I was preparing my little Vespa to head into town when dawn broke over the ocean, and I paused the work of my own body to watch it.
Every time I saw it, felt the still dawn air, I thought about rising with the sun more often… but in practice, I usually preferred a little more sleep. It took something important to get me up this early.
Breaking the Empire qualified.
I'd set the spiders and bees to their work for the day, and gathered the core of a swarm — black widows, some brown recluses, and lots of bees. The scooter turned out to have a considerable amount of storage space.
I looked at the "No Pets" sticker for a few moments before deciding that it probably didn't really apply in this case, and filled it. Then I filled much of my backpack. I had my costume on under loose clothing, but the mask had to go in the backpack. The storage area in my costume was also filled — more with gear than bugs, but I used them to fill it out.
Enough?
No way to tell without knowing what I'd be facing. Certainly enough to provide cores for several swarms filled out with local insects.
When I'd fought Bakuda for the last time, I'd had to enter the room to face her… and, more importantly, Lung. I'd made assumptions about the force my insects could exert; hadn't had truly dangerous bugs available. I might still make mistakes about what I could pull off, but this time I would have my full arsenal available. And if I didn't really need them? No harm done.
I raised the stand, straddled the scooter, set off down the hill.
The road unrolled beneath me, the absence of traffic at this hour making a single flowing journey of what could have been a multitude of stops and starts.
Soon enough, I pulled up at the downtown cafe I'd been frequenting lately, in a spot shaded by buildings — my bugs under the seat had been getting a little warm in transit, and I wanted them alive when I needed them. I reached out to the world around me, feeling the dormant office buildings around me… and the mostly sleeping base of Coil's beneath the tower three blocks west of me.
Apparently, he wasn't yet in.
Good.
The warring fragments of Empire Eighty Eight were the primary target right now. Lung remained a threat. But I didn't know whether either of them could be found right now, and I did know where to find Coil… and if he was half the mastermind I thought he might be, he would know where to find them.
It was, at least, worth a shot.
I settled into an omelette, with tea, and waited.
···---···
Coil showed up at around eight in the morning, and went directly to his office. I had had my notebook out ever since clearing away breakfast, idly planning search routes; a second cup of tea sat cooling and forgotten before me.
Prepositioned swarms looked at his screen while he started his day.
Flickering noise.
I guess LCD designers didn't have insect eyes in mind when they considered viewing angles.
Or at all.
Frustrating.
Still, from my experience hunting the ABB, E88 forces were unlikely to believe in 'early to rise.' I could afford to delay my search until the afternoon without losing much.
Ten minutes later, he rose and moved to the young girl he only ever called 'pet'.
"Chance of a problem here within the next hour?"
"Zero point one four three percent." Her voice was thin, but clear. A Thinker? Another Thinker? And… apparently a precog. Who could give percentage chances. Was that normal? I didn't really know much about how Thinker powers worked, but that seemed pretty powerful. Especially if you knew the right questions to ask. And… wasn't Coil a Thinker too?
No wonder he kept her close. And heavily guarded.
"Chance of a problem here before lunchtime, pet?"
"Sixty two point seven zero three percent."
His voice sharpened.
"Chance of deaths here?"
"Fifty five point five six two percent."
"Chance of deaths for those in the building across the street?"
"Zero point three one seven percent."
He paused.
"So it's not the city, it's here."
In my comfortable overstuffed chair in the corner of the cafe I froze momentarily, my pen suspended above my notepad. Someone was going to attack his base? Today?
Before lunch?
With one hand, I retrieved and flipped open the phone I'd mentally labeled as "civilian" and speed dialed one.
A pause, and then it began to ring.
"Chance I survive?"
The phone rang a second time.
"Ninety seven point eight three two percent. It hurts. I want my candy now."
With that he paused, brow knotting briefly in concentration, and then paced back and forth with long, angry strides.
The third ring of the phone was interrupted by a voice speaking in my ear. "Quinn Calle."
