[SG] A View Of Genocide: The Ballad of Richard Less #1 (2/2)

[Whistling in the Dark]

[THIS IS SIDE TWO. IF YOU HAVE NOT YET SEEN SIDE ONE, THEN SOMETHING 
IS WRONG. THANK YOU.]



February 14, 1997
Division 6
Newfoundland, Canada

     Richard Less stripped off his thick gloves as the outer doors closed.
He rubbed his hands together -- even the outer room was cold enough that he
could see his breath. "Goddamn canucks," he muttered, lighting a cigarette.
"Damn inconsiderate of them to put their middle of nowhere in the middle of
nowhere."
     "You have to admit, it's secure," Bankert said. Bankert had been an
M.I.B. Special Agent Less had worked with before. With the Bureau blown,
Bankert had gone to ground with warrants hanging over his head and a nearly
blown cover story. Less had extracted and recruited him within sixteen hours
of accepting Wollstonecraft's offer.
     "Of course it's secure. No one wants to come here. Do you know why
America never conquered Canada?"
     "It would have involved going to Canada?"
     "Damn straight." The two walked into the inner chamber. Less handed his
parka and gloves to one of the workers. He straighened his black suit coat.
Black suit. Vision enhancing sunglasses. Cigarette in his mouth. It was like
he'd never lost his job, only now they didn't even have to *pretend* to
follow the rules. "How's our friend doing?"
     "She is remarkable," Doctor Unstable murmured from his terminal. "So
gloriously perfect. Her cells have acclimated far better than we could have
dreamed...."
     "She's angry," Doctor Science -- Abnormal, the girl -- said from her
own station. "And scared."
     "Of course she's scared," Less said, mildly. "She's used to being in
complete control. All powerful. We've taken that away from her." He took a
long puff off his cigarette, before crushing it in the convenient ashtray.
"All right, let's get this show started. Bankert, stay in here. Doctor
Pepper? Get the stew ready. Doctor Unorthodox? The first protocols, I
think."
     Doctor Stanley Unorthodox -- one of the more twisted mad scientists
Richard Less had had the 'pleasure' of working with -- scowled. "And good
morning to you too, Mister Less."
     "Sorry, sorry. All my politeness got frozen out of me during my morning
commute. I think it was about the time my balls dropped off from the cold.
Good *morning,* Doctor Unorthodox. You're looking well today. Did you catch
the Curling on the CBC last night? My, sports are manly, aren't they?" He
stepped around Doctor Unorthodox. "Let's go to work."
     The blast doors were triple reinforced, designed to take even
monumental damage and still hold up. If the subject got free, it wouldn't
matter in the long run, unless she managed to burn out all the oxygen in the
room before she got through them. Less figured maybe one time out of ten
she'd kill herself trying to escape.
     It didn't matter. She couldn't even get off the table she was strapped
to. Angry as a Hellcat, still in the green bodysuit, hands strapped to the
sides, a bar holding her pelvis down, legs slightly apart where they were
strapped in. A fetishist's dream, but this was just business. The table
underneath her was molded, so her body fit in it perfectly. It both gave
them better sensor readings and increased the claustrophobia she would be
feeling. Naturally, an overly bright light bulb was shining down onto her
face. There were psychological reasons to do that but honestly, Less just
felt it added to the theatricality of the moment. You couldn't break someone
without a halogen light on their face. It was unprofessional. "Happy
Valentine's Day!" he said, jauntily, walking over to the subject, Doctor
Unorthodox just behind him. "We got you some chocolates and lingerie, so I'm
pretty sure you'll have to put out tonight."
     Danielle MacPherson, nee Potentiate, also called Dangerousgirl, glared
at him and pulled at her bonds anew. "*Less,*" she spat. "I should have
known you were pulling these morons' strings!"
     "Temper temper, Miss MacPherson. These 'morons' created you, remember.
You owe them your very existence." He ran a hand along her ribs, not quite
touching her breasts. Tradecraft, as always. It was dehumanizing.
Objectifying. Useful, for what was to come. "You know, Stan -- I have to
admit. Your team has a good sense of architecture. I always thought
Potentiate was a little too pneumatic, but MacPherson's growing into quite
the hot number."
     "It's the advantage of working with a second generation," Doctor
Unorthodox said, curtly. "You can correct the prototype's flaws."
     "You're a dead man," Dangerousgirl snapped. "All of you!"
