Part 8-3: Plotting and Planning
Ack
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Saturday, August 26, 1995
Chicago
Taylor
The diner was nicely appointed, with solid partitions between the booths. I hadn't been here before, but if the food was worthwhile, I figured I might come back. However, as I pushed on the door, I wasn't thinking about the food. Kinsey, as ordered, waited out near the car, ostensibly watching the road.
Ruth—Major Goldstein—was seated in the far end booth, where it would be almost impossible to eavesdrop on our conversation without either of us knowing. This was a good thing, because I didn't want this conversation going any farther than the Major. As it was, I wasn't quite sure what her reaction would be, because I was about to drop a bombshell in her lap.
The trouble was, I couldn't really see a palatable alternative.
"Hello, Taylor," she said as I slid into the seat opposite her. "How've you been?" She was in civilian wear, as was I. I had to admit, she could carry off the look better than me.
"Pretty good, recently," I said, and reached into my bag. A hand mirror, cupped in my palm, let me survey the underside of the table. There was nothing attached to the wood that didn't look like it belonged. "Danny and Annette had a kid back in June. A son. Five pounds, three ounces. They're calling him Tyler. I wasn't able to stick around for the christening, but I'm the unofficial godmother."
"A son?" She blinked. Ruth Goldstein knew enough of my history that the significance of the date and the name were clear to her. "I … understand."
I gave her a smile as I put the mirror away. "Cute little tyke. Can't wait to see what he grows up like. How are your folks?"
"Fit and healthy, the last I heard," she allowed, her raised eyebrows the only sign that she'd seen my surreptitious examination. "They both enjoyed meeting you and Sergeant Kinsey very much. You know you're welcome to visit, any chance you get."
"If I'm ever back in Seattle, I'll make a point of it," I promised, and I meant it. The Goldsteins were genuinely nice people, and so was Darlene Hobbs.
A waitress approached our booth. "Good afternoon," she said brightly. "Would you ladies like menus, or are you okay to order now?"
It would be a good idea to order something, or we'd draw notice. I scanned the menu written on the chalkboard above the counter. "I'll have a pot of tea and a slice of your pecan pie, thanks."
Ruth nodded. "And I'll have coffee, and a plate of your home-baked cookies. Thank you very much."
"Coming right up." The waitress hastened away.
Leaning back in my seat, I composed my features into 'nothing to see here' blandness. "So, how's things been with you?" I already knew, of course, but it was only polite to ask.
"I've been doing well," she said; her words and tone said one thing, but the curiosity in her eyes told another story altogether. It said a lot for her faith in me that she'd come up to Chicago on the strength of a simple request without asking for any real kind of details. Of course, now that she was here, I would totally have to give her some. "How has the redoubtable Lieutenant Piggot been faring?"
"Thriving, actually," I said truthfully. I didn't spend a lot of time socialising with Emily, mainly because I didn't want any suggestion of favouritism to be bandied about, but we crossed paths from time to time. "She's fitting in well. Kinsey says there's been no grumbling in the lower ranks about her."
Ruth chuckled. "Ahh, yes. The infamous E-4 mafia. You're lucky to have Sergeant Kinsey, you know. He must be a tremendous asset to you."
"I'd say oh, you have no idea, but you do have a good idea," I agreed. "I remember when you went head-to-head with him over you coming along on that thing in Seattle."
She nodded complacently. "I've had my unfair share of dealing with people who want to stop me from doing something I need to do."
"I just bet you have." Thanks to Lisa, I'd looked over a comprehensive dossier on Ruth Goldstein, neé Aster Anders, and I knew more about her than she did about herself. A little unfair, some might have called it; I personally held the view that every advantage is a fair advantage when you absolutely had to win.
Not that Ruth was the enemy; far from it. She was just as dedicated to the cause of saving the world from Scion as I was. (Well, originally I'd agreed to go back in time to save everyone from Behemoth. That was done and dusted, and now I faced the real end-of-level boss, as Regent would put it). But sometimes I had to manipulate even the people I saw as allies to get what I wanted.
Did I like it? Absolutely not. But my likes and dislikes hadn't factored into my important decisions for … well, for years now. If the answer to will it help save the world? was unequivocally 'yes' then the chances were that I'd go ahead and do it.
The waitress returned with a tray and a practised smile. With quick, efficient motions, she unloaded everything onto the table. "Here you go, ladies. Pecan pie and cookies fresh out of the oven, one pot of coffee, and one of tea, plus chilled milk. Holler if you need anything."
"Thank you," I said. "We'll do that."
With one last beaming smile—were rude customers so uncommon that she wasn't used to civility?—she hurried off again. Ruth began to open her mouth, but I made a shushing motion and took her plate of cookies. With my fingertips, I explored the bottom of that as well as the smaller plate holding the slice of pecan pie. Then I eyeballed the teacup, the coffee cup, the saucers and the actual pots. There were no intrusive electronic devices; not that I'd expected any, but I'd rather check for bugs and be wrong than not check for bugs and be wrong.
"Okay, now I'm officially intrigued," Ruth said quietly. "Checking the table is one thing; assuming that the crockery might be compromised is quite another. What's on your mind?"
"Two people," I said, keeping my voice equally low as I poured myself a cup of tea. It wouldn't help matters if someone had a laser-mic aimed at the window from anywhere along the street. All I could really do was rely on Lisa's assurance that nobody who knew about this meeting had any plans to do anything about it. "The first one is Jack Slash."
"I'm aware of his existence," Ruth allowed. "Are you going after him next?"
Not once did the tone of her voice suggest that such would be acutely perilous (which it would). I'd told her that I was there to take down Behemoth, and Behemoth was still immobile in the middle of Jakarta.
"I'm going to leave that until next year," I said. Pouring just a little milk in, I stirred my cup. "Gray Boy is a distinct problem, so I have to wait until he's out of the way."
"I remember something about that …" Ruth frowned. "Isn't it Glaistig Uaine who takes him down? Then gets herself admitted to the Birdcage?"
"Correct on both counts," I agreed. Cauldron, I knew, was actually behind the first event. The second would be all her idea. "But once he's gone, I've got a clear run at Jack Slash. Well, a mostly clear run. Screamer's still a stumbling block. Fortunately, one that can be solved with a bullet at the correct time and place. Gray Boy's just not that convenient."
"And are you going to 'solve' Jack Slash with a bullet as well?" Ruth raised an eyebrow. "You know, you could probably do that now, even with Gray Boy in the picture. Just do it from a great enough range and you'll be fine."
I shook my head, then took a sip of tea. "I hate it that I've let him go so far, and there's nothing I'd love more than to introduce his skull to a piece of high-velocity copper-jacketed lead. But I can't kill him, and I can't let anyone else kill him, either. What I need is to get him away from the Nine, alive and able to talk, and find a way to put him on ice for …" I frowned, calculating in my head. "… about nine years, give or take a couple of months. Then I can make alternate arrangements for the next six years after that."
Ruth fixed me with a stare, and took up a cookie. She ate it, still giving me that dead-level no-shit stare, then poured herself a coffee and added creamer. Finally, she took a sip of the coffee.
"I've got perfect memory," she said eventually.
"Yes," I said. "I know."
"I've just been over every significant interaction we've ever had, and never once have you mentioned the need to abduct the man who is possibly America's most detestable serial killer, and keep him alive for the next fifteen years? Why this, and why now?"
I took a deep breath. "Because originally I had intended to leave him run his path for the next ten years while I whittled away at the strongest members of his potential crew, so that by the time I confronted him, he wouldn't have strong enough backup to stop me. At that point, I wouldn't have need of your help. But it turns out my stomach isn't strong enough to green-light ten years of mass murder and other atrocities, so now I'm just going to wait until Gray Boy's out of the way. Which, like I said, will be next year."
"And what makes you think I've got the capability to just … 'put him on ice', as you so succinctly phrase it?" asked Ruth. "Yes, I'm a doctor, but …" She let her voice trail off. We both knew what she wasn't saying. Ice wasn't her thing. Molten steel and high-temperature plasma, certainly, but not ice.
I tilted my head slightly. "I was hoping you could ask Contessa for a favour."
She froze. I'd timed my words so she wouldn't spill coffee on herself, but her hand shook briefly as she put her cup down. I could see the concentric ripples on the surface of her drink.
"How, exactly, do you know that name?" she asked carefully.
"The same way I know a lot of other stuff," I said. I knew I wasn't being helpful, but I had to assume that Contessa could intuit any knowledge she possessed, so I was keeping the extraneous information to a minimum.
