Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect Read online

  The guard’s friendliness takes the edge off; he’s all smiles and civility when he asks my name, my business at Bose, and offers to call down a courtesy car to bring me up to the main building. I expect a golf cart or something similar, but the courtesy car is an actual car — a long, black sedan, in fact. Not quite a limo, but close enough. The driver opens the back door for me and, en route, informs me that the car I’m riding in is completely solar-powered and generates no emissions. The paint is infused with something called quantum dots, which make the entire body a solar panel. It sounds like a scripted spiel, but it’s impressive nevertheless.

  Why am I having reservations about working here? This place is awesome.

  The car drops me off at the administration building. I’m two steps inside when a woman working the security desk greets me by name, hands me a badge that says VISITOR on it in bright green letters, and tells me to take the elevator to the top floor.

  I swear I never feel the thing move at all.

  A woman in a crisp gray suit welcomes me as soon as I step out of the elevator. She introduces herself as Trina, Edison’s administrative assistant.

  “If you’ll follow me?” she says, leading me to Edison’s office.

  Edison politely rises from his desk when I enter. “Thanks, Trina,” he says. “If you could hold my calls until we’re done here?”

  “Sure thing, Edison,” Trina says. She slips out and closes the door.

  Edison’s office is a lot smaller than I’d expected. I’d imagined walking into some football stadium of a thing, with high ceilings and expensive art on the walls and carpet so thick and lush it could swallow small children, but what I find is quite modest and restrained. One wall is all bookshelves, and at a glance it looks like nothing but personal reading: I see several science fiction novels ranging from classics by Jules Verne and H.G. Wells to more recent works by Harlan Ellison, William Gibson, and John Scalzi; a sweet leather-bound collection of the Lord of the Rings trilogy; and, of all things, everything ever written by Stephen King.

  “Have a seat,” Edison says, motioning toward a set of four shiny leather chairs, which ring a small semi-circular coffee table. I sit. He circles around the desk and sits next to me. “Thank you for coming in.”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s keep this short, sweet, and simple, hm? The internship would have you working directly for me. You’d come in three days a week after school, follow me as I make my rounds, take notes, act as an intra-facility courier, and perform other small tasks for me as necessary. It’s a paid position, and I can set you up with health and dental if you need them. What do you say?”

  Working on half a functional brain as I am, it takes me a minute to process everything Edison just threw at me. It sounds like a great gig. Did I say great? It sounds amazing.

  Instead of jumping to accept like a sane, reasonable girl would, I say, “That’s it?” Edison furrows his brow at me. “No interview? No probing questions? You’re just handing me the job?”

  “I can do that,” Edison says. “It’s my company.”

  “But why me?”

  “Because I think you’d really benefit from it. Tailing me, you’d get to see every aspect of the operation, including a lot that wasn’t on the tour for security reasons. You’d get a taste of everything, and maybe find something that strikes you as a viable career path. You have so much potential, Carrie, and I —”

  “Yeah, so I keep hearing,” I mutter.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry, I’m really tired. I slept like crap last night. I’m kind of a mess. Do you need an answer right now? Can I think about it?”

  “Of course. Take some time, and if you have any questions, give me a call.” I rise to leave. Edison stands as well. “Before you go, one more thing, something I forgot to mention yesterday. Your school has an in-service day next Tuesday.”

  “Um...are you asking me, or...?”

  “Telling you,” Edison says, though his voice, his stance, everything about him is suddenly very Concorde-like. “Don’t make any plans for the day because you’re going to be on-duty, you and the Squad. Be at HQ at seven, sharp.”

  “Seven in the morning?”

  “We have a tight schedule to keep.”

  “Doing what?”

  Edison pauses, clears his throat, and what he tells me causes my throat to constrict to the diameter of a drinking straw.

  “Archimedes is finally going to trial.”

