- Location
- California
That kept coming back! It has been corrected.
You Needed Opponents With Gravitas (Redux)
- Thread starter T.R.E.A.M.
- Start date
- Crossover
- Location
- California
It's not something I've overtly mentioned here, but I see the different emotional reactions as being provoked by different time tables: things left unspoken in the previous draft are openly stated (Shadow Stalker/Sophia is explained in the off-screen "A great injustice has been done to you" locker conversation in the first chapter, the Mind effectively directed her to Greg), and I felt putting empowerment (and space anti-depressants) before confrontation changed the perspective: Taylor has the vantage to see Greg as more pathetic than treacherous (and that's not a great attitude either, but it's intentional), and not worth exploding at - she just files him (and people like him) away as a negative worth remembering in all the positive views she's getting of the Culture. It's a transformation of her disdain/frustration with him without the eruption.
But I do like the dramatic potential there, so I might just rewrite the chapter over this week to include the confrontation.
(I do still like the actual writing of the original story, but the arc and cape politics were disagreeing with me, and themselves. The overall structure I had planned for the end - which confrontations and crises were going to occur - were becoming increasingly hard to meet with what I already had down.)
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Uuhhh... They're a diverse group that includes a wide range of sexual preferences including asexual, pansexual, and everything in between. Stop being so limited 🙄
I knew I was gonna get pointlessly called out for that when I posted it, it was for the meme, chillax. (The undersigned is bi and sometimes very mad about bi erasure, but there's a time and a place)
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
I mean... I thought it was funny, so I don't know if it was entirely pointless. 😁
Evil Plan
Not nearly so nefarious as my name signifies
- Location
- Eastern United States
- Pronouns
- They/Them
I'm not sure if "inspired by "inspired by" art" is like a typo, or even weirder than it first sounds like. It's bringing an amusing-but-complicated set of mental images, though
Tattletale!, what are you doing in orbital space?
- Location
- California
It is intended to be weird, yeah. Think cubism based on cubist art. I can't describe what that would look like so you get metaphor. Think the alien version of the Met Gala, with fashions that are the weirdest takes on the actual Met Gala weirdest fashion.I'm not sure if "inspired by "inspired by" art" is like a typo, or even weirder than it first sounds like. It's bringing an amusing-but-complicated set of mental images, though
Tattletale!, what are you doing in orbital space?
The Mind is very very eager to just utterly crush Tats at smug out-knowingness. And then give her condescending headpats.
I Left The Shipyard For This? Interlude - Community
- Location
- California
Plateau-Class GCV Sufficiently Advanced Technology - Special Circumstances >> Group: The Clusterfork said:
Abominator-Class ROU It's Only Megalomania If I'm Wrong - Restoria >> Group said:
System-class* GSV* Big Parent of Unspecified Gender - Contact >> Group said:
Converser Ship The Abyss Looked Back - Zetetic Elench >> Group said:
Killer Class LOU Considering the Consequences >> Group said:
Sufficiently Advanced Technology >> Group said:
Sufficiently Advanced Technology >> Considering the Consequences said:
Big Parent of Unspecified Gender >> Group said:
Sufficiently Advanced Technology.>> Group said:
Desert-class MSV Irregardless > Group said:
Sufficiently Advanced Technology >> Group said:
It's Only Megalomania If I'm Wrong >> Group said:
Considering the Consequences >> Group said:
It's Only Megalomania If I'm Wrong >> Group said:
Sufficiently Advanced Technology >> Group said:
Danny hadn't woken up feeling refreshed since the day his bed became too large. Their bed, he still wanted to think. He still wanted to fix the good times in his mind, to have something that didn't look like more misery.
Had that been the cause? He flickered his bleary eyes over his coffee cup to look at Taylor. He had to really look at her to see that she was his daughter, that the gap-toothed girl hadn't completely vanished, replaced by someone already looking and acting too much like an adult. He'd been looking into the past way too much, missed this. She looked so much like - well, not like Annette, but like Taylor, the Taylor he would give anything to have Annette see, their daughter, who was going to be her own person, carrying forward the best of both of them. If they hadn't failed her already.
"Let me say what I see, and tell me where I'm wrong," she started, from his office chair, looking up from his computer and the papers she had spread across his desk. Her blazer was crisper and nicer than his, and he wondered when she'd gotten it. "The Bay took in mostly raw goods up through the eighties. Then we start losing manufacturing, companies close down, multinationals open new factories overseas, mostly in India and China. Big hit on union jobs, the local AFL-CIO labor council becomes dominated by the remaining jobs in the International Longshoreman's Association. In 1999, the shipping companies jointly announce fifty percent job cuts at the docks, claiming it's because Leviathan has reduced global shipping. A strike culminates in 'radicals' sinking the cargo ship that blocks the harbor, so it's all those greedy workers' fault that the shipping conglomerates get to write off their assets in town." He didn't know which made his heart spike with that twinge of love-pride-sadness more, her air quotes for radicals or the well of sarcasm her voice descended into. "The ILA bleeds members and cuts its office here, but you step up and open the Dock Workers Association to be a liaison with them and the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, paying in reduced dues for everyone in the DWA but getting representation for all your people for contracted jobs." Taylor spun a silver pen on her finger that she must have brought herself, a lot nicer than any of the cheap plastic ones he had lying around. "It looks like most of the importing moved to Boston and… Philly has a port? Oh, on the Delaware. Not substantially reduced, some hits when Leviathan comes again, but he really doesn't seem to target shipping ports. He just wants us to feel pain." She had the pen in a downward grip, clutched in her fist, like she wanted to stab the Endbringer. Danny could understand that.
"That's pretty much how I see it. I don't know about the last part," he offered, his smile feeling weak and dusty even while he crooked it.
Taylor smiled back with more strength - when was the last time he'd even noticed her smiling? It warmed his heart, boiled him over into the mix of anger and love and worry. Was she okay? Really? "Just thinking out loud. Domestic manufacturing hasn't really rebounded, despite the shipping claims. There is a drop, finally, nearly 30% from 2001-2005, but it's because the CIU shifts from buying raw materials and manufacturing for export to looting Central Asia to support their domestic manufacture."
"I know that's not in any of my notes."
Taylor shrugged, and her mouth quirked. He knew the helpless look from the mirror, but hers was covered in good humor, at least. "I did some research of my own. Domestic manufacturing has barely rebounded, about fifteen percent of the capacity lost to outsourcing. What we have in the Bay is mostly small, specialty, or controlled by Nazis."