     "I'm sure we are," Less said, mildly. "But not today." He smiled,
looking into her eyes. His own were obscured both by the sunglasses and the
light behind his head. "It must be hard. All that thermonuclear power, and
you can't use any of it. You can't even stop *us* from using it."
     "When my sister gets here--"
     "Your sister?" Less looked over his shoulder. "What does she mean 'her
sister?'"
     "Potentiate anthropomorphizes  her," Doctor Unorthodox said. "She
encourages her to--"
     "Oh, of *course.* Dear Miss Exemplar." Less chuckled. "I don't think
that has the same charm as 'Spandex Babe,' do you?" He leaned closer to
Dangerousgirl. "Within two minutes of your subdual, two divisions of the
British Army's Special Air Services staged a four front surprise attack on
the Greater Metropolitan Boston Area. They brought all their best toys with
them, and their orders were to commit the maximum damage to both property
and the civilian population. Without immediate intercession, the death toll
would quickly hit the thousands." He chuckled a bit more at her expression.
"I'm afraid Exemplar and the rest of your little gang are going to be busy
saving lives for quite some time."
     Dangerousgirl opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She clearly had
nothing to say. And she was so angry her voice couldn't carry it. Less
glanced at the indicator on the wall behind her -- the one that showed the
restraint capacity. Her nuclear powers were spiking, but containment was
going well.
     "Of course, you're wondering why the British Army would possibly attack
Boston. Well, besides tradition, anyhow." Less stood up, walking away but
still in sight of the bound heroine. "The short answer is 'Psybernet.' The
long answer... well, would probably bore you. Suffice it to say the
Unimaginable League Amoral has been preparing for years, and that
preparation is showing fruit." His smile grew slightly mean. "That also
means that every time -- *every time* Trashman or the Dash or Exemplar or
Unorthodox Lass--"
     "Girl," Doctor Unorthodox muttered.
     "--whatever takes down one of the crack S.A.S. soldiers... well,
Psybernet's mind control program automatically finds the nearest weak mind
and assumes control to replace that soldier. So the Masked Bruce
xolchapulses a soldier to save a mother of two, and that mother reaches
down, picks up the soldier's gun, and starts shooting. Don't you get it?
They're not playing cops and robbers this time. They're going to take over
the world."
     Dangerousgirl's expression was priceless.
     "And the sad thing is, this is still just a diversion. We're just
distracting them. Forcing them back. Forcing them to do things they don't
want to do... and making sure that no one... *no one* is coming to find you,
'Dani.' You're all alone, you have no powers, and no one's going to save
you. Do you understand?"
     "Why me?"
     "'Why me,' she says. Why you? Don't you get it? You're a weapon,
Dangerousgirl. You're *our* weapon. Pygmalion has Galatea back, and he's
ready to finish sculpting."
     "No way," Dangerousgirl said, slightly horsely. "I won't help you. My
sister--"
     "You don't have a *sister!*" Less shouted, slamming the table next to
Dangerousgirl's head. "Don't you get it? Don't you understand that? You
don't have a sister. You don't have a brother. You don't have family. You're
not *human.* These fine men and women *built* you." Less stood straight, and
straightened his coat. "They had advantages we didn't, back in the old days.
When we built Lars MacPherson, we had to try over and over again to create a
viable subject, and then we had to wait for him to grow up. We had to
*raise* him, and that meant he thought he was some kind of person. With
Potentiate... well, they took the raw materials of a woman and they broke
them down and rebuilt them into a new kind of prototype weapon. But you?
Thanks to the Crimson Crowbar and some alien bits and pieces of technology,
they could grow you in a few days, and tailor you however they liked. They
could make you a perfect weapon. They could map your every neuron. They
could make you *exactly* what they wanted."
     "My *sister* broke your control," Dangerousgirl snapped. "My
personality was randomized. I'm not the servile little--"
     "A blip in the program -- nothing more," Less said. "Yes, the prototype
managed to throw a complication in -- but just because an operating system
corrupts on install doesn't mean you throw the computer away." Less smiled a
bit more. "You just reformat the hard drive and start over."
