DIRE : BORN (The Dire Saga Book 1) (16 page)

“Yep. Some drifter tried to hock it through a fixer that we watch. The timing was fortunate... we'd put a notice out that we were looking for information on you, right before it showed up.”

I stared at her. “Why? Why go to all that trouble? You would have had to do this immediately after we met.”

“I had a feeling about you. There's a look you recognize, when you've been in the game long enough. You had that look. The look of someone who'd been through an origin.”

I frowned as Kingsley grinned. “So, I figued I'd be the one to give you the talk. Before I do, how do you prefer to be called? Doctor Iris? Doctor Dire?”

I rubbed my chin. Shrugged.
Doctor Dire?
It had a nice ring to it. Kind of corny. But I was stuck calling myself Dire anyway, and a Doctorate was a good honorific to have. Made people take you more seriously. Besides, with my technological know-how, I figured I had the equivalent of at least one of those degrees already. But I was getting sidetracked, here. I had a chance for more information, if I could dig without giving too much away.

“So what have you found, besides the contents of her stolen wallet? Which she'd like back at some point, incidentally.”

“Ah, good luck on that. The pictures have already been destroyed. The rest of your info is already being processed by a group of Czech ID thieves. Honestly, I wouldn't worry about it. This mess with the Gridnet and computers in general is playing havoc with everyone's records. For example, I've been quite unable to dig up more on you right now, but that will change.” She smiled.

“What is going on with that situation, anyway?” I frowned. “You can't tell her that this is all due to a coding error. Granted, she hasn't conducted an in-depth study, but this much disruption seems unexpected. Almost impossible, considering the cause. Purported cause, at any rate.”

“Yeah.” Kingsley lost her smile. “At this point all we know is that someone's playing shenanigans. See, this isn't an isolated incident, you're not seeing a single city being taken out, rendered powerless. This is one city among hundreds... or thousands, I guess. As best we can tell, the entire world's been disrupted. The infrastructure that controls and regulates the power is out, and something's actively resisting all attempts to straighten it out. We've been knocked back a century or so, overnight. Every first and second-world nation, and a good number of the third-world ones are running without power, or any sort of network capability. But the worst part of it? This has all the earmarks of something you'd expect Aquatica or Paradigm to try, but not a single person is stepping forward with demands, or any kind of snappy monologue. If it was that, a supervillain, then it'd be easy. We'd have something to point the heroes at, some target to aim punches at until the problem was fixed. This one? Not so. We've got Doc Quantum and the rest of Tomorrow Force helping with it, and they're stumped as well.”

“Hm. Well, do keep Dire appraised if there's anything she can do to help with the situation,” I murmured. I wouldn't mind, either. The general chaos had been getting on my nerves. Fixing this city would go a long way toward settling them.

“I have a feeling you might be able to,” said Kingsley. “Someone with your powers? Yeah, it's an easy bet that you'll be in this up to your tits whether you want it or not.” She flashed a grin.

“She's not so sure she's got powers,” I demurred.

Kingsley rolled her eyes, pointed at the armor. “Did you have that the last time we talked?”

“Well no, but most of it's salvaged—”

“Was it intact? Did you have to rebuild or rework parts of it?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Powers. Custom built flying suits of power armor? Built in a tent with a box of scraps, or however you did it? Powers, totally.”

I shut my mouth, considered it. She wasn't the first to raise that point. I couldn't rule out the possibility. Would be bad science otherwise. I shrugged and let the point drop. “All right. Well, it's been a long day, she'd best be getting home, as it were. You mentioned a talk? The Talk?”

“Yeah. Our standard offer. The MRB's standard offer, anyway.”

“She's listening.”

“Basically? A budget. Resources, funding, materials to build just about anything you want, within reason. Legal support, oversight as requested or required, and backup from both heroes and agents as you need. The same thing we offer every hero who registers with us.”

“You think Dire a hero now?” I asked.

“You just put on a prototype suit of power armor you built out of scraps to carry an injured man halfway across the city to save his life. The word seems to apply in this case.”

I shrugged. “He's a friend.”

“Right. So here's the other thing. That sure as hell looks like villain gear. Registering with us will shut any rumors that way down, right quick.”

I cocked an eye at her, rested my chin on my hand. “Is there no middle ground?” I inquired. “Must one be a hero or a villain?”