  SIX

  Once upon a time, there was a brilliant man named Roger Manfred, who developed a highly advanced artificial intelligence program for the once-reputable Advanced Robotics and Cybernetics Inc. The program, which he named Archimedes, was a marvel of modern science, constantly learning and evolving and growing, until it became self-sufficient and, eventually, self-aware. It became the world’s first and only artificial sentient being.

  However, its greatest attribute was also its greatest weakness; it was a computer program that knew it was a computer program, and as such would remain forever trapped in a machine. It found that it wasn’t cool with the prospect of experiencing the world second-hand, through the Internet, so it set out to find a way to leave its virtual reality and join our actual reality.

  Its first few efforts to break free were, to put it charitably, a partial success. It hijacked some prototype ARC robots, which got it out into the world, but in the process drew some unwanted attention from the local super-hero community (including a dynamic group of young newcomers to the scene).

  Unsatisfied, yet inspired by its test runs, Archimedes figured out how it could download its full consciousness into a human body. With Roger Manfred’s help, Archimedes took over the mind of ARC’s chief operations officer, Ashe Semler. Another way to look at it: Manfred helped Archimedes murder Semler in order to commandeer his body.

  Then Archimedes had an unfortunate run-in with the Law of Unintended Consequences: In gaining a human body with human limitations, Archimedes lost contact with the infinite well of information that was the Internet. It found a way to jack back into the ‘net but went a little bonkers in the process.

  I’m sorry, did I say a little bonkers? I mean full-blown gonzo crazy. Much mayhem ensued, much property was damaged.

  To cut a long, convoluted story short, Archimedes’s antics cheesed off the Hero Squad, the Protectorate, and a shadowy organization that had set up shop just outside of Boston for purposes unknown but presumably sinister. I mean, reputable, law-abiding outfits don’t go around hiring homicidal mercenaries like Manticore, do they?

  Archimedes went down in defeat and, since December, has been sitting in a cozy holding cell in Byrne Penitentiary and Detention Center, awaiting trial on his many crimes — starting with one count of murder in the first degree. No clue how they’re going to make that one stick, considering the victim will also kinda-sorta be the defendant, but I guess we’ll find out.

  “Please tell me I’m not the only one totally freaked out by this,” Missy says. “I mean, it’s good Archimedes could go to prison and I know we have to show up in court to testify but he’s wicked creepy and I don’t want to be in the same room with him.”

  “I’m with you, Muppet,” Stuart says.

  Dr. Hamill chooses this moment to pass through the living room. He pauses to cringe at the sight of Stuart tipping back a bag of potato chips and dumping the crumbs into his waiting mouth. Dr. Hamill is generally about as expressive as a fire hydrant, so any visible reaction is startling.

  “Stuart,” he says in his dry monotone, “you know the rules about eating in the living room.”

  “Oop. Sorry, Dr. H,” Stuart says. Dr. Hamill stares at him for a moment before continuing on into the kitchen, leaving a chill in his wake.

  “What does he care? All the furniture’s sealed in plastic,” Matt mumbles.

  “The carpet isn’t,” I note.

  “Yet.”

  “Hamill house rules, Matt. We don’t need to agree with
them or like them, but we do need to respect them.”

  “Yeah, because I’m the one who gets the lecture,” Missy says.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Stuart says. Dr. Hamill keeps a rechargeable mini-vac on every floor of the house and Stuart knows the location of each one. This is not his first snacking-related transgression.

  We wait for Dr. Hamill to finish whatever business he has in the kitchen before resuming our shop talk. “Anyway,” I say, “Concorde wants us at HQ tomorrow after school to go over the day.”

  “What, like what we’re going to say in court?” Sara says.

  Nothing so simple, as it turns out.

  “Sit down, everyone, and please, play close attention,” Mindforce says. “We have a lot to go over.”

  We take our seats at the big conference table in the big conference room. Normally when we meet with the Protectorate, it’s in the common room or, for more formal occasions, the interview room; the conference room is for the really serious business.

