One of the first things I learned was to never give up any advantage. The first instinct of any ordinary person when they wake up after being knocked out and kidnapped is to start thrashing around and demanding answers. Easy mistake to make. If your captors think you’re still unconscious, that’s an advantage. That’s why Hawkshaw taught me how to control my breathing and relax my muscles in order to simulate sleep. Years of experience override the instinctual fear that comes from finding yourself in an unfamiliar situation, and I slowly take stock of the situation.
Without moving, or even opening my eyes, I assess the environment. I’m still wearing the suit, which means that my captors either didn’t bother to remove it, or tried and ran afoul of the countermeasures that activate the instant the person inside loses consciousness. I’m seated, and don’t appear to be restrained, which is an interesting twist. Being tied up or cuffed wouldn’t have been much of a problem, but it’s rare that kidnappers don’t even make a token effort to secure me once they’ve gone to the trouble of getting me in the first place. The room is silent, but I can hear breathing- at least six people, probably more.
There’s something in my system I can’t quite identify. Likely a sedative, but not any of the ones I’m inured against. Usually the feeling of sluggishness lingers for a while even after you wake up from one, but I can already feel my senses sharpening. Designing a sedative that leaves the victim with as few adverse effects as possible seems counterproductive, but that assumes the kidnappers have malicious intent, which isn’t necessarily true. I’ve kidnapped people in order to keep them safe before- it’s just difficult to imagine anyone who would think I need to be protected in that way.
Any number of things could still have been done to me while I was out, though. That means I need to proceed with caution. But I’ve gathered as much information as I can while acting as if I’m asleep. It’s about time I confronted whoever brought me here- wherever ‘here’ is.
My eyes open. The room I’m in is illuminated by a fluorescent light strip on the ceiling, but the black stone walls seem to absorb that light. The only thing within the room is a table, made of the same polished black stone. I’m at the far end. Four people sit on either side, and one is directly across from me, at the head. Nine in total, four of whom I don’t recognize. The other five I do- but their presence here makes no sense.
Machina, chairman of the Peacekeepers. Geas, ‘King’ of the Royals. Christopher Atkins, the Director of the Department of Metahuman Affairs. Pallas, the Queen of Arcadia. And Grendel- a man I thought was dead. Based on what I know of them, most of these people wouldn’t be willing to spend five minutes in a room with each other. Yet here they are.
As for the other four, my suit’s computer runs a facial-recognition check. Two return no results at all. The third is a minor supercriminal who hung himself in a prison cell over a decade ago. And the fourth doesn’t even register to the computer in the first place. She’s there- I can see her with my own eyes. But as far as the machine is concerned, she doesn’t exist.
Some of these people are, at least notionally, superheroes. That doesn’t necessarily make them allies of mine. After all, the Front Line’s methods have put them at odds with the rest of the superhuman community- and various world governments, for that matter. I’m a member now, and that means I have a target painted on my back. But that doesn’t explain why Pallas or Grendel are here, or why I’m not in handcuffs.
Before I can begin to form a theory, or even ask, Geas speaks.
“I don’t need to use my abilities to know that you’re a little confused, Mister Graves.”
He’s always unsettled me. As far as the world knows, Nicholas O’Connor can only use his psychic powers to create short-term compulsions, hence his alias. But Jason figured out a long time ago that he’s a great deal more powerful than that. Geas is the strongest telepath on the planet. He keeps the true scope of his power secret because the existence of a true mind-reader would terrify people, and their ignorance means he can read- or erase -their memories without them ever suspecting. The fact that he’s here means I can’t take anything for granted. According to Jason, he can’t create perfect illusions or false recollections, but being able to read thoughts and erase memories is incredibly dangerous on its own.
According to Jason, my helmet is hardened against psychic attacks, which I’ve had the occasional opportunity to test in the past, but O’Connor is significantly more powerful than any of the telepaths I’ve faced before. If he’s capable of breaching those defenses, what’s to stop him from erasing all recollection of the intrusion- or simply waiting until I take the helmet off and then scanning my memories then?
“Allow me to explain.”
Instead of a costume, Geas is wearing a tweed jacket, complete with elbow patches. He’s clearly going for the college professor look, which his salt-and-pepper hair complements. The man rarely wears tights these days, having retired from ‘active duty’ over a decade ago, to run his super-team, the Royals. He’s spent years collecting the strongest superhumans from all across Europe and adding them to the ranks of his own private army. They are, notionally, beholden to the European Union and NATO, but when telepathy is on the table, you have to be a bit more paranoid. Any orders that the Royals get could be orders that Geas made someone give them.
“This is a collection of Earth’s most intelligent, influential, and dangerous people. We came together in secret some time ago, in order to pool our considerable resources and help save the world. The existence of this gathering is a closely-guarded secret. We work behind the scenes in order to improve society and safeguard humanity against threats that the rank-and-file heroes aren’t equipped to handle.”
I still haven't said a word, but he continues, undaunted.
“You needn’t take it from me, however. Jason Hunt, your mentor, was a member of this group. In the event of his death, he insisted we recruit you to replace him. In preparation for that day, he left you a message, and at his request, I locked away all memory of that message within your mind. With your permission, I’ll unlock it now.”
