Network Neutrality, Pt. 1 – No Negotiation with Terrorists

“Silicon,” Piston called for me, speaking into her smartwatch. “You got eyes on us?” 

I pulled my attention away from the Public Servants headquarters, keeping a silent alarm set for Sterling Silver’s eventual return to home base. In the interim, I navigated the lenses of New General City’s satellite array, zooming into a top-down view of Piston’s team. While I watched, they activated their body cameras, and I added those perspectives to my visual interface, rendering a three-dimensional real-time map of the compound they prepared to enter. 

Six hours ago, my city-wide scans picked up activity at an isolated compound in the Southwest corner, currently occupied by a group of religious extremists referred to as Branch Davidians. Initially an offshoot of the Seventh Day Adventists, the Branch Davidians were now little more than a doomsday cult, convinced the apocalypse was nigh. Of course, they’d held such a belief for over a century, but this seemed not to phase their commitment to the religion.  

Of more pressing concern, however, was their newest addition: A woman who fit the description of Erica Leroux. 

“I can’t imagine The Phantom teaming up with the Branch Davidians meaning anything good for us,” whispered Turbine, who readied himself near the Eastern gate of the compound, Cylinder at his side with an Udar revolver in each hand.  

“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” Piston replied from the Northern gate, loading beanbag rounds into her riot shotgun.  

Back at the safehouse, Crucible muttered into her watch. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t bring me this time.” 

“Look,” Piston replied, “This is going to be one of our toughest missions. S.S. explicitly instructed that we capture and contain both the cultists and The Phantom with zero casualties. As the mantis, that eliminates stealth and nearly guarantees lethality; as Crucible, I’m concerned such limitations will put you in too much danger.” 

“Well, you invited them,” Crucible said, referring to the three contracted SPIs split between the Southern and Western gates.  

“That’s different,” sighed Piston. “They have experience. And I have a much longer history with them.” 

“You know . . .” commented Torch, a dark-skinned man in dreadlocks and a red t-shirt, who also asserted himself as the leader of the other trio. “We can hear you guys, too.” 

“How do you three know Piston, anyway?” asked Turbine.  

“Well . . .” Piston hesitated. 

Cylinder laughed quietly, speaking up. “You didn’t know? Before she started working for S.S., Piston was in her own superhero group. ‘The Olympiads.’ They were her team before we were.” 

Turbine cocked his head. “Wait, so was your team theme . . . The Olympics?” 

“Yup.” This time, Shot-Put spoke up, a white, muscular man in a dark navy tank top with neatly parted brown hair. “You know what she used to call herself?” 

“No.” 

Fence giggled from behind her mesh mask, which composed part of her white, full-body fencing outfit. As she spoke, her French accent slipped through. “She chose the name Marathon. You know, because she could run fast.” 

“I mean . . .” Turbine shrugged. “That’s not so bad. My first name choice was The Electric Eel, so she could’ve done worse.” 

The satellites orbiting above the compound registered a series of movements, and I projected my voice into their earpieces. “Get ready, team. They’re migrating into the church for their midday sermon. This will be the window of least resistance.” 

Quickly scanning the Public Servants headquarters, I saw no sign of Sterling Silver yet.  

Back at the compound, the last of the Branch Davidians filed into the central church building, and as the final door closed, I spoke once more. 

“Guards have been minimized. Engage.” 

Piston immediately kicked open the Northern gate, shattering the lock, and pressed forward, shotgun in-hand. She stalked through the compound for a moment before encountering her first guard when he rounded the corner of a nearby cabin. Before he could cry out for help, she ran forward, side-kicking him in the chest and sending him sprawling across the ground, dazed. Hurrying up to his prone form, she bound and gagged him, leaving him in the dirt while she moved further into the compound.  

At the Southern gate, Torch crouched, gently blowing on the lock. The metal turned orange as it super-heated, quickly liquefying and pooling at his feet. Reaching out, Torch pushed the gate forward, allowing Shot-Put to move forward. The latter Olympiad tip-toed into the compound, reaching for a pouch on his utility belt. As the pair approached the church, a guard exited a restroom to his left, and Shot-Put whipped around, hurling a golf-ball-sized sphere at the man’s forehead. I knew from my conversations with Piston that the Olympiad paired his inhuman throwing capabilities with foam-wrapped lead balls, allowing him to incapacitate enemies non-lethally. As expected, the ball collided with the guard’s skull, knocking him unconscious. Torch quickly tied the man up, just as Piston had.  

Further East, Cylinder boosted Turbine over the gate, quickly joining him with a series of acrobatic leaps. As they landed, Cylinder took aim with his twin revolvers, staying behind Turbine. A pair of guards stood nearby, their backs to the gate, and the duo crept up behind them. As Cylinder wrapped his arm around the guard on the right, securing him in a chokehold, Turbine reached out to the one on the left, emitting a small shock that sent him prone, stunned and twitching. Cylinder’s guard eventually lost consciousness, and they secured the two Branch Davidians before leaving them behind. 

Fence shimmered like a mirage in front of the Western gate, passing through it like a ghost. As she solidified, she drew a rapier, aiming the tip ahead of her while she prowled the compound. For a moment, she encountered no resistance, but when she drew close to the church, sounds of panicked screaming wafted through the air, reaching the microphone of her body camera. I quickly switched my overhead satellite to thermal imaging, but I could only pick up a mass of warm bodies frantically bouncing off of each other inside the church. I reached out to Fence’s earpiece. 

“Something’s happening in the church. I need your reconnaissance before the others arrive.” 