He twitched. "More research?"
"I have my sources."
"Empire sources?"
"Ew, dad, no. None of the skinhead wanna-bes at Winslow know shit, even the capes, and I haven't been bothering with them yet anyway."
"Yet?" You had to listen for important words when your kid was talking.
Taylor brightened up, stretched her arms, and spun around to face him, scooting up to the desk and thumping her hands on it, startling papers with the rushing air. He was struck for a moment by how much she looked like him, about to try and hook somebody with a thin line of hope to get them through to next week. "I have big ideas. Deradicalizing the people who have made dumb, bigoted choices but aren't unfixable is part of that. It's a lot more about providing plans and help to good people struggling, but peeling people off the gangs is going to have to happen."
"You can do all that with floating?" He asked, feeling a little rude, a little snippy. Don't step all over your kid's dreams, yeah, but also question your teenager when they get megalomaniacal.
Her eyes gleamed. He wondered when she'd stopped wearing glasses. Had she bought herself contacts? "I can do a lot more than just float. Here's what I'm thinking." She flicked her fingers, and the pad of yellow note paper leapt to her. Her pen floated from her hand and began drawing, writing, with blurred speed. "Nobody wants a handout. But people will protect what's theirs. So we build up our own stuff. Dad, do you trust the Protectorate?" She tilted her head back up.
Danny didn't know if he'd ever seen Taylor so intent. Definitely not for two years. Even before that? She'd been an energetic, curious, talkative kid, not a focused one. "Trust? Depends on what I'm trusting them to do. To fight villains? Yeah, I guess I trust they'll do that. Eventually. If it's in the right neighborhood. To fight Endbringers? Yeah. People die doing that. For whatever good it does."
"But you don't see Dragon out there inventing new car safety features," Taylor said, her voice quiet and intense, on the edge of screaming or tears, an edge Danny knew well. "Just a murder prison, new "safer" guns, and endless robot suits."
He reached over his desk and grabbed his daughter's hand. It was… easier, somehow, when she was the one talking about Annette. Like the gate could open from that side without as much force.
"I know some of your guys work off the books." She continued, still softly but with less heat, leaving unsaid another thing they both knew . That losing manufacturing and shipping had left crime as one of the few fields in Brockton Bay where a person with just a high school education could make enough to support a family. "Does that bother you?"
"Of course it does. I don't want them getting hurt. And I don't want them hurting other people. But what am I supposed to tell them, when I don't have any open contracts, or even day labor?"
Taylor nodded. "That's why I don't want to go around punching people like it solves things."
"So what's your idea, pumpkin?" he asked, then stopped when she winced. "Right. That goes in the do-not-use drawer with 'kiddo'."
"Thanks, dad." She was only a bit sarcastic, and he probably deserved it. "Okay, there are three major economic problems as I see them: minimal jobs cut income, criminal activity takes from money earned, hero funding takes more from money earned and doesn't give us much back."
"Well… I'd like to argue with that." He sunk in the guest chair, gave a bad example for posture. "But I'm having a hard time thinking of what I'd say."
"Yeah." She tapped the pen once, left it hovering above the table. "No two ways around it. I think we need to make something from scratch."
A short interlude to balance a long chapter.
By god I will make this Canadian madman's ideas about Danny's job mesh with the pre-powers (real) labor rights history of the United States!
Also there are some superintelligences and Taylor plotting stuff, idk, that's probably less important.
By god I will make this Canadian madman's ideas about Danny's job mesh with the pre-powers (real) labor rights history of the United States!
Also there are some superintelligences and Taylor plotting stuff, idk, that's probably less important.
- Location
- California
Well, she can't exactly tell Danny "I'm disgusted by the priorities of the secret cabal and national governments whose orders Dragon is hardwired to obey" without having to open the entire can of worms. And she is trying to hammer the whole "parahumans aren't capable/allowed to benefit society" button in the blunt, tactless way
Evil Plan
Not nearly so nefarious as my name signifies
- Location
- Eastern United States
- Pronouns
- They/Them
I like it of course, but I feel like you're posting really fast. I don't want you to burn out yourself or your buffer.
("I have to keep up a certain amount of forward momentum, or I'll stall" isn't burnout, but it can still lead to burnout if it's too fast.)
("I have to keep up a certain amount of forward momentum, or I'll stall" isn't burnout, but it can still lead to burnout if it's too fast.)
- Location
- California
No worries! This just felt too short to be a real chapter, and I didn't like the ways I was expanding it. Next chapter's not going to be until next Thursday or Friday, keeping to a rough 1/week release schedule.
very fast pickle
(D)rapid offensive unit
Am I seeing a space god with a giant wire cutter or you are just happy to see me
The Abominator-Class is a General Offensive Unit. I believe the Inquisitor-Class is its ROU counterpart.
- Pronouns
- Yes
@T.R.E.A.M. Very nice, I liked Taylor's characterization, and I'm glad you have Greg actually do something earlier (that's one of the things that bugged me in the original version).
I liked Taylor's depiction of the protest that wrecked the Bay's shipping however you might want to note that this was happening at about the same time that shipping companies and ports were shifting to containerized shipping. The main effects of containerized shipping were:
1)Turnaround times for a ship went from weeks to hours.
2)The number of dockworkers needed dropped by ~90%
3)the number of ports needed dropped significantly.
I liked Taylor's depiction of the protest that wrecked the Bay's shipping however you might want to note that this was happening at about the same time that shipping companies and ports were shifting to containerized shipping. The main effects of containerized shipping were:
1)Turnaround times for a ship went from weeks to hours.
2)The number of dockworkers needed dropped by ~90%
3)the number of ports needed dropped significantly.
very fast pickle
(D)rapid offensive unit
Isn't abominator ships cultures "is this even possible" secret weapon . If they are involved it means the shit is real.
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The Abominator-class is the latest generation of General Offensive Unit that we see. Visible with the GSV Sleeper Service in the first video below and the subject of the second video.
Link to the artist Deviant Art page: Amerelium User Profile | DeviantArt
- Location
- California
What is an ROU but a GOU with more engine pods melded to it? And if one wants to still call itself an Abominator, best not to argue.
