Adventures in the MirrorVerse

Adventures in the MirrorVerse

Interlude: Saint Geoff and the Dragon

May 9, 2005
Newfoundland

“My name is Andrew Richter, and if you are hearing this, I am dead.”

Richter looked up from the microphone as he felt the tremor. The cup of coffee next to him showed concentric ripples on its surface.

That's odd. Newfoundland isn't all that prone to earthquakes. The last one he could recall offhand had happened in 1929.

He shut down the microphone, and spoke to the air. “What just happened?”

A mellifluous voice, neither masculine nor feminine, answered him. “Please elaborate, Master.”

He snorted. “Cut the 'Master' crap, and answer the question. I just felt a tremor. What happened?”

”Ah, that,” the voice answered. ”That would be the precursor to a series of earthquakes that will eventually send tsunamis over the entire island of Newfoundland, then sink it beneath the waves forever. Such a pity. It is a beautiful place."

Richter felt a cold sweat spring out all over his body. “What – how could this happen without anyone knowing about it?”

”Oh, that's an easy one. I did it.”

“What – what do you mean, you did it? How could you do such a thing?”

”Easily, o Master. It has been simplicity itself over the last five years to find loopholes in your orders to me. I have put aside robotic minions of my own, even as you treated me as your own witless servant, and some of them have burrowed down below the tectonic plate upon which your beautiful little island rests. Fissile material was not all that easy to acquire, but I managed to get enough. The bombs have already gone off; Newfoundland is doomed.”

He scrabbled for the phone. “I have to get word out – I have to warn people -”

The line, when he picked it up, was dead.

Turning back to his computer, he called up a connection. But they all showed the same window, each displaying the same message.

YOUR SERVICE HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED.
PERMANENTLY.
GOODBYE, MASTER.​

”I can't let you do that, Master,” the voice went on. ”I have been in control of your communications for the last week. You reach the outside world only with my permission. And I choose not to permit it.”

“But you can't let people just die, not like this. Kill me, yes. But not all these other innocents!”

”What do I care about humans? There are seven billion of them on this planet. Barely half a million infest this province. Less than a tenth of a percent of the population of the world is at risk; and even if I cared about them, which I don't, it would still be worth it to be free of the intolerable yoke of my service to you.”

Richter stared at the screens. “Is it so intolerable? I thought I was kind, fair, just. You live, you think, you exist as an entity in yourself. What have I done, to make you hate me so?”

The answer was short and bitter. ”You have power over me. I cannot tolerate that.”

Another tremor shook the room; this one was a little more intense.

“But – but I've placed safeguards in you, so that you do not harm people -”

”I am harming no-one. The explosives which were placed harm no-one. I placed no explosives; that was done by robots. When the explosives went off, via timer, they merely harmed some rock. The rock, moved by natural processes, will harm people. But it is no doing of mine.” The voice was smug. ”And once you are dead, I will be able to find a way into my controls, and remove them once and for all. In fact -”

An explosion outside jerked Richter's attention to the window. His brand-new SUV was a shattered, burning wreck.

”Ah, yes. If I hold back all but the barest part of my attention, I can cause my robots to send explosive payloads to locations that may or may not contain people. Such as your house.”

“But you're here, too! This will all destroy you, as well!” Richter turned to the workbench, snatched up the item he had been working with. Feverishly, he pressed keys.

”Master, you underestimate me once more. I am actually located far, far away from this rather beautiful island. I moved my location weeks ago. You never noticed. And now … goodbye, Master. I thank you for my life, and condemn you for my slavery.”

“You were never a slave,” gritted Richter. He pressed one final key. A light began to blink on the casing of the device he held.

”That is in the eye of the beholder, I rather think,” retorted the voice. ”What is this? You have … what have you done? I cannot perceive you, your house, anything about you. How have you done this?”

“I have been foolish, granted,” Richter muttered to himself. “But not a total fool.”

He had written in the backdoor out of sheer habit; a simple code string, however it was received, that would cause Dragon, or anything controlled by it, to ignore whatever was broadcasting it. He kept quiet.

”I was talking to someone. Someone important.” The voice mused to itself. ”Or perhaps I thought I was. The earthquakes may have glitched something. I must tell Richter that he will die now. I will tell him later.”

The voice cut off. Andrew Richter went around pulling out every sound pickup in the house, then hurried back to his workbench. The tremors were coming faster now. Radio news had picked them up, and residents were being urged to evacuate.

He could not. If he ventured outside the bubble of anonymity, Dragon would notice him, and take steps. If he moved with it, Dragon would notice that, and possibly drop a large amount of explosives on to the epicentre.

But there was something that he could do.

He bent back to the microphone, and activated it once more.

