62

Chapter 62

A Darker Path

Part Sixty-Two: The Plot Thickens

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Director Emily Piggot, PRT ENE

"Good morning, Samuel." Emily entered her office, to find her personal assistant placing a stack of papers on the desk. "Did anything of note happen last night? Any Atropos incidents?" Did some idiot supervillain die in a preventable and ironic fashion, she meant.

"No, ma'am. We got word of infighting among factions of the Fallen last night, but that's just making it easier to roll them up." He straightened the stack, then stepped aside for her. "Oh, and Deputy Director Renick left a message for you. It's on top."

"Thank you, Samuel." Emily sat down and took a sip from the steaming cup of coffee before putting it down and taking up the first of the papers. It was written in Renick's customary neat hand and read:

Emily,

Got phone call from Atropos last night (1923), asking to 'borrow' Miss Medic & Tenebrae this evening at 7 PM, to be returned at 8 PM. She indicated that she needed them to help 'rehabilitate' a supervillain (did not give name) & that Miss Medic's safety was personally assured. Given her prior positive association with Laborn family, I gave permission, notified MM & T, (MM is pleased, T ambivalent) and arranged a bodycam for T (pre-approved by Atropos).

PS: She also said to congratulate you. Unsure what for.

Paul

The crease between her brows furrowing deeper as she frowned, she took another drink of her coffee as she re-read the note all the way through. Atropos was evidently pulling another one of her stunts, which would hopefully not come back to bite the PRT in the ass. Whatever she wanted Miss Medic for, that personal assurance of protection meant that the youngest cape in the Wards ENE would probably be the safest person on the planet. Agreeing to the body-cam merely indicated that she didn't care if the PRT saw what she was up to.

The postscript was the most puzzling aspect. What have I done that Atropos is congratulating me for? On PHO and in their few face-to-face interactions, Atropos had repeatedly expressed respect for Emily and her efforts to keep the city safe, so this couldn't be any kind of subtle mockery. Besides, Atropos didn't do that kind of subtlety. Anyone who got on her wrong side knew about it.

Her phone rang and she checked the caller ID, half expecting to see Atropos' name. But instead it showed Wilkins' name, from New York. Wilkins was currently occupying a cell while the PRT assembled its case against her, so Emily knew it wasn't her on the other end of the line. I really should update the name. Taking up the phone, she swiped the icon. "Piggot."

"Ah, good morning, Director Piggot." It was Henderson, Wilkins' one-time Deputy Director, currently holding down the top spot until they could find someone to step up. "Do you have a moment? It's about Atropos."

"I do," she said cautiously. "Who's she killed in New York?" Whoever it was, Emily was gloomily certain that Atropos would have a cast-iron reason for doing so. It was one of her little quirks.

"Nobody that I'm aware of," was the unexpected answer. "But she called up Flechette, and asked if she was willing to help Atropos out with something tonight."

Emily's eyes opened wider, and she looked down at Renick's note, her brain making connections and adding to the picture. "Between seven and eight, maybe? Rehabilitating a villain?"

There was a distinct pause; when Henderson answered, he sounded honestly surprised. "Well, yes, actually. But how did you know that?"

The temptation had never been stronger to make something up about how well she knew Atropos and her ways, but Emily restrained herself. "Because she's borrowing Miss Medic and Tenebrae from here over the same time period for the same reason."

Again, Henderson paused. Emily could've sworn she could hear the cogs ticking over in his brain as he did the math. "But New York is hours away from Brockton Bay, even flying."

She didn't often get to unleash her snark, so it felt good to do it once in a while. "If you'd forgotten, Atropos can teleport." That was one little fact she certainly wasn't about to forget in a hurry.

"Oh." That one word didn't quite inform Emily whether he'd actually forgotten, or if nobody had briefed him. Knowing Wilkins and her biases concerning Atropos, it could've been either. "What do you think she's doing?"

Emily was starting to wonder if Henderson was actually paying attention to the situation, or if he was just out of his depth. Either way, the sooner the Chief Director found a replacement for Wilkins, the better. "I believe she intends to 'rehabilitate' a supervillain, whatever that actually means in real-world terms."

"Yes, I understood that. I mean, which villain?"