     Dangerousgirl's eyes grew wide. "You can't mean--"
     "Sure I can. Like I said -- they know your every cell and every neuron,
Dangerousgirl. And nothing in the hodge-podge you call a personality is
real. It's just random bits and pieces copied out of the prototype, with
some other bits and pieces thrown in and a couple of years worth of corrupt
log files." He looked over at Doctor Unorthodox, and nodded.
     Doctor Unorthodox lifted his wrist communicator to his lips. "Proceed,
Doctor Pepper."
     "They'll find me," Dangerousgirl half-whispered.
     Less shrugged. "Assuming someone has the chance to look? I'm not sure
how. You have no idea how middle of nowhere we are this time. And even if
you did?" He smiled a bit. "It's not impossible that some lucky son of a
bitch might notice power being piped into this place. We can do all the rest
right here, but electricity's not so simple. It was a security concern." He
leaned forward again. "But now you're here. And those nuclear powers you
can't access right now?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "They're powering
this installation now. We're as self contained as a nuclear submarine, and
even harder to find."
     He smiled, letting that register... and watching as her face began to
show surprise. "What--"
     "Oh, that's our friends in the booth. We're just getting started. You'd
be surprised how much emotion is biochemical and electrochemical and...
well, chemical is the point. And like I belabored earlier, they know you,
from your glands down to your cells. And so it's time to make a few
changes."
     "You... you -- don't..."
     "Probably the most disorienting part is your anger. Your anger is
rational -- we stole you, after all. Or reclaimed our property. But in
either case, we'd expect you to be pissed. And you are pissed, right?"
     Dangerousgirl's eyes were wide. She started shaking her head. "Of
course," she murmured. "I... I have to be--"
     "As it turns out, you don't 'have' to be anything," Less said. "We're
taking that anger from you. Evening it out. You're still afraid -- we're not
touching your fear. Not yet. Your fear's useful. But we're taking that
defiance, that will, that rage from you."
     Less checked his watch. "And right about now..." he glanced at the wall
monitor she couldn't see. "Oh, there we go. You're starting to feel warm.
No, less 'warm,' and more 'warmth.' Warmth towards me. I don't seem so bad
all of a sudden, do I? I seem like I could be pretty cool. If I weren't so
evil and nasty and devoted to all the things you hate, you could even like
me." He glanced over his sunglasses, his eyes looking down into hers for the
first time. "Couldn't you?"
     Dangerousgirl flushed slightly. The fear was still there, and confusion
was on her face. "I... this isn't real," she said softly.
     "No, it's not. But then, neither were your other emotions. These all
come from the same place, you know. Everything you've ever felt was
artificial -- so why not put in our own artificialities?"
     Dangerousgirl looked away. She was quite flushed now, embarrassed,
according to the board. Not wanting to acknowledge the feelings beginning to
settle through her.
     Less reached down, and very carefully tickled her stomach.
     Dangerousgirl shrieked, bucking. He continued tickling. "Stop it!" she
shouted, laughing. Laughing harder. Responding like this were play. Like
this were fun -- the sort of thing you did with someone you liked. Within
seconds howling with laughter, tears in her eyes--
     Less stood back up, letting her compose, a small smile still on her
face. He waited, letting the fear begin to change that smile again. "There
you are... you just realized you enjoyed that. The man who stole you, who's
changing you, and less than five minutes in you're enjoying a game with him.
Do you begin to understand, Dangerousgirl? Do you begin to realize just what
we're capable of?"
     Dangerousgirl looked down, and chuckled. "It's not real," she said, not
unkindly. "Yeah, I like you right now. I can feel it. I can feel it
spreading, like you're pouring foam over my brain. But it's not real."
     Less shrugged. "What's real got to do with it? I mean, does real
*really* matter? Is it really so bad to be fake?"
     "Well, sure," she said with a light laugh. "Of course it is."
     Less nodded, and leaned close. He whispered into her ear. "Danielle...
you're not real, remember? *You're* fake."
     The blood drained from the girl's face. Now *that* emotional reaction
was real.
     Less smiled. Good planning and a positive attitude always yielded such
good results.