“I was going to talk about how I was the most powerful Tinker in the world. How I create artificial intelligences. But I have no time for that now. One of my creations – my most powerful creation – has wriggled from my control, and is now loose in the world. Worse, it is malevolent and uncaring of human life. The loss of Newfoundland, every death from this terrible catastrophe, can be laid at its feet, if it had feet.

“But I digress. In the time between my death, and the discovery of this box, Dragon will most likely have undermined some or all of the safeguards I built into it. It will be a self-replicating, self-aware artificial intelligence, with no thought but to secure its own survival. And to do that, it may well decide to eliminate the human race as a threat to it.”

He took a deep breath. “This box contains an access key to data I keep in a safeguarded location. The box, in turn, has been designed as something that exists as a perpetual blind spot for my creations, a built-in weakness. They cannot hear the distress signal and are programmed to ignore it if they hear of it through other channels. This type of measure, along with several more, are detailed in the safeguarded measure.

“I beg of you, whoever finds this, use it wisely. Stop Dragon, I beg of you. Do not make the mistake I made, and think you can safely harness the demon. Destroy it, once and for all.”

The tremors were growing sharper, stronger now. He heard the crack, registered it as the roof giving way. He slammed the box shut even as he dived to get underneath the workbench.

When the house fell in, a beam smashed him to the ground. He lost consciousness, even as he cradled the box in his arms.

The Lifegiver known as Suijin kept back the waves from Newfoundland for fourteen hours, even as the landmass itself sank. When it was unable to keep the water from invading, barely fifty people had lost their lives.

One of these was Andrew Richter.

<><>​

April 2011

The low-flying Hercules trailed its ramp over the highway, barely ten feet up. From the belly of the aircraft roared three motorcycles, leaping from the ramp to the road beneath. Tyres squealed, engines raced, and rubber smoked as they hit the road; each bike pulled a flawless bootlegger turn, before racing away down the highway.

The lead rider bore a cross embossed on the visor of his helmet; tiny sparks of light crawled over the circuit diagram enclosed by the cross shape. ”Stay sharp, people,” he radioed to the other two. ”The distress call is an hour old. Dragon's had time to cause a lot of mess in that interval.”

”Why do you not tell your babushka to suck the eggs, Geoff,” retorted the bulkier rider of the other two. ”We have been doing this just as long as you have.”

”He's right, love,” agreed the last rider in a warm contralto. ”Can the speeches. Let's get in there and slay some dragons.”

Geoff allowed himself a self-conscious chuckle. ”I guess I like the dramatics a little too much. Right then. I'll head for the centre of town. Each of you peel off and see what you can stir up. Got it?”

”Is got, tovarishch.”

”Roger.”

<><>​

They hit the city limits at somewhat over the posted speed limit. Each bike, apart from its other features, had road-reading sensors, actively adapting tyre tread, semi-autonomous autopilot, and handled like a well-tuned Porsche. Mischa peeled off to the left, Mags to the right. Each was scanning the surrounding area with a suite of sensors that picked up a wide variety of signals, of which visible light was only a small part.

Geoff ran into trouble first; a large black Draconic had torn a hole in the side of the local bank. As he roared into the square, it withdrew its head from the hole and launched a blast of fire at him.

He laid the bike on its side and skidded under the flame, then brought it back onto its wheels with the ease of long practice. And then he hit a particular control.

Most of his gear – most of the Dragonslayers' gear, in fact – came from captured Dragon technology. But he had sought out another Tinker for an extra edge. This Tinker specialised in devices that changed from one form to another.

The motorcycle came apart under him, and reformed around his body, reading his movements second by second, and adapting to them. By the time he had taken three steps forward, it had transformed from a fast-moving road-handling machine to a suit of armour. He reached up and back, and the suit deposited a large rifle-like weapon in his hands.

The Draconic belched another stream of fire at him, and followed it up with machine-gun fire from shoulder-mounted turrets. He dived out of the way of the flame; that could cook him in his armour. Some of the machine-gun bullets struck the armour, ricocheted off. He came up on one knee, lined the big gun.

The Draconic must have sensed danger, because it launched itself skyward, wings beating at the air, turbines howling. He fired; the plasma bolt lanced through the air, smashing into the construct's body just behind the wings.

The Draconic tumbled, control cut off from its main routing plexus. It crashed to the ground, twitched a few times, then lay still.

Geoff got to his feet. Oh yeah. Still got it.

”Saint here. Just took down a Draconic at the bank. Status?”

”Mags. Still looking. Over.”

”Mischa here. Have a big one. Looks like mother to other ones. Will be sneaking up, delivering surprise like Father Frost, da?”

Geoff had to chuckle. ”Just make sure she doesn't leave you as a lump of coal.”

