RKMBs Forums .::Important::. Writer's Block Birth, Death, Memory (a Vanguard: Uprising one-shot)

Birth, Death, Memory

South suburbs of Chicago
One night in the future

“Auntie Bri?”

The plaintive call resonated through the cold diamond-stamped plates of the power plant’s topmost floor and roused Brianna Montag from her slumber. The slight-framed, winged Irishwoman gently extricated herself from the loudly snoring Grissom Montag’s grasp as the fiftysomething mercenary dreamt of past tussles, current struggles, and hopefully future triumphs. As he dozed on, the metahuman flyer padded from one makeshift bedroom to the next, carefully weaving through the dark between the lightly-carpeted plywood panels that comprised the interior walls of Vanguard’s less-than-formidable fortress. The crumbling, abandoned power station – its sole functioning generator droning away below – was only the latest in a long line of homes in exile for the small band of heroes that had once shaped the course of global events from their island stronghold and saved the world more times than most would ever know.

That same world had spent the past fourteen years under the heel of a merciless occupation force from across the galaxy, but somehow Brianna and her closest friends had survived and were now huddled in the ruins of a post-alien-invasion Chicago. And that meant life went on, and one of life’s unexpected gifts to Brianna was a wonderful young girl whose cheerful kindness and devoted affection had helped somewhat to dull the ache of her own son’s disappearance. That girl had probably just woken from another bad dream and most likely awaited a late-night talk and hug through the opposite door of her father’s room.

As Bri quietly traversed the room, she managed to avoid being disoriented by the periodic stray thoughts and sensations projecting unbidden into her mind. The white-haired, white-bearded man stretched across the mattress on the floor to her right appeared deep in slumber, but while his body lay inert his unconscious mind continued to gather information from his senses – and from the minds around him. In the gloom he appeared not yet middle-aged save the prematurely-faded close-cropped locks, but the youthful form belied the unsettling truth that Phil Smith had technically lived over eighty years, died once, was inexplicably sent back, and had since lived another twenty – though the latter had been years marked mostly by profound sorrow. The only respite from that sorrow were his best friends, Grissom and Brianna – and his only child, who glanced up with a faint smile as her surrogate maternal figure brushed softly through the doorway and into her room.

“Bad dream, dearie?” Brianna asked gently.

Alyssa nodded, her shoulder-length, fiery red hair tumbling about her as her wide cerulean eyes betrayed her lingering trepidation.

“Can ye tell me about it, love?” Brianna’s soft Irish brogue had a natural calming effect.

Alyssa thought a long moment as her hand absently reached to her nightstand and her fingers grasped an old but lovingly-polished locket – a gift from her “aunt” on her sixteenth birthday a short while ago. She shook her head, unable to recall what had troubled her.

Brianna put a hand to the girl’s cheek and looked down at her. In a perfect world, she should have been fretting over exams and breaking eager boys’ hearts, not leaping across post-apocalyptic rooftops with a loaded shotgun. Sadly, Alyssa’s childhood was only one of innumerable casualties inflicted by the Xyryth invasion. “Anything I can do t’help ye?” the flyer probed.

Alyssa hesitated. This was far from the first time she’d asked, but perhaps she’d inherited some vestiges of her father’s psionic aptitude or her mother’s infallible empathy and had sensed tonight might be different. “Auntie Bri,” she asked slowly and softly, “can you please tell me about my mother?”

Brianna’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel she could tell the girl – Phil’s recent change of heart had led him to request just that of her. But pulling the tale up from the depths of memory dredged up a surge of emotion, and the gravity of what she’d been asked to give this child now tugged at Bri. She cleared her throat and paused a long moment as Alyssa fixed her with an imploring gaze.

“Are ye sure?” the Irishwoman warned. “I have t’warn ye, ‘tis very sad.”

Alyssa nodded insistently.

“Very well, love,” Brianna said as she gathered her thoughts…

Dawson Island, just off La Perdita, the Caribbean
One morning, exactly two years before Landfall

Leslie Smith’s back ached even more than usual as she finished washing her face and looked up into the mirror. Morning sickness was supposed to at least die down, if not disappear, by the end of the first trimester. How’s that workin’ out for ya? Her typically lovely light-brown eyes were lined with the telltale markings of many sleepless nights, her normally luxuriant auburn hair tied back into a haphazard ponytail. She could feel how agonizingly swollen her feet and ankles had become, but even as she looked down she was reminded of three particularly prominent reasons she couldn’t see them. And, of course, the only clothes that fit her comfortably were more or less tents with patterns the magazines swore were slimming.

If one more person tells me I’m glowing, I swear to God I’m shooting them in the face.

<You’re positively glowing today, Mrs. Smith…>

“Asshole,” Leslie mumbled around her toothbrush as Phil strode into the colonial manor’s bathroom, smirking. The telepath’s half-smile faded as he studied his reflection. “Still white, babe,” Leslie observed for him, evening the score. Phil Smith had never looked into a mirror in quite the same way since his return from the hereafter, but his wife suspected it had less to do with Alice and with Phil’s brief tour of duty with the Order than with the formerly dark-haired psionic being sent back with a short shock of pure white on his head. For all his abilities and virtues, Phil was still a good bit more vain than he was probably aware of.

“Thanks for reminding me,” he replied – out loud this time. “Hey – didn’t they insist you’d stop puking by four months at the latest?”

Leslie rolled her eyes. “Thanks for reminding me,” she echoed before seeing his concern. She paused. “I’m okay. The baby’s okay. Don’t worry about a thing.” She smiled and kissed him.

“I believe you,” the telepath insisted as he circled around and put his arms around her from behind. “You know I can’t help but worry sometimes, though.”

“I know,” the heavily pregnant former bounty hunter replied as she studied their collective reflection in the mirror. “But really, we’re okay. Worrying only borrows trouble – whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen, and there’s only so much even you can do. Especially about this.” She gently pulled free of his embrace and turned to face him. “Besides, you have some very important business to attend to today.”

Phil nodded as he straightened his white tie. He’d taken a page from an old friend when he found himself the leader of Vanguard and traded his black tactical gear and bandoliers of ammo and gadgets for finely-tailored white suits. The ammo was just dead weight anyway – when you’ve been sent back from the dead under the single very strict condition that you never take another human life for any cause, it tends to discourage the carrying of firearms. “We’re almost done with the final negotiations. We’ll break for lunch once we hit a stopping point, that’ll give the media and politicians time to get in on it, and unless something very odd happens we’ll sign it in the mid-to-late afternoon.”

It was the final draft of the International Metahuman/Posthuman Enfranchisement Treaty – the document hammered out in front of UN officials and heads of state from around the globe, finally guaranteeing legal protection and equal rights for all metahumans and posthumans. While it had been several years since any government or individual had deliberately taken direct action to harm metas, in most of the world they were, effectively, the same second-class citizens they’d been treated as for decades. Their awesome powers had evoked only judgment and suspicion from fearful “norms”, but thanks to the successes of metahuman groups such as Vanguard and the accomplishments of individuals such as Phil Smith, the tide was turning, with IMPET finally giving metas the world over the freedom to claim their future – whatever that future might hold. No more registrations, no more forced relocations, no more government- and military-sanctioned experimentation; IMPET ultimately represented Phil’s life’s work – at least, the portion of his life he’d had control over. And delegations from the US and other governments had been arriving on La Perdita for the past several days to make it a reality.

“And correct me if I’m wrong,” Leslie continued amid Phil’s contemplation, “but aren’t you supposed to be meeting the media in front of Parliament half an hour before everyone gets together inside?”

Phil turned and looked at the antique clock on the far wall of the master suite. “Shit.”

“You can read minds,” Leslie mused as she reached for the concealer, “but you won’t wear a damn watch.”

“You going out today?” Phil asked, trying not to sound like too much of a worrier as he scrambled to cram everything into his attaché case. Between the waterproofed genuine calfskin and the crushed black velvet, the shell was feather-light carbon fiber layered with enough Kevlar to stop a .308. He’d never needed those features and probably never would, but it was ruinously expensive, and that had to mean something.

“Is this where I’m supposed to ask your permission?” Leslie asked as she smoothed over the more obvious lines in the mirror. “I need a halfway-decent dress if you really want me to waddle my pregnant ass in front of those cameras with you. And since you were a bit too optimistic and jumped the gun to buy blue everything for the nursery so long ago I can’t return it all now, I’m gonna try to donate some of it to someone who needs it before I go buy orange stuff.”

“Orange?”

“Why pink?” Leslie demanded as she started in with the eyeliner. “Everyone does pink. This child is gonna get lost in a sea of little girls all in pink soon enough – she deserves to stand out for the first year or two at least.”

“Fair enough.” Phil looked over at her. “You’re not going by yourself… this close, are you?”

Leslie sighed. “Babe. We have three weeks left. I know what I’m doing. Bri’s coming with me once Brian’s nanny shows up. We’re gonna do a little shopping, and then we’re gonna come get our pictures taken with you and the boys before you all go off to get smashed.”

Phil started to protest as he went for the boat keys, but stopped in his tracks. His head tilted slightly to the side the way it usually did. A faint smile creased the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Leslie knew that look.

“Still learning the language,” Phil explained, “but I think she liked the lasagna last night.”

“You mean this morning,” Leslie confessed as she rechecked the symmetry of her handiwork. “I snuck downstairs and nuked about half of it while you were asleep.” Phil smirked but didn’t answer. “Like I said,” Leslie grumbled as she took a step back and looked down at as much of herself as she could comfortably see, “pregnant ass.”

“I’m not complaining,” Phil replied with a sly smile. “Preggo-you pushes all the same buttons.”

Leslie wasn’t convinced, and she found her husband’s expression irritating. “The hell is that look?” she asked, perturbed, though by now she didn’t need any sort of telepathic link to know what was coming.

Phil poked his head in the doorway, just outside of striking range. “Ti-i-i-i-itsss…”

“Sonofabitch!” Leslie flung a wadded-up hand towel at him, but the nimble psionic had already dodged away and was heading down the stairs toward the front door.

“Love you!” he called over his shoulder as he retreated.

“Go fuck yourself!” Leslie called back. “…Love you too…”

The empath returned to the mirror as she heard the door slam. She picked up the mascara, then paused and regarded the woman in the mirror for a moment. She looked down and adjusted each one furtively, then grinned wickedly at herself.

He did make a pretty compelling argument…

Puerta Mibela, La Perdita
Mercado Viejo, 9:47 AM

The Old Market was this plaza’s official name, but over the years the chatter of produce vendors and clamor of livestock had given way to the plate-glass and marble façades of decidedly more modern shops. Boutiques to rival those of New York or Paris, featuring the characteristic island flair of the region’s own best designers. Coffee shops quite reminiscent of Seattle’s – all serving fair-trade and locally-grown roasts, of course. Consumer electronics peddlers the equal of any to be found in Seoul or Taipei. A modern elevated-rail system cleaner than the London “Tubes” – and much safer than the DC Metro – that served even the barrios of La Perdita’s newly-glistening capital.

And of course, there were plenty of office buildings, most of whose tenants hailed from wealthy nations across the globe. La Perdita was far from the only tax haven in the Caribbean, but in the past decade its violent-crime rate had plummeted and corrupt local officials had all but vanished, while each neighboring tropical “paradise” had descended into lawlessness. The reason was surprising, and surprisingly simple. Just as Puerta Mibela at its founding had been a refuge for pirates and privateers shunned by civilized nations, the tiny island’s capital had served as a sanctuary – for many years the Western Hemisphere’s only such sanctuary – for metahumans and all others with “gifts” too uncanny or frightening for the outside world to ignore. Mutants, psionics, and supernatural beings of all stripes flocked to La Perdita as other nations grew increasingly inhospitable, and while the local government which harbored them – either out of sympathy for their plight or terror of offending them – was loath to impose limits or restrictions on their behavior, the brotherhood of outcasts gradually overtook the honor among thieves, and a sort of unspoken, ordered, and remarkably peaceful anarchy unlike anywhere else in the world had flowered on the island nation.

