by Mercedes Lackey; Cody Martin; Dennis Lee; Veronica Giguere
True to Vickie’s count, the security guard came around the corner and frowned at the car. He approached Ramona’s side and bent down. “You lost, ma’am?”
“His name is Justin Blake, and he’s a new hire,” said the apparently all-knowing voice in her ear.
“Justin, honey. Fred up at the main guardhouse said you’d be out here. Detective Ferrari, good to meet you.” Ramona showed him her badge and offered a smile. “Just doing a debrief with one of our DCOs. How’s your first week going?”
Bella wiggled her fingers at him. The effect of hearing his own name combined with a pretty blue thing with the face of a supermodel waving at him had the desired effect. He stammered a “fine, thanks” and tipped his hat to the two of them before going back to the trailer.
“You need to pick up bread before you go home, the loaf you have is turning blue and green at one end. Also, the milk in your fridge is going bad. You should check the setting, you probably knocked it back accidentally and it’s a tad too warm in there. And the way I know all this is because I am not your standard ordinary meta. I have a cyber-packet with your hair in it attached to the Overwatch computers, and I am a techno-mage. Rara avis, me. Don’t know of too many in the world and I am the only one in Echo.”
Mage. Magic. Ramona’s eyes widened a bit, but her surprise ebbed and she shrugged her shoulders. “Okay.” There was a pause, as if she was supposed to explain her nonchalant acceptance of things. “Look, I’m not like most civilians. When you’ve got to use everyday things like bandages and cell phones because you can’t heal stuff or talk between somebody’s ears like half of your coworkers, you just sort of accept what people can do and go on, regardless of where it comes from. Makes things easier.”
“Fair enough. Here’s my gig. I can make magic talk to computers and other things, and I use a suite of computers to talk back to me and my magic. Because of how magic works, I can hack into virtually anything if a certain set of parameters is satisfied. There are rules. It’s not like Twitch Your Nose and you can do anything. But that is what Overwatch is about; I am the kind of all-seeing eyes and ears for special teams to give them that extra edge that gets them out alive.” There was a pause. “For instance, I’ve hacked into all the security cams on the Echo campus to see you and Bell right now. I can do the same for just about any traffic cam, security cam, or ATM cam on the planet. Haven’t managed intel satellites yet, but they’re not really useful in keeping my teams breathing.”
Ramona settled back in her seat and passed a hand over her eyes. “Breathing is good. And you’re one of the revolutionaries who want to hold my boss accountable, in spite of his sudden spine-ectomy? We can totally be friends.”
“That’s good, since I hacked his desktop a long time ago. I’m the one who leaked the Ides. Despite the Commissar coming to administer detente with her typical iron fist, he still hasn’t come totally clean with her. So . . . I’m seeing he keeps his promise whether he likes it or not.” There was a polite little cough. “I’m not completely a loose cannon. My folks are FBI. Ever hear of Section 39?”
Ramona did a quick check of her own memory from the past year’s worth of research that had involved the FBI’s files on metahumans and didn’t come up with a matching number. “Not recent enough to remember, no.”
“Maybe not. You’d have dealt with Section 26, the metahuman division. Thirty-nine dates back to World War I. It’s all magicians and . . . well . . . uh . . . mythological critters that aren’t. My mom is a witch and my dad is a werewolf. They’re two of the current three section heads. The third is a Navaho shaman. The number was kind of an inside joke, when they merged the original organization with the FBI. Three heads for an organization they called Agency 13 back when it was founded, so . . . three times thirteen, it became FBI Section 39.”
“I can see how that would work, as well as how all of that would make Tesla shakier than a Chihuahua. I guess the jerk with the mop isn’t with Section 39 then?” Ramona shifted in her seat, her mouth twisted in a frown. “He’s the one who should have had the broom closet for an office, not me. Honestly, I’m one red stapler from a revolution.”
“Tesla thinks I’m doing this all by some new metahuman mutation; he doesn’t believe in magic,” came the laconic answer. “And hold that thought about revolution. Bell, floor’s yours again.”