“Well...” She spread her hands. “You could always join the MRB, or one of our affiliate organizations. Then it'd just be a job. As long as you stuck to peaceful and small inventions or other power usages, no one would trouble you much.”

“Or she could remain a private citizen,” I remarked. “Are there laws against that?”

“Well, no. But then you run into the problems that you're easy pickings for recruitment from the big villains, the groups, or the syndicates. Powers make you attractive, particularly ones that deal with things like, oh, power armor for instance.” She hooked a thumb at my suit. “And if you remained a private citizen and we found out you were building stuff like that in your basement then we'd have to confiscate it.”

“This is an unacceptable paradigm.”

She shrugged. “I didn't make the rules. I just try and keep the peace. Of course the rules are all screwy now anyway. You got the Black Bloods trying to grab territory in the North, and the Steampunks of all people, fighting them off in the Northwest. Meanwhile the mafia's keeping things quiet on the Boardwalk but I don't want to think about the stuff they're getting away with. To the south the SCK are joined up with the Graveyard Gang against Die Kriegers, and the war's ripping the Wharves apart. That's not even getting into the No-face Ghost killings, or Anne Droid's rampage through Cobbles Cove. It's all coming up gangs and warlords, and we're doing our damnedest to keep things under control and support the heroes. So things are going to be messed up for a little while. My advice? Hero, villain, private citizen, whatever... do the best you can, and so long as you don't break the rules, we'll sort out what you want to be after it's all done.”

“Mmm. What are the rules?” I asked. “She's a bit fuzzy on those.”

She nodded. “It's a combination of guidelines, traditions, and legal precedents. Ah... basically, don't kill people except in extreme self-defense, don't do sex crimes, don't involve families of other costumes, don't try to end the world, and don't try to unmask heroes.”

Well, crap. That first one was a problem already. Might not be a good idea to tell her that, though. I changed the topic by focusing on the last part of her statement.

“Don't unmask heroes?” I asked. “What about villains?”

She shrugged. “Well, if you arrest someone they're going to be fingerprinted and ID'd, that's how it is. How else can they be properly charged, or their case be examined fairly by a jury of their peers?”

“Doesn't exactly seem fair.”

Her mouth turned downwards. “Fair. Listen, I think I know where you're coming from. This is new to you, and it seems like a game. Cops and Robbers or something like that. If you'd seen what I have? Seen the corpses buried under lime in basements under temples to gods that should never be worshiped? Seen the carnage left behind after a doomsday device misfired? Seen the shambling, wrecked men and women left behind after Mentat abandons his minions to fend for themselves to cover his escape? Yeah, no. You wouldn't think in terms of fair, anymore.”

She flicked her sunglasses open, shoved them on her face as she rose from her chair. “Villains hurt people, plain and simple. If they get unmasked? Sucks for them. Good for the rest of the world. On the other hand, there's never enough heroes to go around. Which is why I hope you'll think about what I said.”

I rose as well, folded my arms across my chest. “She will. Thank you for that. And for helping with Roy.”

She half-turned, waved it off on her way to the door. “No problem. Give our regards to Sparky, hah? Coleman likes the guy, he's a sucker for veterans with sob stories.”

After she left, I took advantage of the bathroom and the shower, before locking the door and lying back down on the bed. I'd had enough sleep for a little while, but I lay awake, considering what she'd said to me. And what she hadn't said. Eventually, a knock came at the door. I suited up again and managed to unlock it without breaking the mechanism. It was Doctor Sudman, and he was smiling.

“GOOD NEWS?” I inquired.

“Yes. Mister Carver's been tended to. He's on track to a full recovery. Quite sturdy for his age, I must say. Quite a lot of interesting old scars, too.”

“SO HE IS IN NO DANGER? CAN HE BE TRANSPORTED?”

“Well... That's a bit extreme. We still had to set three ribs, and I'd feel better if we could keep an eye on him a few days, to make sure that the concussion's working out. We drew fluid and eased pressure, but head injuries are always a tricky thing. We'd like to put him in a low-priority ward for a minimum of three days, do you see that being a problem?”

I considered. A heated hospital, doctors watching him, bedrest... “NO. OF COURSE NOT. SHE'LL BE BACK TO CHECK UP ON HIM ONCE THREE DAYS ARE DONE.”

He smiled. “Of course. Er. We'd like to put you as a primary point of contact. Leave notes for whoever's on duty when you return, so we don't have the... surprise... that we got today. What name do you go by?”