                              * * * * * *

October 20, 2007
The Combat Zone
Boston, Massachusetts

     Drinking Beefeaters straight from the bottle is one step up from
drinking turpentine straight from the bottle, but it's got eight or nine
steps over coffee for waking you up in the late afternoon. "You know, I'm in
the mood for Chinese," I said, leading the pair into what I called the
Greenroom but what was really a room full of grow lamps and high end bud.
     "We got you your gin," the chick said. "Now we want some information."
     "The gin was just your way of being polite," I said. "Don't mistake
manners for payment in kind."
     "You know, I've had just about--"
     "*Cairi,*" the dead kid snapped. "Calm down. He'll get to it."
     "That's all -- he'll *get* to it? I think there's several hundred
thousand dead children--"
     "Million," I chimed in.
     "What?"
     "The death tolls were in the millions. Jesus, there's a reason they
called them the Genocidal War. I suppose World War III would have worked
too, but you know -- the media always names this shit, don't they?"
     "Hawaiian," the dead kid said. "We're going on the offensive."
     "That's never a good idea. Offensives lead to mistakes. Mistakes lead
to war. War leads to--"
     "American Authority?" The chick's voice dripped venom.
     "Damn straight. Though thinking about it, they couldn't call it World
War III. It wasn't declared against countries. Not technically."
     "Hawaiian--"
     "And besides, Germany would have to be involved. We only call them
World Wars when Germany gets involved." I started rolling a medium jay. "I
wonder if they have a copyright or trademark on the name. I sure as fuck
would."
     "Richard," the dead kid said, his voice quiet now. "We need to know
who's responsible for this."
     "Define 'this.'"
     "Giant concrete walls in Boston. Exclusionary zones. Federal, state and
local legislation against heroes. The rise of crime in the streets." The
chick was serious now. Angry still -- but I caused that in people. "We need
to know who."
     "And we need to know why," the dead kid added.
     I looked at them, and chuckled. "And you honestly think Chinese food is
out of the question? I may be the only one in the room with a metabolism,
but if we're gonna take that kind of time, I'm gonna get pretty fucking
hungry."
     "You mean you know the answers?" The chick sounded surprised.
     "What's my name?" I asked her.
     "Richard Less."
     "What do you call me, again?"
     "Mister Less."
     I held the jay towards her. After a long moment, she squinted and the
end of it lit.
     I took a long drag. "Then don't sound so surprised."

