Soon I Will Be Invincible (6 page)

Memories scroll by. I thought it would be different at Peterson, but it wasn’t. I see myself spending long afternoons in my single room, not very different from the one I live in now. I read and I filled my notebooks with drawings and ideas, crazy stuff. Once when I built the time machine that took me back to the Punic Wars, I couldn’t resist stopping to peer in my own window, looking in on that crucible time, of a genius that didn’t know itself.

I keep talking. “This girl who was supposed to spin straw into gold. They put her in a jail with a lot of straw in it. And there was a little dwarf who came in to help her.”

Phenom hits me again, and I really feel it this time. There’s no way for me to roll with these punches, and I’m not feeling especially invincible right this second. Bluetooth checks the window, but I don’t think it matters. Even if they kill me they won’t be in that much trouble. Maybe none at all. I wonder when he’s going to try out the blades.

“Only she had to know his name. Nobody knows. She doesn’t know. King doesn’t know. Villagers don’t know.”

“Whatever. Step it up, Blue. This guy’s not going to give us anything.”

I can’t remember how this goes, but it doesn’t matter. I’m trying to keep my voice from shaking. I actually don’t know how much more of this I can stand.

“So he just keeps showing up and asking her, ‘What’s my name? What’s my name?’”

Phenom shifts, restless. “Okay, Doc. You want to mess with the Phenom?”

Phenom brings out his blades, sliding them from their housings, one in each forearm, each a foot and a half long. He makes a show of it, performing for his friend a little. Bluetooth gives the observation window another sidelong glance, but nothing he sees there seems to bother him. It’s coming soon now; I can feel it in my altered blood.

“Finally, she just asks him his name, and he says…” Is this how the story goes? I can’t remember.

In a flash, Phenom has his face pressed up against mine, one forearm against my chest, blade to my throat. I can feel the chair’s front legs come up off the floor. I ready myself to go out like a supervillain. “Fucker fought my father!”

“Listen. The little dwarf says…” I just want to get this out.

“Jared, he’s…” Bluetooth has a hand out, but he’s too far away. Phenom’s half-turned to look at his friend. The chair is at the tipping point, and then it starts to go over. All I can see is the ceiling.

Why is it always like this? I’d forgotten about this stuff. Let myself get complacent. Images of Peterson get confused with the present day. In another room with a tiled floor, they stand around jeering while I face the urinal. I leave, face blank, in a trance of shame. Somewhere in that darkness, I wedded myself eternally to science and genius and anger. How had I forgotten that?

“Rumpelstiltskin!” I shout. I bend my legs and then drive one heel up and into Phenom’s chin as hard as I’m able. It would have broken an ordinary man’s neck and jaw, but Phenom’s skeleton is mostly metal. He can take it.

I roll to one side and get my knees under me while Bluetooth stares, aghast. Here’s the dangerous part: While Phenom is still sprawled out, one arm conveniently extended, I lean back and gingerly bring the metal restraint down on that next-generation titanium blade. I put as much weight on it as I dare, and after a few seconds, the edge bites and goes in. The metal parts, and I’m a free man.

I half-stand, one arm still hooked through the chair, and bring the whole business up and then down on Bluetooth’s bald head, restraints and all. In the tiny interrogation room, it sounds like a bomb going off. I hit him again, and the chair falls to pieces.

How had I forgotten this? When life gives you lemons you squeeze them, hard. Make invisible ink. Make an acid poison. Fling it in their eyes.

Phenom is on his feet again, a little wobbly but still game. He’s got his hands up, blades extended. Either of those things might take my head off like a dandelion. I duck between the blades and lodge my shoulder in his solar plexus. I wonder, fleetingly, if I’m too slow now. I’m fighting my old enemies’ children now. I wonder what they have now that I don’t know about. I get one arm around his waist and drive him to the wall.

He’s young and healthy and full of biotech modifications, but he doesn’t seem to have any combat training. I’ve got him pinned. His helmet comes off and clatters to the floor. He’s blond, younger even than I’d thought. I can smell his shampoo and his cologne. An alarm is going off. He tries to pull away but I’m too well braced, and he doesn’t know how to break this hold. He’s cursing me out under his breath, thrashing. In a moment he’ll get one of those blades free, and then it’s going to be over. Bluetooth’s clattering around behind me, struggling to get up.

I duck under one of his arms to get him in a submission hold, and with his head between me and the wall, I make an end of it, not particularly nicely. The arm will heal. Guards crowd to the window, horrified. I mostly don’t like an audience, but just this once it’s gratifying. This is what they were warned against, over and over. They probably had to take a whole class in metahuman containment, never thinking it would matter. I can just see them thinking, God, we’re in trouble. We so blew it! Far off, concentric rings of security doors are slamming shut, trapping them in here with me.