Most of this was owed to Vanguard – or, as it was originally known, MBL Consulting. Just over a decade ago, a fast-talking huckster-turned-“entrepreneur” named Kit Piper had gathered together a handful of survivors of the Chicago Revolution, along with a few metahumans drawn to La Perdita by a sheer lack of anywhere else to go, and persuaded them to offer their services as security consultants, investigators, and just about everything else short of carnival entertainers. Apparently, nobody – not even Kit – knew not to take the joke too seriously, and seemingly overnight, MBL Consulting upped the ante and transformed into Vanguard International. For years, Vanguard traveled the globe battling everything from the mob to the undead to anti-meta militias to an army of demons and aliens raised by the self-styled “Prince of Hell”. And while repeated grudge matches with bitter enemies made along the way had leveled a statistically appreciable percentage of Puerta Mibela’s buildings along the way, Vanguard’s accomplishments drew more metahumans, more tourists, more business, and more money to La Perdita – even after the “glory days” of the organization had drawn to an end a year or two ago, the metahumans and posthumans who remained continued to keep the peace and build the prosperity of the tiny island nation.

To be sure, there were still conflicts – the main reason for the city’s skyrocketing property values was the proportionally escalating cost of insurance against decidedly unnatural disasters above and beyond the Caribbean’s natural ones – but the everyday citizens of the island no longer lived in fear of one another or their posthuman neighbors. If there was a dispute, it would be resolved with minimal loss of life, and if that took a man-sized turtle demon bodyslamming a werewolf through a safely-vacated apartment block once in a while, such was the cost of doing business. Somehow, someone (typically Vanguard) usually picked up the tab, and that apartment block would be replaced by dazzling new townhomes – with substantial concealed reinforcements to their structural integrity, naturally. All in all, local citizens and foreign investors alike felt their lives and their livelihoods were safer here than pretty much anywhere else in the Caribbean, and as a result La Perdita and Puerta Mibela in particular had experienced a surge of prosperity that had even warded off the disastrous recession of the late 2000s. Dozens of Fortune 500 corporations had moved their headquarters to Mercado Viejo and other downtown districts, while millionaires and billionaires scrambled to buy up the few remaining parcels of buildable land on Dawson Island a stone’s throw away with the approval of its unofficial “First Families,” the Smiths and Montags.

Grissom Montag – Dawson Island’s de facto mayor, and probably official mayor after the upcoming elections – stood in the midst of the glittering Old Market, on the steps of a lovingly-preserved Spanish mission church across from the marvelous new “post-colonial” edifice that was La Perdita’s Parliament building. He looked down at his phone – a proprietary Sandcrawler Electronics model, of course – and swiped through his inbox with one of the three fingers on his right hand, waiting for his best friend to arrive. The metahuman Brit had worn no shortage of hats over his long and hopefully still unstoried career: inexplicably parlaying a background in electrical engineering into fourteen riotously lucrative years as a “problem-solving” mercenary, signing onto Vanguard as a technical consultant, and becoming over the course of a decade one of the metahuman organization’s most trusted leaders. But he was still adjusting to the fit of his newest hats – devoted husband, loving father, and upstanding citizen – in a manner not unlike Phil Smith. While technically, Grissom was Phil’s second-in-command, the telepath depended heavily on the merc’s trusted advice and only once had ever given him what could rightly be called an order. But over the course of this IMPET business, Montag had assumed control of the business side of Vanguard, taking point on what few jobs its remaining handful of members drew in these days and watching and learning while Smith demonstrated the diplomatic prowess and geopolitical savvy that had earned him the chance to brief the current and previous Presidents of the United States on metahuman relations. All told, it was a surprising change of fortunes for a mercenary barred from entering at least forty nations with a price on his head in another eighty and a former amnesiac whose only demonstrable talents were reading thoughts out of others’ brains and putting bullets into others’ brains.

<Sorry I’m late,> the voice rang in his head shortly before a black limousine in the livery of a heliport shuttle pulled into view across the plaza. Montag casually strolled down the time-worn stone steps of the church and began traversing the square. Journalists and photographers had already begun gathering, and once they recognized Vanguard’s number-two man, they began converging on Montag in the humorously characteristic manner of the media – scurrying madly while laboring to appear calm and unruffled by anything they saw. More joined the impromptu procession once they saw the limo roll to a stop and disgorge the white-suited figure of Phil Smith. The two old friends met under the shade of a coconut palm in a white marble planter.

<Should we… shake hands or something?>

<We live down the bloody street from one another, mate,> Grissom thought forcefully, knowing his friend would pick it up.

<Yeah, but… cameras…>

Grissom eyed the throng of journalists and decided to break the silence. “Mornin’, Philsy,” he greeted him casually.

“Griss,” the telepath replied with a faint smile. One nice thing about the digital age was that at least the already-annoying swarms of photographers weren’t accompanied by a cacophony of shutter and film-drive noises, only the subtle whirring of lens drives and an occasional autofocus beep. “Quite a gathering, looks like.”

“Quite an occasion,” Montag reasoned. “Apparently we’re persons of consequence now.”

“There goes the neighborhood.”

Reporters called out in multiple languages asking for comments on the occasion. The two alternated rapid-fire answers – there were only two languages Grissom wasn’t quite as proficient in, and on those Phil had the unfair advantage of being able to scoop the pre-vocalized questions off the reporters’ Broca’s areas. Fortunately, after another minute or two of this, the arrival of a motorcade on the east corner of the Mercado provided a momentary escape for Smith and Montag. “SecState,” Phil informed Grissom. “Let’s go be neighborly.” The mercenary followed reluctantly.

U.S. Secretary of State Matthew Rutherford emerged from the second of three identical SUVs – the curb weight of which had probably almost doubled with the addition of armor plating, bullet-resistant glass, and other vital protective features – and waved politely to the crowd. It wasn’t common in this culture to cheer for your own politicians if you had a choice, and memories of past decades of American foreign policy toward the rest of the Americas still lingered very tenaciously in this part of the world, but there on this occasion there were nods and waves here and there. All the same, Rutherford’s security detail – a mixture of Secret Service and what appeared to be private-sector muscle – looked to be on their toes as they emerged from the other two SUVs. The suits only carried their prerequisite concealed weapons – they’d since traded the venerable Mini-Uzi for snub-nosed MP7s chambered in the more powerful .40 Magnum cartridge – but the hired guns openly carried scoped M4 carbines. As Phil and Grissom looked on, the leader of the private security force casually exited Rutherford’s vehicle on the other side cradling a customized Steyr capable of reaching out and touching someone half a mile away with uncanny accuracy – or superhuman accuracy, if your name is Dirk Bell, which it was.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Montag intoned before breaking into a grin. Even halfway across the plaza, the veteran gunslinger’s frighteningly sharp eyes met and registered his two former colleagues. There was, of course, no actual smile, and both men might have been deeply alarmed had there been one. But even as his subordinates checked in with him, a very slight and characteristically bastardly smirk creased Bell’s face. It was as affectionate as Dirk got. Phil and Grissom made their way toward Rutherford, choosing as a matter of professional courtesy not to engage Bell directly with his men and his client and the crowds around.

“Mister Smith,” Rutherford greeted him. Phil paused a moment – even though he had sat alone in a room with three different Presidents on various occasions, he was still affected somewhat by the acknowledgments of his countrymen. After all, it had taken the unusually vociferous testimony of a cantankerous old veteran of Soviet military intelligence to convince the United States government that Smith’s past deeds had been carried out against his own will and to rescue him from Federal imprisonment… or worse. But now, after not only unearthing the past but clearing his name – and especially after indirectly saving a sitting President at the cost of his own life – Phil had found he was far from a public enemy back in the States. The Army and Air Force had each even offered to reinstate his commission as an officer from the Second World War – a commission which had technically expired fifty years ago on account of his chronological age – but given the new constraints on the amount of violence he was permitted to dispense he was forced to respectfully decline. But from where he was currently standing, Phil considered it an honor even to be shaking SecState’s hand, though he could tell Rutherford felt more than a little awed by him for some reason.

Grissom took in the scene, smiling politely. His own country remained more than a little ambivalent toward him, given his reputation. He had received a personal letter from Her Majesty, thanking him for “years of service indirectly rendered to the Crown,” but he had never received any public recognition or acknowledgment and was pretty sure Scotland Yard still had an entire file cabinet with his name on it. Even so, he felt a twinge of personal pride in having played a major role in his friend rediscovering his identity and his past – despite a slight pang of guilt for helping him uncover tragedies and memories best left forgotten – and considered Phil one of the influences that had drawn him away from a life of womanizing and gambling interspersed with more than a little murder. It had been Phil and Leslie who had unwittingly prompted Grissom to open up to Brianna about his love for her, and now the ex-merc’s world revolved around his pretty Irish bird and their bright and adorable four-year-old son, Brian. Like Phil, Grissom’s life had been shaped and defined by conflict, but now the two men had an opportunity to help usher in an era of peace for the metahumans of the world – and that was certainly preferable to any stuffy state dinner at one of the summer palaces. It was considered impolite to steal anything of real value at such events, after all.

As he looked over at the security detail, Grissom smiled as he observed that Dirk Bell was still very much the same Dirk Bell. Driven by both loss and loyalty, but you’d never get him to acknowledge either. The taciturn veteran was, despite being the only really prominent “norm” in Vanguard’s history, an exceptional soldier and a simply inhuman marksman… and also an absolutely insufferable bastard in every sense of the word. His verbal sparring with Phil in particular had been both legendary and legendarily one-sided, but no one was safe from the inevitable onslaught when Bell saw fit to open his mouth. He almost never opened up about anything else – and over the years Phil had made it a point not to read him out of respect – but Grissom knew the man well enough to know the fierce loyalty and unstoppable determination beneath the acerbic exterior, and that even in the face of insurmountable adversity, Bell feared nothing. Nothing except the prospect of leaving this world behind without a chance to leave it a legacy; not even a sort of biological “Dirk Bell was here,” but someone he could shape into a better human being than himself, someone a damn sight better than any father figures he’d had. Looking back on his own past and his fears for Brian, Grissom found it easy to relate. He still hoped his friend would get that chance one day, but that emptiness had to have been amplified by the loss of the one woman who’d actually brought out any sort of vulnerability in the gunslinger. Long story short, Bell was a bastard and a walking tragedy, but neither Grissom nor Phil could’ve named another individual they’d rather have on their side when things got really dicey. Rutherford was in good hands. The best.

As the group of diplomats and representatives began to congregate in the center of the Mercado by a massive and breathtaking marble fountain, Phil felt a nagging sense of the surreal as he came face-to-face with a man he’d at different times in his life considered his best friend and his greatest nemesis. Although now he worked as a public-policy and law-enforcement consultant and was considered one of the most powerful lobbyists for metahuman-affairs policy reform, during his tenure with the FBI, Steve Fisher was the now-defunct Metahuman Affairs Wing’s most notorious hunter of suspected rogue metas. He had been directly responsible for the disastrous end of Phil’s vigilante career in New York and indirectly responsible for the death of the “awakened” Phil’s first love, a brilliant and beautiful young meta named Gabriela Rivera. But decades before, in a time very deliberately lost to Smith’s memory, the two men had trained and fought together in the same elite military-intelligence squad near the end of World War II. In fact, after a surprise mortar attack had separated the two friends from their detachment, Smith and Fisher fought back-to-back right up until they were captured by a German platoon and carried off to a special internment facility where they underwent barbaric experimentation by a Nazi scientist who came close to discovering the metagene half a century early.