I was fully aware that the next time Contessa met with Ruth, the Cauldron enforcer would find out that I was aware of her shenanigans. How she'd react, I wasn't sure. Hopefully, ending the threat of the Endbringers had earned me some goodwill in that regard. The fact that since Eidolon's demise I'd had zero encounters with stylishly dressed strangers, with or without fedoras, seemed to indicate that Cauldron considered my ongoing progress to be a net positive. It would be nice if this continued to be the case.
Ruth frowned. "That makes no sense. You know a lot of things, but that's because you basically cheated." Which was kind of a harsh way to describe using my future knowledge to alter events in the here and now, but I couldn't argue with it. If you're losing, you aren't cheating hard enough. "But this isn't something …"
"No," I agreed. "It's not. I'm still cheating. And I'll continue to cheat. Can you accept the fact of my knowledge without me telling you how I know?" Because I respected Ruth Goldstein to the ends of the Earth and back again, but there were some things I didn't want getting out.
She let out an unhappy sigh. "I can accept that 'need to know' is a thing. I don't have to like it, but I can accept it. So, what about her? Wait." Her brow furrowed as she clearly recalled my wording. "A favour? How's she likely to be able to put him on ice?"
Well, that was interesting. I knew for a fact that Cauldron had any number of cells they could use to dump Case 53 prisoners into, no matter what powers they had. Ruth, apparently, didn't. Which suggested to me that Contessa had never told her about Cauldron.
I was going to have to play my cards close to the chest on this one. Telling Ruth about Cauldron could very well get her killed, and I didn't want that to happen. But maybe I didn't have to.
"That's not my place to say." I took a sip of my tea. "But the next time you see her, could you ask her if she's willing to put a troublesome parahuman away for ten years, no questions asked? If she says no, that's fine. I can think of other options. But if she says yes, it'll be a great help to me."
"I can ask her, certainly." Ruth sounded troubled, for which I couldn't exactly blame her. "What do I tell her when she asks me why?"
I affected an unconcerned shrug. "Tell her exactly what I said to you about needing to put Jack Slash away. But don't press her on the subject of whether or not she's able to, or how or why or where. She's got her secrets, too."
She gave me an irritated look. "You know, Taylor, you're really not making this easy for me. I know your whole thing is all about saving the world, but look around; it's been saved. Behemoth hasn't so much as twitched a finger in months, the stock market is up, people are actually stepping back and taking a breath. You won."
While I hadn't actually confided in her that I was the one behind Behemoth's defeat, I wasn't overly surprised that she'd made the deduction (or maybe just assumption) herself. I was literally the person who'd been sent back in time to do that exact thing. Of course, she was almost certainly unaware of ninety-nine percent of what had gone on behind the scenes to make it happen, but she was still personally certain I was ultimately responsible. Because, as it just so happened, I was.
"That battle's done," I said. "The war isn't over yet." I was being oblique again, and I knew it.
She frowned. "What do you mean? Do you think the others will still be showing up? I thought you'd managed to do something to stop them for good."
If by 'do something' she meant 'kill Eidolon' she was spot on the money, but this conversation was going in directions I hadn't wanted it to.
"They weren't the only threat," I said, trying to keep things as minimal as possible. "When I first came back, I thought they were. Then I learned differently. There's something else I've got to beat. In order to do this, I need Jack Slash alive and well in sixteen years' time. I would also much rather he didn't kill anyone during that interval. You see my dilemma."
"Wait, another threat?" Ruth kept her voice down, but the intensity in her tone could've etched glass. "When, exactly, were you going to fill me in on this?"
I met her eyes and matched her, tone for tone. "When and if it became necessary to do so. This is not a bear I want anyone poking, if I can possibly manage it."
"What's more powerful than—" She paused, her eyes widening, and I knew she'd figured it out. "No."
I gritted my teeth. "Ruth—"
"No," she said again, and shook her head. "You can't be serious. Sci—"
"Do. Not. Say. The. Name." I put every ounce of command voice I had into those five words. "Don't even think it, if you can possibly avoid doing so. Our only chance of survival involves not getting his attention until all my pieces are in place, plus backup plans."
She stared at me. "You've got a plan to …" Getting ahold of herself, she cut off her own words. "What am I saying? You're Taylor Snow. Of course you've got a plan."
"Something that can pass for one in poor light, at least," I admitted. "But like I said, it's going to take about sixteen years to carry out, and Jack Slash is required to be alive and well at the far end of it."
Her gaze was intense. "Does she know?"
It only took me a couple of seconds of thought to figure out which 'she' Ruth meant. "About the threat, yes. About my plans, no."
Her knuckles whitened around the handle of the coffee cup. I hoped the tension wouldn't overcome her natural self-control; the last thing we needed was to draw attention by breaking stuff. "So … what do I tell her if she asks about this meeting?"
I knew damn well that Contessa would be able to learn everything Ruth knew without asking, but I didn't want to endanger Ruth by telling her that. "Everything. We're on the same side, in the end. She wants to save the world; I want to save the world." I just had a better idea of how to do it, and I didn't have Path to Victory nudging me toward conflict with every suggestion I followed.
"And what if she can't or won't help with … with imprisoning Jack Slash?" She sounded like she couldn't really believe she was saying his name like that.
I shrugged. "I have other options. She's just the best one."
"Hmm." She tilted her head. "Maybe you should … I don't know … join forces? Team up? I mean, you have your thing going, and she has hers going, and if you're both working toward the same goal, why don't you combine your efforts?"
"No." I took a sip of my tea. "Several reasons, some of which I'm not going to share with you. The major one is that there would be a clash as to who was in charge. This would get in the way of efficiency."
"And if you chose to … well, swallow your pride, and let her be in charge?" She let go the coffee cup and spread her hands. "Would it kill you to let someone else actually give the orders for once? God knows you've never gotten into that habit yet."
I gave her a level stare, over the top of my glasses. "I reiterate. This would get in the way of efficiency."
She frowned slightly. "I don't know. She seems pretty efficient to me."
"There's short-term efficiency and long-term efficiency." I took up my spoon and cut into my slice of pecan pie. "I know what I'm doing, for the most part. I've done the math. The probabilities are on my side. She's throwing stuff at the wall to see what works. I already know what won't. All I have to figure out now is what's got the best chance of working, and how to apply it most effectively."
"And you'll know it when you see it?" I could tell she was trying to sound hopeful. "Do you have any options at all, right now?"
"Three, at the moment," I told her. "More may arise. The shortest time to implementation is sixteen years; that's the Jack Slash one. Fortunately, neutralising Behemoth pushed our time-scale all the way out. With him and the others pushing matters, we had about fifty years before the inevitable collapse of civilisation as we knew it. Now, we've got about three centuries." I put the piece of pie in my mouth and sat back. It was actually quite nice.
She stared at me. "So, it's going to be just like that?"
I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I waited until I had finished the piece of pie before I spoke. "Just like what, exactly?"
Her tone was more than a little exasperated. "When you asked me to come and meet you, I wasn't sure why. I thought perhaps you were going to inform me of what we both already knew; that the threat of Behemoth was done with, and that we could afford to relax and live our best lives. But instead, you unload an entirely new threat on me. I believe I could possibly have faced off against Leviathan, but I have no chance against him."
"Nobody does," I said quietly. "Even Eidolon, on his best day, had a weak point. This isn't a battle scenario. This is a preparation scenario. Of course, along the way, I'll be removing the odd threat from society, so by the time we do get around to being able to doing something about him, there'll be fewer problems all round." I gave her a tight smile. "And that's where you'll be coming in, if and when you're able to help out. High-temperature jets of molten steel make so many problems just … go away."
Ruth sighed. "That's basically what she said. My life would be so much simpler if you two could learn to work together."
I raised an eyebrow. "Can you see her following my orders without creatively reinterpreting them? Honestly?"
"Much like you'd do with her?" Ruth considered that for a moment, then shook her head. "No. I really can't. You two are scarily alike."
"I'm nothing like—" I tamped down the hot anger that rose in my chest. "I'm nothing like her. Any similarities are cosmetic at best."
"If you say so." It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "I had to play hardball to make sure she backed away from any suggestion of doing something stupid like abducting you, you know."
I was aware of the incident; Lisa, hugely amused, had related the entire conversation to me. But Contessa didn't need to know about Lisa, and so neither did Ruth. "That was nice of you. I appreciate it."
She snorted indelicately. "I did it as much for her protection as yours. While I think there would be an immense benefit to the two of you working together, having you go head-to-head … it would not go well, for anyone."
