Corpies (Super Powereds Spinoff Book 1) (40 page)

“I can, but in my experience this is around where the machine breaks,” Owen warned them.

“According to the reading, you’re only moving the equivalent of one and a half tons,” Edgar said from his position at the console across the room, eyes unmoving from the screen. “These are rated to go to at least three.”

“Yeah, they say that, but given how few Supers out there can even get over one, it’s not a claim that they get called out on often.” Despite his warning, Owen obliged, easily moving the bar lower through the increasing resistance. Plenty of Supers out there could move more weight than he, but they had to do it using telekinesis or anti-gravity or some other trick. Pure physical force usually capped out around a ton per muscle group for most Supers, though obviously they could move far more when not localizing the effort. Even with abilities, the human body was built to have limitations. Strongmen were plentiful, but those who could break the ton-per-muscle barrier were somewhat rarer. The number who were in the same league as Titan could almost be counted on a single hand.

“Stop stop stop!” Edgar leapt up from his seat and waved his arms in the air, as though his impassioned screeches hadn’t gotten the message across.

Owen obliged, forcing himself not to gloat at the slight crackle of snapping metal from inside the metal box as he allowed the bar to raise itself back up. Kirk hurriedly moved a few steps away, while Edgar fell back into his seat and began typing up a storm on his computer.

“I suppose this is the repayment for our hubris. Your strength is well-documented, after all. Tell me, do you have any idea what your actual maximum is these days?”

Returning the bar to its resting position, Owen let go and shook his head. “I stopped being able to use Hero gyms a long time ago, for obvious reasons, and even with a few ultra-dense weights there aren’t many other gyms that can do much for me. Working out is more of a way to turn off my brain and relax these days. Luckily my strength never goes down, only up, so it’s not like I can get rusty.”

“Fascinating.” Kirk produced a tablet from his lab coat pocket and began typing furiously. After a few moments, he looked up, glanced at Edgar, who was desperately clacking at keys, and realized he was being rude to their guest. “Since it seems the testing equipment will be down for a while, why don’t we use the time to answer the questions you mentioned?”

“It’s not so much a question as me wanting an opinion,” Owen said. “By now I assume you heard about the robots that attacked the other day. . .”

Owen went through the events as he knew them, sharing the information available to him while leaving out the only confidential bit—the stolen piece of experimental equipment—and otherwise bringing them up to speed. He was nearly done when Edgar walked over to listen in, waving off Owen’s attempt to backtrack.

“. . .so honestly, I’m not sure what to ask you here. I just feel like we’re all busting our heads against the walls trying to figure out what’s going on, and maybe some fresh, smart eyes could offer insights.”

Kirk and Edgar shared a look, one that was both easy to read and deeply worrying to Owen. As his story had gone on, they’d seemed less and less surprised by each progressive revelation. The stony resolve with which they faced one another now was a poor fit for the perpetually curious men he’d been dealing with.

“You don’t think-”

“I most certainly do think.”

“But how?”

“Parallel thinking, corporate espionage, simple-”

“Guys.” Owen leaned forward and spoke firmly, cutting off Edgar and causing him to jump slightly. “I’d like to be included in the conversation, if you don’t mind.”

“You explain. I’ll go check it.” Edgar didn’t wait for a reply, he merely rushed out through a glass and metal door into some deeper part of the lab that Owen had not been privy to viewing.

Kirk cleared his throat and shuffled awkwardly, but after a few seconds of hesitation, he finally pulled himself together and began speaking. “Titan, what you’ve described makes no sense. The way these robots are acting, the strategies in use, sacrificing one unit for another with no time to have received an order. . . It seems like nonsense, if we’re viewing these robots as independent, programmed units.”

Owen didn’t lean forward or shift his weight; he wanted to avoid coming off as intimidating for as long as possible. Still, there was a touch of edge to his voice as he pressed for more information. “I take it you have a theory?”

