Starfall Read online

  “I’ll look into it,” I informed the Ghost. I’d already figured out what had caused the problem; a quick check via my neural tap found a notification that my automated factory had run low on supplies. I should have caught that. Whisper, whose multitasking and information-gathering capabilities bordered on the ludicrous, would have reminded me if I had let that slip. But Whisper was gone and I’d been understandably distracted. “The problem will be fixed shortly.”

  The Red Ghost’s shoulders relaxed only slightly. “Thank you.”

  “If I decide to change our agreement, I’ll tell you to your face.” I sighed exasperatedly. And then, because I was feeling petty, I added: “I’m not a hero, after all.”

  “Cloner told me what he’d done,” he shook his head. “Honestly, I’d been worried that you’d sabotaged the shipment in retaliation. I should have known better.”

  I barked in laughter, and my vocoder made the sound sinister. “That’s kind of you to say, but now that you’ve mentioned it I have to admit that I find the idea tempting.”

  “Please don’t,” the Hispanic hero asked gently. “We’re saving lives. Despite how things ended with the Brooklyn Knights, I know that you still value that.”

  While I wanted to believe that he was correct, that priority felt academic when measured against my need to see my sister safe. In the end, I simply sighed. “I am…grateful…that you are willing to continue our dealings. I had half-expected for this meeting to end in violence.”

  “For what you did to the Brooklyn Knights?”

  “And for what I did to Skullface and Dr. Chaise,” I replied. “You were angry when you discovered that I’d killed Imperator Rex.”

  “I was angry because I’d believed that you’d killed Imperator Rex for personal reasons,” he shook his head slowly. “Skullface and Dr. Chaise were killed to save our city. I’m not going to lie…I’m not happy that you chose to commit murder, but I do understand. My wife was among those who were kidnapped by Skullface’s spell. As was I. And as for the Knights…You hurt them badly, but you also let them go. I think Cloner can claim as much blame as can you.”

  I found myself oddly touched.

  “That having been said,” the Red Ghost continued, a hint of steel sneaking into his tone. “I don’t condone your recent actions.”

  And now came the expected righteous judgment. I cut my external speakers so that he could not hear my exasperated sigh.

  “I’m serious,” he said crossly; somehow, he must have guessed that I’d rolled my eyes. I checked my body-language control algorithms and suit telemetry but found no anomalies.

  It was possible that I’d spent too much time conversing with the Red Ghost rather than simply fighting against him, and he’d become able to interpret my sudden silences. A worrying proposition.

  “You’ve become more aggressive in the months since Skullface,” he continued, “and if you didn’t sabotage the delivery on purpose then you made a mistake you wouldn’t have made three months ago.”

  “We’re done here,” I bit out. “I’ll ensure that another shipment of control boards arrives within five business days.”

  “Don’t dismiss this,” he frowned. “Titan has recovered and the Boston Guardians are back to full strength. We’re grateful to you for saving our city, but that doesn’t grant you immunity if you continue down this dark path. We’ll stop you.”

  “You won’t.” I stated evenly, though my blood felt as though it were boiling in my veins. “Not this time. There are tasks I need to accomplish, and you and yours had best stay out of my way.”

  “We won’t do that. We can’t.”

  “Then I suggest that you train someone at the manufacturing facility to take over in the event of your untimely demise!”

  For a long moment, there was silence.

  “You and I have fought for nearly a decade,” the Red Ghost frowned. “Yet I think that is the first time that you’ve directly threatened my life.”

  In a secret bunker I kept a series of crayon drawings produced by my dead brother’s hand, comic strips detailing our imaginary adventures as heroes with him starring as the titular “Strongboy” and I as the sidekick Doctor Fid (“because you’re a P-H-D doctor and ‘P-H’ is pronounced ‘fffff’.”); in the same vacuum-sealed and UV-resistant glass case rested an action figure depicting the red cloaked figure who stood before me. I often imagined Bobby playing with that toy, expression focused but smiling nonetheless. He would have loved it. My little brother would have worshiped the Red Ghost, and the rational part of me could not fault him for it; there was an annoyingly intelligent, moral, and dedicated man hiding behind that crimson mask.

  I took a slow breath to steady my pinwheeling emotions.

  “Don’t interfere,” I warned, suddenly weary. “For a little while longer. Please.”

  His expression turned sympathetic and he had the look of a man about to wonder aloud if I was well. If I let him ask, I was worried that I might break down and tell him the truth.

  To avoid that embarrassing scenario, I flew upwards through the ceiling and into the night sky at maximum boost. Afterburners really are the most effective method to avoid uncomfortable conversations.

  The majority of my infrastructure resided in the northeastern United States; California may as well have been a foreign country. Certainly, I’d never shifted sufficient resources to build a teleportation platform on the West Coast. I dared not operate at the Mk 39’s full power lest I attract attention; even with my latest advances in flight speed and with forcefields shaped and modulated to eliminate air friction, travel time to California and back would take hours. Even so, I plotted a sub-orbital ballistic arc and took to the sky.

  Professor Paradigm had sent word that he wanted to meet in person.

