School for Sidekicks (27 page)

Spartanicus glared at her, but didn't immediately attack again. “I'm done with the ‘lesser' evil, Backflash. I will do what has to be done my way, and without you or your Fascist boy scout, Captain Commanding, or I will die. Those are my only options.”

“They aren't, you know. Not unless you choose it. Don't make me kill you.”

“You already destroyed me once, and I came back. Don't bet that I won't do it again.”

“That was a unique circumstance, Spartanicus. If I have to kill you again, it will be the last time. But I don't want to do that. I don't want to see a single drop of metahuman blood spilled unnecessarily. Not yours, not the boy's here, not even our resident psychopaths' like Cannibal Carnie. Work with me. Show me what you've done with the Mark IX—it might save us when the time comes.”

“I don't think so,” said Spartanicus. “The route I took to get here is highly improbable.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “You've used Mr. Implausible again … and the Fluffinator, I would guess. In which case, you're right, not broadly applicable. So, what now?”

“Now you die!”

Green beams flashed out from Spartanicus's palms. The one that punched through my heart came as a complete surprise—he'd moved his hands so slowly I hadn't even seen it coming. Backflash seemed to have been caught off guard, too, because she slumped forward as the green spear half severed her neck. I felt searing pain as—

*   *   *

I was fine. Spartanicus's beam passed through the space I'd just occupied when Backflash yanked my chair out from under me. As I landed on the floor, she turned back to face Spartanicus, her expression grim and wild.

“I believe that we are done here,” she said.

*   *   *

The Mark IX lay on the floor, its face and chest panels open, its electronic innards lying scattered beneath it. Backflash stood above me, her hand clasping mine, though I had no memory of taking it. She pulled me to my feet effortlessly, and I could tell that she was much stronger than I was at my best, though I doubted she was in the same category as Captain Commanding or even Burnish.

As she set me on my feet, she touched the fingers of her other hand to my temple and said, “Remember.”

I felt cold lightning jump from her fingertips deep into my brain, freezing something that had already begun to slip away. “What did you do to me?” I whispered.

“I wanted you to remember what you have seen here today,” said Backflash. “I believe it will provide you with the lesson I mentioned earlier. Without my intervention, Spartanicus would have slain you, twice over. Not for anything you have done or are, but simply for what you would have seen had he succeeded.”

“I still don't understand,” I said.

“I am a timeshifter,” said Backflash. “I can step backward through the doors of eternity and change the past. When I do that, the only ones who can remember the future that now will never be are those I wish to bring with me. Today, that's you, because I want you to keep doing whatever you're doing with Rand, and I need you to understand that I should not be crossed.”

“How far back can you go?”

She gave me an enigmatic look. “What I tell you now, I tell you to set the lesson. Don't make me regret that. Usually, I only move a few seconds, but I have not yet found my limits. I come from a distant future now dead. What I do here, I do because I have seen what will happen if I don't, and it is too horrible to imagine.”

 

20

Fire, Aim, Ready

Dying twice left me completely and utterly flipped out, and I didn't want to be anywhere near where it happened. I went straight from the lab to the gravitic cannon by the shortest possible route—do not pass Go, do not collect your gear, just skedaddle. It didn't even occur to me that I'd skipped out on the rest of my Friday classes until I was halfway to Earth.

When I arrived at the Den, I pelted into the main dome and yelled, “Rand! Rand, where are you? I need to talk!”

There was no answer.

“Denmother, where's Rand?”

“He's not here,” said the mechanical voice.

“Well, where is he? I need him.”

“I'm afraid that I don't know, Master Quick.”

“What, why not?” Denmother
always
knew where her maker was, and I really wanted to talk to him.

“It's the weekend of his birthday,” replied Denmother.

“I think I missed a step there.”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're asking, Master Quick.”

“I asked why you didn't know where he was, and you told me it was his birthday. How are those things connected?”