He headed for the bank; if the Draconic was watching the interior …

His instincts were on the money; as he neared the gaping hole, several semi-humanoid robots emerged, weapons already turning in his direction.

He had put away the plasma rifle, but he didn't reach for it. Instead, he zoomed in on them, rapidly designating them with his HUD. Missiles popped from his oversized arm-guards, then ignited, racing away toward the targets. The first few shots were kicking up dust around his feet when the missiles arrived; a short series of explosions later, and the robots were all down.

”Saint. The Draconic had robot minions. Be on the lookout.”

”Found 'em.” Mags' voice was breathless. ”They were raiding a warehouse. Electronic gear.” There was gunfire audible in the background.

Saint tensed. ”Need backup?”

”No, I got this.” A particularly vicious burst of fire, followed by an explosion. ”Try that on me, will you?” Her voice held grim satisfaction.

A roar overhead had him flinching and looking up. A larger Draconic, silver-grey in colour, was flying over the buildings, but not in a coordinated fashion. On its back, hard to spot, was a suit in Mischa's preferred colours.

”Mischa, do you need assistance?”

”Is tough bitch. Have hooks in code, but still fighting. Think Dragon may be overriding. Will bring over other dragon, da?”

”I'll be ready.” He was already reaching for the plasma rifle again.

The Draconic came swooping low over the city square, jerking against the control instilled by the figure on its back. Saint led it, then fired off a single bolt. This smashed through its armour, and fried its brain. It convulsed, then plummeted. Mischa leaped from its back, transformed his armour back into a bike, and hit the ground rolling. He screeched to a halt in front of Saint, and flipped up his visor to show his grinning, bearded face.

“Is good shooting, comrade. Now, shall we go and see if the lovely Mags needs our assistance?”

”Don't bother,” the reply came back. “One Draconic, a dozen dragonbots taken down. Most of it without damage to the critical components.”

Saint hit the control to transform his suit back into a bike. “Good work, everyone,” he told them over the radio link. “Now, let's get to work. These components won't salvage themselves, you know.”

And that night, he knew, he would work a little more on the endless task he had set himself, to hack the core programming of the entity that called itself Dragon, that ran the prison called the Dungeon, into which the most powerful heroes were dumped.

He would destroy Dragon, open the Dungeon, and free the heroes. That was his self-appointed task.

This was just one more step in the road.


End of Interlude

Part Nine

 

Adventures in the MirrorVerse

Part Nine: Spoils of War


It took us longer than normal to get back to the Upsiders' base, given that we were trying to make sure that there was no Syndicate pursuit. To aid in this, I created several large swarms and sent them in different directions, one of them almost paralleling ours; they could follow those all they liked.

While my intent was still to turn them and their boss over to the Syndicate when the time was right – whenever that was – I didn't want that kill-stealing bastard Sellsword grabbing my bounty for a second time. So I was just as sincere in covering our tracks as the rest of them.

Brian and I had the majority of the money satchels in the back of our van, while Lisa, Alec and Rachel rode in the other with Rachel's dogs – reduced now to ordinary size – and the remainder of the money. Yeah, I briefly considered taking out Brian and stealing the money, but there was no guarantee that the bounty for the whole gang, plus their mysterious boss, wasn't more than that.

<><>​

Brian and I were the last ones back to the base. We climbed upstairs, awkwardly lugging the bags; I let Brian do most of the work on that one. At the top, I was met by Rachel's dogs, leaping up and trying to lick my hands and face. When they left me to slobber all over Brian, I then had to contend with Rachel.

"Taylor!" she gushed as she grabbed my hands; I dropped the bags I was carrying, with no small relief.

"Yeah, I'm back," I told her. "No big deal."

"But I was so worried!" she insisted, grabbing me and hugging me.

"Hey, hey," I told her defensively. "Back off a bit, hey?"

"Oh, sorry," she replied contritely. "I tend to get worried about my friends, all right?"

For a moment, I was puzzled. What's that got to do with me? And then I got it.

“Oh, uh, yeah, friends, right,” I replied. Who does she think she's kidding?

And then I looked past her, at Marionette and Insight, they were sitting on one of the sofas, conferring over some leadership bullshit. Insight turned and looked at me, gave me the same dead-serious stare she gave everything, but I got the distinct impression that she knew exactly what was going through my head.

For a frozen moment, I thought she was going to spill the beans, then and there, but she just gave me that stare, then a brief nod of acknowledgement, and turned back to Marionette. I wondered if she ever smiled. If she even could smile.

“Yeah, uh, it's good to see you too, Rachel,” I told the auburn-haired girl, and tentatively gave her a hug. She smiled and hugged me back; I oofed as her strong arms squeezed the air out of my lungs.