I can see myself in the two-way mirror. My nose is bleeding a little, but I don’t look as bad as I thought. I put Phenom’s blade into the door lock, then kick it out. The guards scatter. A few of them make a stand, but in the hallway I can take them three at a time, swinging the shackle like a club, a wolf among sheep. Sometimes it’s good just to work with your hands.

I fan out the prison blueprints in my mind, sharp and clear in three dimensions. I memorized this place years ago, against the day I’d be seeing it from the inside. The cinder-block walls are backed up by a cube of solid titanium plates, laced with heat, motion, and pressure sensors. I know the exact nature of the trap I’m in.

But I have leverage. Dragging Phenom and Bluetooth behind me, a heel in each hand, I make my point to the whey-faced guards manning the security checkpoints: Do you really want to see these heroes die on your shift?

A few minutes later, I can smell fresh air. A shotgun takes out the safety glass, and then I’m out under the floodlights and the black sky, heroes abandoned behind me, broken-field running toward the fence. It’s shockingly cold out, and the guards are firing at me freely, snipers in the towers. I take one between the shoulder blades but it doesn’t matter. They’re only bullets.

When I reach the courtyard wall a roar goes up from the tiers that seems to shake the whole prison, drowning out the sound of gunshots, helicopters, alarms, the whole pandemonium of it. I put up a hand to acknowledge it, make a slight bow. It’s my twelfth exit from federal custody.

A mad dash to the outer fencing, across a drainage ditch, and I’m gone, out into the freezing darkness and a long night evading pursuit in the Illinois farmland. In my mind, the new scheme is already falling into place. Overhead, the moon is waxing, innocent of my plans.

They’ll be scrambling fighters at the nearest air force base, but they won’t catch me. CoreFire is still out there—I’m sure of it—and Lily, and all the rest of them, but I’ve got tricks they haven’t seen yet. When they caught me the last time, I was working on something new, something different. During the long prison stay, it has germinated, and tonight it begins to flower.

I’m cold and free and the smartest man in the world, and this time they’re going to know it, I promise you. I promise you that.

CHAPTER FOUR

SUPERFRIENDS

         Three days later, I get e-mail from [email protected]. I stop before opening it, knowing what it has to contain. I think of half a dozen things to do first, knowing that yesterday was a momentary aberration and that back at home in the apartment it’s not going to matter. That the spiral I’ve been in for the past three years has way too much momentum to stop now.

Even when I finally shame myself into looking, I stare for a few seconds before I can make myself read it. But I’m in. It’s temporary, probationary, provisional, but I’m in. I have an ID card waiting for me that can walk me into the White House, or Cape Canaveral. You would think I would whoop or dance or something, but instead I just stand there with my eyes closed for almost a minute. I honestly thought they’d taken my tear ducts.

I get a glass of water and sit down to read the e-mail in earnest, taking my time with it. They list the team, everyone from yesterday’s meeting. Technically we don’t have assigned roles, but I can see now how we fit together. Damsel is team leader and resident powerhouse, although, should it come to it, Lily is at least as tough. Blackwolf is a master tactician, and in a fight his talents put him on a level with just about anyone. Elphin’s a born warrior and bona fide mythological figure, well able to handle herself in a fight and with access to weirder sources of power. Mister Mystic handles his own spheres, the supernatural and extraplanar; most of his powers we have to take for granted. I do tech and surveillance, and bring my own enhancements to the table. Feral’s an associate member, with muscle and street connections. Rainbow Triumph is a minor, so she’s assigned to Blackwolf as a sidekick.

The e-mail says I get a residence at their headquarters for as long as I want it, which is when I really realize I’m leaving. I’m not at all sure what this is going to be like, but…I have a vague image of missions against devilish opponents; tense, earnest conversations held in the private jet; in-jokes and raucous training sessions. Victories. Teammates who’d give their lives for you. Anything but taking bullets for former frat boys; anything but staying home and listening to the police scanner and trying not to put my hand through the drywall and into the apartment next door. Anything but what I have now.

I throw some clothes in a duffel bag, and start to pack some boxes for Goodwill, before giving up and leaving most of it on the sidewalk. I haven’t accumulated much new stuff since leaving the NSA, and I really don’t care what happens to most of it. I can come back for the stupid car, and suddenly I can barely stand to be there another minute.

I take Amtrak this time, four hours riding south with my knees against the seat in front of me, enduring stares. With my long silver ponytail I’m a fantasy princess, until my mods register, my height and the glint of metal at the wrist, the jaw, under my hair. At least I always get a seat to myself.

