Sunset found me back at the café, pretending to be fascinated by "Five sure ways to tell if he likes you!" and other urgent magazine articles. I'd gotten another hot chocolate, mostly to excuse my use of their space while I waited.
I wasn't feeling hungry.
The slow pace of a stakeout — the timeless unthinking receptivity, smooth minutes slipping by, where even the occasional scrittch of pen on paper as I took note of the noteworthy was not so much a disruption but another step in a stately, silent dance — was very soothing to me.
This was something I could do.
The impression of military organization conveyed by the base was reinforced by the snippets of conversation I heard: the contextual switches between informal bantering and formal precision, the jargon they used, the very way they held themselves… all seemed military to me.
Or at least, enough like the military I'd seen in movies to make me draw the connection, and subtly different enough that it didn't feel like an act.
At the same time, it didn't feel like this was an actual military.
No one used names or titles — always and only nicknames. Even when taking orders from or reporting to someone who was obviously in command. That couldn't be normal.
Could it?
If it were abnormal, what would it mean? Some kind of special force, staffed by… well… special forces? Ex-military mercenaries? Or were the nicknames just the hench equivalent of a cape mask, a way of covering one's identity?
I thought I had a hard count, too: perhaps thirty who felt military, and another dozen who didn't fit the profile. About half were clearly engaged in maintenance, or possibly construction. Most of the rest sat at desks, and a couple looked to be medical specialists of some kind.
I had yet to see anyone leave. I could tell where at least some of the doors were by the guards posted there, and feel other cracks and crannies through which insects had found their way into the base, but no sense yet of how they handled deliveries, or put people on the streets at need. There was enough construction work going on that you'd think they'd have to take deliveries… but there were supplies in there for a long time.
Or a lot of people.
I wasn't sure which was the more disturbing prospect.
Coil's office, once I dared to move individual insects in, hiding them where I didn't think anyone could see, revealed surprisingly little: he sat at his computer. Sometimes he typed. Once, a meal was brought in to him. Rarely, he called someone to him, and gave them clipped instructions.
Tantalizing hints regarding other bases surfaced occasionally.
I was almost certain now that he wasn't a Tinker, but rather a Thinker: all he was doing was sitting and typing, and there wasn't even a workshop in his office. Conceivably, he could be a software-Tinker or something like that… but then there would have been a lot more automated defenses in his base, instead of these soldiers. At one point, Coil called a group of six, whom I'd tentatively identified as leadership, together to attend him… but only offered anticlimax.
"Empire Eighty Eight continues to rip itself apart, and it does not do to interrupt an enemy in the process of making a mistake. I will now survey the base. Captains, as you were."
Coil himself was the only one to use ranks and names, ever punctilious in the courtesy he offered. He was always 'Sir' to the others, and they in turn were 'Mr.' or 'Captain' and a name. A real name? No way to be sure, but I recorded them even so. The girl, he always referred to as 'pet'. 'His pet.' I wasn't sure how that meshed with his otherwise faultless manners, but I didn't like it.
There were no exceptions for the courtesies he required.
Maybe once it would have seemed funny to have armed soldiers saluting and snapping to attention when a bone-gaunt man in an opaque bodysuit walked into a room, wrapped tight enough to let everyone count his ribs or measure his package. But these days, wearing a mask meant cape. Very few capes actually wore a cape, come to it, but almost all of us wore a costume. Very nearly every one of the known exceptions didn't need a costume, because they didn't really look human.
Of course, there was really no way to tell if there were large numbers of capes hiding in plain sight, using their powers undetectably. I had concealed myself for months that way. Arguably, sitting in the café and feeling the underground base out from blocks away, I still was.
Either way, putting on a costume like that was a public assertion of power. Something like wearing a military uniform, but heavier. Full of threat and promise both. Halloween aside, it wasn't the kind of act people put on. Not for long anyway, or perhaps 'not twice' would be the better way to put it.
And more, Coil walked with the kind of absolute confidence I had rarely seen even among capes.
Just thrice before, in fact.