Nobody seems to recognize the irony in the fact that he’s asking for permission to undo something that he did without permission in the first place. However much I might resent that, it would still obviously be foolish to refuse.
“Do it.”
Geas pauses for effect, and then intones a single word.
“Halteclere.”
The experience of having a forcibly suppressed memory suddenly unlocked is indescribable. It’s not as if the memory played out in my mind’s eye, like a scene from a movie. The sensation is closer to the feeling of your hearing becoming clearer, after having been impaired for long enough that you began not to notice the difference. Like a void that you didn’t know was empty being instantly filled.
The memory slots neatly into my internal timeline. Around five years ago. Jason was there, along with Geas, Machina, and one of the ones I didn’t recognize. The man with the thousand-yard stare. We were in his headquarters, back in Pax. I’d asked why the others were there, and he’d told me he’d explain in a moment.
“Kellan.”
Using my first name was nothing new- the aliases were reserved for when we were in the field. But his tone told me that this was a more serious conversation than the usual.
“For several years, I’ve been a member of an organization called the Council. The existence of this group is a secret- which is why Geas is going to suppress your memory of this conversation after it’s finished.”
I was no more comfortable with that at the time than I am now. But it’s still better to know than not know, even if the knowledge was going to be hidden from me for a time.
“The Council exists to protect the world and help uplift society. I discovered their existence some time ago, and in exchange for keeping it quiet, I took a seat at their table. If I could have told you sooner, I would have. But you can’t know yet. Geas will only unlock this memory after I die, and you replace me as Hawkshaw. Once you’re ready, they’ll bring you in to take my place as a part of the Council. He can’t create false memories, but I know you’ll want independent verification. You know where to find it.”
For a moment, the mask dropped.
“If I am dead, I want you to know that I have full confidence in your ability to replace me. I... am proud of you, Kellan.”
Every moment of that memory returned to me in an instant. It took a little longer to process. Thanks to my training, I remain stoic, and keep my composure. Later, I’ll be able to pursue the independent verification that Jason mentioned. For now, I need answers.
“I’ve been in the suit for two months. Why wait until now to bring me in?”
It’s Machina who answers. His signature armor is nowhere to be seen, replaced by a suit and tie. Unlike Geas, he leads from the front, as the head of the largest hero team in the United States. He also runs a multinational corporation, which is how he financed said team until they became government assets.
“Not all of us were certain about you. We decided to observe your actions after you took up Hunt’s mantle, and judge whether you were fit to join us.”
I nod. Robards seems to take it as an indication that I thought his response was acceptable, which isn’t entirely accurate. It was an acknowledgement, nothing more. But to second-guess the group before I knew more would have only weakened my position.
“In that case, what do you know about Jason’s disappearance?”
The room is silent for a moment. Atkins, the DMA Director, answers. The presence of a government functionary, even one of a high rank, is confusing, but that’s a mystery I’ll have time to solve later.
“Nothing. We didn’t merely bring you here to replace him- we need to find out what happened to him, and you’re the best person for the job.”
With that, things begin to make more sense. My gut tells me that most of them hadn’t wanted to bring me in, especially considering Jason had made it sound like he’d blackmailed his way into membership. But they don’t know what had happened to him, and if one of their members has been killed or abducted under unknown circumstances, any of them could be next. So they need someone to solve the case- and who better than the apprentice of the world’s greatest detective?
“And if I refuse...”
It’s not even a rhetorical question. The answer is obvious enough, but Atkins finishes the sentence for me.
“Geas will erase your memory of this encounter, and we’ll send you home none the wiser.”
There’s very little about this that I like. The casual threat of memory manipulation makes me sick, and I don’t believe for a second that none of them have any idea about Jason’s disappearance. But if the choice is between having a vote on decisions that could change the world, or not even knowing that the vote is taking place, it’s really no choice at all.
“I’m in.”
I wasn’t exactly expecting a round of applause, but the reaction in the room is quite muted. Geas claps his hands together enthusiastically, while the others are silent.
“Excellent. In that case, Eric here can show you around, help you get your bearings. The rest of us have things to attend to, but most of us will be around if you need to speak with us. Before you leave, there are a few matters to address, but that can wait for now.”
The rest of the group stands and exits through different doors, which slide open seamlessly from the stone walls. All except the man who my suit had identified as ‘Professor Superior.’ A relic of the seventies ‘pop-crime’ period, who built wacky gadgets and used them to rob banks. He’d been one of many mostly-harmless supervillains who’d been thrown in jail in the tough-on-crime eighties, to show how seriously the government was taking the threat of super-terrorism. His suicide had barely warranted a mention in the paper. Yet here he is, very much alive.
Superior stands and approaches. The last dregs of the sedative I’d been dosed with are long since gone, and I stand as well, shaking his hand when he reaches out.
“Eric Beringer. I used to go by Professor Superior. The Council got me out of jail, faked my death, so I could put my talents to better use with them.”
That much, I’ve gathered. Being the apprentice of the world’s greatest detective has to count for something, after all.
“Hawkshaw.”
