Recursion

by Marion G. Harmon

  Veritas nodded. “Both of them operate internationally, but Tin Man’s territory is Western Europe, North America, and even India—all fairly “quiet” places. Flash Mob sold his lethal services in the “unquiet” parts of the world, anywhere he regularly got to shoot people. Do you know how they came to join Villains Inc.?”

  “No. After the arrests that part of the investigation was conducted by the DSA. All we and the public really learned was what happened here, their war with the Chicago mob.”

  His lips quirked. “One of the drawbacks of secrecy.”

  I had to laugh, if only a little. “What—the chance that you won’t pass vital intelligence to someone who subsequently jumps back in time and can give it to you?”

  “Something like that. The question I know we would have asked is, what were they doing out of their usual zones of employment, fighting elements of a local criminal organization and attacking capes?”

  When he put it that way, it didn’t make a lot of sense. It would be like blood-thirsty terrorists suddenly and non-lethally taking up robbing banks, the Ring acting like Mirth.

  “We can’t predict their actions until we understand their goals, and until you’ve been fully debriefed of all you know you’re an irreplaceable intelligence resource. So the DSA is asking you to limit your public exposure, and especially to keep a distance from the civilians in your life while we sort it out. And we’re assigning Black Powder as your bodyguard until we can be confident that elements you’ve tagged as Villains Inc. aren’t actively targeting you. We hope you’ll cooperate.”

  Crap. Also nuts, shoot, darn, phooey, and other G-rated expletives.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Don’t get us wrong—we know breakthroughs are still human. But for a lot of them, their powers make them dangerous superhumans. Most of them are weapons or can weaponize their powers real easy, and what chance does a normal person have against somebody who’s always got the equivalent of an assault weapon, or a flame-thrower, or just the strength to rip him in half if they want? They can get you in ways you never see coming. It puts them in a class of their own, it gives them too much power. Power corrupts.

  “All we’re asking for is checks and balances. Checks and balances.”

  Humanity First interview, Chicago News.

  * * *

  So now I had a shadow whose job if someone threatened me was to shoot them in the face. He didn’t look enthusiastic about it, but I had to respect his commitment.

  “Unicorns?”

  “In the face.”

  “Girl Scouts?”

  “If they try to kill you? In. The. Face.”

  “Good to know.” And scary. “Now, I don’t want to be insulting but . . .”

  “Say it.” He cracked his first smile. “What good am I against something that can take down an A Class Atlas-Type? You’ve got a shooting range?”

  I pointed down the hall and he followed me. Instead of our practice range, I led him into our training room. And stopped. Ambrosius was using it.

  I’d checked Ambrosius’—Eli’s—file out of reflex the day he’d arrived; he was one of those weird breakthroughs that defied easy description. Raised in a cult commune, he’d manifested what he’d believed was the “light of his inner well” to save himself and some fellow cultists from a flash-flood. So naturally, threatened by Eli’s gift, the cult’s leader had cast him out.

  That soured Elijah Quinn on all claims of divine powers and religion in general (totally understandable), but didn’t change the power he’d been given. The ranger could raise the light of his inner well and shape it into powerful attacks and protective forcefields, a straight-up force manipulator. But he could also use his inner light to heal and could “see” the spiritual states of those around him. He could even see their powers in operation if they were mystical, mental, or spiritual-based—illuminated in his sight by his revealing light.

  Barlow’s Guide had eventually classed him as a very focused Merlin-Type, and now he was giving his light a workout against a set of moving laser-projected targets on a sturdy wall.

  Black Powder put his hand to my back to stop me from reversing course. “No, this is perfect.” He raised his voice. “Mind if we join you?”

  Ambrosius stopped lobbing balls of solid light at the left wall. “Ma’am.” He touched his hat at me, turned to Black Powder. “What do you folks have in mind?”

  “I need to show Astra I can hit what I aim at. I read your fields are rated at B Class strength?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “I’d like you to cover her.”

  I turned. “Wait, you’re going to shoot at me?”