Once, and once only, I had seen a man all but ignore a rampaging force of nature in the unshakable belief that his power justified his cause and arrogance both, that he could break anyone he met at need or merely at whim… that all others were spear carriers in his own grand destiny, whose lives would find meaning only as a footnote to his own inexorable victory. Kaiser had sat his metal throne with just such an armor of contempt.
Not, in the end, proof against Lung.
Twice now, I had stood face to face with Armsmaster, felt the focus and the drive that had carried him to command of a city's Protectorate, that had made him perhaps the second-most powerful Tinker in the world (the number one position was uncontested; the debates about the other slots unceasing). I couldn't say I understood him, the times we'd talked, and I'd never seen him in a fight, but he walked like one who didn't count odds or costs once he'd chosen a goal. Like a man who could be killed, but never turned aside.
Nor had he turned aside, even for the Endbringers. A Tinker, with all a Tinker's fragility and good cause for fighting at range, he was on record as having fought in melee against all three of them, which took a kind of unsparing and relentless courage (or insanity) rare even among the heroes. Rare in part because it so often led to an early death.
Three times I had seen Lung with my own eyes, and three times survived to tell the tale. Lung himself, out of a fight, had an air of lazy arrogance, of power slumbering comfortably, an almost catlike unconcern for anyone in his presence. In a fight, he came alive with a sort of dreadful eagerness: catlike there too in the joyful desire to inflict fear and pain upon his prey. In either situation, there was neither hesitation nor doubt in his eyes, only a limitless certainty in his own strength: a belief that all his losses were temporary; all his victories inevitable.
One fine day I might have to test the truth of that belief with my life.
Coil's certainty was different from each of these, more poised, more watchful, but no less immutable. He weighed and measured with every glance, sifting through his subordinates like a man choosing the correct screwdriver from a drawer, and with exactly as much concern for them as a careful worker might have had for his tools. If the way he bore himself was any indication, it was clear that Coil was a cape. And a very powerful one.
Or completely insane.
Or both.
The Bond-villain base… wasn't actually helpful as a tie-breaker.
This represented a staggering investment of resources, but didn't necessarily bring any security against the Protectorate. Endbringer shelters weren't designed to withstand Endbringers directly; they were designed to withstand being in the same zip code as an Endbringer for a short time. There were a dozen capes I knew of who could destroy it singlehanded over the course of half an hour, and about half of them were in the Protectorate. And that was just the ones I knew about! Also, while an underground base was a pretty good place to hide, it wasn't perfect. I had found out about it. Lung knew.
Lung was on the list of capes who could crack it if he chose.
Lung had sent me, instead of going himself.
The base didn't make sense, not unless he had some answer for that problem. Some reason to believe that he could prevent such powerhouses from calling, or some reason to believe he could stand them off.
Or capture them.
That… prison? Vault? It disturbed me. I'd gotten a handful of insects in, through the air vents, spread them out through the vast interior space in an attempt to feel it out, find out who or what warranted those guards.
They'd vanished.
Normally, bugs get in everywhere and it takes an extended and determined effort to exterminate them. Not even overwhelming force can guarantee complete extermination: cockroaches were notoriously expected to be the last survivors of a nuclear holocaust. Whatever was in there, killed bugs. Ate them, poisoned them… lasered them out of the air, for all I knew.
I had no idea. Not enough bugs for vision, and the sounds… it sounded like an enormous animal, breathing heavily. That is, when it didn't sound like a young woman, screaming, or like a roaring beast, ravenous and maddened.
A possible ally against Coil, who held… her?... captive, and one I'd investigate further, but if I ever were to open those cell doors I'd want to do it from a safe distance.
If there was one.
Perhaps worse, one of the apartments was presently occupied by someone sleeping. Sleeping right now meant nocturnal, and likely up to something. The fact that there was a mannequin in the room with him, dressed in formalwear was disturbing on a couple of levels: who bothered to do up all the buttons and get the layers to drape right? It looked less like he'd posed the mannequin, and more like the mannequin itself had been wearing the costume out and about. More chillingly, there was a mask with the outfit, and that meant a cape.
