The Power of Ten Book Four: Dynamo

A bunch of guys with handguns and assault rifles came wandering up about a minute later after they saw me laying out the four shooters on the pavement and going through them. I emptied their pockets, the two guys with body armor were stripped of it, their knives and firearms were removed, and then I tied together their shoes with their own laces, while securing their wrists with their belts.

Weaving Ranks had interesting applications.

The Mountain soon came striding up, a pissed look on his face, but in no obvious hurry. The armed men of various ethnicities were standing there not quite holding guns on me as I finished up with the prisoners, ignoring their questions as I did so. With the sparks dancing around my fingers, they didn’t press too much.

Also, rocket launcher tube on the ground right there.

“Shut it. The little dynamo is with me,” Mr. Hill ground out, and the stupid inquiries stopped. “What happened?” he asked me directly.

I gestured at the rocket tube on the ground as I tossed him the keys to the van, straightening to attention. “Sir, there was a rocket launched from that tube targeting either your vehicle or the side of the establishment there. While it possessed no threat to you, it might have made you angry to lose your truck, so I detonated it early and have incapacitated those responsible for your further attention.”

“Huh.” His face displayed no other emotion as he looked over the four men. “Nobody I know. Santano?” he asked calmly, directed towards the husky Mexican with the ivory-gripped .45’s in hand.

“Nocha there is one of Caprio’s,” the scarred man stated firmly. “They are probably cartel from across the border, Mr. Hill.” Said VERY respectfully.

“Brave of them. We all know how much The Hag loves the cartels.” The Mountain tossed the keys in his hand thoughtfully. “It looks like I have me a nice new tricked-out van and some gear. Interested in buying them, Santano?” he inquired in a voice that really was not a question.

“About our business?” the merc asked, still wondering what to make of me standing there silently, before gesturing his men to take over for me. They started checking over the fellows quickly.

I had already pocketed all their money, but they were welcome to the credit cards and anything else...

“Up that by five thousand, which will cover the paint job for my ride.”

“Deal.” He extended his hand, the massive hand swallowed his own, and they shook exactly once. “I’ll get you the full folder this evening. I’ll throw in fifteen for the van and guns.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.” The Mountain tossed him the keys, and just grunted at me. I walked up beside him as he swung around, and head high, totally unconcerned about anything, including the faint sirens in the distance, he strode back to his truck.

----

We passed some black and whites with lights going after he pulled out onto the road, and I’m pretty sure they recognized his truck. None of them turned around to pursue us, however.

Still, he made sure he wasn’t being followed, punching a button on the dashboard that folded up a screen projecting a holographic reading of the airspace. Seeing it was clear, he hit it again, and it fell back into the non-descript dash.

“No questions?” he asked, after I said nothing.

“Your business with him is yours. Is he a player?” I answered.

“He’s just more scum like the rest of them, looking to take over a piece of the pie here for himself, instead of working for someone else. Kind of self-promoting himself, as it were. He’ll find out that Caprio might be clearing cash, but he pays to the Compact, not just the cartels, and if he wants to do that kind of business in L.A., so will he.”

“They sound impressive.”

“Powered people run all the crime on the Coast here. Drove out the old families, dominated the gangs, iced all the Tongs and Yakuza moving in who didn’t pay up, and came down hard on the independents. More to the point, they did it smooth and hard, minimum civilian casualties, and that kept ‘em, and keeps ‘em, below the radar of the Champions, the Aerie, and a lot of people who are interested in fighting crime and stuff. They just take any losses as part of doing business and continue to move their merchandise. The market ain’t goin’ away.”

“Anything in particular to watch for?” I had to ask.

He grumbled deep in his chest for a moment. “If there’s vamps back in L.A., it’s because the Compact let them back in. That should tell you what kind of people they are.”

Vampires meant murders and raising more undead as a matter of course. “Totally ruthless and merciless as long as it benefits them. Also very familiar with the supernatural, so they probably have necromancers or something among them. They are probably being paid off, and as long as they aren’t in view, leaving the whole matter alone for some hero to come along and clean up while they make money and use the vampires for special jobs while other people die.”

He huffed. “That’s some smart talkin’. Like you got experience with people like that.”

“And getting more every day.”

“Hur hur hur!” he chortled, his craggy face not moving. “Anyways, I owe ya for saving my ride. These trucks are not cheap. The fifteen large is yours.”

Take ‘em down, loot, sell. So basic. “Know any tinker types?”

He gave me a lazy look. “I might. Why?”

