Rice was on sale. White basmati, which would go well with the potato curry I was planning. The price check on my Augmented Reality glasses said it was a good deal, so I tossed it in the cart.
I'd dug the glasses out of a box on the top shelf in my office that morning. Then I had to spend an hour getting them set up on Pooja's secured and encrypted network. According to her records, it was a three year old project, and it looked a bit like Google Glass by way of tacky tourist beachwear. Combined with some casual shorts and a faded t-shirt with an image of John Wayne holding a shotgun from Stagecoach on it, the result didn't exactly scream "supervillain." Based on my casual wear wardrobe consisting entirely of red shorts and fandom tees, there was growing evidence that I was, in fact, a giant nerd in possibly all universes.
Four days after "waking up" in the attack at TriD, and the house was already out of anything that wasn't frozen or canned, so once again I had to head out. Pooja said it was, if anything, safer now that the heroes knew Slade was operating in the area. He'd have to keep his head down at least a little. And this wasn't a suspicious activity, or linked to any of the records TriD had.
While I did the shopping at a local supermarket, Pooja was—I checked the scrolling live transcript logs as they were projected against a box of cereal—apparently still talking shop with Oracle. Figures she'd go after the computer nerd first. Whitmore seemed to be avoiding the internet right now, so it was also easier for Pooja to get in contact with Oracle. Made sense all around.
Accord to the log, they were now trading hacks right while Barbara sneakily tried to figure out if Pooja was a threat or not by asking subtly probing questions. Very Batman of her. It was sort of cute, but Pooja was playing the game at least two levels deeper based on the emotive system diagnostic view I was looking at projected against individual containers of yogurt.
In other words, Pooja believed she knew what Barbara was doing and was countering it, and was also countering what Barbara would do if Barbara thought Pooja was trying to counter Barbara's strategy. English wasn't a good language for this, but math and computer algorithms were. As an AI designed to understand superheroes and villains, and counter their most dangerous abilities, Pooja was naturally winning their little social battle. Good for her.
This again made me wonder what Pooja was doing when she talked with me. Was I being played the same way? All the diagnostic programs were run by or on computers Pooja controlled, so it wasn't like I could verify anything. And bringing up the mind reading application right in front of the person you were using it on wasn't my idea of a trusting or useful thing to do.
For now, I just watched her outer level concepts debug log scroll on a carton of milk as she talked to Oracle, without jogging her elbow with dumb advice or attempting to spy any deeper on them. Talking to two people at the same time was still a bit of a strain on Pooja, so I was also trying not to bug her in general while she worked in real time. Her security systems were still at full effectiveness, however, as it had separate, dedicated resources.
I found some more Diet Gingold cola on the bottom shelf of the soda aisle. Into the cart it went.
With any luck, by this time tomorrow I'd have a full scan of the Cosmic Belt. Giving me that data wasn't going to be something Oracle did on purpose, but Pooja had already compromised seven of the most likely locations to have Whitmore get the physical scans done. Top of the list was the UC Irvine Medical Center, with its advanced imaging equipment, and a local WayneCorp tech lab was a likely source for the diagnostic hardware. Pooja had most of the angles well covered.
With all that, we could track down the Cosmic Staff by following the unique disruption of the star power radiation fields. Pooja and I could also design a star power generator for my suit. True, the heroes would get a possible way to track me and other star power users, but I already had some ideas about how to counter that problem. Including, just putting an "off" switch on the stupid thing.
I couldn't wait to get my hands on some genuine Earth schizo tech. It was going to be great.
Back at my garage workbench at home, the glove interface was coming along well. I wasn't planning on using it to control most of the suit—it was just a manual backup in case comms went down to Pooja. Otherwise, she'd be running most of the systems as a series of macros and complex predefined programs, triggered remotely on my request or based on Pooja's view of the battlefield. Most of the heavy lifting strategy-wise would take place on her side, not in the suit. I had few different radio systems, including a satellite link and a set of throwies for a small-area mesh network, so it was unlikely everything would be taken out at the same time. Still. Better safe than sorry.
I made a note to look into alien or superscience radio systems for the suit and Pooja.
The gloves did basic target selection, simple menu navigation, and allowed for a virtual keyboard interface to do on-the-fly variable editing—something I was swearing over and over to myself to never, ever do. Not unless it was literally the last option.
I wouldn't be one of those villains taken out while fiddling with his gear in the middle of a fist fight. Or one of those villains who allowed himself to even get into a fist fight in the first place. I was only planning on this level of confrontation because it was Deathstroke after me.
My mindless soldering and strategizing was interrupted Pooja's voice. "I am finished talking to Oracle for now."
"How'd it go?" I asked, putting down the iron and eyeing my half-finished circuit board. Through-hole work looked good. The zoom and stabilize feature on these glasses was also top notch. Shame they looked so goofy.
I made a note to look into adding its features to the lenses and HUD already planned for the helmet—for the next major Alpha version. Couldn't afford feature creep now. I almost physically dragged my attention to Pooja.
"It went well," she said. "Oracle is directing Whitmore to do a full active and passive non-biological imaging set on the Cosmic Belt, funded care of a generous donation to UC Irvine Medical Center from a WayneCorp subsidiarity."
She paused dramatically. "Not that I'm supposed to know that, of course. Oracle is also getting Whitmore to hook it up to a diagnostic rig meant to replicate the functionality of the one used by the original Starman during the belt's construction. That is also going to be compromised, as Oracle herself still requires remote access to the data and I have got several subtle backdoors into the system. Even if discovered, they will appear to be minor coding bugs to a casual eye. Oracle is a master hacker, but not a paranoid systems programmer. It should be fine."