Fisher gained augmented strength and intelligence and stopped aging, and when word spread that the Americans were approaching in force, the science team hurried off and surrendered themselves along with Steve, the experiment’s success. It wouldn’t become known for over sixty years that Phil, the experiment’s failure, had been captured and subjected to even more drastic experimentation by the Russians when they arrived weeks later. The two had encountered one another many times over the ensuing decades, though the circumstances ensured Phil wouldn’t remember most of those meetings. Eventually, over the course of an adventure where the truth was discovered and where each saved the life of the other at least once, the adversarial dynamic evaporated and Smith not only swayed Fisher from his extremist stance on metas but convinced him to collaborate with him on ways to improve the plight of oppressed metahumans and posthumans around the world. Although the two might never be friends as they had once been, their cooperation was now culminating in this treaty, and the strange chances of their respective lives had not been lost on either. But the other two prospective signatories arriving in the market square represented an even more surprising turn of events.

After the Chicago uprising, Doctor Charles Walker had been given a mandate to procure and examine metahumans in order to assess their potential threat or potential usefulness, but had gradually made it his mission to protect and preserve the world’s metas even if said protection called for their confinement and experimental study. He led his shadow organization with the assistance of one Richard Turner – not the Richard Turner but a clone of the former President and one of the world’s most powerful metas in his own right – and the EPS had been one of Vanguard’s deadliest foes for almost a decade. As with Smith and Fisher, the acrimony between the rival organizations subsided somewhat over time – in fact, Leslie Kline had been in the employ of the EPS years before she was Leslie Kline Smith. But despite joining forces for the adventure in Antarctica and several other pivotal crises they had never really seen each other as any sort of allies. However, over the same course of events that had precipitated IMPET itself, Charles Walker had inexplicably renounced all grievances and disputes with Vanguard, and he and Turner had pledged their support and assistance toward the goal of equality for metas everywhere.

Now they too had come to La Perdita, along with Fisher and Rutherford and a sizable throng of ambassadors and heads of state representing each continent, all in the hope of establishing peace for posthumans everywhere. And as each statesman and envoy arrived and was greeted by the same eager attention from the media, Phil and Grissom were increasingly aware of the significance of this day, and each found himself battling a nagging sense of his own insignificance in the context of these events. Phil wanted very badly to vanish into the crowd like he had so expertly most of his life, but whether it was his curious appearance, his near-celebrity status on the island, or his prominence as one of IMPET’s main drafters, he wasn’t going to successfully disappear any time soon. Fortunately, he was rescued from another media bumrush by a tap on the shoulder from Steve Fisher.

“Mister Smith,” the former meta hunter greeted him with a smile.

“Agent,” Phil acknowledged him. “It’s been a while.” <What tipped Washington’s hand on IMPET?>

“Two and a half years,” Fisher confirmed after successfully shaking off his momentary confusion. There were still a few cameras and microphones too close for comfort. “The All Humans fundraiser; I put that together when you came to Washington to brief Obama shortly after the inauguration. As I recall, you gave a pretty compelling speech – at least our donors thought so.” <We pushed it past the House almost a year ago, but the Senate has been blocking it ever since. The healthcare law was easier to pass.> Maybe not a telepath, but certainly adept at talking to one.

“And now here we are,” Smith mused as he surveyed the plaza around them and the journalists continued recording their conversation – at least the spoken one. “Everyone has you to thank for this too, you know.” <So what changed their tune? The 109s?>

Fisher seemed taken by surprise by the question, but remembered Phil’s spoken words and shrugged. “All I do is convince rich people to give me money, so I can turn around and convince candidates that the rights of metas are not only worth fighting for but worth campaigning on.” <I keep forgetting you spent forty years as an intelligence gatherer. Apparently Xenospecies 109 call themselves the Xyryth, and they want an official first contact.> He looked around. “If you hadn’t gone on that little adventure to find yourself, this wouldn’t be happening. At least not here, not now, and not any time soon.”

<And of course Washington is even more afraid of that than of us metas.> “I’m sure saving the President helped,” the telepath pointed out half-jokingly.

“Maybe a little,” the FBI veteran conceded. “Also, I hear congratulations are in order.” He reached out and shook Phil’s hand. “I was glad to see you and Kline end up together. After… well, after… you deserve to be this happy.” Neither man felt compelled to dwell on the violence that had transpired about two miles from this very spot six years ago. <The President is trying to delay any sort of coming-out party until he’s out of office. No one is sure what the Xyryth really want.>

“Thank you,” Phil replied after a long moment. <So the powers that be think metas might be humanity’s ace in the hole if things go south. Nice to know they’re more willing to tolerate us than the aliens.> “Three weeks left.” He smiled. “It’s a girl.”

Fisher grinned. “Surprised?” Phil nodded. “But not unpleasantly.” Phil nodded again. “Good luck,” the agent chuckled. <Maybe, but they’re praying no situations arise where they actually need us. If we’re all lucky, nothing happens except metas finally getting what we’ve been fighting for.> “Karmic retribution for ever having been a young man. Too bad they won’t let you off anyone these days – one less thing to threaten boys with now…”

The bullhorn-amplified voice of the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff alerted the Mercado’s occupants that it was time for the various delegations to assemble for photographs. There was a murmuring and shuffling of feet as statesmen, envoys, and journalists scuttled off to where they needed to be.

“Let’s chat some more over lunch,” Phil offered. <I need to know everything you know about this.>

“I’d like that,” Steve assented to both propositions. “First, let’s shoot these damn photos and then go inside and bring this treaty in for a landing.”

Old friends and old enemies alike maneuvered into particularly photogenic clusters as cameras preserved this moment from what would prove to be as historic a day as anyone could have expected.

Puerta Mibela, La Perdita
Avenida de la Playa, 11:23 AM

For well-to-do locals and particularly savvy tourists hoping to dodge the Mercado’s crush of humanity, the posh commercial district lining Seaside Avenue along the South Shore offered a slower-paced, more distinguished venue for parting with potentially absurd volumes of currency. About four miles south of downtown Puerta Mibela, it was the embarkation point for helicopters and ferries serving Dawson Island and as such was far less accessible to most tourists and, indeed, most locals. While the surge in prosperity and a groundswell of philanthropy had cleaned up the worst of the barrios and uplifted many of La Perdita’s poorest citizens, Avenida de la Playa was still one place where a visible – and along the ornate wrought-iron fences to the north, a literal – divide separated the haves from the have-nots. That frequently bothered Leslie Smith – she was after all an empath – but today brought even more imminent woes to her mind. Namely, the heat and her feet.

Years of tracking targets down, chasing them on foot, and physically subduing them had formerly allowed Leslie to shrug off any amount of walking, stair-climbing, and lugging overstuffed shopping bags to and fro – in heels, no less. But the addition of about twenty pounds’ worth of miniature-human-filled water balloon changed the equation dramatically, and even a woman with her level of physical training could find herself winded after something as comparatively simple as ascending a flight of stairs in flats. Stairs… Leslie had always been well-endowed – perhaps famously so – but her husband’s approval notwithstanding, pregnancy had been quite unkind to her center of gravity. And the coastal humidity and blazing tropical sun certainly didn’t help matters. The outing would probably have progressed as far as getting out of her cab were it not for the invaluable assistance of her best friend Brianna Montag.

“This… was probably much easier on you,” Leslie called ahead to her waiflike friend.

“Are ye daft?” the flyer retorted over her shoulder as she set the bags down and waited for her friend to catch up. “I practically feckin’ doubled!” Mrs. Smith recalled how the winged girl had been effectively grounded from about five months on, and as with most slender women pregnancy had lent her almost cartoonish proportions. “Brian wanted nothin’ but potatoes the whole time!”

“You’re Irish,” Leslie quipped breathlessly as she finally caught up. “What changed?”

Mrs. Montag stuck out her tongue. “’Least I didn’t hafta haul 'round a pair of authentic feckin’ German zeppelins the whole time!”

“If only,” Leslie lamented. Zeppelins are lighter than air… “If you're jealous,” she retorted, “don't be. Drop fifteen pounds of sweaty, leaking Jell-o into a fucking industrial-strength sling full of wires that poke at you constantly and then see how much fun it is.” She paused, as if on cue, to adjust herself. “Nine pounds was trouble enough.”

“Say what ye will,” Brianna countered, “they’re bleedin’ effective. If it hadn’a been ye in that store back there, I woulda thought the shopkeep’d been hypnotized, lettin’ ye return all those things.”

“Close enough,” Leslie reminded her. Her ‘superpower’ of cavernous cleavage notwithstanding, in addition to her astute empathic perception she wielded a powerful telempathic ability that allowed her to subtly influence the disposition and emotional state of others. She'd always thought of it as her “charm” power – and to the casual observer and anyone on the receiving end it certainly appeared to be – and as often as she'd used it on missions and assignments to track down and apprehend her quarry, she'd used it just as frequently in upscale boutiques to impressive effect. She paused to catch her breath. “I'm more excited about cleaning out that entire clearance rack.”

“And ye don't feel a twinge of guilt makin' off with such a pile and leavin' none for the other mums-ta-be?”

“Look at it this way,” Leslie replied slyly as they continued past another row of shops. “That store is only there for diplomats, politicians, the richest of the rich, and they can get this shit anytime. When Alyssa outgrows it, I'm gonna donate it, and then any little baby girl in the barrio can be seen in it.”

“Begora! Ye're Robin feckin' Hood,” Bri teased. “With an arse.”

Leslie rolled her eyes. “And here I was sure you'd mention the boobs again.”

“So... Alyssa, eh?” It was a pretty name, and Brianna was eager to change the subject. “You and Phil agreed on a name already?”

“No,” Leslie smirked, “but it's the one he's come closest to liking.” As someone constantly bombarded by varying perspectives on everything, Phil could be agonizingly indecisive sometimes. “I'm fairly confident I'll be able to persuade him to go with it.”

“I thought he was immune t'yer powers,” Bri reminded her as they descended a short flight of tropical hardwood planks.

“I'll think of something. I can make a compelling argument when I have to.”

“I’m sure ye can,” Bri teased.

“These fucking stairs…”

- - -

Across the street, on the curb outside the heliport’s main gate, Jaime Barajas held his phone to his ear and issued directions to the van driver on the other end. Presently, a slate-grey cargo van belonging to La Perdita’s only telecommunications firm pulled up to the gate by which he waited. He looked over at the driver. “Solo poquito tarde, Javier,” the technician chided. “Demasiadas líneas para reparar.” He waved to the lone guard in the security shack. “Por favor,” he called, gesturing at a cluster of fiber-optic lines strung from pole to pole over to the helipad terminal. “Están desconectados.”

The guard nodded and punched a button, and the gate slowly lifted. Jaime circled around and hopped in the passenger’s-side door. “Gracias,” he thanked the guard as the telecom van rolled by. About a block away, an identical van was rolling up to the service entrance of the shopping plaza’s elegant glass-and-wrought-iron galería. In fact, a total of twenty such vans were making their way to various points around Puerta Mibela, Vista del Mar, and Dawson Island – to cell towers, fiber junctions, satellite up- and downlinks, and the island’s few TV and radio stations. A few of these locations were irritatingly remote, but most were in places like Mercado Viejo and Avenida de la Playa – full of both digital and human traffic just about around the clock. Each van carried two technicians in the khaki pants and short-sleeved blue shirts of the company, and each tech carried the usual tools of his or her profession.

An astute observer might have counted an unusually high number of telecom vans, especially considering that company’s La Perdita division only owned eight.

A particularly perceptive observer might have spotted the four or five additional men huddled in the back of each of the vans.

And an observer with any sort of metahuman perceptual ability would have picked up on the alarming revelation that those additional techs weren’t carrying telecommunications gear.

But they didn’t. Even for those going about their lives unconcerned with the history-making events taking place in Parliament, there were far more interesting and important things to observe than a higher-than-normal level of service vehicle traffic. Besides, the vans were probably just there because the treaty proceedings were being broadcast via satellite, and it made sense that a tiny island like La Perdita only had so much bandwidth to go around before systems began to overload.