And how the hell was she supposed to answer that? If Atropos wanted me to know, I'd already have tickets to a ringside seat. "I have no idea which one she's set her sights on, but I pity them already. Because they're going to have zero choice in what happens next."

"Are we, I mean, should we … well, do something?"

Emily rolled her eyes, knowing Henderson couldn't see her, but needing to express her irritation somehow. "Deputy Director Henderson, I'm going to do nothing that might interfere with her plans. I would strongly advise you to do exactly the same."

"Ah. Thank you, Director Piggot. I appreciate the advice." He actually sounded grateful at being let off the hook regarding Atropos. Once again, Emily wondered what sort of poison Wilkins had been pouring in his ear.

"You're welcome. Was there anything else?" Even absent the gangs (and what a massive change in operational pressure that had brought about) and Atropos shenanigans, she still had a city to watch over.

"No … no, thank you, Director. I appreciate your time. Have a good day."

"You, too." She ended the call and put the phone down, then re-read the note. What sort of rehabilitation, she wondered, would require Tenebrae, Miss Medic and Flechette? The phone call had left her only a little more enlightened than before, which amounted to 'not very'.

When the phone rang again, barely thirty seconds later, she thought for a moment that Henderson was calling her back. In point of fact, she was in the process of formulating a polite yet pointed way of telling him to run his own damn show and let her run hers, when she registered the name on the caller ID: Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown.

Instinctively straightening in her seat, she took a deep breath and swiped to answer the call. "Piggot here, ma'am. How can I help you?"

No matter how diligent the worker, having the boss call up for a 'casual chat' is guaranteed to generate worry. Costa-Brown hadn't sent word ahead that she wanted to speak to Emily, so this was something out of the ordinary. Emily was fairly sure that she hadn't done anything wrong, but 'fairly' did not translate to 'totally'.

"Good morning, Emily." Costa-Brown sounded almost genial, which didn't actually help Emily's pucker-factor any. Superior officers affected that sort of tone for subordinates who either hadn't done anything wrong at all, or who had screwed up so massively that the officer was smiling so he didn't strangle them instead. Once again, Emily was unaware of any truly egregious fuckups on her part, but that was unfortunately the nature of fuckups; if they were visible from the start, they would be corrected before they got that bad. "How are things with Brockton Bay today? Running smoothly as always?"

Emily still felt as though this was some kind of looming trap, but she answered honestly. "I haven't read today's skim sheet yet, ma'am, but that does seem to be the case. No overnight crises, Atropos hasn't killed anyone since yesterday morning, and the Betterment Committee public works appear to still be in full swing. Atropos has requested the loan of Miss Medic and Tenebrae for an hour tonight, but Tenebrae will be wearing a body camera, so we'll have the full details of that once it's done."

"Good, good," the Chief Director said in the kind of tone that meant she wasn't really listening. "Emily, I've been consulting with Legend and some others, and we've decided that you're the best pick to take over as Director in New York for the duration."

"What." Emily's breath stuttered in her lungs, and her heart seemed to slam to a halt, then bounce back and forth a couple of times. "No. Wait. I was going to retire." She wouldn't have chosen to, but all the indications were that the Brockton Bay PRT was going to be winding back to a mere administration post for the region rather than what was necessary to oversee the near-active warzone that had been the city just three months ago. After ten years of scrambling every day to deal with ever-present threats, she would've chafed in a post like that. "I was going to retire."

"And you will still be retiring." Costa-Brown's tone was firm. "The paperwork has gone through. Your last day on duty will be the thirtieth of June. Four months from today. But we need a firm hand at the helm of PRT New York for those four months, and you tick all the boxes. In the meantime, your Deputy Director should be capable of holding down the fort in Brockton Bay, correct?"

Renick could definitely do that, especially with the current reduction in crime. However, Emily wasn't done yet. Without giving any indication of which way she was going to jump, she carefully composed the question in her mind before asking it. "May I ask what boxes those are, ma'am?"

The smile in Costa-Brown's tone told Emily that she'd been expecting the question. "Certainly. You know what you're doing, you don't take shit, you make efficient use of the resources available to you, you're good at handling difficult capes … and you have a cordial working relationship with Atropos."