Under normal circumstances, I tend to be much friendlier than Jason ever was, but given the way in which I was brought here, the revelation that my mind had been altered, and the fact that this group even exists in the first place, I don’t feel especially inclined towards small talk.
“Indeed you are, indeed you are. Come- there’s much to see.”
Beringer heads for one of the room’s many doors, and I follow. He’s on the shorter side, stocky, with a face that’s neither memorably attractive nor memorably unattractive. Superheroes- the ones that get popular, at least -tend to be uncommonly attractive in addition to having superpowers. The ones that aren’t, usually conceal their faces. But most villains aren’t as lucky. It gives the whole thing a sort of Disney movie feel, where you know that the villain is bad because they’re ugly. My theory was always that the causal chain went the other way- people who were mistreated or ostracized because of their appearance were more likely to use any abilities they developed for evil than people who’d always been attractive, popular, and financially secure.
As the former villain leads me down a short hallway, I skim his profile on my HUD. The file on Superior is far more detailed than it has any right to be, considering he’d been in prison for years before Jason had even put on a mask, but the reason for that is fairly obvious now. He hadn’t been able to tell me about the Council, but he could at least ensure that I was equipped with information about its members. Something tells me that when I get a chance to review his notes on Geas, Machina, and the others, I’ll find some odd details that will make more sense with this context in mind. But he didn’t have files on the members that I hadn’t been able to identify- meaning the only way I’ll be able to find out about them is to ask.
“I know who most of you are, but there are three I don’t recognize. The man in the bomber jacket, the younger woman, and the man who was at the head of the table.”
The third one had been present in my buried memory, alongside Machina and Geas. His thousand-yard stare had piqued my curiosity, but he hadn’t said a word in the memory or the present. Based on his position at the table, though, he seems to be what passes for a leader among these people.
“Aah, now you’re asking the right questions. I expect your mentor will have left his notes on them for you to find, along with whatever mechanism is intended to convince you that the memory Geas showed you was real. But I can give you the gist.”
This facility’s layout is clearly labyrinthine, as Beringer helps demonstrate while we walk. Every hundred yards or so, we either turn a corner, or step through a door into another hallway entirely, all the same black marble, with harsh lighting overhead. Most likely made intentionally difficult to navigate, in case any unauthorized individuals found their way inside.
“That would be appreciated.”
Beringer chuckled. He has to be pushing seventy, if not older, but the man is clearly in good health.
“The young woman is named Sandra Lai, but she goes by Zero. Quite talented, that one. Her area of expertise is the digital realm. When we found her, she was about to release a program designed to mine government databases for classified information, and put it out on the internet. But she’s quite dangerous in the real world, as well. I believe she was the one who designed that hard-light shield on your arm, in fact.”
I glance down at the shield generator, surprised. Jason had never claimed to have designed all his gear, but he’d been cagey about his sources. How much of his equipment- now my equipment -was supplied by these people?
“The man in the jacket is Samuel Blake. He may not look like it, but he’s even older than me. In 1955, he built a near-lightspeed engine before we had even gotten to the moon. Spent two decades exploring other stars, had quite a few adventures. Eventually, he came back, to warn us about the Andromedan invasion.”
Despite the revelation, I don’t react. Showing surprise would have been giving up an advantage, and I’d been taught better than that. Still, it fills in another blank that I had barely even realized was there.
“Oh, yes, that was him. Without his help, there’s no doubt in my mind that we wouldn’t have won that particular fight. Don’t underestimate him, either. He’s got a techno-organic alien weapon bonded to his spine. Won’t let me study it, but I’ve seen that thing in action. You’d best hope he never has cause to point it at you.”
I’m starting to detect a pattern, with the dire warnings and such. Caution around all of these people is advisable.
“Noted.”
That provokes another chuckle. Beringer is winning me over, both with his forthrightness and general friendly attitude. He was one of the few people in the room who I hadn’t detected some level of contempt from- and he’s the former supervillain.
“As for the third man, his name is Gilgamesh, and his story is a little more complicated. Suffice it to say that he’s more dangerous than anyone else here.”
Before I can press him for more information, Superior stops, and opens a door with a wave of his hand. Seeing it up close helps me make an educated guess about how that particular trick works. Either the doors are outfitted with biometric scanners, or the members of the Council are all chipped. Whichever it is, I won’t be able to navigate this place myself until I have the necessary device, or the systems are programmed to recognize me. Even if everything I’ve been told so far was true, that doesn’t mean I can drop my guard.
Through the door is a room covered in screens. A half-circle desk sits in the center, with a computer terminal in the middle, and various buttons, panels, and switches to the right and left. Every screen displays something different, from news broadcasts to satellite footage. Thankfully, the sound is off, since the cacophony would otherwise be overwhelming.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“This is the Monitor Room,” Beringer informs me, as we step inside. “We use spy satellites to keep an eye on... well, just about everything. If anything unusual happens on our planet, we’re the first ones to know. Most days, there isn’t anything that the usual hero groups can’t handle. Occasionally, the system will flag something special. That’s where we come in.”
I had already intuited some of this, but seeing the screens makes things clearer.
“When a major threat shows up, you step in and deal with it before it becomes a problem.”
Beringer nods his head.
