Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect Page 12

  The man nods. “My name is John Nemo. I represent an organization with a keen interest in people like you.”

  “People like me.”

  “People possessed of remarkable abilities and a certain disposition. We’ve had you on our radar ever since your impressive rampage at Roxbury High.”

  “Uh-huh,” Joy says. “So that breakout this morning, you staged that to get me out?”

  “I played a small role in planning the operation, but you were not our primary target. Our goal was to liberate one of your fellow prisoners.”

  “The big idiot?” Joy says, which draws a snort of laughter from her mysterious host (whose name, she now realizes, completely escapes her).

  “No, no, the other fellow, Archimedes. He has considerable strategic value to us, but after today’s unfortunate debacle, we won’t be making another play for him for some time. We’ll have to content ourselves with our consolation prize,” he says, gesturing at Joy. “We, like you, are opportunists.”

  Joy gestures back, rudely.

  “Now, while we recognize your potential, we also know that you are a proverbial loose cannon. We want to see how well you take orders, how well you handle yourself in the field, et cetera.”

  “Like an audition?”

  “More like an assessment of your capabilities under practical, real-life conditions. Succeed and you’ll reap great rewards. People in our organization work hard, but are compensated more than appropriately.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “We cut you loose and let you fend for yourself. Good luck with that.”

  “...What do you want me to do?”

  Slowly, Nemo reaches for a briefcase sitting at his feet. He produces a file folder, holds it up. “This is a product of Archimedes’, as you put it, audition,” he says. “We had him perform some random data mining, a series of hit-and-run hacks on everything from personal blogs to military defense systems. Ninety percent of what he pulled up was useless to us, but the rest? Here. I’ll let you see for yourself.”

  Joy accepts the file, opens it, and scowls at what she reads on the top page. “What the hell is this?” she demands.

  “Read on.”

  She does, but her confusion only grows.

  “Raises a great many questions, doesn’t it?” Nemo says. “We want you to find the answers.”

  “I’m not a hacker, man,” Joy says.

  “No, but we had one of our top hackers attempt to re-access this data, and she couldn’t find it. That suggests this file exists only on an external memory device — a USB drive or an external hard drive — and Archimedes’ discovery was a matter of pure happenstance. That means we need to apply a personal touch.”

  “Is this the part where you finally tell me what you want from me?”

  “You may have noticed, this file is incomplete,” Nemo says, tapping the folder. “We also believe it is not unique. Since you’re familiar with the name of the doctor attached to that particular file, you should have little difficulty in making contact with him. Do so, discreetly, and convince him to relinquish all data on this project to you.”

  Joy smirks. “Convince him?”

  “We leave the method to your discretion — and I’d again stress that you exercise a little discretion if you wish to avoid drawing any further attention to yourself. You already have the police and the Protectorate searching for you...”

  “Yeah yeah, low profile, I get it.”

  “Then we have a deal?”

  “What the hell? Got nothing better to do.”

  Nemo quirks a disapproving eyebrow; she’s not exactly an eager team player, but sometimes rogues make the best operatives — and almost always the best patsies.

  “Here,” Nemo says, reaching into his briefcase once again. “Smartphone, untraceable by anyone but us. ATM card, also untraceable, tied to a shadow account, PIN is zero-zero-zero-zero.” He pauses before handing the card over. “Necessary expenses only.”

  Joy tucks the gifts into her pocket. “Anything else?”

  “No. The ball is in your court now. For what it’s worth, we want you to succeed.”

  “Right,” Joy says, sliding off her stool. “My teachers used to tell me that, too. Didn’t believe them either.”

  One of the cardinal rules of his unique profession is to never let business get personal, always keep a level of detachment, but in this case? He can’t help himself.

  “Ms. Morana? Satisfy my curiosity,” Nemo says. “Why did you kill all those people?”

  Buzzkill Joy shrugs. “They needed killing.”