Bella cleared her throat. “Well, as you already know, I’m not the sort to follow the rules when the rules are getting people killed. As for Saviour . . .” She half grinned. “I guess I’m sort of a kinder, gentler version of the Commissar. She’s been just about ready to storm Tesla’s office and take over herself, and if she hadn’t been so busy putting out fires, she probably would have by now.” Then the grin faded. “The problem is, my winged fr—ah hell, why am I being coy? The Seraphym talks to me. A lot.” She shook her head. “She says that Tesla is irrelevant to the futures. Not exactly sure what that means except that I don’t think he’s going to be in the driver’s seat for much longer—assuming he still is now. So, maybe we might need a revolution, and taking the cue from my hippie parents, I’m looking for fellow travelers.” She massaged a spot between her eyebrows. “And that is where things get really interesting. See, Tesla hasn’t ever been exactly the one at the top of the food chain. That’s elsewhere. Some place called ‘Metis.’ Which is where Merc is right now. Is any of this familiar to you?”
“Merc . . . wait, Mercurye? You mean Rick Poitier?” The words were out before Ramona realized how dumb it sounded. In the wake of the destruction, rebuilding and possible revolution, the non-meta had to ask about the whereabouts of the hot shirtless guy with the washboard abs.
“Tall, blond and built, the same. Got literally carried off to some Super Science Lala Land, which is where all of Echo’s spiffy keen gadgets really come from.” The blue woman swiftly unloaded an infodump that sounded like the craziest of B-movie scripts, right down to the science-fiction dingus rising out of Alex Tesla’s desk in front of her and the Commissar just in time for them to see a frantic Mercurye telling them that “Metis won’t help” before dashing off with someone in hot pursuit.
“So Tesla authorized a kidnapping, we don’t actually own our technology, and the man who can’t believe in magic is trusting a bunch of aliens who, for all intents and purposes, talk to him inside his desk.” Ramona reached forward and gripped the steering wheel of her car, her knuckles slowly going white as she clenched her jaw. “I think I can rest easy losing my job over cracking him once in the mouth. Blue, can you regenerate teeth or is that beyond your ability?”
“Whoa there, Detective,” said the voice in her ear. “Breathe, you’re going to pop a vein. I did some very discreet research. This Metis place has been rumored for decades; what I found in bits and pieces in Alex’s files just confirms what all the rumors had claimed. It’s not aliens or magic, just people with big brains in their own cozy little science commune. Tesla the First and his buddy Marconi decided way back when that they were going to put together an early think tank for scientists. By the twenties, roughly, they’d transplanted the think tank to somewhere in South America. When metahumans showed up in the Second World War, some of them got the Brain-the-Size-of-a-Planet superpower, and Metis recruited them, then set up Alex’s old man as the one to organize as many of the rest of the metas as he could after WWII was over. Now, where it gets funky is that from everything we can tell . . . Tesla the First and his buddy Marconi are still alive. Somehow. Not sure how. For all I know, at this point they could be brains in boxes. Point is, up until now, Senior has really been the one calling the ultimate shots. But with Merc saying that Metis isn’t going to help, I’m guessing Alex got his safety net pulled out from under him and Great-Uncle isn’t entirely in charge anymore, prolly because these eggheads insist on a pure democracy and he got outvoted. Hence, nervous breakdown.”
The news had the desired effect, as Ramona sat back, deflated and confused. “They’ve been doing this for years, then. We all have to stick
to regulation and to hell with any sort of reason because we have to do what the voices in the desk tell Tesla to do. Right now, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Yet,” said the voice in her ear and Bella at the same time. “And not exactly,” Bella added. “You’re in the perfect position to get Yank to see reason instead of regulations. You’re also in the perfect position to actually use the Ides right now. You have a copy, Vic can help you interpret. CCCP can’t do a helluva lot outside of Atlanta, but you can leak warnings elsewhere and be believed. Say . . . oh, tell them one of the precogs got a flash. Actually, you know, that’s entirely the truth, March was a precog.” She sucked on her lower lip. “And . . . how well do you know Rick? Merc? Would you say he’s, well, a really good guy?”