- - -

Noon was rapidly approaching, and although this was the session’s third unplanned recess, any sign of an actual lunch break was yet to come. This most recent interruption was prompted by a short in the Uruguayan camera crew’s rat’s-nest of extension cords, which sparked and sputtered a little too close to the electro-optical sensors linked to the ultra-modern Parliament building’s state-of-the-art – and notoriously sensitive – fire-suppression system. The system tripped itself with such regularity that an inadvertent indoor deluge was actually prevented by the tarps and exterior awnings jury-rigged around the balconies after previous false-alarm drenchings, but enough water had spattered around the Cámara del Pueblo to make the other camera crews very nervous. So while firefighters reset the system and a small army of janitorial staff scurried to mop up whatever stray moisture had invaded the central assembly hall, heads of state, ambassadors, dignitaries, and former and current metahuman vigilantes alike milled about in the cavernous atrium. Grissom Montag accepted a proffered flute of champagne – was it still technically champagne if it came from Argentina? – and managed to avoid any extraneous conversation. Typically, Montag loved working a crowd and was the quintessential life of the party, but these were… authority figures, and old habits died hard.

“Tovarisch Montag!”

Grissom turned. The man’s dove-grey dress uniform now bore the official insignia of the Russian Navy, but the sleeves bore four broad stripes and two large stars replaced the four smaller stars on his epaulets. “Kozlov, innit?” Montag asked with a smile as they shook hands in the proper, European fashion – none of this repetitive flapping about of arms the Americans were known for.

“Excellent memory,” the dignified-looking submariner confirmed as he accepted a champagne of his own from a steward. “It’s been some time.” His English was as excellent as that of most Russian officers, despite the stereotypes from old films.

“Cap’n, second rank,” Grissom continued in a congratulatory tone, gesturing to Kozlov’s rank insignia. “Well done on the promotion. ‘Ow long ago…?”

“Captain Tsulygin retired almost seven years ago,” Kozlov explained, “shortly after the business in Antarctica. I received my latest promotion after the Korystnyj assisted with disaster relief in Japan.”

“Must admit I’m surprised Comrade Putin let ya back in the navy proper after bein’ mercs all those years.” Grissom wondered if Kozlov had already had this conversation with Phil.

A small, perhaps distasteful twitch at the corner of Kozlov’s mouth. “Despite all the talk of rebuilding our forces, truthfully our President is relieved to have any boats in good working order, not to mention any sailors not beholden to the Bratva. Our re-integration was surprisingly painless – though I spent several long months trying to make proper officers of the staff of other boats.”

“And wot’s Tsulygin doin’ these days?”

Kozlov’s smile faded. “Captain Tsulygin passed just over a year ago.”

“Sorry t’hear that, mate.” The converted Typhoon-class boat – originally built for the dreaded possibility of a nuclear conflict between the Soviet Union and the United States – had sailed around the world for years while Russia had languished in economic distress and undertaken many freelance missions of a decidedly less apocalyptic nature. Grissom recalled a few times members of Vanguard had traveled with and fought alongside the sailors and commandos of the Korystnyj and their impeccably well-mannered captain.

“The captain spent nearly forty years on nuclear boats,” Kozlov explained, “and sadly, reactor safety standards were not always what they are on the Korystnyj. The cancer went undetected for many years, they said, but in the end he was actually in very little pain, and quite peaceful. He came to my promotion ceremony on his own two feet and was even prouder than my father. He would have been very pleased to see what you and Sig- what Mister Smith have accomplished here.”

Grissom smiled. “Thank ya kindly, Cap’n.” He looked around. “Looks like we’ll be gettin’ back under way ‘ere shortly. Good seein’ ya, and I ‘ope we’ll get to talk more over some actual food soon.”

Kozlov nodded politely. “Spasibo, Mister Montag.”

Grissom had made it halfway back to his seat next to Phil’s when he realized he’d never been told why an entire submarine full of Russian Navy elites was parked off their island.

Vista del Mar, La Perdita
Ristorante del Cicciotto, 12:12 PM

“Not again!”

Two lunchtime patrons swiveled on their bar stools to vent their displeasure as the football match on the screen over the bar cut to static again. Weird things had been happening with the satellite signal since this morning, which was unusual for a clear day like today. The bartender furrowed her brow at the screen. She called to a dark-haired little boy of about seven as he skipped through the restaurant. “Eddie,” the bartender beckoned. “Go tell Pappa the telly’s guasto again, por favore?”

“Pappa’s talkin’ to Mamma,” the boy informed her for no apparent reason, as young children inexplicably but frequently do. “They’re upstairs.”

“Okay,” the bartender acknowledged with a smile, “but can you please tell him for me?”

Eddie smiled back at her. “Okay!” He turned and bounded off the way he had come.

With its teak paneling, minimalist but upscale fixtures, and well-appointed lounges and dining rooms, it was hard to believe Cicciotto’s Restaurant had been fashioned out of a dingy and redolent bulk fish-processing factory despite the curiously industrial architecture. The place had been founded about four years ago by a former Olympian-turned meta revolutionary-turned charter member of Vanguard, and it had quickly established itself as the epicenter of a blossoming foodie scene to which gourmets and gourmands alike flocked. A gaggle of eclectic fine-dining establishments sprung up in a unique style critics branded “Euro-mod” – a play on the mostly European nationalities of the restaurants’ proprietors as well as on the moniker of Cicciotto’s’ famous founder. The income they generated anchored the growth of midmarket and a handful of upscale retail developments and a fast-paced nightlife in the corner of Vista del Mar where the building now containing a five-star Italian place had once been the temporary headquarters of Vanguard. While it wasn’t as prominent as the Old Market or as ritzy as Seaside Avenue, the blue-collar surroundings of the affectionately-dubbed Distrito de las Cocinas (“the Kitchens” for short) made it the hippest place to be on La Perdita.

Of course, the lunch rush couldn’t care less about any of that if none of Cicciotto’s’ fifteen satellite TVs were working consistently, and they’d been on the blink all day. Which largely negated one of the things that set Cicciotto’s apart from its four- and five-star neighbors – below the dining room which routinely served foreign dignitaries and global celebrities were a cozy café lined with bookshelves and works of modern art and, possibly the biggest draw, a well-appointed “business casual” sports bar – Euro-mod, naturally – that doubled as the best lunch spot in Vista del Mar. A pretty, twentysomething meta named Jocelyn tended bar during lunchtime most days. She had unusually large hazel-green eyes with feline slit-pupils, and her night vision came with superhuman agility and kinesthetic awareness. At the moment, she was fielding yet more complaints from yet more patrons and hoping her boss would show up before she was forced to say something particularly ca-… snarky. Fortunately, the former Olympian’s imposing presence as he entered the bar granted her a momentary reprieve.

“Thank God,” Jocelyn breathed. “Ed, the TVs are out again.”

Edulcore Cicciotto shook his head as he glanced around the bar at the nonfunctional screens. “Merda,” he grumbled. “Again?” The tall Italian’s wings – much larger and stronger than Brianna’s in order to lift Ed’s muscular frame – twitched and fluttered like they often did when he was frustrated. “Did you call the satellite people?”

“I couldn’t get through because the lines were all busy,” Jocelyn explained. “I figured it was something to do with all the news people on the island for the treaty.”

Ed nodded absently. For a moment, he regretted not being there in Parliament with his old friends – the original meta revolutionary, closing the circle by signing into existence a peaceful end to a struggle he seemed to have been fighting for half a lifetime. But as Eddie skipped happily across the room, he was reminded of why he hadn’t returned to Vanguard. Yes, his restaurant had helped to transform all of Vista Del Mar, and he was thrilled to be a chef and (he believed) an ordinary businessman. But in wrenching his soul free of the grip of an ancient and accursed sword, the hero had discovered his true desires resided in a decidedly less legendary realm. However the planet beneath him might turn, the former Eurostar’s world was comprised of his breathtaking wife Rose, his bright-eyed little boy Eddie, and three-year-old Amara, who was already beginning to strongly resemble her lovely mother. His mystical mace, Durendal, now hung proudly above the bar in the upstairs VIP lounge, which doubled as a sort of gallery of artifacts, trinkets, and mementos from the storied history of Vanguard. Relics from the past, from a life Edulcore Cicciotto remembered fondly but was ultimately glad to have left behind. Even as his son ran laps around the tables, customers continued voicing their displeasure, and his bartender contemplated making a break for the door, Ed still considered it an upgrade.

Maybe he’d invite the guys over for drinks after the day’s festivities concluded.

But first, what to do about the televisions? “Rose,” Ed called aloud.

<Darling?> While her abilities weren’t quite on the level of Phil Smith’s, Rose Cicciotto’s telepathic talents – much like her skills as an illusionist – were well-practiced and quite useful, especially at times like these.

“Rose,” Ed repeated, “Did you call the satellite people to fix the TVs?”

<Of course, dear,> came her reply, <along with everyone else on the island who owns a television.>

Ed frowned. “If only Charley still lived here,” the beleaguered restauranteur lamented. Though she now resided in Taipei as the head of Sandcrawler Electronics’ R&D and quality assurance divisions, the brilliant and resourceful Charlene Montoya had once put her technical skills to excellent use as Grissom Montag’s, and then Vanguard’s, tinkerer and one of the team’s finest tech specialists. Charley’s determination to unravel any problem and jury-rig any solution had been a large part of the reason Vanguard had almost never lacked for properly functioning hardware – not to mention a large part of the reason Grissom was one of La Perdita’s wealthiest citizens.

<If you like,> his wife continued, <I’ll send your bouncer in to get someone for us.>

Cicciotto rolled his eyes. “Beni!” he called, exasperated. “Come down here!”

There was a momentary pause before the characteristic bull-in-a-china-shop clamor that always attended his business partner. Custom-made size eighteen loafers thundered down the staircase from the restaurant as Ben Phillips made his appearance. Truthfully, Phillips wasn't Cicciotto's bouncer, though the massive meta could easily have filled in for any three of the 'doormen' in Ed's club. The part-time Vanguardian's combination of childlike exuberance and what should have been imposing size and strength made him an immensely popular fixture around Vista del Mar, but what came as a shock to everyone Ed told was that Ben was actually a CPA with an impressive grasp of small-business finance. He helped keep Ed's books and was perhaps better at playing the public-relations game than Ed himself, global celebrity or not. “Ed,” Ben shouted unnecessarily, “the TV's not working!”

“Grazie, Beni,” Cicciotto acknowledged wearily. “Por favore, go over to the LIME office down the street and see why they haven't sent me a repairman?”

“Sure thing, Mister C!” Without pause, Phillips turned and jogged across the bar and out the front door. Ed recalled at least one incident where Ben hadn't been paying attention and had plowed right through the partially-open front door, splintering it and taking about half the frame with him. The man did have enthusiasm going for him...

- - -

Tres Rios, La Perdita
Muelle de los Pescaderos, 12:21 PM

A noisy, crowded pier – especially one that stank to high heaven – struck Enrique Rodriguez as an unusual place for a telecommunications hub. However, LIME La Perdita was quite possibly the British-owned telecom subsidiary's lowest-budgeted division, and what with the cost of real estate on the island these days, even a company with an absolute monopoly over this little green rock had to take what it could get. Enrique's substation – which handled almost all cable, telephone, and Internet traffic into and out of La Perdita's third-largest incorporated settlement – was situated directly across the busy coastal route from the foot of Fishmongers' Pier, the oldest and largest such structure in Tres Rios, a densely-populated fishing town on the island's northern bay. To his supreme misfortune, the unassuming two-story white brick building sat directly between an old cannery and the loading area for trucks waiting to carry their pungent cargo away from the wharf to any number of markets and restaurants. Despite his fervent and repeated prayers, Rodriguez's olfactory perception remained as keen as ever. Even so, his salary – about the equivalent of $30,000 in American currency – was practically a princely wage by the standards of the common Perditano, and still a sufficent sum to persuade the forty-one-year-old father of three to remain at his thus-far uneventful post. Much of the equipment had been upgraded to Sandcrawler Electronics gear of excellent quality under LIME's partnership with the tech supplier's founder, and neither Rodriguez nor his peers at other substations around La Perdita suffered from an inordinate number of service calls beyond the omnipresent support tickets aiding the technologically inept.

