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Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

Reader mode
vyor said:
This is before the birdcage though. Wouldn't GB still be alive(Ciara went there right after she killed him on contessa's... behalf?)?
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
She killed him and went into the Birdcage, but those two events were not necessarily one after the other.
 
I don't know... The saying 'one after the other' tends to imply nothing significant happening in between.
 
Sorry for the stupid question but what does Marquis mean when he says a romance for the ages?
 
Part 5-0: Back in the Line of Fire
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    • Recoil

    Part 5-0: Back in the Line of Fire​


    Friday afternoon, April 22, 1994

    "Okay, pull over here."

    Obediently, I pulled the hire car – repaired after the incident with Marquis – to the curb. We were in midtown, with buildings towering all around us. "I'm still not sure why you insisted on coming out without Kinsey, or how you managed to convince him to let me come."

    Andrea grinned at me from the passenger seat. "Jim knows I'd never do anything to hurt you. And besides, he's been training me to defend myself. I'm your bodyguard, now." She struck a pose, looking adorably fierce.

    "I see," I murmured. We both knew that I was still the more combat capable of the two of us, and in addition, I was carrying my Glock in a shoulder holster. Though I wouldn't have wanted to tangle with her in a straight fight; she fought dirty. "So why are we here, anyway?"

    She pointed through the windshield at the tall building, still under construction, in the middle distance. "See that one?"

    "Yeah." I frowned, trying to place it. "It's not one that I remember from my time. What is it?"

    "Ours."

    I slowly turned to look at her. "What?"

    Her grin was reminiscent of a cat that has ingested a whole aviary full of canaries, just prior to discovering its own private lake of cream. "It's ours. I'm having it built. Top two floors are where I'll live – where we'll live, after you come home for good – and the rest is for managing your financial empire, including the under-the-table stuff. Your mercenaries and stuff. There's even a private underground entrance. I'd give you a tour, but as you can see, they're still building it."

    Shading my eyes, I peered out through the windshield again. The building wasn't the tallest around, but it was certainly taller than most. "That's … holy shit, how much is that costing us?"

    Andrea casually buffed her fingernails, then studied them. "All paid for in advance. Trust me, we are solvent as hell."

    "Wow. Okay, I'm seriously impressed." Leaning across, I hugged her. "Thanks."

    She hugged me in return, and threw in a kiss for good measure. I kissed her right back.

    "Hey, it's fun," she told me when we disengaged. "Besides, the look on your face … "

    I snorted at the look of glee on her face. "You enjoyed that far too much. So, this is what you wanted to show me?"

    "Yup." She bounced in her seat. "What do you think?"

    "I love it." Reaching across, I squeezed her hand. "I love you. Thanks, sweetie. You just made my day."

    She leaned her head on my shoulder. "No. You just made mine."

    -ooo-​

    We were on the way back to the apartment when a memory made me chuckle.

    "Whassup?" asked Andrea, her head still on my shoulder.

    "Remember the date I had with Kimball?"

    She sat up to look at me. "The one to save Jim, or the one after that?"

    "The one after that, where you and Kinsey came along."

    Her grin told me that she remembered, all right. It had been by way of being an apology to Kimball; I had contacted him, and we had gone on a decorous date to the movies, chaperoned by both Kinsey and Andrea. "That was fun."

    I rolled my eyes. "You would throw popcorn."

    She grinned mischievously. "You're the one who bought me the extra-sized tub."

    I couldn't argue with that, but that wasn't the point I was trying to bring up. "Remember how we went for the stroll along the beach, after?"

    "Yeah." She'd run through the surf, such as it was, again. "That was fun, too."

    "Well, while we were walking, Kimball told me something interesting."

    Andrea perked up. "He's quitting the police force and joining the PRT to be with you?"

    I snorted. "No."

    "Okay. He's got powers, and he'll be saving the city in his longjohns?"

    The image I got of that was bizarre. "Uh, no."

    "Uh, Alexandria's really him in drag -"

    I cut her off. "No, please. No more weird guesses. He told me that the crime rate in the city has gone down a couple of percentage points over the last week or so."

    "Hah!" She grinned at me. "And it's all because of you!"

    "Well, he thought he was joking." I rolled my eyes. "After the incident at Winslow, right?"

    Andrea caught on to my point immediately, her eyes alight with interest. "He wasn't?"

    "Well … " I tried to look innocent. "Turns out that, according to Lisa … yeah, that actually had something to do with it. Plus, the raid that Gladys and I did to rescue Kinsey kind of sparked rumours of an elite PRT hit-squad getting around town. So the gangs are playing it safe right now." I shrugged. "Who knew?"

    -ooo-​

    Andrea was still giggling when we got back to the apartment block. "Oh, man," she told me as we got out of the car. "That's awesome. I can't wait to tell the guys."

    "Yeah, we might want to keep that on the quiet side," I warned her. "They don't know about Lisa, remember?"

    "It's still funny if we tell it from Humperdinck's point of view," she pointed out.

    "Oh god, seriously?" I groaned. "His name's Humphrey."

    Her grin was unrepentant. "But Humperdinck's funnier."

    "If you keep using that name for him, I might slip and use it myself." I tried to sound severe.

    She nodded, her grin getting wider. "I so wanna see his face when you do."

    I sighed. "Seriously. You're incorrigible."

    Ducking in under my arm, she snuggled up to me. "Well, duh."

    -ooo-​

    "So what are your plans for tonight?" she asked as we climbed the stairs.

    "Well, I wasn't thinking of anything wild and crazy," I noted. "Just a quiet night in. Watch some TV, eat whatever meal Kinsey's prepared for us, snuggle on the sofa for a bit, then go to bed. Up early tomorrow. You know, the usual."

    "What is it with you and Jim and getting up early?" she wanted to know. "Seriously, does being in the military make you all into masochists?"

    "No." I paused, thinking about it. "It's the discipline. You end up with new habits."

    "Yeah, well, you certainly aren't the same Taylor who went away back when this started," she agreed. "Still, I think I kinda like it. Except the getting up early thing. That's something I'm still getting used to." She paused at the door to her apartment and turned to grin at me.

    "Well, it's something that's part of my life now," I began, as she opened the door and entered. I followed, blinking at the gloom. "Did we leave the lights off when we went out?" Instinctively, I reached under my coat for the Glock while groping for the light switch. Kinsey, where are you?

    "SURPRISE!" The lights came on, just as the shout echoed through the living room and people jumped out from behind furniture. I jumped as well, curbing an impulse to pull the pistol anyway. Andrea was facing me, along with Danny, Anne-Rose, Gladys and Franklin; she was laughing out loud at the look on my face. Kinsey, his arms folded and his expression one of benevolent tolerance, was leaning on the archway leading through to the kitchen.

    Slowly, I took my hand away from the pistol; just as slowly, I closed the door behind me. "Holy shit. You planned this? You planned a surprise party for me?"

    "Well, yeah," Andrea agreed. "You were never gonna plan one for yourself. And the guys wanted to say goodbye."

    "But I told you I didn't want to have any sort of party," I objected.

    "Yeah, you told me," she agreed, taking a party popper from Danny and aiming it at me. When she pulled the string, it emitted a sharp crack and sprayed tiny streamers all over me. "But I ignored you. Because parties are fun."

    I sighed, aggravated, and looked over toward my one potential ally in all of this. "Kinsey? What do you know about this?"

    "Andrea might have spoken to me on the matter," he replied, deadpan. "I may have agreed to the idea."

    "Aren't you supposed to keep me apprised on matters like this?" I looked around at the balloons, the streamers, the decorations. "Instead of helping them?"

    "I'm supposed to act in your best interests, ma'am," he corrected me. "I believe this fits the bill."

    Danny came on over to me. "Come on, Taylor, lighten up a little," he urged me. "We just want to show how much we appreciate you. How much we're gonna miss you."

    "That's right," agreed Anne-Rose. She hugged me, and kissed me on the cheek. I couldn't help but hug her back. "You've done so much for us." Her eyes slid sideways to Danny, and I read her meaning clearly.

    "You guys've done a lot for me too," I protested. "I owe you." I was about to go on and remind them that Kinsey also owed them, but stopped myself when I recalled that Franklin hadn't been in on the Great Marquis Caper, as Andrea had irreverently dubbed it.

    "So pay us back by enjoying the party," Gladys told me. "You know you want to."

    Andrea took hold of my arm and clung to it. "Come onnnn," she urged me. "Party. Partypartyparty. Par-tay."

    I sighed. "Okay, fine. Let's party. But no alcohol. I do not need a hangover tomorrow."

    "Yay!"

    With Andrea still on my arm, as Danny and Franklin were setting up the dance music, I strolled through to the kitchen. Kinsey was just in the process of removing a batch of party pies from the oven. "Sergeant?"

    He turned. "Ma'am?"

    "We'll talk about this later."

    His expression never shifted. "Ma'am."

    I paused. "But for now … thank you."

    A very slight nod. "Ma'am."

    Andrea was tugging at my arm; I looked down at her. "What?"

    "Gotta get you changed into party clothes. Come on."

    I sighed; it looked as though my life was not my own. "Okay, coming."

    "Wheee!"

    -ooo-​

    Saturday morning, April 23, 1994
    On Board the     Ad Astra Per Aspera

    "I suppose you're all wondering why you've been asked to be here today," Lisa announced. I restrained the urge to facepalm; it wasn't what a well-brought-up young lady in that world would do, and in any case everyone else seemed to be hanging on her words.

    'Everyone', in this case, was represented by the Captain, several burly stewards, and six passengers; the latter had, of their own accord, separated into two smaller groups. The well-appointed salon in which we were all assembled was quite large enough to hold everyone, despite the fact that we were on an aircraft. I still had trouble getting my head around that idea.

    "As you are no doubt aware," she went on, "one of the passengers on this craft, a Mr James Mulrooney, was murdered earlier."

    As a bombshell, it didn't do much to disturb the passengers. There were a few murmured comments, and a couple of the people looked uncomfortable, but then, most people were uncomfortable with the idea of murder and death. I tried to look for anyone who didn't look uncomfortable, but the predominating expression seemed to be a lack of expression.

    "Wait a moment," exclaimed one of the passengers, a heavy-set man with a red face and a mane of white hair; he was sitting with a woman who had to be half his age, if that. He was well-dressed, in suit and tie; if my memory of the passenger list held true, he was a well-to-do industrialist from Detroit, in what was apparently the Michigan Free State. "Are you accusing one of us of doing it? Damme, I won't stand for it!"

    "Quite right, Mr Wilberforce," Lisa agreed gravely. "You'll sit for it. Now, as I was saying, each of you is here because we haven't been able to specifically clear you from being in that corridor on or about the time that the murder took place."

    "Cleared? Cleared?" Wilberforce rose to his feet. "I'll not stay here to be accused by some little chit -"

    Sit. Down. My voice cracked across his. Involuntarily, his knees folded, and he sat. I nodded toward Lisa. You will sit, and you will listen to my colleague, or we will presume you to be the murderer, attempting to escape justice.

    "And you don't want any more attention paid to you, do you, Mr Wilberforce?" Lisa's voice was almost gentle. "Especially given that the young lady travelling with you is neither your wife nor your daughter, nor – as the passenger list states – your niece."

    The young lady in question hid her face in her hands, and Wilberforce's own face paled dramatically. "I – no – no need to draw attention," he agreed hoarsely.

    "Then you'll cooperate with the investigation?" she asked sweetly.

    "I – yes – I'll cooperate."

    "Good." Lisa's tone somehow managed to make it clear that she had considered this to be a foregone conclusion. And, I supposed, it had. "Mr Wilberforce, did you have any contact with the deceased?"

    He shook his head. "We met once, briefly, in the corridor. I – we – stayed in our cabin, after that." His hand sought that of the woman beside him. "We had our meals delivered."

    I'll just bet you did, I told myself, but didn't allow the thought to show on my face.

    "So you didn't know about the murder?"

    "No. The first we knew of it was when the steward knocked on our door to bring us here."

    Lisa nodded. "Good. One more question. Is your drink of choice tea or coffee?"

    He snorted, some of his fire coming back. "Coffee, of course. Tea's a filthy drink."