"It certainly would not," I agreed. My best bet, if confronted with a Contessa who was determined to enforce her will on mine, would be to go into a self-hypnotic state and hope Lisa could jam her ability long enough for me to disable her. I couldn't guarantee it working, and I really didn't want to find out the hard way that it wouldn't. "So, you'll ask her?"
"I will," she agreed. "I can't guarantee a positive answer, or even any answer straight away. Right now, I suspect she doesn't know you're aware of her existence. I certainly didn't know you were, though in hindsight it makes sense, considering she was around then, too."
"She was," I confirmed, without actually making it clear whether or not I'd met the woman then. I hadn't, but there had been some close encounters.
"I thought so." Ruth nodded, as if I'd said more. "So, uh, just to be clear, I think she'll be happier if I can tell her straight-out that you're not planning to instigate the deaths of any more members of the Protectorate."
"Not planning on it, no." I stole one of her cookies. "If they look like getting in my way, I'll try to give adequate warning."
"I'd appreciate that." She held the coffee cup between her palms and looked down pensively into its depths. "As I recall, it was Hero who died originally, to make the first Triumvirate. Is he still …?"
"No," I told her firmly. "I know exactly how and where to stop that from happening. That's one of the things that's on my to-do list to prevent."
"Oh," she said, looking a little taken aback. "Good."
I grinned at her. "What, did you think I was going to say no?"
"Quite possibly, yes," she confessed. "With how serious this discussion had become, I half-expected you to explain that his death was necessary for a certain thing to happen in the future."
"Hah, no." I shook my head. "As the saying goes, sometimes shit just happens because it feels like happening. In this case, it's gonna un-happen."
She smiled. "Well, that is good to hear."
"I thought so, too." I checked my watch. "I think it's time for me to start back to base. Thanks for the talk."
She rose, as did I. "Thank you for being so candid. I'll pass on your request."
"Much appreciated." I waved at the table. "I've got this." Pulling out my wallet, I wedged enough notes under the pie plate to cover the bill plus a substantial tip.
Ruth preceded me out of the diner, giving Kinsey a measured nod on the way past. He returned the gesture as I joined him. Together, we watched her as she headed off down the sidewalk.
"So, how did it go, ma'am?" he asked as we got into the car.
"Very well indeed, Kinsey." I smiled as I strapped myself in. "It's always nice to see Major Goldstein again."
The message had been sent. Now, all I had to do was await the answer.
Sunday, September 17, 1995
Cauldron Base
Contessa
"Wait, I was going to die?" Hero sounded uncertain of himself. "Why am I only hearing about this now?"
Contessa rolled her eyes. "Because I had other priorities than to ask her for a day-by-day detailing of a possibly inaccurate future history. Congratulations; you're no longer going to be torn in half by a naked tiger-striped monochrome woman."
"And I was going to lose my eye." If anything, Alexandria seemed even more disturbed by this knowledge. "Just how powerful was … is … will be … this 'Siberian'? Other capes have gone after my eyes before, thinking they were weak points. They're really not."
"Remember, Metal Storm was just an infant, back then," Contessa said. "Her memory of events is patchy, because she only knows what she saw on the news. But she recalls the Siberian as being unstoppable in a very definitive way. The woman had a truly horrific body count and was impervious to basically everything."
"So how was she stopped? How was she killed?" Legend spread his hands. "How does Captain Snow, an unpowered PRT officer, intend to stop her?"
"I don't know," said Contessa simply. "Because Metal Storm doesn't know. She just said that if Taylor Snow promised it wasn't going to happen, we could take that to the bank."
Doctor Mother glowered. "The more I hear about this woman, the more I want her sequestered away in a quiet room, where I can get access to every last secret she's keeping from us. If it could help us stop Scion—"
"She's already working on that," Contessa interrupted her. "She knows about Scion, and she knows about me. I got the strong inference that she knows about Cauldron, but she did not reveal that information to Metal Storm."
Absolute dead silence fell across the room, while everyone stared at her. If dust particles had been allowed to fall, the minuscule impacts would have been audible.
Alexandria broke the deadlock with a yell that echoed off all four walls of the cavernous meeting room. "You could have led with that!"
"There were several things I could have led with," Contessa replied calmly. "I considered the news that we would not be losing yet another member to be a little more significant. Also, I wanted to get the subsequent discussion out of the way before opening the subject of Scion. According to Metal Storm, Snow has a tentative plan in mind, with a couple of alternate possibilities in case the first one fails."
"Well, given the good Captain's track record to date," remarked Legend, "I'd be willing to back a tentative plan from her over anything we've come up with so far."
"So, what do these plans consist of?" asked Hero. "Because I'll happily assist with anything that's got more than 'throw capes at him and hope' as a tagline."
"Again, she was frustratingly vague," Contessa confessed. She'd already decided not to share the discussion regarding how well she and Captain Snow would be likely to work together. If both Ruth Goldstein and Snow herself felt that way, then it was probably a done deal. "But she did pass on a request in relation to the initial plan, which was apparently the reason for the entire meeting. Snow intends to capture Jack Slash sometime next year, and she wants us to hold him incommunicado for the next nine years, then return him to her, alive and well."
"Next year …" Legend rubbed his thumbnail across his lips. "Right about when we're planning to have Glaistig Uaine remove Gray Boy from the playing field, perhaps?"
"It would seem so, yes," Contessa agreed. She'd already made that connection, and assumed that Captain Snow was aware of the machinations she had in motion to kill the problematic cape.
It occurred to her a moment later that in the normal run of things, they would have removed one devastatingly dangerous monochrome cape from the roster of the Nine, only to have him replaced with an even more lethal one. In this particular case, she was happy to leave the pattern broken.
"What I want to know," Hero commented, "is how does Jack Slash fit into all this? He's basically one step above a common street thug. Now I grant you, his ability to keep that bunch of murderous misfits all marching to the beat of his drum is impressive, but some people just have that sort of charisma. However, the ability to cut someone's throat from across the street is not going to help with Scion, not even a little bit."
Contessa frowned. "Metal Storm said that Captain Snow would be able to take him back about nine years after she handed him over; there was a mention of 'alternate arrangements' for the next six years, presumably until the rest of her preparations were complete. Then, apparently, she'll be doing whatever she intends to do, and … the Scion problem goes away."
"How are matters going to change in sixteen years?" asked Legend blankly.
"A new cape," Alexandria decided. "It has to be."
"Two new capes," Hero corrected her, holding up that number of fingers. "One at the ten-year mark, and one at the sixteen-year mark."
"And Snow intends to leverage that into somehow killing or disabling Scion?" Legend shook his head. "I don't buy it. Right here in this room, we're four of the most powerful capes in existence, and I doubt we could put him down for good."
"From what I've been able to guess at his capabilities," Contessa advised him, "we really could not."
"So, how's she going to do it with three?" wondered Hero. "Especially with Jack Slash involved. I'm willing to bet that if we offered the man a million dollars to kill Scion—and he was capable of doing so—he'd make the fight look great, but throw it at the last moment, just to see the looks on our faces. He's that kind of vindictive asshole. Even if Snow brings in these other capes."
"Alright then, enough discussion." Legend looked around the table at the others. "Show of hands; who's willing to accede to Captain Snow's request? At least for the moment?"
Contessa put her hand up at once. Doctor Mother, her face set in a grim scowl, kept her hands flat on the table. "This is a bad idea," she stated flatly. "Letting an outsider dictate terms to us. It sets a terrible precedent."
Slowly, Alexandria put her hand up. "I think maybe we should take this chance."
"What?" Doctor Mother stared at her. "You yourself told me that you couldn't read her, no matter how hard you tried! How can we trust someone like that?"
"She stopped Behemoth," Contessa said. "It's what she set out to do, and she did it."
Hero looked undecided. "And she killed Eidolon in the process."
Contessa shook her head. "No, Eidolon killed himself, once he figured out what she was trying to tell him—without, mind you, alerting anyone else in the room. And she was right. Once he died, Behemoth stopped."
"She killed him!" shouted Doctor Mother. "What part of that are you not understanding?"
"How many people would Behemoth have killed since, if we didn't come up with some other way of stopping him?" retorted Alexandria. "We weren't exactly covering ourselves with glory on that front, were we? Also, I'm pretty sure that she's balanced the scales by arranging matters to save Hero's life. He would have died, yes?"
"That's what Metal Storm remembers," Contessa confirmed. "You became known as the Triumvirate then, too."
Hero nodded. "Yeah, okay, good point. I'm in." He raised his hand.
Legend nodded. "And that makes three votes for, one against, and I'm abstaining. Motion is carried."
"This is a mistake," insisted Doctor Mother. "You're all making a mistake."