Arriving is a relief. I breathe in the stale air of Penn Station, then walk all twenty blocks north and east to my new home, striding among the pedestrians like a native. People look at me here, too, but now it’s Manhattan and it’s all right somehow. Here I’m just part of the show—I even keep a lookout for any crime I can stop, just in passing. I’ve always wanted to live in New York.

“Name?” It’s a different receptionist than before.

“Fatale.”

A blank look.

“Fuh. Toll.” For the millionth time I wish I’d been “Cybergirl.” It was right there at the top of the list.

I hold up my sheet of printout; he takes it and looks it over, barely glancing at me. The gray metal door behind him is heavily shielded, locked down so hard none of my senses can get a grip. Must be Blackwolf’s design—I’m impressed. He hands me a laminated card without a word.

I slide my temp ID through the slot in the elevator, and the button for the Champions suite lights up. I don’t know what kind of welcome to expect at the top. When I was an enhanced operative, I worked alone, a deniable asset. I was the cavalry, a cyborg enforcer who stepped off a helicopter and cleaned up the mess of an operation gone wrong. It was my job to be nobody. I don’t have fingerprints, and most of my coworkers weren’t even cleared for my code name. Even my EEG signature has been masked. I was very good at it, at least for a while.

I almost panic on the way up, worried that it’s not going to live up to expectations, or that it’s all a mistake. But Blackwolf greets me as I come out of the elevator. He’s in full costume, like always. He’s maybe an inch shorter than I am; we shake hands firmly. In a way I’m relieved that it’s him. It’s nice that somebody else here is, well, human.

“Welcome to the Tower.” God, he’s got a good smile.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll show you to your room. First strategy session isn’t until tomorrow, so you’ve got time to look around.”

He leads me through a kind of reception hall to the residential wing. Trophies hang on the walls, half-familiar from the headlines of ten or fifteen years ago. Some I recognize—the gemlike core of a rogue AI, and Doctor Impossible’s mind-control helmet, the one he’d used on the Russian ambassador. Others I can’t identify at all—the head of a robotic gorilla. I knew the Champions had money, but it’s just sinking in how much.

“We’ve got eight floors here. There’s a training room, library, meeting rooms, apartments. There’s also an emergency hideout in Hawaii, and another one on the Moon.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Is he? I knew they had access to alien technology, but still…

He smiles and winks. I’m used to ranks and procedures, but superteams are more about personalities. How does mine fit in here? We pass CoreFire’s old room, a reminder that one of those personalities is missing now. The group drifted apart since the mid-nineties breakup, but everyone kept in touch with CoreFire. Even after he started holding his own press conferences, like a bitter NFL quarterback.

“Here you go. Room’s keyed to your ID.”

“Thanks.”

“Rest of the team’s out, but they’ll trickle in toward evening. Dinner’s whatever you can find—I’ve got patrol.”

He leaves me alone to unpack. My room looks like a hotel—whoever lived here before me didn’t do much decorating. Then I catch on—this must be Galatea’s old room, the famous living robot. It figures.

I don’t like robots. I hate meeting them socially, even the smart ones that can paint pictures and talk about religion. I met XCathedra once, at a Washington reception connected to the high-tech industry. She was there, schmoozing with cybernetics executives who crowded around her like dwarves around Snow White. She was painted in white racing stripes for the occasion. I found myself looking at her shoulder joint, wondering whether we had any technologies in common. When our eyes met the feeling was uncomfortably intimate.

I never met Galatea. It’s strange to think of sleeping in her bed, brushing my teeth in a bathroom that belonged to a legend. Not that she ever slept, or used a bathroom. She was an android, a very sophisticated one. One that cried and laughed and allegedly fell in love. Everyone loved Galatea, and even I can see why—those wide green eyes, the perfect figure, the meltingly soft voice. She looked designed to be adored—even her weapons were pretty. Looking in the mirror, it’s clear that whoever designed me had other things in mind.

It’s late afternoon. There’s time to walk the halls a little and just breathe in the smell, the gleaming fixtures, the glamour. It’s like a luxury hotel suite and science fiction headquarters in one, and I never want to leave. Up on the roof garden, where fliers can come and go, I watch the sun set along the skyline.

The kitchen, though, looks just like any dormitory kitchen. Damsel is standing at the counter, shuffling through old case files, when I come in looking for coffee. In sweatpants and a T-shirt from the Yale Law School she looks a lot smaller, smaller than I am, and I don’t see her iconic swords anywhere. The force field pulses a soft, steady amber. It hums a little in the quiet.

When she hears me come in, she jerks her mask down before turning around.

