The Machinist Part One: Malevolence Page 8

  McHenry jammed the loose end of the data cable into the jack in the center of Brass’ forehead. The words \NULL \NULL : NEGATIVE CONNECTION flashed in his HUD. Brass flailed, but McHenry stomped his boot down on one arm, pinning it. He grabbed the other arm with his robotic hand and crushed it.

  “But I know the tech you use to control all this. Your armor. Your network. Your whole stupid plan.” McHenry grinned. The error message in his eyes went green and the text changed to read \CONNECTION ESTABLISHED | OVERRIDE CONTROLS Y/N? “I thought it up. I built it. Yeah, ‘Edison,’ I’m your fucking Tesla.”

  McHenry glanced to his left to select “Y.” Brass began convulsing as the systems keeping his decrepit organs functioning shut off one by one. The illuminated trim of the old man’s power armor faded. His eyes widened and he coughed out a single word, “C—cuh—countermeasures.”

  Electricity surged all around the old man’s armor and up through the cable that connected the two men’s brains. McHenry’s body trembled but he didn’t falter. He ran decryption and assault protocols as rapidly as he could. He felt the microchips embedded in his brain heating up.

  McHenry knew that another few seconds of this would kill him.

  A program pinged to report success, and the current stopped coursing through the bodies of both men. The attack program reported success as well.

  “Any last words before I shut off your brain, you fossilized fuck?” McHenry sneered.

  “I—“ the old man started to say.

  “Too bad,” McHenry shouted in his face, initiating the program. The old man’s eyes rolled back into his head and his mouth foamed.

  The words \WARNING WARNING | DISCONNECT FEEDBACK LOOP flashed rapidly in McHenry’s HUD. He reached forward to yank the data cable out of the old man’s head, and felt a wave of vertigo hit him as he did so. The cable snapped out the socket and sparked.

  McHenry fell to one side and couldn’t keep his eyes open.

  \ERROR | SHUTDOWN

  He gasped for air, and the world spun around him, getting darker with each rotation.

  \ERROR | SHU

  The whole world went black right before the text in his vision faded from view.

  \ERR--

  Before he lost consciousness entirely, McHenry felt a gloved hand slide under his neck, and another under his buttocks. And then he got the strangest sensation, like he was flying.

  Then nothing.

  Chapter Eight

  Beep … Beep … Beep!

  McHenry heard that out of place sound over and over again. He couldn’t see the source of it. In fact, he couldn’t see anything at all. His limbs were numb and he felt like he was floating. The irrational part of his mind started to panic, telling him he was down for the count. Dead. And this was purgatory, his punishment for a life full of graft, dishonesty, and murder.

  The scientific part of his brain responded by repeating Shut up, shut up, there’s an explanation; I’m in a coma or something.

  Neither half of his mind accepted the possibility of trying to find an accord.

  The cacophony of brain-screaming was broken into by someone else’s voice. Though hard to hear at first, its volume rose slowly from the silence.

  “—think he’s waking up … Make sure the restraints are …”

  Darkness turned to blinding, white light.

  He blinked, and the bright light was suddenly only in his right eye. The vision in his left one faded in, and gained clarity. A doctor hovered over his face, shining a flashlight in his eyes. The physician clicked the light off and turned away from McHenry.

  “He’s responsive, but I think he’ll be here for another day or two,” the doctor said, addressing someone else in the room. McHenry lifted his head and squinted at the stranger who sat at the end of his bed. The form came into focus, taking the shape of an older man in a gray suit. His face was wrinkled and cracked by time. A long, diagonal scar extended from the man’s widow’s peak, over his left eye, and ended at the right side of his lips.

  “Very well,” the man said. “If you could excuse us …”

  The doctor nodded, jotted something down on the clipboard in his hand, and walked out the room. As the door shut, McHenry noted an armed soldier in an all-black uniform standing guard just outside the room.

  He tried to move his arms and push himself up into a sitting position. His arms did not comply. He looked at his limbs: a tube snaked around his left arm and into the skin of its inner elbow. Below the plastic nozzle connected to the intravenous system, McHenry saw his arm had been strapped to the bed.

