by Barry Lyga
“We have the best strategic thinker in the world,” Barry told her, thinking of Oliver. “And a Kryptonian. Right there, I feel like 90 percent of all problems get solved. But you know how it is on Team Flash, Caitlin: We improvise. It’s what we do.”
“‘No plan survives first contact with the enemy,’” she said. It was an old Army saying she’d picked up from a med school buddy who’d served.
“Pretty much,” he agreed, and then cracked a broad grin. “Don’t worry, Caitlin. It’s all going to work out. You know how I know?”
“How?”
“Because it always has. How’s Madame Xanadu holding up?”
Caitlin drank some of her coffee. “She’s mending. Her mind is. . . flighty. I don’t think she’ll ever truly recover from losing her Earth 27 doppelgänger. It’s like there’s a piece missing, and she’ll be fine, but then occasionally she runs into that missing spot . . . and she just seems so lost.”
It made sense. Barry remembered losing his first tooth as a child. It hadn’t hurt all that bad—when it got really loose, Dad had suggested chewing gum, and sure enough, the tooth popped right out—and for the most part he never really thought about it. But at least once a day, he would try to bite into something or he would run his tongue along his teeth . . . and the gap surprised him every single time. That must be what it felt like for Madame Xanadu, though without the knowledge that the hole would be filled by a new tooth in due course. She would miss that tooth forever.
Standing, he put a hand on Caitlin’s shoulder. “Please take care of her, OK? She’s important to me, and when I get back from the End of All Time, my first order of business is to make sure she’s settled somewhere and as happy and as healthy as possible.”
Caitlin smiled up at him. “You’d make a good doctor, Barry Allen.”
“Never as good as you,” he told her.
Just then, White Canary and Heat Wave marched into the Cortex. Marched was the wrong word—Sara padded in on tiger’s feet; Mick stomped in as though crushing scorpions in his path.
“We’re going with you, Twinkle Toes,” Mick announced. Coming in behind them, Ray struck what he believed to be a confident, tough pose and nodded in solidarity.
“I’m sorry?” Caught off guard, Barry stalled by sipping from his coffee mug.
“What Mick is trying to get across in his usual subtle way,” Sara said, “is that we want to join you and Oliver and Superman when you go to the future.”
Barry and Caitlin glanced at each other, communicating volumes in a split second. Caitlin, whose back was to the two Legends, pursed her lips and widened her eyes in an expression of No. Freakin’. Way! Facing them, Barry tried to be more politic.
“Guys, I really appreciate that, but we don’t even know if there’s a there where we’re headed. You don’t have any powers—”
“Neither does Oliver.”
“Yeah,” Mick agreed, and essayed a very clumsy, very insulting mime of firing an arrow. “You gonna trust your back to some Robin Hood wannabe?”
“Look, I don’t—”
“No, you look.” Sara advanced and jabbed a finger at him. “We lost team members to this enemy. Zari may never wake up. And the others—Nate, Charlie, Mona, John—we don’t know where or when they ended up. No one has more at stake here than us. We’re the last three standing Legends, the only ones left from the original team, and there is no way in hell we’re letting you take the fight to the enemy without us at your side. We deserve it. We’ve earned it.”
Barry flicked his gaze to Mick, who crossed his arms over his chest. “Too many words,” he intoned. “We’re going. Not up for debate.”
“You can science up some gear for us,” Sara pointed out. “I know the Legion gave you guys some tech to survive in space. We’ll take that, plus any sort of weapons you guys can put together. You do this stuff all the time.”
“Usually Cisco puts together custom equipment for us. We don’t have any . . .” A thought occurred to Barry. “Have you ever used a lariat before?”
Sara regarded him quizzically. “The League of Assassins trained me in all sorts of weaponry. Including, yeah, ropes. Why?”
Barry grinned.
