The interior of the armored SUV was a cocoon of silence, insulated from the chaos of mid morning Manhattan by two inches of bulletproof glass and layers of sound dampening steel.
The air conditioning humd a low note, keeping the temperature at a precise sixty eight degrees.
I sat in the rear passenger seat, my legs crossed, a tablet resting on my knee. On the screen, a live feed from a local news affiliate in Dayton, Ohio played in high definition.
The cara was focused on a stage erected in a town square. A crowd of thousands cheered, their faces flushed with adoration. And there, standing center stage, bathing in the worship like a lizard on a sun ward rock, was Holander.
He was smiling. It was that perfect smile that had been market tested to poll well with every demographic from toddlers to grandmothers. He waved, his cape rippling dramatically in a wind machine that had been set up just off cara.
"You are the real heroes," Holander said into the microphone, his voice dripping with humble sincerity. "I just fly around. You guys, you teachers, you nurses, you parents, you’re the ones holding this country together."
The crowd roared. A woman in the front row looked like she was about to faint.
I watched his eyes. They were blue and completely dead. Behind the smile, behind the rehearsed patriotism, there was nothing but a bottomless void of seeking attention.
"Pathetic," I whispered, the word lost in the quiet of the car.
"Sir?" Marcus asked from the driver’s seat, his eyes flickering to the rearview mirror.
"Nothing, Marcus," I said, not looking up. "Just comnting on the weather in Ohio."
The convoy slowed. The light inside the car shifted, darkening as a massive shadow fell over us. I looked out the side window.
We were passing the Vought Tower.
The black monolith rose into the sky, blocking out the sun. It was a fortress of secrets, a monunt to corporate greed built on a foundation of human experintation.
Inside that building, Stan Edgar was currently orchestrating a shadow war against a phantom army he believed was led by the US Military.
And Holander? Holander was in Ohio, smiling for the caras, completely oblivious to the fact that his "father," Stan Edgar was terrified.
An idea sparked in my mind.
I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket and pulled out a small notepad and a fountain pen. I clicked the cap off the pen.
I closed my eyes for a second, diving into the deep ocean of mories I had harvested from the board mbers of Spencer Industries. I sifted through the stolen life of Jonathan Sterling, the forr CFO. I bypassed the mories of his family, his affairs, his golf handicap and drilled down into the darkness.
I found the etings. The hushed conversations in back rooms. The transfers of funds to black sites. The nas of the n who had sanctioned the murder of my parents to keep the war machine greased.
I opened my eyes and began to write. My hand moved with fluid strokes.
Senator Mitchell – Chairman of the Defense Appropriations Committee.
Congressman Halloway – Ard Services Subcommittee.
General Raddock – US Army, 4th Special Forces Group.
I listed them. The n who had taken bribes. The n who had looked the other way when Spencer Industries sabotaged competitors. The n who were currently in bed with Raddock.
Then, I wrote down the nas of the five soldiers whose identities my clones had stolen for the Odessa raid. The n who didn’t exist as Supes, but whose faces were currently burned into Stan Edgar’s mind as the "Red Unit."
Sergeant John Miller.
Corporal David Banks.
Lieutenant Peter Kovacs.
Private Michael Davis.
Specialist Wei Chen.
I looked at the list. It was a mixture of truth and lies, a cocktail designed to be lethal.
I added a note at the bottom, scrawling it in a fan boyish hand that disguised my own precise penmanship.
Holander,
They are working with the military to replace you. They have made all these soldiers into Supes.
Stan Edgar knows everything about them, but he is letting it happen.
Don’t let them take your spot. You are the only god we need.
Your biggest fan,
A loyal Vought Employee
I capped the pen. I read the note one last ti. It was perfect.
I stored the pen and te paper in the dinsional pocket of my inventory.
I unlocked my tablet. I opened a terminal window, the black screen reflecting my eyes. My fingers flew across the virtual keyboard.
I initiated a query to the Argus satellite grid. I had given Vought read only access to the feed, but I retained the admin privileges. I typed in the command to display the current orbital trajectory of the KH 12 "Keyhole" satellite tasked with monitoring the Eastern Seaboard.
The data scrolled down the screen. Orbital Inclination: 98 degrees. Current Position: 40.7128° N, 74.0060° W.
It was currently tracking a thermal anomaly in the Atlantic, likely a submarine drill. The optical sensors were pointed away from Manhattan. The blind spot over the city would last for exactly four minutes.
Perfect.
I minimized the Argus window and opened a new connection. I targeted the Vought Tower internal network.
I navigated through the digital architecture of the tower. I bypassed the personnel files, the financial records and the R&D logs. I went straight for the security feeds.
Tower Level 99. Conference Room A.
This was the room where The Seven held their etings. The room with the long table and the Vought logo on the wall.
The feed popped up on my screen. The room was empty. The lights were dimd, casting long shadows across the polished table. The chairs were pushed in.
I studied the image. I burned it into my mind. I morized the distance from the door to the head of the table. I morized the texture of the carpet, the position of the water pitchers, the specific angle of the chair at the head of the table... the chair with the eagle wings carved into the leather. Holander’s chair.
I closed the laptop.
I unbuckled my seatbelt. I shifted in the seat, leaning back into the shadowed corner of the cabin where the tinted glass was darkest.
I focused on my own mass.
Size Alteration (Tier 3).
The sensation was a rapid compression. The leather seat rose up around like a cliff face. The ceiling of the car shot upwards, becoming a distant sky of gray fabric. In the blink of an eye, I was a dense speck, barely an inch tall, standing on the vast expanse of the leather upholstery.
The hum of the engine, previously a quiet purr, was now a vibrating roar that shook the ground beneath my feet.
I closed my eyes. I recalled the image of the conference room. I visualized the space above the eagle winged chair. I felt the connection to the location, the spatial coordinates locking into place in my mind.
Teleportation (Tier 2).
The world snapped.
One mont, I was surrounded by the sll of leather and the vibration of a moving vehicle. The next, silence. absolute silence.
I opened my eyes.
I was standing on the armrest of a massive leather chair. To my right, the table stretched out like an endless mahogany plain. The air slled of lemon polish and ozone.
I was in Vought Tower.
I looked around. The room was exactly as it had been on the screen.
I reached into my inventory.
I held the edge of the paper.
I hopped from the armrest down onto the seat of the chair. I laid the paper down carefully in the center of the leather cushion. It looked like a white carpet spread across the seat.
I made sure it was visible. I made sure the na "Holander" was facing up.
I took a step back, surveying my work. It was a small object in a large room, but its impact would be nuclear. When Holander walked in for the next eting, he wouldn’t be able to miss it.
I closed my eyes again. I visualized the interior of the SUV. The texture of the leather seat. The sll of Marcus’s cologne. The vibration of the engine.
Teleportation.
Snap.
The silence of the boardroom vanished, replaced instantly by the low roar of the car. I was back on the seat, a tiny speck in the darkness.
I released the hold on my mass.
Size Alteration.
The world rushed inwards. The ceiling lowered, the seat shrank. In a second, I was fully grown, sitting comfortably in the back of the car, my suit jacket barely ruffled.
I buckled my seatbelt.
"Marcus," I said, my voice calm.
"Sir?"
"Turn up the radio. I like this song."
"Yes, sir."
The music filled the car. I smiled, enjoying the ride.
The car turned a corner, leaving the shadow of Vought Tower behind.
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