"Good. Good job, Pooja."
I worked in silence for a few slightly awkward minutes, then set down the iron again and reached for my drink. I chugged the last of another can of Diet Gingold cola, crushing the empty can slowly in my fingers. It wasn't clear if this stuff was working, but it sure seemed to be helping my fingers stay limber. No idea what actual science was behind that. Hmm.
Figuratively grasping at the familiar for conversational topics with my AI, I asked, "Pooja...is there a James Randi in your records?"
Pooja ignored the apparent non sequitur. "Born 1928 in Toronto, Canada?"
"Sounds...about right?"
"James Randi. Internationally licensed magical practitioner: mixed stage, bonded illusion crafter, and second degree master of thaumaturgy. Honorary degree in both applied religious studies and magic from the University of Toronto."
Damn Atlantis lottery. The page Pooja brought up in my glasses, projected virtually against the workbench, suggested that the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry…was working to debunk charlatans in the fields of magic and religion. Huh. Some things didn't change. Sort of.
There had, naturally, never been a Randi Prize for proving supernatural abilities. Rather, it was for provably bringing people back from the dead. Not a shade, not a ghost or other spirit claiming to be the deceased, but proven with full magical sympathetic linking to be the same person. The prize was for a hundred million dollars. It was closed in 2015, never having been won.
I sighed, eyeing the work still spread out on the bench. "I get that most of the magical and religious stuff doesn't work for me, but I know regular people can be granted powers by various means. They can't all be genetically gifted with magic power compatibility when they just happen across an ancient Egyptian god."
"True," Pooja said. "Statistically, that would be unlikely. However, those with the ability to use magic are apparently drawn to it. And once you accept godly blessings from a pantheon-level deity, or demonic powers from a greater demon, you are also apparently drawn into those spheres of conflict. You do not want that to happen. It is messy and illogical."
I smiled. "Once you start down the supernatural path, forever will it dominate your destiny."
"What?" Pooja asked, confusion clear in her voice.
Right. Wrong universe for that reference. "I meant...so you'll run into gods and demons more often than the average person if blessed with the powers of ancient gods? Which is usually just a magical jump-start?"
"Correct. Yet another reason to avoid either magical or godly entanglements," she said.
"Psychic powers?"
"All studied so far are just metahuman powers."
"Ah well. Let me know when you get the data on the scans."
"I will. It should be tomorrow afternoon," Pooja said.
Looking around the garage, I realized it really needed cleaning. Yet another thing Pooja couldn't do for me. Assuming I didn't have to burn the place down to escape a supervillain/hero attack, I'd have to spend some time organizing it. No idea how so much crap could have accumulated in just a few years.
Hmm. Better yet, put off the problem until later. Better yet, plan on burning it down. Maybe I wouldn't have to do the dishes, too. But no, best save the junk for now.
"Pooja, please schedule one of those curb-side storage container drop-off and pickup...thingies. Along with a local moving service—no truck."
"Scheduling thingies now."
"Please make sure they are paid for under an assumed name and won't be tracked back to any of my stronger identities."
"What have I said about telling me how to do my job?" she asked tartly.
"Right. Don't."
"Correct. It will be ready tomorrow." Pooja sighed at me. "And please ensure the workers don't have to be memory-wiped because they saw your power suit sitting out."
"Wait," I said. "I have a device to-"
"No."
Ah. More hilarious AI japes.
Hmm. Ethical problems aside, that would be useful to have. I took some notes that turned into an hour long writing session on ethical neuro-hacking. By the time I was done, I was getting back results from my Brazilian contractor for the basic hard-light imaging system hardware interface and system-level control channels. I spent the rest of that night testing the code.
It was damn good. I wasn't even slightly tempted to arrange for the contractor to be memory wiped—once I had that capacity worked out, of course. All I'd need to do would be to mail him a package with-
Ahem. Right. Instead, it looked he'd be getting my repeat business. Good minions- err, contractors were hard to find. And I could see a lot of things that would need doing even after the suit was complete.
Saving, backing up, and closing the latest results of his hardware emulation code tests, Danilo Varela stared at his computer in shock. Only two days in and this lovely dream was already turning to shit.
What the hell was this? What was it meant to do when complete? Who the hell was he working for?
He opened the next hardware module spec he needed to design for and test against. Then the previous two. Now all of them, tiled across his wide, curved monitor. Staring at them side by side, he swallowed hard. It was military hardware type shit. Power systems were off the fucking charts. This...this optic control system could be for a weapon, easy.
So. Could he copy some of this tech with just these scraps of information?
With shaking hands, he dragged a laptop out of a drawer in his desk, plugged in the tangled cord of the power brick, then opened it up. Power button. Boot was slow. It was kinda old, and full-disk encrypted. But it never connected to the internet.
Password. He fished around in his pocket for the USB physical token. Fingerprint on the scanner that was also in the drawer. Plug in the USB fingerprint scanner first. Voice ID.
A familiar interface opened. He started the offline version of his project management software—the one he used for the really illegal shit, then backed-up in his really paranoid archive and wiped afterward.
Project name. Always the hardest part. He slowly typed in "Isnashi". Looking around his home office, his eyes lingered on the superhero posters, dozens of them.
If this worked...he'd have it. The first step towards his dream.
The word in the text box stayed there for a long time, the entry pipe blinking.
He hit enter.
