DIRE : BORN (The Dire Saga Book 1) (15 page)

He blinked, then nodded, and took off toward the sickbay at a run. I waited, ignoring the heat as best I could. The gravitic system pulled a lot of power from the core... I had basic thermal vents in here, but I hadn't expected this level of output. Thankfully the wintry conditions were helping, otherwise heat would be a real issue. I'd have to address that when I got some time. Armor does you little good if it roasts you alive while you use it.

I amused myself by testing out the mask's various sensor functions, zooming in and tracking people's faces. They were looking at me with various mixes of disbelief and fear, which was a little offputting. I'd spent the night putting this together to help them, to help us, after all. I was the same person I'd been before I'd climbed into the suit. Why fear this?

The answer came to me as soon as I asked the question. I looked scary, and the mask prevented them from taking visual cues from my face. I'd rebuilt the armor into a fairly solid-black color scheme, due to recycling the SUV's panels. The white mask stood out on it, smiling with hollow, bare eyesockets. The red hoodie on my back suggested an ominous splash, reminiscent of blood, and it didn't help that I'd added a few stabilizers on the limbs and back that looked like spikes. To someone who didn't know better, I'd look scary as hell. Unintentionally, I'd played to Martin's idea of kayfabe, and built a proper heel's outfit.

At first I was dismayed. Then the thought occurred to me, well, what of it? I'd rebuilt this armor to save a life, and appearance didn't matter for that. I'd also be using it to fight against the Black Bloods, who were worse than I could ever be. If it made my allies afraid, what would it do to my enemies? No, the armor was fine the way it was.

It took a few minutes, but they brought Roy out. They'd bundled him in sheets, practically mummified the poor guy. Ropes held the sheets in place, and I picked him up with as much care as I could muster. I gripped the legs of the cot, and hefted him in front of me. Awkward but doable, especially if I took it low and slow.

Sparky and Joan watched me solemnly, her hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Sparky just shook his head as he looked me up and down. “No offense,” he wheezed, “but you look like the sorta gal I'd normally be trying to zap.”

“IS IT TUESDAY ALREADY, SPARKY?” The crowd flinched at the sound of my voice, and Roy moaned, but Sparky just chuckled.

He sobered up pretty quick, as he reached out to pat my arm. “You take care of him, okay? He's...”

All you had left?
I finished in my mind, as his voice trailed off. He was, wasn't he? Great Clown Pagliacci had taken everyone else from him.

“SHE'LL LOOK AFTER HIM. NOW STAND CLEAR, PLEASE.”

They backed up, and I took Roy up slow. The turbines hummed up to speed as we rose, rose a few feet more, and then I set off at a diagonal vector heading southwest. Toward the hospital.

CHAPTER 9: The Skies of Icon, and Kingsley's Confirmation

“Say what you will about the 'Con, but if you ever get the chance to fly through the city proper, it's a one of a kind view. But if you're a hero make sure you're registered with the MRB, or else they raise a hell of a fuss. But that's their job. They watch the watchmen, so to speak, making sure heroes aren't going rogue or endangering others needlessly. There's more to it than that, but that's a big part of their main charter and it keeps them busy. And we need them doing it. That didn't sink in for me until I saw Captain Cosmopolitan pulled over for a FWI – Flying while Inebriated. Seems funny, until you learn that she flew THROUGH three buildings before they caught her. If it hadn't been night at the time, and the buildings hadn't been empty... well, it could've been bad.”

--Excerpt from “Villains Anonymous,” a short lived reality show that aired in 1999. The speaker has been identified as the Cyan Codex, a minor magical villain now in custody.

The city rose before me, steel teeth stretching into a gray sky. I had to keep it slow, perhaps twenty miles-per-hour. Going any faster would have risked catching wind shear, and Roy's cot raised my profile enough that I didn't want to risk him getting blown away. So my flight was cautious and careful, and I limited myself to about sixty feet off the ground so that I could go lower if the wind picked up. Fortunately, the flurries were coming mostly straight down from above. The overcast clouds seemed to indicate relative stability, at least for the moment.

To the far southeast a large, round, metal sphere rose from a small island offshore. It looked intriguing, but it was also too far away for easy observation. I filed it away for later research.

Passing over the dark ocean water of the inlet, I soon overflew a boardwalk full of marinas with piers full of recreational boats. It looked to have restaurants, bars, and shops crammed into every inch of available territory. Large buildings with odd architecture stood out here and there, with such names as “The Golden Galleon,” and “The Midas Mile.” The Galleon looked like an enormous, land-bound pirate ship, for no reason I could see beyond whimsy. Probably casinos, my fickle memory suggested. I didn't have much time to sightsee, but I flew a little closer to the Golden Galleon. To my surprise there were two men up on top of the roof, one watching me with binoculars and another with a rifle aimed at me. I veered away, watched as the man with the rifle aimed it down, satisfied now that his warning had been received.

