Subject 12

by S. W. Douglas

  If you're running you hit the wall. Hard.

  Bullets deformed and eventually dropped out of the air if the projection power was high enough. However, most people didn't have nuclear reactors in their back yards, so actually stopping bullets was usually out of the question. Slowing them down so they hit short of their target, were easily absorbed by bulletproof vests, or whatever, was much easier.

  Still, by the time you get a powerful enough energy source, sensors with a high enough gain, a projector with a fine enough differential engine, a computer fast enough to handle everything, and a full-time human backup to make sure the whole system doesn't redline for no apparent reason, you have something that costs a hell of a lot more and was still less reliable than a good bullet-proof vest, six full-time bodyguards, a strong fence, a high wall in the back yard with an electric topper, and an old-fashioned security system that dialed the police in case of an emergency.

  For politicians, of course, it was worth every penny for the added safety. If you were to ask me, I'd figure a country's economic future would be a better investment for a politician's safety than something that'd keep a hothead with an AK-47 from successfully firing off a clip at close range.

  But I'm not a politician. If I were I'd probably kill myself.

  The upshot of there being such a device there at that moment was that I had the perfect escape route ready for me. All I had to do was take advantage of it.

  There was a trick to overcoming a resistor field. Snipers used bigger and heavier and faster bullets; specialty rifles that were originally designed to take out materiel at extreme ranges or vehicles on a battlefield. Sometimes the brute force approach worked and the bullets found their targets. Often, if the sniper got away, what he/she found was that bigger, heavier targets were actually easier to deflect. It didn't make sense to the average student of physics, but neither did a four year-old who could lift a car. Closer shots were required. Higher velocity, lower-caliber bullets were needed. That also meant that shot placement was even more critical because the field would scrub speed from the slug like a pilot trying to land a fighter jet on an aircraft carrier.

  Car bomb assassinations were on the rise. I couldn't see the connection, personally.

  So what did that mean to me? I wasn't a bullet. No, I was a goddamn big target compared to one, and that made the field even more effective at stopping me if I moved too fast.

  Or if I didn't move fast enough.

  I stepped outside with my hands up and a shit-eating grin on my face. If the sun was peeking hopefully between some clouds, eager to shine some light on me, it was too far towards the west to shine on this blasted street.

  Cigar boy had relaxed enough to get his hand free of the field and was still rubbing feeling back into his fingers. That was okay. Everyone else seemed to notice me.

  "On the ground and kiss the street! Put your hands behind your head or we will fire on you!"

  Right. Sign that prick up for Officer Candidate School. Or cut his balls off so he can't reproduce. Either way you'd have a winning choice on your hands.

  "Do I have to lay down? Can't I just sit there quietly?" I waved my arms carefully, increasing their speed with each change in direction, gauging the resistance I was feeling.

  "We will fire if you do not comply! Lay down!" I would have heard the sound of bolts being pulled back if they hadn't already been cocked. "Lay down now!"

  I had the timing down on the field by then. I knew how much and how fast it would slam down. I could already smell the ozone as I started to focus. This was going to be hard. This field was far stronger than it should have been, judging by the size of the projectors I could see.

  "How about a compromise?" I asked, bringing my hands onto the top of my head. "As soon as you can get those guns pointed at me you point them somewhere else and I sit here like a good little boy and wait for Kinsey to show his ugly face. Sound fair?"

  "You have to the count of three before we open fire! Get down!"

  Maybe he'd already gone through OCS. He certainly had that "shout till you go hoarse and ignore whatever's going on around you" thing down.

  "Just leave me the hell alone, alright?" I shouted back, bending as quickly as the field would allow in an attempt to make it look like I was complying. In reality, what I was doing was a bit more complex. "I just want to be left alone!"

  I felt the muscles in my leg tense and the metallic smell washed over me as I put everything I had into the leap. It was enough.

  The wind whipped tears from my eyes because I couldn't spare the focus to keep the air around me bubbled. I squeezed them shut and held my breath against the expected crush of the field clamping down, ready to fight back with everything I had, knowing it might not be enough. But I'd been fast enough, or maybe they operators had shut the field down in anticipation of my apparent surrender, because I blasted through.

  Lucky for everything in the immediate area. If the field had locked down and I'd been able to wrestle free, the resulting release of energy would have destroyed the projectors, anyone standing nearby, and slapped everything within the field with whatever was left of the backlash. As strong as that field had been, well, I wouldn't have laid any money on anyone surviving it. Maybe a recognizable corpse or two, but that was almost a sucker bet.

  I tried to breathe a sigh of relief but the wind pulling at my face kept it from being a success. Something should be done about that.

  I had escaped. The whole meaning of that would hit me in a minute, but first I needed to breathe. That meant I had to reset my focus to keep the wind out of my eyes and allow it to settle enough I could suck it in and chew on it if I wanted.

  A shift in my mindset and my eyes were open, I could see how high I was over the city, and I could pull a cleansing breath.

  That was too close.

  And it raised many questions, not the least of which was about what I was going to do about it.

  Very few supers can fly. It's a rare talent and one that I, personally, did not really possess. That's why I had to continue my ascent, albeit very slowly, as I pondered my problem.