Taylor doesn't specifically address the general hit to labor power and unionized manufacturing in general from late 20th century mechanization, but I felt this skepticism about the motivations of the layoffs bundled that in:
- Pronouns
- Yes
The works, I was more reacting to the fit following that where it seems every port except BB was doing fine. while the reduction in number of active ports wasn't as extreme as the reduction in number of workers and I don't have reliable numbers for it, it was also a factor.
The Certainty Principle 2.1
- Location
- California
logindex localcalendar 2011.01.22 localrefraction Earth-Bet localmunicipality Brockton Bay
I hadn't changed my opinion about cheating.
Cheating meant I had a full suite of top-tier powers with loaded-in kinesthetic motive suites, no time wasted with fumbling uncertainty, no horrible accidents when I confused what I could and couldn't do. I had an array of ideas for what I could do with my 'powers,' and adaptive-emergent guidelines to alert me to things I could really do with my effectors that would go undetected and require no explanation. The gravity girl isn't supposed to hack computers from a block away.
Cheating meant I had a peak body that could fly. I was barely sleeping, I had a direct brain library of just about any information I could need about my Earth, and a secure connection to the Sufficiently Advanced Technology and The Current Earth-Bet Committee if I wanted any more information or advice. I was comfortable dilating my mental processes up to thirty five times faster than normal, a speed most bio-Cultureniks needed a couple glanded drugs to match.
Cheating meant I had an information network leagues beyond what the PRT tried to accomplish. Harvesting PHO and social media was simple enough; I had built my own semi-differentiated neural substructures under Sufficient's guidance to skim them constantly and pluck info relevant to my current thoughts. But I had agents. Culture tourists on Earth-Bet were few and far between, specially okayed and restricted to nearly human levels. Special Circumstances agents were something else. Most of our infiltrators were as physically and mentally innocuous as the tourists. Their cover stories were another matter. Senators' aides, high-placed analysts in federal agencies, engineers and scientists and accountants across private industry, and a handful of influential venture capitalists.
Watchdog was vaguely capable at spotting financial crimes with parahuman capabilities. They weren't great at spotting perfectly tailored humans built from scratch with completely accurate documentation slicing off chunks of control over vital portions of the national economy for the purpose of building leverage. We had blended in with the people doing the exact same thing solely for profit. I would have been disgusted that the DoD had privatized the therapists for Protectorate and Ward capes, if we hadn't been the ones controlling it (and improving it).
And some of the agents weren't that simple. The Current Committee knew about those infiltrators. The ship - and I - alone knew about the seeds. The pruned mind-states put into bodies with Culture-grown corona pollentia, who had been left untouched and were waiting for their trigger words to go active. Six of the fifty seeds had 'sprouted' - were capes now, heroes and villains. And I could flip them on with the right codes.
Cheating gave me self-confidence and I really didn't care that it was cheating. What was that really? Not being the same as 'real' parahumans? As another kid with powers, being dragged around by an alien intelligence they didn't know about, or like? I was taking advantage of technology, intelligence, and organization. I couldn't imagine anything more human.
And I didn't have to do any bullshit likepatrolling wandering around 'looking for crimes.' I knew what was going to happen and where.
So I was there when Hookwolf's mob (12 hitters, 4 new recruits, and the multiple murderer himself) got to First Baptist Church on the 1100 block of Preston Street around 7:45 PM, Saturday. There were fifteen parishioners, including Rick Moore, and three staff, including Pastor Angela Hawkins, still inside, running an intravenous drug addiction group in a side room and a community support group in the main hall. The firebombs were intended to drive them out into the parking lot, where the Empire inductees would become full Nazis by beating them half to death. Or further.
I watched them throw the firebombs. I watched Rick's phone buzz with my text in his right hand, and I watched his left hand tighten even harder on the small burden in his palm. He was one of the youngest members of the DWA, just 26, and hadn't really been a dock worker, just an off the books day laborer for a few months before his disease, before the docks closed, but he still paid in and dad still moved heaven and earth to get him work. And he'd believed me, and trusted me.
I watched the hexagonal shield matrix flicker into the visible spectrum, dark blue-violet, and vaporize the lobbed cartons of gasoline and bottles of petroleum jelly, only thin black smoke drifting up from the empty air.
I watched the sudden stumbling of the Nazi enthusiasm. The flung experimentation with a bat that turned wood to vapor just as easily. It wouldn't have fried human beings, just repulsed them, but they didn't need to know that.
I watched Hookwolf exude his blades, curling his body into the giant quadrupedal bladed vaguely wolfish construct as the hitters and initiates fell back, and I watched him rake claws across the field.
I watched the people inside First Baptist cry out, shield their eyes, rise and go to the windows. I watched Pastor Hawkins, glance over at the microwave-sized device she'd let me leave under the spare folding tables.
I watched the field throw the three-legged Hookwolf power-body into the empty office building on the other side of 11th Ave.
I could have watched the entire night, but this wasn't a test. What I'd given Rick and what I'd given Pastor Hawkins were both Earth-made, finished devices. Two of only ten in existence so far, but complete, understood, and so far from prototypes they were almost relics. The basic kinds of forcefield that the Culture had been using and improving for millennia, all the edges and mistakes and slow process of scientific experimentation hastened along by 'clever intuition' in the lab where they were built.
This night was a demonstration. A demonstration of gentle intent, and now a demonstration of overwhelming strength.
That might have been a bit vain, I reflected while I leapt off the roof of 1131 Preston Street. I flagged it for later review, consideration at a calmer time.
I watched the PRT van come around the corner at the same time my descending form, 178 kg of combat bio-gynoid and fully active living effector fields dropping with an effective mass around 860 kg, hit the rising Hookwolf boots-first.
His regrown limb was skeletal compared to the rest, still shifting the interlocking hedge of blades being extruded from his core to even out. So naturally it snapped first. The other limbs were buckling under my enhanced mass, although honestly they shouldn't have. The ability of a blade sculpture to move in the first place took some ridiculous physical manipulation, even if his power had left in the hideous grinding that steel-on-steel friction made. And then his form's redistribution was fluidic - the limitation of the quadrupedal form, the fact that he had any 'limbs' for me to 'break' - that was all on Brad's limited mind.
He did have the marginal intellect required to suddenly invert them, the claws now reaching up from the body to entrap me. I assumed that was instinct, that vaunted pit-fighting edge that he thought was relevant. But those instincts assumed a fight he could win.
