Yesterday's Hero (3 page)

Tabitha sits and starts pressing buttons. The TVs switch images with little spits of static. One by one by one. Another hall. Another. The same hall from a different angle. The same shots of nothing and nobody.

“Faster,” Shaw urges.

“This is it.” Tabitha seems unsure of whether to give her evil eye to Shaw or the computer. “My Google fu: strong. My security knowledge: excellent. My supernatural ability to overcome shitty programming: not real. Could rewrite the program. You got a spare half hour?”

Shaw shakes her head, more in frustration than in answer. Tabitha keeps clicking. The images drag through their cycle. Another hall. Another. Another. Nothing. Nobody.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Clyde standing next to me, twitching. I look at him to be sure, to try and work it out. Tabitha clicks. An image changes. Clyde twitches. She clicks. He spasms.

Every time she hits the button—a tremor running though his body.

“They’re wireless,” he says, catching my eye.

“Come again?”

“All the cameras,” he says, gesturing to the screens with a trembling hand. “No wires. Pinnochio-esque, one might say. Well one probably wouldn’t. Horrible adjective, but you get the idea.”

Tabitha looks up from her console. “How do you know that?”

Clyde tilts his head, saying nothing. I try to read him. He used to be so obvious, every emotion writ large across his face. But now there’s nothing. Utterly blank. He looks… inhuman feels like the wrong word. But suddenly what he’s lost is very apparent.

“I can feel them,” he says. “I can…” He trails off.

“What?” Shaw urges. “Information, Clyde. Keep the team in the loop.” She sounds like she’s summarizing a training manual.

There’s a decent chance that instead of worrying about why she’s in the field, I should be taking notes.

Still Clyde says nothing. Tabitha is watching him, some distant cousin of concern on her face, finger poised above the keyboard of the computer. The televisions illuminate us in wan light.

I’m trying to think of something incisive and commanding to say when all the TVs go white. Tabitha is a black gothic silhouette framed next to the computer. The edges of Shaw’s face are shown in sharp detail.

Clyde’s body snaps up like a dancer’s. He’s balanced on the tip of his toes, body arched back. Like a live wire is stuck to his spine. A violent shudder runs down his spine, though his arms, his legs. He starts to shiver, a violent tremble.

“Clyde?” Tabitha has cranked up the volume of her concern.

The blare of light from the TVs is unrelenting. And then something flickers, a trembling shadow from the monitors. Everyone’s gaze twitches. Clyde twitches. An image appears on one screen. Then on another. Clyde twitches again. He starts to jerk. Another image. Another image.

“Not me,” Tabitha says, her professional calm definitely abandoned now. “It’s not me.”

Still Clyde twitches. Still the images change. Faster now. One image. Another. Another. My eye tries to track the images but they pick up speed. Clyde is shuddering, no gap between each jerk. His mask shakes, precarious on his head. The spasms grow larger, more violent.

“Clyde!” Tabitha is out of her seat, reaching out to him.

“Clyde, stop.” Shaw’s bark is intended to be obeyed.

But he doesn’t. His fingers blur. His wrists.

Electrocution? Except there are no wires. No electricity. And I’ve seen Clyde electrocute himself in the name of magic. This is different. Something stranger.

A seizure?

I move towards him. I grab his hand, try to calm that at least. It’s like trying to wrestle a runaway jackhammer. I scan the desks for a ruler, something I can jam in his mouth to try and stop him from chewing his tongue off.

Suddenly Clyde stops. The TV images stop. Clyde stands still, panting hard.

You could hear a pin drop. At least you could if Clyde would stop panting for two seconds. We’re all staring at him. I let go of his arm. It seems a little odd all of a sudden.

Clyde flips an exhausted hand at the TVs. “There,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice even if it’s not on his face. “Got them.”

His mask is focused on the TVs.

Our eyes flick there.

Sixteen images. Sixteen continuous feeds. Not a flicker on them. A shattered door. A wall with a T-Rex-sized dent in it. A T-Rex denting walls. An Asian woman, early thirties, firing a semi-automatic pistol. A teenage girl with headphones the size of soup cans over her ears and a revolver in each hand. A middle-aged black man with… wait is that an assault rifle? Seriously?