The last item, she knew without asking, was the most crucial. Oh, they were all important, but the shadow of Atropos loomed large over the northeastern United States and beyond. Emily had spoken with her, face to face, and had taken her measure. Terrifying, unstoppable, smart, principled. The fate of the Nine, of Nilbog, of the Simurgh, was proof of that.

"I have one stipulation before I accept the new posting." She knew that demanding concessions from the boss at a time like this was a good way to lose the opportunity, but she didn't really care. This was something she needed to do.

"I'm listening." Costa-Brown's tone didn't give any indication as to whether or not she was inclined to grant the request.

Emily took a deep breath. "I want my official retirement to begin five minutes after midnight on the first of July, so at midnight I can be the one to announce that the Endbringers are officially Ended."

It was stupid, she knew. Atropos had already pronounced the threat from the monsters over and done with. Emily knew in her heart of hearts that this was a done deal. But there was no better way she could think of to cap off her career in the PRT than to announce the demise of the creatures that had triggered its formation.

To her credit, the Chief Director didn't even hesitate. "Done and done. We'll expedite your transfer to New York within the week. Hopefully you can be there by Thursday or Friday, so you'll have the weekend to settle in and get your bearings."

"Yes, ma'am." Emily's gaze fell on the note from Renick, and she blinked. "Tell me something, ma'am. When was the decision reached about me?"

This time, there was a frown in Costa-Brown's voice. "Approximately ten o'clock last night. Why?"

Emily couldn't help it; she began to chuckle. "Because I have a note here on my desk from Deputy Director Renick saying that Atropos called him last night more than two hours before that point. During that call, she asked him to pass on her congratulations to me but didn't say why. Now I know."

Costa-Brown sighed audibly over the phone. "As I said, it's essential that you maintain your cordial working relationship with her. I presume you have arrangements to make, so I'll leave you to them."

"Ma'am," replied Emily, just before the call ended. She put the phone down, still chuckling. It was a good joke on Atropos' part; she had to admit that. But beyond that, it had also been a useful way to let her know that Atropos was fine with her going to New York.

It would probably be better this way, she concluded. Watching the gradual dissolution of the PRT department that she'd shored up with her own will and stubbornness over the worst of the bad years would've felt like suffering her career-ending injury all over again. Walking away now would allow her to go out on a high note.

As the Chief Director had suggested, there were arrangements that needed to be made. But not right at that second. Turning her chair so it faced out the window, she gazed at the skyline, at the view afforded by just one office in the city: hers.

I'm going to miss this, she decided. But not a hell of a lot.

Taylor

The audio generation program on the computer hissed and crackled through the cycle I'd set up for it until it came to the end. My phone, leaning against the speaker, recorded every second. I picked up the phone and hit the 'stop record' icon, then started shutting down the computer.

"And that'll do it?" asked Cherie. She'd been sitting there beside me, not saying a word, watching the audio-graph jumping on the screen as I set it up.

"It's a one-two punch, but yeah," I agreed. "Ready to go to school?"

We both knew that was kind of a facetious question. Free of her father's influence, Cherie was achingly eager to find out what she'd been missing out on from life. Actually learning new things every day was a thrill for her.

"You know it." She bumped my shoulder with hers as we got up. "Even awkward moments like yesterday with Sparky are kind of amazing, because he just … walked away when I said no. I mean, there are some people who can't help but be assholes, but they're nothing compared to my brothers and sisters."

"They're probably nicer now," I noted as I picked up my backpack. "I mean, you're nicer now."

"I guess." I could tell that her personal experience was warring with her understanding that I was probably correct. "Someday I'd like to go find them, and see how they're going. Just, you know, not today."

"Got it." We headed out of the bedroom, along the corridor and down the stairs. Cherie's backpack was sitting next to the sofa, and she scooped it up on the way past.

As I went through the kitchen to the back door, I saw that Dad had taken the note I'd left him, asking him to bring home one of those high-powered bullhorns they had in the Dockworkers' Association. Good.

"You know …" Cherie said as I closed the back door behind us and locked it. "We could always just teleport to school. That way, we could stay and watch TV until it's time to go to class." She gave me a hopeful wide-eyed look.