  In any other circumstance, I would have enjoyed watching the tableau passing beneath me; I rarely traveled long distances during daylight hours, and from a few hundred-thousand feet of altitude the world was a lovely marble. There were sprawling metropolises etched into the landscape, scars torn into the Earth from mining and industry and pollution…and yet, there was glory, too. Smaller picturesque villages, rolling hills, vast forests, empty plains, mountains and lakes and rivers and a world that felt alive. Everything connected, all part of a greater whole.

  Above me, the stars…the deep black of empty vacuum and the countless pinpricks of vibrant light scattered throughout grand expanse. Above the majority of the Earth’s atmosphere, the view was clear. Sadly, my mind was focused elsewhere.

  I used my neural tap to turn off my eyes and slaved my body to an autopilot function, so that I could concentrate fully upon the formulas that I’d begun exploring earlier. Mentally, I used the quantum-networked link to reach out to dozens of computers and trigger simulations and calculations, to hack university systems and gain access to a promising doctoral student’s thesis, and to download relevant texts from libraries around the world.

  Even with my heavy combat drones left behind, any time I was cocooned within Doctor Fid’s armor I was primed for battle; being ready to match wits against a hero who claimed to be a scientist was another thing entirely.

  Oblivious to the void above and the grand panorama below, I submerged myself in math and engineering schematics to prepare.

  4

  The area surrounding Professor Paradigm’s manufacturing complex was parched: fields of dried grass bleached nearly white, broken by patches of sun-baked earth and clay. The facility was located in the foothills at the south edge of town: a straight road to highways but with few neighbors. There was a ranch a ways up the hill with fewer than a dozen horses wandering the property, grazing upon withered vegetation. A lonely business park stood down the road with only tumbleweeds populating its parking lot. It was a quiet region, stark but picturesque.

  The only bustling activity within line of sight was within Paradigm Labs. Twenty-one cars were present in the lot and two trucks preparing to leave with the day’s shipments, and one slee
k, elegant aircraft rested upon the main building’s helipad. Silver and white with electric-blue trim, there was something eager about its shape, something playful. Even powered-down and still, the craft looked like it desperately wanted to explode from the surface and leave the Earth behind. Professor Paradigm’s personal vehicle.

  With my cloaking systems fully engaged, I descended from the heavens.

  Despite the manufacturing facility’s nondescript appearance, there was ample evidence that the location was well-defended. Equipment sheds and fake air-conditioning units were spread across the buildings’ rooftops, and they could easily house hidden weapon turrets and an impressive array of threat-detecting sensors; I bypassed active and passive radar, sonar, and two frequencies of LiDAR as I approached.

  My own scans were able to determine which building was being used for research and which buildings were being used for manufacturing; Professor Paradigm had indicated that I should meet him within the former, so I deactivated my stealth field as I neared the tall smoked-glass entryway. The glass doors swung open automatically and I floated forward to the front desk towards an increasingly distressed-appearing security guard.

  “I am expected,” I explained calmly, keeping my hands relaxed at my side. The body-language modification algorithms that I’d designed into my suits had been intended for intimidation purposes; fortunately, those programs could be disabled if a less threatening demeanor was desired.

  The security officer—a slim, mid-twenties blond wearing a professional-appearing suit—took a moment to gather his voice. Facial recognition confirmed that the name on his employee badge—Keith Henrickson—was accurate. “Wh-who are you meeting today?”

  “Professor Paradigm. Inform him that I have arrived.”

  “And, uh, who should I say is calling?”

  Even with the Mk 39’s body-language modification algorithms disabled, the security guard wilted under the force of my faceless and expressionless glare. He tapped at the switchboard to make the appropriate call.

  “Professor? You have a visitor waiting in the lobby. He says that you were expecting him?”

  There was a pause. The communications equipment on-site was annoyingly secure; I wasn’t able to intercept the response.

  “It appears to be Doctor Fid, sir.” Another pause, followed by a strangled chuckle: “Yes, sir, I’m pretty sure.”

  Keith Henrickson developed a queasy expression and dove to take cover behind his desk.

  The floor-to-ceiling windows that I’d passed while entering into the lobby went opaque, and I could hear what sounded like heavy blast doors slamming into place throughout the building. A fraction of a second later, the lighting flickered and shifted to an angry red hue and an alarm began to blare.

  The level of melodrama seemed unnecessary for a consultation, but I had to admit that I was in no position to throw stones. Similar theatricality had awaited more than one superhero who’d burst into one of my decoy lairs.

  To allay boredom, I took the opportunity to perform more detailed scans of the building’s security. The exterior fortifications seemed adequate—force-fields and structural integrity fields layered upon the armor plating that had sprung up around the building—but the internal defenses were woefully insufficient. The desk that the security guard was huddling behind, for example, was constructed of material that would barely stop a high-powered rifle. It seemed oddly cruel to leave an employee so poorly defended.

  I was still designing theoretical improvements when my systems issued a series of high-level alerts. Faster even than my augmented reflexes and automated systems could react, gravity itself was twisted around me and the breath was driven from my lungs. There was a moment of vertiginous, wild spinning followed by a shock of impact that overwhelmed my inertial dampeners.

  Darkness.

