The crane crashed into the building opposite and came to rest, wedged against a billboard.
Sara let out a whoop of her own before bringing binoculars up to her face and focussing on the lead truck in the parade convoy. The driver was looking at the panic ahead, his eyes wide, but it was the older woman next to him that Sara watched. She was on point for the Secret Service, and it was her job to decide whether the chaos ahead meant the parade should be abandoned. Sara could see the woman thinking, her eyebrows coming down in a frown. She was reaching for her walkie-talkie.
Now.
Sara reached out with her mind and sent a strong, targeted nudge at the agent in the truck.
Accident ahead on 34th. Send the chopper to investigate. Parade re-routed. We'll take 7th Avenue instead of 8th.
Below her in the truck, the agent hesitated. She had been about to abort the parade, and the alternative that had suddenly occurred to her had made her pause, her finger on the send button of the walkie-talkie.
Sara sent a second mental nudge so strong that she had to sit on the floor after doing it. She concentrated on breathing while her vision, which had narrowed to a dark tunnel with flickering points of light, cleared.
It might have been ten seconds before she stood up and looked out of the window, but they were the longest ten seconds of her life.
"Yes! YES."
The lead vehicle had turned and was heading up 7th Avenue.
She made a call. Not to TripleDee this time. To a DJ who called himself dubbytranz. He was about to make the easiest ten thousand dollars he'd ever make in his life.
The number rang and rang. No one answered. It cut into a voicemail message.
"What up? dubbytranz coming at ya, so—"
Sara ended the call and listed all the painful and physically improbably things she would do to dubbytwat if he didn't pick up next time.
She dialled again. It rang three times.
"Yo! Crazy rich lady, what's happening? Was just taking a leak."
Sara spoke calmly, enunciating each word as she imagined nailing the DJ's incorrectly worn baseball cap to his shaved skull.
"Do. It. Now."
"Got ya. Nice doin' bidness. Look, for an older lady, you are fine. If you ever want to, ya know..."
"Now."
"Okay, chill, we'll talk about it later. Got it."
She held the phone to her chest, waiting. Listening. Something was happening to her perception of time. She was trapped in an endless loop of a second and a half where nothing happened, and nothing would ever happen.
She didn't know she was doing it, but Sara was talking again, although her lips were barely parting enough to make the sounds.
"Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on..."
43
The Deterrent, high above the crowds, observed the crane fall a block ahead. He watched the parade come to a halt before the lead truck turned right. He followed, swooping low as instructed at the pre-parade briefing, to thrill the fans lining the streets.
Seventh Avenue wasn't as tightly packed with people since it was never intended to be part of the parade route, but it was still busy, and hundreds of faces tilted upwards as he flew above, waving.
A mother held her baby over her head. Only a few months old, the infant was dressed in a flying suit and helmet like the one The Deterrent wore. He gave them the thumbs up, and the woman shrieked with joy.
It was while he was returning to his position alongside the inflatables that the music started.
Further back in the line of vehicles, still twenty yards away from turning into 7th Avenue, Roger Sullivan looked up as a sound cut through the already painfully loud roar of the crowd.
"What the hell is that?"
Mike Ainsleigh looked up from his phone and nodded his head along with the music. Then he broke into a rare smile and sang along.
"Dee da da dum, dada dee da da dum, dada dee da da dum, dada dee da da dum in ca-rs, dur dum, dedum."
His head was bobbing now, and his grin was broad.
Roger looked at him incredulously.
"What are you doing?"
"Cars!" shouted Ainsleigh, the music getting louder as they turned the corner.
Roger stared at him.
"Gary Numan!" shouted Ainsleigh, as if that would clear everything up. "Cars, by Gary Numan. Brilliant song. You know! Dee da da dum, dada dee da da dum, dada dee da da dum, dada dee da da dum in ca-rs, dur dum, dedum."
Mike Ainsleigh was having a seizure. Either that or he was dancing. Roger Sullivan lacked the expertise to ascertain which of the two it was. Then he looked at the street they were turning into, saw The Deterrent, and froze.