And more. A bullet-pocked security bench. Shattered glass on a mosaic floor. And there—Clyde’s quintessential bad guy. A stocky, hard-faced woman. A substantial amount of robotics strapped to her left side. A vast spark arcs from a wall towards her, then leaps away from her outstretched palm and beyond the limits of the camera’s vision. In another screen the black man leaps sideways. The screen goes dark. The image blinks, another angle of the man sprawled out, a smoking scar in the floor behind him.

And I don’t know how—I’m actually a little scared of “how”—but Clyde’s right. He’s got them.

W
e all take a moment to be a little stunned. Which is a nice change of pace, I think.

“I didn’t know I could do that.” Clyde sounds as shocked as the rest of us look.

Tabitha is staring at the computer. “You did that? How?”

“I…” Clyde shakes his head. “I could feel them. In my head. Like thoughts. And then… I don’t know. Just thinking about them differently. And on the screen…”

“You, sir,” I say, wrestling my confusion under temporary control, “are one useful bugger, aren’t you?”

“But, was it…? Are
you
wireless?” Tabitha asks.

“Not now,” Shaw’s voice cuts through. She points to the screen. “We will work this out. But not now. Now we go save the day.” She slides the action back on her pistol to emphasize her point.

She is so obscenely badass at that moment I have to admit I am briefly distracted by thoughts of some very naughty things indeed.

But, she’s right. Now is not exactly the time for that sort of thing.

“Where are they?” I ask, pointing to the three people with guns. Surely the militia Inspector Chevy was talking about.

Clyde bows his head. A shudder runs down his spine. Some of the cameras start panning about, zooming in on pockmarked displays and wall posters.

And OK, that’s a little creepy.

But still useful. “Minerals,” I say. There are large crystalline chunks of rock scattered everywhere. A picture of a volcano against one wall. It’s not the hardest piece of detective work I’ve ever done.

“Route incoming,” Tabitha says. She moves even as she taps on her laptop. “Got it.” Shaw kicks the door open and we’re off again.

Two minutes later

Finally: Kayla. She’s waiting for us in the lobby when we get there.

Except… The word “supersoldier” obviously has some baggage attached with it. The captain of a certain nation across the pond is probably responsible for that. There are images of thick-armed men with can-do attitudes, patriotic shields, and Lycra outfits that laugh in the face of fashion laws.

Our supersoldier kicks disconsolately at rubble. Her hair is greasy, disheveled, reminiscent of someone who either just got out of bed or out of a high-end Soho beauty salon. Her shirt is more wrinkled than an octogenarian’s elbow. I’m pretty sure her shoes are on the wrong feet.

To be fair, this is worse than normal. And, considering her week has probably been worse than mine, she’s doing pretty well.

I, at least, am not down two foster children. Kayla on the other hand is dealing with the fact that one of hers had her brain eaten by aliens, and that the other became a demigod who popped the first one out of existence. Basically, she’s been through a lot lately and if she wants to take it out on her wardrobe I’m not going to comment.

“There you are,” I say, as gentle and supportive as it’s possible to address a woman you once believed was a serial killer and who popped your lung one time.

“Situation?” Shaw ignores the softly, softly approach and cuts straight to the chase.

Kayla shrugs. “Just got here.” Her Scottish brogue is so thick right now, individual words are barely discernible.

“You OK?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. Kayla’s not been OK since she was eleven and the aforementioned
aliens took over her family and she had to kill them all to survive. I can’t think of
anything that could have happened
recently to have improved that situation.

Kayla doesn’t even tell me to feck off, though, which rather underscores the severity of how not OK she is.

“You need to sit this one out?” I ask.

Shaw gives me a sharp look. Apparently that is not the plan. For her part, Kayla gives me a lackluster middle finger.

“That’s the spirit,” Clyde says.

I can hear roaring and fully automatic fire and explosions, and the clock ticking. And we do not have the time to counsel Kayla now. And I know Shaw thinks we need her. And I know Shaw is probably right. She usually is. But, punctured lung or no, I do not want to see Kayla come to harm because her head is so far out of the game it’s in another building.

“Kayla?” I say.

“We need her.” Shaw’s voice has an edge. I think it’s a testament to our budding romance that she doesn’t just directly tell me to shut up.

Kayla sticks with the sullen silence. She doesn’t even disappear at superhuman speed looking for something to stab. Just shuffles into line behind Tabitha.