“Rand told you about what happened with his father and the car.” It wasn't a question. “Each year on his birthday, Rand puts on his armor, takes a car of the exact make and model his father gave him that day and he drives away from the Den. When he comes back—sometimes days later—he does so without the car, a red '88 Corvette.”

“What happens to it?” I asked, genuinely curious and somewhat surprised that I could think about anything but my own recent deaths.
Own. Recent. Deaths. How does that phrase even happen?

“I don't know for certain, but if one were to do a news search for that model car on the dates of his drive, there is an excellent chance that one would find a news item about such a car being totaled in a horrendous accident that never involves other cars or a driver's body being found.”

I looked at the central pillar where Denmother's primary processing units were housed. “And has
one
done such a search for this year?”

“One has not yet. Rand only left a few hours ago, and the accidents rarely happen within a thousand miles of Heropolis.”

“What sorts of accidents?” I asked.

“All sorts, Master Quick. Running into bridge abutments, going off cliffs, driving onto the firing range of an army base in the middle of mortar practice. The list is long and varied.”

“And he's not going to be back today?” I tried to push aside the feeling of my own death with very limited success. I was going to need a big distraction.

“Nor likely tomorrow either, Master Quick. I'm sorry. I have a lunch prepared for you now if you'd like. I made one of your favorites while we were talking.”

I was about to say no when I realized I was starving. Apparently dying made you hungry—and that thought was so ridiculous that some of my flip-out vaporized in the face of its absurdity. After all, no matter what had happened on Deimos, I was fine now. Without another word, I headed for the kitchen, where I found a gyro and fries waiting.

Once I'd eaten, I felt much more human, and my family tendency toward reasonable started to reassert itself. I mean, does it really count as dying if it happened during a time that never actually existed? Or would that be: wouldn't have existed? Or … My head was spinning. How do you even talk about bits of futures-past of the sort I'd just experienced?

A thought occurred to me. “If Rand hates the car so much, why not simply blow it up?”

“I really don't know what his thinking is, Master Quick, but I do know he doesn't like to talk about it. The one time I suggested that setting the car up for target practice in the weapons range would be a simpler mode of destruction, he shut my speakers down for a whole week.”

“Wait, we have a weapons range?!”

“Yes, Master Quick, it's about thirty meters below the trophy room, and walled with Indestructabilium. The armory is also housed there.”

That sounded amazing. “Can I see it?” Maybe I could try out the Foxblaster or something. Blowing stuff up seemed like a great way to get my brain to focus on something other than having died.

“Accessing the facility requires either level-one access or an override code,” replied Denmother.

There went that idea. “I guess there's absolutely no way I'll get down there then.”

“Not at all, Master Quick. As a level-two-access designee, you can request an override code under any number of circumstances, from emergency invasion of the Den through incapacity on the part of Mr. Hammer.”

“I didn't know that. Would any of those options be available to me at the moment?”

“Allow me to check, Master Quick.” There was a brief pause. “Yes, there are several that might be appropriate to the current situation, starting with communications-blackout case three. I have attempted to contact Mr. Hammer multiple times since you arrived, but all of his com equipment appears to have been shut down or sabotaged. As his designated sidekick, you may request temporary level-one access to the Den's physical plant and most of the equipment under the circumstances.”

“Most?”

“Yes. Case three assumes short-term communications failure on Mr. Hammer's part only, and no life-threatening emergencies. For full access to all Den facilities and capabilities you would need to assert case one, which can only be validated if Mr. Hammer is missing in action and presumed incapacitated or dead, or if you can demonstrate an imminent threat to Mr. Hammer's life, which could only be addressed by granting you full access.”

I decided not to ask about case two. “What do I need to do to get case three validated?”

“I have already determined that Mr. Hammer is currently out of contact. At this point all you need to do is ask.”

“I'm asking.” I mentally crossed my fingers.

“Processing … case-three access granted. What are your orders, Master Quick?”

“Show me the armory.”