“Yes indeed, but that’s not all. We monitor communications as well. If we get wind of someone planning something serious, we can prevent it from ever happening to begin with. Or we pass it along to some heroes, and they deal with it for us. We stopped an ethnic cleansing in the Balkans last year, and most of the people who’d have been killed have no idea it was even going to happen.”
That explains quite a bit. Plenty of people have made note of the fact that the world has gotten a great deal safer in the past decade or so. Fewer new wars, acts of terror, genocides, and the like. Most people are happy to believe that civilization is just naturally getting more civilized. In reality, it seems they have the Council to thank.
I haven't said a word, but Beringer seems to sense my suppressed amazement.
“Quite impressive, isn’t it? Come, we’re not finished yet.”
As I follow Beringer out of the Monitor Room, I check my suit’s geolocator, hoping that it’s managed to pick up my location. No luck. Wherever this facility is, it’s well hidden. Considering the fact that the Council has two members who are supposed to be dead, that isn’t much of a surprise. The members without a public-facing identity probably live here, in order to keep their names and faces out of any official records or databases. The extent of this operation is difficult to conceptualize properly. I can even see some of Jason’s hand in it. After he’d uncovered their existence, he’d probably offered to help ensure that nobody else would be able to in the future. A detective’s skill at digging up secrets can just as easily be turned towards burying them.
“This place is a bit of a maze, if you hadn’t noticed. I’m told there’s some sort of digital blueprint you can download, to help you navigate. Personally, I prefer to do things the old-fashioned way. Give me a ray gun over a holographic gizmo any day of the week.”
A blueprint would be useful, both in finding my way around, and for my investigation. If there’s anything they don’t want me to find, they’d just leave it off of the blueprints, of course. If a suspect wants to volunteer information, you’re free to use it, but don’t take it as gospel. A good detective never takes anything for granted.
“Is there anything else about our little social club you’d like to know? I’m sure you have plenty of questions.”
Having to ask point-blank questions instead of seeking the answers myself makes me feel like a terrible detective. It isn’t an especially rational feeling, considering this group’s security was almost certainly designed by the very man who trained me, and maintained by a person with the power to erase memories if anyone gets too close to the truth. But, despite all my training, the ability to turn off any feeling that isn’t completely rational eludes me.
“Atkins. If this group is beyond nations and governments, why include someone who works for one?”
“Atkins? Who-- ahh, I understand. I’m not quite caught up on current events enough to know why you recognized that particular face, but you’re referring to Mister Thorn. Or Network, if you prefer. He’s a metahuman, capable of copying his mind over into any body, given a period of prolonged contact. He’s taken over people in positions of influence in every major world government, corporation, and military chain of command. Whoever this Atkins fellow was, I assume he occupied one such position, before Mister Thorn got to him.”
Just when I’m beginning to adjust to this insanity, I’m thrown another curveball. Jason and I dealt with similar situations in the past, with metas using subtler powers to try and game the markets or rig elections, but nothing on this scale. And with that kind of power, this ‘Network’ could be behind any face I ever see.
“And each one of the copies can copy themselves?”
Beringer bobs his head up and down, like we aren’t talking about the total subversion of civilization by one man.
“Oh yes. They’re all linked, as well. Anything you tell to one of him, the rest will hear. He could have taken over the world all by himself, if you ask me. But he’s got rules about who he replaces. Only people whose replacement would make the world a better place. That’s why he went after politicians and bankers first, you see.”
Nothing about Superior’s chuckle changes, but it feels like it’s taken on a distinctly more sinister tone. It’s only now starting to hit me what these people really do. They aren’t just protecting the planet- they run it. Between the nine of them, they have access to trillions of dollars, technology beyond anything ordinary engineers could ever design, hundreds of metahumans willing to follow their orders, and god knows what else. The supervillains don’t have to bother with trying to take over the world anymore. The superheroes have already done it.
The casual tone Beringer takes when talking about this unsettles me. I’m not sure if it’s just because this has been his understanding of the world for years, or if he’s under the influence of something. The Council is probably medicating him, because an untreated bipolar super-genius running around their base seems like a risk none of them would be willing to take. He continues, without being prompted- at this point, I think he’s just happy to have somebody new to talk to.
“I’m sure Miss Gladwin needs no introduction, but did you know that she--”
“Kills metahumans and takes their powers? Yes.”
Superior’s shoulders sag slightly as I pull his reveal out from under him. Still, it’s an opportunity to demonstrate that I’m not completely ignorant. Jason put the secret of Pallas’ powers together a long time ago, and shared it with me. Though, the thought occurs that he could have just been told, after he joined up with the Council. But the chain of logic he’d presented to prove it to me was sound, even if it had been constructed after the fact.