Tonight was a statement, so I spoke first. "The faster you go down, the less it will hurt," I told Brad, my voice at a regular volume, but pitched to leap over the grinding blades, propagated across their aural obstacles with subtle effectors to reach his real tympanic membrane, skipping the translation of sensory input his powers provided, and to reach the van, where Miss Militia's potential was forming into an RPG-7 and Shadow Stalker was drawing her crossbow.
He hit me. The back right claw rebounded off my chestplate, flung back, but not due to active measures - he just had no idea how his steel would impact woven long-chain molecular exotics spun around mased-state transfixor atoms, and wasn't ready to just slide off without even scratching my armor.
The back left claw I caught in my hand, swelled the gravitational constant of that fist, and let the blades flow over my hand, gauntlet, and arm before I abruptly reversed it, inverting a fundamental force, over 80% of my bioeffectors at the cusp of overload, just to explode his deforming limb down a third of its length, hurling blades in every direction. My combat suites were running on autonomic, and I had two others in dominance on my HUD: the helpfully named Sandbagging Believability and the less amusing Intimidation Factor. They were my guidelines for how much strength was enough, how much was too much, and most importantly, how well I could wield my effectors to do other things completely unrelated to gravity, to make myself as terrifying as possible without giving away my true flexibility.
Those two suites were guiding the subtle nudges I was applying to the exploding blades, without any of the gestures and acting I'd designed for my 'power.' Six landed in the middle of the remaining Empire crowd. I adjusted them for minor flesh wounds, except Eddie Winston, 33, 5 years MCI-Concord on aggravated assault, 5.6 years in sum at Brockton's John Mannerly Jail for arson, burglary, and illegal firearm possession - I let one blade shear his right leg off just below the knee. Two blades were going to hit the street in front of First Baptist. I angled them up enough to end their trajectories on the sidewalk, and that caused the hexagonal shields to flare up and vaporize them. I nudged one blade to avoid giving Militia a potential flesh wound on her calf, but let Sophia turn to shadow to evade the one going right for her.
It was for data collection, there was no personal feeling involved. Honest. I could have moved it if she wasn't going to make it in time. And I would have.
His front right claw would have hit my head. What it met first was the circling trio of innocuous-seeming objects. Isk-Berniav and two subsentient knife missiles linked to her. They swung up from vertical, long narrow points focused on the arm, and it fell apart as it approached, throwing more and more organic-shaped steel barbs even as they were clattering to the pavement, unattached, unregistered by his power. It had been a marginal gamble, but more data collection: EM emissions hadn't been known to affect the force maintaining the cohesion of Hookwolf's blades, but rapid molecular alteration could make his power no longer register them as part of 'him.' Inefficient, on the edge of my sandbagging limits, but vital data collection as well as a demonstration of exceptional power.
And fun.
Having made my point about his attacks, I didn't stop to let it settle in. I stomped Brad's remaining torso-blade-form, which was already starting to slip to a rough obloid, bending and rending more blade volume, but I let him fling me off. It was either that or log rolling him, and that was just… silly.
I shot back from him, did a complete vertical flip in midair (not because it was the most efficient way to get distance but because I could!), felt a moment of cold air blowing in from the bay on my back, then the hot blast of Militia's explosive, a wave of hot air hitting my face. Stalker had her crossbow ready, and was doubtless itching to try to get a bolt past the blade envelope and into the Nazi, but wasn't going to act up in front of a Protectorate member that would unquestionably call her on it.
That last blast had blown him down to human with a couple of hanging spikes, but more importantly, it had been enough to slightly concuss him. I floated forward and raised a hand, relying on my new favorite adaptive advice suite: Dramatic Bullshit.
When I slammed my hand down, Brad Meadows, 17 meters away, went with it, losing his half-held footing and hitting the pavement with a crunch. That was a 2g acceleration. Most people could survive a fall from that height, and Brad's skull was only slightly fractured. But he was trying to get up, so - I curled my hand, and the constant increased. At 4g he had passed out, and I released it. Mostly to avoid the Protectorate wasting any medical resources on the mass murdering Nazi.
Speaking of - oh, Eddie's friends had decided to drag him away with them. It must have sucked for him that Othala couldn't grow back his lost leg. Well, he'd have some time to think about how well being Empire had rewarded him. At least 5-6 months until prosthetics or cloned limbs were widely available enough, by current projections.
I stood back and let them foam up Brad, while Militia and Stalker approached me.
Sophia's sotto voce "no fucking way" was honestly all I needed from that night. I could have done it all for that alone. I didn't react, of course. But I held onto that moment, let it run through analyzers for shock and awe and fear and got a little bit of a high off the readings. And her sudden glimpse over at the severed leg lying on the opposing sidewalk.
"Glad you were in the area," I started in with a truth: I was glad, but also not at all surprised.
"Thank you," Militia began, stopping just under three meters away. A decent instinct, not crowding but close enough to show her accurate assessment: I could have attacked them from a far greater distance if that was my intent, and she wasn't going to pretend to be ready to fight me. Her intended weapons now were rhetoric and law. "It's always a good surprise to meet a new hero. What are you going by?"
She was still insufficiently armed. You're heroes. You fail. You save people. You abandon them. My eyes flickered to Sophia, keeping her head sunk back into her hood with good but futile instincts. You torture people. Would Miss Militia stop Sophia, if she knew? Violate her probation, throw her in juvie? Yeah, probably.
Would that help me, the old me? Not really. Not much. Would it do anything for Sophia? Anything for her anger, her self-image tied so deeply into abusing others? Abso-fucking-lutely not. So what fucking good was the law?
"Taylor," I said. I was still floating, a mere 10 cm above the ground, but combined with my artificial growth spurt I loomed over them both. "Taylor Hebert." I raised my hand a little, spread my fingers, moving slow enough to avoid anyone's instinctual responses, and the knife missiles shot up in a spiral, pulling into an 8 meter circle, 7 meters off the ground. The semicircular field they were projecting, that spread down like a falling curtain around us and the street, shone a light blue, although it didn't have to. "Cape name Orbital. But I doubt I'll use it much. Please excuse this, it's just to stall prying eyes and ears."
That seemed to relax Militia a bit, but not Stalker. She seemed tense. I couldn't imagine why. After a muttered argument with her partner, Trooper Stephenson got to grab a body bag and go scooping up the human biowaste. I didn't wave. My social suites suggested that would come off less friendly, more crass.
