Behind Distant Stars Page 16

  Another time, perhaps. For now, I had a mission.

  The massive steel vault door shrieked as it swung open. I was glad for the thick walls and draperies, then, for their ability to muffle noise; even so, if there’d been anyone on this floor the cacophony would not have gone undetected. The stealth technologies that rendered this suit nearly invisible were incompatible with the layered forcefield emitters that the Mk 36b used to deaden sound. Fortunately, the security guards were occupied with the party and the metallic complaints were undetected.

  I floated inside. Where the public areas of the estate were ostentatious, this hidden area was marked by an almost military austerity. There was an armory to one side of the vault door and emergency medical supplies to the other. Concrete walls were painted the tone of desert sand, and furniture had been chosen more for durability and comfort rather than appearance. There were no works of art or valuables present in this first room, but a slim hallway extended further and I could see doors on both sides.

  There were several bedrooms (only one of which looked as though it had ever seen use), a restroom, and storage of various types—food, supplies, and pharmaceutical entertainment. Towards the end of the hall I found what I was seeking: a room that contained a collection of artworks, obtained illegally and thus not displayable on the walls of the estate above.

  Behind the Mk 37’s faceplate, I frowned. Two drunk party-goers had slipped away from the veranda and begun exploring the house. I tasked a microdrone to monitor their progress and alert me if their unguided tour took them too close to the basement. I’d left the vault door open to avoid making unnecessary noise; if they were caught by a drug lord's security near to an open vault, I couldn’t imagine a pleasant end to their evening.

  I found my objective: a stunningly beautiful impressionist painting reminiscent of the famous Luncheon of the Boating Party; the Ancient had composed this himself, mimicking Renoir’s style with remarkable aplomb. His college friends, depicted at a picnic; with only a few strokes of a brush, trust and intimacy and friendship had been captured on the canvas. Towards the rear of the crowd, almost unnoticeable, a young woman was looking directly at the artist with an expression of merry acceptance so loving that it tore at my heart.

  I think that it was at that moment that I realized that I hated the Ancient.

  His intelligence marked him as being as inhumanly freakish as myself…and yet he’d had this! I’d been blessed with my parents, with my brother. The expressions in this painting, however, hinted that the Ancient had somehow managed to function smoothly within a much broader social circle. How had he managed it? What had his secret been?

  I was so intensely jealous that had the Ancient appeared before me I would have incinerated him on the spot.

  With hands steadied only by software algorithm, I began my inspection.

  The pigments in the painting were a mix of classic methodology and modern improvements; there was a purple made from the mucus of a rare snail, a vibrant red from crushed beetles, and hints of ultramarine blue from a powdered semi-precious stone. Other colors were store-bought synthetic paints. I saw no immediate pattern to the Ancient’s choice, modern or ancient technique, but noted the differences for later study. Analysis would come later. For now, I observed.

  There were scuffs and nicks at the edges of the canvas. The spacing could have indicated a code, or else they might simply have been damages caused during one of the many times this artwork had been stolen.

  Hyperspectral infrared reflectography revealed that the visible image had been painted atop another: a forested landscape with an unfamiliar tower in the distance. Of this, I took even more detailed scans. There was a code here, I was sure of it. The Ancient had alternated the use of old lead-based and modern titanium white pigments in intricate patterns.

  There were other oddities, too: hints that solvents had been used to clean some sections of canvas but not others. Base-tones in the underpainting that did not match the final work. I felt as though I could examine this work for hours and still find new and intriguing quirks.

  Sadly, I didn’t have hours available; the two inebriated explorers had been noticed, and the guards began their rounds early to be certain that no one else had wandered away from the still-festive party above. Carefully, I set the painting back upon its easel then darted back to the underground bunker’s entrance.

  The guards were too close for comfort, but I swung the vault door shut nonetheless; leaving the passage open might have made it easier to fly out a window and escape unnoticed into the night, but I imagined that the drug-lord property owner would place unhealthy scrutiny upon his guests when the anomaly was discovered. So, I re-locked the door and positioned the tapestry into its normal state. When the guards rushed in to investigate the noise, I floated to the ceiling.

  “What’d you hear?” asked thug number one.

  “I dunno,” replied thug two. “Something.”

  “You sure? I don’t see nothing.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. I dunno. Check careful, the boss ‘s in a mood.”

  “Yeah.”

  And so I stayed pressed against the ceiling as the two security guards checked every nook and corner of the basement. I dared not shift an inch; the Mk 37’s stealth technology was remarkable, but it wasn’t true invisibility. Every time they crossed beneath me or their flashlights swept past my location, I held my breath.

  “I got nothing,” thug two said, sounding annoyed.

  “Same here.”

  “Maybe I heard something outside?”

  “Yeah. Call it in.”

  And finally, I could relax; the two guards wandered to check other rooms and I was left alone. Part of me wanted to stay, to wait until the coast was clear and return to examining the Ancient’s painting, but it was getting late and I’d already recorded all the scans that I’d intended to capture. Somewhat reluctantly, I floated up from the basement and made my way to the open sky.

