by David Reiss
More and more, I found myself being impressed by Cloner’s skill at manipulation. At Lassiter’s, he’d promised to suspend his scheming; was that pledge, I wondered, merely another calculated step pushing me towards some unknown end goal? Some of the notes in the file Cherenkov provided indicated action taken on later dates.
It also occurred to me that the fact that this file fell into Cherenkov’s possession could just as well be part of a double bluff, a leak intended to make me overconfident that I was in control of the situation. More monitoring and study would be required before any direct action should be taken.
“I got Corey into so much trouble,” Whisper mourned. “He’s never going to forgive me.”
It took me a moment to recognize Cherenkov’s civilian name.
“Perhaps not,” I chuckled, the outlines of a plan beginning to form. “Your friend did the right thing in reaching out to the Department of Metahuman Affairs. We can use my virtual employee’s account to set up and backdate an official investigation into Cloner’s behavior. If Cherenkov is listed as a confidential informant…”
“…then any information he gave me would be part of the investigation. Cloner won’t be able to get Corey in trouble!”
“Exactly. I’ll take care of this one…I have a few ideas that I want to explore.”
I may not have been ready to wage virtual war upon the leader of the New York Shield just yet but laying the groundwork for a possible counterattack only seemed prudent. Also, amusing.
◊◊◊
From: G. Marcum
To: Cherenkov
Subject: Department of Metahuman Affairs Investigation C1337508-09
Thank you for bringing this issue to our attention. We’ve reviewed the files you provided and have associated them with an existing case; after a thorough analysis, I would like to reassure you that our analysts do not believe you to be in any danger at this time. We will be monitoring the situation closely and will keep you updated if there is any indication that the circumstances have changed. While we generally do not comment on an active investigation, I would also like to reassure you that Cloner has not been directly implicated of any wrongdoing.
Our records indicate that your provisional license to act as a metahuman trainee asset was put into effect two weeks ago. If you are willing, we would like to advance your certification to an active state and ask that you remain as a member of the New York Junior Shield and return to your normal duties. We do not expect to require any further action on your part, but an informed pair of eyes on site may be helpful as our investigation moves forward.
If you have any further questions, you may contact me directly at this email address or call the Department of Metahuman Affairs hotline and refer to case C1337508-09. Again, thank you for your assistance.
- Agent Gregory Marcum, Lic:RDP-00655092-07
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
One of my light combat drones, fully stealthed, floated motionless over the target of my observation. A swarm of microdrones explored below, carefully creeping through shadows and taking readings; vast amounts of data was being recorded for future analysis. The unassuming duplex was located in a lower-middle-class neighborhood; there was little foot traffic on the streets, for there were few stores or restaurants within easy walking distance. The roads were pitted with and cracked in disrepair, electrical and cable systems were spotty, and the traffic signals on the streets were outdated. To the temporary residents of the duplex, these traits were an advantage; the legacy systems were largely disconnected from the more modern hub, and thus this neighborhood was surprisingly resistant to passive surveillance methodology.
There was still no sign of Skullface himself, nor his second-in-command…but I’d found eight of Skullface’s men.
The duplex had two double-wide garages and one van was parked in each. Penetrating sonar revealed that the remaining space in both garages had been re-purposed to hold free-standing shelving units, upon which weapons and bomb-making apparatus were neatly organized. The equipment was surprisingly mundane; none of it appeared to be Dr. Chaise’s inventions, nor even knock-offs created by some other mad scientist. These were boring, mostly-untraceable military-grade munitions. Whatever havoc was planned, these eight intended to obfuscate their connection to a supervillain.
If I hadn’t tracked their means of payment, I would have had no reason to guess that they were Skullface’s minions.
Destroying this crew would have been a simple task. The mercenaries may have been professional and alert, but they certainly were not armed in a manner to defend against Doctor Fid. I could have rained destruction from the skies and they would have had barely enough time to curse in horror before their immolation.
Another option was to expand upon the existing surveillance and wait. Sooner or later, this crew would receive orders; when that occurred, I could trace the source of those orders back to their employer. Back to Skullface! If that could be managed, then finally this annoying game cat and skeletal mouse would come to an end.
Leaving the mercenaries in situ was a dangerous choice. No matter how many combat drones I hid in the region, no matter how extensive my microdrone surveillance…I could not reliably predict every possible threat that these armaments might pose. They took turns leaving the duplex in pairs—bristling with weapons concealed upon their persons—roaming the city for reasons unknown; if their orders arrived while they were wandering, Doctor Fid’s ability to intervene would be limited.
Civilians within my territory would be at risk, but the opportunity to ferret out Skullface’s location was too tempting an opportunity to ignore. My factory’s production of surveillance microdrones was increased, and a nuanced observation algorithm was implemented; if there were any change in these criminals’ status, I would be informed immediately.
◊◊◊
“This can’t be serious,” I laughed, genuinely taken aback. “Did someone make a mistake?”
“I’m afraid not, Dr. Markham.” Andy—a relatively new hire from the legal department—replied. “The Board has a valid concern.”