"If it's a mistake, then we'll correct it," Alexandria told her. "But I've done something you haven't."
"What's that?" asked Doctor Mother incautiously.
Alexandria smiled briefly. "I've looked into her eyes, and I've taken her measure. I'm inclined to go along with what Contessa says. We carry on with our own plans, but we assist Taylor Snow with hers when convenient. And as Metal Storm says, we don't get in her way."
"Especially when it comes to saving my own sorry ass," Hero quipped.
Contessa chuckled along with Legend and Alexandria, but she was already thinking of the next step in the Path.
Friday, November 24, 1995
A Café in Springfield, Illinois
Robert Gordon
It's just not fair.
A brisk wind blew down the sidewalk outside, fluttering the last of the fallen autumn leaves from one place to another, but its chill was as nothing to the bleakness filling Rob's soul. He'd had a good career—a great career—doing what he loved, and he'd been better than anyone else there. People had looked up to him and respected him.
And then she had intruded into his rightful domain. Too young to really know what she was doing (certainly too young to be promoted to Captain), she'd somehow managed to fake it well enough to fool Hamilton, or perhaps the old man allowed himself to be fooled for the sake of a little feminine attention. Not that she was really good-looking; too tall and skinny to be really attractive. Rob had only turned his interest in her direction out of pity. Show her a good time, improve her self-image, that sort of thing. But she'd ignored his every hint, and somehow fluked her way to a win with every bet he made that was aimed to get her into bed.
Worse, she'd turned on him. Even when he thought he was rid of her, she'd somehow intuited the existence of his stash of harmless contraband, and had him punished because of it. And then, when she returned from exile, she and that damned sergeant had murdered both Christine and Elijah, in cold blood, right in front of him. And then he'd been the one court-martialled and booted out of the PRT. And because of the trumped-up accusations of being Mastered, he was banned from serving his country!
He'd walked away from the PRT, vowing and declaring that he didn't need them. Robert Gordon was a winner, a survivor. He could make his own way, so long as that way led to a path where he could finally see justice done for the persecution he'd suffered.
He hadn't anticipated much trouble in getting a job that would let him get back on his feet. After all, his skills in information analysis were up to the minute, and he was good with computers. Also, he had good people skills; better than Snow, any day of the week.
Unfortunately, that damned court-martial and the separation from the PRT now hung around his neck like a putrefying albatross, stinking up every job interview he attended. No matter how he attempted to draw attention to his years of service and his many positive fitness reviews, they insisted on asking why he'd been separated from the PRT. Even when he elided over that fact (after all, it wasn't really important, was it?) they somehow found out; after that, it was always the same. So sorry, but we can't really see fit to employ you at this time. Best of luck, and so on and so forth.
Rock bottom came when he accepted a job working in a fast-food restaurant. His manager was a spotty teen at least ten years his junior, who called him 'old guy' and didn't appreciate the fact that Rob had once been a Captain in the PRT. Worse, Rob's attention to detail allowed him to notice the numerous health code violations that the manager either didn't see or (more likely) didn't care about.
The numerous indignities mounted—washing dishes was bad, but scrubbing the restrooms was worse—and there was no end in sight. Rob's breaking point came when he was on the register and three teenage girls were spending forever deciding exactly what sides they wanted with their burgers. In a calm, concise, firm military tone, he requested that they decide on their orders. Now.
So, of course, they were friends with the manager, and they flocked to him to complain how the 'creepy old guy' had yelled at them. The manager had confronted him, backed by all the McAuthority his McManagement position afforded him. Not only was Rob supposed to apologise to the girls, the snotty little brat declared, but he was now expected to pay for their meals.
Rob decked the guy, took the shitty apron off and dropped it on top of him, and walked out.
That had been half an hour ago. His knuckles were still sore.
He sat in the café, cradling the cup of coffee he'd bought when he walked in. He had savings, but without regular income (or really, any income at all) they were gradually dwindling, even in the el-cheapo accommodations he was living in. The coffee wasn't really warm anymore, and the heating in the café wasn't so great, but he didn't notice. What kept him warm, or at least afforded him the illusion of warmth, was his seething anger at the system that had failed him, and most of all the person who had turned the system against him.
Taylor Snow.
He didn't know how he was going to avenge Christine and Elijah's deaths, or punish Snow for her myriad of lesser (but still significant) crimes, but it was going to happen. I just have to find a way.
He was so wrapped up in his revenge fantasies that he didn't notice for a moment when someone dropped into the seat opposite his. A plate of hot pastries, the enticing smell tickling his nostrils, ensured that this state did not last for long. It had been a long time since breakfast, and his stomach woke up and started paying attention.
Still, Rob hadn't been an intelligence officer for nothing. Nobody sat down at a stranger's table without wanting something from them. He lifted his gaze to the person opposite and said, "This table's taken."
The newcomer was a tall, skinny black man. He also held himself with a certain amount of authority. "I can go if you want," he said, his eyebrow lifting in amusement, "but I believe there's a person of interest we have in common."
Rob also knew about leading questions. His expression didn't change as he looked back at his interlocutor. "And who might that be? Also, more to the point, who might you be?"
Interlacing his fingers before him, the other guy gave Rob a look as if to say who are you trying to bullshit here, we both know who we're talking about. "I'm Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT Internal Affairs. Currently, I'm investigating Taylor Snow."
The last three words were what grabbed Rob's attention by the throat and refused to let it go. "Investigating her? What for?" Finally! he exulted. Someone's doing what needed to be done long ago!
Calvert cleared his throat. "Captain Taylor Snow is an enigma that I'm trying to unravel. Far too much about her doesn't add up, but you're the only person I've encountered who's actually interested in finding out what's going on with her." He gestured discreetly at their surroundings. "And see what happened when you got too close."
"The fix was in from the beginning," Rob spat. "I never had a chance. They wouldn't listen to a word I said."
"Trust me, I know what you're talking about." Calvert smiled, a warm and reassuring expression. "You were railroaded so hard I'm surprised they didn't fit you out with a steam whistle. To make sure that didn't happen to me, I've had to take a more discreet approach. Right now, I'm digging into her background to see what she's really about. But I can't stray too far from Chicago, so I need someone to do the legwork for me. Are you interested?"
Rob tried to keep his excitement in check. This sounded too good to be true, and every trained instinct he had told him that 'too good' meant just that. But … Snow. He leaned forward slightly in his chair. "I'm listening."
Calvert
Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT (but not Internal Affairs, for all that he was carrying ID to say he was) took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and passed it across. "Here, look this over."
Gordon took it, but his expression drooped a little. "Uh … isn't it against regulations to hire me to work for the PRT?"
Tom chuckled. "Hire you? No such thing. Have you signed a contract? No, I'm talking about a gentleman's agreement. I give you access to an expense account, and you look up matters entirely on your own volition."
Pretending a supreme lack of concern, he sat back and ate a pastry as Gordon went through the contents of the envelope. Everything he knew about Taylor Snow was there, assuredly enough to give Gordon a head start on delving into her deeper secrets back in Brockton Bay. That she had secrets, he was certain. Even the most transparent of individuals had them, and she was more enigmatic than most.
What he sought was blackmail. Anything he could hold over Snow's head and make her dance to his tune would be worth his time and money. Her star was still rising, he could tell, and although she'd done her best to shrug him off before, Thomas Calvert was nothing if not persistent.
Still, he'd had no way to force a chink in her armour until the slow-motion self-destruction of Robert Gordon came to his attention. Tom had followed the case with interest, then kept tabs on him once he was separated from the PRT. Each time it looked like Gordon would land secure employment, Calvert had quietly contacted them with the real details of why the man was no longer with the PRT. The idea had been to keep him hungry and desperate, and (like many of Calvert's plans) it had worked beautifully.
The pièce de résistance had been when he'd slipped the fast-food restaurant manager a couple of hundred bucks, not to fire Gordon but to make his life unpleasant. He wasn't even sure it had been necessary; from what he'd heard, working fast-food retail was one step down from the nine levels of Hell. But Tom had always been a suspenders-and-belt type of person.
And now it had panned out. The moment Gordon accepted the envelope instead of turning it down—they both knew the line about not officially hiring him was a fig leaf at best—he'd been hooked. Tom could see it in his eyes. All Gordon had to do now was admit it to himself.
Finally, the ex-Intelligence officer closed the envelope and put it on the table in front of him. Tellingly, his hands stayed on top of it, as though preventing it from being taken away. He looked Tom in the eye.
"I'm in."
Thomas Calvert smiled, as though this had not been a sinecure from the beginning. "Good to hear it."