Unfortunately, the island's infrastructure was greatly overloaded today; though the major Norteño, Asian, and European networks had flown or shipped over their own vans and trucks full of self-contained satellite-transmission equipment, media outlets from the Caribbean, Central America, and many other smaller nations were 'renting' the bandwidth to push out their own streams so their own commentators could add their voice-overs to the live feed by LLP Tres – LIME's own station and one of only three local channels that weren't entirely automated public-access stations. Consequently, consumer WAN traffic, incoming satellite broadcasting, and international land-line calls had been dropping out ever since the Cuban state broadcasting crew had set up shop at nine this morning. To make matters worse, an immense American aircraft carrier was sailing around the island to the north surrounded by its accompanying flotilla – some dockworkers were actually watching the ships from the end of the pier right now – throwing off radio transmissions, radar waves, and other electromagnetic noise that was playing havoc with LIME's equipment from here to Lighthouse Rock. All in all, it was shaping up to be a very long day for Enrique. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a grey LLP van round the corner and take the driveway past his window.

The passenger got out and walked around to the substation's front door as the driver guided the van around back. Enrique didn't recognize the man, but according to the name badge on his shirt he was José, and his dark eyes flitted about the front office as he signed in on the clipboard Enrique handed him. The substation manager nodded in the direction of the coffee maker across the room, and José smiled faintly. “Gracias.” He went over and poured himself a cup as the van's driver walked in.

“Today is killing me,” Enrique grumbled, his Spanish marked by the staccato lilt of the Perditano dialect.

“At least you are allowed to stay in one place,” José replied as he and the driver headed up the stairs to where the relays were. His accent was hard for Enrique to place, vaguely Peruvian but not quite.

“Need any help?” Enrique called after the two men. The driver simply shook his head as he disappeared up the stairs. The whole exchange felt odd to him somehow, but he shrugged it off and returned to the Flash game he'd been chipping away at during the brief reprieves between taking calls from other substations or from LLP itself on Calle de Las Embajadas five Red Line stops away. Movement out of the corner of Enrique's eye distracted him from the game, and he looked out the window to his left. A large piece of silvered glass, one of several constituent parts of a wind chime hanging outside, formed an impromptu mirror as it rotated to give the telecom manager a view of the grey van down the driveway.

In one of the van's back windows, Enrique saw movement – a man clambering around in the cargo area. He frowned. Had someone broken into the vehicle hoping to steal a piece of valuable equipment? He got out of his chair, locked the front door, and hurried upstairs, hoping he and the two technicians were still the only people in the substation.

He entered the relay room, with its large window overlooking the pier and the bay beyond. Forgetting his errand for a moment, Enrique strode over to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the American ships. To the left of the pier, the largest of the town's eponymous three rivers emptied into the bay, carrying an effluvium of reeking organic waste from the canneries and processing plants, stinking fish guts that perversely improved the health and quality of the fish populations around the island. For some reason, Enrique recalled some stupid gringo movie with some stupid gringo song about the circle of life or some shit. But where the fuck were the techn-

There was a sickeningly wet crunch as José's crescent wrench, swung with savage force and terrifying precision, found the gap between Enrique's second and third cervical vertebrae and smashed through the soft cartilage and into the tissues of the manager's spinal column. As terror and agony flooded his mind, Enrique wanted to gasp but couldn't – his respiratory system was just as paralyzed as the rest of his body. He collapsed forward against the window, friction against his skin slowing his slide down the glass. As his vision began to fade, Enrique finally glimpsed the colossal man-made island that was the USS Ronald Reagan, flanked by a pair of missile cruisers. With his last fading thoughts, he was – for once in his life – thankful for the gringos and their unstoppable navy, just as he was thankful he lived on an island full of powerful yet benevolent superhumans. At least his wife and children would be sa-

Raúl shook his head as the still-twitching body crumpled the rest of the way to the floor. “Idiota,” he murmured derisively.

“Poor bastard had a family,” José observed, gesturing to the simple wedding band on Enrique's finger.

“Then I hope we don't have to kill them, too.” Raúl turned and opened the big yellow access panel behind them. “Let's get this over with.”

José looked out the window, taking in the stinking pier full of freshly-caught fish and its bustling dockworkers and merchants. Six men in the back of their van waited to go and make some trouble down there. As he looked up toward the horizon, though, his confidence faltered a bit as he tried to wrap his mind around the military might those huge ships represented. Just that aircraft carrier alone had the potential to scour this tiny island clean – every American carrier sailed with at least one thermonuclear device. And the British were here, and the French were here, and the Brazilians were here…

“You stuck?” Raúl chided as he began opening breakers to take the various communication systems offline.

José turned and gestured out the window. “Can we finish our task before they kill us?”

Raúl thought a moment. “Perhaps not us,” he replied grimly, “but the task will be finished.” He chuckled as he broke the main cable-TV circuit supplying Tres Rios. “Still, we should stay alive as long as we can if we want to make a good diversion.”

José turned to reply but froze when he saw the open breakers. He checked his watch to be sure. “¡Mierda!” he spat.

Raúl looked puzzled at the outburst. “¿Qué pasa?”

José pointed to the clock on the wall. They were three minutes early.

Raúl shrugged. “No le importa.” He chuckled. “I thought the point was that they didn’t all get turned off at the exact same time anyway.”

In the living room of a comfortable cliffside bungalow overlooking Tres Rios from across the bay, a moderately expensive LED screen abruptly cut to white noise without so much as a test pattern. Shirley Harrison frowned and wondered where her soap opera had gone; the writing was just awful and her Spanish couldn’t quite keep pace with the dialogue anyway, but she loved how the actors just got so into it. “Mick?” she called. “The TV went out again!”

“Dammit,” Mick Harrison grumbled as he plodded into the room. These days, Vanguard’s one-time heaviest hitter considered himself semi-retired, living comfortably with his lovely wife on a consultant’s salary when he wasn’t selling his paintings. Mick’s art fused traditional Caribbean landscapes and seascapes with bizarre, manic glimpses of the crazy worlds inside his head and beyond dimensional barriers. “Did you call the LIME office in Del Mar?”

“We get it from Tres Rios, sweetie,” Shirley reminded him as she got up off the couch.

“Balls,” Mick grumbled as he searched the room for his phone. “I’ll just drive down there and hit the pier and the market on my way downtown.” He had donned his least-ripped pair of jeans and a stain-free Zeppelin T-shirt – this was as dressed up as Mick typically got – with the intent of heading to Puerta Mibela to watch the IMPET signing later in the afternoon. Now it looked like he would have to make a detour through, alternately, some of the most sparsely-developed and some of the most densely-developed real estate on the island. “Want me to pick anything up while I'm out?”

“Tomatoes,” Shirley called from the kitchen. “Gonna make some salsa to go over the snapper steaks.”

“How much lime didja squeeze on?” Mick fished the Range Rover keys out of the pocket of his other jeans.

“Enough,” Vanguard's former executive assistant reassured him. “Or would you prefer fish sticks?”

“Point taken.” Mick stopped in front of the mirror. He thought a moment, and a curious, cow-print top hat poofed into existence on his head. He smiled, amused with himself. Fortunately, he knew better than to let himself get more carried away than this nowadays.

- - -

Puerta Mibela, La Perdita
Las Esquinas, 12:27 PM

Hector Veracruz knew better than to think his family had arrived, but to have moved from the shanty-towns of the old barrio into even the two-bedroom government-assistance apartments near the Aeropuerto had been a sign of better days ahead. Now, after three years of grueling sixty-hour work weeks ferrying travelers’ baggage to and from waiting airplanes, Hector had finally moved himself, his newly-expectant wife, and his ailing mother into the three-bedroom apartments along Calle Colibrí near the northern edge of The Corners, about as comfortable and well-kept as rental housing came for native Perditanos. Hector retrieved two utility bills from his mailbox, a seemingly routine activity for most in our world but still an exciting new experience in his. He had known this complex was the place for him as soon as the Identity Foundation broke ground. Fundación Identidad was a nonprofit dedicated to guiding the newly upwardly-mobile Perditanos through their change in fortunes – free vocational training for adults, educational assistance for children, affordable yet appealing housing complexes like this one, even nutritional assistance to fight anemia in children of low-income parents. Essentially, it had helped people like Hector shape promising new identities for themselves – and it was largely the creation of a man who’d spent most of his life with no identity of his own.

Hector set the small pile of mail down on the kitchen table, grabbed a scrap of paper towel, and carefully cleaned a previously unnoticed spatter of tropical bird droppings from the sleeve of his faded but beloved fútbol jersey. It had been given to him one Christmas when he was fourteen and had probably been the one thing that saved him from becoming petty muscle for a local gang, and he still wore it on off days sometimes because it reminded him of the person who’d both given him the jersey and indirectly given him this new home. He occasionally visited the unassuming four-story office building that served as Vanguard’s newest and thus far longest-standing headquarters, and twice he and his wife had been invited to the old mansion on Dawson Island. He didn’t think of Vanguard’s current leader as a hero or a savior, just an ordinary man – well, relatively ordinary – who’d made a few more good choices than bad ones and decided to use what he had to help make others’ lives better. And today that man was helping to sign a treaty that would help make the lives of millions of alterados around the world better. With his wife at work and having just returned from the hospital where his mother was under observation again, Hector would probably catch the Red Line to Mercado Viejo as soon as he caught up on the scores from around the liga…

Nothing. The TV was on and displayed the little status and channel overlay, but there was no picture. Puzzled, Hector looked out the living-room window and saw the grey LLP van down the block. Sure enough, there was a technician harnessed to the utility pole carrying the cable lines and service box – but the man was heading down the pole, and the cover of the box still stood open. The other technician stood at the back door of the van, and his head swiveled this way and that as he appeared to scan the street to see if anyone was watching.

His curiosity piqued, Hector moved slightly closer to the window, careful to stay partly concealed behind the curtains that wafted gently in the light sea breeze. An old man made his way down the street with halting steps, and the technician on the ground acknowledged him politely with a smile and slight wave. The moment the abuelo disappeared around the corner, the technician on the pole dropped the rest of the way to the ground and circled around to open the van’s side door as the second blue-shirted man opened the rear cargo doors. Four men in unmarked dark-brown clothing and flak vests quickly and quietly exited the vehicle, each with a pistola holstered high on his left side and a folding-stock metralleta slung over his right shoulder.

Clearly not policías. As Hector ducked away further out of sight, the two technicians retrieved weapons of their own from the van before the six men disappeared from view between the tightly-packed apartment buildings.

Hector rushed to his bedroom. As he fumbled with the strong box under the bed, he knew Anabéla would kill him for this later. But if there was any chance those matones were planning on using those weapons, he knew the polis would be outgunned. He carefully extracted the nasty-looking black SPP – a civilian-issue semiauto Steyr TMP – and three full magazines of 9mm Parabellum. He’d worked hard to save up enough to score this weapon on what was left of La Perdita’s black market, and even if El Arcángel had hung up his guns, Hector was sure the man would understand why he had to do this.

- - -

The Smith house, 12:32 PM

Nick DiVecchio tucked the bundle of mail under his arm, punched his passcode into the old manor’s new security system with his free hand, and waited for the door to click open. He’d worn a lot of hats since showing up in New Orleans eight years ago, but perhaps the strangest gig for the money launderer-turned low-level mob enforcer-turned personal assistant to a psionic vigilante was his current role on La Perdita as a media liaison for the Identity Foundation. Nick’s MBA from LSU had taught him the value of good public relations to any organization, and even one of the most universally-praised humanitarian nonprofits in the Caribbean needed a media-savvy face. After all, like any reasonably powerful psionic, his boss tended to make many reporters rather uncomfortable.