    "Thank you, Mr Wilberforce. I might come back to you in a moment." Lisa turned to the other group in the salon, made up of four people. Three of them, from resemblances, were related, while the fourth almost definitely was not. I pegged the older gentleman – of an age with Wilberforce – to be the husband of the silver-haired lady, while the younger gentleman, about my age, was almost certainly their adult son. The fourth was a delicately beautiful young lady with dark skin; she wore plainer clothes than the other three, and stood behind their chairs as opposed to sitting with them.

    Lisa certainly wasn't missing any of the clues. "Sir Roderick Smythe-Browning the third, Earl of Bengal," she greeted the older man; her eyes sparkled. "Or should that be Your Excellency, Viceroy of Her Imperial Majesty's Indian Dominions, and advisor to the British Raj?"

    Smythe-Browning's lips pursed slightly. "Not quite yet, young lady," he admitted in an upper-class British accent. It was matched by his clothing; equally as formal as that which Wilberforce was wearing, yet the style differed markedly; fashions were not the same in Britain and America, I presumed. "I was travelling with my wife and son in the Americas when the news reached us of my predecessor's demise; the appointment will be ratified once I am back in India." He paused. "May I ask how you learned this information? It was supposed to be a secret."

    "Perhaps a secret to those who don't open their eyes," Lisa confided. "But don't worry; I won't be telling anyone else." She smiled slightly. "Now, then. Did you have any contact with the deceased?"

    "A little," he replied, frowning. "He accosted me in the passageway, and we spoke a while. I found him to be good company; it was pleasant to be speaking to someone from the home country."

    "What did you speak about?" Lisa asked; she didn't give much of an outward sign, but I could tell that she was very interested in the answer to the question.

    "Oh … nothing much," he responded. "Save that he was thinking of emigrating to India, and he wondered what the servant situation was like; how one went about engaging one, and so forth."

    "And you told him how you took on your own servant, no doubt, as an illustration to your explanation?"

    "Well, yes." He paused. "How did you know?"

    Her smile widened slightly. "It seemed to follow logically. You haven't had her very long, have you?"

    A prolonged blink greeted that statement. "My goodness, young lady. It is true that we only engaged Saleh after our previous servant was taken ill, just before our travels, but however did you know that?"

    Lisa nodded toward the almost military jacket that he was wearing. "The creases aren't quite right yet, and if I had to guess, she still over-starches your collars. Thus, someone who hasn't quite learned all of your requirements."

    He shook his head. "When you explain it, it seems so simple. Yes, she is still learning, but she's a good girl. Very conscientious."

    "I'm sure she is. And tea is your drink of choice, no doubt?"

    "Well, of course," agreed Smythe-Browning heartily. "It is the very beverage of civilisation."

    "I cannot argue with that, sir." Lisa switched her gaze to the younger man. "Your name is Roderick also, is it not? Fourth of your line?"

    To my eye, he was more than a little nervous, but he came to a species of attention, while sitting down. "Yes, ma'am. Lieutenant Roderick Smythe-Browning of the Bombay Horse Guards, fifth regiment, ma'am."

    "At ease, Lieutenant," she murmured. "I merely need to ask you if you had any contact with the deceased."

    "I didn't speak with him at all," he countered. "I saw him, of course, but I was helping Saleh move our baggage into the cabin."

    "I see," Lisa replied. "Now, did you attend the dining room with your parents?"

    "I did," he agreed. "Mother and Father decided to stroll about afterward; I came straight back to the cabin."

    "Very well." Lisa looked at the girl standing behind them, and her tone changed. "Saleh, show me your left wrist, please."

    The girl looked up, her eyes widening with fright. "My – my wrist?" Her accent was strong, though not impenetrable.

    "Your left wrist," Lisa insisted. "Now."

    "What's this about?" asked Smythe-Browning, frowning heavily. "Saleh's a good girl. She couldn't have stabbed the man; doesn't have the strength for it, don't y'know."

    His son was looking more nervous by the second; I could see it, and I was certain Lisa could also. I cleared my throat. Roderick, do you have something you'd like to tell us?

    Lisa flicked me an exasperated glance; I shot one back. What?

    "I, uh, yes," Roderick stammered. "I, uh, I tried to force myself on Saleh, after dinner. She has a bruise on her wrist from … well, from where I took hold of her." He turned to his father, who was staring at him in horror. "I'll resign my commission, of course."

    I blinked. Okay, I hadn't expected that.

    "Yes. You will." Smythe-Browning's voice was hard. "No son of mine -"

    "Oh, he'll be resigning his commission, all right," Lisa interrupted, "but that won't be the reason. Will it, Roderick?"

    The lieutenant stared back at her, obviously not wanting to answer. At this point, the Captain broke in. "Lady Wilbourn, ma'am, I believe that I quite fail to see where you're going with this. Would you care to elucidate?"

    She beamed at him. "I thought you would never ask. You see, the murdered man was actually an agent of the British Imperium."

    That jolted him, I saw. Wilberforce and his lady friend were similarly shocked, although less so. Where it hit hardest was the Smythe-Brownings; Saleh closed her eyes tightly for a moment, while Roderick went so pale that he seemed about to faint.

    "A secret agent? Are you certain?"

    Smythe-Browning senior asked the question, his voice nowhere near as certain as it had before.

    "Oh, I'm sure," Lisa told him. "He had a false tooth with poison in it, and we located a coded message on his person." I wasn't quite sure who she was looking at – I was looking at them – but she went on sweetly, "In case you're wondering, it was in his boot."

    Lady Smythe-Browning spoke up for the first time. "Was he … was he poisoned by his own tooth?"

    "That would simplify matters, wouldn't it?" Lisa shook her head. "No, as I see it, he was assigned to travel on this flight in order to investigate one particular person. That person is described in the coded message."

    "Have you – have you decoded it?" asked Roderick, his voice shaking.

    "No, but I don't have to." Lisa's voice was firm. "Your old servant, what happened to him? He fell ill, correct? It was very sudden and unexpected?"

    "I – yes," Roderick answered. "Why?"

    "Because as I understand it, there is an underground movement in the Dominions that calls themselves Free India. They've blown up buildings and assassinated government officials. Am I correct so far?"

    Smythe-Browning the elder stirred himself to answer. "Uh, yes. For the most part. They're a rabble - "

    " - a rabble with plans, it seems," Lisa put in. "Five will get you ten that your old servant's illness was arranged, so that Saleh could travel with you, and be well entrenched by the time that you returned to India."

    "But … why?" asked Smythe-Browning, bewildered.

    "Because it was common knowledge that the old Viceroy was on his last legs, and astute political observers could see who was next up on the ticket," Lisa pointed out. "If you got a new servant after becoming Viceroy, the background checks would have been a lot more stringent, you see. As it is, you had a spy right in your camp. Isn't that right, Saleh?"

    The young woman was pressed up against the wall, her eyes wide. "No -" she gasped. "No, it's not true!"

    I was almost fooled, but I reminded myself that Lisa usually knew what she was talking about.

    Smythe-Browning was less confident. "You'd better have more than idle speculation to back that up, my girl."

    "The bruising on her wrist," Lisa pointed out. "You ate in the dining room; Saleh, as according to her station, ate in the cabin. Mulrooney, wanting to make sure, dropped by. She served him tea. He was a little clumsy in probing for information; she panicked and slipped poison to him."

    "Wait, wait," broke in Wilberforce. "Where would she get poison from, anyway?"

    "They carry it," Smythe-Browning informed him grimly. "For assassination and suicide. Free India does both." He looked at Lisa. "Go on."

    "It made him drowsy, but while she was trying to search him for the coded message, he roused himself. They struggled, which was where she got the bruise on her wrist – you're still favouring that wrist, by the way – and he made for his cabin, where he no doubt carries the antidote to that poison. Roderick came in, saw Saleh in her condition, and went after Mulrooney. They struggled, Roderick pulled a knife -"

    "You're wrong," Roderick told her tonelessly. "It wasn't my knife. It was his. He pulled it on me. We struggled for it. He weakened suddenly, and went on to the blade. I never meant to kill him."

    "Huh. Yeah, I can see that," Lisa admitted. "The one thing I'm still unsure about is whether you were just a fool in love, or if you actually intended to commit treason with her."

    He ran his hand through his hair. "I'm a fool either way. No, I never knew what she intended. I knew who and what she was, of course -"

    "You don't know half of what I am, you great English swine," Saleh broke in, almost all accent gone from her voice. "I was never going to run away with you. Your words of sympathy for the plight of India are too little, too late."

    He rose from his chair. "Saleh – I love you – we were in love – weren't we?" If the break in his voice were an act, I'd never heard better.

    "You were amusing. And useful." Hers was cold. An act also? I couldn't tell. "But love? There could never be love between us. Not for who I am, and who you are." A steward moved toward her; she backed away. Pulling her sleeve up – I saw for the first time the blotched bruises that Lisa had intuited to be on her wrist – she produced a small wicked-looking firearm. "Stay back."

    Everyone stepped back under the threat of the tiny pistol; the Captain frowned. "Firearms? On my aircraft? How did you smuggle it in?"

    "I didn't," she stated with satisfaction. "His Excellency here did."

    "Is this true?" the Captain asked.

    "It was in a locked case!" protested Smythe-Browning.

    "Locks can be picked – no, stay back," she reminded one of the stewards, who had been sidling forward.

    "There's only one way this can end," Lisa told her. "You can't kill everyone here. That pistol literally doesn't have enough bullets."

    "It doesn't have to," Saleh told her bitterly. "I will not go to the gallows." From a pocket she produced a tiny vial. "Here is my end."

    "But you used that to poison Mulrooney," protested the Captain.

    "We always carry two doses. For our target, and for ourselves, just in case." Saleh popped the top off of the vial, and downed the contents. Dropping the vial, she sat down suddenly, her gun arm wavering; it seemed to be a fast-acting poison.

    "What are you going to do now? Shoot me?" Smythe-Browning's voice was bitter.

    "I don't have to." She coughed. "God, that stuff's terrible. Once this gets out, you'll never be Viceroy." The pistol drooped, then slid from her fingers. "Free … free India … "

    As the others closed in on her, Lisa took my arm. "We're done here, I think," she murmured.

    Yeah, I agreed. I think so too.

    -ooo-
    ​
    We strolled along the viewing gallery, with the ground sliding by, far beneath. So what happens now? I asked.

    "We get congratulated by the Captain for cracking the case, I imagine," Lisa replied. "We ride the rest of the way in luxury." She patted the back of a chair. "I could get used to travelling like this."

    I snorted. I just bet. So, did you enjoy being the star of a murder mystery?"

    Her vulpine grin lit up the gallery. "I've always wanted to do that."

    And was it as good as you thought it might be?

    "Hell yeah."

    Sorry for almost screwing it up with Roderick, there.

    She shrugged. "It's okay. I should've given you more warning."

    Well, I - I lurched, caught a seat. What was that?

    "I think that was you coming out of the trance."

    Ah. I nodded. Makes sense. Well, this time was fun. See you next time.

    "See you then. Kiss before you go?"

    I kissed her; her lips tasted of dust and blood. My eyes closed -

    -ooo-​

    - then opened again; the taste faded into that of Andrea's strawberry lip gloss.

    "Mmmmwah!" She broke the kiss with a loud smacking sound, then sat back, looking rather pleased with herself.

    "So," I asked her as I sat up properly, "was that really necessary? To make such a noisy production of that?"

    She grinned at me. "Sure. Jim's still out there in the living room, cleaning up from last night. We've gotta make some sorta noise, otherwise he might wonder what we're up to. And if he thinks we're making out … "

    "Then he'll specifically not come looking. Got it." I eyed her suspiciously. "You do know that he's already seen us kiss before, right?"

    "No sense in taking chances," she pointed out cheerfully. "In fact … " She got off her chair and climbed on to my lap. "The closer the better, I'd say. Just in case he peeks."

    I snorted. "Kinsey doesn't 'peek'. We're safe from that, at least."

    "Though I can't help noticing that you're not actually protesting."

    "That depends," I retorted, my arms firmly around her, "on your definition of 'protest'." Putting my head on her shoulder, I held her tightly; she returned the favour. Her lips found mine; I didn't put up much of a struggle. Or any kind of struggle, to be honest.

    When we came up for air, she giggled. "Whew! I kinda like how you protest!"

    "Yeah, well," I murmured, snuggling into her, "you know I have a hard time telling you no."

    "Except in bed," she retorted. "We've been together how many years, and I've still got to trick you into sex?"

    I evaded the question. "We're not officially together any more, remember? Not allowed to be gay in the military."