"It's me. Can we move our meeting from a 10:15 a.m. brunch to a 1:30 p.m. late lunch?"
"Certainly."
"Thanks."
I hung up. I wasn't sure who would be coming, or in what force, but I'd be there.
Beneath me, Coil's pacing continued.
"Candy?"
"Later, pet. Chance of deaths here if I deploy soldiers with the lasers? The purple beams?"
"Zero point one eight eight percent."
He paused again.
"… point one eight eight? Exactly? Pet, chance of deaths here if I don't deploy my soldiers?"
"Zero point one eight eight percent."
"Chance of a problem here before lunchtime?" His voice was slow, thick with an emotion I couldn't identify.
"One point seven two eight percent."
He froze.
What was going on?
He turned and walked toward the door, a plaintive cry of "… candy?" trailing after him.
Once in his office, he picked up the phone. "Have Mr. Pitter sent to my office immediately. And gather all my captains in the situation room."
He turned toward the door, passing a thin man with round-rimmed glasses, not even breaking stride as he spoke. "Give her her 'candy'. Medium dosage. And arrange a full medical workup on her — discretion above all, but otherwise as soon as possible."
I had trouble following his conversation in the corridors, but I thought I knew what he meant by 'situation room' and had already started trying to arrange swarms to overhear him.
"Gentleman. First, move everyone to a full defensive alert. Second, I would like to review with you the dispositions of the known factions active in the city, so that we can be better prepared for anyone who might assault this position."
One of the captains rose and left the room, voice barking orders as soon as he'd passed the threshold. Another stood and began to outline people, places, numbers, tactical assessments…
My pen raced frantically to get it all down.
With another thread of my attention, I heard Mr. Pitter urging the young girl to sleep with a "Shush, Dinah, shh."
This was much more than I'd hoped to get.
···---···
By 1:25 I was in a small Italian restaurant downtown, only half full at this hour but still loud with echoes. It was hard to hear someone right next to you, and all but impossible to separate out other conversations in the din. I wondered if that's why Quinn had picked it, or if it had been for the quality of the food.
No all out assault on Coil's underground fortress had materialized. No one had died. I was still no closer to figuring out whether he was one of the good guys, undercover, or not — though I hoped Quinn had found some information for me there.
At 1:30 precisely he walked through the doors, moving through the tables with smooth assurance, and seated himself before me, smile flashing in greeting. "Taylor."
"Quinn." I nodded at him, and put my menu down.
A crooked finger summoned a waiter, and we ordered. Sparkling water and the off-menu choice of local fish with pico de gallo for him; a Neapolitan pasta ragu for myself.
He leaned forward. "Why the rescheduling?"
I answered with another question. "Any word on Calvert?"
He leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. "He's ex-military, ex-PRT, currently working as a consultant, primarily on Parahuman matters with an eye to security. Generally regarded with respect for his competence."
I nodded. That was consistent with his involvement with Fortress Construction.
"So much is public knowledge. Less public, but known in my circles, is the fact that he wasn't one of grunts. Thomas Calvert was once a member of the PRT's special forces: the very few who tried to take the fight to villains directly."
I blinked. "They do that?"
His head tilted slightly to the left. "Not anymore. But once."
I nodded. The mercenaries… their tactics, their discipline… that fit too. So he was undercover.
"And known to very few, but known to me, is that he's one of the very few who survived the assault on Nilbog."
I blinked. "They didn't just build a wall around the area?"
"Not without trying for a more permanent solution first, no. He killed thousands."
He spread his hands spread palm down, expressive fingers flat against the table. "Relevantly, the only other survivor of that assault is someone you've met: Emily Pigott. Which is why I had that information in the first place — we did a thorough workup on her before the negotiations."
I nodded again. What could be more natural, than to turn to one of your old teammates for assistance?
"He still does consulting work for the PRT as well, and is considered to be on the shortlist for the next PRT Directorship that opens up."
One of their best, then. Well, we could certainly use that here.