DiVecchio hadn’t come by to bring in the mail, but it was the least he could do given how busy both Smiths were these days. He was actually looking for a binder containing his notes for a press briefing scheduled for tomorrow; he’d left it here yesterday when talking it over with Phil. After IMPET was signed into law, Identity planned to unveil one of its most ambitious projects yet – a synthesis of vocational training and emigration assistance specifically intended to help repatriate any willing metahumans back to the native countries from which they’d fled to La Perdita. After the island nation had provided a home in exile for outcast metas for so many years, Proyecto Volviendo sought to restore the refugees to the lands of their birth, to their families, to their true homes. It was a massive undertaking – and depending on how many chose to leave, it might end up putting quite a dent in La Perdita’s economy – but it was the natural conclusion to the work Phil Smith and others had begun with the creation of IMPET itself.

Speaking of IMPET… The still-fresh-faced former button man scooped up his binder from where he’d left it on the antique coffee table, replaced it with the handful of mail, then picked up the nearby remote and turned on the TV hanging on the north wall of the living room. They were probably still in session, since Phil still hadn’t called him back about…

Nothing but white noise. No test pattern, no network overlay announcing technical difficulties. Weird… Nick tried flipping up and down a few channels but got the same result. Puzzled, he hit the GUIDE button, but all that did was push the static to a preview in the top-right corner of the screen above a blank menu, over which the message “No data available – currently out of service” scrolled repeatedly from left to right.

DiVecchio wasn’t sure what had transpired, but given the fact this floor of the house alone contained half a million dollars’ worth of art and antiques, it was highly unlikely his boss had forgotten to pay his cable bill. Curiously, just as Nick began pulling his phone from his pocket, he saw a grey telecom van pulling up the driveway and circling around to park in front of the little marble-and-bronze fountain in the front courtyard. The fountain itself partially blocked the van from view. Nick took a few steps toward the front door to let the cable technicians in, but froze as soon as he saw two guys in body armor and brown fatigues hop out of the side door.

Nick ducked behind the overstuffed tan suede loveseat and peered around the end, still able to catch a glimpse of the men. They were both carrying what looked like surplus Argentinian FMK-3s – neither the most common nor the most affordable submachine guns out there by a long shot – and definitely weren’t here to ask if he wanted to upgrade to the new super-premium HD package. Though he had to question their judgment, only sending two guys if they were expecting even one of the Smiths to be home…

As though they’d read his thoughts, two more men entered Nick’s field of view. These two passed by outside the windows on the east wall, and looked to be heading for the back door. The two at the front began peering into any windows they could access from the front porch. One reached for the doorknob before the other slapped his hand away – apparently they weren’t interested in a forced entry just yet. Nick sank to the floor as one of the two men on the east wall passed by the window closest to him, knowing the height of the window above ground level on that side would make it difficult for anyone outside to see him without climbing onto the windowsill.

Nick’s pulse pounded and his heart raced. Who the hell were these guys, and why were they here? He was relieved neither Phil nor Leslie were home, but at the same time he knew if any of these guys decided to try and come inside, that left him all alone to try and keep them out, without the assistance of any meta powers or… There! His fingers found the well-concealed seam in the leather at the base of the loveseat and lifted the flap to reveal the keypad beneath. He punched in the same code he’d used to open the front door and heaved an audible sigh of relief when a four-foot by eight-inch bottom-hinged panel fell open with a click to reveal a pair of impeccably well-kept MP5K-PDWs, eight loaded magazines, a spare box of 9mm Parabellum, two nylon cross-draw holsters, and two virgin-condition Qual-a-Tec suppressors. As quickly and quietly as he could, the PR specialist lined up the threads and twisted a suppressor onto the end of one MP5’s barrel before stuffing three spare magazines in his pockets. He had a little trouble donning the holster from a prone position, but in less than half a minute he was fully armed, and the concealed locker was secured and hidden from view.

Nick was almost disappointed when the four gunmen’s perimeter search convinced them no one was home. The empty driveway had probably helped. Thank God I took a cab… One of the men at the front door whistled quietly. “¡Vamonos!” he called, and the two around back trotted up the east wall and rejoined their cohorts as they filed back into the telecom van.

The engine cranked to life, and the van rolled the rest of the way around the circle and back up the driveway. As it departed, Nick rushed to the front door – still careful to avoid framing himself in one of the picture windows – and tried to memorize the license plate. He darted into the kitchen and fumbled through the key organizer until he found the key fob for Mrs. Smith’s BMW – which of course hung on an embarrassingly pink and frilly lanyard embroidered with the words HOT MAMA. DiVecchio cringed as he grabbed the keys, then reversed course and headed for the garage.

- - -

Nuevo Parlamento, 12:41 PM

This time it was the camera crews. They’d apparently lost their uplinks, but after a thorough check of the telecom equipment on site yielded nothing out of the ordinary, there was a near-unanimous decision to go ahead and adjourn until after the early-afternoon siesta while the media personnel sorted out whatever the hell was the matter this time. The various delegations mingled in the atrium as everyone poorly multitasked between making lunch plans and catching up on things with their counterparts. Diplomat Standard Time was a very real and very pronounced phenomenon. At the moment, the biggest cluster of humanity in the voluminous space was the knot of native English-speakers that noisily congregated between the elegantly minimalist black-marble staircases leading up to the Cámara. One particularly unlikely conversational huddle had formed near the center.

“I have to admit,” Phil Smith began, “I'm still not sure how they pushed this through the Senate.”

Secretary Rutherford shrugged. “You'd be surprised how quickly people change their tune in an election year. Although it probably didn't hurt that Fisher managed to get the attention of the right people on both sides of the aisle.”

The former G-man smirked. “Money talks,” he replied simply. “But like I said, Phil, it hasn't been the work of just one person.” He turned and made eye contact with Phil. <He knows about the 109s. They’re the main reason he replaced the previous Secretary…>

Rutherford nodded. “You, and Mister Smith... and you, Doctor Walker... some very visible people have been advocating this for some time now.”

“Not a bad list of names to find myself on,” Phil mused absently as he glanced over at Fisher. <But is he on the same page as his boss? You made it sound like the President didn’t want any part of them.>

A photographer spotted the men and hurried over to take what would probably be a pretty valuable picture. At her prompting, Fisher, Smith, Rutherford, and Walker turned and stood in a reasonably photogenic line.

“I see you've been burning up the campaign trail, Mister Secretary,” Walker observed as the photographer departed, speaking up for the first time. “How many important primaries are left?”

“About half a dozen,” Rutherford answered. “I have to say I feel quite a bit safer after getting my boss's personal endorsement, though.”

“Made you out to be his spiritual successor,” Fisher joked. “But your numbers right now tell me it's paying off.” <He plays the game really fucking well, and unless the shit hits the fan I’d put money on him in November. No idea how much he knows about the Xyryth or if he’s ever spoken to them himself.>

“I should hope so,” Walker chimed in in an almost unheard-of display of humor, “I've made some sizable donations.”

Phil decided against mentioning he’d made a small donation of his own to a different candidate. He already had the feeling that if Rutherford did win out, Phil’s streak of Presidents inviting him to the White House would most likely be coming to an end. <I could tell he didn’t like me without having to read him,> he informed Fisher. <IMPET or no IMPET, I don’t think he likes or trusts metas one bit, and yet everyone’s so eager to rubber-stamp this thing. What’s his play, do you think?>

“As sizable as the contribution you made to All Humans, Doctor?” Steve asked. <I have no fucking clue,> he admitted to Smith. <This whole damn thing is moving too fast, and he’s gonna be in office long before we figure him out.>

“Oh, that’s right,” Rutherford broke in, as though eager to demonstrate he knew more than enough to keep up with the others. “I must confess, I was impressed by the gesture.”

“It was more than a mere gesture, Mister Secretary,” the scientist answered. “While we may have had our… misunderstandings from time to time-” he glanced over at Phil for a moment “-I know this cause of ours is far more important than any petty differences from our past, and I’m honored to work with men of such integrity as Mister Smith and Mister Fisher – and yourself, of course.” Rutherford smiled faintly and nodded – no one who’d risen as high as he had was immune to flattery.

“Where’s Turner?” Phil asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Mister Turner,” Walker explained to the telepath, “is making the rounds inspecting the security assets here, but he’ll be joining me for lunch shortly.” He turned to Rutherford and Fisher. “Which reminds me – I believe Mister Turner and I will be paying our old friend Signore Cicciotto a visit. His restaurant is, I hear, absolutely delightful. Would you gentlemen care to join us?”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Fisher accepted politely as he glanced at Phil. <Starting to wonder about him, too…>

“I’d like to see if Grissom will be able to join us before I know for sure,” Phil deflected delicately, “if that’s okay with you, Doctor.” <I’ve never stopped wondering,> he replied, <but this could never have happened without him, and I kind of feel like I oughta give him the benefit of the doubt this time, you know?>

“Please, Mister Smith,” Walker insisted, “Charles will be perfectly fine.”

“And I,” Rutherford interjected, “need to check in with my security expert.” He glanced over and saw the veteran talking to Montag over in the corner. “Though now that I think about it, my detail should be enough.” He gestured to the two nearest Secret Service agents, and as they converged on him, two more seemingly materialized out of the crowd and followed as SecState made his way toward the sunbathed glass doorway of the Parlamento behind Walker and Fisher.

“Saw Sandcrawler’s third-quarter numbers,” Dirk Bell mentioned casually a few yards away. “Decent.”

Grissom grinned. “I’d ‘ave to agree, mate,” he replied. “Why the sudden interest?”

Anyone else would’ve at least smirked a little, or at least made eye contact. “I might’ve scooped up a few hundred shares last spring.”

Grissom raised an eyebrow. “Wot else is in yer portfolio these days?”

The gunslinger shrugged. “Odds and ends. My guys go through ammo like sonsabitches. Shit ain’t cheap.”

There was a long silence. Nearby, Phil was attempting to call Leslie on his cell phone but having no luck getting through.

“D’ye still think about ‘er?” Montag ventured. “Y’know…”

A slight nasal exhalation, a slight downward tilt of the head. Still no eye contact.

“Sorry, mate.” Grissom shook his head. “I know it’s only been ‘alf a year.”

“You tried,” Dirk allowed quietly. “We all did.”

Grissom rarely heard from his former teammate these days, but he was feeling particularly daring at the moment. “You think if ‘e’d come with us, it wouldn’t’ve ‘appened.”

“He’s been trying to apologize in my fucking head since you two saw me with Rutherford outside.”

Grissom was taken aback by this. “You don’t think ‘e means it?”

“No,” Bell corrected, his tone elevating very slightly, “I don’t think it was his fucking fault. Shit happens. He has a family of his own to worry about – or will have pretty soon. Either way, it was a while ago, and last I checked none of us have time machines, so who gives a fuck?”

“Right.” Grissom had become well acquainted with the point at which he was better off dropping it. Another long silence. Phil suddenly looked away from his phone as though listening for something.

For the first time in the conversation, Dirk turned and looked at Grissom. “At least he doesn’t look so damn miserable for a change.”

Montag nodded. “‘e’s good people, y’know.”

For once, Bell didn’t appear to dispute the notion. “Let’s get a beer after this shit’s done with,” he suggested.

“Fuck! At my house?”

The two men turned. Across the atrium, Phil Smith appeared to be speaking to the air.

Grissom hurried over as Bell listened in from a distance. “Wot’s the problem, mate?”

Phil did his best to relate what Nick had seen. “Gunmen. Riding around in LIME vans – DiVecchio thinks they’re the ones who’ve been shutting off the cable and phones.”