She nodded, breaking into a sprint towards the building. When she reached the door, she shimmered again, phase-shifting her upper body through the wood and peering inside. Her body camera was too low on her chest for me to see, but I heard her gasp in horror, retreating back outside. She spoke into her watch, alerting the others. 

“Team, there’s some kind of slaughter happening inside the church. The doors are locked from the inside, and the crowd is swarming like ants. Blood . . . everywhere. I can’t see who or what is causing it. I need backup.” 

“Understood,” Piston responded, and the rest of the team approached the church from all sides, convening in moments. “Three. Two. One. Breach.” 

The burst into the church from all four directions, stumbling into a bloodbath. 

The bodies of men, women and children littered the floor, in various stages of dismemberment, their faces frozen in terror. Blood covered the pews, the walls, even the ceiling. And in the middle of the carnage, dripping with viscera, stood Huntsman.  

As the Olympiads and S.S.’s team entered the church, Turbine retched, turning away from the massacre. Shot-Put, Piston, and Cylinder took aim with their various weapons, training them on the blade-wielding assassin.  

“Why?” croaked Fence, wiping tears from her eyes.  

Sighing, I spoke into the team’s earpieces. “The Phantom didn’t want any witnesses telling us what she was doing here.” 

Miles away, my silent alarm alerted me to S.S.’s imminent arrival at the Public Servants headquarters. I prepared myself, opening a digital channel into their private room. 

Back at the compound, Piston spat out seven words. “On the ground, you piece of shit.” 

Huntsman cocked his head, but otherwise did not move. 

“Don’t do it, man,” Cylinder warned, tightening his fingers on the triggers of his Udar revolvers. 

Twitching his arm, Huntsman released a spray of shuriken at Cylinder and Turbine, sending them diving into the church pews. As the projectiles bit into the wood around them, Shot-Put hurled one of his lead balls at the assassin. Huntsman, however, spun to face the man, using his forearms to shield himself from the brunt of the ball’s force. Still, it knocked him back a little, and Piston fired a beanbag round into his chest, sending him into a seated position on the pile of bodies around him.  

“Take him down!” she cried, chambering another round. 

Fence darted forward, rapier spearing at Huntsman’s center mass. He tumbled back, swinging a hatchet at her, but she phase-shifted through his body, reappearing behind him. She flipped her sword around, impaling the point into the back of his right leg, and he clutched the appendage in pain.  

“Wait, keep him alive,” Turbine said, helping Cylinder to his feet. “If The Phantom didn’t want witnesses, we need him to tell us what she was doing.” 

Huntsman pivoted, swinging his hatchet at Fence’s head, and she phase-shifted again, allowing the weapon to pass through her incorporeal form. He took advantage of change to pull away, freeing himself from her rapier. Behind him, Torch exhaled, producing a ball of flame that dissipated as it struck Huntsman in the back, the heat waves forcing him airborne. He twisted backwards as he soared through the air, firing three bolts from his miniature crossbow back at the Olympiad. Torch dove to the ground just in time to miss the bolts, and they pierced the wall behind him. 

Piston and Turbine sprinted down the aisle as Huntsman landed on his feet, the former wielding her shotgun and the latter, his circular blade. Huntsman fired his crossbow two more times, but Turbine held the flat side of Pulsar out like a shield, deflecting the bolts. Stowing his crossbow and drawing a small scythe into each hand, he swiped at Piston’s face, simultaneously bringing his shin down on Turbine’s leg. Turbine cried out, dropping to one knee, and Shot-Put hurled five lead balls over his head, catching Huntsman by surprise as the cluster of projectiles struck him in the chest. Huntsman fell back, hurling the twin scythes at Shot-Put, but Fence appeared between them, swiping the blades out of the air with her rapier.  

Rather than collapse to the floor, Huntsman performed a backwards tumble, retrieving a long kitchen knife from within his cloak. He readied the blade, about to pounce . . . 

Then, a gunshot rang out, and he collapsed, revealing Cylinder standing behind him with an Udar extended.  

“Good work,” grunted Piston, holstering her shotgun on her back. “You did use a plastic round, right?” 

Cylinder nodded. “He should be out for a while.” 

“Alright, we need to disarm and contain him,” Piston continued, glancing at the Olympiads. “He has valuable information, and I don’t want him escaping this time.” 

While the team circled Huntsman, quickly removing his various blades and weapons, I turned my attention to S.S.’s room, projecting myself into the building through the security system. As I watched the cyborg superhero, I reached out via the communications array. 

“Sterling Silver. We’ve captured Huntsman. If you’d like, I can patch you through to the team’s body cameras for the interrogation.” 

S.S. turned to a data port on the wall of their room. “On my way.” 

They ejected a small plug from their metal palm, inserting it into the data port. As their consciousness entered cyberspace, I traveled down through the connection, interrupting their broadcast. Instead, I rerouted S.S.’s digital profile, funneling it through a satellite link and pulling their virtual self into the hard drive where I was stored. I quickly constructed a virtual room, a prison of white, sterile walls. S.S. manifested into the room, and I joined them, forming a digital image of my former body. To my surprise, a hulking metal entity did not greet me.  

Instead, S.S. appeared to me in the form of a young, pale-faced child.  

Frowning, I scanned the consciousness, confirming it to be S.S.’s. Before the Public Servant could react to my trap, I pulled some of their memories, glancing through the flashes of sensory data which comprised their personal timeline.  

“Sterling Silver.” I smiled. “Or, maybe you prefer Ahab?” 

The child looked up at me, startled, as I continued.  

“Ahab, we need to have a talk.” 

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