Ten minutes later I was standing in the armory and looking down the sights of a device that Denmother had called the Foxfire. “How does it work?”

“Attach the tanks. Point the barrel at the target. Pull the trigger. High-pressure flames shoot out the end.”

“Sounds easy enough. May I try it?” I figured I knew the answer—no one is going to hand a thirteen-year-old a flamethrower to play with. But I had to ask.

“I don't understand the question. You already have case-three access.”

I managed to suppress a whoop of triumph. “I'll take that as a yes. Let's test this puppy out!”

“What sort of targets would you like, Master Quick?”

“What are my options?”

“For the Foxfire, Mr. Hammer is quite fond of using fiberglass Captain Commanding units.”

“Like the ones at Camp Commanding?” I asked.

“Precisely, sir.”

“Hooah! Set 'em up.”

A few moments later I was standing at the firing line and sighting in on the nearest target. I pressed the trigger and
FWOOOOM!

Turns out that a high-pressure, weaponized, fire-delivery system is not quite the same thing as the sort of flamethrower seen in games and vids. It's much more like a rocket …

“Are you all right, Master Quick?” The voice sounded tinny and far away, and it took a good three or four beats before I really registered it.

“Yeah … I mean, I'm fine. I think.” I sat up and did a quick check to make sure all my limbs were still intact. “Yep, I'm good.” I leaned down and rubbed at the soot covering my boots. “It's a good thing Armex is fireproof.

“And blast resistant,” I said a few seconds later. I could feel a big patch of scabweb slowly hardening on the back of my head where I'd smashed into the back wall of the weapons range, and I was pretty sure I'd find more elsewhere.

“Yes, Master Quick.” Denmother actually sounded slightly chastened. “I failed to take into account your youth and lack of education. I should have warned you about Newton's third law of motion.”

“Say what, now?”

“‘For every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction: or, the forces of two bodies on each other are always equal and are directed in opposite directions.'”

“Which means?”

“That, in the absence of stabilizers of the sort built into Mr. Hammer's armor, or powers of strength, density, flight, or traction in the appropriate degree, the Foxfire will act much like a personalized rocket pack. One that lacks any sort of computer guidance controls or steering mechanism.”

“It
was
a heck of a ride,” I said, then laughed. Now that I was sure it wasn't going to kill me, the whole thing seemed a lot more awesome than it had while I was flying backward on a giant column of flame. “Not your fault, Denmother.”

“Not entirely, perhaps, but I should not have
assumed
that you had taken into account all appropriate factors before pulling the trigger.”

I wondered about Denmother's emphasis. “I didn't know computers could assume.”

“It's not precisely the same thing as a human would mean when using that word, but it's the closest analogue I could find. The subroutine responsible for the failure has been excised and a new one substituted. It will not happen again.”

“What else can I try out?” Might as well get the most out of a weekend at the Den without adult supervision. Besides, there were plenty more Captain Commanding figures to blow up.

Later, I sat in my rooms with a repeater for the Foxsnooper and listened in on the OSIRIS secure lines. After my experience in Backflash's lab, I was hoping to hear more about what Spartanicus was up to. While I didn't get any direct reports on his whereabouts, there was a good deal of chatter about the gang he'd used at the museum.

Things like HeartBurn and the Fluffinator breaking into the Colonel Cuddlebear warehouse—without running afoul of the Colonel this time. They'd made off with a mobile plushie manufacturing unit—one of those semis you see at county fairs where people can order up a custom Cuddlebear Mask plushie. Or, Mr. Implausible and the Bagger stealing a barge load of fireworks from the Heropolis docks.

It was all fairly minor stuff as far as Hood crime goes, but there was a lot of it, and nothing obvious connecting the various heists. For example, why would Mempulse break into the Mask Hall of Fame and steal nothing but a box of old trading cards from the basement archives, when there were much more valuable and dangerous items there? Or, why would HeartBurn cut the cornerstone plaque off Washburn High School?