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.