  Black Powder chuckled. “That’s kind of the point. You up for it?”

  Veritas’ bodyguard wouldn’t shoot shoot me just to make a point. Right? “Okay.”

  “You sure, ma’am?” Ambrosius didn’t sound at all sure, himself.

  “Sure. It’ll be fine.” The way the past two days had been, I might as well get the inevitable “fight” out of the way.

  “Great.” Black Powder flexed his hands, heading for the center of the big high-ceilinged room. “Come at me whenever you’re ready.”

  Shell appeared between us, wearing a t-shirt that read I’m with Crazy-Pants. “Are you insane?”

  I suppressed my smile, suddenly and paradoxically okay with the whole thing. “Can you cover me when I do?” I asked Ambrosius.

  “If you really are sure, ma’am.”

  “I am. Let’s do this.”

  That was enough for him. He raised his hands and a beautiful, warm, liquid light rose off them to gather around me. I could feel the light moving and settling. He nodded. “Go ahea—”

  I launched myself at Black Powder without a pause. He shot me in the face.

  “Woah!” was all Shell had to say as, head rocked back, I dropped to the floor and a staggered stop. I’d barely seen the short-barreled autorifle appear in his hands before I heard the short, ripping fire. It punched a hole right through Ambrosius’ field to flatten against the forehead of my mask.

  It had been like taking an unexpected jab from Grendel and I shook my head as I straightened.

  His autorifle disappeared under his coat again. “You alright?”

  “What was that?”

  “I’d like to know that, too,” Ambrosius seconded me. He didn’t look happy.

  Black Powder shrugged. “I can alchemize my ammo as I fire it. Configure it to any physical property I need. I have experience with forcefields, so I changed the rounds to ignore it and deform on solid impact. It could have gone through you, too, if I’d wanted.”

  “Woah.” Shell echoed. “Okay, he can bodyguard you.”

  I agreed. I didn’t know how effective he’d be up against more massive targets (exploding rounds, maybe?), but the idea of his taking a gun into a powered fight didn’t seem at all ridiculous anymore. I felt my mask. It didn’t feel dented at all, but then it was armored too—he’d probably judged that by looking and tapped me there for that little added safety margin.

  Or he’d just wanted to prove he would shoot anybody in the face. And that really wouldn’t do.

  “You’re fired.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. I’m not taking you anywhere with me. You want to do your job, you’ve got to promise me, promise me, that you’ll only shoot targets non-fatally. I know you can do it—you caught me going from a standing start to full speed, and not in a straight line either. You’re freaking Robin Hood with that thing. So, promise.”

  “That’s not how I work. If I see a real threat, it goes down.”

  “But they don’t stay down. They continue breathing. You can put anyone who comes at me in the hospital, but not the morgue, not unless there’s no other way. My rules of engagement.”

  “Okay, okay.” He held up his hands, and I realized my voice had been rising. I lowered my finger from where I’d been practically shaking it in his face.

  “I’ll have to clea
r it with the boss,” he said. “And he might not be good with that, but if he is I am.”

  “Okay,” I nodded, mollified. “Do you have bigger guns?”

  “I’ve got a go-bag your speedster can deliver if I need it. Expecting bigger game?”

  “Maybe.” Tin Man’s sequel to the Chinese dragon had been a giant steel golem. Black Powder’s autorifle might be able to take it down, with enough bullets, but he might not have the time.

  He smiled at that.

  “Ma’am,” Ambrosius interjected before that smile could change my mind. I rolled my eyes.

  “You really don’t need to ma’am me.”

  “I’m from Texas, I’m a ranger, you’re a lady, I sort of do. Sorry, ma’am.” He touched his hat again and now he was just having fun with me.

  “Apology accepted. Yes?”

  “I thought you should know, CPD review of street-cams in the area of the warehouse turned up Mr. Trent, your gravikinetic.”

  I blinked. “He’s not my gravikinetic—and Fisher thinks that off-loading counterfeit MacCallans was one of Mr. Trent’s off-the-books jobs?”