Along with Superman and Oliver, Barry convened a meeting with Sara, Mick, and Owlman in the Safe Lab, where Cisco conducted experiments on the worst, most unknowable forms of metals and alloys, disassembled and puzzled out the inner workings of the most wicked weapons from the evilest villains, and fabricated his own dangerous tech. The room was lined with lead, steel, and two feet of concrete. It could be isolated from the rest of S.T.A.R. Labs in an instant, its ventilation cut off at the flick of a switch. It was, as Cisco had once said, a panic room in reverse—you ran from here when things went wrong.
On a workbench were two Danger Boxes, forged of a rare metal called promethium that was resistant to most ammunition and energy weapons. Barry and Cisco locked up the ultra-hazardous in them. Cisco called the things that went into the Danger Boxes Bad Toys.
Without preamble, Barry opened the first one. Its door clicked open, revealing the first Bad Toy: Superwoman’s lasso.
“We need some super-gear for our friends,” Barry said to Owlman. “White Canary is an expert in all forms of combat and weaponry. Is there any reason you can think of why she shouldn’t be able to use this?”
Owlman stroked his jaw, considering. “You could wield the lasso. There’s nothing dangerous to a practiced user. It’s technological and comprehensible. Simple mental control through physical contact.”
“In other words,” Sara said, “I can make it do stuff as long as I’m touching it.”
“Why can’t eggheads ever just spit it out?” Mick growled.
Sara picked up the lasso. At the touch of her flesh, it seemed to come alive, illuminating in a steady golden glow along its length. She expected it to feel warm, but instead her hands chilled, as though the thing were leeching her heat to power itself.
“Can you use it?” Oliver asked.
Sara grinned. She tried a quick twirl and the lasso obeyed, requiring only the slightest of muscle movements on her part. Then, with a thought, she cracked it like a whip, snapping a beaker off a nearby shelf, sending it hurtling against a wall, where it shattered into a million pieces.
“I’d say I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m finding it really hard to be.”
Flash shrugged. “We can get more beakers.” He turned to Owlman. “What about the ring?”
For the first time ever, Owlman held up his hands in a defensive posture, stepping back from the second Danger Box. “No. Not the ring. Look, I’m fearless, but that thing scares even me. Have you seen what it did to Power Ring?”
Sara and Oliver had already wandered off to test Sara’s new toy. Mick leaned against a table, idly picking between his teeth with a scalpel he’d found lying around. So Barry pulled Superman back a couple of feet.
“What do you think?” he whispered to the Man of Steel. “Is he just trying to scare us off from using the ring?”
Superman folded his arms over his chest. “I listened in on his heartbeat and scanned his adrenals with my microscopic vision while he was talking. He’s telling the truth. The ring genuinely frightens him.”
Barry pondered. Power Ring was a wreck of a human being, a strung-out waste quivering with withdrawal symptoms. The ring took a toll, for sure, but it was so powerful . . . ! He recollected Power Ring blasting chunks out of buildings, lifting multiton air-conditioning units and hurling them with ease . . .
“The ring is the most dangerous artifact I’ve ever encountered,” Owlman spoke up, snagging the Flash’s and Superman’s attention. “I mean, I’ve played with the Orb of Ra. I tried to work out how to use something called a Gamma Gong. But the ring . . .” He shivered.
“What, exactly, do you know about it?” Barry asked. “Other than what it did to Power Ring?”
Owlman shook his head. “You’re going to get someone killed. Which is fine by me, but not unt
il we’ve saved the world so that I can keep living.”
With a long, confident stride, Superman approached Owlman. “Bruce,” he said, his tone gentle but strong, his expression open and sincere. “Bruce, if you know something, tell us. Trust us to do the smart thing.”
Owlman flinched. “It is so weird looking at you and seeing him . . .” He shook his head. “Anyway . . . OK. Here’s what I know: The ring requires willpower. And fear. My theory is that it’s somewhat alive, in its own way. It . . . it gloms on to someone who’s afraid, someone with a weak will. And it gives that person enormous power. But it’s not a symbiotic relationship—it’s parasitic. The whole time, the ring is eating your will, your sense of self, filling the gaps with power so that you don’t notice. And when you take the ring away . . .” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the Pipeline, where they all knew Power Ring lay crumpled in his cell, drooling and quivering.