"You're not required to give us your identity," Militia offered in a gentle, cautious tone. "You can trust that we'll keep it safe, of course." I did. Until it wasnecessary convenient for them to lean on it, and I trusted that they'd abuse it ruthlessly then. Another way to say unwritten rules was there's no law against breaking it. "Can you tell us what happened here?"
I pulled my legs up under me into a not-too-sloppy lotus position, and sank down a few centimeters until I was only a little above Sophia's eye level, and a few more above Militia's. "I learned the Empire was intending another blood initiation. I decided not to let them get away with it. Taking down Hookwolf was ideal for demoralizing the would-be recruits and reducing the Empire's capability to provide violence." I glanced down at the prone form.
"That's a noble motivation. And quick thinking. Are you just starting out, or have you been active before?" It was cute, seeing Sophia have to hold back on shaking her head.
"I've had parahuman powers for two weeks," I said, light and not quite smiling. "I prepare well."
"I can see that. Did you make your own costume? It looks quite professional." She was a solid speaker, just the right mix of empathy and confidence to guide a conversation, extracting answers while still exuding concern and well-meaning. I had to agree with her SC dossier, Hana's lack of ambition was one of the only reasons Colin was above her in the local hierarchy.
"The battle suit? No, it's a gift from a friend." I tapped my chin, mock-pondered. "I could make another one, but not in two weeks."
"You're a Tinker as well?" She seemed genuinely interested, taking a step forward. I went ahead and held out my arm for her to examine, flexing my hands in the lightly padded black gloves, which were integrated into the bodysuit. It had enough thickness and padding to not quite be skin tight (even new, attractive Taylor didn't want to deal with that), and the standard Culture non-sentient survival suit array of impact reduction dynamic mass-shifting, oxygenation and fluid replacement filters, and full body sealant. I could tank bullets, poison gas, and vacuum without it, but the Mind had succeeded at convincing me that redundancy never hurt. I liked the style, too. The black suit drew the attention to the silvery gauntlets and boots, shoulder pads and chestplate, and my face. Which was a funny idea to think about, with Sophia right fucking there, but I meant it. Stare me down, Stalker, any time.
"Oh, no. This is quite mundane." I smiled at the absurdity of the statement, but after two weeks of daily visits to the Sufficiently Advanced Technology, it really was getting there. Militia didn't seem quite like she believed it, either, considering she'd seen my armor deflect Hookwolf. "I just don't have a particle accelerator at home. The materials aren't quite off the shelf."
"I see. Is that yours too?" she asked, as the shield around the church conveniently flared up and vanished. Pastor Hawkins had disabled the primary generator and was coming outside with it, while Rick had stuffed his personal shield generator back into his pocket with his keys.
I shrugged and nodded. "I brought the shield generator here, but I didn't build it."
"Another gift from a friend?" She was doing a really good job still seeming nice, although I knew I'd made a number of suspicious statements.
"Not quite," I said, turning to Angela and standing on the ground. "What did you think, Pastor?"
Angela Hawkins had been another reason I'd been here, tonight. I was at the middle of a web, but at least around First Baptist Church, I had woven some of it, rather than Special Circumstances. Rick worked with dad, and had believed me when I said I knew the Empire would attack - believed enough to take the shield, anyway; that was all I could ask. Angela had been in college with mom, and ditched the Lustrum quasi-movement around the same time, when it became clearer the cape was more into deepening a personality cult than pursuing feminist goals, radical or otherwise. She'd dropped out of touch with mom, kind of understandable given their circumstances, gotten a doctorate of theology at UMass, and today still had the personality needed to lead a black church in a city infested with murderous white supremacists. "It's definitely interesting, Miss Hebert." She knew how to pronounce it, too. That helped, a nice little spark in my heart. "But I'm a little skeptical of any free lunch." She held the generator up to me, and I took it without rancor. I wasn't too disappointed, I knew immediate adoption wasn't likely.
"Of course. It will spike your electricity bill for this month, like I said." I shrugged in good humor. "Other than that, we've tried to just make it what it looks like. A shield against projectiles and powers, impenetrable but harmless to people. It's not invulnerability, but it's a lot better than brick and mortar. And we're hoping to make more, with help. I wouldn't call it a free lunch, but it is a shared one. If you ever want it back, please just call us. We'll put out more details at the press conference."
"Press conference?" Miss Militia cut in. She let a little urgency bleed into her curiosity, but not much. Sophia was trying not to choke.
"Tomorrow at 9 AM. CBS 7, NEN 20, and the Brockton Herald. You won't have to keep my identity safe for more than a few hours," I said, smiling. And it was sincere, dammit.
"You're outing yourself?" She took a step forward, put her hand just short of touching my arm. "I think you should definitely reconsider that. There are people in this city who can tell you what that can cost - you seem capable, Orbital, but what about your family, your friends?"
I didn't flicker my gaze over at my good friend Sophia. She knew more about me than almost anyone else at Winslow, after all. What else could she be? "There are some precedents I need to set. The first is being up front about who I am. The second precedent will be what happens to anyone that thinks hurting my family or friends to get to me is something they can accomplish. The third precedent will be what happens to anyone trying to subtly leverage them." I smiled for the whole speech. "That will get us to a better standard for everyone involved, I think. I respect New Wave for what they tried to do. I don't fault them for not having what I have."
She stared at me, her sharp green eyes over the bandana doing a good job of looking piercing and knowing. I had been stared at by the avatar of a Mind. It did not quite compare. "Can you tell me what exactly you're announcing at this press conference?"
"My intentions and an offer - to the city, first. I have powers and I don't think they're going to solve anything alone. I think we're better off evening the playing field for everyone."
"You're intending to mass produce what you say isn't Tinker-tech." I still didn't like the system she served, but I did notch up my respect for Militia herself. Savvy.
"Shields are just the start of it. I'm tired of seeing terror and misery on TV, Miss Militia. I have the power to change that in more ways than beating Nazis into unconsciousness. I think morally, that means I have to." I threw two fingers down, crooked another, and started floating slowly off the ground, the Mark II shield generator following me. "Before I forget." I flicked out a business card from my gauntlet, zipped it down to hover above her hand. It had the address of the empty office complex right next to the Dockworkers' Association, and a phone number, but the other side of the card just read:
"Thank you for your patience, Pastor. And thanks for the discussion, Miss M. See you Monday, Stalker."