No one I knew or had heard of, and I was pretty sure I'd heard of all the local capes. A new face? Or a new arrival? Disturbing on its own, it was a reminder that Coil liked playing his cards close to his vest: I'd never even heard of Coil employing another cape — he was known for only using normals. How many more capes might he actually control, secretly? Today, or in his future plans?
There were two dozen apartments in that section.
I'd really been hoping those apartments were just for his 'captains.'
I guessed that settled the question about whether he was a Bond villain or not: if he was shooting for two dozen capes under him at this one base, then he probably did want to make a moonbase (Simurgh permitting), irradiate gold reserves everywhere, or carve out a small country for himself.
Of course, if he really was a Thinker, and he really was as strong a cape as he seemed… maybe he wasn't insane, just ambitious. All the more reason to be cautious, particularly since he seemed to take great pains to be underestimated. But if he needed to be underestimated, then that itself was a weakness. I'd done more damage to E88 with the right phone call than with my swarms…
Then again, rather than getting into an information fight like that with a Thinker, maybe I should just stick with bugs. Lots of bugs.
I froze. Coil himself had been walking about his base, 'surveying' it, but he was… was he… he was leaving.
He wasn't walking quickly, but he was walking with purpose. I had barely made it to my little scooter, leaving a generous tip behind at my table instead of waiting for the check, just as the van moved out of the underground parking garage. I would have lost contact if the driver hadn't been carefully driving two miles under the speed limit, instead of the customary five to ten over.
A careful parallel course two blocks north left me unprepared for the turn southward, and it took some doing to dodge across two lanes of traffic and come to a stop once I picked them up again, in a garage. Coil stepped out of the van, and I took the risk of having one of the fleas in the van leap directly to him.
No reaction I could detect.
He was moving again, again just slightly below the speed limit. Cautious. The van seemed to be retracing its route, and I abandoned it in favor of following Coil.
Fifteen of the quietest, most uneventful, nerve-wracking minutes of my life later, I had learned that Coil lived in small house on a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs. And drove a Prius. And either had no idea that I'd been following him, or was playing a game of some kind. I would have said the former, but… Thinker.
Probably.
I looked at the quiet neighbourhood, reached out, feeling the area. I'd be back to search it some time when he wasn't there. When no one was there — I didn't want to do to anyone what Bakuda had done to my family.
···---···
Dawn Sunday found me doing a jogging loop along a trail that ran beside a creek.
It was nice: packed earth, instead of concrete, shaded by old growth trees green with new leaves.
Better footing than I used to get jogging down the Docks and Boardwalk.
And the time was perfect: early morning stillness lasted a little longer on Sundays, and the early morning air was just crisp enough to be uncomfortable standing still. No ocean view upon which the rising sun might lay out a golden path, and no waves to break in rhythm with my stride, but the trees and rippling water noises made for a very pleasant space in which to run. I wasn't really sure if it made for better scenery than my old running routes, but it was a nice change.
The houses in the area were definitely more expensive, though. And the few other joggers or cyclists I saw out at this hour were likewise wearing more expensive gear: synthetic fabrics and new shoes, and some of the bicycles probably cost more than my Vespa.
No one opening up stores, or getting ready for the breakfast rush, either.
I hadn't pushed my insects inside, though I had placed one inside the bumper of the Prius. Until I knew Coil was gone, I wasn't going to take that risk. Worst case, he decided to take Sunday off… and I got in some running practice. Which I needed anyway. There were threats I couldn't run away from, but there were also threats I could.
Besides, I'd gotten to enjoy the running, the rhythmic exertion, the way my skin could be cool-to-cold, and still comfortably warm within, the slight burn in my legs as I forced them up another hill… it was satisfying on some basic, physical, level. And it was fun feeling the world wake up, the insects shifting their behaviours as the sun crept above the horizon and a new day began.
···---···
Coil apparently did believe in being early to rise, though not dawn early to rise. I was working on my eighth circuit of the loop, having taken a half hour off in the middle to stretch, drink water, and watch the morning sky, when I felt the Prius pull out.
I slowed to a walk, and started heading back toward my scooter. Back in the cul-de-sac, insects gathered. Quietly. I was going to take my time here. Leave no trace.
Paranoid?