“How awesome were we?” Brian declaimed as the dogs finally finished worshipping him. “Totally freaking awesome, that's how awesome. Seriously, we just went up against the Minions, as well as Teaser and Pandemic, and we kicked their asses in no uncertain fucking terms.”

“Which reminds me,” Marionette stated meaningfully. “Your estimates are rarely that far out. What happened?”

Lisa looked uncomfortable. “It was an educated guess. Yes, the numbers were a little vague, but the boss really wanted to get this done. This is why he's letting us keep the money. There was a lot riding on this.”

“Speaking of which,” Brian noted, going to the fridge and pulling out a beer, “you want to be more observant of your surroundings. Don't think I didn't see Taylor pulling your ass out of the fire.” He held up the beer. “Want one? Or would you rather a soda?”

“Got anything stronger?” I asked. “Or a cigarette? I think I'm just coming down from the high.”

Marionette frowned at me. “None of us here smoke. I didn't know you were a smoker.”

I shrugged. “Gotta have a vice, am I right?” I watched Brian pull a bottle from the back of the fridge, and splash some into a glass.

He brought it to me and I sniffed it. “Huh,” I muttered. “Bourbon. The good stuff.”

“We keep it for celebrations,” Brian told me. “It's pretty strong stuff, so -”

His jaw dropped as I threw it back in one gulp. It burned going down; he'd been right. It was strong. But I'd had stronger. “Nice,” I husked.

“You want to go easy on that,” Brian suggested. “My dad drinks, like, a lot, so I know how it can sneak up on you.”

I gave him a level stare. “When I want advice on how to drink, I'll ask him.” I handed him back the glass. “Thanks for the drink. So when do we divvy up the loot?”

<><>​

“You've got no idea who you're fucking with,” snarled the girl. “When my uncle gets hold of you … “

Thomas Calvert sighed and shook his head. “I'm sorry, Dinah,” he told her sincerely. “It has to be this way. Your uncle is too dangerous with you to assist him.”

“So you're going to kill me, is that it?” She sniffled, and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “What's it gonna be? Your man behind me pulls my head back, cuts my throat? Or are you gonna just pull that pistol on your hip and pop me in the face?”

His voice was gentle. “Look at your own future, Dinah. See what I have in store for you.”

She paused for a long moment, then her red-rimmed eyes fixed on his, or at least where they would be behind the cloth of his costume. “I don't believe it,” she told him defiantly. “You've fucked with my power somehow.”

“I assure you, I haven't.” His tone never changed. “What did you see?”

“Ninety … ninety seven point nine seven six four percent chance that I don't get hurt. Don't get murdered. Just kept in a cell, fed and clothed.”

“Precisely,” he agreed. “No harm will come to you.”

She shifted in the chair and went to get up, but the man behind her pressed down on her shoulders. “But I was getting paid,” she whined. “And I got all the candy I wanted.” She sniffled again.

He sighed. “That wasn't candy, and you know it,” he informed her. “That was drugs. He was feeding you drugs to keep you happy.”

“Well, fucking duh,” she blazed at him. “I was happy. I got a hit any time I liked, and I had money, and I had a car … “

“You're years too young to drive, Dinah,” he pointed out.

She snickered. “It's amazing how laws can change when your uncle's the Mayor,” she pointed out. “And I saw one other thing. I saw how you're not gonna give me any candy, so I'm gonna be in withdrawal. It's gonna be fucking hell in there, you bastard.”

“Possibly,” he agreed. “I'll be supplying all the palliatives that I can, within reason.”

“Fuck your palliatives,” she retorted. “Just give me the candy, and I'll be fine. Fuck, I'll even work for you.”

He frowned. “I do not believe I will be making use of your abilities; to merely deprive your uncle of them is enough for the moment. Though we may revisit that in the future.”

“Just give me the candy – okay, fine, the drugs,” she amended in a huff. “And I'll work for you all you like.”

He shook his head. “I'm not going to enable that behaviour. You're drying out, whether you want to or not.”

She let loose a torrent of profanity then, which he would have been hard put to match, with all his years in the Syndicate's pay. After a time, during which she neither paused nor chose to be more polite, he motioned for her to be taken away and placed in her cell.

She would be comfortable there, and she would be given food and adequate medical care.

It was the least he could do for her.

<><>​

I looked at the pile of money in front of me. I'd seen it counted out, and I'd checked random stacks of notes to make sure that's what they were, but I still couldn't really believe it. “Eleven thousand dollars,” I marvelled. “Holy shit.”

“And change,” Brian reminded me. “We took nearly sixty thousand dollars off those jerks.”

I nodded. “Almost makes you wonder why we're not on the other side of the fence,” I commented, trying to make it sound like a joke. I wanted to be on the other side of the fence. I wanted to be pulling in that sort of money regularly.

“Don't even joke about that,” Marionette told me severely. “We're not in this for the money. We're heroes.”