  “That’s for your safety as much as mine,” the old man said with a gesture. “We wouldn’t want the city’s savior stumbling out of bed and getting shot by the guards in the hall. That’d be some awful P.R.”

  McHenry forced the air out of his lungs and rasped a simple question. “Where?”

  “Oh, you’re still in New York. This is a special facility for the treatment of metas like yourself. Very hush-hush.”

  “Who …” McHenry’s throat felt like it was burning. Every syllable was a struggle. He opted to skip one. “… You?”

  “Me? I’m Daniel Hawke,” the old man leaned back. “Director of S.T.R.I.K.E.”

  “What’s ...?”

  “We’re the group that manages and outfits super groups like the Titans of Liberty,” the old man said matter-of-factly. Then he smirked, continuing, “But we wouldn’t be a very effective secret organization if everyone had heard of us. I’m not surprised you don’t know me.”

  McHenry managed a defeated, “Oh.”

  This was bad. The Titans of Liberty had arrested him, and as far as they probably knew he was the one who’d blown up their base. He wondered if Hawke would be more or less receptive to his explanations than Rampart had been when the Titans captured him. One look at the grizzled old man told McHenry the answer to that question was “unlikely.”

  “But I am surprised that I don’t know you,” stated the elderly secret agent. That took McHenry by surprise. Hawke raised an eyebrow and went on. “I mean to say, I do know who you’re supposed to be. We ran your prints and came back with one Warren Hill, an electrical engineer and inventor from upstate.”

  Oh, thank god, McHenry thought to himself. That was the identity he’d snagged off of the Social Security database he’d hacked after the fiasco in New Jersey. He tried to grin. Then he saw the old man’s cold expression.

  Hawke went on talking.

  “What bothers me is the fact that Warren Hill’s been dead for six months. Killed in a hit-and-run while walking his dog. Just to be sure, we dug the body up and ran his DNA.

  “Unanswered questions are not something I relish, frankly. One does not stay the world’s premiere super-spy for sixty-six years by letting himself leave stones unturned.”

  Hawke gestured at McHenry’s right arm, and carried on with his monologue.

  “So I had you checked out. You’ve got some obvious … injuries … in addition to substantial cybernetic augmentation. We checked our records, and sure enough, we found someone who was a match for all that.”

  If he didn’t know it’d burn his throat, McHenry would’ve gulped.

  “Nicholas McHenry, age thirty-five,” Hawke stared McHenry dead in the eyes. “An MIT dropout who somehow landed a job at a major military research facility. There were some … issues with authority reported by his superiors, but our notes show McHenry’s work was instrumental in creating wireless, mentally controlled attack drones.”

  Fuck fuck fuck fuckitty fuck, yelled the voices in McHenry’s brain. He struggled against his restraints as subtly as he could muster, but his strength was depleted. He glared at the IV in his arm, knowing it was the source of his paralysis.

  “Don’t.” Hawke said simply. McHenry ceased his jostling.

  “There was some kind of strike on the facility, it seems. McHenry—that’s you, am I right?—was presumed dead in the attack.”

  McHenry nodded, defeated.
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br />   “And then you popped back up on the radar as the Machinist. You and your drones caused quite a bit of trouble, breaking into labs and stealing advanced tech. Killed a few guards and some heroes.”

  McHenry’s brain was screaming, FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF--

  “I don’t judge. I am, as I said, a master spy. I’m just as guilty as you.” The old man turned his head away, shaking it. “Our psychoanalysts say you only killed when necessary. Not wantonly, like the psychos coming out of the woodwork these last eight or nine years.”

  That certainly shocked McHenry, but what Hawke said next sent the villain’s mind into a tailspin.

  “Even the Titans have killed quite a few of your brother villains. Usually, it’s just a matter of their not realizing their own power. Other times … well. We’re very good at cleaning things up, at sanitizing events for public consumption.”

  Even if he could’ve talked, McHenry would have been at a loss for words.