I opened my mouth, shut it. Considered. Tried it out in my mind once more, to test it before voicing it. Hell, Kingsley had already called me by it, I had nothing to lose.

“DOCTOR DIRE. CALL HER DOCTOR DIRE.”

CHAPTER 10: Lawbreaking

“I'd like to say that the police in Icon were good, and that there were never any scandals. That what we had was a devoted bunch of public servants doing hard jobs, and doing them well. And for most of the city, I can say that. But... then you factor in the northside, and shoot, I can't tell a lie. Everyone knows the precincts in the northeast are on the take, have been since the Cavaliognes ran that turf. Good cops who end up there get shit jobs until they quit, and bad cops prosper. Everyone knows it, and sooner or later there's gonna be a reckoning...

--Statement of a witness for the judicial review board in Precinct 64 versus Icon City, 1997. Name withheld by request.

For reasons I couldn't fathom, the hospital staff insisted that I take off from the roof. It seemed pointless to me, but as they were treating one of my limited social circle, it seemed churlish to do otherwise than follow their request.

But once I'd gotten airborne, I decided to loiter in their airspace a bit. Now that I was freed from carrying Roy, I could give my armor's flight capabilities a proper shakedown.

I found that seventy-four percent synch made things a bit rough. I also found that flying was a hell of a lot of fun. But most importantly, as I saw my vision darken during a tight roll, and my lungs gasp for air, I found that the suit really wasn't optimized for flying. I slowed to a stop, descending to a lower level where the air wasn't quite as thin, and the ventilation could maximize the flow of it. What I had wasn't a proper flying suit. What I had was a kludged-together pile of scrap and devices that were never meant to work together, with flight capabilities tacked on.

It wouldn't do anything to negate g-forces, or stop me from rattling around inside a bit if I hit some severe turbulence. Hells, it wasn't even properly pressurized. The holes in the back of the helmet that I'd covered with the hoodie would need sealing before I did that. I'd also need an internal layer of some sort between me and the metal before I could seal the joints completely. Finally I finished flight testing and began a slow cruise back to the east, as snow flurries fell around me.

Much as I would have liked to plan for the next revision of the armor, I didn't see a point in it until I had more materials to work with. So instead I turned my attention to a more pressing matter: The Black Bloods.

They had to go away. And they wouldn't go away on their own. We needed Martin, Sparky, Minna, and everyone else we could get to help take them down. They'd forced the issue by trying to grab me, and I saw no reason for them to stop trying to do that. Heroes weren't fighting them, and I could see why after what happened to Scrapper. The police had fled or were too meek to matter. The Midtown Militia were a possibility, but Martin's hesitation made me wary. The MRB hadn't gone after the Black Bloods when the city was intact and powered, I doubt they'd be willing to do so now. So, it was up to us. A ragged camp of homeless people, one somewhat aged and unstable lightning throwing veteran soldier, and myself.

I doubted it would be easy. We'd only escaped the fight in the church without worse casualties because Sangre had been a cocky bastard and Scrapper hadn't been as crazy as they thought he was. We couldn't count on lucky breaks like those happening again. It was time to stop reacting, and start acting.

But my musings were cut short by a troubling sight as I retraced my path back through the skyscrapers, and past the casinos and tourist traps of the boardwalk. Flashing red and blue lights lined the beach. They seemed to be coming from lights atop three parked cars on the street nearby. My traitorous memory said law enforcement. Had something happened? Two tents lay collapsed, and people were milling around outside.

Then as I watched, a stranger, a short-haired overweight man in a black and blue uniform, marched Martin out of his tent at gunpoint.

I accelerated, aimed toward them, and the stranger backed away while pointing the gun at me. I landed hard next to them, spraying sand and snow in equal quantities over the pair. Shouts from down the beach, and more strangers came running. They wore the same uniforms, and had golden badges displayed against blue shirts.

“MARTIN?” I inquired. “WHAT IS TRANSPIRING HERE?”

“Freeze!” From behind me. “Don't move!”

A bullet whined off of my forcefield, and I glanced back. “TRY THAT AGAIN, AND YOU'LL FORFEIT THE GUN.”

The older of the pair in the lead caught up to the youth who had taken the shot, and slapped the smoking gun in his hands down. “Sir. Please stand down and step out of the armor.”