  I reach the edge of the center of town before I finally start to burn off the metric ton of anger sitting in my belly, and let me tell you, adrenaline crashes are no fun. You get light-headed and nauseated, you have trouble breathing, you shake all over...it’s miserable.

  One end of my street comes out directly across from a fast food place. I go inside and order a hot chocolate and a box of bland little graham cracker cookies, which is all my stomach can handle right now (although, even if I were hungry, I wouldn’t eat the quote-unquote food they sell here. I’m convinced their burgers have never been an actual animal). The sugar helps de-jangle my nerves, but not by much. Nothing short of a horse tranquilizer will completely defuse me.

  That, or a quick supersonic flight up and down the eastern seaboard, but that’s not a viable option either, so cocoa and cookies it is. It’s a poor substitute.

  I sit in my booth long after killing off my drink, until the girl working the counter informs me the dining room is closing soon. I check my phone to find I’ve been sitting there for close to three hours.

  Hm. Time has flown, but I sure don’t remember having any fun.

  I plod home like I’m walking down Death Row; I don’t want to go home, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. I briefly entertain the notion of going to Sara’s place and hiding out there overnight, but considering her dad’s recently developed case of the surly, that might not win her any points with that particular parental unit.

  All right, music, here I come to face you. Be gentle, that’s all I ask.

  I arrive home and, thank God, Ben’s car is gone, and Granddad’s car sits in its place in the driveway. That makes one person in the house who won’t be pissed at me. I hope.

  Mom’s voice carries through the front door. I pause before entering, long enough to catch the phrase “disrespectful brat.” Oh, this is going to be a blast.

  Her tirade stops dead as I step inside, and she shoots me a look that could peel the paint off a battleship.

  “Carrie, I want to talk to you. Sit down,” Granddad says. Mom and I take opposite ends of the couch. Granddad plops into his easy chair and sighs. “Christina, tell me again what happened tonight. Don’t worry, Carrie, you’ll get your chance.”

  Mom recounts our dinner accurately enough. My version isn’t all that dissimilar. Granddad hears us both out, hands folded in his lap, occasionally nodding and grunting noncommittally.

  “Carrie,” he says after a minute or two of deliberation, “stop using your phone at the table. You get a call or a text, excuse yourself from the table and take it in the living room.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you are going to apologize to Ben next time you see him.”

  “What?”

  “You did not handle the situation like an adult. You have a problem with someone, especially someone who is a guest in this house, you deal with it calmly, civilly, and respectfully,” Granddad says, leading by example. “You had every right to be upset with him, but that’s —”

  “Excuse me?” Mom says. “She had no right to be upset with Ben.”

  “Oh, yes she did,” Granddad says, turning to Mom. “Christina, I like Ben, and I’m happy you’re getting on with your life, but he overstepped himself. You’ve been dating all of a month, so as far as I’m concerned, he has no business acting like a parent toward Carrie — and he definitely has no business offering his opinions on what she g
ets to do with her father on her birthday.”

  Mom’s eyes narrow and her lips purse. I know that look: She’s searching for a rebuttal but coming up empty.

  “I suggest you girls go to bed, sleep on it, and wake up tomorrow determined to find a way to live together,” Granddad says, his tone hard, “because I’m getting mighty tired of playing referee. I didn’t take you in so I could listen to you fight all the time.” He settles back into his chair and flaps a hand at us. “Go on. Bed.”

  I guess if there’s any consolation here, it’s that Granddad made Mom and I feel equally crappy.

  THIRTEEN

  I spend the night tossing and turning, and I’m wide awake an hour before my alarm goes off. I take advantage of it and sneak into the bathroom before Mom wakes up, then slip out of the house before we can have any awkward encounters.

  Looks like I’m not the only one in a parent-dodging mood: Sara and I run into each other halfway between our houses.

  “Another fight with your mom?” she says.

  “Yep. Your dad go on another tirade?”

  “Yep.” She sighs. “We’re really going to go to school early, aren’t we?”