    "Pfft." She wrinkled her nose. "You were never gay. You're just … fun to seduce."

    I sighed. "Rules are rules are rules. I have to abide by them, or at least appear to abide by them, if I want to stay in the PRT. So … officially, we're just friends. Really, really good friends, but just friends all the same. Okay?"

    "Okay." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Just remember. They're not my rules."

    I tried to imagine Andrea in the PRT, and my brain locked up for a few seconds. "Yeah, I got it," I agreed. "That being so, I don't seem to recall you ever following any rules you didn't approve of."

    She giggled and rubbed her cheek against mine. "Darn tootin'."

    "So anyway, I seem to have written down what you need," I told her, unfolding one arm long enough to tap the piece of paper on the desk. "Hope it's all there."

    "It is," she replied. "I checked with Lisa while you were writing it."

    "That's still weird for me." I eyed her askance. "What do you two talk about?"

    "You, mostly," Andrea told me. "You get wound too tight occasionally. I can't be there all the time. She worries about you." Her tone, for once, was serious. "I worry about you."

    I held her close. "I'll get the job done. I have to. Just seven more years, and I'm out. We can be together."

    "Yeah, but then you'll still be trying to save the world, but with the PRT watching your every move, depending on how noisy you make your exit."

    Once more, I was reminded that there was a brain under that ditzy exterior. "I'll deal with that when the time comes. And I will need to be a little bit infamous, just for a while."

    She sighed. "Doesn't mean I like the plan."

    I nodded, rubbing my cheek against hers. "Unfortunately, the choice wasn't between 'good plan' and 'bad plan'. It was between 'plan that will work' and 'a dozen plans that won't'."

    "Even the plan that works is gonna suck," she pointed out.

    "Well, true," I admitted. "Which reminds me. The stuff from Synth?"

    "Right here." Without moving from my lap, she pulled open a desk drawer and extracted a vacuum-sealed packet. "It's in here. He says he made sachets out of it. They'll dissolve in water." She held on to it for a moment. "Do I want to know … ?"

    Gently, I shook my head. "I don't want to think about what I'll be doing with it. But it's gotta be done."

    She placed it in my hand, then wrapped her arm back around me. "So it's gonna be bad."

    "Yeah."

    "Worse than New York?"

    Closing my eyes, I leaned into her. "Different kind of bad."

    "Oh." Silence, as she digested that. "Well, I'll support you no matter what. You know that."

    I held her tightly. "Andrea, I … every time you say that, you blow my mind. All over again."

    Her voice was muffled as she burrowed into the curve of my neck. "Yeah, well, I love you, and you're trying to save the world, and it's kinda where I keep my stuff, you know?"

    "Yeah." There were no more words to be said. "Yeah. I get it."

    We sat for a long time, just holding each other. Enjoy this, I told myself. Because it's going to be a long while before you get comfort like this again.

    -ooo-​

    Kinsey opened the trunk of the hire car and began loading our luggage in. I held hands with Andrea as we watched the play of muscles under his shirt.

    "I still think you should … " she murmured mischievously.

    "Nope," I replied, equally quietly. "Off limits. You know that."

    She changed tack. "Sure you don't want to fly back? You could stay an extra day."

    "Certain. The flight to Newfoundland and back was bad enough."

    "Oh, I had no problem with that." She grinned up at me.

    I rolled my eyes. "Watch it, or I'll leave the TV remote on a high shelf."

    Grinning, she stuck her tongue out at me. I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She leaned into me companionably.

    "I hope you're feeling better," she ventured.

    "I am," I told her. "Really. More relaxed." Quite a bit of that due to her, and quite a bit due to … well, being able to relax, I decided. Being able to stroll along the Boardwalk, to watch TV, to not have to worry about anything.

    "Good," declared Andrea, oblivious to my thoughts. "The going-away party was fun."

    I sighed. "You do recall me saying I didn't want a going-away party, right?"

    "Sure," she agreed blithely. "But you enjoyed it anyway, yeah?"

    My smile was just a little rueful. "Yeah. I did. Thanks."

    Beside us, Kinsey cleared his throat. "Ma'am, we're ready to go."

    "With you in a moment, Kinsey." I looked down at Andrea. "Take care of yourself."

    "You take care of yourself, you big dummy," Andrea retorted. There was a suspicious catch to her voice, and tears stood bright in her eyes. My eyes weren't too clear at the moment, either. She pulled me down, and we shared a kiss. It ended all too soon, and I hugged her one more time.

    Climbing into the car, I fastened my seatbelt then buzzed the window down. She leaned in, and we clasped hands while she kissed me again, a quick peck on the lips. And then she stood back; I squeezed her hand, then let her go.

    "Okay, Kinsey," I told the Sergeant, my voice not altogether steady. "Let's go."

    He put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. I turned my head and watched Andrea's petite form until she was quite out of sight.

    "Tissues in the glove compartment, ma'am."

    "Thank you, Kinsey." I located them, and wiped my eyes before blowing my nose. "All this pollen in the air."

    "Of course, ma'am."

    Turning my head, I looked at him; strong and dependable. Supportive, even. "Thank you, Kinsey."

    He read the difference of tone correctly. "You're welcome, ma'am."

    Not another word was spoken until Brockton Bay was well behind us.

    -ooo-​

    Monday morning, April 25, 1994
    PRT Chicago

    The nameplate on the door read:

    LT COL HAMILTON
    INTELLIGENCE​

    I fancied that I could see the fresher paintwork where the rank had been altered. Raising my hand, I knocked firmly on the door.

    A voice from within, familiar to my ears, called out, "Enter!"

    Opening the door, I stepped into the office. Despite an abiding sensation of unfamiliarity, everything seemed the same as it had been when I left, including Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton himself, seated behind the desk. Everything else is the same. It must be me that's changed. Or rather, I knew that it was. I was not the same person who had walked out of that office, four weeks previously.

    Coming to attention, I saluted crisply. "Captain Snow reporting for duty, sir."

    He returned the salute. "At ease, Snow. Close the door and have a seat."

    I did as I was told, pushing the door shut, then pulling out a chair to sit down.

    Hamilton peered at me over his glasses. "So, Captain Snow. Welcome back. How was Brockton Bay?"

    "Interesting, sir. I caught up with old friends. Went camping. Enjoyed myself. There were the, uh, incidents, of course … "

    He smiled disarmingly. "I've already read your reports on those incidents, and those of Sergeant Kinsey. Very interesting reading, Captain."

    I didn't dare ask him what he meant. Did Kinsey let something slip in one of his reports? I doubted it; I trusted the man utterly. "But yes, on the whole, it was a relaxing experience."

    "Good, good." His gaze was steady on mine. "So how do you personally feel?"

    "Better, sir." I essayed a confident expression. "I've managed to come to terms with what happened in New York."

    "Good." He clasped his hands in front of him. "How about what happened in Batavia, and in Brockton Bay?"

    "It's all in the reports -"

    He waved me to silence. "As I said, I've read the reports. I need to know your feelings on the matter. Do you think you acted hastily, due to mental trauma, or do you think you were acting logically and correctly even then?"

    "Well, sir, I've been over both those incidents since they happened, and I don't think I would act differently even now. Do I regret killing that one guy? Not really. I regret that he had to die, but he failed to obey a directive, and was acting as a clear and present threat to my well-being. I'm still alive, and I'm fine with that."

    "And his partner?" Hamilton's voice was quiet. "Had you more time to think about it, would you have killed him also?"

    "Actually, sir, if I'd had more time to act, I would have disabled both of them." I paused, thinking about it. "If I'd had less time, I probably would have had to kill them both. But I used up all my restraint on the first one. I had the second one cold; he should have called it quits. He didn't."

    Hamilton was nodding slowly. "Captain Snow, one thing I have noticed about your fitness reports is that when the time comes for you to take action, you never dither, never prevaricate. You appear to be very good at sizing up a situation at a glance, and deciding what action needs to be taken. And when the time comes to escalate, you escalate very hard indeed."

    "I don't believe in hanging back and letting the other guy get the initiative, sir," I pointed out.

    He smiled again. "No, Captain, I don't believe that you do. I notice that in the Winslow incident, you didn't kill anyone, although you probably could have."

    "This is true, sir. However, I felt that it would be easier to work the situation out without bloodshed."

    "You could have instead rid Brockton Bay of a dangerous parahuman crime lord," he argued. "Why didn't you?"

    I paused; he wasn't arguing because of what he felt; he wanted to know why I had done it that way. "Because he was the only one holding them in check." My voice was calm. "If I had killed him, they would very likely have shot me, and then perhaps members of the crowd. Getting him – and them – out of there seemed the best option."

    "You were very sure that you were safe from him."

    "I've studied him, sir. Just like I've studied the other parahuman gangs in Brockton Bay. Marquis' particular dislike for harming women isn't well known, but if you know what you're looking at, it's relatively easy to spot."

    He nodded equably. "Well, I wasn't there, Captain, but your results speak for themselves. Nobody was harmed, and Marquis left peacefully."

    "Thank you, sir." I didn't dare relax; the other shoe, I felt, was on the verge of dropping.

    "Which leaves the other problem." His gaze sharpened. "Taking it upon yourself to redefine PRT policy, to a supervillain, in the middle of a confrontation."

    I met his eyes. "Sir, I considered it a hostage situation. I was negotiating. And if I were to get his attention, then I had to be unequivocal. To the point. Give him a good reason for my behaviour."

    "By telling him something that wasn't true." His voice was challenging.

    "Hostage negotiators do that all the time, sir. In addition, it kept the civilians calm; I was specifically extending the protection of the PRT over them. Also, it worked." I took a deep breath. "And if what I said was so far off the line, why has the PRT not issued a statement correcting what I said?"

    Leaning back in his chair, he smiled; abruptly, the tension in the room receded. "Because it wasn't all that far off the line, Snow. Well done."

    I blinked. "What? Uh, I mean, I beg your pardon, sir?"

    Taking off his glasses, he began to polish them. "The powers that be were all in a tizzy, Snow, when your TV piece first hit the air. I got hints that some people wanted to bust you down to private, or cashier you altogether."

    I blinked. "Oh. I see."

    "Quite. But wiser heads prevailed; after all, what you did worked. Also, your description of PRT policy, while not being a verbatim representation of what we actually do, garnered us some public support. So the cries for your head on a platter faded away after a while."

    "Uh, sir, you do know that someone tried to have me poached for DC -"

    He nodded. "Yes, I'm aware of that. That someone jumped the gun, and has now been transferred away from the Washington office." Fitting his glasses on to his face once more, he met my gaze squarely. "Of course, had his little ploy worked, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I would instead be having a much more stringent one with Sergeant Kinsey."

    "About Kinsey, sir. He was just following my orders -"

    A gently raised hand cut off my words. "I do understand that, Captain. You saw what needed to be done, and you acted without hesitation. I have no doubt that had the good Sergeant confronted those men, he may well have been hurt or killed, along with a great many others. Whereas you, a woman, were able to defuse the situation and cause Marquis to leave."

    Finally, I began to relax, if only a little. "Actually, sir, while we're talking about Kinsey. Quite apart from my report, I'd like to make a note right now that his conduct was exemplary the whole time we were in Brockton Bay. He also backed me up exactly right during the Batavia incident."

    "Which was his job, Captain Snow." Hamilton's tone was gently chiding, but then his eyes creased in an almost-smile. "But I will accept your verbal report. Interestingly enough, his written report included almost exactly the same statement about you."

    "Thank you, sir." A hidden knot of tension, one I hadn't even known I had, loosened itself in my midsection. Oh, wow. He came through. I should never have doubted him, not for an instant.

    "I will state that I am pleased to see you back, Captain," he told me warmly. "The office has suffered a little from the lack of your particular analytical capability. Once you're cleared by the doctor, I'm afraid that you will be neck-deep in it once more."

    He rose from his chair; I took the hint to do the same. "I'm ready for it, sir. Honestly, those four weeks did me the world of good."

    "I can see that, Snow. When you left, you were twitchy, uncertain, questioning everything. Now … now, you seem much more centred. Sure of yourself."

    "It's good to be back, sir."

    The twinkle in his eye informed me that he saw through my lie, but chose to accept it at face value anyway. "It's good to have you back, Snow. Dismissed."

    I came to attention, then turned and left the office.

    Well, that went more easily than I thought it would.

    I had no doubt that it would not always be that way.