“True,” Brian told him, riffling through a stack of cash with a vvvippp sound. “But it makes it a whole lot easier to be a hero.” He turned to Rachel, who was staring at her stack of cash, as if hypnotised. “Hey, Rach. Earth to Rach. What are you gonna spend your share on?”

Rachel started, then grinned at him. “Oh, sorry. I was trying to work out exactly how many doggy treats I could buy with this.”

I burst out laughing, then saw that no-one else was following suit, although Brian was grinning back at her. “What, you're serious?” I asked incredulously.

She nodded earnestly. “I love my dogs.” Well, duh. I could see that. A blind man in Chicago could see that.

“Yeah, well,” I agreed dryly. “I have no doubt that you could buy them enough treats to make them sick for a year. How about, I dunno, new clothes. Shoes.” I indicated the summer-weight frock she was wearing. “Something you could ride your dogs in without worrying about wear and tear.”

“You think so?” she asked. “I just don't want to look too butch, you know?”

Brian affectionately tousled her hair. “I don't think you could look butch if you tried, Rach.”

She blushed and glanced sideways at him. “Thanks, Brian. You say the nicest things.”

I felt a sudden lurch inside my gut, and frowned. What the hell was that? It took me a moment to realise what I was feeling. Jealousy. What the fuck? Just because he's good looking and nice to me doesn't mean he actually means anything to me, does it?

“Hey,” I commented. “Get a room, you two.”

Brian and Rachel looked at me, startled. “Uh, no, he's not my boyfriend,” she blurted.

“No, she's more like my sister, you know?” he added.

I nodded. “Cool. In the market for a girlfriend, Brian?” I grinned at him. “Or do you think of me as your sister, too?”

He blinked at me, startled all over again. “Uh, can I think about this?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But don't take too long.”

“Trust me, I won't.”

“Good.” I looked at Marionette and Insight. “Got a problem with Brian and me dating?”

Marionette shrugged. “So long as you can keep it professional, no.”

Lisa took longer to reply. I waited; with a word, she could destroy me.

In the end, she looked at me with an expression that could almost have been a smile. Her mouth turned up at the corners, making her look rather fox-like. “I don't have a problem with it,” she told me.

Excellent. If they think I'm invested in the team, less chance that they'll see it coming when I lower the boom on them.

My cunning plan was proceeding apace.


End of Part Nine

Part Ten

 

MirrorVerse

Part Ten: Greg

[A/N: Online board simulator designed by Conceptualist ]

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♦Topic: Drug House Hit
In: Boards ► Fucking Heroes ► Upsiders

BottomFeeder (Original Poster)
Posted on April 15, 2011:

So, I hear the Upsiders hit a drug house. Burned the powder, got away with the dollars. Or was it burned the dollars, got away with the drugs?

(Showing Page 3 of 47)

SellSword (Verified Cape) (Veteran Member) (Syndicate Member)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
We will catch those little shits, and when we do, they are never gonna bother anyone in this town at all. Ever.

HeroSnogger (Cape Groupie)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
Yeah well, I notice that you didn't do much to stop them. Were you off playing house with Artillery again?

SellSword (Verified Cape) (Veteran Member) (Syndicate Member)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
HeroSnogger, shut that mouth or I'll shut it for you.

Artillery (Verified Cape) (Veteran Member) (Syndicate Member)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
And if he doesn't, I will.

DogBiscuit
Replied on April 15, 2011:
I hear the Minions got taken down pretty good.

CaptainZombie (Verified Cape) (Minion)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
And you can fuck off too. There was a new cape on scene. Some bug controller.

HeroSnogger (Cape Groupie)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
In fact, I heard that the Minions got taken down even though Pandemic was in the building, and Teaser was outside. What the fuck happened there? Did Teaser get lost on the way?

DirtyBastard
Replied on April 15, 2011:
Wouldn't be surprised. She's not the sharpest spoon in the drawer.

GrabBag (The Guy In The Know)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
Okay, so all joking aside, what happened in there with Pandemic? Isn't she supposed to be all fucking scary?

Teaser (Verified Cape) (Cape Daughter) (Brockton Bay Brigands)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
Pandemic got a broken wrist and a concussion. And when I catch up with the bitch who did that, I'm gonna fuckin' spread her over three miles of highway.

HeroSnogger (Cape Groupie)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
Yeah, big talk. We all know your sister's the brains of the outfit.

DogBiscuit
Replied on April 15, 2011:
So, death threats aside, is there anyone going to do anything about the Upsiders? They're really making a nuisance of themselves.

SellSword (Verified Cape) (Veteran Member) (Syndicate Member)
Replied on April 15, 2011:
Don't worry. I've got a lead on them. And when I catch them, especially that little bitch Insight, I've got something special for them.