We paused as the waiter came, bearing food and drink, and that pause lengthened as we began to eat. The food was good enough that I thought that maybe Quinn hadn't only been thinking of anti-eavesdropping measures when he chose the location.
Quinn set down his water goblet, and fixed me with a look. "Now can you tell me why you're contemplating doing business with a consultant like that?"
I chewed. Swallowed. Thought about it, and decided there was no harm in elaborating.
"One of the villains tried to get me to take on Coil, and his Bond-villain underground fortress filled with mercenaries. With laser guns."
His fingers tightened briefly around the stem of the goblet.
"So I looked into him. And, along with noticing the underground fortress and small army of soldiers, I noticed he had a PRT phone… which was the first clue to realizing that he's actually an undercover hero, so I'm glad I didn't just try and take him and his gang out of the picture."
I thought about my (theoretically) bulletproof costume, about lasers, and about how my first costume hadn't survived Bakuda's firebomb.
"For several reasons."
Quinn's voice was stiff. "Taylor, that's not how it works."
I blinked, another forkful of pasta and sausage halfway up to my mouth.
He leaned forward, voice lowering, communicating in something softer and more urgent than a whisper. "Taylor, the PRT does not run entire gang territories as an undercover operation."
I thought a moment, and said "How do you know?"
While he was chewing on that, I started back in on my pasta.
He drummed his fingers long enough for me to finish my meal, and for the waiter to take our plates away and leave the check.
Eventually, he spoke. "Look — I can't guarantee they're not doing that. I can guarantee that it's illegal. Incredibly illegal. I've had to deal with evidence gained from undercover operations, in some of my cases out in Las Vegas, and I tell you that there are rules and guidelines which govern what the PRT or Protectorate can and cannot do. What you're describing breaks every last one of them. If this is a sanctioned operation, then the command staff of the Brockton Bay PRT have gone rogue. And if it's not, then a criminal has infiltrated the PRT."
He paused, and took a drink of water.
"Dealing with corrupt law enforcement isn't impossible. It's just very hard to do so safely: this is exactly the kind of case where witnesses disappear. My advice to you is that you leave the state — maybe the country — and lie low for a while."
I held his eyes with my own. "I don't like running."
He shook his head. "It would be almost impossible for me to raise this through the proper channels without leaving open the chance that Calvert would hear of it. But…"
"But?"
"But I'm owed some favors. I can get a face-to-face with Chief Director Costa-Brown… but not quickly."
I frowned.
"Days?"
"Weeks. Maybe a month or two. I could work faster… but not without attracting a lot of attention."
I shook my head. If Coil was, in fact, a villain…
"He's got a prisoner. A girl, maybe twelve years old? Named Dinah. Another Thinker — at least I think Calvert is also a Thinker. He's giving her painkillers. I thought they might be medicinal, but…"
Quinn's lips tightened. "First, if he's parahuman then that automatically would get him booted from the PRT. Can't have the watchers and the watched being the same people. Second, I don't know how you're getting this information, but I can get you out of jail. I cannot get you out of a morgue."
"I'm not taking any risks." I smiled, or tried.
The tightness around his eyes stayed. "Third…" he produced a much fancier phone than mine, one with a touchscreen, and fiddled with it for twenty seconds, before holding it up to me.
I leaned in, looked at it. "That's her."
He nodded, replacing his phone in a jacket pocket. "Dinah Alcott. Relative of the mayor's — the firm had a table at a charity ball last week, and since I was in town, I attended. He's quite concerned about her recent kidnapping. It was… one of the major topics of gossip."
Despite the loud echoes throughout the restaurant a moment ago, it felt like the world beyond our table had simply faded out of existence.
I met his eyes.
We stared at each other for a long moment.
When I spoke at last, it was slowly, with each word carrying equal emphasis.
"I will not let this stand. Not in my city."
He exhaled, closing his eyes, blowing the air out as if he'd taken a gut-punch.
"Are you with me?"
His eyes reopened, grey and steady.
"You're the client."
I nodded.
"Then let's get to work."