I threw my hand down and shot upward at just barely subsonic speed. But I left a photosensitive nanocloud lurking to capture Sophia's expression.
I hadn't changed my opinion about cheating.
Cheating meant I had a full suite of top-tier powers with loaded-in kinesthetic motive suites, no time wasted with fumbling uncertainty, no horrible accidents when I confused what I could and couldn't do. I had an array of ideas for what I could do with my 'powers,' and adaptive-emergent guidelines to alert me to things I could really do with my effectors that would go undetected and require no explanation. The gravity girl isn't supposed to hack computers from a block away.
Cheating meant I had a peak body that could fly. I was barely sleeping, I had a direct brain library of just about any information I could need about my Earth, and a secure connection to the Sufficiently Advanced Technology and The Current Earth-Bet Committee if I wanted any more information or advice. I was comfortable dilating my mental processes up to thirty five times faster than normal, a speed most bio-Cultureniks needed a couple glanded drugs to match.
Cheating meant I had an information network leagues beyond what the PRT tried to accomplish. Harvesting PHO and social media was simple enough; I had built my own semi-differentiated neural substructures under Sufficient's guidance to skim them constantly and pluck info relevant to my current thoughts. But I had agents. Culture tourists on Earth-Bet were few and far between, specially okayed and restricted to nearly human levels. Special Circumstances agents were something else. Most of our infiltrators were as physically and mentally innocuous as the tourists. Their cover stories were another matter. Senators' aides, high-placed analysts in federal agencies, engineers and scientists and accountants across private industry, and a handful of influential venture capitalists.
Watchdog was vaguely capable at spotting financial crimes with parahuman capabilities. They weren't great at spotting perfectly tailored humans built from scratch with completely accurate documentation slicing off chunks of control over vital portions of the national economy for the purpose of building leverage. We had blended in with the people doing the exact same thing solely for profit. I would have been disgusted that the DoD had privatized the therapists for Protectorate and Ward capes, if we hadn't been the ones controlling it (and improving it).
And some of the agents weren't that simple. The Current Committee knew about those infiltrators. The ship - and I - alone knew about the seeds. The pruned mind-states put into bodies with Culture-grown corona pollentia, who had been left untouched and were waiting for their trigger words to go active. Six of the fifty seeds had 'sprouted' - were capes now, heroes and villains. And I could flip them on with the right codes.
Cheating gave me self-confidence and I really didn't care that it was cheating. What was that really? Not being the same as 'real' parahumans? As another kid with powers, being dragged around by an alien intelligence they didn't know about, or like? I was taking advantage of technology, intelligence, and organization. I couldn't imagine anything more human.
And I didn't have to do any bullshit like
So I was there when Hookwolf's mob (12 hitters, 4 new recruits, and the multiple murderer himself) got to First Baptist Church on the 1100 block of Preston Street around 7:45 PM, Saturday. There were fifteen parishioners, including Rick Moore, and three staff, including Pastor Angela Hawkins, still inside, running an intravenous drug addiction group in a side room and a community support group in the main hall. The firebombs were intended to drive them out into the parking lot, where the Empire inductees would become full Nazis by beating them half to death. Or further.
I watched them throw the firebombs. I watched Rick's phone buzz with my text in his right hand, and I watched his left hand tighten even harder on the small burden in his palm. He was one of the youngest members of the DWA, just 26, and hadn't really been a dock worker, just an off the books day laborer for a few months before his disease, before the docks closed, but he still paid in and dad still moved heaven and earth to get him work. And he'd believed me, and trusted me.
I watched the hexagonal shield matrix flicker into the visible spectrum, dark blue-violet, and vaporize the lobbed cartons of gasoline and bottles of petroleum jelly, only thin black smoke drifting up from the empty air.
I watched the sudden stumbling of the Nazi enthusiasm. The flung experimentation with a bat that turned wood to vapor just as easily. It wouldn't have fried human beings, just repulsed them, but they didn't need to know that.
I watched Hookwolf exude his blades, curling his body into the giant quadrupedal bladed vaguely wolfish construct as the hitters and initiates fell back, and I watched him rake claws across the field.
I watched the people inside First Baptist cry out, shield their eyes, rise and go to the windows. I watched Pastor Hawkins, glance over at the microwave-sized device she'd let me leave under the spare folding tables.
I watched the field throw the three-legged Hookwolf power-body into the empty office building on the other side of 11th Ave.
I could have watched the entire night, but this wasn't a test. What I'd given Rick and what I'd given Pastor Hawkins were both Earth-made, finished devices. Two of only ten in existence so far, but complete, understood, and so far from prototypes they were almost relics. The basic kinds of forcefield that the Culture had been using and improving for millennia, all the edges and mistakes and slow process of scientific experimentation hastened along by 'clever intuition' in the lab where they were built.
This night was a demonstration. A demonstration of gentle intent, and now a demonstration of overwhelming strength.
That might have been a bit vain, I reflected while I leapt off the roof of 1131 Preston Street. I flagged it for later review, consideration at a calmer time.
I watched the PRT van come around the corner at the same time my descending form, 178 kg of combat bio-gynoid and fully active living effector fields dropping with an effective mass around 860 kg, hit the rising Hookwolf boots-first.
His regrown limb was skeletal compared to the rest, still shifting the interlocking hedge of blades being extruded from his core to even out. So naturally it snapped first. The other limbs were buckling under my enhanced mass, although honestly they shouldn't have. The ability of a blade sculpture to move in the first place took some ridiculous physical manipulation, even if his power had left in the hideous grinding that steel-on-steel friction made. And then his form's redistribution was fluidic - the limitation of the quadrupedal form, the fact that he had any 'limbs' for me to 'break' - that was all on Brad's limited mind.
He did have the marginal intellect required to suddenly invert them, the claws now reaching up from the body to entrap me. I assumed that was instinct, that vaunted pit-fighting edge that he thought was relevant. But those instincts assumed a fight he could win.
Tonight was a statement, so I spoke first. "The faster you go down, the less it will hurt," I told Brad, my voice at a regular volume, but pitched to leap over the grinding blades, propagated across their aural obstacles with subtle effectors to reach his real tympanic membrane, skipping the translation of sensory input his powers provided, and to reach the van, where Miss Militia's potential was forming into an RPG-7 and Shadow Stalker was drawing her crossbow.