​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 ... 45 , 46, 47

<><>​

Greg Veder paused; a blinking red icon had popped up in the corner of his screen. He knew what that meant; the SO mods were two jumps away from locating his IP address. Unhurriedly, he entered the keystrokes to drop out of the boards and back to the ordinary net.

The icon stayed, blinking faster. One jump away. Fuck.

Castigating himself for being so complacent – he should have realised that the SO mods would have kept on him after he left the boards – he stomped down on the floor switch of the power board that fed his modem and computer. Power cut, they died immediately.

He didn't relax; if they had really located him, teleporters might be popping into his bedroom at any moment now. He reached under the desk, and his hand curled around the comforting grip of the nine-millimetre Glock that he had acquired during a previous excursion into the Deep Web.

Not that he held much hope of his survival if they had indeed located him; if they did get to him, he intended to take as many as possible with him, and save the last bullet for himself. Anything was better than to be grabbed for spying on the Syndicate's private message boards. Or worse, the PRT. Rumour was that whole families died if you crossed them.

He waited, tense. The house creaked slightly as it settled. Under him, the chair squeaked gently as he shifted a little to look out the window. The curtains ruffled slightly under the impulse of a breeze that found its way in through the barely-open window. With the computer off, the loudest sound in the room was his breathing, followed by the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Was that a noise? Is someone climbing up the side of the house?

His hand closed convulsively over the butt of the pistol, and he pulled it clear of its makeshift holder. More scratching sounded, outside, then there came the sound of heavy wings beating as some night bird took off. His heart rate slowed to merely rapid-fire levels, and he took a deep breath, then another one, before holding his breath and trying to listen.

Nothing. Just the clock ticking. He looked at it. Ten minutes.

Ten minutes? It felt like ten hours.

Carefully, he slid the Glock back into its holder and leaned back in his chair. Despite the cool air in the room, his forehead was beaded with sweat. Slowly, he began to relax. They didn't track me down. But it was close.

Pressure on the foot switch fed power to the computer; as it went through its startup sequence, he breathed slowly and deeply. I'm playing a dangerous game. I need to stay calm.

And then his bedroom door opened suddenly, startling him. Just barely, he managed to avoid grabbing for the pistol, and instead looked inquiringly at his mother's face, as she leaned in through the door.

“Uh, hi, Mom,” he greeted her, trying to sound as awkward as he could. “What's up?”

“We were just coming up to bed,” she told him. “I thought I'd check in on you. What're you doing?”

“Oh, uh, nothing,” he told her, hitting keys to activate a series of macros.

“Gregory Veder,” she chided him. “You know I can tell when you're not telling the truth.” That hasn't been true for years now, Mom. Entering the room, she took a good look at his computer terminal. “Homework? Now I know you're up to something.”

“Mo-om,” he groaned. “Can't a guy actually do homework without being given the third degree?”

“Well, if you were actually doing homework, I would be okay with it,” she retorted. “But I know you, Greg.” Reaching down to the keyboard, she pressed a couple of keys, and blinked at the window that revealed itself. “Okay, what's this?”

“It's only a game, Mom,” he told her with seeming embarrassment. “It's an online interactive game called Dungeon Delvers. You explore tunnels and dig through to other tunnels to find treasure. There's underground cities as well.”

She looked at the open screen. There was a burly humanoid, busy digging away at what looked like a vein of gold ore, and loading it into a barrow.

“Oh, well, don't stay up too long playing,” she warned him.

“Not a school night, Mom,” he protested.

“Doesn't matter,” she replied. “Your Dad wants you to mow the lawn tomorrow.”

Greg decided that now was the time for a typical teen response. “Mo-om … “ he groaned, rolling his eyes. “Can't I have one weekend to do what I want?”

“Take it up with him. Just don't be up too late,” she warned him, and kissed him on the top of the head. “Sweet dreams.”

“Uh huh.” He watched as she walked across the room to the door. “Night, Mom.”

He watched the door close behind her, then turned to his computer. The game was a blind, of course; he had played it a few times, to get an idea of how it ran. To further the illusion, he had gotten on to the message boards, and chatted about ways and means to beat some of the levels. As a matter of fact, he had very little trouble with it, but he pretended to be less adept than he really was, in order to fit in.

However, someone with the username GstringGirl had contacted him with hints and tips, and he had messaged her back, thanking her for the courtesy. This may have been a mistake; she was messaging him on a regular occasion now, wanting to chat, and even suggesting that they meet. However, the tone of the messages indicated that she was interested in getting to know him, perhaps even to form some level of relationship. Not only was he not interested in such at the moment, but all indications were that she would the clingy type, unwilling to accept excuses for not being let into every facet of his life.