  My biggest desire in life was simple. I wanted to be left alone so I could live as I saw fit. I'd spent twenty years being ordered around, ending with my being prodded, tested, poked, injected, radiated, brainwashed, medicated, analyzed, scraped, drained, sampled, zapped, burned, lied to, and finally forced to do things I'd found so repugnant I had to leave or surrender my soul to someone who was as close to evil incarnate as any man alive. During most of that fun time I was running missions, killing people, maintaining the status quo for the powerful, and in general being an outright scum-sucking bastard in the pay of said evil incarnate, supposedly making the world a better place, but in reality carving out a small empire for himself with my help.

  Okay, I wasn't that important to his plans in the beginning of my employ, but I'd moved up in the ranks pretty fast.

  Other than the experimental chemical cocktail and the joys of dealing with that, it hadn't been that bad a time, really. I had no bills to worry about, didn't have to think much, got to see parts of the world most people didn't even know existed. Blew up a good portion of them, too.

  Ah, good times.

  But, as inevitable as death, taxes, annoying boy bands, and political sex scandals, things changed.

  See, the experiment cocktail I'd agreed to test? It worked.

  It wasn't the first time. Several of the biggest heroes and a few of the worst villains were either the results of private research or directly government-created. During my run with Alpha Zulu we butted heads with one of the latter a few times. He called himself Fervish, of all things, and his powers were based around the ability to manipulate light and his brain power and reaction time were amped to unbelievable levels.

  Didn't make him immune to bullets, though.

  The main difference between me and the late, lamented Fervish was that Fervish had displayed some kind of super powers at birth. Not many, or very strong, min
d you, but he still had them. When Alpha Zulu recruited him he could red-shift any light source by forty percent, and I think he had a minor talent in levitating small objects. Fortunately for me and my team, that ability got wiped out by the serum they tested on him.

  Me? I was your average, run-of-the-mill human mercenary; strong, smart enough to solve problems but not so smart as to over-think things, with good instincts, few morals, and military experience that included everything from demolition work to black ops. Alpha Zulu had a mess in their pants to clean up when they hired me, but I was very, very human.

  Sort of. Physically, at any rate. By the time I'd seen the combat I'd seen when they recruited me I wasn't so sure I qualified for the latter.

  After a few more years of getting shot at and covered in blood I'd signed on for the medical experiments because I was getting bored and I thought that having a little more of an edge on the battlefield would be useful. That and the extra pay. See, I had my eye on this sports car...

  Well, lucky me, it started to work. The more they did, the more it worked. Every test, every new trial, it just kept adding up. After a while it became obvious the medicos were getting scared.

  At first I thought it was because the other guinea pigs either rejected the injections with little to no effect, died, or went totally insane.

  That's not to say I hadn't had my bad nights. Wracked with pain, listening to voices, seeing things that couldn't be there, sometimes for weeks at a time, I thought I was going insane. But I refused to let myself break, however bad it got, and I always pulled through. Eventually.

  I'd figured out why the medicos were scared by then. The powers manifesting themselves were, at least at the level it was obvious I possessed, unique. Any motion, however slight, was subject to my whim. With focus and determination I could stop bullets, or even send them back in the direction they had come. I could fly, after a fashion. My strength was nearly unbounded, my speed topping that of the fastest recorded speedsters...

  Then more changes came quickly with a little training. I could split my focus into almost a hundred different directions if I needed to. My vision sharpened, my hearing became more acute, and my thought processes became more logical. If I'd been a more creative person before all this happened I might have mourned my loss in that area, but for the most part I was better served by the new way of thinking.

  My ability to lie was unaffected, however. Probably due to the training.

  The only problem was the residue. The more I exerted myself, the more I left behind. The only physically obvious part of it was the smell. It was like a combination of ozone and an aluminum-doped magnesium flare. If I really pushed it could get to the point it'd make a norm choke. They never explained to me what the rest of it was, just that they could track it. That anyone who knew about it could track it, with the right equipment, made using my powers potentially dangerous.

  What they didn't realize is I'd been hiding just how strong I'd become. I'd seen the fear in their eyes when I'd done something, so I'd started holding back. It hadn't taken a genius to follow the logic. The stronger I got the more of a threat I became. If I became too much of a threat the next injection might be rather red in color and I might not even feel the puncture.

  I was finally reintroduced to Kinsey when it became apparent I wasn't going to snap and start taking out half the continent. He took a shine to the new me and ushered me into his inner circle faster than anyone else there had ever seen. That raised a lot of resentment that I never quite lived down. It also raised my hackles rather badly.

  Killing was fine. I'd made a living of it for years, after all, but torture always bothered me, and watching this sick fuck get his jollies by ripping someone apart even after they'd spilled their guts (sometimes literally) made me sick. It also made me rethink what I wanted.

  I'd become a different person. Not better, not worse, just different. But I was okay with things, as long as I could make excuses to not be a part of Kinsey's little private parties.

  Then my missions started up again. At first it was good to get back to work. Flexing the muscles, working my new powers to get a better grip on them, testing my new training all made me feel better, but something was different.