“Yes.” The answer came immediately, and Ramona hoped this was her gut instinct after working with him and not some fascination fueled by that crummy knight-in-shining-armor fantasy. Sitting in the car with a healer meant that some of her girl-squeal could be picked up at any given time. “He’s got a conscience, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Not . . . exactly.” Bella was smiling a little. “But yeah, you know him, and you know he’s got a good, solidly good heart. Trust that. He may not be a Science Big Brain, but you know what? I can’t think of anyone who’s ever been recruited into a fight by logic. If anybody can change their minds, I’d put my money on him.”
“Bottom line is, Bell doesn’t want us to just sit here and wait for things to happen to us. So we are putting together a safety net here,” said Vickie. “Look, I am the world’s biggest paranoid, and I believe in safety nets. Alex might get it together. Pride might take over. Metis might decide to saddle up their robot horses and ride in with white hats on and guns blazing. But if none of that happens, we’ll have our little revolution, comrade, and keep right on punching, ’cause we planned for it in advance. Green?”
“Green.” The gum had turned sour in her mouth, so Ramona spat it into a tissue and crumpled it in her hand. Suddenly, things had gone from mopey and depressing to confused and only slightly less depressing. At least she wasn’t alone in thinking that her boss had lost his ability to lead. “So, what now?”
“Right now, we report for our shifts,” the DCO replied. “And I refrain from punching Djinni in the jaw again. All that does is hurt my hand and turn him on. Pervert.”
* * *
Twenty-four hours later, a dark-suited Echo detective and one of the commanding metas of the organization stood outside of Tesla’s office. Ramona popped a piece of gum into her mouth and grimaced, but tucked the packet into her jacket pocket. Yankee Pride glanced over at her and raised an eyebrow.
“Y’know, unless that was your last piece, Echo regulations would demand that you at least offer me one.” He tried to soften the joke with a charming smile.
Ramona rolled her eyes in reply. “You really want a square of junkie gum? This Nico-Quit stuff isn’t exactly minty fresh.”
His grimace mirrored the one she’d made a few seconds earlier. “Never mind, then. But good on you for trying.”
“Yeah, well . . . not all of us have amazing abilities that let us abuse ourselves in the name of saving the world. Some of us are just salaried.” She shifted the manila folder under her arm and checked her watch. Their appointment with Tesla was supposed to be a debrief on the Mountain situation, which she was all too happy to describe to the bossman in every single painful detail. A copy of the report would be sent to Bill’s ex-wife if Tesla wasn’t going to play nice. Wrongful death and all that wouldn’t be such a stretch, especially with the miles and miles of paper trail on psychiatric evaluations.
For all of the bitching people did about the system, it was rather useful when you knew how to work it.
A dark sedan rolled up on the gravel road next to the trailer office. Tesla sat in the passenger seat, with the so-called janitor doing the driving. They both got out, Tesla clutching a bottle of antacid tablets. He popped two when he saw the pair waiting at his door. “Yankee Pride and Detective Ferrari. Was the appointment today?”
“Today, ten minutes ago,” Pride drawled. “Sir, that can’t be good for your stomach. I think Einhorn’s on the campus today, if you’d like something a little more permanent—”
“No. No, this is fine. I’m fine.” He gave them a shaky smile and motioned to the door. Ramona said nothing but strolled inside, taking a seat in the chair furthest from the door. The “janitor” scowled, silent as Pride followed and opted to stand behind the detective.
When the man followed Tesla inside, Pride drew himself up and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sorry, but this is a private matter that concerns a debrief on the Mountain situation. I don’t believe that you were part of that operation. What did you say your name was?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be outside. Right outside,” he added to Tesla.
When the door clicked shut, Alex Tesla popped three more tablets and loosened his tie. Slumped in his chair, he looked more like a mangled middle manager than a CEO to Ramona. She felt a fleeting moment of pity for the man, but that died when he opened a desk drawer to put away the worry candy. This was professional and personal, and he wasn’t some metahuman who could will her into a smoking heap of ash and polyester. This was a lousy boss, and she was an informed yet disgruntled employee. She could manage this.