    -ooo-​

    Friday, May 6, 1994

    My desk phone rang; I picked it up and tucked it in between my shoulder and ear as I continued typing. "Captain Snow speaking."

    "Hello, Captain Snow. It's been a while."

    I paused. "Wait … Calvert? Lieutenant Calvert?"

    "The very same. I was wondering if you would recall your old friends."

    "Lieutenant, we were never friends. Acquaintances, yes. Brief acquaintances, at that."

    "Now, Captain Snow, is that any way to talk to someone who did you such a service?"

    "Service? What service is that?" But I already knew what he was going to say.

    "Why, your promotion, of course. Didn't I let you know that I was going to be fast-tracking it?"

    I resisted the urge to make a rude noise. Calvert had had no part in my promotion. The man was nothing but a grubbing opportunist. But still, I didn't want to drive him away altogether … "That was you?"

    "I promised and you received. Did I not say so?"

    "You did, yes." I pretended reluctance. "So yes, I'm a Captain now, thanks to you. I have to warn you, I don't have much in the way of pull right now, so I can't help you with much."

    "Oh, don't worry. Any favours can wait. I just wanted to touch base, make sure you remembered who your friends are."

    "Trust me," I told him truthfully, "I'm not likely to forget you." Or forgive you, but that's another matter.

    "Good. Well, I'll be in touch."

    "I look forward to it." I put the phone down, then got up and went to wash my hands.

    Calvert was to play a part in my future plans, so I had to be nice to him. But I didn't have to like it.

    -ooo-​

    Tuesday, May 17, 1994

    Again, I stood before Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton's desk. This time, he did not invite me to sit. Nor was there a smile on his face. "Captain Snow."

    I stood rigidly at attention. "Sir."

    "I have here a complaint – a written complaint – from Captain Gordon."

    "Sir?" I knew what the complaint was about, of course.

    "In it, he alleges that you assaulted him. That you attempted to strike him."

    Whoa. I hadn't known that part. "Sir, that allegation is false."

    "Snow, he claims witnesses." His voice was hard.

    "Sir, those witnesses are lying or misled." My gaze had not shifted from a point on the wall behind his head. "Before I joined the PRT, I was already good at hand to hand fighting. Since then, I have received regular training from Sergeant Kinsey. You know how good he is. Captain Gordon is barely adequate when it comes to physical confrontation. If I had seriously attempted to harm him in any way, then he would not be walking right now."

    "Hmm." Behind his glasses, his eyes creased; not in humour, but in thought. "Your point is extremely valid, Captain Snow. I presume that there was a clash of some sort between yourself and Captain Gordon?"

    "Yes, sir, there was." I opened my mouth to say more, then shut it again.

    "I notice that you did not report it."

    "Sir, I didn't consider the matter to be worth reporting."

    "Apparently, Captain Gordon doesn't see things the same way. Which means that I need to hear your side of things before this goes any farther."

    "I can write a report, sir -"

    "No need." He reached into a drawer and placed a tape recorder on the desk. "I'll take it verbally, Snow. I need to get to the bottom of this before it causes any more problems among my staff. That is, if you have no objections to being recorded?"

    "None whatsoever, sir."

    "Good." A click as he depressed the Record and Play buttons at the same time. "Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, receiving Captain Snow's verbal report on the incident of Monday, May sixteenth, at the Chicago PRT base. Captain Snow, proceed."

    I took a deep breath.

    -ooo-​

    The Day Before

    "Who's been at my desk?"

    Nobody seemed to hear my question. I raised my voice slightly. "Has anyone been at my desk?"

    A few people leaned out of their cubicles, but nobody spoke up. I pounced, before they could withdraw again. "Leroy. Have you seen anyone at my desk?"

    Put on the spot, Leroy – Lieutenant Donelly – stepped out of his cubicle and approached me. "No, Captain. I haven't seen anyone."

    "Do you have any idea who might've been at my desk?" I asked him directly. "I was working on something over the weekend, and now it's all out of order. Also, someone's tried to access my computer."

    He blinked. "Your computer, ma'am?"

    "Yes, Leroy, my computer." I gave him a hard stare. "That big blocky thing on my desk. Do you have any idea who might have tried to get into it?"

    "Uh, no, ma'am," he replied; despite the fact that he was five years older than me, he was sweating. "I don't even have any idea of how to do something like that."

    "Not many of us do." The voice came from behind me. I turned my head, even though I knew who it was. "Leroy, you're dismissed. Get back to what you were doing."

    "Sir." Relieved, Donelly scuttled away. I turned all the way to face the newcomer. Captain Robert Gordon, ten years my senior, and general pain in the ass.

    "I was still talking to him, Gordon."

    He curled his lip. "He had nothing to do with your computer, and you know it." He managed to give the word a pitch and spin of its own. "In fact, most of us are still wondering why you're the only one in the department who rates a stand-alone terminal, let alone one of that power, with an encrypted server link to boot."

    "Because I needed it, and the Lieutenant-Colonel authorised it." Plus, I can use it better than you ever will. My tone was flat, but I looked him right in the eye. He didn't like that for several reasons, starting with the fact that I had achieved the rank of Captain at an unreasonably young age, continuing on with the fact that I was fractionally taller than him despite being younger and a woman, and concluding with the fact that despite being younger and a woman, and being more recently promoted than him, I never deferred to his age, experience or seniority.

    "If you were supposed to have a terminal with that capability, Snow, we would all have been issued one. I'm still wondering what you did to get one issued to you, personally." He paused. "Or who you did."

    Of course, that was the other set of reasons that he disliked me. He was bigger, stronger and had seniority in rank, but I was better at pistol shooting and hand-to-hand than he was, plus I was the resident computer expert, and everyone knew it.

    The fact that I had used my analytical skills to 'predict' Behemoth's latest rampage was not known to the department at large, so Gordon was probably unaware of it when he went on his 'favouritism' kick. But his last comment was new; I had been about to turn away, my objective accomplished, when it registered on me.

    I turned back. "What did you say?"

    His lips tightened in a smile. "You heard."

    "No. I don't think I did. Did you just accuse me of sleeping with my superior officer in order to have a high-end computer issued to me? Is that what you just said?"

    "Well, I -"

    "No." I stepped forward, getting in his face. "No. You do not get to say shit like that. Not about Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton. Not now, and not ever. He's a good man and a good officer, and he doesn't deserve to have that sort of shit whispered behind his back."

    He was taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Well, what are you gonna do about it?" His tone was mocking. "Go and whine to the old man? Make a Federal case over it? If it comes out, you know that it'll be up to him to prove that it isn't happening. And even if he does, it'll end his career."

    I paused. He was right. Even if it went to a judicial hearing and we were exonerated of all charges, the doubt would always be there; some mud would always stick. The whispers would continue.

    In addition, I did not need this sort of attention, not at this point in time.

    My eyes slitted behind my glasses, and I looked him up and down with contempt. "That's just like you, Gordon. You'd hurt an innocent man just because you can't get your own way." A moment later, I regretted the words, but they'd been said. Despite the anger building in me, I turned to walk away. I need to distance myself from the situation.

    "Hey, don't you turn your back on me!" He grabbed my shoulder; turning fast, I took hold of his wrist and twisted it just so. His eyes widened; with a strangled grunt of pain, he went to his knees, staring up at me.

    "Don't ever touch me again," I growled; releasing his wrist, I stalked back into my cubicle.

    -ooo-​

    In Hamilton's Office

    "So you didn't actually punch him."

    "Well, I struck his arm with the side of my wrist, yes, but no, I did not punch him. If I had, sir, he would be showing marks."

    "And you would be up on charges for the same."

    I nodded. "That's correct, sir."

    "As it is, he was guilty of assaulting you."

    "The trouble is proving it, sir. If he has all these witnesses lined up to say I hit him, then they're going to deny that he grabbed my shoulder first. I shouldn't have said what I said. I was angry; he had provoked me. But I do not offer that as an excuse for my actions."

    "You were defending my reputation." His tone of voice did not indicate which way he felt about that.

    "I regret that it needed defending, sir, and I don't know that I helped at all."

    "Well, now at least this particular vile slander is out in the open, where it can be met and countered." His lips thinned. "I notice that Captain Gordon did not include any mention of it in his complaint."

    "I'm not surprised, sir." I paused. "Permission to speak freely about a fellow officer, sir?"

    "Granted."

    "Captain Gordon is … charismatic, sir. Friendly, open, gathers people to him. He's good at using them, turning them to his side. But if he perceives someone as a threat, he acts against them, spreads lies and whispers. He's a good analyst, sir, don't get me wrong. It's just that he's also good at politics. And as a human being he's a dick."

    Hamilton stifled a snort. "Very … candid, Snow. A good analysis. Unfortunately, this leaves me between a rock and a hard place. As you say, Captain Gordon is a good analyst. I'd hate to lose him. If I did transfer him away, it could cause problems among those of my staff whom he's influenced." He looked at me soberly. "Whereas you're my best analyst, bar none."

    "I have a potential solution, sir," I told him.

    "You have my attention, Captain Snow."

    I took a deep breath. "Put me on administrative punishment. Send me out into the field, or transfer me to other bases, temporarily. Make it known that you're trying to deal with my 'attitude problems'."

    He rubbed his chin. "This won't cause problems in your work?"

    "No, sir. I need to get out there and gather data anyway. Plus, this gives people less chance to mess with my workspace."

    "You mentioned that." He frowned. "Is it serious? Do you think they're trying to sabotage your work?"

    I hesitated. "I think it was more someone trying to see what I was doing. Breaking my computer would be easy; breaking into it, past the passwords I've put in there, is a whole lot harder. But I've found attempts to do just that. And I don't want anyone figuring out what I'm looking into until my data's a lot harder."

    "So what are you looking into, Snow?" he asked quietly. "The Instigator?"

    "No, I've got that one on hold for the moment, sir." I paused, then lowered my voice to match his. "I think I've got a line on where the Behemoth came from. What caused it to emerge. I might be able to figure out how to make it go away."

    "Good god, Snow." His voice was intense, fierce. "Are you certain?"

    "Nothing's certain where this sort of thing is concerned, sir," I reminded him. "But … I'm hopeful."

    "Do you know anything at all?"

    "Well, sir, I can give you a ninety-six percent chance that it'll be well outside the continental US, the next time it attacks. And I'd put it between October and November for the next attack. Apart from that … all I have is fluff and vapour. Hunches. I want to put numbers to them before I do anything else."

    He frowned. "Director Costa-Brown still wants you in DC for that think-tank. Would you be able to work better with them?"

    "Sir, no, sir." I shook my head. "I don't think I'd work well with other people. As you know, my thought processes sometimes don't line up with standard logic. And I don't need people second-guessing me, or worse, telling me that I'm on the wrong track."

    "Hm." He paused. "Getting back to whoever is interfering with your workspace, do you think it's someone in the office, or someone from outside?"

    "That's the thing, sir." For the first time, I lowered my eyes to meet his. "I'm strongly inclined to think that it might actually be an infiltrator from outside. Or a mole, here in the base. Not all that many people know about the role I played regarding New York -"

    "Damn few, which is a crying shame," he interjected. "But go on, Snow."

    "Thank you, sir. But what I was about to say is that some people outside the PRT do know. It's a statistical certainty. And some of those people might not be friendly to our cause. They might want to know what I'm working at next, in order to see if I'm a threat or not."

    "Which means that you're under threat," he concluded. "I can increase security -"

    "Whoever it is, they're getting through our security now without even a whisper," I pointed out. "If I'm out and about, Kinsey and I can keep an eye on our perimeter much more easily. Anyone who's trying to find out what I'm doing will have to play catch-up. And if it's a mole inside the base, that person's stuck here while I go on my way."

    He grimaced. "I don't like the idea, Snow. I really don't. You're our best asset, and to go out into the field -"

    "I can check in with other PRT bases, sir," I pointed out. "They can't all be infiltrated."

    "Hm." He adjusted his glasses. "You did write the book on security protocols. Very well, Captain Snow. I'll have your orders cut accordingly."

    "Thank you, sir."

    He shook his head. "Don't thank me yet, Snow. Just stay safe, and let me know the instant you've got something."

    "That's a guarantee, sir."

    "Dismissed."

    As I left his office, I composed my features into a simmering resentment; it had to look like a punishment, after all. Inside, I merely felt vast regret. Not at the so-called 'punishment', but for what I was planning to do in the near future.

    I don't want to do this. But I don't really have a choice.