It’s a bad call. I can feel it. If Kayla doesn’t get hurt then someone relying on her will.

“I think—” I start.

“We need her.” Shaw’s voice is a rod of iron coming down on the floor. And I get the feeling that’s what it’s like when she pulls rank.

I consider pushing it, but it seems early in the relationship for open insubordination.

Shaw turns her back, leads the way. Tabitha saunters past, a little smile on her lips. “Just fuck her,” she says. “Not with her.”

Minerals Exhibit

The floor is a glittering death trap. Shards of rock attempt to turn my ankle every step. One slip and I’ll come up studded with more gems than a rapper’s necklace.

The gunfire has risen from a background crackle to an insistent thunder. Bowel-shuddering roars underscore the soundtrack of violence. We break into a run through the detritus of the battle. Double doors mark the line between us and harm’s way.

“OK,” I say, trying to think it all through as we accelerate. “Clyde, you’re the only one the T-Rex seems to notice. You focus on that. Tabitha you stay here. Give Clyde the info he needs. Stay out of harm’s way. And Kayla—” I glance over at her. I’m still unconvinced we can rely on her. But I can’t think of anyone else here who can deal with the T-Rex’s full attention. “—you buy Clyde the time he needs to take it out.” Which leaves. “Felicity—” I start.

“You and I are on the primary. Take out the Russian. Defending the Weekenders is secondary. They got themselves in this mess.”

She’s the boss. But who are the Weekenders? Then there’s no time to ask. The doors fly wide. Shaw slides through them like a baseball player going for the home plate. I shove my earpiece into place. Clyde barrels after Shaw, his substitute body shifting up to ridiculous speed. I elbow my way through. Sweep my pistol in a large arc.

Destruction. Pure and simple. The T-Rex stands at its heart, head pressed to the ceiling. It twists, fixes its piggy eyes upon us, scrapes great swaths of plaster free.

It’s meatier than the last time I saw it. For all the ammunition emptied into it, it’s somehow got more flesh on its bones. Scabs of green skin stretch over the exposed muscles of its barrel chest.

Lightning lances across the room. A display case disappears in an explosion of steel and splinters.

I blink in the aftershock, seeking the source. The far end of the room is raised, separated by a few steps and a low stone wall. Bullets chew the wall’s surface, while I scan for signs of life.

Clyde and Shaw huddle behind the remnants of another display case. The top has been sheared away, glass scattered about them.

I run. Head down. The T-Rex roars. The glass on the floor jumps and rattles. By the time I crash into the display case I’ve sweat through my jacket. I peer around the corner. The T-Rex is lowering its head. Where’s Kayla? Isn’t she meant to—

The double doors swing wide and Kayla saunters through. Like John Wayne with a hard-on for gunslinging. Except Kayla is about a hundred and fifty pounds lighter than John Wayne. And has no guns.

Lightning strobes past her. A crater appears in the wall behind her. Stone shards fly. She doesn’t even flinch. Her sword blade trails her, bouncing and skittering off the floor.

The T-Rex unleashes another shuddering howl. Kayla stops walking. My pulse finds a higher gear.

The T-Rex paws the ground like a bull with
’
roid rage. I swear it curls a lip in a sneer. It reveals teeth. Sharp and glistening now. Teeth for slicing, for tearing. Kayla just stands there, unflinching.

The growl builds like an oncoming train. The T-Rex paws the floor. Its talons tear great chunks of rock free.

And, seriously is Kayla ever going to look up? It just doesn’t seem safe at this point.

The T-Rex charges, each footfall an earthquake. Its jaws stretch. And stretch. I open fire. Everyone opens fire. Its flesh ripples as bullets pour into its sides. It doesn’t deviate an inch. Just barrels on. Death and dust billow in its wake.

It’s not slowing. It’s yards from Kayla. Feet. Inches. She stands so still. The T-Rex brays in victory.

And then, finally, she moves. The sword flies out, my heart leaps, my stomach drops—

Kayla bats the T-Rex’s head out of the way. The dinosaur skids past her, slams into the wall. It sways dizzy. Kayla looks like she never moved. Standing, sword loose at her side. Barely watching.

The T-Rex recovers fast. It spins. Its tail races toward her. She ducks. But… well, it’s too fast to call it lazy exactly, but by Kayla’s standards it’s barely moving at all.