Kirlian Logic

Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel: the Series are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

Part V

I only blink as part of the human camouflage, but my visual receptors do require a discrete segment of a second to reset to the bright sunlight now streaming in through the windows of the diner. While I am thus engaged, the glass door is smashed inward with a force that shatters it against the wall perpendicular beside it, and a similar resounding crash from the far end notifies me that the window there has been breached as well. I shrink backward, into the corner, because it is the expected reaction and because so doing will effectively if briefly remove me from the likelihood of immediate combat.

The man in the unnecessarily broken door is Rebecca Lowell’s driver/bodyguard, presumably the ‘Grant’ to whom she several times referred. When I look to the other end, I see clambering through the broken window there a bipedal creature that sports thick, woolly hair on its shoulders and thighs while scales predominate elsewhere, a highly uncommon mix. Its head is shaped like an armadillo’s, though roughly human-sized, and raised crests around its eyes and running along its cheeks and jawline are the color and apparent hardness of a chicken’s beak. Rebecca Lowell backs away with a little gasp of alarm; the creature is approximately her height and more slightly built, wasp-waisted and slope-shouldered, but the effortless lightness of its movements would shame any prima ballerina, and its eyes are as flatly alien as a shark’s.

“That’s good enough, H’lat-tuuc,” Grant calls to the other intruder. “There’s no rush, and you’ll get your turn real soon.” His voice is brisk and confident. This man knows exactly what he is doing and exactly how he intends it to proceed. His dominance of the room is almost total, and derives equally from material and psychological attributes. Physically he is massive, topping Dustin Clarke by three inches and Joel Kreuter by five, and would weigh almost as much as the two men combined. His arms, torso and shoulders are thick with muscle, his hands large even in proportion to his oversized frame. His face is seamed and rough, his eyes small and dark and deep-set and incongruously merry. The aggressive projection of his personality is both entirely natural to him and directed to best effect as a deliberate force. He radiates assurance, satisfaction, and only momentarily leashed threat.

I see that Dustin Clarke is edging backward. Joel Kreuter does not retreat, but neither, for now, does he move or speak or draw attention to himself. Hearing the familiar voice, Rebecca Lowell turns toward her bodyguard, beginning, “Grant? What on earth —?”

“Zip it, Prime-Time,” Grant tells her. The nonchalant dismissal somehow conveys more contempt than would open scorn. “You got me this far, but past that you’re useless.” His eyes fix on Virginia Bryce. “No — I’m here for her.”

“What?” Virginia Bryce says. “What? Christ, do I even know you?”

Dustin Clarke, I recognize, is not attempting to absent himself from the opening stages of conflict as I have done. Instead, his giving ground is bringing him gradually closer to where, perhaps unwisely and certainly to his misfortune, he left the wakizashi laid across the seats of two chairs during the conversation just past. Grant ignores him, his gaze beginning to sharpen as he takes in the deceptively loose readiness of Joel Kreuter’s stance, but when he speaks it is to Virginia Bryce. “Nope, never had the pleasure. And believe me, I’ve been looking forward to this pleasure for a long time.”

“Why?” Virginia Bryce demands. “My God, I’m not even in the life anymore, I only keep up such contacts as I do in case anybody is crazy enough to think they can get at my father through me.” She actually stamps her foot. “Didn’t the memo get around? — I disowned him, I’m suing him, I’ve got enough grievances filed to keep him tied in knots for the next thirty years!”

“Good,” Grant rumbles. “I wish the bastard all the misery he can have. Still doesn’t mean I’m about to forget your part in it.”

“In what?” Virginia Bryce insists. “What did I do?”

“You stayed alive,” Grant returns. He still wears the smile he has displayed since entering, and his voice is dry with assumed bonhomie, but there is a hard glitter in his eyes, and the mounting tension in his shoulders is beginning to make his hands twitch. “You were supposed to die, that was the whole point, that’s why I was out in the boonies stringing along that vampire schmuck: keep him occupied, trying to figure out the meaning of his un-life from pearls of wisdom by ‘the T’ish Magev’, while Lanier sent in a hit team to whack you before your old man could sacrifice you for more juice.” The words are coming more quickly now, hot and bitter. “Only you don’t die, and Soul-Boy catches wise, and the whole business goes to hell in a handbasket and somehow it works out to where it’s all my fault —!”

He stops himself with a sharp intake of breath, forcing a return of control. “Well, you’re here now, and you had to turn off all your safeguards to break the shell — that’s right, that’s how I told the gals at Consolidated Curses to design it — so you’re bare and you’re alone and this is where I get to settle the score!”

“Why?” Virginia Bryce speaks more quietly now. “Wesley and Angel stopped the sacrifice, my father never got his power-boost, and I’m causing him more trouble in the trade councils than Paul Lanier ever could have managed. Just what is all this —” She takes in the tableau with a sweep of her arm. “— supposed to accomplish?”