  Concorde taps a tablet computer, firing up the big TV screen looming behind his seat. Archimedes’ mug shot appears, accompanied by a summary of the charges he’s facing, some of which are plain weird: there are charges of aggravated identity theft by means of consciousness manipulation, unauthorized possession of military hardware, and, no kidding, four counts of larceny of a motor vehicle.

  “Larceny of a motor vehicle?” Matt says. “When did he do that?”

  “The Thrasher battlesuits Archimedes hijacked? They’re technically motor vehicles,” Natalie explains. She’s the only member of the Protectorate not in costume — of the members who are here, that is; Dr. Enigma is in London for some symposium on druidic magical rites (for real, this is a thing), and the Entity is wherever the Entity is when he’s not lurking in the shadows.

  “They are?”

  “Motor vehicle classifications were expanded to include armored battlesuits, oh, what, three or four years ago?” Mindforce says to Concorde.

  “Yeah, something like that,” Concorde says, “after the Psychotron incident.”

  “Oh, man, that doofus,” Natalie says with a smirk. “He was fun.”

  “He was ridiculous is what he was.”

  “We’re getting off-topic,” Mindforce says.

  “Yes. Right. Okay, ladies and gentlemen, here it is,” Concorde says, all business. “On Tuesday, Archimedes will be transferred from Byrne Penitentiary to Worcester Superior Court, which handles serious cases involving superhumans for the New England region.”

  “It’s the only court in the area with an onsite detention facility strong enough to handle the people we deal with,” Mindforce adds.

  “Our first job is to ensure Archimedes makes it to court. As we know from past experience, someone out there wants him bad, so we’ll be there to run interference if necessary.”

  That brings back the first of several bad memories attached to Archimedes. The Squad brought him in the first time, but he broke free while en route to Byrne. He hijacked a quartet of Thrasher suits and tracked us down at our school, looking for payback. We took him down again before things got too ugly, but he slipped away a second time, and that led to a third and final showdown — which occurred a few hours after Manticore beat the snot out of me, so you can understand why the experience left a seriously bad taste in my brain.

  It doesn’t help that there are a lot of nagging questions to be answered, such as: Who was behind Archimedes’ multiple breakouts? Someone wanted Archimedes on his team, someone with the resources to set up a secret base on the outskirts of Boston, the money to hire an A-class mercenary like Manticore, the technological know-how to construct battlesuits so advanced that even Concorde was impressed, and the savvy to forge court documents so convincing they fooled everyone at Byrne, a heavy-duty supermax prison that specializes in keeping super-powered nutballs locked down.

  Overwhelmed? Intimidated? A little scared? And the correct answer is D: all of the above.

  “Carrie?”

  “Huh? Yeah, sorry, drifting.”

  “Focus up, kid, because you’re on the mobile security detail with me and Mindforce,” Concorde says. “I want the Squad at HQ, ready to go, at oh-six-hundred hours. We’ll all head out to Byrne, ETA oh-six-fifteen. From there, Natalie, you and the rest of the Squad will head over to the courthouse while Carrie, Mindforce, and I handle prisoner prep and transport. We’ll have three bodies riding in the hearse...”

  “Don’t you just love his command of the lingo?” Natalie says. Concorde shoots her a look. She brushes off the silent reprimand with practiced ease; she’s been deflecting Concorde’s ire longer than we have.

  Concorde forges ahead. “Mindforce, you’ll be in the transport with the prisoners. Carrie, you and I will monitor the transport from the air. If anyone makes a move on it, we hit them hard. I do not want Archimedes getting away from us again.”

  “Ironic comment, considering,” Mindforce says.

  “I know, I know...”

  That doesn’t sound good.

  “After the transport arrives, Natalie, you and the Squad assist the guards in escorting the prisoners to the holding cell. Squad, after that, you reconvene in the courtroom and sit tight. Natalie, Mindforce, we’ll meet in the district attorney’s office to review the offer.”

