power did in its transitions. Phantom images.
He’d raised the subject of the images with others. When his proximity to Eidolon had started to give him migraines, he’d confessed about the images. He’d feared a kind of schizophrenia, but Eidolon had reassured him otherwise.
It was a piece of the puzzle, but that puzzle was still far from complete. Until they had more to work with, it was merely data. Glimmers of memories and dreams, the conclusion had been, after long discussions with Eidolon and the parahuman researchers. An effect of the thinker power required to manage his own ability, tied to trigger events in some fashion.
Except now he was wondering if he’d been misled. Eidolon was a traitor, one working for a group that clearly had some deeper understanding of powers. Maybe it had been in Cauldron’s interests for Eidolon to lie about this.
“Record numbers. Lots of capes are coming,” he said. Rime and Exalt both looked up.
“But…” Exalt said. He seemed to reconsider before finishing his sentence.
“But we’re disorganized,” Chevalier finished it for him. “People we should be able to count on are gone. Plans we had are falling apart because those people aren’t there.
Exalt nodded.
“PRT wants us to play this up,” Chevalier said, “I’m supposed to involve you guys in leadership aspect of things. If you’re willing, I’m not going to dwell on it.”
Exalt arched an eyebrow.
“You’re team leaders. You’ve got the experience, at least to a degree. But I don’t want to dwell on peripheral stuff. We’re focused on the fight? All right?”
Rime and Exalt nodded.
“I’ll lob a few of you some softball questions, then we get right to it.”
“Right,” Rime said.
The ship altered course, Chevalier felt his heart drop. Silkroad’s power wasn’t giving them any forward momentum anymore. They were close. Landing in a minute.
“You ready for this? Being leader for the first time?” Exalt asked.
“No. Not for one this important. Everyone who’s paying attention knows this is a crucial one. Maybe even the point of no return. We lose this, we lose New Delhi, and there’s no going back. We’ll never get to the point where we can consistently beat those motherfuckers, never recoup what we’ve lost. I screw up here, and the world will know.”
“They can’t blame you,” Rime said.
“They damn well can,” Chevalier retorted.
She frowned.
The ship descended, four legs absorbing the impact of the landing almost flawlessly.
He turned to the swords, set into the floor of the craft. There were two.
In truth, there were three. The largest was thirty feet long, running from the ramp at the back to the cabin at the front, almost entirely set into the floor. There was no decoration on it. Only mass, sturdy craftsmanship, and the mechanisms necessary for the cannon that was set inside the handle and blade.
It would have been too heavy for the ship to carry, except he’d already used his power, drawing it together with a second blade, an aluminum blade a mere four feet long. Lightweight.
His ability to see the ‘shadows’ about people was an extension of this power. He could see the general makeup of the two weapons, the phantom images, the underlying physics, in lines and shapes and patterns.
It was about perspectives. Relationships. He’d drawn them into one blade, with the appearance of the larger, the properties of the smaller.
The third blade was decorative, with a ceramic blade, gold and silver embellishments and inlays in the blade. The thing was ten feet long from end to end, and again, it had the cannon set within. Combining the first blade with this one proved more difficult. He granted the weapon the appearance of this blade, gave it the cutting edge, but retained the lightweight mass and the durability of the largest weapon.
Fine balances. He adjusted it, tuning its size for convenience’s sake. The heft remained the same, as did the effective weight as
it extended to the rest of the world.
His armor was the same, only it was too large to bring on the craft. A veritable mountain of construction grade steel, as light as aluminum, with the decoration of a third set. It had required some concentration, to maintain the balances he’d set, but he was confident he could fight outside of the kill aura’s range.
He glanced at Rime and Exalt, then nodded.
The ramp opened, and the three of them emerged. There were heavy thuds and the sound of metal striking metal as the other ships landed, forming a ring, with the doors and ramps pointing inward. A fortification to guard the arriving heroes.
The Protectorate and Wards teams were gathering, with a degree of organization. His new Protectorate had gathered into the general positions they held at the conference table. Rime to his left, Exalt to his right, their teams behind them.
And he couldn’t help but notice the gaps. San Diego, Vegas, Brockton Bay. Three of the more prominent teams in the United States.
Defiant, Dragon and Weaver were among the last to arrive. They joined the unofficial capes who’d filled the void that should have been occupied by the San Diego capes.
“The ships have all arrived,” Chevalier said, breaking the silence, starting his speech.
■
It was only after the Yàngbǎn were out of sight that Chevalier could breathe a sigh of relief.
“You know your roles,” he said, to the capes who remained He searched the rooftop, and found who he was looking for. “Mr. Keene, walk with me.”
The dark-skinned man nodded assent, falling in stride. He wore a neat suit with a PRT pin, official identification on a lanyard around his neck. Morgan Keene was the PRT’s liaison and ambassador to unofficial teams across the world. Chevalier could see the glimmer of a power there, suppressed but there.
The fact that the man was a parahuman employee of the PRT wasn’t so unusual. The fact that it was a well-kept secret was. The power was out of sync, however, which was stranger still. Since Chevalier had chanced to make Morgan Keene’s acquaintance, years ago, the man’s shadow had changed. The core elements were the same, but the appearance of it had changed enough that he’d wondered if the man had managed a second trigger event. He would have assumed so, except there was no intensity to corroborate the idea.
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