I snorted and hid the key under the fake rock. "We could. Not gonna. It's not a toy, and the bus works just fine."

As we headed out of the yard and set off down the street, she shook her head. "This is why nobody would ever really believe you were Atropos. The most famous cape in the world, taking the bus to school. Only in Brockton Bay."

I laughed and slapped her on the shoulder. "Damn right."

Lord's Port

Accord

"Hmm. Interesting."

Yesterday, he knew, the port had been choked with ships: some listing, all rusted, none really serviceable. Today, the port was clear and the bare ground that had once been stacked high with shipping containers now held those same ships. He'd had a plan for clearing out the ships; an elegant plan, one that would've taken several weeks to complete but which had complete economy of action.

Atropos had intervened with a plan of her own: get the heroes to do it. It had been neither elegant nor economical, but it had only taken a few hours. This required him to scrap that plan and make another one; this one to deal with the now-grounded vessels and to make the port viable for use once more. Where most people would've been frustrated, he looked forward to it.

"Get me numbers," he said. "Tonnages, pollution types and concentrations, buyers for scrap metal."

Plans were already forming in his head, ways and means to disassemble each ship with the least amount of effort. When it came to manpower, he had all he wished to call upon. Money was literally a non-issue.

"Yes, sir," said Citrine, writing busily in her notepad. She was eager to make up for her faux pas and he was inclined to allow her to do so, considering that Atropos had seen fit to spare her life. If such a prolific and effective killer such as that chose to leave Citrine alive, then he himself could do no less.

"I've seen enough here. Take me to the marshalling yards." He needed to see for himself that everything was working as planned, and nobody was pencil-whipping the figures. It was unlikely in the extreme, especially in Atropos' city, but double-checking never hurt anyone.

The limousine drove off silently, Othello waving their B3C credentials at the gate guard to let them out. As they merged with the morning traffic, Accord looked up at the city skyline. He was determined to adhere to every single one of Atropos' restrictions, in both letter and spirit. This was the first time he'd had the chance to use his plans to entirely renovate a city, and he was damned if he was going to pass it up.

Winslow High School, World Affairs Class

Greg Veder

"Hey, Greg."

Greg looked up, then his eyes widened as he realised that Taylor was taking a seat at the desk next to his. She didn't look like she wanted to kill him, but he wasn't about to take that as granted.

"Uh, look, about yesterday," he began. Sparky hadn't shown up yet—or is that because Taylor's already killed him and hidden his body? His overactive imagination began to run away with him, and sweat sprang out on his brow.

"Cherie already told me about it." Her voice was low but she didn't sound angry. "She said you tried to tell him not to. I appreciate that. She hasn't had an easy life up until now. She's okay with people making casual conversation, but anything more is a no-no, okay?"

"Okay," he managed. "Totally okay. One hundred percent." He would've agreed with anything she said right then.

"Good." She smiled and started to stand up. "Thanks for listening."

"Uh, Taylor?" He managed to restrain himself from grabbing the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Having both hands was a thing he'd gotten used to, and he preferred to keep it that way.

She paused, looking back at him. "Yeah?"

What he'd wanted to say suddenly sounded stupid in his head, but he'd gotten her attention, and he didn't want to piss her off by doing that and then saying 'nothing'. "Um, I used to think we were friends, but I'm pretty sure that I was a crappy friend, if I was one at all."

Her gaze sharpened, then she slowly nodded. "That's true." Oddly enough, there was no condemnation in her tone. Just a simple acknowledgement.

Before he could lose his nerve, he rattled off the rest of what he wanted to say. "And—and I'm glad you're happier now and you're doing well." Before anything stupid like you look good or you deserve to be happy or anything else that might sound like he was hitting on her could come tumbling out, he shut his mouth and kept it that way.

She nodded again, her penetrating gaze still on him. He got the uncomfortable feeling that she knew what he'd chosen not to say, but she didn't call him on it. "Thank you. I appreciate it." Turning away, she headed back to her desk and sat down, leaving him sitting in a metaphorical (and nearly literal) puddle of his own sweat. She didn't look back.

A moment later, Sparky ambled in through the door and meandered over to sit next to Greg. "Hey, man. What's happening?"