    End of Part 5-0

    Part 5-1​
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Really enjoy this story.
    Great character development, interesting original characters... And Lisa's interludes are very entertaining.
    And the cliffhanger in the end is quite worrisome...
     
    Honestly, it's a good story but the pacing is way too slow. It would be nice if things could happen faster.
     
    I wonder who the infiltrator is...
     
    • Like
    Reactions: Ack
    Beyogi said:
    Honestly, it's a good story but the pacing is way too slow. It would be nice if things could happen faster.
    Click to expand...
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    Okay, you do realise that this story is going to be happening over twenty years, right? I will be timeskipping occasionally (a few months here, a year there) but I intend to work through the story, and the consequences of Taylor's actions, to the end.
     
    Mr. Tebbs said:
    I came for depowered!futureKnowledge!Taylor and now i'm staying for a HP length story! Awesome!!!1!
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    Well, in terms of length, we're all the way through The Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets, and almost done with Prisoner of Azkaban :D
     
    Ack said:
    Well, in terms of length, we're all the way through The Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets, and almost done with Prisoner of Azkaban :D
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    That isn't entirely indicative though, since those were the ones before the HP series exploded into a pile of doorstoppers.
     
    Ack said:
    Well, in terms of length, we're all the way through The Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets, and almost done with Prisoner of Azkaban :D
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    so... 3/7 books and roughly 1/5 when it's all stacked together. or maybe up to 'E' in encyclopedia britanica?
     
    seeing_octarine said:
    That isn't entirely indicative though, since those were the ones before the HP series exploded into a pile of doorstoppers.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Mr. Tebbs said:
    so... 3/7 books and roughly 1/5 when it's all stacked together. or maybe up to 'E' in encyclopedia britanica?
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    Well, the current run of Recoil is longer than any one of the books except Order of the Phoenix (and it's only about 20K short of that) and yeah, it's about 1/5 the total amount. :D
     
    I'll say it again: this is the best of your stories, Ack, and I hope you will have some time to focus more closely on it soon.
     
    Part 5-1: The Conflict Inherent in the System
  • Threadmarks
    • Recoil

    Part 5-1: The Conflict Inherent in the System​


    Monday, May 23, 1994

    "So I hear you're running away, Snow. Or should that be melting away?"

    I turned, case in hand, to take in the speaker. It was Gordon, of course. When I had first met him, he had been open and friendly. I hadn't joined the PRT to socialise, but he was reasonably good-looking and well-spoken, so I had allowed myself to relax from time to time in his company.

    Now I couldn't imagine doing such a thing. Since I had returned from my Brockton Bay leave, he had gone from helpful to moderately annoying to subtly hostile. I still had no idea what was behind the change, but I was glad I was leaving. This sort of pressure, I did not need.

    "Captain Gordon." I kept my voice level, my tone distant but polite. "Did you need something?"

    "No, nothing." I wasn't fooled by the casual tone; the hidden venom in the previous comment had been a more accurate measure of his mood.

    "Good." Opening the car door, I deposited the case on the back seat. "So you don't need to be standing around making jokes, then?"

    His eyes narrowed at that. "You don't give me orders, Snow."

    "Very true," I agreed. "But I do hold a rank, and I would prefer to be addressed by that rank – Captain."

    "There are those of us who have earned our rank and those who haven't," he replied flatly.

    "So sorry to hear that you think you might not have earned your rank," I replied sweetly. "Keep at it, you'll get there."

    "I meant you," he growled. "You're Hamilton's pet and everyone knows it."

    "If this is about the computer again -" I began.

    "Fuck the computer," he retorted. "I'm talking about a promotion and a four-week leave, right after the attack on New York, leaving the rest of us to work twice as hard to make up for your absence."

    "Look," I sighed, "if you're so upset about that, go see Hamilton. One way or another, he'll get it sorted out."

    "Yeah, right," he jeered. "When you don't have an answer, go hide behind your Daddy Warbucks."

    Up until that point, I'd been trying to keep my tone light and even. There was no sense in letting him antagonise me, after all. But when he brought Hamilton into it for the second time, I stopped seeing the humour in the situation.

    Stepping right up to him, I got right into his face. He wasn't a short man, but I was tall for a woman; even in flats, I had a couple of inches on him. "You will not cast aspersions on the character of a good man and a good officer." My voice was quiet, but I'd been learning from Kinsey; Gordon flinched visibly at my tone.

    "You don't give me orders -" His tone was a lot less sure than before.

    "I wasn't." As he edged backward, I moved forward, staying inside his comfort zone. "I was telling you a fact."

    He swallowed. "I -"

    "Is there a problem, ma'am?"

    Gordon jumped when Kinsey spoke, not three feet behind him. I had seen him coming, of course, but I hadn't given any indication of this.

    "No, no problem." Dismissing Gordon from my mind, I nodded at the cases Kinsey was holding. "Is that the last of it?"

    "Yes, ma'am."

    "Good. Put them in the car. We're leaving."

    "Ma'am."

    I climbed into the passenger seat. There was a double thump from the trunk before it closed, then Kinsey got into the driver's seat a moment later. He started the car; we moved off smoothly. Turning my head, I saw that Gordon was still standing there. A moment later, the car turned a corner and I looked forward again.

    I held my silence until we were off the base, but barely half a mile had passed beneath our wheels before I had to say something. "Kinsey?"

    "Ma'am?"

    "What is it with Captain Gordon?"

    He paused for a long moment. "I'm going to presume that you're enquiring about Captain Gordon's attitude."

    "His fucking attitude, yes." I paused to take a couple of deep breaths, calming myself down. "Sorry. Didn't mean to swear. But seriously, what the hell is that about?"

    He chuckled, surprising me. "Ma'am, you can swear all you like. I've heard worse. As for Captain Gordon … well, I've met men like him before. They have problems being someone's equal. They've always got to have the edge, the advantage. Mainly because they see everyone else as struggling to get the advantage over them."

    "I still don't get it." I frowned in concentration. "When I was a lieutenant, he was friendly. Approachable. Helpful, even."

    "That was because you were below him in the chain of command, ma'am. Yes, you were Major Hamilton's prodigy, but that didn't matter because he outranked you. You weren't a threat. Until you were promoted."

    "And he's not in the loop about why, so all he sees is a month-long leave and a promotion to Captain," I mused. "But still … why couldn't he just talk to me about it?"

    "Men like that never talk about it, ma'am. They try to deal with the perceived threat by other means."

    "That doesn't sound good." I recalled, once upon a time, the way Sophia Hess had wanted to remove me as a 'perceived' threat. This had involved attempted murder.

    He cleared his throat. "Ah, no, ma'am. In this case, he merely wanted to prove some level of superiority over you. Do you remember the evening when he engaged you in a friendly pistol match?"

    "Uh, sure."

    -ooo-​

    Friday evening, April 29, 1994

    Front sight … front sight … front sight … I settled the sights on target; my finger stroked the trigger. As I exhaled, it took up the pressure until the flat crack of the small Glock filtered through my ear protectors and the weapon jolted back against my palm.

    I was servicing the targets slowly and methodically, not in any particular hurry. It was more a means of meditation for me than anything else. If I had learned anything from my leave in Brockton Bay, it was that I could draw down on another human being and shoot to kill without qualm or quiver. So I was working my way through the targets, getting into a rhythm, when Gordon stepped up beside me.

    "Oh, hi," I greeted him, pulling my ear protectors down.

    "Hello," he replied, looking me over. I ducked my head slightly; I had been running and lifting weights earlier. Still wearing my faded sweats and with a sweatband pushed back on my forehead, I didn't feel that I looked my best. "Getting in some range time, I see."

    "Uh, yeah," I agreed. Well, it's not like I can deny it.

    "Would you mind a bit of a friendly competition?" he asked, his ready grin showing a lot of teeth.

    A little taken aback, I blinked. I didn't recall seeing him down at the range all that much, but then, who was I to tell him what he could and could not do? "Uh, sure."

    "Well then," he stated, taking his place at the bench rest next to mine and clipping a target on to the overhead bracket, "what say the loser buys the winner drinks?"

    "I, uh, I don't drink," I blurted. More specifically, I only drank in the company of trusted friends, but that would take too long to explain.

    He turned his head and smiled his confident smile. "I don't think that'll be a problem, do you?"

    I had pulled up my target and replaced it with a fresh one by the time he had himself set up the way he liked it. Then he stepped around the divider and watched as I reloaded the Glock.

    "A bit of a puny weapon for target shooting, isn't it?"

    I didn't look his way, in case he thought I was smiling at him. A grin was tugging at my lips, but it was more to do with his mistaken assessment of the pistol. "It does the job."

    "Right. Well, your loss. Anyway, I just wanted to say that your left foot should be a couple of inches farther back. And if you raise your left elbow slightly, you'll get a better aim."

    I was totally bemused by this point. He certainly thinks a lot of himself, doesn't he?

    He started out at five yards, placing three in the ten-ring. I duly followed suit; he then motored his target out to the ten-yard range. This time, he took a little more effort to aim; two went into the ten-ring and one just outside it. My three shots punched overlapping holes with the first three.

    At fifteen yards, he aimed up carefully and placed one in the ten-ring and one several inches outside of it. The third shot punched blank paper, near the edge. I put the front sight on the target and overlapped some more holes in the centre of the target.

    At twenty yards, he hit the target exactly once. My grouping wasn't as tight as it had been before, but all three could have been covered with the palm of my hand.

    When he started motoring his target back in, I moved mine out to twenty-five yards. Three more shots went downrange; one clipped the edge of the ten-ring, while the other two were safely within it. By the time I started motoring the target back in, he had finished examining his.

    "That can't be right," he declared as my target came within reach. "Was that a clean target when you sent it out?"

    "Uh, yeah," I confirmed. "I have a stack, right here." As I spoke, I removed the magazine from the Glock, ejected the round in the chamber and reinserted it in the magazine. "But it's okay," I told him. "I won't hold you to the bet. Like I said, I don't drink."

    He took the target and stared at it. My first nine rounds had made a large jagged hole in the centre, with six more surrounding it. Abruptly, he put it down and returned to his own firing point; collecting his pistol, he hung the ear protectors on the divider and left. Shrugging, I reloaded the Glock, sent a fresh target downrange, and replaced my ear protectors. At twenty yards, I stopped the target. I had already dismissed Gordon's visit from my mind. Let's see if I can't tighten that grouping …

    -ooo-​

    In the Car

    "So wait, that was him trying to one-up me?" It was a bizarre thought. "Did he not see the footage of me in Brockton Bay, at Winslow?"

    Kinsey shrugged slightly. "Perhaps, ma'am. But people like that are particularly good at self-deception. If they can't do it, then nobody can."

    "And he's an intelligence analyst." I shook my head. "That's worrisome, right there."

    Kinsey looked grimly amused. "You do have a point, ma'am."

    "Okay, so I outshot him," I mused. "That can't be the only reason he's pissed at me."

    "Well, no, it's not," he agreed. "You may recall the following Sunday, in the gym."

    I frowned. "Refresh my memory."

    "We were sparring," he reminded me. "With padded staffs."

    "Ah, right."

    -ooo-​

    Sunday, May 1, 1994

    Kinsey wasn't as good at the finer points of staff combat as he was in unarmed hand to hand, but that didn't mean he was bad at it. The weapons equalised us, more or less; while I had the edge in skill and speed, he outclassed me in sheer brute strength.

    Which was the way I liked it; once he had begun to get the hang of it, Kinsey could once more challenge me, push me to my limits. I needed to be on top of my form. The stakes for which I was fighting would not accept second place; without my powers, I had to be able to kick ass any way I could, if and when it became necessary.

    And of course Kinsey didn't mind learning new techniques for applied physical mayhem. Which didn't surprise me in the slightest.

    We circled each other on the mat, watching eyes and hands for telltale feints. Our staffs thudded against each other, cushioned to accept and deal out blows that would otherwise have split skin and broken ribs. Kinsey was taking no prisoners and nor was I. There was no point in it; technically, this was a friendly spar, but it was also training. And in training, neither of us pulled any punches. If I managed to take him down, he would thank me, get up, then attempt to put me straight through the mat.

    We went through a rapid exchange, padded wood smacking against padded wood, then stepped apart. Kinsey nodded to me; I nodded back. Reaching up, I pushed the head protector off and picked up a towel. My hair still wasn't quite long enough to fall into my eyes, but I rubbed the towel over my scalp then hung it around my neck.