“It settles the score,” Grant (if that is his true name) tells her. His weight is shifting forward onto the balls of his feet, he is almost ready to spring. “It makes me feel better. It’s kept me warm at night, looking forward to this.” His eyes flick toward where his companion stands. “The redhead’s mine, H’lat-tuuc. You can have Miss Prime-Time and anybody else you’re fast enough to catch. Call it a bonus.”

The demonling H’lat-tuuc is indeed quick, seizing Rebecca Lowell on the instant of permission, even before Grant can begin to move. This, I believe, changes what otherwise would have been the subsequent chain of events. Joel Kreuter has been focused on Grant, doubtless judging him — as the evident leader — to be the most dangerous. As Rebecca Lowell screams, however, he snatches the wakizashi from its resting place (he is nearer to it than is Dustin Clarke, though I had not been aware that he had noted its location) and, whirling, dashes past Virginia Bryce to assault the creature now accosting Rebecca Lowell. Grant is disconcerted for three-fifths of a second, he had braced himself for resistance from Joel Kreuter, and the older man’s unexpected change of target caught him by surprise. Dustin Clarke, too, faces a forced readjustment of his intent on seeing his weapon appropriated by another, but his recovery comes first, and he leaps at Grant in a sudden whirlwind of feet and fists, driving knees and stabbing fingers.

Since his entrance, the fate-threads moving through Grant have been larger, more vibrant, and somehow more dense than those of anyone else. Those attached to Joel Kreuter, almost imperceptible until the past few minutes, had grown thicker and more active, of a prominence second only to Grant’s … but now Dustin Clarke’s fate-lines swell and surge, blossoming through and from him to entangle with the greater cluster emanating from Grant. This is the nexus, this is the moment, and I center my attention on the two of them and slow down the flow of events around me.

I am not simply the sum of my parts. I incorporate elements from five prior entities, but their integration into a single organism — myself — necessitated a new balance. My capacities are considerable, but not without limitation, nor is their application.

Among various areas of expertise, Warren Mears maintained an encyclopedic knowledge of several sets of hypothetical alternative realities populated by multiple metahuman individuals: viz., “superhero comics”. One of these realities held a group calling itself the Legion of Superheroes (and Warren would expound frequently and at length regarding how this group had predated and in many ways presaged the now-better-known X-Men). A member of this group, Ultra-Boy, had essentially the same collection of abilities as two of his compatriots, Superboy and Mon-El: titanic strength, hyperaccelerated speed, near-total invulnerability, an advanced form of penetrating vision. Ultra-Boy was distinct, however, in that he could call upon these capacities only singly, never in combination. He could utilize strength only by relinquishing invulnerability, likewise was required to temporarily abandon strength if he wished to transition to speed, and so on.

So it is with me. In a median state, my strength corresponds to that of a human male twice my mass, my speed is approximately 50% greater than human norm, my resistance to damage is roughly comparable to a human’s, and vision and hearing are at levels slightly past human maximum. Additionally, my processing speed — data input and assessment, along with the resulting decision capacity — is an order of magnitude greater than human, though much of that is normally allocated to the ongoing demand of analyzing and attempting to comprehend the human environment in which I must operate.

That is the median. By shifting internal resources, which can require from several seconds to most of a minute, I can realign myself to Slayer speed. Or near-Slayer strength. Or a sensory delicacy beyond that of any biological organism. Or structural shielding and reinforcement that would render me impervious to anything short of high explosives, armor-piercing munitions, a wrecking ball, or a troll hammer (all of which I have seen applied, so that my assessment is more than merely supposition).

Or, as I do now — though it temporarily renders me slow, weak, and fragile — I can shunt all of myself to input: watching, recording, perceiving and taking possession of every tiny detail of the struggle between the two men. Their fate means nothing to me. The outcome is immaterial. The process, the way it comes about and what proceeds from the interactions of these currents of fate — understanding it all — is of paramount importance. I watch, all but inert save for the racing of my perceptions.

Clearly I have again misjudged Dustin Clarke. His martial ability is more than technical virtuosity, not simply limited to tournament orientation. Perhaps from his previous experience with demons, his attacks on Grant are all directed against the most vulnerable targets: throat, eyes, floating ribs, the angle of the knee at which a sharp impact can produce traumatic hyperextension. He fights as if facing a monster which can be vanquished only by vicious, ruthless infliction of the most brutal damage in the shortest time possible.

The reality is very like that. Grant is not as quick, and not as skilled in the purely definitional sense, but he knows what he is doing and knows it superbly well. He takes Dustin Clarke’s blows on elbows and forearms, his hands up and his chin sunk into his chest, deflecting some strikes and lessening the impact of others by deft body-shifts. He is being hurt, and hurt severely, but it is obvious that he has deep and intimate acquaintance with pain, is accustomed to it and not deterred by it, and he has contrived to avoid any truly significant injury. Beyond that, he has continued to advance, crowding the younger man into a smaller area that allows less room for maneuver. Dustin Clarke’s assault begins to waver, he poured everything he had into not quite ten seconds of all-out commitment and now he has exceeded his limit, and in the precise moment when slackening speed intersects with constrained physical space, Grant drives a massive fist at his opponent’s face.