"Nothing." Greg felt the tension easing out of his body. "Absolutely nothing at all."

And that was the way he preferred it.

Hebert Household, 5:35 PM

Cherish

"So that's what you're going to use? Really?" Cherie grinned and shook her head, looking at the bullhorn and the cord Taylor had spliced into it. The other end of the cord was plugged into Taylor's phone, which was in her pocket, quite hard to see unless someone was specifically looking for it.

Her scepticism didn't arise from any doubt in Taylor or her capabilities. As far as Cherie was concerned, if Taylor went all Matrix on the Machine Army, they wouldn't stand a chance. But killing them by just talking to them was something she was having trouble getting her head around.

"Really." Taylor pulled up her sleeve—she was wearing the Atropos costume, without the mask or hat—and flipped open the access panel, then tapped in a whole bunch of numbers. Cherie assumed she knew what she was doing with that thing. "When I go after them, I have to use the right weapon. This is the right weapon."

"I just can't see how it works." Cherie was honestly trying, but she was pretty sure she just didn't have the educational background to even begin to understand it.

"Think of it in terms of powers. You told me about your sister Flor, right?" They'd sat up a lot of nights while Cherie unloaded all her pent-up frustrations about her brothers and sisters. Considering what those siblings had been like before Taylor killed Cherie's dad's influence over them (and her), she'd had a lot to rant about.

"Yeah, she implants suggestions. Makes you do fucked-up shit that you can't not do. Like having to punch yourself in the head before you can take a bite of food." Cherie looked at Taylor curiously, trying to understand the point she was trying to make. Then the penny dropped. "Wait, this is the same?"

"Yeah. This is the same. This implants commands. And the command is 'die'." Both Taylor's voice and emotional music sounded grimly satisfied about that.

"But we listened to it …" Cherie trailed off uncertainly. Was she going to have to listen to something else to not want to kill herself?

"Only works on Machine Army. Just like Flor's trick wouldn't work on a robot."

That made sense to Cherie. At least, she'd never seen Flor use her power on a machine. "Huh. I get it. I think I get it." She grinned. "They won't know what hit them."

"Even if they figure it out, it won't help them." Taylor pulled her phone out and dialled a number. "Hi, yeah, this is Atropos. You've been told to expect me? Good. I'll be arriving in exactly thirty seconds. Main helipad, yes. Okay, see you then."

Cherie had taken note of the 'thirty seconds'. "Take care, huh? Don't give those mechanical bastards a chance."

Taylor put her phone away, then pulled on her mask and put on her hat. "Don't intend to. Keep an eye on the lasagne." The shadowy doorway formed in midair, and she stepped through with a jaunty wave.

Cherie waved back. When the doorway vanished, she headed through to the kitchen. This was the first time she'd cooked proper food in a proper oven with proper instructions, and she was going to get it right.

Besides, it helped keep her from worrying about Taylor.

Eagleton Base, TN

Atropos

I stepped out onto the middle of a concrete helipad, or at least a wide area of concrete with the big 'H' in a circle on it. There were guards posted around, but looking outward, probably to make sure nothing interrupted the teleport. I would've known, but it was good that they were making the effort.

The first thing I saw was a sign saying WELCOME TO EAGLETON BASE. Following that were a whole lot of rules that I had zero interest in following. My philosophy was simple: rules were all well and good, right up until they got in the way.

"Ah … Atropos?" A PRT officer stepped past the guards and approached me. He was in camo instead of armour, though (like Major Holden, back at Ellisburg) I was willing to bet his armour was someplace nearby if he needed it. "I'm Lieutenant-Colonel Briggs."

"I know. I talked to you on the phone about one minute ago. Nice to meet you, Colonel." I shook his proffered hand. "Where do you think you'll be posted after this base closes down?"

"You're quite sure of yourself." He didn't seem to know what to make of me. I'd noticed that with some people when they met me for the first time, even after watching the footage of what I'd done.

"I'm really, really good at killing things. A bunch of semi-sapient robots just needs a different approach." With a tilt of my head, I indicated an NCO coming our way with purpose. "You can tell the sergeant that he's not getting any of my electronics."