  “I have some design ideas for my next body,” Whisper smiles shyly.

  “We just finished building your current body, sweetheart.” I don’t look up from my worktable. The majority of the rosin fumes are captured by a desktop air-cleaner, but still the familiar piney scent wafts over me as I solder a component into place.

  The design will be miniaturized and re-factored and optimized before the final automated fabrication…but I still prefer making basic proof-of-concept prototypes by hand whenever possible. There is something viscerally satisfying about feeling an idea grow into physical form within my grasp. And so the table has been co-opted for the act of creation, covered in an eclectic mass of breadboards and wiring harnesses and assorted components; eventually, this will hopefully evolve into a more efficient (and significantly less expensive) controller for the inertial-displacement devices being sold to car manufacturers.

  The currently-existing iteration of control board is over-engineered for what it needs to accomplish; an automotive safety device doesn’t require the same tuning as a suit of powered armor. And if I can safely lower costs, then the devices might find their way into more inexpensive vehicles…and thus once more prove that so-called “heroes” are unnecessary. Scientific improvements save more lives than spandex-clad do-gooders every day of the week.

  (Annoyingly, this device is only being made available to the community via my secret alliance with the Red Ghost. That a superhero was the public face of the project certainly muddies the message. Still, in the end, I’m certain that it will be the technological marvel that is lauded, not the masked hero.)

  “I know. I like this body,” the adorable little android replies. “I’m talking about my next body, for when I’m older.”

  “All right.” I’m still distracted by circuit-board optimization ideas. A car’s frame forms an enclosed cabin, and that simplifies the number of variables significantly when compared to the movements involved for a form-fitting suit of mechanical armor. The math can be streamlined, entire functions relegated to dedicated hardware that will outperform even the most powerful microprocessor. “Send me the design specs, I’ll have a look.”

  She uses her connection to my neural tap to insert the files directly into my brain. It’s a detailed, significant download so I pause in my work as I digest the data.

  “No,” I finally say, setting down my soldering iron and turning to face my adopted sister. “Also, you’re grounded until you turn forty.”

  “What? But why?”

  “Because these modifications are inappropriate. You’re an eleven-year-old girl!”

  “I’m twenty-three,” she objects, pouting petulantly.

  “Only if you count from your first line of code. It took your father half of a decade before he was ready to bring you on-line.”

  “Then…I’m eighteen!”

  “Sweetheart, your father designed you to mature at a human rate. He loved you and he wanted to raise you as his own. When he died—”

  “I don’t wanna talk about that.”

  “When your father died, your processes went mostly idle. Whisper, you’re extraordinary…but you’re an eleven-year-old girl,” I explain patiently. “And these modifications aren’t for little girls. How do you even know about these things?”

  “I read the Internet,” Whisper replies in a sotto voice. “All of it, every day.”

  I take a moment to ponder the futility of designing a safe-search algorithm to guard against a curious pre-teen super-intelligence, then shake my head. “We can talk about your next body another time, okay?”

  “Okay.” She hugs me, then looks hesitant before continuing: “I’m not going to be eleven forever, Terry.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s just…sometimes it feels like you only want a little sibling. Like Bobby was.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” I say mechanically, throat tight with emotion.

  “Bobby would have grown up. And you wouldn’t have stopped him from thinking about the future.”

  “You’ll grow up too,” I chuckle. “One year at a time. And I’ll always want you to be my sister, even if we make your next body twenty feet
tall. For now, though…play with Nyx and call Dinah. Enjoy being a little android girl.”

  “Dinah’s my age, and she thinks that Cherenkov is dreamy too,” Whisper comments conspiratorially.

  Cherenkov’s limbs, I decide, are in urgent need of a shattering. I should visit New York again after I deal with Skullface.

  I blinked, aghast at the level of destruction that a single attack had wrought. The once-pleasant foyer had been rendered into rubble, granite floors shattered into fist-sized chunks and simple-yet-comfortable furniture shredded to the point of being unidentifiable. I double-checked my math; the Professor had thrown me into a tight orbit around an artificial singularity and that kind of force was difficult to contain.

  It seemed strangely sacrilegious to unleash weapons this dangerous when only a stone’s throw from a working laboratory. If my own inertial displacement fields hadn’t reduced the effects of the attack, who knew how much experimental data would have been corrupted? Professor Paradigm’s forcefields had done much to contain the damage, but even then I imagined that the entire building would have shaken to its foundations.

  The front desk had been torn into kindling and I saw no sign of the hapless security guard; for a moment, I thought that the former leader of the San Francisco Paragons had murdered his own employee. A quick sensor sweep, however, found the remains of a very effectively hidden trap-door and a localized stasis field. Keith would be trapped outside of spacetime for a while, but he would (eventually) be fine.

  “That was uncalled for, Professor,” I called to any microphones that were surely within range. The Mk 39’s self-repair utilities had already mended any surface damage and the medical nanites coursing through my veins were hard at work patching ruptured internal organs and torn ligaments. My flesh-and-blood limbs were too damaged to obey my commands, but the armor’s movement was controlled by neural link; I stood up smoothly and brushed a bit of debris from my shoulder mockingly. “Care to try again?”