    "That looked kind of impressive."

    Turning, I saw Rob Gordon among the small group of spectators.

    "Thanks," I told him, picking up a water bottle and squirting some into my mouth. "I picked it up doing ROTC at college."

    "That the same place you learned to shoot, Captain?" asked Leroy Donnelly. Gordon suddenly looked a little sour.

    "Yeah," I agreed. "I shot twenty-twos in high school, but I didn't get to use pistols until college."

    "I saw the Brockton Bay thing," Donnelly told me. "That was some fancy shooting."

    I grinned. "Fun fact. You can actually shoot skeet with a pistol." That got me a few chuckles and some back-slaps.

    "So you can shoot, yeah," Gordon acknowledged. "And you can fight with sticks. How are you at real hand to hand, no weapons?"

    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kinsey stiffen slightly. "Oh, I'm reasonable," I assured Gordon. "I figure I can just about hold my own."

    He tilted his head at the mat that Kinsey and I had just vacated. "Want to spar for a bit? Go one on one?"

    "Uh, Captain, she's just finished a bout," objected Donnelly.

    "Quiet, Lieutenant," Gordon ordered. "I was talking to Captain Snow, not you." He hadn't raised his voice overly much, but by the time he finished speaking, there was not another sound to be heard in the gym. "So what about it?" he asked me. "You think you can take me?"

    I took stock of him; a little shorter than me, he was heavier in the shoulders, but I didn't think he was all that fit. He didn't hold himself like Kinsey, like someone who was practised at hand to hand. As for myself, I was tired. Kinsey had gotten a few good hits on me in the staff bout – as I had on him – and the bruises would be starting to stiffen soon. But Kinsey had always impressed on me the fact that I wouldn't always be fresh going into a fight – a fact I already knew quite well – and so I figured I had the reserves to go a few rounds with Gordon.

    I shrugged then rolled my shoulders. "Sure," I agreed. "What rules? Hands, feet, full contact, blocks and locks?"

    "No rules," he decided. "Uh, except no groin kicks."

    "Okay," I agreed equably. "And no punching me in the chest." Even in my twenties, I didn't have much in the way of development, but I still didn't feel like being punched there.

    "Sure," he responded, tugging off his jogging shoes. "Let's do this."

    When I pulled my head-protector back on, the chilled sweat felt unpleasant against my skin. However, since I figured I could handle it, I stepped back on to the mat. While I waited, I rolled my shoulders again, then shook out my arms and legs to make sure my knees and elbows were loose and ready.

    Wearing a pair of light padded gloves similar to the ones I had on, Gordon stepped on to the mat. He finished pulling on his own head-protector, then turned to face me. From his stance, he had done at least a little boxing. I didn't take up any particular pose; I just watched him, ready to counter him once I knew what he was going to do.

    "So what do you say, Captain Snow?" he asked, bouncing energetically on his bare feet, almost dancing. "Best of three?"

    "If you say so, Captain Gordon," I replied.

    My bland response didn't seem to be what he wanted; he threw a couple of lefts and rights into the air, grunting slightly with the force he seemed to be putting into them. "Okay, let's make this interesting. If I win, you come out with me to the Club on Saturday night."

    "And if I win … ?"

    His eye twitched at the question. "If you win, you get to choose your prize. How about that?" He danced on his toes a little more.

    "Sure, okay, but I still don't drink."

    "Come on, live a little." He seemed to be moving off to the side.

    I turned to face him. "I win, you buy me a block of chocolate from the commissary."

    "Eh, whatever, sure." He moved in toward me, still dancing on his toes.

    Kinsey wasn't a fan of martial arts movies in general, but he made an exception for a few of the higher quality attempts. One such was Return of the Dragon, starring Bruce Lee, involving one of Chuck Norris' first film appearances. During the fight scene between the two, Kinsey had pointed out the contrast in the fighting styles; Lee was light on his feet, almost dancing in place, while Norris fought with his feet planted solidly on the ground.

    I had been reminded of Brian; while Kinsey would be supplying the final polish on my fighting capabilities, it was my time-lost ex-boyfriend who had given me my first lessons. Their fighting styles were not dissimilar; both were large men who preferred to keep their feet on the ground at all times. Robert, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to emulate Lee.

    I moved to meet him. As well as being a little taller, I had reach on him, which I used to land a couple of stinging jabs. These were intended to irritate and annoy rather than put him down, but they also helped gauge how this fight was going to go.

    He reacted, throwing a couple of punches back my way; however, I was already fading back after hitting him with the jabs. His punches landed, but lost a lot of their impact. He came after me; I fended him off with more jabs, keeping him just out of reach for any serious glove work. At the same time, I looked over his defences.

    He tried to crowd me into a corner of the mat; around us, I could see people beginning to move over to where Gordon and I were sparring. I fended off a punch that skated past my head, then ducked under his arm. When he turned, I was in the middle of the mat.

    He came in fast; I went to meet him, surprising him. That surprise increased dramatically when I ducked inside his reach and unloaded two solid body blows into his solar plexus. Gasping, he began to fold; I popped him up under the jaw with a sharp jab, causing his teeth to click together. His cage well and truly rattled, he sat down suddenly on the mat, eyes unfocused and rolling loosely in his head.

    "That's one, I think," I observed mildly, stepping back to give him room. "You want to call it there, Robbie?"

    Shaking his head, he came back to himself sufficiently to climb to his feet. "No, I'm good," he insisted. "Just give me a moment."

    Someone in the growing crowd handed him a water bottle and he squirted it into his mouth; as he did so, I caught sight of Kinsey, leaning against a pole with his arms folded. His eyes flickered to Rob Gordon and he shook his head slowly.

    Apparently re-energised, Gordon came at me again. This time, he was covering up hard before he even got close to me. At least he can learn that lesson. But … "Ah, Robbie? You're not defending below the waist."

    He threw a jab; I fended it off. "I don't have to. You can't kick me in the groin, remember?"

    "Mm, true." I took a punch on my forearms, then spun, sweeping my leg through both of his. The impact hurt my shin, but it worked; he landed hard on the mat, knocking the wind out of him. A moment later, I was kneeling on his left arm, my own left holding down his right. My right arm was up and cocked, in the perfect position to deliver a punch to his nose or jaw.

    For the count of three I held that pose; he stared up at me, apparently trying to figure out what had just happened. "And that's two, I think," I pointed out. "Looks like I win."

    "But you kicked me!" he protested, in between wheezing for breath.

    "Not in the groin," I reminded him. "Your legs were fair game." Letting him go, I stood up, offering him my hand to help him up. After a long moment, he accepted; I braced myself and pulled him to his feet. "That's about enough for today," I suggested. "You might want to hit the showers and get a good night's rest. Otherwise, you'll be stiff as a board tomorrow."

    "Uh huh," he grunted, moving off with more than a hint of stiffness in his gait.

    I watched to make sure that he wasn't about to fall over, then went to grab my towel from Kinsey. "You went easy on him," he observed as I tugged off the head-protector and the gloves. "Why?"

    "It was a friendly match," I told him. "I wanted to give him a chance to figure out where he went wrong and maybe learn something from it. If I just beat him unconscious, he'd never learn."

    "He'd learn something," Kinsey grunted. "If only to not challenge you with damn-fool sparring matches."

    There really was no answer to that, so I let it go.

    -ooo-​

    In the Car

    "Jeez, I'd nearly forgotten that," I muttered. "Okay, so I blitzed him on the mat in front of a few people -"

    "Fifteen, ma'am," he interjected. "I counted them."

    "All right, fifteen. But he asked for that match." I paused for a beat. "He thought he could save face by beating me in a practice match?"

    "Apparently so." His expression appeared to be as bland as ever, but I could tell that he was just a little amused.

    "But still, that shouldn't be grounds for him coming after me like he did," I protested. "I mean, yes, he's a dick, but there's a limit."

    "On Monday evening, ma'am, he made a bet with a few of his cronies." Kinsey's eyes were straight ahead, his voice toneless. "The substance of the wager was that he would have you in his bed, or be in your bed, by Sunday night."

    It took a moment for this to get through to me; when it did, I exploded. "What? Stop the car! Turn around! I'm going to hunt that bastard down and -"

    "Ma'am." Kinsey's voice cut through my tirade. "He failed, obviously. That hurt him more than any beating you could administer."

    "Yeah, but that sleazeball made a bet that he could get into my pants." If steam wasn't coming out my ears, it should have been. "That's so goddamn wrong." Realisation struck me; I turned to him. "If you knew about it, why didn't you warn me earlier?"

    He almost looked hurt. "Ma'am, give me some credit. I had faith in you."

    My mouth twisted as I finally put events into their proper context. "So all the friendly comments, the box of chocolates, the invitations to a movie night – that was all part of his campaign to seduce me?"

    "To make you into his conquest, but yes, ma'am," he agreed.

    I thumped my head back against the rest. "For fuck's sake," I snapped. "What is it with these guys all wanting to come on to me? It's not like I'm even that good looking!"

    Kinsey cleared his throat. "In his case, ma'am, it wasn't about attraction. He had no interest in you as a person. This was all about his perceived status. Once he had proven his 'superiority' by bedding you, he would have ignored you until he decided that the lesson needed renewing."

    "Christ." I shook my head slowly. "I got out of there just in time, didn't I?"

    "That appears to be the case, ma'am."

    "Hm. I still think you should have warned me."

    "If I'd done that, ma'am, all the bets would have been rendered null and void."

    He was still looking straight ahead at the road, but I read the message loud and clear. "Oh no. You were betting too?"

    "Well, of course." His tone was entirely matter-of-fact. "I said I had faith in you."

    I looked hard at him. "How much did you make?"

    "Enough." One corner of his mouth curled upward slightly. "I put fifty on for you, as well."

    I blinked. "You did what now?"

    "Put fifty bucks on for you." He could have been talking about the weather.

    "I didn't even know what he was trying to do!" I wasn't quite sure if I should be happy or horrified about this.

    "Like I said, ma'am," he replied with a certain amount of satisfaction. "I had faith in you." He nodded toward the glovebox. "Your winnings are in there."

    As if in a dream, I popped the glovebox, to find an envelope within. Opening it revealed a sizeable wad of cash. "Christ, you got all this from betting fifty bucks?"

    He shrugged. "Well, ma'am, not many guys seemed to think that he wouldn't even get to kiss you. I got pretty good odds."

    "Right, then." Replacing the envelope, I closed the glovebox. "Stop the car."

    "Ma'am?"

    "That is an order, Sergeant. Stop the car … now."

    Obediently, he pulled the car to the side of the road. The moment the park brake clicked into place, I slugged him.

    It wasn't easy. I had to lean forward against the seatbelt and twist so that I wasn't punching across my own body. In addition, I had to do it fast enough that he didn't see it coming. I succeeded at that, or perhaps he chose to let it happen. Either way, I connected; my fist smacked into his jaw, bouncing his head off of the window.

    "Take that as a warning, Sergeant," I told him, my voice flat and hard. "To quote your favourite movie of all time, you ever pull another suckhead play like that, the only thing that's gonna beat you to the brig is the headlights of the ambulance you're on."

    Slowly, he reached up and rubbed his jaw, then worked it back and forth a few times. "So noted, ma'am."

    "Good." I settled back into my seat, letting my seatbelt retract. "Drive on, Kinsey."

    "Yes, ma'am." Releasing the parking brake, he put the car back into gear and pulled us back on to the road.

    I stared out through the windshield and tried to rub my stinging knuckles without appearing to do so. Kinsey drove; to all outward appearances, a man of stone. There was more I needed to say; I just had to figure out how to say it.

    A couple of miles had passed beneath the wheels before I spoke up. "Kinsey."

    "Ma'am?"

    "The very first time I tried hard liquor, my drink was spiked. If I hadn't had my friends with me, things could have gone really badly. It's why I don't drink very often. If Gordon had managed to charm me into having a few drinks with his friends, do you honestly think that he would refrain from doing something like that to get what he wanted? Especially given that the one man who was supposed to be keeping an eye on the situation was betting on the outcome instead?"

    A long silence ensued, broken only by the rumble of wheels on asphalt. I didn't look directly at Kinsey; in my peripheral vision, he was staring out through the windshield, his jaw set hard. It must have hurt to tense it like that; I hadn't pulled my punch in the slightest. He would have been mortally offended if I had.