The Deterrent was floating about twenty-five yards along 7th Avenue, his helmeted head turning from right to left. He was looking at the huge advertisement hoardings put up that morning.
Roger Sullivan was looking too, as were some of the thousands of people following the diverted vehicles.
The billboards, which must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, seemed to serve no commercial purpose. There was no brand name, no product placement.
The first poster featured four letters, white on black, and meaningless to almost everyone who saw it: Abos.
The second poster showed a kitchen. If it was intended to advertise a kitchen designer, it had failed. The kitchen was old, tired, and untidy. There was a big farmhouse table, with a laptop on it. An old-fashioned stove. A big, deep sink full of unwashed pans. The floorboards were unswept. There were muddy footprints everywhere. On the back of the door were two jackets and two motorcycle helmets. The view from the window took in rolling, green fields.
The third poster showed the interior of a shed with a rough stone floor and unpainted walls. There were low, wooden beams. A radio hung from one. Two big tables and two bathtubs dominated the space. A huge fridge stood in one corner. Water pipes from the baths weren't connected to anything. The purpose of the room was unclear. The photograph itself was blurred, as was the one of the farmhouse. They looked as if they had been enlarged from a format not supposed to be viewed on billboards a hundred feet across.
The fourth, and final, photograph looked, at least, as if it might be promoting something. A movie, perhaps?
It showed a city, at night, seen from the top of a high building. City lights, a river, and a bridge. Not just any bridge. Even the least-travelled adult standing on 7th Avenue knew which city they were looking at. It was London, the most famous bascule bridge in the world straddling the Thames far below: Tower Bridge.
The strangest part of the billboard image was the man in the foreground. He was a big guy dressed in motorbike leathers. But, if this was a movie poster, why was the star facing away from the camera, an anonymous silhouette against a million tiny lights?
Abos took it all in as the soundtrack blared out of the massive PA system, and tens of thousands of people were treated to the iconic electronic hit that had, in the autumn of 1979, made its way onto a compilation tape given to Mandy Harbin, in Essex, Great Britain. Nine years afterwards, her young son had found it in a drawer, put it on the stereo, and a love affair had begun. Daniel had moved on to Kraftwerk, Vangelis, Tangerine Dream, then the Prodigy, Air, Chemical Brothers, The Orb, Moby, but he always came back to his first love. There was something about the simplicity, the raw new synth sounds, and the almost harsh vocal that still hooked him, decades after that first hearing.
And now Abos, soaked in sound, staring at the billboard showing his son's silhouette at the top of the Shard, felt something crack open and loosen in his mind. His sense of identity shifted abruptly. The shock made him drop fifty feet, hitting the street hard enough to crack the surface.
People screamed, and the lead truck came to a shuddering stop a few yards short of his immobile body. The Secret Service agent in charge threw open the door and ran to the prone superhero. She stood and stared down at the giant. This scenario wasn't covered at the briefing. She spoke into the walkie-talkie.
"Medic. Man down, er, titan down. The Deterrent, he's hurt, he's not moving. Wait, he's... wait."
She took the walkie-talkie away from her mouth as Abos got to his feet.
"Sir? Sir? Are you okay? Do you need medical attention? Sir?"
Abos took a step away, looking up. She followed his gaze and looked at the billboard with the silhouetted figure and the view of London. As her eyes flicked back to The Deterrent, he moved so fast it was almost as if he vanished. She followed the blur of speed upwards as the superhero disappeared into the clouds.
"Shit. SHIT."
She reached for her walkie-talkie again.
Sara was watching from a second office in the corner building as Abos flew.
"Yes!" She hit a button on her phone.
"Saffi, it's working. Do it now."
Twenty seconds later, on the far side of the Hudson, a row of half-constructed warehouses exploded.
Saffi watched in satisfaction as flames consumed a stretch of the site covering a city block. Black smoke belched into the sky as she heard the first sirens.