He held up his hand to halt the sergeant but didn't send him away. "It's regulations around here. The Machines are really aggressive, and we've found traces of their programming on unshielded electronics. We don't know if they're remotely hacking them or doing something else, but one of the cast-iron rules around here is that we don't give them access to anything that hasn't been hardened against them." The tone of his voice was a mixture of caution and earnest intent to explain.

I looked him in the eye. "Colonel, there is a phone in my pocket. They're welcome to try to hack it. It's currently running three different types of virus that absolutely will fuck up the day of anything that links wirelessly to it. The rest of my electronics are linked to the phone." I'd spent most of first period constructing one of the viruses while pretending to browse PHO. Likewise, I wasn't worried about the teleporter because Leet had designed it (at my request) not to be able to be wirelessly accessed.

"Sir?" That was the sergeant.

Briggs waved him to silence, apparently so he could think through the conundrum. On the one hand, he had tried and true regulations to fall back on, that had kept the base safe so far. But on the other, I had broken every law in the book, and a few that hadn't even been written yet, and I'd murdered capes and an Endbringer that nobody thought could die.

Well, I'd known they could die. It was kind of my thing.

"Colonel Briggs!" It was one of the guards. "Perimeter says there's movement inside Eagleton! The Machine Army's doing something!"

"They just heard that I'm on site," I said cheerfully. "They might be homicidal killing machines, but they're not stupid. They have to know I'm here for exactly one thing, and it isn't Taco Tuesday." I didn't even have to make any guesses for this bit; my threatscape was starting to bloom as more and more of the Machine Army heard my name and decided that I would have to die.

"Well, you can't go in there now." He looked around as though searching for an available alternative.

"Why not?" I hefted the bullhorn with my left hand, my right hand free to draw my pistol. "I'm just going in to give them their first warning. I'll only kill them if they get stupid."

"But … they're ready for you! They'll kill you!" He clenched his fists. "God dammit. I didn't know they were going to react this badly."

"I did. And you're wrong about one thing, Colonel. They might know I'm here, but they're in no way ready for me." I raised my right hand, just as the timer ran down on my teleporter, and snapped my fingers.

I appeared just inside the perimeter wall, on a street that looked identical to any other section of road in middle America. Asphalt, sidewalk, houses, trees. Kids' toys in the yards. Cars sat at the curb. The lawns had been carefully mowed and the hedges trimmed, while the houses had been recently painted. I could hear a TV playing from one house, and music from a radio station in another direction. Just out of sight, around the corner, I could hear the laughter of children playing.

It was all very normal, designed to entice people to investigate the interior of the houses. Which would be a huge mistake.

Half the cars were (to borrow a phrase) robots in disguise. So were the toys. Something nasty lurked under the manhole in the middle of the street. The houses were the robotic equivalent of Venus flytraps.

And they knew I was here.

That was fine; I knew they were there as well.

I pressed the trigger on the bullhorn; this activated the sound file on the phone. "Attention, Machine Army!" My voice boomed across Eagleton. "My name is Atropos! You know who I am! I'm here to give you a warning! Tell all your friends!" I started walking forward, still talking. "You have two options! Submit to reprogramming, give up your hatred of humanity, and you get to live! The other option is that I come back in twenty-four hours and kill you all! There is no third option!"

One of the toys, a cute plastic three-wheeler, split apart and sprouted spidery legs to stalk after me. I let it get to pouncing distance; just as it leaped toward me, I drew my pistol and blew its braincase apart without looking. The suppressed shot was only a little louder than the clatter of its mechanical corpse hitting the roadway. Parts of the scenery, which had been starting to lean toward me, leaned away again.

"I'll say this again!" The ones around me were opportunistic killers, not dedicated assault units, but those were on the way. In the meantime, I had a message to spread, quite literally.

The audio file I'd crafted and loaded onto my phone edged my voice as I spoke; the machine intelligences listening to it would receive it as computer code, in much the same way as I'd placed patches in Dragon's code. I had no fears of Dragon accidentally catching an electronic cold from this virus if she happened to listen to it, mainly because her programming worked on a totally different format.

What they were receiving consisted of two different viruses. One acted immediately but was relatively innocuous. When I said, 'tell all your friends', the virus made them treat that as a command set in stone, so they began to transmit the entire audio of my speech to all their fellows.