“Then they should have brought it to me.”
“Traditionally…yes,” he agreed, then frowned sympathetically, “but it’s not a legal obligation.”
My brows furrowed as I re-read the notice, hoping to find some nuance that rendered the resolution invalid. Sadly, the meaning was clear and the wording sufficiently simple that finding a loophole would be almost impossible.
“Can we make an argument that this is an operational matter and thus not within the Board’s purview?” I asked, hopefully.
“We can make the argument,” he shook his head doubtfully, “but it wouldn’t be a slam-dunk. Legal matters and issues of community benefit are often considered high-level policy decisions. That’s the Board’s bread and butter.”
This was my first time receiving a report directly from Andrew Pierson. He looked to be in his mid-fifties though well preserved. I imagined that his hair had once been blond but had long-since silvered, and he had the look of a man who’d spent a great deal of time smiling; his dimples could have been carved from granite. Andrew had dressed professionally for this meeting. Perhaps he’d suspected that he would be delivering bad news and hoped to make a good impression anyway.
A resolution had been issued declaring that funding for all humanitarian efforts needed to be approved by a full meeting of the Board. Even as the CEO, I would not be able to reassign any company staff to work on Titan’s treatment without first receiving the Directors’ blessing.
Not for the first time, I cursed my younger self’s short-sightedness. AH Biotech had only been a means to an end then, and my pre-medical-nanite moderately-scarred brain still resistant to forming emotional bonds. When the investors who had helped form the company had insisted that no corporate executives be allowed on the board, I hadn’t thought twice on the matter. I barely paid it any mind when the shares were diluted and restructured such that I lost my voting majority. I had, after a
ll, poured inhuman efforts into gaining the skills necessary for the role of corporate executive. Arrogantly, I’d assumed that my intellect would allow me to guide the company so smoothly that the board would never have reason to doubt my leadership.
All false modesty aside, I had triumphed. AH Biotech had rocketed from well-funded startup to publicly traded corporation to multinational concern in only a handful of years. We’d created marvels, and both our profit margin and our number of product lines continued to grow. The company was flourishing.
But I hadn’t counted on Henry Collins and his cabal of activist investors who were slavishly devoted to short-term profits over long-term success.
“What about improper purpose?” I asked Andrew, though I saw the answer in his expression before I finished the sentence.
“It would be a hard sell,” he confirmed. “I can spend some time looking up court cases that involve the Companies Act of 2006, but-”
“No, you’re right.” I let the paper fall to my desk. “This may be asinine, but it’s not misconduct.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Terry,” I sighed tiredly. “I’m sorry for pressing you on this, it’s not your fault.”
“It’s not a problem, Terry.” He smiled and those aged dimples and laugh lines made his face light up. How he’d managed a long career in the field of law and still maintained so genuine a sense of joy, I had no idea. “It’s what I was hired to do.”
“Well, talk to our internal auditor and see if there’s anything we can use; it’s unlikely, but check anyway. I need to make some calls.”
Andrew Pierson nodded and gathered his own papers before shaking my hand and seeing himself out the door.
Technically, any Director could request a meeting of the Board, but the Chairman would need to approve the request. Even if I managed to reach out to a majority of board members and convince them of the financial benefits of repairing the leader of the Guardians’ degenerative brain disease, Henry Collins could simply refuse to schedule the meeting in a timely fashion.
It felt odd and decidedly unwelcome to be outmaneuvered by a man who didn’t wear spandex or bench-press school-busses.
◊◊◊
The Mk 38 medium-duty powered armor’s maiden voyage began in the blackest depths; my ocean-floor manufacturing facility included a shielded moon pool, from which I could swim out to explore deeper trenches. The improved forcefields easily handled the massive pressures, and the icy cold of lightless brine was no match for the Mk 38’s personal environmental controls. A nearby volcanically active region of ocean floor was located, and a few minutes spent floating in and out of hydrothermal vents in order to put the system through its paces, and then I rocketed upwards towards the surface.
With stealth systems engaged, I exploded into the night sky and settled into a long ballistic arc; this evening’s target lay in Richmond, Virginia and I would have plenty of time to experiment with the flight systems during the journey.
I had, finally, determined what piece of artwork had been Skullface’s target when he attacked the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. All that violence and death had been theater, a bloody distraction to hide the theft of a small oceanscape thought to be an unsigned work by the famed nineteenth-century impressionist, Theodore Robinson.
I’d never seen the piece in person, but the insurers kept high definition photos in their record. Given the style and means used for authentication, it could very well have been a Robinson original. A tedious search through the records of previous owners, however, revealed another possibility: the work may have been painted by the Ancient himself…one of his early efforts to copy a past master’s style.
I couldn’t be certain, of course. The ownership records had been incomplete, and not all the relevant data had been digitized for me to steal. Perhaps in some musty basement, an unmarked box of forms contained the information needed to verify my hypothesis. That Skullface had sought out the work certainly supported my theory; it was certainly possible that he had access to resources that I did not.