Chicago
Taylor
The diner was nicely appointed, with solid partitions between the booths. I hadn't been here before, but if the food was worthwhile, I figured I might come back. However, as I pushed on the door, I wasn't thinking about the food. Kinsey, as ordered, waited out near the car, ostensibly watching the road.
Ruth—Major Goldstein—was seated in the far end booth, where it would be almost impossible to eavesdrop on our conversation without either of us knowing. This was a good thing, because I didn't want this conversation going any farther than the Major. As it was, I wasn't quite sure what her reaction would be, because I was about to drop a bombshell in her lap.
The trouble was, I couldn't really see a palatable alternative.
"Hello, Taylor," she said as I slid into the seat opposite her. "How've you been?" She was in civilian wear, as was I. I had to admit, she could carry off the look better than me.
"Pretty good, recently," I said, and reached into my bag. A hand mirror, cupped in my palm, let me survey the underside of the table. There was nothing attached to the wood that didn't look like it belonged. "Danny and Annette had a kid back in June. A son. Five pounds, three ounces. They're calling him Tyler. I wasn't able to stick around for the christening, but I'm the unofficial godmother."
"A son?" She blinked. Ruth Goldstein knew enough of my history that the significance of the date and the name were clear to her. "I … understand."
I gave her a smile as I put the mirror away. "Cute little tyke. Can't wait to see what he grows up like. How are your folks?"
"Fit and healthy, the last I heard," she allowed, her raised eyebrows the only sign that she'd seen my surreptitious examination. "They both enjoyed meeting you and Sergeant Kinsey very much. You know you're welcome to visit, any chance you get."
"If I'm ever back in Seattle, I'll make a point of it," I promised, and I meant it. The Goldsteins were genuinely nice people, and so was Darlene Hobbs.
A waitress approached our booth. "Good afternoon," she said brightly. "Would you ladies like menus, or are you okay to order now?"
It would be a good idea to order something, or we'd draw notice. I scanned the menu written on the chalkboard above the counter. "I'll have a pot of tea and a slice of your pecan pie, thanks."
Ruth nodded. "And I'll have coffee, and a plate of your home-baked cookies. Thank you very much."
"Coming right up." The waitress hastened away.
Leaning back in my seat, I composed my features into 'nothing to see here' blandness. "So, how's things been with you?" I already knew, of course, but it was only polite to ask.
"I've been doing well," she said; her words and tone said one thing, but the curiosity in her eyes told another story altogether. It said a lot for her faith in me that she'd come up to Chicago on the strength of a simple request without asking for any real kind of details. Of course, now that she was here, I would totally have to give her some. "How has the redoubtable Lieutenant Piggot been faring?"
"Thriving, actually," I said truthfully. I didn't spend a lot of time socialising with Emily, mainly because I didn't want any suggestion of favouritism to be bandied about, but we crossed paths from time to time. "She's fitting in well. Kinsey says there's been no grumbling in the lower ranks about her."
Ruth chuckled. "Ahh, yes. The infamous E-4 mafia. You're lucky to have Sergeant Kinsey, you know. He must be a tremendous asset to you."
"I'd say oh, you have no idea, but you do have a good idea," I agreed. "I remember when you went head-to-head with him over you coming along on that thing in Seattle."
She nodded complacently. "I've had my unfair share of dealing with people who want to stop me from doing something I need to do."
"I just bet you have." Thanks to Lisa, I'd looked over a comprehensive dossier on Ruth Goldstein, neé Aster Anders, and I knew more about her than she did about herself. A little unfair, some might have called it; I personally held the view that every advantage is a fair advantage when you absolutely had to win.
Not that Ruth was the enemy; far from it. She was just as dedicated to the cause of saving the world from Scion as I was. (Well, originally I'd agreed to go back in time to save everyone from Behemoth. That was done and dusted, and now I faced the real end-of-level boss, as Regent would put it). But sometimes I had to manipulate even the people I saw as allies to get what I wanted.
Did I like it? Absolutely not. But my likes and dislikes hadn't factored into my important decisions for … well, for years now. If the answer to will it help save the world? was unequivocally 'yes' then the chances were that I'd go ahead and do it.
The waitress returned with a tray and a practised smile. With quick, efficient motions, she unloaded everything onto the table. "Here you go, ladies. Pecan pie and cookies fresh out of the oven, one pot of coffee, and one of tea, plus chilled milk. Holler if you need anything."
"Thank you," I said. "We'll do that."
With one last beaming smile—were rude customers so uncommon that she wasn't used to civility?—she hurried off again. Ruth began to open her mouth, but I made a shushing motion and took her plate of cookies. With my fingertips, I explored the bottom of that as well as the smaller plate holding the slice of pecan pie. Then I eyeballed the teacup, the coffee cup, the saucers and the actual pots. There were no intrusive electronic devices; not that I'd expected any, but I'd rather check for bugs and be wrong than not check for bugs and be wrong.
"Okay, now I'm officially intrigued," Ruth said quietly. "Checking the table is one thing; assuming that the crockery might be compromised is quite another. What's on your mind?"
"Two people," I said, keeping my voice equally low as I poured myself a cup of tea. It wouldn't help matters if someone had a laser-mic aimed at the window from anywhere along the street. All I could really do was rely on Lisa's assurance that nobody who knew about this meeting had any plans to do anything about it. "The first one is Jack Slash."
"I'm aware of his existence," Ruth allowed. "Are you going after him next?"
Not once did the tone of her voice suggest that such would be acutely perilous (which it would). I'd told her that I was there to take down Behemoth, and Behemoth was still immobile in the middle of Jakarta.
"I'm going to leave that until next year," I said. Pouring just a little milk in, I stirred my cup. "Gray Boy is a distinct problem, so I have to wait until he's out of the way."
"I remember something about that …" Ruth frowned. "Isn't it Glaistig Uaine who takes him down? Then gets herself admitted to the Birdcage?"
"Correct on both counts," I agreed. Cauldron, I knew, was actually behind the first event. The second would be all her idea. "But once he's gone, I've got a clear run at Jack Slash. Well, a mostly clear run. Screamer's still a stumbling block. Fortunately, one that can be solved with a bullet at the correct time and place. Gray Boy's just not that convenient."
"And are you going to 'solve' Jack Slash with a bullet as well?" Ruth raised an eyebrow. "You know, you could probably do that now, even with Gray Boy in the picture. Just do it from a great enough range and you'll be fine."
I shook my head, then took a sip of tea. "I hate it that I've let him go so far, and there's nothing I'd love more than to introduce his skull to a piece of high-velocity copper-jacketed lead. But I can't kill him, and I can't let anyone else kill him, either. What I need is to get him away from the Nine, alive and able to talk, and find a way to put him on ice for …" I frowned, calculating in my head. "… about nine years, give or take a couple of months. Then I can make alternate arrangements for the next six years after that."
Ruth fixed me with a stare, and took up a cookie. She ate it, still giving me that dead-level no-shit stare, then poured herself a coffee and added creamer. Finally, she took a sip of the coffee.
"I've got perfect memory," she said eventually.
"Yes," I said. "I know."
"I've just been over every significant interaction we've ever had, and never once have you mentioned the need to abduct the man who is possibly America's most detestable serial killer, and keep him alive for the next fifteen years? Why this, and why now?"
I took a deep breath. "Because originally I had intended to leave him run his path for the next ten years while I whittled away at the strongest members of his potential crew, so that by the time I confronted him, he wouldn't have strong enough backup to stop me. At that point, I wouldn't have need of your help. But it turns out my stomach isn't strong enough to green-light ten years of mass murder and other atrocities, so now I'm just going to wait until Gray Boy's out of the way. Which, like I said, will be next year."
"And what makes you think I've got the capability to just … 'put him on ice', as you so succinctly phrase it?" asked Ruth. "Yes, I'm a doctor, but …" She let her voice trail off. We both knew what she wasn't saying. Ice wasn't her thing. Molten steel and high-temperature plasma, certainly, but not ice.
I tilted my head slightly. "I was hoping you could ask Contessa for a favour."
She froze. I'd timed my words so she wouldn't spill coffee on herself, but her hand shook briefly as she put her cup down. I could see the concentric ripples on the surface of her drink.
"How, exactly, do you know that name?" she asked carefully.
"The same way I know a lot of other stuff," I said. I knew I wasn't being helpful, but I had to assume that Contessa could intuit any knowledge she possessed, so I was keeping the extraneous information to a minimum.