Maybe. Lung wanted me dead. E88 might want me dead over Kaiser. One line of thinking ran 'What more could Coil add to that?' The other, saner, line ran 'Why find out? I have too many problems already.'
And then there was the third line of thought, the one that said all I needed was to piss off the Merchants too and I'd have the whole set.
I was trying to ignore that one.
While I was idly musing on my walk, I'd also been busy searching.
Brief concentrations of bugs to give vision and context to the searching swarms had quickly established that the house was empty. In more ways than one: I could tell that Coil liked extra bacon with his eggs, did the dishes immediately rather than leaving them to soak, and read the morning paper with his breakfast. But his bookshelves were almost empty, and the whole house was… too tidy. Not really lived in. Everything in its place. Another sign he was a Thinker? Or just tidy-minded?
There was an office upstairs, with a computer… but nothing supervillainous was lying around in the open.
Some Powerpoint presentations, from which I gathered that this Thomas Calvert apparently had a job with Fortress Construction — the company that had gotten the contract to repair and upgrade the Endbringer shelters a few years back. That helped explain how he had his own underground base, but not entirely. That much money, that many people, that many work orders, the zoning… he could have hidden his own project in the overhaul, but there would have been literally hundreds or thousands of people who could have noticed what he was doing.
Maybe no one had. Maybe people just saw what they expected to see. Maybe he'd made them see what he wanted them to see.
The money side of things was even more disturbing, in its own way. It was well known that the Protectorate employed a bunch of its Thinkers making sure that the economy wasn't destroyed by Parahuman activity, and a couple of the smaller countries had seen currency collapses and hyperinflation when a cape went totally unchecked.
It could be and had been worse: several countries simply weren't there anymore at all, dissolved into a no-man's-land of cape warlords. Regardless, embezzling from Endbringer defense spending was the kind of thing I would have expected to draw extremely rapid and unfavorable attention.
Which meant that either he had access to that kind of money directly — and it was a lot more than his gang should be producing, particularly since I was pretty sure that highly-trained mercenaries charged way more in salary and benefits than gangbangers did — or he had found a way to beat the massed Thinkers of the Protectorate. Either way, he was deliberately lowballing his organization, slumming it to pretend to be another street gang. What could possibly justify that deceit?
There was a collection of phone chargers laid out on a mat to the left of the computer screen, balancing the mousepad to its right. He was apparently as fussy about this as everything else, as sunlight had faded noticeable outlines where the phones were normally placed. An iPhone and a flip phone were missing. A smartphone of unusual design was still there, still plugged in.
Three phones was a curious number. Two phones, and I might have thought one for each identity. Several phones, and I might have thought he rotated between disposable phones, the way I was doing. But three phones, two of them expensive… and one left behind. I put my hands on the small of my back and stretched backward, seeing the blue sky between the white clouds while I stared at the phone.
It was maddeningly familiar.
I began pulling my insects out, leaving a sprinkling where there had always been insects in the house.
Cell phones had been bad news for me.
My mother had died, trying to make a call on one. For months, Emma, Madison, and Sophia had made a point of showing me their phones. Asking if I liked their new cell phone straps. Commenting on model upgrades. Software upgrades. Varying their ringtones and text alert sounds. Sophia had even gone so far as to get a second phone, just to…
Huh.
So that's where I knew that shape from.
And that explained the budget. And where he was getting a trustworthy core group for his 'mercenaries.' And where he was getting his capes. Though not why he was disguising his actions as a gang. What could be important enough to justify an operation on this scale, though? It would have had to have been sanctioned at the very highest levels.
Did Lung know?
It was hard to imagine him stooping to subtlety… but it would explain why he wasn't targeting Coil directly. Lung had fought the Brockton Bay Protectorate before, but only to count coup — mild villain-on-hero violence could draw a bigger response than lethal villain-on-villain. If I squinted, it made sense as an attempt to get me to do something which Lung himself could not be seen to have a hand in doing.
Was this what Lung's sense of humor looked like?
Or his sense of revenge?
Either way, I was glad I'd been cautious. There'd be more digging to do, on Coil and on the others, but I felt like I'd avoided making a real mistake this weekend.