The Machinist Part One: Malevolence (9 page)

“I have you right where I want you, don’t you realize that?”  Brass shouted.  McHenry teleported inside of Brass’ personal space and grabbed at the villain’s weakened chestplate with his cybernetic hand.  He tore it off and tossed it a hundred feet away.

“Bullshit,” McHenry sneered, and punched the elder villain in the gut without looking.  Instead of the hard thump of fist on flesh he expected to hear, or the crackle of bone splintering, he heard glass shatter and a slosh of fluid.  He looked down at his hand while Brass screamed in agony.
  “What—what the hell?”

He pulled his hand from the flailing villain’s chest and stared.  Instead of flesh and bone, Baron Brass’ torso was a jumble of glass containers with organs immersed in fluid, wired into a cybernetic skeleton.  Plastic tubes pumped red and blue blood to and from his mechanical heart.

McHenry’s onboard computer started pinging madly.  He saw the work of Professor Nemesis in the heart; the stylings of the Technomancer in the organ containers—and the preservation fluid within was comprised of chemicals he knew Krudoff had created.  And the skeletal interface jacks—those were McHenry’s own design.

Brass stumbled backwards,
muttering.  “As I … As I … As--”

The armored man started wheezing.
  He pulled his hood off roughly, tearing its seams.  Then he pulled off the stylized metal skull and dropped it to the ground.  He was an old, old man.  The pale skin on his face was so leathery and tightly stretched against his skull that he almost didn’t need the mask to be terrifying.  Old surgical scars surrounded data transfer nodes on his face where the mask had attached to it.

He glared at McHenry—or, at least, in his direction—Brass’ eyes were milky and
gray.  He cleared his throat.

“As I said before,” he spat.  “I know how to put it all together.  To make it work in a meaningful way.  In a profitable way.
  I’m—I’m the Edison of crime!”

McHenry took a few steps forward, then leaned to the left and tilted his head the same direction, saying, “Yeah?”

He pulled his upper body back to the right quickly and dodged the old man’s punch.  The elderly villain pivoted to his right with one leg.  That told McHenry everything:
He’s blind as a bat.

“You tried to kill me, but that isn’t the worst thing.” McHenry shoved Brass to the ground and stood over him.  He pushed his boot down into the container holding the old man’s lower intestines, and ground his heel on them.  “You stole my friends’ work.  You stole
my
work.”

“You are just like Edison, you’re right,” McHenry hissed as he crouched down over the ancient criminal.  He reached into his sleeve and pulled out the length of data cable he’d tucked in there earlier.  With his other hand, he checked and made sure the other end of it was still jacked in to the back of his neck.  “But you don’t understand every detail of the things you take.  You don’t know how they can be used against you.”

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 connect
ed 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 roll
ed 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 conscious
ness 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 hear
d 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 repeatin
g
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.

“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?”