I was fully aware that the next time Contessa met with Ruth, the Cauldron enforcer would find out that I was aware of her shenanigans. How she'd react, I wasn't sure. Hopefully, ending the threat of the Endbringers had earned me some goodwill in that regard. The fact that since Eidolon's demise I'd had zero encounters with stylishly dressed strangers, with or without fedoras, seemed to indicate that Cauldron considered my ongoing progress to be a net positive. It would be nice if this continued to be the case.
Ruth frowned. "That makes no sense. You know a lot of things, but that's because you basically cheated." Which was kind of a harsh way to describe using my future knowledge to alter events in the here and now, but I couldn't argue with it. If you're losing, you aren't cheating hard enough. "But this isn't something …"
"No," I agreed. "It's not. I'm still cheating. And I'll continue to cheat. Can you accept the fact of my knowledge without me telling you how I know?" Because I respected Ruth Goldstein to the ends of the Earth and back again, but there were some things I didn't want getting out.
She let out an unhappy sigh. "I can accept that 'need to know' is a thing. I don't have to like it, but I can accept it. So, what about her? Wait." Her brow furrowed as she clearly recalled my wording. "A favour? How's she likely to be able to put him on ice?"
Well, that was interesting. I knew for a fact that Cauldron had any number of cells they could use to dump Case 53 prisoners into, no matter what powers they had. Ruth, apparently, didn't. Which suggested to me that Contessa had never told her about Cauldron.
I was going to have to play my cards close to the chest on this one. Telling Ruth about Cauldron could very well get her killed, and I didn't want that to happen. But maybe I didn't have to.
"That's not my place to say." I took a sip of my tea. "But the next time you see her, could you ask her if she's willing to put a troublesome parahuman away for ten years, no questions asked? If she says no, that's fine. I can think of other options. But if she says yes, it'll be a great help to me."
"I can ask her, certainly." Ruth sounded troubled, for which I couldn't exactly blame her. "What do I tell her when she asks me why?"
I affected an unconcerned shrug. "Tell her exactly what I said to you about needing to put Jack Slash away. But don't press her on the subject of whether or not she's able to, or how or why or where. She's got her secrets, too."
She gave me an irritated look. "You know, Taylor, you're really not making this easy for me. I know your whole thing is all about saving the world, but look around; it's been saved. Behemoth hasn't so much as twitched a finger in months, the stock market is up, people are actually stepping back and taking a breath. You won."
While I hadn't actually confided in her that I was the one behind Behemoth's defeat, I wasn't overly surprised that she'd made the deduction (or maybe just assumption) herself. I was literally the person who'd been sent back in time to do that exact thing. Of course, she was almost certainly unaware of ninety-nine percent of what had gone on behind the scenes to make it happen, but she was still personally certain I was ultimately responsible. Because, as it just so happened, I was.
"That battle's done," I said. "The war isn't over yet." I was being oblique again, and I knew it.
She frowned. "What do you mean? Do you think the others will still be showing up? I thought you'd managed to do something to stop them for good."
If by 'do something' she meant 'kill Eidolon' she was spot on the money, but this conversation was going in directions I hadn't wanted it to.
"They weren't the only threat," I said, trying to keep things as minimal as possible. "When I first came back, I thought they were. Then I learned differently. There's something else I've got to beat. In order to do this, I need Jack Slash alive and well in sixteen years' time. I would also much rather he didn't kill anyone during that interval. You see my dilemma."
"Wait, another threat?" Ruth kept her voice down, but the intensity in her tone could've etched glass. "When, exactly, were you going to fill me in on this?"
I met her eyes and matched her, tone for tone. "When and if it became necessary to do so. This is not a bear I want anyone poking, if I can possibly manage it."
"What's more powerful than—" She paused, her eyes widening, and I knew she'd figured it out. "No."
I gritted my teeth. "Ruth—"
"No," she said again, and shook her head. "You can't be serious. Sci—"
"Do. Not. Say. The. Name." I put every ounce of command voice I had into those five words. "Don't even think it, if you can possibly avoid doing so. Our only chance of survival involves not getting his attention until all my pieces are in place, plus backup plans."
She stared at me. "You've got a plan to …" Getting ahold of herself, she cut off her own words. "What am I saying? You're Taylor Snow. Of course you've got a plan."
"Something that can pass for one in poor light, at least," I admitted. "But like I said, it's going to take about sixteen years to carry out, and Jack Slash is required to be alive and well at the far end of it."
Her gaze was intense. "Does she know?"
It only took me a couple of seconds of thought to figure out which 'she' Ruth meant. "About the threat, yes. About my plans, no."
Her knuckles whitened around the handle of the coffee cup. I hoped the tension wouldn't overcome her natural self-control; the last thing we needed was to draw attention by breaking stuff. "So … what do I tell her if she asks about this meeting?"
I knew damn well that Contessa would be able to learn everything Ruth knew without asking, but I didn't want to endanger Ruth by telling her that. "Everything. We're on the same side, in the end. She wants to save the world; I want to save the world." I just had a better idea of how to do it, and I didn't have Path to Victory nudging me toward conflict with every suggestion I followed.
"And what if she can't or won't help with … with imprisoning Jack Slash?" She sounded like she couldn't really believe she was saying his name like that.
I shrugged. "I have other options. She's just the best one."
"Hmm." She tilted her head. "Maybe you should … I don't know … join forces? Team up? I mean, you have your thing going, and she has hers going, and if you're both working toward the same goal, why don't you combine your efforts?"
"No." I took a sip of my tea. "Several reasons, some of which I'm not going to share with you. The major one is that there would be a clash as to who was in charge. This would get in the way of efficiency."
"And if you chose to … well, swallow your pride, and let her be in charge?" She let go the coffee cup and spread her hands. "Would it kill you to let someone else actually give the orders for once? God knows you've never gotten into that habit yet."
I gave her a level stare, over the top of my glasses. "I reiterate. This would get in the way of efficiency."
She frowned slightly. "I don't know. She seems pretty efficient to me."
"There's short-term efficiency and long-term efficiency." I took up my spoon and cut into my slice of pecan pie. "I know what I'm doing, for the most part. I've done the math. The probabilities are on my side. She's throwing stuff at the wall to see what works. I already know what won't. All I have to figure out now is what's got the best chance of working, and how to apply it most effectively."
"And you'll know it when you see it?" I could tell she was trying to sound hopeful. "Do you have any options at all, right now?"
"Three, at the moment," I told her. "More may arise. The shortest time to implementation is sixteen years; that's the Jack Slash one. Fortunately, neutralising Behemoth pushed our time-scale all the way out. With him and the others pushing matters, we had about fifty years before the inevitable collapse of civilisation as we knew it. Now, we've got about three centuries." I put the piece of pie in my mouth and sat back. It was actually quite nice.
She stared at me. "So, it's going to be just like that?"
I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I waited until I had finished the piece of pie before I spoke. "Just like what, exactly?"
Her tone was more than a little exasperated. "When you asked me to come and meet you, I wasn't sure why. I thought perhaps you were going to inform me of what we both already knew; that the threat of Behemoth was done with, and that we could afford to relax and live our best lives. But instead, you unload an entirely new threat on me. I believe I could possibly have faced off against Leviathan, but I have no chance against him."
"Nobody does," I said quietly. "Even Eidolon, on his best day, had a weak point. This isn't a battle scenario. This is a preparation scenario. Of course, along the way, I'll be removing the odd threat from society, so by the time we do get around to being able to doing something about him, there'll be fewer problems all round." I gave her a tight smile. "And that's where you'll be coming in, if and when you're able to help out. High-temperature jets of molten steel make so many problems just … go away."
Ruth sighed. "That's basically what she said. My life would be so much simpler if you two could learn to work together."
I raised an eyebrow. "Can you see her following my orders without creatively reinterpreting them? Honestly?"
"Much like you'd do with her?" Ruth considered that for a moment, then shook her head. "No. I really can't. You two are scarily alike."
"I'm nothing like—" I tamped down the hot anger that rose in my chest. "I'm nothing like her. Any similarities are cosmetic at best."
"If you say so." It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "I had to play hardball to make sure she backed away from any suggestion of doing something stupid like abducting you, you know."
I was aware of the incident; Lisa, hugely amused, had related the entire conversation to me. But Contessa didn't need to know about Lisa, and so neither did Ruth. "That was nice of you. I appreciate it."
She snorted indelicately. "I did it as much for her protection as yours. While I think there would be an immense benefit to the two of you working together, having you go head-to-head … it would not go well, for anyone."
"It certainly would not," I agreed. My best bet, if confronted with a Contessa who was determined to enforce her will on mine, would be to go into a self-hypnotic state and hope Lisa could jam her ability long enough for me to disable her. I couldn't guarantee it working, and I really didn't want to find out the hard way that it wouldn't. "So, you'll ask her?"