He hit me. The back right claw rebounded off my chestplate, flung back, but not due to active measures - he just had no idea how his steel would impact woven long-chain molecular exotics spun around mased-state transfixor atoms, and wasn't ready to just slide off without even scratching my armor.
The back left claw I caught in my hand, swelled the gravitational constant of that fist, and let the blades flow over my hand, gauntlet, and arm before I abruptly reversed it, inverting a fundamental force, over 80% of my bioeffectors at the cusp of overload, just to explode his deforming limb down a third of its length, hurling blades in every direction. My combat suites were running on autonomic, and I had two others in dominance on my HUD: the helpfully named Sandbagging Believability and the less amusing Intimidation Factor. They were my guidelines for how much strength was enough, how much was too much, and most importantly, how well I could wield my effectors to do other things completely unrelated to gravity, to make myself as terrifying as possible without giving away my true flexibility.
Those two suites were guiding the subtle nudges I was applying to the exploding blades, without any of the gestures and acting I'd designed for my 'power.' Six landed in the middle of the remaining Empire crowd. I adjusted them for minor flesh wounds, except Eddie Winston, 33, 5 years MCI-Concord on aggravated assault, 5.6 years in sum at Brockton's John Mannerly Jail for arson, burglary, and illegal firearm possession - I let one blade shear his right leg off just below the knee. Two blades were going to hit the street in front of First Baptist. I angled them up enough to end their trajectories on the sidewalk, and that caused the hexagonal shields to flare up and vaporize them. I nudged one blade to avoid giving Militia a potential flesh wound on her calf, but let Sophia turn to shadow to evade the one going right for her.
It was for data collection, there was no personal feeling involved. Honest. I could have moved it if she wasn't going to make it in time. And I would have.
His front right claw would have hit my head. What it met first was the circling trio of innocuous-seeming objects. Isk-Berniav and two subsentient knife missiles linked to her. They swung up from vertical, long narrow points focused on the arm, and it fell apart as it approached, throwing more and more organic-shaped steel barbs even as they were clattering to the pavement, unattached, unregistered by his power. It had been a marginal gamble, but more data collection: EM emissions hadn't been known to affect the force maintaining the cohesion of Hookwolf's blades, but rapid molecular alteration could make his power no longer register them as part of 'him.' Inefficient, on the edge of my sandbagging limits, but vital data collection as well as a demonstration of exceptional power.
And fun.
Having made my point about his attacks, I didn't stop to let it settle in. I stomped Brad's remaining torso-blade-form, which was already starting to slip to a rough obloid, bending and rending more blade volume, but I let him fling me off. It was either that or log rolling him, and that was just… silly.
I shot back from him, did a complete vertical flip in midair (not because it was the most efficient way to get distance but because I could!), felt a moment of cold air blowing in from the bay on my back, then the hot blast of Militia's explosive, a wave of hot air hitting my face. Stalker had her crossbow ready, and was doubtless itching to try to get a bolt past the blade envelope and into the Nazi, but wasn't going to act up in front of a Protectorate member that would unquestionably call her on it.
That last blast had blown him down to human with a couple of hanging spikes, but more importantly, it had been enough to slightly concuss him. I floated forward and raised a hand, relying on my new favorite adaptive advice suite: Dramatic Bullshit.
When I slammed my hand down, Brad Meadows, 17 meters away, went with it, losing his half-held footing and hitting the pavement with a crunch. That was a 2g acceleration. Most people could survive a fall from that height, and Brad's skull was only slightly fractured. But he was trying to get up, so - I curled my hand, and the constant increased. At 4g he had passed out, and I released it. Mostly to avoid the Protectorate wasting any medical resources on the mass murdering Nazi.
Speaking of - oh, Eddie's friends had decided to drag him away with them. It must have sucked for him that Othala couldn't grow back his lost leg. Well, he'd have some time to think about how well being Empire had rewarded him. At least 5-6 months until prosthetics or cloned limbs were widely available enough, by current projections.
I stood back and let them foam up Brad, while Militia and Stalker approached me.
Sophia's sotto voce "no fucking way" was honestly all I needed from that night. I could have done it all for that alone. I didn't react, of course. But I held onto that moment, let it run through analyzers for shock and awe and fear and got a little bit of a high off the readings. And her sudden glimpse over at the severed leg lying on the opposing sidewalk.
"Glad you were in the area," I started in with a truth: I was glad, but also not at all surprised.
"Thank you," Militia began, stopping just under three meters away. A decent instinct, not crowding but close enough to show her accurate assessment: I could have attacked them from a far greater distance if that was my intent, and she wasn't going to pretend to be ready to fight me. Her intended weapons now were rhetoric and law. "It's always a good surprise to meet a new hero. What are you going by?"
She was still insufficiently armed. You're heroes. You fail. You save people. You abandon them. My eyes flickered to Sophia, keeping her head sunk back into her hood with good but futile instincts. You torture people. Would Miss Militia stop Sophia, if she knew? Violate her probation, throw her in juvie? Yeah, probably.
Would that help me, the old me? Not really. Not much. Would it do anything for Sophia? Anything for her anger, her self-image tied so deeply into abusing others? Abso-fucking-lutely not. So what fucking good was the law?
"Taylor," I said. I was still floating, a mere 10 cm above the ground, but combined with my artificial growth spurt I loomed over them both. "Taylor Hebert." I raised my hand a little, spread my fingers, moving slow enough to avoid anyone's instinctual responses, and the knife missiles shot up in a spiral, pulling into an 8 meter circle, 7 meters off the ground. The semicircular field they were projecting, that spread down like a falling curtain around us and the street, shone a light blue, although it didn't have to. "Cape name Orbital. But I doubt I'll use it much. Please excuse this, it's just to stall prying eyes and ears."
That seemed to relax Militia a bit, but not Stalker. She seemed tense. I couldn't imagine why. After a muttered argument with her partner, Trooper Stephenson got to grab a body bag and go scooping up the human biowaste. I didn't wave. My social suites suggested that would come off less friendly, more crass.