“Sorry,” I say. Sort of.

“It’s no big deal. There’s tea on the stove.”

“Thanks.” I’m not really a tea person, but I pour myself a little.

“You moved up here from Boston?”

“That’s right. Near B.U.”

“Nice.” Not really, I think. I remember she’s seen my apartment. The hardwood floors that clunked and creaked under my weight. The landlord made me put down carpeting and sign a dozen disclaimers, and practically begged me to wear a mask. Superheroes aren’t popular tenants.

“Well, we’re glad to have you with us. I’ve never worked with a cyborg before.” She touches her mask, making sure it’s on straight. She still has a secret identity somewhere.

“Just don’t ask me to program your VCR and we’ll be fine.”

Polite half smirk, but the corners of her mouth don’t really move. She doesn’t smile a lot. I’m good at noticing these things; we machines are.

“Is that for tomorrow’s briefing?”

“Just going over some of the old players.”

“Anything I can do? I’m feeling a little useless around here.”

“You’ll do fine. We all get our start somehow.”

I guess we do at that, although some people get born with flight and a force field, while others get ground into the Brazilian pavement. Funny thing.

I’m walking back to my quarters when Lily stops me.

“Come on. The real action’s down in the gym.”

Everyone seems to have gravitated there. I watch through the glass as Rainbow Triumph runs her workout. She was too young to be in the original Champions—famous as she is, this has got to be a coup for her. She has a complicated fighting routine, training on three heavy bags at once; at her fastest, she’s a blur of color.

Lily watches with me.

“Settled in?” she asks.

“I guess. People aren’t exactly forthcoming around here.”

“Trust me, you’ve got it easy.”

Rainbow thumps the bags in a regular rhythm. She’s faster than I am, I realize. Lily shakes her head.

“That bitch. Those fins on her gloves have razor edges.”

“How do you—did you guys ever fight?” I ask.

“That one didn’t make the TV. Come on, let’s go in.”

The gym is packed with custom equipment designed to challenge the superhuman physique, supermax weight arrays and a laser-monitored obstacle course. It smells like leather and sweat in here; it’s the only room that looks like people use it. Most of the action is on the mats. Blackwolf and Feral are sparring, and even Damsel stops to watch.

At six three, Blackwolf is overmatched by a foot and a half, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He looks like a masked Beowulf against a hairy Grendel. He gives ground thoughtfully, cutting once at Feral’s eyes with stiffened fingers, almost as an afterthought.

Feral doesn’t just dress up as a monster—the hair and teeth aren’t a costume. Being a big cat doesn’t seem like much of a power at first, but he moves spookily fast for someone so big, dropping to all fours a few times, once bounding fully over his opponent. His claws leave pinpricks in the matting.

Feral has spotted his opponent a weapon, a frayed length of cord with a blunt metal hook tied at the end. Blackwolf dangles it absently from his left hand. His posture is loose, offhanded. He is supposed to be thirty-eight if you believe his publicist; but if age is catching up with him it doesn’t show. There’s a little maneuvering, keeping distance; then they close. There’s a flash of movement I can’t follow, and Blackwolf is actually off the ground, one foot braced in the crook of his opponent’s knee, groping for a hold on Feral’s long left arm.

Feral throws him the length of the mats, but he rolls smoothly out of it and comes to his feet again in an easy fighting stance. They trade a few barbs, the usual “You’re getting soft, old man” stuff. He pays out cord now, swinging it in long, slow arcs. You have to appreciate the artistry of it. Feral can lift a car, or leap half a city block. His fingers end in claws, for heaven’s sake.

Feral tries a wild slash, but Blackwolf just folds away from it. The hook arcs up lazily, and Feral bounds forward under it. Blackwolf lets the hook whip around in three quick motions, once around Feral’s throat, and it’s over. They say he thinks these things out eleven moves ahead, a high-speed chess player. Feral taps out, shaking his head.

Elphin catches my eye, an invitation or a challenge.

She gestures to the mat, like she’s not sure I’ll understand English. I don’t know what she thinks I am. A knight in patchwork armor? I wonder if they’ve explained it to her—the accident, the operations, the rest of it.

I shrug. “Bring it on.”

“I would not hurt thee.” Christ.

The others are clapping now, getting ready for the show.

“Fresh meat!” barks Feral, his fangs mangling the consonants. “Let’s see what the feds taught you.”

“Yes, let’s have a look at you.” Blackwolf’s watching me carefully, with a techie’s concentration. He wants a systems test. He touches a button on the wall and some of that equipment retracts into the wall to give us more space, clearing the floor for a battle royal. I see a video camera switch on overhead.