                              * * * * * *

March 5, 1997
Division 6
Newfoundland, Canada

     "--have the shipyards fully converted within a week. We should start
getting ships, ordinance, armor -- whatever we need from Bath Iron Works,
Charlston, Alameda...." Nimbus looked smug. The video screen was high
quality, and showed every smug glance like the villain was in the room.
     "Sounds like a party," Less said, taking a swig of coffee. "Any trouble
with sabotage or partisans or--"
     Nimbus chuckled. "Eventually, maybe. When they learn how to circumvent
our methods. Right now, between the sensor probes Frakes has provided and
Psybernet's mental sweeps--"
     "Yeah, about that. Isn't she overextending? I mean, she's mind
controlling -- what, a couple thousand troops now? More?"
     "Significantly more. You don't understand. As we take new territory, we
also construct new repeater towers. Between those towers, amplifying and
enhancing her telepathic signal, and each new mind adding to the overall
pool... she's not becoming overextended. She's ascending. Each new mind adds
to her own. If we don't overburden the infrastructure--"
     "Yeah, I'm officially not interested in the details." Less half-smiled.
"Does this mean you don't need Galatea after all?"
     "Not hardly. It takes time to string up the necessary repeaters. We
can't advance too quickly or we'll lose the horde. That's where the
Primaries have come in. Smashing tank columns. Shattering defenses. Deep
recon. You name it. But we have our limits, as distant as they might be. The
girl's power--"
     "Yeah, she's a spitfire all right. We're slightly ahead of schedule
here. I'm hoping that by April--"
     "That would be convenient, Less." Nimbus smiled. "I have to admit, I
was resistant to your recruitment, but to date your advice has been sound
and your work stellar."
     "And you know, I'm just thrilled you're happy."
     Nimbus frowned slightly. "Your tone could be better, though."
     "You can bounce anti-tank ordinance off your skin but you can't take
your feelings being hurt? Now that doesn't bode well for the Pax
Unimaginable."
     Nimbus's frown grew for a long moment, before his face split into a
grin and he laughed. "I like you, Less," he said. "In the coming days, we'll
need men on our side who can tell truth to power. Oracle was right. With you
a part of our victory, the coming new world order will be stronger."
     "Always a pleasure to be of service. So have you gotten around to
killing Dreamweaver, yet?"
     "Honestly, Less -- you need to get over that. The time to
indiscriminately kill teenagers just isn't right." He half smiled.
     "That's true. The *right* time to kill her was forty-five minutes
before you started the Valentine's Day attack. As it is, you need--" Less's
watch beeped. "I've got to motor. Reinforcement and education. It takes time
to make a good statue, you know."
     "Yes yes, of course." Nimbus smiled a bit more. "Do your best to have
her by April. We're going to want you back in America soon. There's much to
do here and no one knows the lay of the land--"
     "Don't be impatient. Carthage wasn't burnt down in a day. But I'll see
what I can do. Out." Less flicked the switch that broke the connection. He
glanced down at the incidence reports -- most of the United States coasts
were secure, along with much of Mexico proper. After regrouping and setting
up repeaters, the march inland wouldn't take long at all.
     Less took another sip of coffee. Idiotic generals. They kept sending in
ground forces, trying to draw the ULA's forces into a field confrontation.
Hadn't they figured out the nature of Psybernet's mental web yet? Missiles.
Unmanned drones. Shit that couldn't be suborned and that wouldn't replace
any enemy losses as quickly as they fell. Why the Hell hadn't Andy Awesome
or Trashman or Smartman....
     Less snorted, throwing the report on the desk. "That's why they had
us," he muttered. "Bet they're glad you dumped us now, Bill fucking
Clinton." He got up, and headed out into the corridor. He had to go down to
the Conservatory.
     The Conservatory was so named because Pseudo Science thought sculptors
sculpted in conservatories. Less had tried to explain to the moron that he
was thinking of composers, but by then the name had stuck. It was nicely
appointed -- much more so than the rest of the research station. But then,
this is where the real work was taking place.
     Danielle was sitting at the table when he came in, sipping orange juice
and reading a book. She looked up and smiled. "Is it time already?" she
asked.
     "For training? Not quite yet. Soon, Danielle. Soon." Less smiled,
sitting down and setting his coffee mug on the table. "How are you feeling
today?"
     "*Wonderful,*" she said. "I had such a good night's sleep. Do you know
what I mean? When you get to bed early and sleep all the way through, and
you wake up five minutes before the alarm just because your body's ready to
get up?"
     Less's smile didn't slip. Coffee and cigarettes in large quantities
meant Less's sleep hadn't been that peaceful since the Carter
Administration. "Sure," he said. "No better feeling."
     "You know, there really *is* no better feeling." She considered. "Ice
cream comes close, but that's different."
     "Sure. So, no nightmares or anything?"
     "Of course not."
     Less nodded. Nightmares were a red flag -- a sign Danielle's
subconsciousness was fighting her new perspective. But almost from the
beginning she *hadn't* fought her new perspective. First they'd rewritten
her emotions, and then they'd started building associations. If anything, it
was easier than they hoped.
     Less wasn't comfortable when the job was easy. There were supposed to
be problems and setbacks and a contest of wills. As it was, he was running
out of diversions and entertainments for the girl. "So, should we take
another run at Parcheesi?"
     "God, I'm *bored* with Parcheesi," she said, rolling her eyes. In so
many ways, still such a teenager. Better mannered than before, maybe, and
she spoke like she was acting in some Victorian play, but it would come out
in moments of delight or pique. "We should try something with a little more
bite."
     "Like what? I'm a pretty mean hand at Monopoly."
     Danielle gave Less a look.
     "Hey, I'm trying. You have to give me some credit for that. Do you have
something in mind?"
     Danielle half-smiled. "Risk."
     "Risk? That'll take a few hours."
     "Maybe." She leaned back. "But if I'm going to be conquering the world
in a few weeks, it seems like I should get started with it. Don't you think?
     Less chuckled. "You know, I've never been beaten in Risk. Not even when
I was a kid."
     Danielle affected a deeper voice, almost phlegmatic in its tones. "Then
it pleases me... to be the first."
     "Huh?"
     Danielle giggled. "Nothing. A movie."
     "Some dumb kid's thing?"
     "I'll have you know I'm quoting Orson Welles."
     "I'll bet you are. I'll get the game."
     "I'll be waiting." She smiled, slightly saucily. "You don't like to
keep a girl waiting, do you?"
     "Never been my style," Less said, pushing up out of the chair. He
headed out, and down the hall.
     "Risk?" Bankert asked, matching his pace.
     "We must have a copy around here somewhere. We work with geeks."
     "I'll track it down. How's it going in there?"
     "Fine, fine."
     "Really?"
     "Sure." Less looked at Bankert. "Is she creeping you out too?"
     "Damn straight."
     "Good. I'd hate to think it was just me."