Pallas- AKA Jessica Gladwin -revealed herself to the world out of nowhere, boasting a dozen full-strength metahuman powers. To demonstrate them, she created an entire artificial island in the Pacific, and built an entire city upon it, single-handedly. It became her own sovereign nation, called Arcadia, with borders open only to metahumans. A super-ethnostate. Plenty of people were horrified, both by the power she’d displayed, and the fact that she was effectively a metahuman supremacist. But plenty of metas were also interested. In order to entice as many metas as possible to join her, she offered total amnesty to any meta with a criminal record. At first, world leaders were outraged at the idea that they’d have to extradite dangerous criminals at her whim, but considering the power at her disposal, they didn’t have much of a choice. Within a year, she gathered around fifteen percent of the world’s metahuman population. Most of them had been ostracized because of their powers, especially those who had irreversible physical mutations tied to their powers. But she’d also welcomed some truly irredeemable monsters, even strongarmed the courts into freeing metas that Jason and I had helped put away, on the condition that they wouldn’t leave her little island once they arrived.
Based on the powers Pallas had displayed, Jason figured out the secret of her ability, connecting them with a string of disappearances among notorious meta-criminals in the years before she made her first public appearance. She took great pains to cover up the deaths, and tried to use the powers she’d taken in unconventional ways, to make it less obvious that they’d once belonged to someone else, but Jason wasn’t that easy to fool. He even managed to infiltrate Arcadia, despite their incredibly advanced security, and discovered that Pallas had been secretly killing the worst monsters that had come to her for asylum, harvesting their powers for herself. It had recontextualized her offer of unconditional asylum into something nobler- even if her ultimate goal was still to become even stronger so she could improve Arcadia’s geopolitical standing.
“I assume you people were responsible for getting her that seat on the UN Security Council?”
“Mainly Mister Thorn and Mister O’Connor,” Beringer confirms. “They brought her in because of how strong she is, and how many metahumans she has influence over. In return, she wanted the Council to help her legitimize her little island in the eyes of the world. A few whispers in the right ears, with a helping of psychic suggestions, was all they needed.”
The involvement of Geas and Network had obviously expedited the process, but if Pallas had wanted that seat, there was little chance she wouldn’t have gotten it eventually. Declaring a non-nuclear state in the Middle East a ‘rogue nation’ and bombing it flat is one thing, but an island exclusively populated by living hydrogen bombs is another thing entirely. Pallas could wipe Washington off the map, and whichever idiot down the line of succession that survived to take over would have had to ask forgiveness for whatever the United States had done to offend her. Fortunately for the world, Gladwin doesn’t seem particularly ambitious. Her main motivation is to protect her fellow metahumans- which is rather ironic for someone whose gift is to kill them and take their powers.
“Ah, here we are.”
Another door opens, and Beringer leads me into a research lab. That much is obvious about the room instantly- but the exact purpose of most of the machinery is unclear. It’s clearly more advanced than any facility I’ve ever been in. There’s a forensics lab at Jason’s headquarters- my headquarters -but it’s nowhere near the level of this one. Some of the tech is clearly Machina’s work- even if the design didn’t make that obvious, the fact that he’d stamped his logo on all of it would have. However, that isn’t the half of it. There are machines that look like they’re semi-organic, probably brought back by the spacefarer, Blake. And on the far wall, there’s a heavily secured cabinet with what has to be at least half a hundred vials filled with different multicolored serums behind bulletproof glass. That gives me a hint about who works in here.
“Welcome to the Lab. This is where Mister Donovan and I do most of our work. I primarily design devices for use by the Council, while Mister Donovan is preoccupied with developing formulae for the consumption of the general public.”
My fist clenches.
“You’re letting Grendel design treatments for ordinary people?”
Beringer shakes his head disapprovingly.
“Try to have an open mind. I used to be a super-criminal myself, you know.”
I’m not stupid. There’s more to this- otherwise Jason wouldn’t have been willing to work with these people. But the fact that they kept Andrew Donovan alive at all turns my stomach, and I want answers- now.
“You robbed banks. He’s the worst serial killer in history. Bad enough he’s still alive, but you’re letting him design treatments for ordinary people?”
When unstable people got powers, they usually went on a rampage sooner rather than later. No thought put into it- just using their newfound abilities to live out every revenge fantasy they’d ever had. Grendel had been different. Donovan had used his meta-talent for genetic engineering to create a formula that would turn him into a beast that wasn’t just strong or tough, but stealthy. An eight-legged invisible creature with razor-sharp claws, skin that could shrug off RPG rounds, and the mind of a savant. Grendel managed to evade capture for years, leaving a trail of bodies in its wake that were only ever found after it was too late, until the Peacekeepers caught up to it in New Mexico. The world was told that there was no corpse because they’d reduced it to atoms. In reality, it seems, he was brought here.
“That... is not the whole truth. Mister O’Connor discovered during a battle with the creature that Mister Donovan was not in control of himself at all. ‘Grendel’ is what you might describe as an alternate personality, one that is the exact opposite of Donovan himself. Sadistic and cruel, it took control of Donovan’s body and became that monster, making Donovan’s own wife and child its first victims. After the beast was subdued, Geas was able to return control of his body back to Mister Donovan, and create a partition between the two, preventing Grendel from ever taking over unexpectedly. He’s spent the last several years working tirelessly to atone for his counterpart’s crimes. We release his creations into the world via research labs that various Council members control, after checking them over thoroughly to ensure that there are no nasty surprises. He’s done a great deal of good work, Mister Graves. That Alzheimer’s cure didn’t come from nowhere, you know.”