But one thing was certain: Boston was my domain. Skullface may have found methods to scurry unseen near the borders, but Doctor Fid was attuned to the city’s core and my city held secrets that Skullface could not possibly have known. The skeletal supervillain may have successfully drawn blood and caused terror in the heart of my territory, but he had failed to accomplish his desired goal. The impressionist painting that had been present in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts was a forgery, and the actual item—whether painted by Robinson or by the Ancient—had been stolen months earlier by one of the world’s greatest thieves. And that thief lived in Richmond.
I soared onwards, toying with the aerodynamic effects of shaped force-fields to pass the time. Frictionless and aerodynamic contours allowed for efficient travel, but increasing drag and adding modulated ripples created haunting tones. If remaining undiscovered had not been a concern, I imagined that I could increase my speed and beat the air into a blazing trail of plasma as I passed, a roaring catastrophe pouring across the sky.
Simulations were begun immediately; I’d gotten tremendous benefit from my improved stealth technologies of late, but raw intimidation also had its place. I was still distracted by intriguing formulae and mathematical models when I arrived high above the state capital of Virginia. Fortunately, the Mk 38 armor knew my destination even if I were otherwise engaged.
Hovering unnoticed, I deployed a small swarm of microdrones to explore below. It was barely more than twenty minutes before my quarry’s location was confirmed; I dropped from the sky and set down before a nondescript popup warehouse. The side door, I noted approvingly, was subtly obscured from any camera’s or neighbor’s view. I disabled stealth mode, let my traditional starfield-and-red display fade into existence, and knocked politely.
It was late, but it was only about thirty seconds before someone came to check the door; certain occupations tend to induce a nocturnal lifestyle. The Grey Cat’s career certainly kept him most active during the evenings. My sensitive microphones caught quiet profanity when he recognized his late-night visitor through the security lens, but he quickly steadied himself and opened the door.
“Doctor Fid,” the thief smiled pleasantly. He was a dangerously handsome man; slim and athletic, lightly tanned with features that hinted at some percentage of oriental ancestry despite his ice-blue eyes. When last I’d seen him, he’d worn his lustrous coal-black hair pulled back into a pony-tail but it was now cropped to medium length and swept back in an artfully unkempt manner. “Come in.”
“Thank you.” I stepped inside; the warehouse had been re-purposed to serve as a studio-style living area, a workshop, and a studio. In addition to his talents as a burglar, the Grey Cat was also a highly respected forger. Given the quality of the work he left behind, a significant percentage of his thefts had never been discovered. Certainly, the Boston Museum of Fine Arts had never realized that their un-signed Robinson had been replaced with a fake.
And neither had Skullface.
“So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” He waved me towards a sitting area.
This was one of the reasons that I’d never minded doing business with the Gray Cat. He was polite. His chairs were unlikely to support the weight of the Mk 38 powered armor, but he acted with complete trust that my technological mastery would protect his belongings. He was correct, of course; a careful application of anti-grav and force-fields, and I could sit comfortably without so much as scratching the upholstery.
Also, the odds that he would react with violence as had Imperator Rex were very low. The Gray Cat’s preternaturally advanced sense of balance and coordination made him an exceptional thief, but that was not a power-set that would make one a threat to the likes of Doctor Fid.
“I was hoping to examine a work of art that may have passed through your hands,” I said.
“Many of those in my line of work have been worried that you’ve gone white-cape,” the thief laughed. “They’
re afraid they’ll have to get honest work if the alternative is facing your tech. I told them they needn’t worry; Doctor Fid would not come after the likes of us.”
It was only because my sensors included heart-rate monitoring and breathing analysis that I was able to detect the relief behind his words. Visually, the change was imperceptible.
“So,” he continued, “what piece of ill-gotten artwork has attracted your interest?”
“An unsigned work by Theodore Robinson that was taken from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts a little less than two years ago.”
“I meant no offense,” he was quick to apologize. “Working in your city, I mean. It seemed a small thing, below your interest.”
“No offense was taken,” I chuckled. “But don’t worry, I only wish to study the original. I assume that your work was on commission; you need only point me towards your buyer.”
“My clients expect a certain level of anonymity,” he began, then quickly changed his tone when I went still as a statue and the stars displayed within the Mk 38 began to swirl: “But of course I’d be willing to make an exception for Doctor Fid! As it happens, this particular client never made his final payment; I have the work in question in storage.”
“Excellent. Bring me to it so that I can perform my scans,” I requested. “You will be compensated for your time.”
“I’d prefer not to advertise my storage facility’s location,” he smiled in a placating manner. “I can bring it to you. Shall we say tomorrow evening?”
“You keep a climate-controlled storage space in Prince George County and your passcode is one-one-two-four-one-nine-seven-zero. Tonight would be preferable.”
“Well.” The Gray Cat’s smile faltered, but he nodded his acquiescence; I was certain that he immediately understood that being forced to take a pleasant evening drive was a small price to pay for the insult of operating in Doctor Fid’s domain without permission. “I suppose that I’ll get my car keys.”