  Hawke pointed at the television mounted to the wall across from McHenry’s bed and spoke. “Screen, turn on. Mute. News.”

  The television blinked to life and tuned to a news station. The image of a demolished bridge filled the screen and plumes of smoke poured into the sky from somewhere below. A banner with scrolling text read, “… toll over 22,000 … hundreds of super-criminals in custody or confirmed dead … Titans of Liberty suffer major losses--”

  “This devastation was traced back to you, at first.” Hawke kept his eyes on the TV. “And when the Titans scooped you up, everyone thought it was just a matter of cleaning up your minions.”

  The scene on the television changed. Black-and-white footage from a security camera. The Flatiron building was clearly in view. The image distorted for a second, and suddenly glowing rectangles appeared everywhere. Network troops streamed out, and started firing bolts of energy into the air. McHenry was about to stammer his shock that the Network attack was still ongoing, but then sighed in relief when he saw the text “Previously Recorded” appear at the bottom of the screen.

  “And then Baron Brass came through one of those … door-things,” Hawke turned back to McHenry. “No one was expecting that. He was supposed to be long dead, but these things do happen. We shouldn’t have been as surprised as we were. I suppose he tried to kill you back at the Titans’ HQ?”

  McHenry nodded.

  “I can imagine that ticked you off quite a bit,” Hawke grinned. “And, you know, the fact that he’d framed you, too.”

  McHenry shook his head to indicate a negative response. Hawke’s leathery face took on a perplexed expression.

  “Took …” McHenry wheezed. “… Credit. My … technology.”

  “Mmhmm. Typical geek,” Hawke rolled his eyes before turning back to the TV. “Screen, pause.”

  McHenry glanced back up at the set. The image frozen on the screen was McHenry—in his hastily acquired new armor—struggling to overpower Baron Brass. Rampart, hero of heroes, lay unconscious on the ground a few meters behind the grappling duo. The text frozen in place below the image was surprising. McHenry mouthed the words silently, as Hawke spoke them aloud.

  “Mystery Hero Saves City. Where Is He Now?”

  Hawke pivoted in place to turn and face McHenry again. “Screen, off.”

  The two men looked at each other silently for a moment, before Hawke spoke up again.

  “New York—hell, the World; Brass was minutes away from nuking every major city on the planet—wants to praise its savior.”

  McHenry snorted.

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny,” Hawke sneered. “I can’t just go and tell the President that his bacon was saved because of some lunatic’s grudge match. You think the Mayor would be thrilled giving the Key to the City to a convicted murderer? How do you think the people would feel, if we told ‘em the only reason they’re still alive is that Brass pissed you off in just the right way--that they’d be glowing chunks of meat right now if he hadn’t fucked with you?”

  McHenry didn’t have an answer. The rhythmic tone of his pulse monitor was the only sound in the room for a while before Hawke spoke up again.

  “Brass had accounted for everything our heroes could throw at him,” Hawke sighed. “But what he didn’t count on was your pride, your malevolence. He probably thought you’d die in the explosion—or turn tail and hoof it if you survived.”

  McHenry tried to shrug. He had entertained the idea at least once while he made his way through the ruins of the heroes’ headquarters.

  “Take it from me, I’m glad you didn’t,” the old man certainly didn’t look glad. “But I’m left with a difficult decision--and a recommendation from our psychiatric analysts.”

  Hawke blew air from his mouth. It was clear he didn’t want to say what came next.

  “They’ve determined that your driving force is a desire to be acknowledged for your achievements, to be recognized for your work, as it were.

  So: The shrinks have recommended I ask you to switch sides, to join the team.”

  McHenry made a face. What?

  Hawke made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. “I know.”

  After a pause, he went on. “We’ll make it so that Nicholas McHenry—despised villain and suspected ally of Baron Brass—died horribly when the Titans’ base was destroyed … and Warren Hill, brilliant engineer from New York State, somehow resurrected himself with technology and joined the Good Fight just in time to Save the World.”