    When he spoke at last, it was as if the words were being dragged out of him with pliers. "Ma'am, I was out of line. I let you down badly. I will accept any punishment -"

    "Don't be an idiot, Sergeant Kinsey," I told him roughly. "If we fronted Hamilton, you'd lose your stripes, maybe end up with a BCD. But I don't want that. I just want you to do better. Understood?"

    Slowly, he nodded. "Message received and understood, Captain Snow, ma'am."

    "Good." I paused. "How's your jaw?"

    "Sore," he admitted. "You hit me harder than I thought you were going to. How's your hand?"

    "Same," I replied. "Stings like a son of a bitch."

    He chuckled briefly. "Told you that you should've hit Captain Gordon that hard. Might have saved us both a few problems."

    "Kinsey," I sighed, "you never said a truer word."

    Silence fell once more, but it had a different texture to it. Tension no longer ruled; the air had been cleared. Boundaries had been re-established. Reaching out, I turned the radio on. Soft country music spilled from the speakers.

    Leaning my seat back, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the music while Kinsey drove on.

    -ooo-​

    Huge, rounded, blue and white, the Earth rolled beneath us.

    Okay, so spill.

    Lisa, her feet anchored by magnetic clamps to the space shuttle, grunted as she took up the last of the strain in the oversized compound bow. Her space suit made her movements a little clumsier than normal, but she wasn't hampered enough to worry about it.

    When she let fly, the tungsten-steel arrow left the bow in a streak of reflected light. A mechanism on the bow imparted spin so that it flew straight and true. We watched as it lanced across the void, effectively invisible except for the tiny blinking light on the tail end.

    I wasn't sure how far away the target was – maybe a mile, maybe more – but we both saw the arrow strike. The explosive head detonated in a flash of light, reducing the small satellite to drifting debris.

    "Yes!" Lisa exulted. "Got him!"

    Good shot, I congratulated her dryly, setting an arrow to the cable of my own bow. But you didn't answer my question.

    "Oh, did you ask a question?" she inquired innocently. "I don't recall a question being asked."

    I rolled my eyes as I started taking up the slack. I told you to spill. The question was implied.

    "Okay, fine," she sighed. "Why didn't I warn you about Gordon? Is that the question?"

    Yes, I told her flatly. That is indeed the question.

    "Okay, once more from the top," she replied. "I can tell you what's going to happen so long as you don't do anything to change matters. You chose not to accept Gordon's invitations, so nothing was going to happen to you, so there was nothing to warn you about. Would he have spiked your drink? Yes, pretty likely. He's got the knowledge and the temperament to do it."

    Wait, holy shit, he's done this before?

    "No. Fortunately, they've always gone along willingly before. Just so you know, he does make a practice of sleeping with attractive young lieutenants. He's good at stringing them along."

    He never tried to get me into bed before I was promoted. I wasn't quite sure whether this made me feel relieved or vaguely insulted. Taking a deep breath, I brought the bow up to eye level and began to apply the final strain.

    "It's like Kinsey told you. He was never interested in you as a woman. Just as a threat. He wanted to prove that he was better than you on some level."

    So he's broken regs but he hasn't actually committed a crime that a civilian court would convict him for, is that it? The bow was at full extension. I moved my aimpoint slightly, searching for the next target against the brilliant starfield.

    "That's about it," she agreed. "Though a phone call to Hamilton might just cause him to be caught with some of the contraband he's got hidden in his quarters. Including the drug he would have slipped into your drink."

    I thought about it for a long moment as I steadied my aim, then let fly. The arrow whipped out into the void.

    Yeah, I decided. I think I might.

    -ooo-​

    PRT Austin
    Tuesday, June 7, 1994
    1324 Hours

    "You've got a problem."

    My voice cut across the room, getting the attention of the people gathered there with me. All were men, all were older than me. One, of course, was Kinsey; he stood off to the side, as unobtrusively as he could manage. Of the others, two were PRT; specifically, the Director and Deputy Director of the Austin station. They, at least, seemed inclined to pay attention and take me seriously. The other two, the local heads of the ATF and the FBI respectively, appeared more dubious.

    "With all due respect, young lady," the ATF man, Rodriguez, observed, "I don't see the problem you're referring to."

    Hanran, his counterpart from the FBI, didn't speak; he rubbed his chin and looked faintly concerned instead. Director Walsh spoke up in his place. "Captain Snow, what's the nature of this problem? These fringe groups you're looking for information on?"

    Thankful for the straight line, I nodded. "Precisely, sir."

    Rodriguez shook his head. "I think you're barking up the wrong tree. Sure, they used to be a concern. We were keeping close tabs on them for stockpiling guns and ammo for quite some time. But now they've gone quiet. Stopped buying guns in any great quantities. We've barely heard a peep out of them for a year or two."

    "He's right," Hanran put in, although his heart didn't seem to be in it. "They've stopped publishing their religious manifestos. They've even stopped ranting about the government and how it can't be trusted. I mean, we're keeping an eye out, but they're showing all the signs of becoming less of a threat, not more."

    "And what if this is deliberate?" I asked flatly. "What if they're deliberately fading into the background so that you take your eyes off of them?"

    "Even if this was true," Rodriguez objected, "we can't exactly take a lack of activity as evidence of wrongdoing." He looked me up and down. "Where are you getting this from, anyway?"

    "I've been analysing the data." There was a large-scale map of the US spread out on the table in the conference room; I looked it over. "All these groups that went quiet around the same time, it was about eighteen months ago, right?"

    Hanran and Rodriguez glanced at each other, then back at me. "Uh, sure," Hanran agreed. "But how did you know?"

    I hid a sigh. "What do these groups have in common?"

    "Well, they hate the government," Hanran supplied.

    "Fringe religious beliefs," Deputy Director Grantham added.

    "Isolationist," Rodriguez went on.

    "Preparing for the end times," Director Walsh finished.

    "Well, then -" I began, but Rodriguez cut me off.

    "Excuse me a second. I can see where you're going, but let me make something clear here. We've been watching these groups for some time. Sure, they hate the government, but their religious views are generally more important to them than their political views. They hate each other maybe more than they hate us. If you're going to try to sell us on them putting their differences aside and forming one big group, young lady, I'm gonna need a sight more evidence than you've presented so far."

    Walsh frowned, but I spoke up first. "Mr Rodriguez, what big world-shattering event happened around about eighteen months ago?"

    He paused, but not for long. The answer was, after all, self-evident. "The Behemoth appeared?"

    "Precisely." I ticked off names on my fingers. "Marun Field. Sao Paulo. New York. It's hit three widely separated targets; all indications are that it's going to keep hitting heavily populated locations of its choice until it's dealt with, once and for all. So far, the massed power of all the parahumans that have faced it – including the Protectorate – have been able to do nothing more than drive it off. The death toll has been horrendous, and not just among the civilian population. It's the sort of thing that makes even rational people think about the end of the world." I paused to let that sink in. "And each of these groups that's gone quiet already believes in an imminent apocalypse. To them, the Behemoth is just what they've been waiting for."

    "Wait, wait," Hanran objected. "You're saying that they've decided to worship that fucking thing?"

    I tilted my head slightly. "Not 'worship' as such, I would say. It's more along the lines of … well, say you're the leader of a crackpot fringe apocalypse cult. You've been running your little power trip for years. The superhero thing stoked things up a little, but people got used to that. You're worried that, given the lack of an apocalypse, your flock might start drifting away. And then the Behemoth makes an appearance on the world stage. All of a sudden, all your teachings are validated. They don't so much worship it as point at it and say, 'See? See? I was right after all!'."

    Rodriguez was mulling over my words; from the sour expression on his face, he didn't like the taste of them at all. "So you're saying they've consolidated around the belief that the Behemoth is the harbinger of the apocalypse."

    "Or that it'll personally cause it, yeah," I agreed. "They already believe that they live in the end times. If you were working down a checklist of what these cults would look for in an End-bringer, to coin a phrase, then the Behemoth would tick a hell of a lot of boxes."

    Hanran nodded. "Okay, you've convinced me. But there's something else I'm curious about."

    "Shoot," I invited.

    He gestured around the room. "Why did you even ask us to come here for this meeting, rather than just drop the information off to us? Even if they are Behemoth cultists now, that still doesn't really put them under the jurisdiction of the PRT."

    "Well, that's the other half of the problem," I told him.

    "And that doesn't sound ominous at all," Rodriguez responded. "What's the other half look like?"

    I nodded to him. "You said earlier how they're not stockpiling so many guns, right?"

    He frowned. "Okay, I'll bite. If they're not stockpiling guns, what are they stockpiling?"

    My voice was flat. "Parahumans."

    -ooo-​

    If I'd tossed a venomous snake into the middle of the table, I might have gotten a less startled response. Walsh and Grantham didn't react overly much, given that I'd briefed them beforehand, but Rodriguez and Hanran were caught flat-footed.

    "What? You're shitting me!" That was Hanran.

    Rodriguez took it a step farther. "Wait, they're breeding them?"

    "Yes and no." I held up my hand to forestall more questions. "Powers are not genetic in nature. We're pretty sure of that, at least. But it's also a documented phenomenon that kids of parahumans are more likely to develop powers. So yes, they'll be trying to do exactly that."

    "So I'm guessing that they'll be using these parahumans to try to help the apocalypse along," Hanran surmised. "What are the chances of them actually getting enough parahumans, one way or another, to make a difference?"

    "Not huge," I admitted. "But the trouble is, parahumans are a force multiplier, so even if they don't get on to the world stage to help humanity fall the rest of the way, they can still hurt the country a lot by being a destabilising force just when we don't need it."

    "Wait, how are they even getting parahumans?" demanded Rodriguez. "It's not like they can put out a want ad."

    I shrugged. "You might get one or two joining. After all, being a parahuman is no barrier to being an idiot. And then … well, they'll be doing a lot of inbreeding, working off of the 'powers are genetic' theory. Also, trying to generate powers spontaneously via, well, inbreeding."

    Hanran shuddered. "Hillbilly rednecks, with powers, who want to help end the world. I am officially over this shit."

    "Okay, I'm convinced," Rodriguez admitted. "But the big problem is that we can't prove intent. Parahumans joining an end-of-the-world cult is plenty scary, but it's not actually illegal. No matter who they shack up with. I mean, the whole inbreeding thing is pretty well a hillbilly joke anyway."

    "Yeah," I agreed, then took a deep breath. "But do you think they'd shy away from, say, kidnapping a parahuman or three to use as breeding material, just to make sure of things?"

    Hanran's head came up. "Now that's something we could nail them for," he agreed. "Got any proof for that?"

    "I can put together some pretty convincing circumstantial evidence," I told him. "Got those missing-persons files the Director asked you to bring along?"

    "I … sure," he told me. Picking up his attache case and putting it on the table, he opened it. Within lay a stack of Manila folders; he lifted them out. "But these are ordinary people, not parahumans. Or rather, we don't have any way to match these names up with missing parahumans."

    "We'll see," I told him. "Director?"

    His expression sharpening to intense interest, Director Walsh handed over another stack of folders. Each of these bore a codename. "Parahumans who've dropped out of sight in the last eighteen months, between sixteen and twenty-five, powers that aren't really geared toward heavy combat," he reported. "Just as you asked for."

    "Yeah, that's all well and good," Rodriguez pointed out. "But how do we match A up to B?"

    "That, gentlemen, is my job," I told him, pulling a chair up to where the two stacks resided. "May I have the room for an hour?"

    "Wait." That was Hanran. "You're going to - ?"

    Director Walsh cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, let's give her the room."

    "Except for my orderly," I stated. "He can stay, if you don't mind."

    "Certainly, Captain," agreed Walsh. "Come on, gentlemen. While we're waiting, I'll tell you a few stories I got from Director Rankine, in Chicago …"

    The door closed behind them. Kinsey cleared his throat. "Is there anything you need, ma'am?"

    "Yes, please," I told him. "A pot of tea. You know how I like it."

    "Roger that, ma'am," he agreed. He let himself out.

    Alone in the room, I looked the folders over, spreading them on the table. Carefully, I sorted them into males and females, placing the stacks opposite one another. Then I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. Gradually, I relaxed, letting my consciousness slip away.

    -ooo-​

    We sat on the Boardwalk, looking out to sea. In place of the Protectorate base, my memory palace rose out of the ocean, vast and imposing and beautiful. Lisa lounged at the other end of the bench, eating a choc chip ice cream cone. I had caramel crunch, delicious explosions of taste igniting against my tongue with every bite.