“Debrief report on the Mountain situation, sir.” Ramona slapped the half-inch-thick folder on the table and flipped it open. Full-color glossies from the satellite showed Bill sinking into the Atlantic, the path of destruction evident miles behind him. “There’s the accompanying psychiatric evaluation, coupled with summaries of the wrongful death suits that will be brought against Echo by seven of the twelve Americco Construction employees before the end of the month. I’m pretty sure that you’ve already seen the suits filed by the city concerning the destruction of property and misallocation of resources to support that death march.”
“If we’re nice to our senators, Spin Doctor thinks we can get the lot dismissed under the Wartime Powers Act,” Pride said, but with an edge of disapproval. “He doesn’t like the idea. Says it’s better to pay ’em off now, generously. Actually, not ‘better.’ His exact phrase, if I recall correctly, was ‘it’s the honorable thing to do.’ Reckon our mop-bearing friend wouldn’t agree though.” Pride narrowed his eyes. “He still calling the shots?”
“Echo is still a private organization, according to the charter issued in 1947. We do not have any government sponsorship, as dictated by my uncle and his associates.” The words came wearily even as he slumped further into his chair. “He’s here as a military liaison on behalf of the US government. He’s here to help contain the damage.”
“Contain it?” Pride repeated. “Seems to me like he caused a lot of it. The Mountain was one of ours, Alex. He wasn’t hurting anything sitting in the corner of the Le Parkour course. He coulda stayed there a while. Hell, the Djinni had just about worked himself up t’usin’ Bill as a new challenge course. You coulda sold tickets to that. Put it on pay-per-view.”
“Especially if Bill had started swatting at him,” Ramona muttered. She stood up and leaned against the desk, making it a priority to look directly at Bill’s picture. “You see that, boss? That was one of your team. One of my coworkers. Hell, Tesla, that was one of my friends, and your policies and your so-called janitor’s priorities put him in a situation that led him to suicide. On your watch.”
Tesla made the mistake of looking away. In a few quick steps, Ramona was around the desk with a hand on the back of Tesla’s chair. She grabbed the picture and shoved it in his face, her voice strangely calm. She had already cried herself out and shouted irrationally to anyone who would listen. Now, it was time for the old “good cop, bad cop” routine, and Pride was comfortable being the good guy. That left Ramona to attack. “Look. At. The. Picture. That’s the picture of one of your employees pushed to the limit because someone told you he was disposable. How many m
ore of those do you have, boss? Two? Ten? Twenty? We can go through the new recruits’ records and cross-check with a good number of databases, and so can any news organization.”
“That was the result of the mutation, not from his employment with Echo. After everything that happened on Echo campuses, everyone’s got some diagnosis of post-traumatic stress syndrome. It’s an epidemic.” Tesla jerked away from the photo and stood up, shaking. In his rumpled state, he bore a closer resemblance to his scientist father. Nikola Tesla would have been appalled at his nephew’s appearance. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry that it happened, and I’m sorry that it happened to one of your partners. We’re doing the best that we can.”
“Oh, bullshit.” That came from Pride, and Ramona blinked at the meta in surprise. “You’re covering your ass and kowtowing to every suit that comes in here. You know what that janitor has done? He’s been authorizing OpOnes to go out with impressment gangs to shanghai anything that looks like a meta, claiming some kind of phony government authority over ‘unregistered metahumans.’ Which is in direct violation of the US Constitution. If you were doing the best you could, you’d have strapped a steak to his scrawny behind and let Pack’s dogs have some fun.” The gauntlets kept Pride from being able to crack his knuckles, but the way he was grinding one fist into the palm of his other hand was conveying what Ramona considered to be the right impression.
Tesla winced at the gesture, his focus on the desk in front of him. “And what do you want me to do about it? Since the Invasion, every Echo campus has been in the same situation, and the government’s got us in a choke hold. The fact that we haven’t been closed down and our operatives haven’t been relocated to some secure test facility is the proof that we’re still in control.”
The chair next to Yankee Pride fell apart as one fist slammed into the back of it. Ramona jumped at the sound even as Tesla covered his head with his hands. The meta straightened up and squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath. “As I’m not the sort of gentleman who deals well with repeated falsehoods, I must remove myself from this meeting.” Northern in name and Southern in manners, Pride offered a half-bow in apology to Ramona. “Excuse me, Detective.”