"I will," she agreed. "I can't guarantee a positive answer, or even any answer straight away. Right now, I suspect she doesn't know you're aware of her existence. I certainly didn't know you were, though in hindsight it makes sense, considering she was around then, too."
"She was," I confirmed, without actually making it clear whether or not I'd met the woman then. I hadn't, but there had been some close encounters.
"I thought so." Ruth nodded, as if I'd said more. "So, uh, just to be clear, I think she'll be happier if I can tell her straight-out that you're not planning to instigate the deaths of any more members of the Protectorate."
"Not planning on it, no." I stole one of her cookies. "If they look like getting in my way, I'll try to give adequate warning."
"I'd appreciate that." She held the coffee cup between her palms and looked down pensively into its depths. "As I recall, it was Hero who died originally, to make the first Triumvirate. Is he still …?"
"No," I told her firmly. "I know exactly how and where to stop that from happening. That's one of the things that's on my to-do list to prevent."
"Oh," she said, looking a little taken aback. "Good."
I grinned at her. "What, did you think I was going to say no?"
"Quite possibly, yes," she confessed. "With how serious this discussion had become, I half-expected you to explain that his death was necessary for a certain thing to happen in the future."
"Hah, no." I shook my head. "As the saying goes, sometimes shit just happens because it feels like happening. In this case, it's gonna un-happen."
She smiled. "Well, that is good to hear."
"I thought so, too." I checked my watch. "I think it's time for me to start back to base. Thanks for the talk."
She rose, as did I. "Thank you for being so candid. I'll pass on your request."
"Much appreciated." I waved at the table. "I've got this." Pulling out my wallet, I wedged enough notes under the pie plate to cover the bill plus a substantial tip.
Ruth preceded me out of the diner, giving Kinsey a measured nod on the way past. He returned the gesture as I joined him. Together, we watched her as she headed off down the sidewalk.
"So, how did it go, ma'am?" he asked as we got into the car.
"Very well indeed, Kinsey." I smiled as I strapped myself in. "It's always nice to see Major Goldstein again."
The message had been sent. Now, all I had to do was await the answer.
-ooo-
Sunday, September 17, 1995
Cauldron Base
Contessa
"Wait, I was going to die?" Hero sounded uncertain of himself. "Why am I only hearing about this now?"
Contessa rolled her eyes. "Because I had other priorities than to ask her for a day-by-day detailing of a possibly inaccurate future history. Congratulations; you're no longer going to be torn in half by a naked tiger-striped monochrome woman."
"And I was going to lose my eye." If anything, Alexandria seemed even more disturbed by this knowledge. "Just how powerful was … is … will be … this 'Siberian'? Other capes have gone after my eyes before, thinking they were weak points. They're really not."
"Remember, Metal Storm was just an infant, back then," Contessa said. "Her memory of events is patchy, because she only knows what she saw on the news. But she recalls the Siberian as being unstoppable in a very definitive way. The woman had a truly horrific body count and was impervious to basically everything."
"So how was she stopped? How was she killed?" Legend spread his hands. "How does Captain Snow, an unpowered PRT officer, intend to stop her?"
"I don't know," said Contessa simply. "Because Metal Storm doesn't know. She just said that if Taylor Snow promised it wasn't going to happen, we could take that to the bank."
Doctor Mother glowered. "The more I hear about this woman, the more I want her sequestered away in a quiet room, where I can get access to every last secret she's keeping from us. If it could help us stop Scion—"
"She's already working on that," Contessa interrupted her. "She knows about Scion, and she knows about me. I got the strong inference that she knows about Cauldron, but she did not reveal that information to Metal Storm."
Absolute dead silence fell across the room, while everyone stared at her. If dust particles had been allowed to fall, the minuscule impacts would have been audible.
Alexandria broke the deadlock with a yell that echoed off all four walls of the cavernous meeting room. "You could have led with that!"
"There were several things I could have led with," Contessa replied calmly. "I considered the news that we would not be losing yet another member to be a little more significant. Also, I wanted to get the subsequent discussion out of the way before opening the subject of Scion. According to Metal Storm, Snow has a tentative plan in mind, with a couple of alternate possibilities in case the first one fails."
"Well, given the good Captain's track record to date," remarked Legend, "I'd be willing to back a tentative plan from her over anything we've come up with so far."
"So, what do these plans consist of?" asked Hero. "Because I'll happily assist with anything that's got more than 'throw capes at him and hope' as a tagline."
"Again, she was frustratingly vague," Contessa confessed. She'd already decided not to share the discussion regarding how well she and Captain Snow would be likely to work together. If both Ruth Goldstein and Snow herself felt that way, then it was probably a done deal. "But she did pass on a request in relation to the initial plan, which was apparently the reason for the entire meeting. Snow intends to capture Jack Slash sometime next year, and she wants us to hold him incommunicado for the next nine years, then return him to her, alive and well."
"Next year …" Legend rubbed his thumbnail across his lips. "Right about when we're planning to have Glaistig Uaine remove Gray Boy from the playing field, perhaps?"
"It would seem so, yes," Contessa agreed. She'd already made that connection, and assumed that Captain Snow was aware of the machinations she had in motion to kill the problematic cape.
It occurred to her a moment later that in the normal run of things, they would have removed one devastatingly dangerous monochrome cape from the roster of the Nine, only to have him replaced with an even more lethal one. In this particular case, she was happy to leave the pattern broken.
"What I want to know," Hero commented, "is how does Jack Slash fit into all this? He's basically one step above a common street thug. Now I grant you, his ability to keep that bunch of murderous misfits all marching to the beat of his drum is impressive, but some people just have that sort of charisma. However, the ability to cut someone's throat from across the street is not going to help with Scion, not even a little bit."
Contessa frowned. "Metal Storm said that Captain Snow would be able to take him back about nine years after she handed him over; there was a mention of 'alternate arrangements' for the next six years, presumably until the rest of her preparations were complete. Then, apparently, she'll be doing whatever she intends to do, and … the Scion problem goes away."
"How are matters going to change in sixteen years?" asked Legend blankly.
"A new cape," Alexandria decided. "It has to be."
"Two new capes," Hero corrected her, holding up that number of fingers. "One at the ten-year mark, and one at the sixteen-year mark."
"And Snow intends to leverage that into somehow killing or disabling Scion?" Legend shook his head. "I don't buy it. Right here in this room, we're four of the most powerful capes in existence, and I doubt we could put him down for good."
"From what I've been able to guess at his capabilities," Contessa advised him, "we really could not."
"So, how's she going to do it with three?" wondered Hero. "Especially with Jack Slash involved. I'm willing to bet that if we offered the man a million dollars to kill Scion—and he was capable of doing so—he'd make the fight look great, but throw it at the last moment, just to see the looks on our faces. He's that kind of vindictive asshole. Even if Snow brings in these other capes."
"Alright then, enough discussion." Legend looked around the table at the others. "Show of hands; who's willing to accede to Captain Snow's request? At least for the moment?"
Contessa put her hand up at once. Doctor Mother, her face set in a grim scowl, kept her hands flat on the table. "This is a bad idea," she stated flatly. "Letting an outsider dictate terms to us. It sets a terrible precedent."
Slowly, Alexandria put her hand up. "I think maybe we should take this chance."
"What?" Doctor Mother stared at her. "You yourself told me that you couldn't read her, no matter how hard you tried! How can we trust someone like that?"
"She stopped Behemoth," Contessa said. "It's what she set out to do, and she did it."
Hero looked undecided. "And she killed Eidolon in the process."
Contessa shook her head. "No, Eidolon killed himself, once he figured out what she was trying to tell him—without, mind you, alerting anyone else in the room. And she was right. Once he died, Behemoth stopped."
"She killed him!" shouted Doctor Mother. "What part of that are you not understanding?"
"How many people would Behemoth have killed since, if we didn't come up with some other way of stopping him?" retorted Alexandria. "We weren't exactly covering ourselves with glory on that front, were we? Also, I'm pretty sure that she's balanced the scales by arranging matters to save Hero's life. He would have died, yes?"
"That's what Metal Storm remembers," Contessa confirmed. "You became known as the Triumvirate then, too."
Hero nodded. "Yeah, okay, good point. I'm in." He raised his hand.
Legend nodded. "And that makes three votes for, one against, and I'm abstaining. Motion is carried."
"This is a mistake," insisted Doctor Mother. "You're all making a mistake."