As Beringer explains, I can’t help but feel that the story is just a little too convenient. The first part, about Donovan having a split personality, is plausible. His psych profile prior to the transformation supports that idea. But the notion that Geas was able to suppress an entire alternate personality, especially one so psychotic and dangerous, doesn’t add up.
“What about Grendel? There’s something you aren’t saying.”
Superior looks distinctly uncomfortable now- he actually tugs at his collar, something I don’t think I’ve ever seen the subject of an interrogation do outside of movies.
“Well, we discovered that the creature gains strength within Mister Donovan’s psyche the longer it’s locked away. And frankly, his other form is rather useful under the right circumstances. We use it as an... attack dog, of sorts. Whenever there’s a particularly powerful foe that must be removed, we unleash Grendel upon them- kept on a tight leash by Mister O’Connor, of course.”
I give my response in the form of a grunt. The fact that Donovan’s alive, and continuing his research, doesn’t sit right with me, even if he isn’t entirely responsible for his alter-ego’s crimes. But the Alzheimer’s treatment he’s supposedly responsible for has seen more results than decades of past attempts. He’s doing good work.
Adjusting his glasses uncomfortably, Beringer continues.
“That’s not all we do here, either. Mister Robards has helped arm the world against extraterrestrial threats through his company, yes, but he’s helped in other ways as well. Advanced medical technology, provided to hospitals across the world at cost. Miss Lai has done programming on self-driving vehicles to make them safer, and even written a ‘Robin Hood’ program that skims off the bank accounts of the 1% and donates it anonymously to the highest-impact charities. Mister Blake has helped reverse-engineer various alien technologies he brought back from his travels, which have helped make alternative energy sources safer and more powerful. Your suit has a nuclear battery, does it not?”
Every example Superior gives makes my outrage at Grendel’s presence sound more and more unfair. Who am I to judge the Council’s decisions, after all the good they’ve done for the world? Beringer isn’t even trying to debate with me, and he’s still winning. My distaste for these people isn’t founded on much- just a gut feeling. But Jason always taught me to trust my gut. He wanted me here for a reason, and it wasn’t just to be impressed by all of these accomplishments.
“Mister Thorn fast-tracks the approval of these technologies, in order to bypass the usual red tape. He’s also exercised his vast influence in order to facilitate the global transition to renewable energy, despite the overwhelming incentives to continue destroying the planet in the name of profit. Regrettable that people had to die in order for it to happen, but the lives saved in the long term easily offset the cost.”
On one hand, these revelations are making the world make more sense. Not to mention, serving to dispel some of my suspicions about this Council. On the other hand, it’s a little dispiriting to know that so much of the progress the world has made in the last decade or so has been the work of so few people. If it weren’t for them, how much worse-off would the world be? And if they disappeared, how much would come crashing down? Perhaps that’s why they decided to bring me in- because if something could make Jason disappear, any of them could be next. And without them, it’s not hard to imagine the world drifting back onto a path towards destruction.
“I can see why Jason thought the existence of this group was necessary. You’ve done some good work.”
Part of being a detective is being able to admit when you’re wrong. One of the easiest mistakes for an investigator to make is to become attached to any given theory or impression of a case. If you spend too long pursuing a hunch, you’ll become unwilling to accept that you were wrong, because it’s too painful to say that you wasted your time and energy. Instead, you’ll convince yourself that the last piece of evidence you need to prove that you were right all along is just around the corner.
Right now, I’m not quite ready to accept that I’m wrong. But I have to acknowledge that, even if there’s something sinister under the surface here, something connected to Jason’s disappearance... these people have done a lot of good in the world. And until I can confirm or deny my suspicions, I ought to give them a chance.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Beringer replies dryly. “But I do hope you know that none of us take any pleasure in taking lives, when necessity dictates that it must be done. Or in sparing murderers, for that matter. But hard decisions must sometimes be made. I’m sure you know that as well as anyone.”
My first instinct is to bristle at the equivocation, but he’s not wrong. Neither Jason nor I ever subscribed to the notion that killing is completely unacceptable for a hero. Whenever possible, we tried to give the justice system a chance to deal with the people we captured, but especially in the early years, it was all too common for the clever use of a legal loophole, or the simple corruption of the courts, to result in a guilty man being set free. For petty criminals, that didn’t much matter. But when it’s a choice between taking one life and letting a killer go on to kill again, we had to be willing to do what was necessary.
“Yeah. I do.”
This tense exchange has soured the mood a little, but Beringer doesn’t look upset. Still, I think he can tell that it’s time to move on.
“Well, Mister Graves, it seems a shame to cut things short, but I’m sure you’re itching to go consult your mentor’s notes on all of us. Why don’t we see about getting your implant put in, and then you’ll be free to leave?”
He isn’t wrong. I won’t be able to fully focus on what I need to do here if I’m distracted by the desire to go find Jason’s message. Not to mention, I won’t need a guide once I have the blueprint Beringer mentioned.
“Lead the way.”
I follow Professor Superior through the facility once more, using my suit’s onboard computer to map the path we take. I’ll be making my own blueprint as well. Taking information freely offered is one thing, but relying on it is another. Any inconsistencies between my own map and the one they provide is a potential clue, or at least a hint towards the location of any secret rooms within this facility. Given how secretive the Council is, there’s virtually no chance that there aren’t at least a few.