    So do you think this'll put a stop to the Fallen? I asked between bites.

    "It's definitely worth a try," Lisa agreed. "They've got eight captive parahumans in their compound, with three more who are there willingly. You'll get six matches with the folders."

    Wait, why do I only get six matches if there are eight captives?

    "Because one of the parahumans is a Stranger type who never showed up on the PRT's radar. And another one's fourteen."

    Christ, I muttered. I should've set the ages lower.

    "Don't worry," she assured me. "You've got enough to go on with."

    I closed my eyes. But I should have done this months ago. What those girls are going through -

    Leaning across, she flicked me sharply on the ear. "Hey!"

    My eyes flew open. Ow! What was that for?

    "To remind you that you can't save everyone, all of the time." Her bottle-green eyes bored into mine. "There are people suffering all over the world, all of the time. People dying in unjust ways. We can't save one tenth of one percent of just the ones in the United States."

    I drew a deep breath. I hated to admit it, but she was right. So what am I doing? Just going through the motions?

    "No." Her voice was tart. "You're saving the ones you can save. Because, believe me, you'll make a difference to them."

    And I'll stop these people from producing the Fallen and causing misery and death to so many more people in the future.

    "Exactly." She nodded approvingly. "And, of course, we're gonna save the world."

    My smile was reluctant, but it was there. Yeah, that too. I ate the last of my caramel crunch.

    "Better." She leaned toward me. "Kiss before you go?"

    I kissed her; her lips tasted of blood and dust and chocolate chip ice cream. The rising wind whipped her hair around my face. I blinked -

    -ooo-​

    - and I was sitting in the conference room with all the folders off to one side except for six; these were stacked in twos before me. There was a cup of tea at my elbow, the level halfway down. I wished that I remembered drinking it.

    "Kinsey," I told the sergeant as I picked up the cup, "would you kindly let the Director and the others know that I'm ready to see them again?"

    "Ma'am," he acknowledged, going to the door.

    I rose as they trooped in; I saw their eyes go to the six stacks in front of me. "You have your matches, gentlemen," I told them. "These people are the ones being held against their will."

    Walsh's eyebrows rose as he picked up one pair of folders and flicked through each of them in turn. "Well, the data seems to match," he murmured.

    Grantham had another pair of folders in hand. "These do, too," he agreed.

    Hanran came over to me. "Well, this gives us a good case for reasonable suspicion," he agreed. "Now all we need is a location to hit."

    "Oh, that's the easy part," I told him. Leaning over the map, I tapped a location toward the north-east part of Texas. "Just about … here."

    "Huh." Walsh leaned over, looking at the map. "Just near … Waco. Right."

    "Hm." Rodriguez peered at the same spot. "Makes sense. One of those groups already had a compound there, if I recall correctly."

    I nodded. "You do indeed recall correctly. All of my analysis indicates that these groups have been gravitating toward this main group. There will have been some infighting, but that would mainly be to determine who runs the show. Their main tenet of belief – that the Behemoth is the harbinger of the world's end – will be pretty well set in stone."

    "So how do we run this?" It was a measure of Walsh's respect toward me that he directed the query in my direction. "Knock on the door with a warrant, or kick in the door and hand them the warrant after the dust settles?"

    "Either way runs a risk toward the welfare of the captives," I noted. "Knocking on the door, letting them know that we know that they've got the parahumans, runs a high risk of them delaying long enough to quietly kill their captives and bury them in shallow graves. Kicking in the door leaves the risk that they'll react without thinking and kill them anyway." I didn't have to refer to Lisa for that one; my grounding in criminal psychology had given me the answer.

    Rodriguez looked down at the map. "Which makes it a lose-lose situation. Got a way out of this?"

    "Sure," I agreed. "I go in as well. Give me a good look at the compound and I should be able to figure out where the captives are being kept. We knock politely with the warrant; if they attempt to delay in any way, we do an aerial assault, a strike squad lands on the roof of the building where the captives are being kept, smashes their way in there and secures them. After that, we can deal with the rest of the cultists in our own time."

    "You do realise that less guns being stockpiled doesn't mean no guns being stockpiled, right?" The ATF man's voice was sour. "We're going to be essentially breaking and entering into private property where the homeowners are armed, dangerous and very willing to shoot at government troops."

    "We're also going in to rescue six young women who are being held against their will for the most degrading of purposes," I snapped. "You do what you have to do, Mr Rodriguez, but don't stand in the way of that."

    -ooo-​

    Friday, June 10, 1994
    Bergstrom AFB, Austin TX
    0931 Hours

    "Taylor!"

    I turned at the familiar voice. She emerged from the rear of the large cargo plane and advanced in my direction over the tarmac. Halting before me, she threw a salute which I returned. Eschewing a handshake, we hugged, ignoring the bemused glances of those around us. Her embrace creaked my ribs before we pulled apart, but I didn't care.

    "Emily, how are you?"

    She grinned at me, teeth white against her tanned skin. "Kicking ass. Taking names. How about you? You look well. And a Captain, no less. You're burning up the chain of command, aren't you?"

    "Well, therein lies a story." I clapped her on the shoulder and turned to Kinsey, who had watched the byplay with impassive interest. "Kinsey, I want you to meet Lieutenant Emily Piggot. We went through Basic together. I lost count of the number of muddy holes she pulled me out of. Emily, this is Sergeant James Kinsey, my orderly."

    Kinsey saluted. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

    She returned the salute then held out her hand. "When we're off duty, Sergeant, it'll be Emily. And we'll swap embarrassing stories about the Captain behind her back."

    He took it; they shook once, firmly but without the bullshit whose-grip-is-stronger contest. "I look forward to it, ma'am."

    Emily nodded, then turned back to me. "So, before we get to the serious stuff. That thing that happened in Brockton Bay. That was you, right?"

    "That was me, yeah," I agreed. "I kind of didn't have a choice in the matter."

    "Yeah, I just bet." She glanced around. "Oop, gotta go check in. But we'll catch up."

    "Yeah, we will." I watched her hustle away. "Well," I murmured. "That makes life interesting."

    "Old friends, ma'am," Kinsey commented from behind me. "They turn up when you least expect them."

    "Too true, Kinsey," I agreed. "Too true." I looked around. "Now, where were we holding the briefing again?"

    He pointed. "Over there, ma'am."

    "Right. Let's go get set up."

    -ooo-​

    1123 Hours

    I stood before the PRT strike team in the darkened conference room. "You've been told the objective and the location. Now for a little background. These are fanatics. They believe that the world is ending soon, that the Behemoth is the harbinger for this event, and that what they believe is right and proper. They will shoot at you."

    I took a breath; the silence in the room was almost absolute. "This particular group was being run by a man called Vernon Howell. Eighteen months ago, after the Behemoth event, a woman called Vicki Weaver and her family came to join them. They were the first of many; initially, Howell and Weaver jointly presided over the combined groups, which they began to call the Brotherhood of the Fallen. But from what information we've been able to gather, internal conflict has ousted them in favour of a man called Hadrian Lange." A photo flashed up on the screen behind me. "This is probably a pseudonym; we haven't been able to find any information on him."

    More photos went up on the screen. "These three are apparently parahumans who have joined the Brotherhood of their own free will. We think that they correlate to these three villains." Blurry photos joined the first three. "You will each be given data sheets on their powers." I paused. "Next photos please?"

    Six new photos went up on the screen. "These are the six parahumans who we know they have in captivity." A rolling murmur went through the audience; I wasn't surprised, given that each image was of a young woman or teenage girl. "There may be more. These are the people we are going in to rescue. They are being kept for the specific purpose of breeding more parahumans."

    This time, the murmur was more of a rumble, with definite overtones of anger. I let it die down of its own accord. "You will also be supplied photos of these people." I took a deep breath. "Now, due to jurisdictional issues, the PRT strike squad and the Protectorate heroes assigned to this mission will be tasked specifically with countering the hostile parahumans and rescuing the captives. The ATF will be seizing the armoury, while the FBI is there to suppress the civilian members of the Brotherhood, arrest their leader and to steer non-combatants away from the fighting. We will also be supported by the Texas Rangers and the National Guard." I looked over the faces in the room, pale from reflected light. "Note that we will be engaging in mutual support. We'll be there for one another. But the PRT's stated objective is to get those girls and exfiltrate soonest. The ATF's is to deny the Brotherhood access to their stockpile of weapons. And the FBI's is to take Lange into custody."

    I paused and took a sip from the glass of water on the podium. "We've done drone overflights of the compound; two of the six captives have been spotted being moved between buildings, while one of the parahuman members has also been seen. So we know that they're there. This is not a theoretical exercise. It's a rescue mission. Overview of the compound, please." The image flashed up on the screen. I palmed my laser pointer, put a circle around a particular building. "The captives are being held in this building." Moving it to another one, I marked that as well. "This is the armoury, which is where the ATF will be headed."

    A hand went up. "What's the exit plan, ma'am?"

    "I'm glad you asked. Plan Alpha is to get on to the roof and be picked up by helo. Plan Bravo is to bunker down and let reinforcements come to you. And Plan Charlie is to fight your way out." I paused. "Any more questions?"

    A long pause, then someone responded. "Are you coming in with us, ma'am?"

    "I would dearly love to," I admitted. "But I've been overruled from on high -" Director Walsh had been quite adamant on that score. "- and so I'm sitting this one out. But I'll be quarterbacking you all the way." I took a step forward. "However, make no mistake. If things go pear-shaped, I will be coming in to get you out."

    The applause was sudden enough to surprise me. Kinsey stepped forward to stand next to me. Under the cover of the noise, he leaned in and stated quietly, "Correction, ma'am. We'll be going in."

    I barely moved my lips as I replied. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

    -ooo-​

    Saturday, June 11, 1994
    1105 Hours

    "Five minutes until we're over the target, ma'am."

    I fought down a yawn. "Five minutes, roger."

    The airframe shook around me. I didn't really like helicopters; it seemed too much like they were going to come apart at any moment. Also, far too noisy for my liking. But it was the quickest way to get from Austin to Waco; the ground forces had set out hours previously, travelling by truck and SUV. I wondered why I was so tired all of a sudden. After all, it wasn't as if rising early wasn't my habit by now.

    Rodriguez and Hanran were sharing the helo with me; we were going to be the eyes-in-the-sky, looking down on the operation and providing minute-by-minute support. Director Walsh was in the fourth seat, while Deputy Director Grantham held down the fort in Austin. Kinsey sat behind me.

    I had requested a flyby of the compound itself so that I could get an eyeball of the situation on the ground. Walsh had permitted it, on the condition that I didn't go fast-roping out of the aircraft to join the grunts. I didn't blame him; part of me wanted to do just that. I had even decked myself out in body armour and sidearm, on the principle that if I had to go in, I didn't want to waste time getting ready.

    Yawning again, I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes. About time to check in with Lisa. It should have been more difficult, given the fact that I'd been riding in a noisy aircraft for an hour, but it was actually surprisingly easy. Slowly, I drifted away …

    -ooo-​

    Lisa grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. "Turn the helicopter around!" she shouted. "Get out of there! They're ready for you! It's a trap!"

    Oddly, I felt myself falling sideways. Smoke stung my nostrils. Lisa kissed me, hard. Dust and blood filled my tastebuds. I blinked.

    -ooo-​

    My eyes opened to noise and fire. Something had slashed through the helicopter, leaving molten trails of metal. One or more of the other passengers was dead, blood sprayed across the inside of the fuselage. The helicopter was tilting crazily; I grabbed for my armrests. Horrific sounds of metal grinding against metal were audible even inside the helmet earpieces.

    "This is Woodpecker One," the pilot reported over the radio, his voice carefully calm even as his aircraft fell from the sky. "We have sustained damage. There are casualties on board. We are going down. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday."

    Buildings rushed toward us.

    Impact.


    End of Part 5-1

    Part 5-2​
     
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    • This was a cruel, cruel spot to end this chapter in.

    This said, enjoyed it a lot, and cannot wait for the next one.
     
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    tenchifew said:
    And a lot of other people.

    While I guess it is possible that the proto!Fallen have a Thinker strong enough to get the information and set the trap on their own, I would bet on betrayal, possibly even on a petty and/or opportunistic sort of it.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Or maybe it was the Stranger than Lisa mentioned.
     
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