"If it's a mistake, then we'll correct it," Alexandria told her. "But I've done something you haven't."
"What's that?" asked Doctor Mother incautiously.
Alexandria smiled briefly. "I've looked into her eyes, and I've taken her measure. I'm inclined to go along with what Contessa says. We carry on with our own plans, but we assist Taylor Snow with hers when convenient. And as Metal Storm says, we don't get in her way."
"Especially when it comes to saving my own sorry ass," Hero quipped.
Contessa chuckled along with Legend and Alexandria, but she was already thinking of the next step in the Path.
-ooo-
Friday, November 24, 1995
A Café in Springfield, Illinois
Robert Gordon
It's just not fair.
A brisk wind blew down the sidewalk outside, fluttering the last of the fallen autumn leaves from one place to another, but its chill was as nothing to the bleakness filling Rob's soul. He'd had a good career—a great career—doing what he loved, and he'd been better than anyone else there. People had looked up to him and respected him.
And then she had intruded into his rightful domain. Too young to really know what she was doing (certainly too young to be promoted to Captain), she'd somehow managed to fake it well enough to fool Hamilton, or perhaps the old man allowed himself to be fooled for the sake of a little feminine attention. Not that she was really good-looking; too tall and skinny to be really attractive. Rob had only turned his interest in her direction out of pity. Show her a good time, improve her self-image, that sort of thing. But she'd ignored his every hint, and somehow fluked her way to a win with every bet he made that was aimed to get her into bed.
Worse, she'd turned on him. Even when he thought he was rid of her, she'd somehow intuited the existence of his stash of harmless contraband, and had him punished because of it. And then, when she returned from exile, she and that damned sergeant had murdered both Christine and Elijah, in cold blood, right in front of him. And then he'd been the one court-martialled and booted out of the PRT. And because of the trumped-up accusations of being Mastered, he was banned from serving his country!
He'd walked away from the PRT, vowing and declaring that he didn't need them. Robert Gordon was a winner, a survivor. He could make his own way, so long as that way led to a path where he could finally see justice done for the persecution he'd suffered.
He hadn't anticipated much trouble in getting a job that would let him get back on his feet. After all, his skills in information analysis were up to the minute, and he was good with computers. Also, he had good people skills; better than Snow, any day of the week.
Unfortunately, that damned court-martial and the separation from the PRT now hung around his neck like a putrefying albatross, stinking up every job interview he attended. No matter how he attempted to draw attention to his years of service and his many positive fitness reviews, they insisted on asking why he'd been separated from the PRT. Even when he elided over that fact (after all, it wasn't really important, was it?) they somehow found out; after that, it was always the same. So sorry, but we can't really see fit to employ you at this time. Best of luck, and so on and so forth.
Rock bottom came when he accepted a job working in a fast-food restaurant. His manager was a spotty teen at least ten years his junior, who called him 'old guy' and didn't appreciate the fact that Rob had once been a Captain in the PRT. Worse, Rob's attention to detail allowed him to notice the numerous health code violations that the manager either didn't see or (more likely) didn't care about.
The numerous indignities mounted—washing dishes was bad, but scrubbing the restrooms was worse—and there was no end in sight. Rob's breaking point came when he was on the register and three teenage girls were spending forever deciding exactly what sides they wanted with their burgers. In a calm, concise, firm military tone, he requested that they decide on their orders. Now.
So, of course, they were friends with the manager, and they flocked to him to complain how the 'creepy old guy' had yelled at them. The manager had confronted him, backed by all the McAuthority his McManagement position afforded him. Not only was Rob supposed to apologise to the girls, the snotty little brat declared, but he was now expected to pay for their meals.
Rob decked the guy, took the shitty apron off and dropped it on top of him, and walked out.
That had been half an hour ago. His knuckles were still sore.
He sat in the café, cradling the cup of coffee he'd bought when he walked in. He had savings, but without regular income (or really, any income at all) they were gradually dwindling, even in the el-cheapo accommodations he was living in. The coffee wasn't really warm anymore, and the heating in the café wasn't so great, but he didn't notice. What kept him warm, or at least afforded him the illusion of warmth, was his seething anger at the system that had failed him, and most of all the person who had turned the system against him.
Taylor Snow.
He didn't know how he was going to avenge Christine and Elijah's deaths, or punish Snow for her myriad of lesser (but still significant) crimes, but it was going to happen. I just have to find a way.
He was so wrapped up in his revenge fantasies that he didn't notice for a moment when someone dropped into the seat opposite his. A plate of hot pastries, the enticing smell tickling his nostrils, ensured that this state did not last for long. It had been a long time since breakfast, and his stomach woke up and started paying attention.
Still, Rob hadn't been an intelligence officer for nothing. Nobody sat down at a stranger's table without wanting something from them. He lifted his gaze to the person opposite and said, "This table's taken."
The newcomer was a tall, skinny black man. He also held himself with a certain amount of authority. "I can go if you want," he said, his eyebrow lifting in amusement, "but I believe there's a person of interest we have in common."
Rob also knew about leading questions. His expression didn't change as he looked back at his interlocutor. "And who might that be? Also, more to the point, who might you be?"
Interlacing his fingers before him, the other guy gave Rob a look as if to say who are you trying to bullshit here, we both know who we're talking about. "I'm Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT Internal Affairs. Currently, I'm investigating Taylor Snow."
The last three words were what grabbed Rob's attention by the throat and refused to let it go. "Investigating her? What for?" Finally! he exulted. Someone's doing what needed to be done long ago!
Calvert cleared his throat. "Captain Taylor Snow is an enigma that I'm trying to unravel. Far too much about her doesn't add up, but you're the only person I've encountered who's actually interested in finding out what's going on with her." He gestured discreetly at their surroundings. "And see what happened when you got too close."
"The fix was in from the beginning," Rob spat. "I never had a chance. They wouldn't listen to a word I said."
"Trust me, I know what you're talking about." Calvert smiled, a warm and reassuring expression. "You were railroaded so hard I'm surprised they didn't fit you out with a steam whistle. To make sure that didn't happen to me, I've had to take a more discreet approach. Right now, I'm digging into her background to see what she's really about. But I can't stray too far from Chicago, so I need someone to do the legwork for me. Are you interested?"
Rob tried to keep his excitement in check. This sounded too good to be true, and every trained instinct he had told him that 'too good' meant just that. But … Snow. He leaned forward slightly in his chair. "I'm listening."
-ooo-
Calvert
Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT (but not Internal Affairs, for all that he was carrying ID to say he was) took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and passed it across. "Here, look this over."
Gordon took it, but his expression drooped a little. "Uh … isn't it against regulations to hire me to work for the PRT?"
Tom chuckled. "Hire you? No such thing. Have you signed a contract? No, I'm talking about a gentleman's agreement. I give you access to an expense account, and you look up matters entirely on your own volition."
Pretending a supreme lack of concern, he sat back and ate a pastry as Gordon went through the contents of the envelope. Everything he knew about Taylor Snow was there, assuredly enough to give Gordon a head start on delving into her deeper secrets back in Brockton Bay. That she had secrets, he was certain. Even the most transparent of individuals had them, and she was more enigmatic than most.
What he sought was blackmail. Anything he could hold over Snow's head and make her dance to his tune would be worth his time and money. Her star was still rising, he could tell, and although she'd done her best to shrug him off before, Thomas Calvert was nothing if not persistent.
Still, he'd had no way to force a chink in her armour until the slow-motion self-destruction of Robert Gordon came to his attention. Tom had followed the case with interest, then kept tabs on him once he was separated from the PRT. Each time it looked like Gordon would land secure employment, Calvert had quietly contacted them with the real details of why the man was no longer with the PRT. The idea had been to keep him hungry and desperate, and (like many of Calvert's plans) it had worked beautifully.
The pièce de résistance had been when he'd slipped the fast-food restaurant manager a couple of hundred bucks, not to fire Gordon but to make his life unpleasant. He wasn't even sure it had been necessary; from what he'd heard, working fast-food retail was one step down from the nine levels of Hell. But Tom had always been a suspenders-and-belt type of person.
And now it had panned out. The moment Gordon accepted the envelope instead of turning it down—they both knew the line about not officially hiring him was a fig leaf at best—he'd been hooked. Tom could see it in his eyes. All Gordon had to do now was admit it to himself.
Finally, the ex-Intelligence officer closed the envelope and put it on the table in front of him. Tellingly, his hands stayed on top of it, as though preventing it from being taken away. He looked Tom in the eye.
"I'm in."
Thomas Calvert smiled, as though this had not been a sinecure from the beginning. "Good to hear it."
End of Part 8-3
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