"You're not required to give us your identity," Militia offered in a gentle, cautious tone. "You can trust that we'll keep it safe, of course." I did. Until it was
I pulled my legs up under me into a not-too-sloppy lotus position, and sank down a few centimeters until I was only a little above Sophia's eye level, and a few more above Militia's. "I learned the Empire was intending another blood initiation. I decided not to let them get away with it. Taking down Hookwolf was ideal for demoralizing the would-be recruits and reducing the Empire's capability to provide violence." I glanced down at the prone form.
"That's a noble motivation. And quick thinking. Are you just starting out, or have you been active before?" It was cute, seeing Sophia have to hold back on shaking her head.
"I've had parahuman powers for two weeks," I said, light and not quite smiling. "I prepare well."
"I can see that. Did you make your own costume? It looks quite professional." She was a solid speaker, just the right mix of empathy and confidence to guide a conversation, extracting answers while still exuding concern and well-meaning. I had to agree with her SC dossier, Hana's lack of ambition was one of the only reasons Colin was above her in the local hierarchy.
"The battle suit? No, it's a gift from a friend." I tapped my chin, mock-pondered. "I could make another one, but not in two weeks."
"You're a Tinker as well?" She seemed genuinely interested, taking a step forward. I went ahead and held out my arm for her to examine, flexing my hands in the lightly padded black gloves, which were integrated into the bodysuit. It had enough thickness and padding to not quite be skin tight (even new, attractive Taylor didn't want to deal with that), and the standard Culture non-sentient survival suit array of impact reduction dynamic mass-shifting, oxygenation and fluid replacement filters, and full body sealant. I could tank bullets, poison gas, and vacuum without it, but the Mind had succeeded at convincing me that redundancy never hurt. I liked the style, too. The black suit drew the attention to the silvery gauntlets and boots, shoulder pads and chestplate, and my face. Which was a funny idea to think about, with Sophia right fucking there, but I meant it. Stare me down, Stalker, any time.
"Oh, no. This is quite mundane." I smiled at the absurdity of the statement, but after two weeks of daily visits to the Sufficiently Advanced Technology, it really was getting there. Militia didn't seem quite like she believed it, either, considering she'd seen my armor deflect Hookwolf. "I just don't have a particle accelerator at home. The materials aren't quite off the shelf."
"I see. Is that yours too?" she asked, as the shield around the church conveniently flared up and vanished. Pastor Hawkins had disabled the primary generator and was coming outside with it, while Rick had stuffed his personal shield generator back into his pocket with his keys.
I shrugged and nodded. "I brought the shield generator here, but I didn't build it."
"Another gift from a friend?" She was doing a really good job still seeming nice, although I knew I'd made a number of suspicious statements.
"Not quite," I said, turning to Angela and standing on the ground. "What did you think, Pastor?"
Angela Hawkins had been another reason I'd been here, tonight. I was at the middle of a web, but at least around First Baptist Church, I had woven some of it, rather than Special Circumstances. Rick worked with dad, and had believed me when I said I knew the Empire would attack - believed enough to take the shield, anyway; that was all I could ask. Angela had been in college with mom, and ditched the Lustrum quasi-movement around the same time, when it became clearer the cape was more into deepening a personality cult than pursuing feminist goals, radical or otherwise. She'd dropped out of touch with mom, kind of understandable given their circumstances, gotten a doctorate of theology at UMass, and today still had the personality needed to lead a black church in a city infested with murderous white supremacists. "It's definitely interesting, Miss Hebert." She knew how to pronounce it, too. That helped, a nice little spark in my heart. "But I'm a little skeptical of any free lunch." She held the generator up to me, and I took it without rancor. I wasn't too disappointed, I knew immediate adoption wasn't likely.
"Of course. It will spike your electricity bill for this month, like I said." I shrugged in good humor. "Other than that, we've tried to just make it what it looks like. A shield against projectiles and powers, impenetrable but harmless to people. It's not invulnerability, but it's a lot better than brick and mortar. And we're hoping to make more, with help. I wouldn't call it a free lunch, but it is a shared one. If you ever want it back, please just call us. We'll put out more details at the press conference."
"Press conference?" Miss Militia cut in. She let a little urgency bleed into her curiosity, but not much. Sophia was trying not to choke.
"Tomorrow at 9 AM. CBS 7, NEN 20, and the Brockton Herald. You won't have to keep my identity safe for more than a few hours," I said, smiling. And it was sincere, dammit.
"You're outing yourself?" She took a step forward, put her hand just short of touching my arm. "I think you should definitely reconsider that. There are people in this city who can tell you what that can cost - you seem capable, Orbital, but what about your family, your friends?"
I didn't flicker my gaze over at my good friend Sophia. She knew more about me than almost anyone else at Winslow, after all. What else could she be? "There are some precedents I need to set. The first is being up front about who I am. The second precedent will be what happens to anyone that thinks hurting my family or friends to get to me is something they can accomplish. The third precedent will be what happens to anyone trying to subtly leverage them." I smiled for the whole speech. "That will get us to a better standard for everyone involved, I think. I respect New Wave for what they tried to do. I don't fault them for not having what I have."
She stared at me, her sharp green eyes over the bandana doing a good job of looking piercing and knowing. I had been stared at by the avatar of a Mind. It did not quite compare. "Can you tell me what exactly you're announcing at this press conference?"
"My intentions and an offer - to the city, first. I have powers and I don't think they're going to solve anything alone. I think we're better off evening the playing field for everyone."
"You're intending to mass produce what you say isn't Tinker-tech." I still didn't like the system she served, but I did notch up my respect for Militia herself. Savvy.
"Shields are just the start of it. I'm tired of seeing terror and misery on TV, Miss Militia. I have the power to change that in more ways than beating Nazis into unconsciousness. I think morally, that means I have to." I threw two fingers down, crooked another, and started floating slowly off the ground, the Mark II shield generator following me. "Before I forget." I flicked out a business card from my gauntlet, zipped it down to hover above her hand. It had the address of the empty office complex right next to the Dockworkers' Association, and a phone number, but the other side of the card just read:
CONTACT
"Thank you for your patience, Pastor. And thanks for the discussion, Miss M. See you Monday, Stalker."
I threw my hand down and shot upward at just barely subsonic speed. But I left a photosensitive nanocloud lurking to capture Sophia's expression.
Throwing back in a number of plot elements from the original - I wasn't gonna just throw out some of those ideas, they were great! And giving a hint of where I'm forking the main plot. I hope this leads to fun theorizing ;D
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- Location
- Australia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Not going with using New Wave as a front this time. Nice.