“A highly unsubstantiated one. Merely a hypothesis based on personal observations from a prior experiment,” Kirk warned. “But, all the patterns that make no sense in individual units do hold structure if each unit is viewed as a piece of a greater whole. All working toward singular goal, prioritizing success over conservation of resources or minimized losses.”

“Like ants from a hill,” Owen surmised. “Their goal is the survival of the queen.”

“Similar, but more like cells in a body,” Kirk corrected. “Each unit has no inherent value; it is only a piece of the true whole. Ants and bees and the like still operate under an individual consciousness, however primitive it may be. To these robots, it’s possible that they have no thoughts of their own, that all share in a single mind. That is to say, it may be that each robot is actually connected to the greater program running them all, thus why they are able to coordinate so perfectly.”

“Wait. . . do you think these things are alive?”

“No no, nothing like that,” Kirk said quickly. “Merely that rather than running a program on each unit’s hard drive, they are all connected to one source that runs remotely and controls the robots like appendages.”

“I’m with you now.” Owen doubted he was really getting all the intricacies of what Kirk was trying to tell him, but he’d at least grabbed the gist. It was an interesting theory, definitely one that put those metal assholes in a new light. Unfortunately, that’s all it was at this point: a theory. “Is there even record of a machine that can do something like this?”

“The creations of Supers with technical abilities are largely classified, so I can’t say for certain how many functional units like what I described have existed, but I do know of at least one prototype that was created by those of the more mundane genius.” Kirk paused to look up at the mountain of a man before him then plunged onward. “Edgar and I made it years ago; in fact, it was one of our first projects together. There were serious issues, though, and we shelved it in the Mordent laboratory vaults until time and technology advanced to where we could perfect the design.”

“Seems like someone felt the time was ripe.” Edgar had reappeared though the doors, a vacant, haunted look on his face. “The prototype is gone, no record of it being checked out. Our work has been stolen.”

76.

Whatever else Owen could say about Mordent Holdings, they certainly didn’t falter in the face of an unexpected development.

Within five minutes of Kirk calling in the missing invention, dozens of privately-employed security officers swarmed through the lab’s doors. Owen was briefly spoken to as they uncovered why he was present in a restricted area. Once it was established that he had been with the docs, who had more clearance than nearly anyone else at Mordent, and that it was impossible for him to have taken anything without being seen, Owen was gently escorted out to the elevator and told to return to the penthouse.

He did so a bit begrudgingly; in truth, he felt like there was a lot more he could learn from Kirk about what this prototype machine had done, but it didn’t seem like a good time to press the issue. Even aside from the Mordent security picking apart their lab, neither one of the docs seemed to be taking the news well. Kirk had been flitting about, desperately coming up with new places were the device might have been, only to come up empty-handed. Edgar had been far worse, though. After announcing that the prototype was gone, he simply sat down in one of the rolling chairs near a computer and didn’t move. It had taken multiple attempts from security to get any information out of him while Owen was there; Edgar had seemed largely preoccupied with staring blankly at the wall.

Having accidentally set off a panic in his own home, Owen decided to double down and alert the other Heroes to what he’d uncovered. It wasn’t much—hell, technically it wasn’t really anything at all yet—but it might lead them to something real, eventually. That job was up to Jeremiah and the other Subtlety Heroes, thankfully. Owen’s only real focus was on kicking apart whatever defenses were there when they found these bots’ home base. Deep down part of him hoped there would be some tough obstacles. It had been a long time since he’d really had to push his limits. A genuine challenge might be nice.

That challenge wouldn’t be coming today, though. After sending his report to the other Heroes through Dispatch and puttering around the kitchen trying to make lunch that didn’t taste of grass and terrible, Owen finally gave in to the Sunday laziness and sank into the couch, picked up the remote, and flipped through the channels.

He’d managed to burn through about half an hour when a vibration on his leg caught his attention. Pulling out his phone, Owen saw the recent text from Galvanize about moving the Monday morning meeting back an hour, then noticed one stamped a few hours prior. Evidently it had come when things were more hectic. Owen pressed the small mail icon and saw a message from Lenny pop up.