I arched an eyebrow at the stupidity of the request. Now why would I do that? So they could shoot me properly, next time?

“Black Bloods paid them off! Fuckers are dirty cops!” Martin yelled. The one behind him bared his teeth, and drew a nightstick, moving closer to Martin's back. “Shut up! You have the right to—”

“MARTIN. DOWN.”

He dropped.  I spurred my grav system, kicking up a huge cloud of dust as I stretched out a gauntlet, flying toward the two of them. The cop fired a shot at me that came nowhere close, and then I had him by the arm. He screamed as I jerked him from his feet, sped forward another twenty feet, then whirled and threw him to the ground. He screamed as his shoulder gave. Broken or dislocated, I couldn't say.

When the dust cleared, the four officers who had been running toward me had stopped, unable to see through the dust. Martin had wisely gotten himself out of there, probably back into his tent.

And by that time I had my foot on the fallen cop's chest. He whimpered, and lay very still, as I kept the full weight of the suit off of him. Just.

“NOW THEN,” I stated. “PERHAPS WE SHOULD TRY THIS AGAIN WITH LESS SHOOTING.”

“Sir. You are interfering with appointed officers of the law undertaking the course of their duties, and you've assaulted one of those officers. Please stand down, and let us go about our business before you make this any worse on yourself.”

The man doing the talking was perhaps in his forties, overweight and wearing mirrored sunglasses that made him hard to read.

“AND WHAT IS THE COURSE OF YOUR DUTY HERE?” I looked at the tents. They'd been torn down by the look of it, and the sullen faces of the people by them held no love for the police, as they shot glares at their backs.  A couple of burn barrels had been tipped over, the fires extinguished. To the side, Sparky sat glaring, his collar off and some sort of crowbar-and-lock device wedged into his wheelchair. He tugged at it to no avail.

They'd grounded him.

“Ask them if they have a warrant!” Martin's voice came from his tent, and the young one jerked his gun, put a round through the canvas.

“PUT THAT DOWN, YOU YOUNG FOOL! LAST WARNING!”

I took my foot off of the downed one, and strode toward the four of them. They backpedaled... and the young one took three or four shots at me. I lost count after the second, as I put on a burst of jet-enhanced speed and backhanded him into the laundry shack. He bounced off the wall, fell down and scrambled to the side, took off running.

And in the stances and motions of the others, I saw fear. A dawning realization that they were in over their heads. But still they fired.

My forcefield caught a few rounds, as pistol fire registered from the rear, and the boom of a shotgun mixed in with the smaller caliber stuff.

I turned, and amped my mask to full volume, and bellowed.

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS, AND KNEEL BEFORE DIRE!”

And they froze like prey before a predator.

I stomped forward, ignoring the heat spike that the forcefield's activation had caused. It would fade in a minute or two, so long as I took no further fire. Finally, I stood a few feet away from one who'd done the speaking before. He was looking up at me, his hands behind his head, sweating despite the snow falling thick around us now.

My sympathy for his plight had evaporated perhaps about six bullets ago.

“SO. DO YOU HAVE A WARRANT?”

He worked his mouth. No sound came out.

“A SIMPLE QUESTION. LET'S SEE IT IF YOU HAVE IT.”

A yell from behind me, and I glanced back to see Minna and Tooms tackle the young cop, wrestle his gun away from him. I looked back to see the speaker crying. His mouth moved again, and after a second he found words. “Please. He's my son. Don't hurt him.”

“A. WARRANT. NOW.”

The lone woman among them cleared her throat. “We, ah, had reports of theft and assault at a designated relief center, and the investigation led here. That's probable cause, no warrant required—”

“DESIGNATED RELIEF CENTER?”

“St. Augustine's, sir. We've found contraband material and illegal firearms here—”

“YES, ALL TAKEN FROM THE BLACK BLOODS. WHO ROBBED THIS CAMP'S FOOD SHIPMENT, AND WERE UNPACKING IT AT THE RELIEF CENTER THEY WERE OCCUPYING.”

“That's an interesting idea. I'm afraid that this camp is full of stolen goods, and you have to admit sir, it doesn't look too good—”

“Bullshit!” Sparky roared, as Joan and Tooms brought him over, each with an arm under his, and letting his legs drag the ground. Arcs of energy trailed in his wake. “We showed you the labels on them boxes! They were for us, and we had to get'em back!”