  Sometime over the next few weeks, I’d be sure to leave anonymous tips to the appropriate authorities. Seeing Edward Trask linked to his drug-running business would not be as satisfying as laying waste to his estate, but it would be vengeance enough to pacify the part of me still enraged by that damned painting.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  From: Cherenkov

  To: BlueEyedGirl

  Subject: THANK YOU!!

  Thanks for the advice! Those articles were perfect, I aced the exam. Also, you were right about Brute: he totally drops his shoulder before throwing a haymaker; I beat him three times in open sparring before I told him how. Majestic was impressed! Brute was pissed off for a while until I told him how I was doing it. He’s getting extra training now to lose the habit.

  How do you get your info? This is the third time you’ve saved my butt.

  From: BlueEyedGirl

  To: Cherenkov

  Subject: Re: THANK YOU!!

  Yay! I’m glad that it helped.

  I read a lot and do research myself, just for fun. I also steal from my brother’s archives. He studies heroes and has lots of useful information. Oh! You’re going to be partnered with Exbow for patrols next week, right? Bring high-carb snacks! Like pretzels, I mean. She’ll be your friend forever. Also, be careful not to fly out of her line of sight. She gave Whistler a lot of grief for that. Check these links.

  From: Cherenkov

  To: BlueEyedGirl

  Subject: Re: Re: THANK YOU!!

  Really? She doesn’t eat much at the NY Shield cafeteria. I’ll give pretzels a try, though. Thanks! Also, I’m getting better about not rushing ahead on my own. It’s one of Cloner’s pet peeves, he dinged me pretty hard last time we had patrols. Is your brother a former hero? Majestic says that the write-up you sent on Brute’s fighting style was professional and used a lot of terminology that’s only used in the main four training schools.

  From: BlueEyedGirl

  To: Cherenkov

  Subject: Betrayal

  You promised you wouldn’t
share it! I’m really angry at you now.

  From: Cherenkov

  To: BlueEyedGirl

  Subject: Re: Betrayal

  I’m so sorry, Blue eyes. I totally forgot! I won’t do it again.

  From: Cherenkov

  To: BlueEyedGirl

  Subject: Re: Betrayal

  Blue eyes? Are you here? I mean it, I was just talking with Majestic and Brute in training and I didn’t want to take credit for myself, because it wasn’t my work. I’ll be more careful. Please?

  From: Cherenkov

  To: BlueEyedGirl

  Subject: Re: Betrayal

  Look, I understand if you don’t want to send me any more stuff, that’s totally cool. Just don’t leave me hanging, okay? You were, like, my biggest fan when I was just getting started and I’ll totally miss talking with you. I’m really really really sorry!!

  P.S. Also, you were totally right about the pretzels. Thank you!

  From: BlueEyedGirl

  To: Cherenkov

  Subject: Apology accepted

  Ok, fine. I’m still mad, but it’s all right. You can be mad at people and still be friends.

  From: Cherenkov

  To: BlueEyedGirl

  Subject: Re: Apology accepted

  I really am sorry, and I’m glad you’re my friend. Oh, you didn’t answer my question. Is your brother a former hero? It’d be great if I could work with him sometime. I’m not supposed to do unsupervised patrols, but Cloner says it’s cool if I’m partnered with someone licensed and insured. And maybe I could meet you, too!

  From: BlueEyedGirl

  To: Cherenkov

  Subject: Re: Re: Apology accepted

  I don’t think it’d work out, my brother isn’t exactly a hero. And I’m sorry, I don’t travel to New York often. :( Oh, I noticed that the Junior Shield canceled their patrol schedule next week. Is everyone okay? Was someone hurt?

  From: Cherenkov

  To: BlueEyedGirl

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Apology accepted

  No one was hurt; we’re just closing ranks because the team leaders think Skullface is in town. The higher-ups don’t want any of the junior team patrolling until he’s caught. It sucks. We’re stuck inside, and most of our teachers are running around in Brooklyn so we aren’t really learning much. I’m getting caught up on schoolwork, I guess. :(

  From: BlueEyedGirl

  To: Cherenkov

  Subject: No Patrols

  I hadn’t heard that Skullface was in NY. Stay safe!

  From: Cherenkov

  To: BlueEyedGirl

  Subject: Re: No Patrols

  Well, maybe he is and maybe he isn’t. Nobody’s seen him. Cloner says he is, though, and Cloner knows everything.

  From: BlueEyedGirl

  To: Cherenkov

  Subject: Re: Re: No Patrols

  I’m beginning to get that impression, yeah.

  ◊◊◊

  Several years ago, I’d built a swarm of microdrones and unleashed them to construct a map of Manhattan’s underground. The sheer number of unused tunnels and caverns was astounding. There were dilapidated subway stations, some decorated with graffiti and occupied by squatters, others completely lost to time. There were steam tunnels and maintenance shafts, long since abandoned. Dark and empty and foreboding, unused sewers and massive drainage pipes snaked under the city with tendrils stretching out under the neighboring boroughs like the roots of a great, invisible tree.