Beringer hums along to himself softly as he walks, likely more to fill the silence than anything. At minimum, he probably lives here with Blake, Lai and Gilgamesh, though it wouldn’t surprise me if ‘Zero’ has her own place out in the real world, kept hidden using her techno-wizardry. At a guess, she’s college-aged, and I have a hard time imagining someone in their early twenties being willing to live in a place like this full-time. Knowing what I do about Network’s ability, he probably keeps a handful of bodies here as well, too.
The sheer potential that power represents is going to keep me up at night. Even if Thorn didn’t have an ethical injunction that prevented him from trying to take over the planet, he probably wouldn’t have been successful if he’d tried. There are too many people like Jason out there who’d have been able to figure him out before he got too far. If he hadn’t been recruited to the Council, he’d have been one of their targets. But when I think about how many people he’d probably have been able to replace before someone caught on, it’s easily in the low millions. With each copy capable of copying itself multiple times, it’s no surprise that he’s managed to subvert banks, corporations, and entire governments.
Network isn’t present when Beringer and I arrive in the next room. He likely wore the Atkins body to the meeting so he’d be wearing a face I recognized, but the head of the DMA can’t be unaccounted for very long, or people start to ask questions. And if he does have other bodies in this facility, none of them are here. Geas and Machina, however, are.
“Thank you, Eric. That’ll be all.”
O’Connor is still smiling. Machina is not. He hasn’t said a word to me yet, just acknowledged my presence by inclining his head a fraction of an inch. I recognize him, of course- Marcus Robards would be a household name even if he wasn’t also the most prominent American superhero. The man runs a multinational corporation, Anvil Inc., which also sponsors his team, the Peacekeepers. For a while, they were independent, the biggest hero team on the West Coast, until the Andromedan invasion, after which the Peacekeepers became government affiliates. That was also when Anvil went from selling smartphones to bombs. Fear of a second invasion has made Robards a billionaire, because his company is the only one making weapons people know are effective against potential alien invaders. That vast wealth is probably one of the major sources of funding for the Council, too. His one condition to the governments he supplies is that they never turn the weapons he creates on other humans. Normally, they’d suppress their laughter while they agreed, and then break their promises immediately after, but Robards isn’t stupid. He builds a kill-switch into everything he creates, and if he ever sees one of his clients using something he’s made for a purpose he doesn’t approve of, he’ll shut it down. That would be a dealbreaker for most people, but after the invasion, people had less interest than ever in killing each other, and a lot more interest in killing aliens. So they accepted Machina’s conditions.
Right now, Robards is staring me down, face set in stone, arms folded. Beringer leaves without a word, and I’m alone with him and one of the most powerful telepaths on the planet. We’re in the Council’s medical facility, with ten healing cradles in a row on the far wall. One for each member, presumably, in case they’re injured on a mission that the public can’t know about. I wonder for a moment if Jason was ever here, during one of the periods he’d disappear for an extended amount of time.
Machina gestures to a large chair to his left, with a surgical tray on a table next to it. The instruments that rest upon it are largely familiar to me, though a few seem to be more advanced.
“Sit.”
His imperious tone is irksome, but there’s nothing to be gained from challenging him right now. Instead, I take a seat, and address my inquiry to Geas.
“What’s the implant for? I assume you’ve all already got them.”
The mental manipulator nods. He’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, his posture a little too casual.
“It serves a great many purposes. Primarily, communication with all members of the Council, across almost any distance. Our hidden satellite network facilitates that, as well as a series of long-range relays we’ve set up across the solar system.”
That means it also functions as a tracking device. Less than ideal, but it’s the only way they’re going to join their club. And if Jason hasn’t left me notes on how to disable or circumvent that function, I’ll eat my trenchcoat.
“The implant will also allow you to instantly translocate to this facility when necessary. Once it’s activated, it will also allow you to translocate to your mentor’s former headquarters, where he established a signal beacon identical to the one we have here.”
Translocation to and from this facility explains how the Council has been able to keep their existence secret for so long. True teleportation isn’t possible except for a small handful of metahumans, but translocation, which requires a specialized signal beacon at the target location, is more feasible. It’s still a theoretical technology, but considering how many super-geniuses have combined their talents as members of this group, it’s little surprise that they managed to make it work.
“While you’re here, the implant will open any door, excluding those to our personal quarters. While not all of us reside here full-time, we all have rooms of our own, including one that’s been set aside for you. I expect you’ll want to investigate your mentor’s room as well.”
I’d already deduced the first part from watching Beringer, and the existence of private rooms had been a basic logical leap. However, it’s doubtful that there’s anything of real interest in Jason’s quarters. After all, someone- presumably Robards -has the ‘master key’ to the entire facility, meaning the rooms aren’t really private. Knowing that, Jason wouldn’t have kept anything in there that he didn’t want found.
“Finally, it will prevent me from accessing your mind with my abilities. While silent communication via my power would have had its benefits, we decided when this group was formed that individual privacy was more important. A version of the same technology is contained within your helmet, as a matter of fact. The previous Hawkshaw cobbled together his own version when investigating the Council, after he realized that I’d already altered his memory once when he got too close. The benefits of the implant should, however, be obvious.”