Montag looked at his empty hand an instant before his cell phone materialized there. Sure enough, even with Sandcrawler’s proprietary band-agile intelligent signal booster, the LCD flashed a NO SERVICE indication over the phone’s wallpaper – a family photo of the three Montags taken on Brian’s third birthday. “Wot the ‘ell?”

“If they’re taking down the TV circuits and cell towers and sat links,” Phil began…

“They’re isolating the island,” Dirk concluded as he silently and almost instantly appeared between the two men.

“Cutting it off from the outside world,” the telepath agreed.

“Dunno why,” Grissom mused, “but I can’t imagine they’re up to anything good.”

- - -

Avenida de la Playa, 12:44 PM

“I’m fucking starving,” Leslie moaned for about the fourth time as she and Brianna passed the concourse leading to the shopping center’s food court.

“Fine,” the Irish flyer replied, her patience clearly being tested. “Let’s get some feckin’ food already, yeah?”

The two women – armloads of shopping bags in tow – made their way past high-end shops toward the beckoning odors of heavily processed and delightfully unhealthy mall food.

"Three more weeks," Leslie puffed. "I can do this."

"Ye're almost there," Brianna encouraged, reading the subtext behind her words. She knew her best friend better than almost anyone, and for all Leslie's apparently routine impatience for the whole ordeal to be over already, Bri knew there was more than a little anxiety there too. This was technically Leslie's second pregnancy, but only the first to make it into the third trimester...

“Something’s wrong,” Leslie observed.

Brianna froze in her tracks, already in any day now mode. “The baby?” She looked around. “D’ye think ye’ll need an ambulance?”

Leslie snorted. “Something’s wrong with the TVs.” She pointed to a few LCD screens hanging over the concourse – they were all displaying the same snowy static.

Brianna had grabbed her phone, prepared to summon an ambulance. Now she peered at her screen and the NO SERVICE message curiously, her wings twitching. “Isn’t that peculiar?” she wondered aloud.

Leslie looked over her shoulder. The expectant empath dropped her bags and fished her own phone out of her handbag, only to see the same message. “What the hell?”

<Leslie!> The intensity of the telepathic transmission was such that both women heard it as an audible shout.

Leslie jumped and shrieked, dropping her nonfunctioning phone on top of her shopping bags. “Phil!” she fumed aloud. “What the fuck?”

<Trouble!> In a split-second, Phil dumped all the impressions he’d gotten from Nick and his conversation with Dirk and Grissom into both women’s heads. Brianna and Leslie staggered, momentarily disoriented.

Despite near-perpetual nausea exacerbated by telepathically-induced vertigo, Leslie recovered first. “Shit.”

No sooner had she uttered the word than two men in brown appeared at each end of the concourse, each wearing ballistic armor and carrying those – not Uzis, the Argentinian nine-millimeter… what was it?

“¡SIENTENSE!” one of the armed men boomed as he brandished his weapon. The crowds of shoppers froze and fell silent. “¡EN EL SUELO! ¡AHORA!”

CVN-76, USS Ronald Reagan
Five miles northeast of Playa Norte, 12:51 PM

The aft port-side elevator was making a horrible grinding noise, the number-three arrestor wire was in the process of being replaced along with one of its leaf springs, the approach radar was picking up all sorts of ground-effect transients generated by the offshore thermocline, and one of the coffee machines in the forward officers’ mess was giving off the distinct odor of peanut butter for some damn reason, but all things considered, it was a beautiful sunny day in the South Caribbean. The Gipper, as CVN-76 was affectionately called, was nothing short of a stretch of sovereign American real-estate just under eleven hundred feet in length. Its complement of over eighty aircraft included two evaluation squadrons of the brand-new F-35C low-observable strike fighter, and the Reagan’s strike group included guided-missile cruisers, anti-submarine frigates, nimble destroyers, a squadron of supply ships, and a pair of Virginia-class multimission submarines which, like the carrier itself, had the theoretical capability to launch a nuclear attack. It was probably the safest place to be in the entire Caribbean, which suited Vice Admiral Jeremiah Beauchamp just fine.

Jeremiah – the first black three-star admiral to command a carrier group in the U.S. Navy – was only one of a long line of shrewd, disciplined sailors to emerge from a family that traced itself back to Gulf-fishing Creoles who quietly relocated to the North shortly before the outbreak of the Civil War. Ever since the armed forces had fully integrated after the Second World War, an unbroken succession of Beauchamps had risen progressively higher up the chain of command, and Jeremiah dreamed of the day when his son Marcus – who had just graduated from Annapolis as a lieutenant – would earn a fourth star. Until then, he was carrying the family’s aspirations quite admirably, having commanded with distinction and consequently drawing a number of enviable peacetime assignments, such as this Caribbean cruise accompanying the Secretary of State on an historic diplomatic mission. The Gipper’s strike group had been augmented for the occasion by the first of the America-class amphibious-assault ships, which itself carried a squadron of vertical-takeoff F-35Bs, eight V-22 tilt-rotor transports, and about a battalion’s worth of Marines from the 26th Expeditionary Unit; the massive assemblage of American military hardware had spent the last two days sailing around and flying over La Perdita, “trailing the colors” in full view of the delegations from the many countries here for the signing of IMPET. Thus far, the trip had been fairly uneventful with the exception of the occasional fishing boat wandering into the widely-spaced group; fortunately a quartet of speedy guided-missile destroyers had been able to politely and safely guide all such interlopers toward clearer waters, usually after exchanging pleasantries and cordially declining frequent requests to come aboard and inspect the various ships in the formation.

But for the past half hour or so, electronic-intelligence officers aboard the Reagan and the two cruisers had noticed peculiar fluctuations in radio, cell-phone, and satellite traffic, and fifteen minutes ago two of the island’s three non-automated television transmitters had dropped off completely. Three minutes ago, the last TV station and all cell signals had gone dark, plunging La Perdita into an apparent communications blackout. There were no electromagnetic or meteorological phenomena Beauchamp or any of his staff knew of that could impose such conditions, and in a world of constant informational bombardment, for a population of nearly three hundred thousand to just go silent like that was… unsettling. Two more Lightnings had just catapulted off the deck, doubling the orbiting patrol to four aircraft. The futuristic fighters’ own electronic-warfare gear scanned the skies over the island, hoping to at least pick up short-range radio traffic and convey it back to the Signals officers on the third floor of CVN-76’s island. No fewer than eight transport helicopters were either spooling up or already airborne in the event an emergency extraction of personnel was needed. Part of Jeremiah hoped it was just a large-scale invasion of gremlins playing havoc with the island’s telecommunications equipment, but nearly four decades of military experience had taught him better. His suspicions were confirmed when Signals chimed in.

“Got something for you, Admiral,” a voice came over the intercom. “Police band.”

“Let’s have it,” Beauchamp replied.

{…cial Agent Knowles, authentication Sierra-Sierra-Four-Br… -otel-Seven-November.} The transmission came from a handheld police radio, picked up and amplified by an F-35’s avionics and electronically relayed to the Gipper. {…repeat, multiple hostile armed combatants present on the island… -ntown area appears clear but reports of gunfire fr-… at least five other locations…}

“Guessing we can’t talk back to him,” the admiral ventured.

“Negative, sir.”

{-ber of hostiles or of civilian casualties unknown at this time… -vise establishing comprehe-… -rial surveillance and reestablishing two-way comms… Repeating, this is Special Agent Know-…}

Captain Oliver Gwinnett was technically the commanding officer of CVN-76, but the admiral of a carrier strike group held more authority than anyone below the President when at sea. He was of a rank where he didn’t have to salute Beauchamp except during official ceremonies, but the captain’s stance indicated deference to his superior officer. “What do you need, Jer?”

Beauchamp thought a long moment. They had actually conducted a drill for getting over, around, and onto the island yesterday morning, but that one had revolved around disaster relief… “Detach one of my frigs and a pair of cans and sail ‘em around to Del Mar, quick as you can,” the admiral ordered. “The rest of the group will space out to three, four klicks. Get 76 ten-kay out, keep one cruiser seaward of us and have the other one take up station between us and downtown. Everyone else except the logistics column should push to three klicks offshore and use their commo gear to try and blanket as much of Mibela as we can cover.”

“Air assets?” Gwinnett probed.

“I want a complete and continuous picture of everything moving on, around, or over this island,” Jeremiah responded with far less hesitation. “Run us down to reserve fuel if you have to, I’ll take us up to Alert 3 if I have to, but we have to be up to speed on everything that’s going on. Launch as many aircraft as we need for coverage, and we especially need to watch out for counter-air threats. If we have to launch choppers for any reason, I don’t want some punk kid with a Mistral on his shoulder puttin’ a hole in one of our birds. And keep civilian traffic way the hell away from us. No news choppers, no jet skis, and no more damn fishermen.”

“Got it.” Gwinnett glanced across the bridge and made eye contact with his XO to make sure he was keeping up. He was. “And the Marines?”

“Still prayin’ we don’t have to send ‘em anywhere,” Beauchamp admitted. “The 26th just came off a training rotation and weren’t expecting to leave their ship until we put in for shore leave at Curacao. Still, better tell ‘em to gear up and prep their birds, just in case.”

“Fair enough.” Gwinnett shook his head. “This is gonna play havoc with our mess rotations – not to mention the maintenance we’re catching up on.”

“If that’s the worst that comes of this,” the admiral replied, “I’ll take it.” He nodded to the captain as Gwinnett prepared to relay Beauchamp’s orders to the rest of his ship. “Let’s get going.”

- - -

K-336, ballistic-missile submarine Korystnyj
Four miles east of Lighthouse Rock, 12:55 PM

“Periscope depth,” the dive officer announced. “Deploying sensor mast.”

“Very good,” the XO acknowledged from the conn. “Carry on.”

Even after eleven years, First Officer Vladimir Karpotsyn still felt a little uneasy at times when he realized where he was and what he was doing. Karpotsyn was, of course, not a superstitious man, but there was something unsettling about the knowledge that he was sealed in a metal pipe almost one hundred and eighty meters long that had been designed and constructed with the capacity to help bring about the end of the world. Once upon a time, Korystnyj had carried twenty R-39 intercontinental rockets, each of which could carry up to ten independently targeted thermonuclear warheads. For years, this boat and his brothers – Russians used male pronouns to describe their naval vessels – had played the world’s deadliest game of cat-and-mouse with the American Los Angeles-class attack submarines and even the occasional Ohio-class missile submarine, its closest counterpart. Now, all but two of what NATO once called the Typhoon class of nuclear submarines had been scrapped, along with almost all of the Ohio boats. The nuclear Sword of Damocles an American President had once warned the world of had mostly been reduced to sharper-than-average razor blades. And yet, Korystnyj – which roughly translated to Fortune – still glided silently beneath the waves, carrying men for whom this metal pipe had for years been the only home they could count on as their beloved Rodina languished in economic and political chaos.

Today, however, Vladimir had good reason to be on edge. His captain was ashore, insisting he be present for the signing of this treaty Sigma had helped bring about. The lifelong Navy man still couldn’t bring himself to completely trust Sigma – a man who had been eight men, named using an engineering term for the sum of many things – but he trusted his captain implicitly, and if Genya wished to sail three thousand kilometers to visit someone he considered an old friend, then of course Korystnyj would sail. Besides, they had not been to Havana in nearly four years, and the already memorable… atmosphere had only been improved by the relaxation of the Western embargo.

At the moment, to Karpotsyn’s supreme displeasure, the bevy of Cuban beauties dancing through his mind would have to wait. The passive signal-gathering buoy towed above and behind the submarine had picked up an alarming trend – La Perdita had gone silent. Wireless Internet, cellular phones, radio and television, all bands of traffic save civilian and police shortwave had been cut off somehow. And now an incoming transmission indicated that Captain Kozlov had somehow managed to use his satlink-capable phone to access the secure Russian military networks that had once carried flash traffic from the Kremlin but now transmitted all sorts of audio, visual, and text communications. But the quality of the signal captured by the aging passive buoy was too poor to allow Korystnyj to properly receive the message itself, so Kozlov’s XO was forced to come up to periscope depth and ask the captain to repeat himself for the benefit of the updated and far more powerful antenna masts that telescoped upward from the massive sub’s sail.