  “He didn’t live in the area, ma’am. The detective’s put Mr. Trent’s autopsy bloodwork at the head of the line as soon as his team caught that.”

  It was standard operating procedure to jump the line in any case involving superhumans, but— “Why bloodwork? We know how Mr. Trent died.”

  “What Detective Fisher said was, when a dead body turns into a person of interest, you look at Go—gosh-darned everything. Twice.”

  Shell snickered. “How cute, he can’t swear in front of you.” Ambrosius, of course, heard none of her critique.

  “And apparently your Chief Medical Examiner is sweet on him, so her team pulled an extra shift to get it done last night.”

  I nodded. “Dr. Abigail Sinclair.” Future Me had met her, and sweet on him was a good description of the doc. Also, very, very competent. “What did she find?”

  “Something weird. An organic toxin that interacted with the other stuff in his system and is probably what killed him, or would have if he’d survived the physical trauma. She called it “synthetic venom,” says it would have been masked by the other drugs in a standard toxicology screening.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s . . . not right.” An adequate response exceeded my vocabulary.

  “No, ma’am. The detective is going with the theory that whoever had the warehouse whisky-bombed wanted him dead. Could be coincidence, but . . .”

  “Probably not.” What were the odds of somebody fatally poisoning themselves and dying by misadventure in one night? “Fisher’s keeping the results quiet for now?”

  Ambrosius smiled. “He was right. He said you’d get it.” And I did. Broadcasting the results would pretty much sink the lawsuit against me, but it would also let the responsible party know we were now closely looking at Mr. Trent.

  Or Fisher was looking closely, darn it. If it had been just six months from now, Fisher would be drawing me as deep into his investigation as I wanted to go. Instead I was stuck here, under review and dodging the media, hoping Blackstone would find something useful for me to do while I quietly went crazy trying to figure out why I was back here at all.

  Being eighteen-almost-nineteen again sucked.

  * * *

  I grabbed a quick breakfast before the Day Briefing, and the meeting unfolded pretty much how I expected. Again, Kitsune wasn’t present. The Harlequin gave a quick media update. Apparently, our favorite provocateur, Mal Shankman, had joined in public support with Ms. Trent’s lawsuit—a neat trick since he was also making noise about appearing at a larger pro-National Public Safety Act rally at Stoddard Hall.

  He was starting his climb to public office; the day the police department finally released Mr. Trent’s full autopsy report, he’d probably declare it a fabricated whitewash—the city covering up for capes.

  Also, several injured attendees were now suing the City of Chicago for letting Mr. Trent remain at-large as a public health hazard.

  Moving on, Ambrosius let us all know that Fisher’s team had identified Douglas Barnett’s first victim as Ethan Douglas, a Brotherhood minion. High school age. There was no way to know if he’d been the one with the gun (which hadn’t done him any good if he’d been packing it), and nobody knew why he’d been targeted. Obviously, the Brotherhood wasn’t giving the police any details.

  A warning for the rest of them?

  Then Veritas chimed in. Surprise, the DSA’s security precautions didn’t apply just to me.

  “At this time, the DSA is proceeding with the assumption that the Sentinels, as a team, may have been targeted.” His tone, uninflected as always, would have been the same had he announced an increased chance of snow. “Astra may simply have been the first target of opportunity. A Superhuman Response Team is on standby, and now plugged directly into your Dispatch network.”

  “And isn’t that a headache,” Shell grumbled beside me. “Now I’m editing audio-files for someone who’s a lot more likely to spot altered feed.”

  I hid my smile, realized that Seven was studying me. “What?”

  “Later.”

  Okay . . . I focused on Blackstone, who complimented my change of costume and threw me to Quin for “pictures and a hit-list” after the meeting. Quin had almost certainly called one of her favorite photographers the minute after seeing my new costume this morning and hit-list, in Blackstone Speak, meant he was sending me back out to do Public Relations stuff.