She walked for ten minutes before hailing a cab. She called Sara from the back seat.
"Well, by my calculation, we spent half a million dollars, including your advertising campaign and impromptu concert. Are the titans on their way?"
"Not yet. They're hovering up there. Waiting orders, I guess. Stay on the line."
Saffi held her breath without knowing she was doing it, then let it out in a rush when Sara spoke again.
"Yes, they're heading towards the fire. We've done it. At least, I hope we have. It's up to Daniel now."
Roger lay on his back in the middle of the fake laboratory, blinking. He couldn't get up. God, he hated being old.
Ainsleigh offered him a hand, and he got to his feet, his joints cracking. His heart was racing, so he took an extra pill. He looked at Mike.
"What the hell - did you push me over?"
Mike shook his head.
"Someone pushed me and I fell. Into you. Sorry."
Roger looked around for the walkie-talkie. He needed to order the titans to pursue The Deterrent. Something had gone terribly wrong. That much was obvious. Nothing was more important than getting him back and reinforcing his conditioning.
The agent in charge had called on the walkie-talkie, asked him for orders before he'd fallen. There had been an explosion across town. She wanted to send the titans over there to help. Roger had been about give the order to go after The Deterrent, when Ainsleigh had... he looked around. Where the hell had he gone?
Ainsleigh's head popped into view at the side of the truck. He was holding something in his hand. He placed it on the floor of the truck. It was what was left of the walkie-talkie, a crumpled mess of plastic, metal and wires.
"I, er, that is, I er, think that, well, someone may have stood on it, Professor Sullivan," said Mike. Roger looked at him sharply. Mike never showed any initiative. Had it been an accident? Had he really been pushed? No. No. Impossible. Not Mike Ainsleigh.
Roger tried to get down from the truck, shout orders to the nearest agent, but his breath was short, and his heart was fluttering, despite the extra pill. He cursed his infirmity as he gave in to physical weakness and sat down, waiting for the feeling of faintness to pass.
He was dimly aware of activity in the sky above him, accompanied by more gasps and cheers, as the titans flew towards the scene of the explosion.
He felt a hand patting his shoulder like someone comforting a small child.
"Oh, well, never mind. You don't look well at all. I'll tell you what, I'll get you a bottle of water. You sit tight, I'll be back in a minute."
Roger clenched his fists as Mike Ainsleigh walked away, suspicion flitting into his mind once more.
No. Surely not.
He grunted in shock and pain as his shoulder developed a severe case of pins and needles. Which spread down his left side.
No, not this. Not now.
He moved his head to one side. Ainsleigh was talking to a Secret Service agent. The agent was turning - good, he would see that he needed urgent medical attention. Mike put a hand on the man's arm and bring his attention away from Roger.
But Ainsleigh was looking over at him. He could see what was happening. Roger grunted again as he fell sideways. Why wasn't Ainsleigh doing something? Why?
Why?
44
London. 4:30 pm
It had already been dark for half an hour, and it was cold on top of the Shard. Cold, and windy. Daniel stamped his feet as hard as he dared on the narrow metal walkway, trying to bring back some feeling in the seven toes he still possessed.
Daniel looked at his wrist, then remembered he'd thrown his watch into the Thames after checking it for the three hundredth time. He flexed his fingers, trying to keep some feeling in them. He should have worn two pairs of gloves.
His eyepatch was in his pocket. For this to work, he needed Abos to see him looking as close to his old self as possible.
His mobile phone was turned off. He knew Saffi and Sara would text, or call, either to tell him Abos was on her way—his way, Daniel reminded himself—or to break the news that no one was coming. Whichever it was, he didn't want to speak to anyone.
He would stay here until dawn if he needed to. If the sun came up and he was still alone, he'd go home. After that, he didn't know. He couldn't think that far ahead. Nayla had clung onto life long enough to pass on the message which had convinced him this plan might work. If it failed, what then? How would Saffi feel, knowing her best friend's dying words had led to nothing, helped no one? Would she still want him?