While Geas had been talking, Machina was preparing his tools. I caught sight of the implant- it was a small circular device, simple enough that it was difficult to believe it served so many different purposes. Before I could ask any questions, or even comment on the size of the implant, he spoke again.
“Gauntlet off.”
My right gauntlet comes off with a series of clicks, and I place it on the table, before laying my hand down on the arm of the chair, which was clearly designed at least in part for this particular procedure. Robards hands me a syringe without looking.
“Anesthetic.”
I check the label to be sure. It’s local, not particularly long-lasting, but strong enough. I’ve handled worse than a minor surgery without painkillers, but I’m not going to refuse them the one time they’re on offer. It’s only a few seconds after I’ve made the injection that I can feel it start to work.
The empty syringe goes back on the table, and Machina prepares to make the incision. I’ve seen too many injuries, on myself and others, to be squeamish about this. Geas is looking on detachedly, while Robards’ laser-like focus on the task suggests that speaking to him would be a mistake. Instead, I address the telepath again.
“I’m surprised to see you two working together.”
The feud between the Peacekeepers and the Royals is common knowledge in the cape community. O’Connor and Robards are constantly at each others’ throats in public. Geas has called Machina a war profiteer, and Machina has called Geas a willing stooge of warmongering governments. Both groups operate under NATO sanction, making them nominal allies, but they don’t work together except under the most extreme circumstances. Yet here they are, working together to run the world in secret, without a hint of discord between them. The telepath confirms my suspicions with a laugh.
“Our, ah, disagreements have been largely manufactured. In order to deflect suspicions about the Council, you understand. Those of us with public identities take pains to avoid associating where others might notice. In the case of Machina and myself, our actions are under scrutiny by both the press, the public, and the members of our respective organizations. If we were seen together too frequently, despite having two distinct jurisdictions, it would raise questions.”
And if anyone starts to suspect that their rivalry isn’t real, O’Connor can just excise the offending thought. I really should have put that together sooner- in fact, Jason probably did. My only excuse is that I didn’t work much outside of Pax before taking on the Hawkshaw name, so I had almost no opportunities to observe their interactions directly. The few times I was in a room with them before, there were bigger concerns on everyone’s minds, like what we thought was the impending end of the world. In reality, if there was a legitimate threat, it had probably already been neutered by the Council in secret, and the job of the superheroes in those rooms was simply to clean up the rest of the mess.
“Clever.”
Robards has made his incision, and as I watch, he sticks the implant inside my arm, before placing the scalpel back on the tray, and grabbing one of the devices I don’t recognize. It’s a thin tube, with a single button on the side, and a flat tip. He points it at the wound, presses the button down, and the tip lights up like a flashlight. The purple light passes over the cut, and I watch as the flesh stitches itself back together seamlessly. Before Machina can explain, I cut in, while grabbing a hand towel and scrubbing the blood off my arm.
“You miniaturized the Solberg-Normand Machine. Useful.”
That, at least, isn’t one of his designs. The Solberg-Normand Machine came out of a lab in Norway five years ago, designed by a team of meta-geniuses and ordinary human biologists working together. After studying dozens of metahuman healers and regenerators, they discovered a common factor between many of them- a unique kind of radiation capable of ‘overcharging’ the body’s natural healing processes by flooding the cells with energy. It can’t heal serious injuries, but it can close wounds far faster than stitches or cauterization, making it an invaluable tool for surgeons. Robards simply took the tech and compressed it into that device. Most hospitals have to use a much larger and less energy-efficient machine to achieve the same results.
“We’re hoping to have this on the market within the year,” Machina says, answering my unspoken question. “Nuclear battery means we can’t just hand them out like candy.”
Those are the most words he’s spoken to me in sequence. At a guess, my minor display of technical knowledge has earned a bit of respect. My gut tells me he’s one of the members of the Council who hadn’t wanted to bring me in at all. Probably something to do with the way that Jason had essentially blackmailed his way into a seat at the table. Knowing him, he probably hadn’t made very many friends, but it was impossible not to at least develop some respect for him once you saw him at work.
In that sense, we’d always operated differently. From the beginning, Jason had been paranoid, almost pathologically incapable of trusting anyone completely. I came closer than anyone, and he still kept things from me up until the very end. As a result, he had few friends, and plenty of enemies. Even his teammates, who he saw as reliable allies, were never much more than just coworkers. But I always knew that I could rely on him, right from the start, and that made it easier for me to trust other people as well. Jason always said that if you expected the worst from everyone, you’d never be disappointed. I try to see the best in people. That means I’ve been disappointed before, but I’ve also been pleasantly surprised.
Perhaps that’s why this situation has me on edge. When I work with others, I typically try to find common ground, establish a connection, and determine whether they’re the kind of people I can rely upon. With these people, that’s not an option. They’re too powerful, and too much of an unknown, for me to take any risks. I have to start thinking more like Jason- like Hawkshaw. But if I’m right, and they had something to do with his disappearance, I can’t settle for being like him. I have to be better.
“So. What happens next?”