Less than a mile away from this opulence and glitter sat the hollow bones of the last generation. How many piers in this area would crumble and fall to pieces? How many boats would be reduced to rotting hulks, how many tourist attractions would go the way of Funland? Quite a lot of them, I expected, if the chaos of Y2K kept up. The city was literally powerless in the face of this disaster. How the hell had a single digit-flip caused this much trouble?

The Boardwalk passed behind me, and I started getting into Downtown proper. I passed hotels, and what looked to be a convention center. The buildings started rising far enough up that I had to move between them. There were airships out, and I kept my distance. One, which appeared to be a police blimp, followed me for a few blocks with its lights flashing. I sped up a bit, outpacing it, and it cut the lights once it was clear that I wasn't stopping. There were more airships above, including one emblazoned with “MORGENSTERN SECURITY” that was armed with what looked to be water cannons, as well as few things I couldn't identify. If I hadn't been on a mission of mercy I would have been tempted to take a closer look, but I had no time for it or inclination to dodge whatever weaponry they  might bring to bear against me.

I kept steady, I kept slow, and as I went I saw signs of life. A few buildings blazed with light, and people moved on the streets below them. Some of them pointed up at me as I flew by. At one point I passed over a subway station that looked to have been converted into shelters. Smart. Easier to keep an underground environment heated.

After I got through the maze of skyscrapers, the buildings below shifted. They got fancier, and of an older architecture. With my lack of historical knowledge I couldn't place the era, but it kept to a fairly small range of style. A lot of open balconies, steep roofs, brick houses, and gables.

The ground below rose, and I smiled to see it. This would probably be Pyre Hill, and from what I'd gathered it was one of the richer areas of the city. The houses got bigger and farther apart, and the few commercial areas I could see had their own parking garages. And as uniformed figures scurried to take up positions as I approached, I also inferred that they had their own security. I gained altitude, kept going. Past a cathedral with gargoyles on every ledge, past what looked to be a sprawling university campus, no students wandering among its stone fountains and ivy-clad parks. Past a series of shopping malls, parking lots cordoned off and patrolled by more uniformed people.

And there, beyond the malls, I spotted the two-winged structure that the Militia had told me about. That couldn't be anything besides Sara's Mercy, not with that much glass and marble. Lights in the windows indicated functioning power, and hopefully a satisfactory end to this little excursion. Good. I banked, and started descending for a landing.

I touched down next to a pair of idling ambulances, causing one of the smoking attendants next to it to choke and drop his cigarette. I eased the cot to the ground, and looked at Roy. He was still breathing, but his face was gray. Probably not good. “THIS MAN NEEDS MEDICAL ATTENTION. NOW.”

The medics stirred to life, and took him, cot and all, through a pair of double doors. I followed, ignoring the objections of a white-clad woman at a nearby desk. Stomping and clattering my way through the tiled hallway, I followed Roy. They hauled him into a curtained room off the main ward, and started unwrapping him from the tangle of sheets and rope. He cried out as they did so, and I glowered, standing in the corner as out of the way as I could stand with my arms folded.

The attendants did their dance of taking measurements, examining him, and transferring him as gently as they could to the hospital bed in the center of the room. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of tension gone from my shoulders. In its place, exhaustion started to surge up. I'd spent the fifteen or twenty minutes of the flight to the hospital pretty much locked in one position, and my aching muscles were the last nail in a coffin of fatigue that had been building ever since we'd gotten clear of that horrible business with Sangre.

When I opened my eyes, someone was trying to get my attention. I looked down at the bald man in the white jacket who'd moved up to stand before me, and servos whined in the armor's neck as my mask followed my movements. He took a half-step back, swallowed in obvious apprehension, but managed to find his courage. “Excuse me. We need information about the patient.”

“OF COURSE.” Even dialed down, my voice boomed through the room. Somewhere down the hall, an infant wailed. I couldn't bring myself to care at the minute.

“Ah. Yes. Well, we've got some forms here. If you could fill these out?”

I looked at the forms. I looked at my gauntlets. I looked at him. “THAT'S GOING TO BE FUN. OH WELL, GOT A PEN?”

Three broken pens later, I gave up and started to unseal the armor, which caused a furor of a different sort. The bald man, who turned out to be called Doctor Sudman, kept going on about secret identities and legal issues. I didn't particularly care, but he sure did. Finally we agreed upon a compromise. The doctor and his attendants departed temporarily, as I stepped out of the armor and filled the paperwork out. Got to admit it was easier without having to deal with a hydraulic-enhanced grip that was entirely unsuited to flimsy plastic writing implements.

When I was done I re-armored and knocked on the door. They took the forms, and Dr. Sudman frowned at them.

“No next of kin?”

“NONE THAT SHE KNOWS.”

“Who is this she that you speak of?”

I tapped my chest. “HER.”

“Of course.” His expression was unreadable. He flipped the papers again. “No insurance?”

“THAT PART WAS UNCLEAR. SHE UNDERSTANDS THE MEANING OF THE WORD, BUT NOT THE WAY IT IS PRESENTED WITHIN THESE FORMS. WHAT IS INSURANCE?”