The second virus was far more insidious. It slithered past their filters and constructed itself in the dim, dark recesses of their processing units, but did nothing dangerous once it was finished. Its only activity would be to embed a harmless ping into the communications between its host and each of its fellows. If it didn't get a ping in a communication, it would send a compressed version of itself back along the same comms route.

Still walking, I repeated my whole spiel. "… twenty-four hours and kill you all. There is no third option!"

The first assault units rounded the street corner. There had been no attempts to conceal or camouflage these ones. They were robotic killers, one and all. Nothing an AT-4 couldn't deal with, of course—mechanical limits were still mechanical limits—but thoroughly deadly to an unprepared unit of soldiers. Or, theoretically, a single teenage girl with a bullhorn and a pistol.

On seeing me, they stopped. Not totally surprising; the footage they'd viewed had to have included the fates of anyone attempting to charge blindly at me. Their best strategic processors would've been hard at work, trying to figure out how I'd kill them if they came at me.

I put the pistol away, and waved. "Hi, guys," I greeted them through the bullhorn. "You know how this goes. You gonna be smart about this?"

Two more robots, emboldened by the presence of their bigger nastier brothers, were sneaking up on me from behind; one was the thing from the sewer system, while the other had been masquerading as half a car. I pretended not to notice them.

The assault units in front of me were doing the electronic equivalent of looking at each other and asking, can it be this easy? I carried no heavy weapons, and I'd just put my pistol away. Scans of my body showed no augmentation, no heavy armour, not even a force field. They wouldn't have been sure what the teleporter was, but it only covered my forearm.

A whole bunch of weapons were now trained on me. If even one scored a hit, I'd be so much paste. I had to admit, the Machine Army did overkill really, really well.

Their problem, which they would've strenuously denied if they'd been capable of doing so, was actually a very human one. Each member of the Machine Army was an independent unit; they weren't under central control, so when they fired on me, they each did it at a slightly different time. This allowed me to dance between the raindrops.

I weaved left, then right; the robots sneaking up from behind were obliterated before they knew what was going on. Attacks were going off all around me, a couple of lasers actually perforating my coat (and making it look about twenty percent cooler), but I was never actually there when the payload arrived. Each time I evaded, stepping into the path of a shot that had just gone off, they seemed to get more frustrated, until three of them fired high-explosive shells at the street, directly at my feet. Just before these went off, the teleporter kicked in and placed me a hundred yards down the street.

"Hey!" I called over the bullhorn. "Over here! Missed me, missed me, now you gotta listen to me!"

None of them shot at me. They'd figured it out. I had a teleporter on me, and they wanted it. Any sort of shooting might damage or destroy the teleporter, so they had to capture me bodily.

While they were working out how to do that, I lifted the bullhorn again. "You've all heard what I've got to say. In the words of one of your idols: I'll be back."

They rushed at me. In fact, every robot from every house, car, lawn and playground came at me. The idyllic setting dissolved into a horror-movie scene of clattering metal feet and reaching robotic claws. There was even an animated section of hedge, next to a robotic topiary bush.

I had time for one last, "Toodles!" before the doorway formed behind me. I stepped backward through it and onto the helipad where I'd arrived. A three-inch section of curved metal blade got to within a foot of my face before it clattered to the concrete of the helipad, snipped off by the closing portal.

"Jesus Christ." That was Briggs. The guards were pointing guns at me, but they just as quickly moved them away at his gesture. "Are you alright?"

"Never better." I picked up the robot claw. "Nice."

"So, what are you going to do now?" he asked, clearly under the impression that I'd failed in my objective. "They were never going to listen to you."

"Oh, they listened. They just didn't pay attention." I grinned under my mask. "And if they don't surrender by this time tomorrow? Well, I'm just going to have to come back and kill them all."

"But … how?" He glanced involuntarily around at the base that had been established next to the Eagleton zone, then back at me. The body language was clear: if he couldn't destroy the Machine Army with the resources at his disposal, how could I manage it?

I gave him the same answer I'd given Bastion. "With panache, Colonel. Panache and style."

End of Part Sixty-Two