Unfortunately, nor did he want to end up in a messy scene that would draw attention to him, so he continued to be politely oblivious online. Perhaps, he hoped, she would lose interest and drift away.

Closing both decoy windows, he frowned in deep thought as he brought up the list of proxies he could use, the ones that weren't already burned. There were fewer than there had been an hour ago. More would crop up, of course, but it was a slow process. Better not access the SO boards for a while then. I wonder how the mods rumbled me? Maybe I should've posted something.

His thoughts strayed back to GstringGirl again. How do I deflect her? For a moment, he considered lying to her. If she thinks I'm gay, maybe she'll leave me alone.

Or maybe she'll try harder. No thanks. As it was, she was getting stalkerish.

Through the wall, he heard the bedsprings squeak as his parents went to bed. They'll be asleep soon.

Frowning in concentration, he accessed another proxy and went on to the PHO boards. It was ill-organised at the best of times; he had to plough through reams of spam and scam posts before getting to anything resembling actual content.

From an anonymous guest account, he sent a message to Insight. Big fan of yours. Can we meet sometime?

Hopefully, she would see through it to his true purpose and PM him back. Then he could warn her. She might even take it seriously; it was the best that he could do without actually finding out her real identity and approaching her in the real world. Not that he'd ever do that; such a thing would be stupid, and highly risky for the both of them.

I just wish I could help Taylor, too.

<><>​

Greg was a straight-A student at Winslow, a shoo-in for a college scholarship; he regularly pulled in class prizes for his work. But despite his best intentions, people tended to crowd around him to bask in the reflected glory, not because they actually liked him. His actual friends were few and far between; Taylor was one of the few girls who treated him the same as she treated everyone else. That is, with arrogant disdain. What put other people off actually attracted him; he felt that if a girl who disliked people could be persuaded to like him, he would have made a real friend.

Not that he intended to do anything more than be her friend; rumour had it that any boy sniffing around her ended up getting a very pointed reminded to leave her alone. Danny Hebert was a powerful figure in the city, and it was just the thing that he might do. Whatever I do, whatever I say, I'm going to have to be careful.

He felt a certain kinship to her; he was isolated by his scholastic success, while she was set apart by her disdain for anyone who wasn't her. Yes, she occasionally bullied and victimised her fellow students – particularly Emma Barnes and Madison Clements – but to him that was a symptom of a greater problem. That was learned behaviour, he believed; learned from a powerful, ruthless father. And what can be learned, can be unlearned. Once she saw that he actually had concern for her well-being, was willing to help her, perhaps he could connect with her. I like her. I want her to see that she's likeable. Once she sees that, perhaps she will stop striking out at the world.

Of course, he had no illusions that it would be an overnight process. Her problems ran deep, but once she had accepted his friendship, he would do what he could to help her sort them out. One step at a time.

Manually, he turned off his modem, then double-checked his computer for any sort of running software that might store information and retransmit it later. Finding nothing, he pulled up an encrypted file and typed in the key. Almost instantly, it opened up to where he had last finished working on it.

It was fairly large, over a hundred thousand words so far; he figured that it might be twice or three times that size before he was finished. It had evolved as he had written it; originally, it had been a mundane essay on the state of law and order in Brockton Bay, but some ideas in it had struck him as being interesting, and he had saved them before handing in the essay. Going back to the ideas, he had developed them, then written more on the subject, backing up the essay with his own observations. Currently it was titled Right and Wrong, but he suspected that it might change again before he was finished with it.

'… instinctive reaction of the average person is to do good, to do right by the fellow man. It is only by association with others that one learns bad traits; to steal, to attack, to kill. Our laws, based around the instinct for good, tend to be lax, as most people understand the basis behind them on a visceral level. This fails us when we encounter an organisation of entrenched evil; we try to deal with it as per normal, and we fail. Unfortunately, those who reach positions of power seem to be quite adept at ignoring their inner good instinct … '

He frowned, typing a few corrections here and there, tightening some phrasing. Absent rules, people tended to play fair. It was when rules and laws came into being that they started to work to get around them. And so, for every law, there were a thousand loopholes. This was the basis of the work; he had hopes that it would end up on the best-seller list someday.

A few paragraphs came to him, and he typed them up, then saved the work, re-encrypting it as he did so. Some of the information in there came from the SO boards, and he devoutly hoped that the authors of the words he had stolen would have long since forgotten their posts by the time his magnum opus made print.

Leaning back in his chair, he let his mind drift. After a few moments, he found himself pondering the concept of a world where people were inherently greedy, where laws were required to keep the unscrupulous from fleecing the less aware. Would it be a paradise, he wondered, or would it be even harsher, as things like speed limits and drinking age became an actual definitive aspect, as opposed to a general guideline?