  I’d also found the secret lairs of two active heroes, three villains, and one of the Ancient’s abandoned laboratories. After investing in a thorough cleaning, the latter was appropriated for my own purposes. I’d built a teleportation platform there and could use a secret door to enter into the subway tunnels. From there, a path to Lassiter’s could be traced without ever stepping foot aboveground.

  Years before the first superhuman had arisen, Lassiter’s Den had already been a known sanctuary among the local underworld. On the border between the territories of two criminal organizations, the Den had become a place for members of each group to meet and negotiate. Over time, other gangs began to use the location for a similar purpose. Now, Lassiter’s Truce was upheld by Lassiter’s patrons, a tradition that traced back for the better part of a century. Committing violence here would earn the enmity of a large number of dangerous people.

  Under most circumstances, I still chose to fly from Boston to New York City. The travel was calming, a ritual that gave me time to think and prepare for whatever task lay ahead. Once upon a time, I’d looked forward to those flights, basking in the knowledge that there was a friendly greeting awaiting me.

  My truest friend—Starnyx, killed by the telepathic alien Legion officers whom I later annihilated—had haunted Lassiter’s Den like an amiable ghost. And every time that I was so fortunate as to run into him, I left the region feeling just a little bit closer to being human.

  With Nyx gone, my journeys to the City that Never Sleeps were now taken solely for professional reasons. Starnyx’s compatriots (members of the social activist hacker collective that my friend had helped to create) treated me with respect, but the camaraderie was long gone.

  On this evening, I used the teleportation platform. Even with my stealth technologies enabled, there was a chance that someone would see evidence of Doctor Fid flying through downtown. Word would spread, and I was sure that Dr. Chaise would at least be listening in on the police radio bands.

  After working alongside Valiant in Santiago, I was even less sanguine of my chances to enter and exit Lassiter’s Den without being forced to deal with a confrontation.

  There would be no violence within the bar itself; that law was inviolable. On the street at the entrance, or in the alley behind the establishment—that was another story. The Mk 36b was powerful, yet the combined might of the bar’s patrons could not be ignored. Arriving via the freight elevator from the tunnels below would allay the threat of attack until after I’d had the opportunity to make my case and gather what intelligence I could pry from reluctant lips.

  So I hovered above the detritus, not bothering even to shine a light as I floated through over-sized pipes and drainage shafts. Relatively recently, I’d discovered a means for my forcefields to keep any form of refuse from touching the surface of my armor and to stave off even the slightest hint of odor. Several times, I needed to traverse sections of still-active subway tunnel; fortunately, gathering the current status of every train was simple and it was a trivial task to weave my way through without the slightest chance of accident or discovery.

  Soon enough, I arrived at the freight elevator. Many of the larger and more inhuman patrons found entrance into Lassiter’s Den via this route; a creature like Minotaur could not arrive at the front door without being observed. Their route through the subway tubes was less circuitous than mine, but also riskier; passengers speeding by occasionally caught glimpse of Bullwhip or Minotaur or the Lizard King on their way to Friday night drinks, creating all sorts of rumors about monsters living in the darkness below New York.

  I was as much a monster as any of Lassiter’s patrons. I did not fear their recrimination for my actions in Chile, nor did I fear their rejection. I didn’t. If my hand paused before the button to call down the freight elevator was pressed, it was only because I was distracted by other weightier issues.

  The lift brought me to the main floor, and from there I walked through the kitchens towards the bar area. None of the prep-cooks even looked up as I passed; they were used to the foot traffic, I supposed.

  I’d never eaten at the restaurant attached to Lassiter’s Den; every method that I’d devised thus far to take in solid food without removing my helmet has yielded messy or inadequate results, and I’d never felt that visiting in my civilian identity was worth the risk. For now, I pumped a sample of air from the kitchens into the confines of my normally completely-isolated suit. The room smelled delicious: there were the heavy, rich scents of pan-fried chicken, earthy aromas from roasted root vegeta
bles, and competing bouquets from simmering soup stocks. I delayed (procrastinated, I finally admitted to myself) another few seconds to enjoy the breath’s taste before stepping through the final door.

  All eyes fell upon me and there was a moment of quiet.

  Lassiter’s Den had changed over the decades but still retained much of its old-fashioned charm. The bar area was dimly illuminated, old polished wood warmed by candles and an array of simulated gas lights. Intricately molded shelves held an impressive collection of expensive (and not-so-expensive) spirits and glassware, while the mirror behind the bar was smoked glass. The plastered walls were painted the color of age-yellowed ivory, though the lower third was protected by a cherry wood wainscot, matched in tone and polish to the bar top itself. The barstools, tables, and booths were simple, but sturdy and kept in good repair.

  The clientele here was atypical; there were benches that would provide a comfortable rest for all sorts, from the most diminutive villain to the most hulking of brutes. When Doctor Fid—wearing the Mk 36b medium-duty combat armor—took a seat at the bar, there was no worry that the suit’s great weight would overstrain the furniture. The stool had been designed for just such a purpose.