                              * * * * * *

October 20, 2007
The Combat Zone
Boston, Massachusetts

     "Let's take the questions in reverse order," I said, scooping out Mu
Shu Pork with a plastic fork.
     "What do you mean?" the chick asked. Despite everything, she was
munching on an eggroll.
     "You wanted to know who, and you wanted to know why. So let's start
with why. Why would someone in a position to either affect the government or
be the government want to screw over Boston and superheroes?"
     "I thought you knew the answers already."
     "And you know how I know them, sweet-ash? Because I did my homework.
You want to learn the truth? It's not enough to get the answers out of the
teacher's edition. You've got to see the work or you won't believe it down
in your guts." I looked her up and down. "Do you even have guts?:
     "Fear?" the dead kid asked.
     "That's part of it. What else?"
     "Power?" the chick asked.
     "Always." I grinned. "And what does power give you?"
     The dead kid's eyebrows went up. He got it. "Control," he said.
     "Exact-a-mundo." I had more pork. "Think about it. There's nothing but
control out there. Walls to cut neighborhoods off from each other. Criminals
that cause trouble for the populace but don't ever try to take over City
Hall, even though the police are completely overrun. Curfews and strict
authority, controlling everyone's movements and skimming money off the top.
It's like they're working both sides of the biggest protection scheme ever
made."
     "Both sides?" The chick looked interested at this. "Wait, in a
protection scheme, you either get paid or you trash a place, right?"
     "Yu-huh."
     "Are you saying the government is funding the gangs? That someone above
them is paying the Scullers?"
     "Nope." I washed down cooked noodles with gin. "I mean *both sides.*"
     The dead kid cocked his head. "So the everyday folks pay by being
scared and giving their control over...."
     The chick's eyes grew wide. "...and the crooks literally pay. Don't
they?"
     I grinned. "Drink deep from Capitalism's well, for she will never let
you go thirsty. Pass the fried rice."



IS THIS REALLY ALL A BIG PROTECTION SCHEME?

WAS DANI ACTUALLY ANY GOOD AT RISK?

IS RICHARD LESS REALLY THE BEST CHOICE FOR DOG OWNERSHIP?

WAS DANI REALLY USED AS A WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION IN THE WAR?

IS RICHARD LESS REALLY OUR LEAD CHARACTER IN THIS THING?


For these answers and more, you should check out PART TWO of "A View of
Genocide: The Ballad of Richard Less," only here on Superguy, because in the
end, that really is how we roll!