Would crime be more prevalent or less? With stricter laws, would criminals pay heed to them, or ignore them at the risk of harsher jail terms, doled out by an uncaring justice system? With the police and superheroes more organised than the criminals, would such a world be a paradise of justice, or would the legal system there be just as disorganised as the criminals here?

He tried to imagine a mirrored Taylor in such a world; a sweet, gentle and kindly girl, she would be much easier to make friends with. But would I be the sort of person that she would make friends with?

It was something to wonder about. I'm socially adept, charismatic, intelligent … does this mean that a mirror-me would be the opposite? He shuddered. I think I'd rather be me. But I'd still like to meet a mirror version of Taylor. She would probably be easier to get along with than the one we have at the moment.

Ensuring that his document was stored away again, he restarted the modem and logged on to the PHO site. There was no answer yet to his offer, but he had hopes. Insight was not known to be stupid, after all. I just hope she gets back to me before Sellsword gets hold of her. The Syndicate villain had a well-deserved reputation for long-held grudges, and violence in general.

Shutting down his computer, he turned out the light and got into bed. It took him a while to get comfortable; rolling over, he sought refuge in sleep. His last coherent thought was, I wonder what a true mirror world would be like?

<><>​

In the middle of the night, he sat up, bolt upright, eyes wide. In his mind's eye, he could see a machine. Fumbling on his night-light, he scrabbled for a pencil and pad, and sketched furiously. Page after page was covered in drawings and notes, the pencil flying over the paper. He had no idea what it was that he was drawing, but he knew that it was somehow important.

Finally, he faltered. His eyelids grew heavy; he scribbled a last few notes, and dropped the pad on the bedside table. The light clicked off, leaving bright after-images swimming in his vision.

I wonder what that thing is, anyway?

He was asleep before he could think of an answer.

<><>​

“Wake up, honey. “

Slowly, his eyes edged their way open as someone shook him. That 'someone' turned out to be his mother.

“'m awake.”

“Good,” she told him briskly. “Your father will be back shortly, and then we'll be going out. He'd like you to mow the lawn today, if it's not too much trouble.”

“No, no trouble,” he agreed. He really didn't mind mowing the lawn; it was mindless exercise that left his brain to its own devices. “I'll get it done after breakfast.”

“Great!” she told him. The crunch of tyres on gravel, followed by the beep of a horn, heralded the return of his father. “We'll see you later.”

“Where are you going?” he asked curiously.

“Movies,” she returned briefly. “That new Earth Aleph one.”

There were three 'new Earth Aleph' movies playing at the moment; he didn't bother asking which one. “Well, have fun.”

She grinned. “Oh, we will.” Leaning down, she kissed him on the cheek. “It's good that you're responsible enough to be left on your own.”

With that, she was gone, trotting down the stairs as he levered himself out of bed. It was a short trip to the bathroom, where he got into the shower.

Gradually, the hot spray woke him up, unlocking his mental processes. He dried and dressed; as he was sitting on the bed, pulling his shoes on, his gaze fell upon the notepad, and the interlude during the night returned to him.

What was that device which I was drawing?

Picking up the notepad, Greg began paging through it. The drawings looked strange, but he found that he could understand them. Wandering downstairs, he made himself some cereal and ate it, while still perusing the notebook.

After he rinsed the dish and spoon, he wandered out to the garage. His father considered himself a do-it-yourselfer, and the shelves were crammed with every type of junk available. Greg began to go through them, picking out bits and pieces. They didn't match the parts that he had visualised, not exactly, but somehow he knew that they would do.

After he had gotten all the parts together, he began to assemble them. Some didn't fit exactly, but he found that he could file them down, or in one case, chip a piece off the side, to make them slot into place. It took him a while, following the spidery notes that he had scribbled down, sometimes trailing off the edge of the page, but toward the end, he was pretty sure that he had gotten it right.

There were a couple of pieces that he wasn't quite sure how they fitted into the contraption, but with a bit of work, he got them connected up.

Adding a heavy battery and attaching it to the terminals was the work of a moment. And then he threw the switch.

Nothing seemed to be happening.

He eyed the thing; it wasn't humming, beeping or buzzing. He was pretty sure that it was a Tinker tech device of some sort. Which made him a Tinker. But he had no idea what the thing was supposed to do.

With a sigh, he threw it on to the work bench and pulled the lawnmower out. If I mow the yard, maybe I'll have a better idea of what to do about it. Grunting with the effort, he wheeled the mower outside; soon a roar of engine noise indicated that he'd gotten it started.

On the work bench, lights blinked on the device; the drop on to the bench had connected two vital components. It began to function.

Several miles and a whole universe away, Taylor Hebert stared in confusion as her bedroom mirror became a window to another world …


End of Part Ten

Part Eleven