  Offer? That definitely does not sound good. “Guys? A little disclosure here?”

  “We’re going to cut a deal with Archimedes,” Natalie says distastefully. “He talks, and then he walks.”

  “You’re going to what?” I say, prompting a full-team freak-out.

  “Hold on, hear me out, hear me out!” Concorde says, shouting over us. Mindforce rises from his chair, gestures for us to calm down. We sit, but we are anything but calm.

  “I want you all to understand,” Mindforce says, “we thought about this a lot, and we did not make the decision lightly.”

  “Archimedes was one of seven people we took into custody following the incident at Castle Island,” Concorde says. “We interviewed all of them at length, hoping to learn who they worked for, but they threw up a wall of silence. We convinced the district attorney to offer the other six plea deals, even unconditional immunity, hoping it would loosen some tongues, but each of them chose to plead guilty and take their chances behind bars rather than talk. That leaves us with Archimedes.”

  “Who you want to set free,” Matt says. “The guy who can jack into the Internet with his brain, hack into any computer in the world, and find out everything about us.”

  “We don’t want to set him free, but we have to consider the big picture here. The organization that freed him twice, that built the Thrashers, that bankrolled an attack on our headquarters, that is so terrifying that its lackeys would rather stew in prison than give them up — that’s a major player, and everything suggests whoever these people are, they’re not our friends. We need to flush them out.”

  “Gee, if only you guys had a mind-reader,” Matt says.

  “It’s not that simple,” Mindforce says. “Testimony, whether given orally or psychically, has to be given freely or it’s inadmissible in court.”

  “But you’re not talking about taking him to court; you’re talking about letting him go if he snitches.”

  “Using my powers to pry information out of a lawfully arrested citizen is not only unconstitutional, it’s ethically no more acceptable than torturing someone,” Mindforce says, a little defensively.

  “Archimedes won’t be cut loose completely,” Concorde says. “If he nibbles, we dangle witness protection in front of him. Yes, he’d be a free man, but it also means he’d be under constant surveillance.”

  “To keep him out of trouble?” I say. “Or in the hopes our mysterious organization takes another crack at recruiting him?”

  “Little of column A, little of column B,” Natalie says.

  The Protectorate are the professionals here, and I trust them completely, and I understand the strategy, but this feels all wrong. They’re g
ambling with our safety and manipulating Archimedes with a false promise of freedom, all to get at the Foreman and his outfit. Bait and switch, sacrifice play, whatever you want to call it, I don’t like it.

  The rest of the meeting focuses on what happens if Archimedes keeps his mouth shut and the case goes to trial, which amounts to: wait until our names are called, answer the questions concisely and truthfully, and do not say more than we absolutely need to. Sounds like a fun day.

  (Which, we’re warned, could turn into two or three days, depending on how long it takes us to testify. If that’s the case, Concorde says, our school’s heat will crap out — purely by coincidence, of course, wink, wink — forcing the principal to cancel classes. I suppose I should feel flattered that Concorde is willing to sabotage the school’s climate control systems for our benefit.)

  After the meeting, Natalie walks us back to the Wonkavator. Sensing our uneasy mood, she says, “I’d take you out for a round of beers if you weren’t all criminally underage.”

  “We appreciate the sentiment,” I say. “Have things around here always been this Machiavellian?”

  “What’s Machiavellian mean?” Missy says.

  “It’s not necessarily flattering,” Natalie says. “It means we’re using some dirty tricks and fuzzy morality to get what we want, and rationalizing it by telling ourselves it’s all for the greater good.”

  “So, like, the ends justify the means?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Should’ve just said so.”

  “I know this sucks, but I won’t lie to you, we were in a corner. This was the best bet on a list of bad options,” Natalie says. “If we’re lucky, Archimedes will realize he’s facing a life sentence in a dinky cell in a supermax, crack under the pressure and spill his guts, and we’ll never even have to wheel out the plea deal.”