Superman arched an eyebrow at Barry. “It’s a risk. But I’ll wear it. I can resist it. Corral its power.”
With a frown, Barry said, “I don’t see how we can risk it. If the ring itself is evil . . .”
“Give it to me,” said a new voice.
They both turned to Mick Rory, still leaning casually against the table, focused grimly on a bit of food under his left bicuspid.
“Right,” Barry said, with much less sarcasm than the moment called for.
“No, really. I’ll use it.” Heat Wave cracked his neck, then stabbed the scalpel into the table behind him. “I’m already a bad guy. We got a lot in common, me and this ring. I can make it work for me.”
“Mick . . .”
Heat Wave sneered just the slightest bit. “I know how to be real persuasive, Twinkle Toes. Plus, this Time Trapper jerk left Zari in a coma. I ain’t about to let anything get in the way of some good old-fashioned revenge.”
Barry flicked his attention to Superman. “What do you think?”
Superman gazed at Mick for a long moment. “I say we let him do it.”
Mick grinned like he’d just been given his first book of matches.
21
Cisco focused mightily—
So, in other words
—and pressed on—
the TV Barry Allen screwed up
—trying to break through—
messed with history
—the time trap—
then re-messed with history
—finding a flaw—
and we’re the ones
—and he saw something. Caught a glimpse. Something new. Recent.
Hypothetica. . .
The Time Trapper had sent something else through time.
. . . dominium . . .
An agent—
who get punished for it?
—of revenge. To kill loved ones.
“Even if they find a way to defeat me, they will lose.”
Not cool.
Panicked, he pushed again, straining with all his might to break free. He had to escape. He had to warn them all. Two Multiverses—what the Trapper called the Megaverse—were in horrible danger.
He summoned every last ounce of willpower and lashed out with his thoughts, willing a breach into existence.
And—
“So, in other words, the TV Barry Allen screwed up, messed with history, then re-messed with history, and we’re the ones who get punished for it? Not cool.”
Nooooooooo! Cisco screamed, and fell backward fifteen seconds yet again.
Somewhere, somehow, he heard the Time Trapper laughing.
22
A new day in Star City, but the same old stress and danger. Spartan and Black Canary dashed down Weisinger Street, dodging around stopped cars and fighting their way through a crowd fleeing in the opposite direction. Ever since Ambush Bug had begun his so-called Reign of Error, these sorts of mass panics were more and more common. But this time the A.R.G.U.S. satellite link indicated no teleporting in the area. As far as the remnants of Team Arrow could determine, the Bug was in hiding as his swarm massed for its attack.
So what could be causing this stampede?
They broke through the crowd into a traffic intersection. Two cars had crashed into each other, both abandoned by now. Crumpled in the intersection, they resembled a child’s set of toys played with too aggressively. Chunks of blacktop littered the area, and Dig caught a glimpse of a familiar blue, coruscating energy field as it collapsed in on itself. A breach.
Near the cars, amid the scattering of blacktop, stood a woman in an ankle-length black leather duster over a charcoal gray suit of body armor. Her left eye glowed, replaced by a cybernetic part that whirred and clicked every time she shifted her glance. Around her neck, she wore a burnished-bronze choker with a bright red light that pulsed with a life of its own.
Other than the fact that the left side of her head was shaved smooth down to the scalp and her wearing of the various bionic accoutrements, she was a dead ringer for Dinah.
“I am the Dark Canary!” the woman shouted. “Scourge of Earth 32! Bow down before me!”
“Oh, come on!” Dinah complained. She had joined Dig on this mission and now stood absolutely flummoxed at the presence of her doppelgänger.
Dig drew his weapon and leveled it at Dark Canary. “Hey! Wrong Earth, lady! Hands up!”
“I got this,” Dinah said with confidence. She took a step closer to the so-called Dark Canary.
But her double’s attention remained focused on Dig. Dark Canary’s lip curled as she took him in. “John Stewart. On my Earth, I turned your bones to jelly with the power of my Scream-Song. Then, I could not pause to enjoy it.” She licked her lips. “Here, I shall.”