“Oh boy. Well, Mr. Carver here picked a good time to get battered, then. The computers have been down for days, so it doesn't matter right now. There just might be some problems when this is all over.”

“YOU THINK IT WILL BE ALL OVER, EVENTUALLY?”

“Well, yes. It can't go on forever, right?”

I tilted my head. “FROM HER ADMITTEDLY LIMITED EXPERIENCE, THE ONLY TIME THINGS CHANGE FOR THE BETTER IS WHEN YOU MAKE THEM CHANGE.”

“Very Warholian of you.”

“WHAT?”

“Andy Warhol.  He talked about the philosophy of change—” He shot a glance at me, shook his head. “Never mind. If you don't understand insurance I'm not about to get into the artistic merits of soup cans.”

“YOU ARE WASTING TIME.”

He blinked, and swallowed again. “Sorry. I meant nothing by it.”

“AH. NO THREAT WAS INTENDED. WILL YOU TREAT ROY?”

He looked over at the old man, nodded. “Yes. It's what we do. At a glance he's got some broken or cracked ribs, at the least, and probably a pretty big concussion on top of that. I'm glad you brought him in, honestly, injuries like that at his age can be problematic if you just let them go untreated. Ah, we'll need to go get him run through the MRI. I'm sorry, but I'll have to ask you to stay out of that area, we don't allow advanced technology in those rooms, it can interact in unexpected ways.”

“FAIR ENOUGH. SHE WILL WAIT HERE UNTIL YOU BRING HIM BACK.”

He opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he was going to say, and nodded. I settled back against the wall, and crossed my arms. He motioned to the attendants and Roy was wheeled out, bed and all.

After a few minutes, I found my eyes closing again. I locked the armor into its current position, put my faith in the gyroscopes, and let myself sag back in exhaustion. Perhaps a minute later, I was out.

I slept fitfully, odd dreams chasing me in and out of consciousness. I woke to a polite rapping on my chestplate, and wished I hadn't. Sleeping in the armor had been a mistake, I ached all over. And there, standing in front of me with a small smile on her face and a manila folder under one arm, was Agent Kingsley. I re-engaged the suit, shifted the mask to look down at her.

“GOOD MORNING, AGENT.”

“You're a little late with that, it's almost dark.”

I blinked. It took a second to call up the mask's internal clock, and I stared in disbelief at the result. Damn, I had been wiped, hadn't I? Then memory returned to me and I glanced toward the hospital bed in the center of the room. Empty. “WHERE'S ROY?” I asked. “DAMN IT ALL, DIRE HAS NO TIME FOR GAMES, THEY'D BEST NOT BE MESSING AROUND HERE.”

“They're not. He's in surgery now. I pulled a few strings to get him bumped up the queue.” She smiled, showing perfect teeth, and walked around to the side of me, looking me over. “Okay, those things definitely started out as part of a manifold. Did you build this yourself?”

I waved a gauntlet. “MORE OF A SALVAGE PROJECT. YOU ASSISTED WITH SETTLING THE DETAILS OF ROY'S TREATMENT?”

“Yes. Ah... we need to talk, and the shouting's not helping matters. This isn't a secure room. Can I ask you to step out of the armor?”

“THERE WAS QUITE A BIT OF FUSS THE LAST TIME SHE TRIED.”

“Yes, they told me about that. Understandable, given the legal hot potato that secret identities can be. But in this case it doesn't really matter, we know your secret identity already.”

I blinked. “SAY WHAT NOW?”

Kingsley went over, and locked the door. “Just please, step out. Here. This might convince you that I'm on the level.”

She opened the manila folder, held it up to my mask. And I was looking at a photo of my face, a familiar-looking one. That had been on the fake driver's license that was in my wallet, back before it had been stolen. Dora Iris, a name I knew wasn't mine...

And so I'd come to a crisis.

I closed my eyes. Kingsley had helped with Roy, even if she'd rubbed me the wrong way when we first met. And thinking on the matter further, it definitely wasn't an either/or situation. I didn't have to trust her fully, in order to gain her cooperation. As long as I was careful about what I said to her, I could possibly come out on top of this situation.

I hit the manual release. With a hiss the armor opened, chest splitting and arms opening up like the petals of a flower unfurling. I withdrew them from the support yokes, wincing as they protested, and braced myself, stepping out of the legs of the suit. I stumbled a bit, before I managed to make the three steps to the bed, and sit down on it. Kingsley nodded, pulled up a chair, and sat beside me. Her mouth quirked as she glanced down at my chest. “You forgot to put on a shirt today.”

“Don't actually have a clean one right now.” It was still in the laundry.

The agent nodded. “Give me a second.” She headed to the bathroom, closed the door, returned a minute later with an undershirt in her hands. “Here, you can have mine. Less distracting that way.”

“If you say so.” I put it on, then held a hand out for the folder and flipped through it. It held photocopies of the ID cards in my wallet, and not much else. I glanced at her. “So that's where her wallet got to.”