Daniel steered his thoughts away from Saffi. It was still early days, and the passion and commitment on both sides had surprised both of them. He was experiencing a superstitious reluctance to imagine their future together as if doing so might be the catalyst that obliterated any chance of it happening. Stupid, maybe, but there it was.
When he turned away from the river and saw Abos hovering to the north, about twenty feet away, the adrenaline hit him hard, his fists clenching and his body tensing. It wasn't his Abos, and the sight of the British poster boy from the nineteen-eighties was a shock, even though he'd known what to expect.
Abos had removed his helmet, holding it in one hand. He was looking at his son, his face and body as expressive as if made of stone.
Daniel looked back, knowing his feelings were easy to read for the figure floating above London. He didn't hide anything. He was elated, excited, and scared. There was guilt and shame at the way Abos had sacrificed her freedom for him, hope that they might now find a way forward together. And love, of course. Love for the creature that had given him life, and love for the person Abos had become. Was still becoming.
When Abos spoke, the voice was a shock. That same voice from the news clips. The same but different. Weathered, richer, the tone and cadence shaped by the million shocks of joy or sadness life thrown into the path of every life.
"Who is the halfhero, Daniel?"
He didn't look away from the intense golden eyes, although it was hard not to.
Abos gestured towards him.
"You have always given all of yourself, Daniel. You accepted that which many of your brothers and sisters could not. You are a crossbreed, an outsider, but you have not used your origins as an excuse to make lazy moral choices."
A light rain began to fall, the wind blowing stinging droplets into the side of Daniel's face.
"I am not human, although I wear this body," said Abos. "And I am not a hero. Why did they call you halfheroes? The human half of you is the source of your heroism. There is little of that in me. The world called me a hero when I was a slave."
"You destroyed Station."
"Destruction. Death. I prevailed against the hybrids because I was the stronger. I lived. They died."
"You saved my life."
Abos was silent for a long time.
"What parent wouldn't save their child?"
; "I need you, Abos. We need you. Sara and TripleDee - your children."
"There were other survivors?"
"Only the three of us, as far as we know."
"So much death. If I had known them as I know you... a human parent would have sought them out, tried to form relationships. I am lost, Daniel."
Daniel didn't interrupt the silence.
"And I failed my other family," said Abos. "The titans. I thought I could fight the drugs, the brainwashing. I thought I could form onemind and free them, but I was wrong. I couldn't fight it. When onemind formed, it was weak, it was wrong. Like hearing voices in the fog and not knowing where they're coming from. I failed."
"You tried, Abos. What you did, it was... you might never have come back."
Daniel remembered George. Without her, he would have given up, died in his room in Station. She had shown him, with humour and love, that he still had a choice. He could never have made it this far on his own.
"You're talking as if you're alone, but you're not. That's how it works."
"How what works?"
"The whole thing. Life, I don't know. I'm crap at this sort of thing, it doesn't come out properly. I know what I want to say, but I'll get it wrong. Oh, sod it. Look, on my own, I'm a fuckup. Guaranteed. But with George, with you, with Saffi, with Sara—all right, even with TripleDee—I'm nearly who I'm supposed to be. I'm not stuck inside myself. I'm part of a whole."
"A hole? Like a rabbit hole?"
"No, not like a rabbit hole. A whole," —Daniel made a circle with his hands— "you know, like a... hang on a minute."
Abos was smiling. Daniel squinted at him.
"Was that a joke? Did you crack a joke? You? I mean, it was a shit joke, but still... really?"
Abos flew forward and joined Daniel on the platform.
"Look," said Daniel, "what I'm trying to say is, you're not half of anything, Abos. Nor am I, nor are the others. Halfheroes is a stupid name. I don't know what I am, I don't know what you are, but I'm not sure that's important. You've missed the point. I told you I'd cock up if I tried to put it in words. I'm just no good at—"
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