I can see by his stance and body alignment that Dustin Clarke would evade the blow if possible, but he has neither time nor room for any such action. He does what he must, channeling all the strength he can summon into the outward block, turning hips and shoulders to augment its force. The effort is almost sufficient … but Grant’s punch is not completely diverted, callused knuckles catch a corner of Dustin Clarke’s head and he staggers and a devastating hook lands in the next instant, followed by an even more powerful hook to the body. I do not hear ribs crack, the developed musculature of Dustin Clarke’s torso must have protected him from the worst harm, but he is going down and I can see Grant ready himself to begin kicking at his fallen foe.

The events playing out before me have claimed the entirety of my attention, I have in fact deliberately shut out other stimuli in order to maintain purity of focus. Now, however, something breaks through the wall. A sound from the other end of the diner, part gasp of effort and part agonized groan, such as might be heard from a man savagely determined not to admit any pain but unable to conceal all of it.

Joel Kreuter’s voice.

I am moving.

There is no logic in this. There is no necessity for it. There is no choice, even, for my body has initiated motion in advance of any decision. I am deeply self-aware, a legacy from Adam’s components, I know thoroughly even those aspects of myself that I do not fully understand … but to find myself impelled, without warning, by something within me for the very existence of which there was no remote hint, is a surprise of unprecedented weight and scope.

The same unknown that moves me, disregards the shock engendered by its revelation. All my concentration, my imperatives, the totality of will and attention, have shifted in an instant. I am slow, weak, my previous focus sharply reduced my other abilities to the point where I am almost as helpless as Trish Hervey herself would be. Even so, my motion elicits Grant’s notice, where he had previously dismissed me as insignificant. He turns from Dustin Clarke, settling himself squarely to face me, his body an unsought barrier between me and Joel Kreuter.

This will not do.

It would take far too long to recover my strength. Speed of movement would return more quickly, but not quickly enough. I launch myself through the air, and Grant unwisely chooses to catch me rather than shove me aside in mid-leap. I place my hands on his shoulders, wrap my legs around his waist (Position 17-sub-3a in April’s database), and everything from this point is all but preordained.

My CPU is situated inside my sternum, for centrality and protection; my head contains only sensory apparatus, vocal emission systems, and the network of micro-‘muscles’ that allow me to mimic human facial expressions. My skull is a carbon-fiber/ceramic composite, lighter and more flexible than bone but of comparable solidity. I am still no stronger than a 115-pound female of average musculature, so when I smash my forehead against Grant’s, there is little immediate result. The cumulative effect of another eleven such strikes, delivered within 2.7 seconds, is a different matter. (Warren always did favor base-12, even when it made his programming cumbersome.) At some point in the process, the frontal plate of Grant’s own skull ceased to maintain its structural cohesion.

He topples sideways rather than falling directly forward or back, and I am unable to disengage from him before sustaining forceful collision with one of the tables. I do not feel anything that corresponds to pain, and even while dispatching Grant I was shunting my systems toward increased action/reaction speed, I come to my feet almost in the moment of landing, nothing stands in the way of joining Joel Kreuter in his own fight, except that the fight has ended. He is on his knees, his shirt and much of his left side ripped by H’lat-tuuc’s claws, and the creature’s teeth have torn the muscle of his shoulder; but the wakizashi has been driven downward through H’lat-tuuc’s neck and into its sternum, and then wrenched down on a diagonal to open up the top half of the demon’s chest. H’lat-tuuc ceases to twitch even as I watch. Rebecca Lowell is using a chair to pin the creature to the floor, and Virginia Bryce holds a broken water glass, the edges smeared with indigo blood where she was, apparently, using the glass to stab.

The Buffybot, upon her reprogramming, regarded humans as being fundamentally helpless and in need of protection. Based on such of her memories as I retain, she had evidence to support such a view. Now, however, I find myself considering that there might have been some background emanation from the Sunnydale Hellmouth that reinforced their obliviousness and ineffectuality, for in this place two unaugmented women and a middle-aged man have killed a fourth-tier demon in half a minute’s time.

Virginia Bryce’s eyes are fixed on me. Yes: whereas Joel Kreuter is preoccupied with his wounds, and Rebecca Lowell watches the deceased H’lat-tuuc in case its body exhibits any sign of resuming aggressive action, Virginia Bryce stands in a position from which she could see my brief interaction with Grant. Her hand tightens on the improvised weapon she holds, and she glances momentarily to where the wakizashi protrudes from the demon’s sundered chest, but for now she waits to see what I will do next.

I know their places and their current foci of attention, but I look at Joel Kreuter and Rebecca Lowell so that Virginia Bryce can see me do so. Then, meeting her gaze with my own, I silently raise my finger to my lips, pursing them to form the Sh-hh! configuration. Virginia Bryce draws a breath, starts to open her mouth, and closes it. She considers for several seconds, her eyes still on mine, and then deliberately nods assent.

What would occur here, has occurred. There is no further reason for me to remain.
 

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