  “Yep.”

  En route to school, we share our respective tales of woe. Sara tells me she made the mistake of telling her parents over dinner what happened with Matt’s father, and that sparked a lengthy speech about “that Steiger boy” and his morally bankrupt family. Sara spoke in Matt’s defense, which prompted her father to lament what a terrible influence he’s been on his precious little girl. After that, Sara chugged some aspirin, hid out in her bedroom, and spent the night IMing with Meg Quentin.

  “Meg wants to know if we’d like to hang out with her Saturday,” Sara says. “I guess she said something to you about having a girls’ day?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’d totally forgotten about that. I’m all for it, but what about Matt? He might need us —”

  “He won’t,” Sara says decisively. “Trust me, Matt has standard durations of brooding whenever he’s upset about something. A TV show he likes getting canceled is good for twenty-hours of moping. When his uncle died last year, he was a hermit for four or five days.”

  “What’s the recovery time for your one-time idol crushing your lifelong dream, immediately followed by discovering your father is a cheating asshat?”

  “He might show up to accept his diploma.”

  I’ve often heard rumors that school serves breakfast as well as lunch. After ditching our stuff in our lockers, Sara and I head downstairs to the cafeteria to see if the rumors are true. They are, but the availability of breakfast appears to be a well-kept secret: there are no more than a dozen students in the cafeteria.

  Well, a well-kept secret or the food is even worse than it is at lunch. It can’t be that awful if Mr. Dent is eating here, right?

  “Oh, good morning, girls,” he says. “What are you doing here so early?”

  “We thought we’d change things up and see what the cafeteria had to offer in the mornings,” I say, surveying the steamer trays full of...uh, something. “What the heck are those?”

  “Breakfast Buffet Pockets,” says the woman manning the counter. “It has scrambled eggs, diced sausage, bacon chunks, and hash browns, all stuffed into a pancakey crust and served with a buttery maple dipping sauce.”

  “The teachers call them ‘breakfast slabs,’” Mr. Dent says.

  “Carrie, I’m scared,” Sara says.

  “Ha. You should be, totes.”

  “Totes? Ohh, Mr. Dent, no,” I say.

  “What? Do kids no longer say that?”

  “Totes died out, like, forever ago,” Sara says.

  Mr. Dent shakes his head. “I should really stick with the classics,” he says, “like awesome. Awesome never goes out of style.”

  “True dat,” I say.

  “Word,” Sara says.

  Mr. Dent narrows his eyes at us. He slinks off, presumably to hit Google and learn some trendy new slang over his breakfast slab.

  Sara and I play it safe. We grab some muffins and coffee so weak I suspect it might be nothing more than hot water and food coloring (I choke down two swallows before going back for some tea). After breakfast we head upstairs and loiter by my locker until Missy and Stuart arrive. They say no news is good news, but Stuart’s lack of news on the Matt front is bothersome to say the least.

  “I tried calling him, texting him, I haunted Facebook all night in case he popped on,” he says, “but the dude was totally off the grid.”

  “Can’t blame him,” Sara says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he ditches school today.”

  “What do we do?” Missy says. “I want to say let’s go to his house after school and make sure he’s okay but I don’t want to be all, you know, nosy or whatever, and I really don’t want to see his dad because I want to punch him in the face and that wouldn’t help anything.”

  “Sara thinks we should give him some time to himself, and I have to agree,” I say. “When my parents told me they were getting divorced I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was too angry to think straight or deal with anyone rationally, and Matt’s probably in the same headspace.”

  He’s angry. Give him some space. Where have I heard that before?

  I hope that advice will be more successful when applied to Matt, because I’m having serious doubts Concorde will ever come around.

  “Edison? Your noon appointment is here.”

  “Thanks, Trina, send him in, please,” Edison says without looking up from his laptop. Trina, familiar with her boss’s bouts of obsessive workaholism, steps aside to allow his guest into the office, then withdraws to let them speak in private.