The bald man shook his head. “Sir. We were just going off the information we had, and following orders—”

“So were the Nazis! You know how well that worked out for them?” His wispy hair was slowly starting to rise, as sparks literally flashed from his eyes. Joan did a double-take, then leaned in, whispering trying to soothe him,.

“Sir, that doesn't excuse either the guns or the drugs that we've found—”

“Drugs which you did not have either probable cause or a fucking warrant for,” Martin said. “I know the Icon laws. Doesn't matter, though, you came here targeting me so you could get my ass in a cell. One I wouldn't leave with the Black Bloods after my ass, now.”

The police started arguing, and I clapped my hands together, metal ringing from metal. “ENOUGH.”

They shut up. For a minute there was no sound, save for the wind blowing.

“YOU SAY THAT CHURCH WAS A DESIGNATED RELIEF CENTER?”

“It was. Now it's a crime scene.” The crying one who'd pled for his son found his voice again.

“WHY WAS NO ONE IN THIS CAMP INFORMED OF SUCH?”

They shot furtive looks at each other.

“WELL. OBVIOUSLY THAT OVERSIGHT HAS BEEN REMEDIED, AS THIS CAMP NOW HAS THE SUPPLIES THAT THE RELIEF CENTER HELD FOR IT. AND THANKS TO THE SELFLESS EFFORTS OF A FEW OF ITS DENIZENS, THE CRIMINALS WHO WERE OCCUPYING THE RELIEF CENTER HAVE BEEN EVICTED. HAPPY ENDING. NO CRIME HERE.”

The bald one persisted. “The guns—”

“AH YES, THANK YOU FOR REMINDING HER. PUT THE SAFETIES ON AND KICK THEM OVER HERE.”

“No, I mean the stolen guns—”

“DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. ALL FIREARMS IN THIS CAMP WERE LEGALLY OBTAINED.”

“The Black Blood guns!” Shouted the young one, twisting between Minna and Tooms, trying to break free. “How the hell were those legal?”

And I straightened up from where I'd been crouching over the rest of the police. “AH. SO YOU ADMIT THAT YOU KNOW WHERE WE GOT THOSE. WHICH MEANS THAT YOU KNEW ABOUT THE BLACK BLOODS OCCUPYING THE CHURCH.”

His father went pale.

“AND SO YOU CONFESS YOUR CORRUPTION.”

“What? No! I...”

A cold fury rose inside me as he babbled excuses, and I moved over to him, step by inexorable step.

“Stop!” The father again, chasing after me, clutching at my arm. I shook it off and continued my advance. This was not proper. This was not the hallmark of a civilized society. It offended me beyond reason, to see corruption on such a scale, to see acquaintances and friends treated so.

I stretched forth a gauntlet, and the youth ceased babbling. He started screaming, as I closed a metal hand around his face.

I could fix this corruption. I was stronger than them, and I knew that there was nothing wrong with them I couldn't fix, one good squeeze at a time.

And yet...

I spared a glance back. Martin was covering the rest of the kneeling cops with one of their own guns, and the father was tugging and pulling on my arm with all his strength. He budged my armor not a bit, and screamed louder than his son. And the group around us was watching, some in horror, but more with joy. Some were even calling for blood.

If these bad cops were a mockery of a healthy and civilized society, it didn't mean that giving in to mob justice would be any better. It would be worse, in a lot of ways. Even then, I almost closed my fist, almost pulped his skull.

Anya clinched it. She was there in the back of the crowd, staring, her young face blank. She was standing next to three or four other children of the camp.

No. I couldn't do it. I collected myself, brought my fury down to a more manageable disgust.

“CEASE YOUR HOWLING, OLD MAN,” I snarled to the father. He quieted.

“MINNA, TOOMS, RELEASE THE YOUNG ONE.” They did, and he pried at my fingers, crying. “MINNA, FETCH PAPER AND WRITING IMPLEMENTS. YOU. YOU LOT.”

I turned to the rest of the police, dragging the young one with me, forcing him to dance along to keep his neck from being twisted. “YOU WILL CONFESS AND SIGN TO YOUR CRIMES HERE. THEN YOU WILL LEAVE YOUR GUNS AND GO. DO NOT COME WITHIN DIRE'S SIGHT AGAIN UNTIL YOU SERVE JUSTICE ONCE MORE.”