  McHenry tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

  “You can be a hero. You can be the hero.” Hawke grimaced. The words clearly tasted foul to him. “You’d be universally loved, and all you’d have to do is behave yourself for a while, kiss some babies and wave at the happy monkeys. After a few months, you’ll say you want to focus on your family life or some other bullshit, and we’ll stick you on a tropical island somewhere and pay your bar tab for the rest of your life.”

  McHenry contemplated this for a few seconds. It was a pretty good arrangement, and he hated to admit it, but the shrinks at S.T.R.I.K.E. had hit the nail on the head with their analysis. He nodded emphatically at Hawke.

  “If you fuck this up in any way, I will personally put a bullet in your head,” the elder spy stared down his nose at McHenry.

  “Where … do …” the words sputtered out of McHenry’s throat but he pushed them through the pain. “… I … sign?”

  EPILOGUE

  Two weeks passed.

  S.T.R.I.K.E. followed through on their end of the bargain. McHenry—now in the system as Warren Hill—had been officially recognized as one of the new recruits of the Titans of Liberty. After some minor plastic surgery to alter his appearance to better match that of the dead man whose identity he’d assumed, there were more ceremonies and televised interviews than he could recall.

  A swank, high-rise apartment awaited him after each event. It was there he was provided with tools and equipment to improve upon the mish-mash of armor he had hastily assembled on the day now known as “Brass Wednesday.”

  Hill was working through the night, reconfiguring his drones with new, sleek shells with enhanced armor. Hawke had told him in no uncertain terms to ditch the black paint job and jagged angles of the robots if he wanted to continue using them. They needed to be “image friendly.” Hill consulted a children’s cartoon about robot heroes for the redesign.

  He was midway through calibrating drone number two’s laser array down to a nonlethal level when the Titans of Liberty comm badge he’d been issued started buzzing. He didn’t notice it at first but after the vibration grew more intense he slapped at it.

  “McH—“ he caught himself. “Machinist here.”

  Hawke had let him keep his old nom de guerre.

  “Need everyone at the new base,” Rampart’s voice crackled over the short-range communicator.

  Hill rolled his eyes. “Ten minutes. Need to suit up.”

  “Whatever.” The comm badge clicked off.

 
; True to his word, the retooled, heroic Machinist strolled into the meeting room on the top floor of Freedom Tower One within eight minutes. He glanced around the room, making sure he knew the codenames of every hero in the room. S.T.R.I.K.E. agents had drilled them into him so as to avoid any embarrassing issues.

  Rampart stood at the head of a long table. Hawke was behind him, leaning against the wall and chomping on a cigar. Stormsoul, the Italian redhead sat in the next seat, sipping a cup of espresso. Next to her, Sprint seemed to be standing, sitting, and hovering all at once. The yellow accents of his costume flickered around the room. Hill could only assume the darkest shade of purple was where the speedster actually was at any given second.

  A handful of the other veteran heroes were absent: Night Owl, for one. Hill smiled to himself. He heard the crackle of fire behind him, and turned to see that flame-blast kid from Florida fly into the room. They exchanged an awkward fist bump.

  “All right. If you could all take a seat,” Hawke said, exhaling a thick cloud of dark smoke.

  Stormsoul did a double take, and set her cup down with a clink. “Aspetta. We are always seven. There is only cinque.”

  Hill took his own mental tally. Stormsoul was correct. Hawke made a dismissive motion with his hand. “I’ll get there.”

  Hawke put his hand on Rampart’s shoulder and started addressing the assembled group.

  “The first thing to address is the roster. The bad news, first: As you know by now, the Mentalist did not make it.”

  Rampart looked down to the table at his folded-over hands.

  “I didn’t mean to—she was—“ Torch stammered. Hawke put his hand up and interceded.

  “She was one of Baron Brass’ spies for years. You did okay. Her family held a private funeral last week. We opted not to inform them of her betrayal.”

  Hawke sucked on his cigar and consulted the tablet computer he held in one hand.

  “Next: Sister Brain is—as far as we can ascertain—damaged beyond repair. The company belonging to Night Owl’s alter-ego is spearheading the attempt to reconstruct her, but the outlook is grim.