  I wasn't having fun. More than that, my targets weren't third-world warlords or terrorists; they were businessmen who were in the way. To be honest, that didn't bother me. The goal of why I was killing them did.

  I'd signed up for a variety of reasons, but making sure a nearly-immortal sadist was wealthy and powerful enough to do as he saw fit wasn't on the list.

  I knew a few people on both sides of the battleground. I'd foiled a few and helped a few others over the years, so it wasn't a bad idea to go squeeze some of them for some information. Magda might be my best choice, seeing as how Kinsey had name-dropped her so readily. The only question was who should I go see? The Guild might be the best choice, seeing as how Magda had soured on the whole mercenary business shortly after joining Alpha Zulu. The Confederation might pay better but the life expectancy for most members was measured in months.

  The Heroes' Guild had a small compound in most cities. Usually only noobs, small timers, and the norm staffers used them, though. Big-name heroes pretty much got free nights at any 4-star hotel any time they wanted. The big compound in Reno, however, was in constant use by everyone who was anyone.

  The Villains' Confederation had their own giant compound in Hong Kong, but only members were supposed to know about it. Anyone there probably wouldn't be very helpful, considering the most likely reason I'd know them was having faced off against them. Besides that, they served the worst coffee imaginable this side of an Australian prison.

  I was not looking forward to spending time with the creme de la creme of human society.

  The Heroes' Guild had a few rules. First off, you had to be powerful enough to get out of the one-off category.

  Allow me to explain. There were actually four official power levels, if you listened to the accepted scientific regulations. Normal, Gifted, Adept, and God. The last level's official title isn't actually "God", if you wanted to be technical, but you'd have to be one to qualify for it. The main requisite was the ability to destroy the planet without outside aid. To be a true "Hero", then, you had to be an Adept or better.

  Too bad the qualifications for Adept weren't stricter. A psychology that was more concerned with protecting people than with proving you had the biggest dick or prettiest face would have been nice. So would even a mild aversion to killing people just because they made a mistake.

  Let's think for a minute here. We have an organization given carte blanche to stop crime, enforce order, and had no restrictions provided innocents weren't put in harm's way or killed with impunity. In practice, what this meant is that if you had a Guild membership in good standing you could do pretty much whatever you wanted. To keep your Guild membership in good standing you had to "fight crime" publicly. As long as whatever you did was done to criminals, nobody cared.

  They had it coming.

  Now let's continue this thought. Human psychology being what it is, what does that mean? As long as I only hurt criminals, nobody cares. Yeah, that's not a system rife with abuse.

  And who would challenge such a respected organization as the Heroes' Guild? They protect people! Who dares accuse a member of rape? A prostitute? Slander!

  At least the Villain's Confederation didn't pretend to be righteous when they stole your wallet or blasted your atoms into another dimension.

  I brought myself down a goodly distance outside of town. The bright lights were an unwelcome sight, but at least I was here. In a couple of hours I'd be in downtown Reno, surrounded by theft, graft, desperation, addiction, vice, and people prone to quick violence. Of course, that would only be after I had left the casinos behind and had effected an entry to the compound. Before that I'd just be dealing with the normal big city riffraff. Doubly so since gambling was such a big part of this city.

  Ah, the sweet smell
of some berk losing his kid's college fund because he bet on an inside straight. Was anything quite so satisfying, especially when muddled with the reek of half-burned diesel fuel and cheap, all-you-can-eat buffets?

  You know, besides the smell of an open meadow the day after a farmer spreads liquid manure all over it?

  The main crush of humanity was kept away from Guild compounds by anything from electrified fences and remote-targeted weaponry to human guards with dogs, depending on the city. Here in Reno they actually had some of the lower-ranking members patrolling outside the walls. While that gave a good illusion of security to the masses, it was a piss-poor solution. On the other hand, this place would probably survive anything short of a tactical nuclear device --- and some of the members would even walk away from that.

  A quick glance told me all I needed to know about sneaking in. The security holes were big enough to march an elephant through. It was like the place was built under the assumption that only a total idiot would try to get in unless he belonged there. Hell, the guard at the gate wasn't even bothering to check the membership cards the sign on the front of his shack said everyone was expected to present.

  Sloppy. Goddamn sloppy. It offended me. Even if it made my life that much easier, it offended me.

  Even if some of the most powerful supers in existence --- beings who could hold off entire conventional armies --- currently sat behind that gate eating their late suppers, they should have had some thought to security. Why, anyone could just wander in off the street.

  Someone did.

  I'd taken a new coat from a goodwill store to replace the one I'd been wearing. Even after flapping in the breeze for a few hours on the flight over it still smelled like The Rat had slept on it for a month. After a couple hot days working on a garbage scow. I decided it was done for and tossed it in the nearest garbage can. I didn't really need a coat, especially in Reno heat this time of year, but I'd been wearing one for so long to help disguise myself I felt naked without one. The cool factor of a trench coat had worn off about the time I'd graduated from school --- having to wear one in the rain at six different funerals for family members can have that effect. Cool or not, though, they were useful garments for a variety of reasons.