  “Hope you cleared your afternoon, Edison,” Bart says, “because this isn’t going to go quickly.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Edison sighs. “Here’s an idea: We suit up, fly to Byrne, you go into the Bestiary’s brains, get the info we need, then we fly into Boston, hit Uni, and eat ourselves into sashimi comas.”

  “I’d rather hit Mr. Bartley’s and get burgers, but that’s not going to happen either — not as long as we have due process of the law.”

  “Due process takes time. I’m not feeling terribly patient nowadays.”

  “Still stonewalled on the nuclear micro-cell thefts, huh?”

  “I can’t even say with absolute certainty a theft actually occurred. This is infuriating,” Edison says, slapping his laptop closed. “There’s an answer here somewhere, staring me in the face, but I’m not seeing it.”

  “You’ve been looking at the problem too long. Step away from it for a day or two.”

  “I can’t let this sit, Bart. However long this has been going on, right under my nose, it’s been too long. I have to clean this mess up, now.”

  “No, I understand,” Bart says. “Guess it’s a good thing you found out about it at all...or, I should say, it’s a good thing Carrie found out about it.”

  “Oh, for — are you going to start in again?”

  “Yes, I am. I understand you’re upset that Matt got hurt, but grounding Carrie to keep the Squad in line is a completely unreasonable response.”

  “You wouldn’t think so if the kid was lying dead on a slab in the morgue.”

  “But he’s not.”

  “But he could have been,” Edison says, making a display of collecting his jacket from the back of his chair, “and I will not have that on my conscience.”

  “Then don’t alienate them. They’re not going to quit on your say-so, Edison, and they’re more likely to get killed without our guidance.”

  “And they’re much less likely to get killed if they’re out of the business entirely. We have to get going,” Edison says, brushing past Bart. “Pearce is expecting us.”

  “You can’t protect them from themselves,” Bart says, “anymore than you could protect Nick.”

  Edison’s hand freezes on the doorknob. Bart flinches from the sudden surge of rage radiating off his friend — a friend, he realize
s, he may have pushed too hard.

  “I’m sorry. I know that sounded callous,” Bart says gently, “but that’s what this is really all about. You realize that, don’t you? You’re not trying to protect the Squad; you’re trying to undo the past. You can’t.”

  “What I am trying to do is prevent history from repeating itself, and I will do whatever it takes to keep those kids from throwing their lives into an open grave.”

  “Even if it means those kids hate you for the rest of their lives?”

  “They’ll be alive to hate me,” Edison says. “I’m okay with that.”

  A chill hangs between the men throughout the car ride to Protectorate headquarters, while they change into their work attire, during their respective pre-flight checks, and well into the trip to Byrne. Somewhere over Worcester, Mindforce dares to break the silence to talk strategy, and he breathes a quiet sigh of relief when Concorde responds. It may be boring business talk, Mindforce thinks, but Concorde’s talking to him again. One step at a time.

  After a brief conference with Warden Pearce, a conference filled with assurances that they will get to the bottom of the previous day’s semi-successful jailbreak, Concorde and Mindforce sit down with Ike Aster, the second man to bear the alias of the Minotaur. Concorde reasons that Aster, a man with a fairly light criminal record, might crack easily when faced with the prospect of hard time in a supermax, but reality does not live up to the theory.

  “Look, man, them guys brought me on, what? A week before the job?” Aster tells them. “They planned this thing without me. I don’t know jack — and if I did, I’d flip on them in a hot second, ‘cause I don’t owe them guys squat. Ain’t gonna spend my glory days in a federal pen.”

  The guards remove Aster from the interview room and return with the man known as Hydra. He greets the heroes with a cordial nod.

  “Mindforce. Concorde,” he says. The young man that accompanies him does not greet the Protectorate, cordially or otherwise.

  “Leonard,” Mindforce says. “How are you doing?”

  Leonard Lerner shrugs. “Been better. You?”