  That was something he hadn’t done since just after the funeral when I publicly self-destructed over the National Public Safety Act question and sank into a deep funk. (Okay, the funk may have preceded my spectacular flaming answer.)

  “So, what was the side-eye for?” I asked Seven as we exited the Assembly Room, Black Powder following like a shadow.

  “Just wondering how you were handling the whole lawsuit pile-on so well. Doesn’t this Shankman guy and his fellow travelers get old?”

  “Not really? I mean, Shankman will never, ever be on my Christmas list, but most of them? Citizens for Constitutional Rights is mostly just against Mask Laws and worried about abuse of legal powers by capes or government superhumans. Humanity First is straight-up racist—power-ist?—and sure they’re hateful but you can’t blame them for being afraid of what we can do.” I shrugged. “Even the Paladins, God bless them, are afraid—that’s why they arm themselves. So we do our best to make them less afraid. It’s what the costumes and codenames and private teams with government oversight is all about. That’s Superhero 101.”

  Seven snorted. “You’re a saint.”

  “Nope.” I checked the lobby clock and decided I had a few minutes before I had to catch up with Quin. My team had gotten this lecture once (and I missed them, even Tsuris). Not all of them had agreed with it, but I could at least make Seven understand. “My dad used to read me Hans Christian Andersen’s story, the Snow Queen. It was a Christmas thing. You know the story?”

  He nodded.

  “Remember the boy, Kay? He got that sliver of the mirror in his eye, and after that, he could only see the evil in people? Well Dad would tell me that, like with Kay, it’s easy for any of us to get a fragment of the evil mirror in our eye. And because of that mirror-piece, when we see the faults and ugliness in people we can’t see anything else. The lie, the mirror’s curse, is to tell us that the faults and ugliness are all there is. Dad always says it takes a strong person to see past the mirror-piece, to see the good and beautiful in others, once we’ve seen the ugly and bad.”

  “That’s practically poetic.”

  “That’s my dad. Hidden depths.” Mom was the one with the drive to Do Good in big ways, but sometimes I thought Dad liked people more. “I’m not saying Shankman’s a saint, because personally I think he’s a despicable human being. But most of the people who listen to him? Not so much.”

  “And Fiona Trent?”

  “She lost her brother. A lot of people are saying mayb
e it could have been avoided, so she’s suing.” I lost a bit of the lift I’d gotten from realizing Blackstone trusted me to take another swing at representing the team. Now that I was pretty confident Ms. Trent wasn’t going to like the way her lawsuit turned out, I didn’t like where that put her. “We’ll be the ones standing when it’s over, so I can live with all of that. Want to come talk to Quin with me? I’m sure she can find something for you to do.”

  He fake-scowled. “Now you’re being evil. Why do you think I left the Hollywood Knights?”

  I laughed. “It can’t have been to step out of the limelight!” Leaving him shaking his head, I went upstairs. My shadow followed, watching everything behind his shades.

  Quin’s office overlooking the Dispatch floor was lots more modern, but shared Blackstone’s taste as far as the show-posters went. Quin’s posters being advertising banners and stills from her old Cirque du Soleil days before she fell from a faulty high-wire and bounced instead of splatting. She waited for me with an epad and a smile, leaving the door open so we could hear the murmur of action from the Dispatch floor.

  “Buckle up, buttercup.” She handed me the pad with a nod at my shadow. “Even with Scowly McShooty here, there’s a lot we can do with you.”

  I took it with mixed feelings; even with three more years experience she didn’t know about, the PR side of wearing the cape still didn’t come naturally.

  “Doesn’t look bad . . .” Shell commented over my shoulder. Quin had nixed the stuff with lots of civilians around and no way to hide Black Powder; school visits, safety lectures, a ribbon-cutting. Stuff in places that came with their own heightened security and private entry, like talk shows, were still good. All of us were contractually obligated to make at least a few scripted appearances a year, part of keeping up our media profile. I’d hoped for some show-up-and-wave events (my favorite), but I’d been out of the public eye too long for any of those to be on her list.