Dig didn’t like the sound of that—so he squeezed off three shots in rapid succession.
Dark Canary did not so much as flinch. She opened her mouth wide, and the pulsing red light on her choker shifted to a bright blue as she sang out. The note was high and sustained, a single unit of sound that seemed to stretch forever. The air between them vibrated and shook, wavering with its disrupted frequencies. The bullets—every single one of them—hit that wall of sound and spangled off in different directions, leaving Dark Canary unharmed.
“You, uh, you can’t do that, right?” Dig asked.
Dinah snorted and let loose with her Canary Cry. At the same time, Dark Canary narrowed the opening of her lips. The choker shifted to a dull yellow, and suddenly Dig felt a blast of something collide with his chest, lifting him off the ground and hurling him against one of the wrecked cars. He felt like spaghetti thrown against the wall; he was done.
“You pathetic poseur,” Dark Canary said, her smile knowing and humorless as she addressed Dinah. “Your sad little song has no effect on me. I am immune to your scream.”
Dinah leaned into it, blasting out with her Cry until her throat was raw, but sure enough, Dark Canary merely stood there, unaffected.
And then Dark Canary pursed her lips almost to a whistle’s diameter, her voice deepening as she did so. The choker’s light went green as she aimed herself at the ground. A massive tremor shook the road beneath their feet, and as Dig watched, the street seemed to unzip itself in an unerringly straight line, opening up and launching clods of pavement into the air from Dark Canary to Dinah.
Dinah threw her hands up in self-defense, jumping back, but Dark Canary’s ScreamSong continued and the exploding street followed Dinah wherever she stumbled.
Struggling to stand, Dig felt bent and twisted metal from the car biting into him, catching on his body armor. At least one rib was broken, poking into places it didn’t belong. If he moved too much, he might puncture a lung.
Meanwhile, Dinah’s luck ran out and a fusillade of flying pavement pummeled her to the ground.
Dark Canary stood triumphant, arms akimbo. “And now, for my next trick . . .” she said.
Dig didn’t want to see it.
Joe approached Bert with near-silent steps. The entomologist had been bent over the microscope, his work evident
only in the minutest twitches of his hands, for hours now. Sure, Bert needed time and quiet, but this was getting ridiculous. The swarm over Star City was now twice the size it had been when they’d first begun tracking it. Something on the order of two hundred thousand bees. And growing.
“Bert, I’m sorry, but I need to know if you’ve made any progress.” Rene’s idea of flying up there with a flamethrower was ridiculous, but Joe was beginning to think that maybe someone at Star City PD could fly a helicopter through the storm or something. Anything to break up the swarm, impede its growth, throw a monkey wrench into Ambush Bug’s plans.
He expected another prissy rebuke from Bert Larvan, but instead, the man simply sat up straight, groaning as his back unkinked from his hours of work. He set aside his scalpel and rubbed his eyes. “I’m pleased to report progress, Detective. Observe.”
With that, he extended one hand out, palm open. As Joe watched, the bee on the microscope’s stage roused itself and buzzed a direct path to Bert’s hand, where it landed and remained still.
“I’ve managed to disconnect this bee from Ambush Bug’s hive network, for lack of a better term. It no longer obeys his commands and can no longer serve as a teleportation end point.” He smiled a smug, knowing smile.
“Great,” Rene said somewhat acidly. “Now all we need to do is capture two hundred thousand other bees and let you spend a few hours with each of them, and this’ll all be wrapped up.”
Larvan snickered. “Do you really think me that idiotic? This bee can send its new firmware patch to others wirelessly within a certain range.”
“Wait,” Joe said. “You mean if we can get this one near the swarm, it can reprogram them for us?”
Larvan nodded. “Precisely. In fact, there were four bees within range already. Witness . . .”
He held up his other hand. As they watched, four new bees buzzed as a cluster into the Bunker and separately alighted on Larvan’s hands. He had three bees in one hand, two in the other.