Channel 44, 1:00 p.m. Don’t miss it.

Since the clock on his phone told Owen that it was already 1:23, he grabbed the remote and frantically began clicking through the channels, in such a hurry that the idea of punching in the numbers directly never even occurred to him. Arriving at last, he saw a stuffy, somewhat ruddy-faced man wearing what was clearly an expensive suit. For a moment, he was uncertain why Lenny wanted him to watch this dipshit, then a familiar voice came from off-screen and it all made sense.

“And what, pray-tell, is it you feel I should apologize for?”

The camera turned to Bubble Bubble, who looked as composed and put together as she’d ever been, a sharp contrast to the worn out man sitting across the desk from her. Owen stared at the screen, taking careful stock of his teammate. Something seemed slightly off about her. Same copper hair, same pale, freckled cheeks, same designer costume as she always wore. Then he looked in her eyes and it clicked. She wasn’t being demur and careful, wasn’t doing her best to be pretty yet inoffensive. Bubble Bubble was meeting her interviewer’s gaze head on, her eyes flashing with a confidence and fire Owen couldn’t recall ever witnessing in her before.

“Your position makes you a role model to countless little girls,” the man said, his voice raised higher than was called for. Owen might have missed the beginning of the interview, but he had a solid hunch that it hadn’t been going the way the host expected. “The least you can do is show remorse when you make a mistake.”

“I tell you what, I’ll be glad to make an apology.” Bubble Bubble leaned slightly forward, graceful as a falling rose petal, and smiled charmingly. “Why don’t you just tell me which part I should apologize for? Is it being lied to by a man who I only now know has a history of infidelity, or being naïve enough to trust someone I liked at his word? Perhaps you feel I owe everyone an apology for making a sober, informed decision to have sex with a fellow adult rather than stick to a centuries’ outdated ideal of feminine chastity. Or do I owe an apology for not being sorry that I was tricked, for standing up and refusing to let myself be blamed for another’s actions? You tell me, Mr. Biron, which one I should apologize for. Explain it to me, and the viewers at home, and I’ll be happy to say I’m sorry.”

The station cut to a commercial quickly, though not quite before the interview’s face grew a shade or two redder. As a commercial for dish soap began to play, Owen pressed a button on the still open phone in his hand, dialing up Lenny.

“Thought you’d have called earlier,” Lenny said, picking up after only a single ring.

“Just got the text,” Owen replied. “What in the hell did you tell that girl?”

“I told her the right call was to be aggressive and proud. She did nothing wrong, so instead of being conciliatory, she had to go on the attack. Show no shame, no fear, and keep calling out people for being assholes. Booked her on Robert Biron’s show to test the waters; he’s an aspiring talking head with too little brains to make it anywhere big. She’s more or less been wiping the floor with him for the last half hour.”

“Caught the tail end of a speech, I thought the guy was going to have a damn aneurysm,” Owen said.

“This is only the beginning. If she keeps up doing this well, Bubble Bubble might just end up coming out ahead in this scandal. Speaking of, a little bird told me there was a lot of action around the Mordent building today. Anything your agent needs to be aware of?”

“No, for once this isn’t my problem.” As an ad for Hero-endorsed candy bars ended, Owen saw the now-familiar set reappear.

“Gotta let you go, Lenny. I don’t want to miss a moment of this.”

77.

“All right team, this is going to be a big week for us.”

Galvanize was somehow awake and peppy on Monday morning without the aid of caffeine, a talent more than one person had theorized might be his actual super-power. Around him, the others looked more or less like half-risen zombies, save for Bubble Bubble, who seemed unusually chipper. Despite being pulled in for an “image consultation” with Mr. Greene after Sunday’s interview, it was evident she was still riding on high on her small victory and the hope that all was not entirely lost. Only time would tell if the strategy actually paid off, but Owen was content just to see life returning to her eyes. It was more than had been there before, in all honesty.