“He is repeating,” the lieutenant at the signals-intelligence console reported. “Routing to conn.”

One of the more amusing anachronisms on the submarine was the small device mounted with Velcro below the main display screen on the periscope array that hung from the ceiling of the bridge. Despite all the millions of American dollars’ worth of military technology that filled the claustrophobic space, most relevant information was fed to the conn through Bluetooth links from the SIGINT and communications consoles and received on a two-hundred-dollar tablet about one hundred and eighty millimeters across – the same technological innovation that allowed children anywhere in Russia to update their Facebook statuses in the absence of their older siblings’ smartphones. But unlike the archaic early-nineties-era computers elsewhere on the bridge, it allowed Kozlov or Karpotsyn or whoever the watch officer was at the time to instantly consult charts of the sea floor, satellite maps of weather conditions on the surface, video messages from home, or just the cook’s list of what would be available in the officers’ mess that evening. A pair of sonarman's headphones that probably cost three times more than the device they were plugged into hung from one of the periscope's 'handlebars'; Karpotsyn slipped them on and tapped the screen as SIGINT shot the audio file to his tablet.

The first officer listened a moment. “Nyet...” His eyes widened. “Govno!” The bridge crew looked at Vladimir nervously as he listened to the remainder of Kozlov's communique. He stepped back from the periscope, dropped the headphones back onto their perch, and took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Dyusha,” he instructed the dive officer, “prepare to surface the ship.” He looked over at the deck officer whose American equivalent would be referred to as chief of the boat. “Alert the hangar deck and have the men prepare all helicopters.” Murmurs were circulating around the bridge now as Karpotsyn turned toward the SIGINT officer. “As soon as we surface, deploy a surveillance drone over the island.”

Everyone sprang into action. Most were quite eager to know what the hell was going on, but sailors – especially Russian sailors – knew better than to hesitate or ask questions before carrying out an order, even an indirect one, from their captain. They would learn what they needed to know when they needed to know it and no sooner. For the present, it appeared Korystnyj was about to see some action...

- - -

Haven
A time outside of time

“Can you show me more, Alice?”

your friends now arrayed
on the isle of the lost
will join one last affray
but at saddening cost

No further images, just a confused swirl as with any other time the mirror either couldn’t or wouldn’t reveal more detail.

“Dammit.” The massive man’s ham-sized fists clenched.

The footsteps were, as always, so soft he didn’t hear them approaching, but the powerful innate bond between them alerted him to her presence even before she spoke.

“I know you want to go help them,” the graceful redhead said softly as she put a comparatively minuscule hand on his shoulder – or at least the lower corner of his shoulder blade she could reach. “I wish we could.”

The black leather of his jacket crumpled quietly as he turned. If he had eyebrows, they would be knitted together in frustration.

The two figures stood on an outcropping above a picturesque waterfall spilling into a pool which fed the stream that trickled through a verdant valley lined with trees far taller and older than most to be found on Earth anymore. This particular corner of Haven would have reminded the casual human observer of Rivendell from the Peter Jackson adaptations, but it was in truth a place outside of places. If one were to attempt to describe it, it might be most useful to picture Haven as a multiversal nexus – one of precious few intersections of all possible and a few impossible realities. It was literally the center of Creation, watched over by Avatars of Creation – two of whom stood on this rock hoping to catch a glimpse of what was transpiring on a tiny island in a world of mortals. Life was in this case personified by a slight red-haired woman of supernatural beauty who spoke in a voice more enchanting than music, while Death took the form of a giant in black motorcycle leathers with a wickedly-glimmering axe strapped across his back and a bare skull for a head. To refer to them as an odd couple was a study in understatement.

“They’re my friends, Rowe,” Grimm reminded her. “They’re not as many or as strong as they used to be, and this could be the biggest threat they’ve faced since Manhattan. Maybe bigger than that. I can’t just sit here and watch them get blindsided by it.”

“I understand your frustration,” Rowena began as a sorrowful expression clouded her lovely face. “But you and I both know there’s no one here who can open those doors anymore.”

Haven had for ages been a staging ground from which the Order had leapt off into the innumerable streams of reality to restore balance and peace to the universe. A succession of avatars of Space had made this possible by opening and closing portals between worlds, and for years an eccentric but delightful young woman named Nida Zbinden – just “Z” to her friends – had thrown open the tunnels from reality to reality for their passage. But sadly, nearly half a year ago in mortal time, the Order itself had been ambushed. Drawn into a rarely-visited corner of existence in pursuit of an unauthorized breach between universes, they had been attacked by what they’d assumed were mere humans – humans wielding alien weapons of a sort never encountered before. Somehow, these gun-toting assailants had been able to neutralize many of the strongest members of the Order and of Vanguard, who had swarmed through the looking-glass in a desperate effort to aid them. Many were seriously wounded, but Z worst of all, and as she lay dying, the woman had used the very last of her ebbing strength to hurl the heroes all back to their respective realities. Her death crushed the surviving members of the Order, but none so much as the Vanguardian with whom she had shared a brief and supremely improbable but indescribably deep love.

Now, the Order was effectively confined to Haven save on matters of the utmost importance, and Grimm doubted the Courts of Light would make an exception for him. “Think I should ask Turkish to put in a good word for me?”

Rowena laughed, a sudden but welcome change in mood that seemed to brighten the already-sunny sky above them. “I think you already have. You forget I know you.”

Fortunately, Grimm lacked the facial features for a properly sheepish expression. “Like I said, they’re my friends.”

“And you haven’t heard back yet.”

The avatar of Death shook his head.

The avatar of Life sighed. “Even gods need a while to deliberate sometimes.” She looked at Grimm and smiled faintly. “But I know you won’t give up until you get your answer.”

The massive biker stared a hole in the ground. “Here’s hoping I get it soon.”

- - -

Muelle de los Pescaderos, 1:02 PM

Mick eased off the gas as he watched a native urge his cart-towing burro across the road ahead. He was making decent time through the sparsely-populated strip of land between the green northern reaches of the Bosque Interiór and the coastlands lining the northern bay – one of the few shorelines where dark volcanic sand could still be found at the surface eight years after Hurricane Jason had reshaped the island. This two-mile stretch of two-lane highway had only recently been completed – it still didn’t show up on most travel agents’ maps and didn’t merit a street name on Google Earth just yet – but in addition to linking Tres Rios to Vista del Mar and finally closing the circuit around La Perdita, it linked a number of native settlements to the big cities for the first time in the isolated villages’ history. That necessitated dodging a lot of burros, and children playing with dogs, and wild hogs nosing around for discarded scraps, and even the odd ocelot, though it still befuddled researchers how the cats had managed to get to the island. At the moment, Mick didn’t mind – he’d always enjoyed taking in the sights and sounds and even the scents along this picturesque length of road.

But the more he thought about it, the more he realized his Spidey-sense was on edge today for some reason despite the cocktail of drugs they were making him take these days. As he looked out over the bay ahead and to his left, he saw two dagger-like shapes rapidly ascending from a huge grey brick-shape out beyond the northeast point of the island. Some kinda fighter planes, the new invisible ones, maybe, taking off from what was too big to be anything but an American aircraft carrier. One had flown over the house earlier, probably flying over Del Mar, but it didn’t look like any airshow he’d ever seen. Not that he was all that into military hardware and shit, but Chicago’d had a bitchin’ airshow every summer when Mick was growing up. No, those jets were watching the island, and while he didn’t know why, he figured it probably wasn’t a good thing.

A year or two ago, Mick would’ve flipped the switch and taken off into the sky himself to see what all the fuss was about. But his current therapist – the fifth one he’d gone through so far – kept telling him he’d only get control over everything if he stayed Mick all the damn time. Although honestly, whether or not he’d dreamed the imp up in the first place, John Michael Harrison missed the hell outta Mxy sometimes.

Mick’s thoughts were derailed by the sight of brake lights ahead – way more than he was used to on this road. He slowed to a stop behind an old school bus which had been converted into a rolling produce market-slash-taquería and squinted ahead hoping to catch a glimpse of what the hell was going on. No sooner had he become enmeshed in the budding traffic jam than not one, but two grey LIME vans passed him by going the other direction and didn’t respond when they saw him waving to get their attention. Mick rolled his eyes. Of fucking course. Well, he had to get the tomatoes for Shirley now, so may as well…

A downed utility pole appeared to be the source of the delay. Splintered wood and wires were strewn across this lane of the road, and a third grey van sat pulled off to the right-hand side of the road as two blue-shirted maintenance guys stood there trying to direct traffic but otherwise not really doing much of anything. In his rearview, Mick saw one of the vans that had passed him making a U-turn for some reason. Did anyone know what the fuck they were doing out here?

The second van stopped behind him, but nobody hopped out to join the technicians ahead. Probably some kind of confusion – maybe the cable was acting up all over the island and they couldn’t decide where to go first? Eventually, one of the two cable guys standing by the van up ahead stepped out into the road and started waving vehicles heading into Tres Rios around the obstruction while his partner circled around to the passenger-side door. Mick moved up as one, then two, then three vehicles advanced around the roadblock before the procession ground to a halt again and cars started coming from the other direction again. May as well park it at this rate. Dammit.

Mick heard the characteristic rumble of an approaching jet aircraft, but a bit louder than usual. The technician by the van opened the side door, and the blast of the old bus’s horn drowned out the sound of the shotgun door of the van behind Mick opening. Oddly, the tech seemed to be either staring at something or conversing with someone inside as he looked down at his walkie-talkie and then held it out as though showing it to someone. Mick saw movement to his left and spotted one of the military jets coming in only about two hundred feet overhead. He figured the engines were probably supposed to be quieter than other airplanes like that, but this low to the ground they were getting really fucking loud. As he looked back at the van ahead, the dark grey-painted jet zipped overhead with a deafening roar. The noise clearly startled the tech and whoever he was apparently talking to, because as he jerked his arms up reflexively and his radio flew up out of his hands, Mick saw a dark, angular object come tumbling out of the van past him to the ground.

It was gone from view in an instant, but that split second was just enough for him to identify the unmistakable outline of a submachine gun.

Since when did cable guys carry fucking Uzis around La Perdita?

And at least one of those vans was heading back the way he’d come.

Shit. Fuck. ShitfuckingshitSHIRLEY!!!

Mick sat bolt upright in his seat. The Range Rover was blocked in. Only one way to get to her. “MX-”

An arm – a strong one – around his right shoulder. A hand, reaching up to cover his mouth. A white-hot pinprick stabbing into the left side of his neck, followed immediately by a familiar burning rush of…

Most people would be sedated by this dosage within about ten or fifteen seconds. But when you spent most of your waking hours already mostly sedated – and especially when the guy hurrying to measure out the right dosage while riding shotgun in a moving vehicle guessed high on Mick’s weight – it was virtually instantaneous. By the time the passing jet had receded from view, the interaction of pharmaceuticals had plunged him, still buckled into the driver’s seat of the handbraked SUV, into an almost comatose state.

His blue-shirted assailant hurriedly tossed the syringe aside as he reached in to snatch the keys from the ignition. He still wasn’t sure why he’d been ordered to put his target under when he could just as easily shoot him. Maybe that was already someone else’s job. Now he needed to hurry and-

The cable guy dropped the keys as he heard the wail of a siren approaching. He darted back into the van just in time as its driver quickly extricated the vehicle from its place in line and managed another awkward U-turn that carried it off and back onto the narrow road. By the time the late-model police cruiser in Tres Rios precinct markings negotiated its way through the roadblock and approached the Harrisons’ vehicle, both LIME vans were rapidly fleeing the scene, leaving a puzzled and increasingly angry queue of motorists and one deeply unconscious Vanguardian behind.