I held up three fingers. “One, I need a better outfit, something more stealthy than a t-shirt and jeans. Two, I’m a living power generator, not an electrokinetic. I’d like something I could wear or use that could extend the range and accuracy of my electricity. A portable capacitor or something that could accumulate excess energy would be great, but I think it’s outside my budget. I’ll take either some kind of focusing tool or an electromagnet accelerator I can power myself. The power systems and batteries are usually the priciest things for those.

“Three, if that won’t work, an aiming tube with an ammo feed system will work.”

He was looking a bit thoughtful. “Anything to do with energy projection or weird science is gonna set ya back at least fifty large, guaranteed, and that’s before power issues, just based on Coretech prices. Lots of folks can dry-power some Coretech stuff, lots of Powered able to do that stuff.

“Just mechanical stuff, that’s somewhat easier. You’re basically looking for something to aim what you are propelling yourself?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t bother asking how, it probably didn’t matter to him. “I know a guy who does custom munitions work who’d take a shot at it, sure. He makes the heavy stuff I use for the wetter jobs.

“As for the outfits, there’s folks who love living at the edge of the business and making that sort of stuff. Cost a grand or two, but they will build it to suit.”

“I’m not going for fancy. I’ll probably outgrow it really fast.”

“Even easier, then. Surprised someone your age isn’t making it yourself.”

I snorted back at him. “I don’t know the fabrics available, and the range of accessories. Better to use a specialist.”

“You talk like you know a lot of stuff about working in the business, but not the people or places. You must come from a damn strange place, girl.”

“Dynamo. You already named me, right?”

He blinked slowly, an odd light in his eyes. “That’s right, I did. Dynamo it is.”

“I might need another one, two. I can show two totally different power sets, if people don’t know what they are looking at.” He glanced over as I pulled out a sealed deck of cards, worked them out of the case with one hand, fanned them for him with only one hand, and began to deal them in the air without any difficulty. “A Dealer. Maybe for high-end clients who need a neutral deck.”

“Huh. You a cardsharp?” he asked directly.

“I won’t play cards I get to deal, it’s not fair to anyone involved. I can keep a deck clean, too. The cheating at my table won’t be with the cards.”

He gave me an assessing look. “Yeah? A Powered card-dealer with a secure deck. There might be a call for something like that.”

“Set me up. With a mask, I can look older than I am, and sound like it. You won’t be disappointed!” I declared confidently.

“Let me think about it, and see what you have. In the meantime, let me show ya to Howie. I gotta stock up on some ammo, and he can probably help you.”

----------

‘Howie’ was short for Howitzer, but nobody called the guy that, and he didn’t really work with artillery, as that was an order of difficulty higher than sidearms... although he could hook you up with people who did, and he’d be happy to make a bunch of special shells for you.

He was an overweight gun nut with greasy hands and an enthusiasm for firearms of all kinds. Mr. Hill pounded gently on his reinforced door, and was let in. The guy nearly jumped out of his beard when I came inside with Mr. Hill, a .45 out and in his hand and pointing at me, then at Mr. Hill, then back at me in total alarm.

“Who the Hell is this?” he demanded, loud and angry, despite the fact he knew his little popgun wasn’t going to do anything to The Mountain. “I didn’t see her at the door with you!”

Mr. Hill turned to look at me, and I just shrugged. “Brought her here to give you some business, Howie. Also, I’m picking up rounds for the cannon.”

Howie studied me and my utterly unfazed expression, and slowly lifted the gun away before stowing it. “Dammit, Hill, you know I don’t like surprises!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Hill waved it away. “Get me my stuff, and you talk with her about the specs for the job.”

Grumbling, the munitions expert went over to a wall locker and pulled out a metal case that made him grunt when he lifted it out. He brought it over to a workbench and flipped it open, revealing bullets that looked like they’d best be coming out of a small cannon, not a sidearm.

Mr. Hill smiled ever-so-slightly, reaching out to pluck one of them up and inspect the tips. “Standard coding?” he said, and I belatedly noticed that the tips of the various rows of shells were painted in different hues.

“As normal,” Howie nodded, obviously pleased with his workmanship. “You want any more Hot Ice loads, I’m gonna need more Chillwater. Everybody and their mother is playing with freeze guns these days, and it’s hard to find any.”

“Noted.” He waved at me, and visibly grumbling, the gun-maker turned his attention on me.

“I have about fifteen thousand dollars,” I told him right up front, which raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been told getting a proper energy weapon system for that is impossible. However, I am an electrical generator.” Both of his eyebrows popped as thick crackling voltage played between my fingers. “Thus, I do not require a power source, coolant, or batteries, although a capacitor that can accumulate charge and release a greater jolt isn’t out of line.

“If you can’t give me a system that can take the electricity I generate and focus it for greater range and accuracy, then the secondary tier is a weapon or pair of weapons that would be powered by that electricity and using standard ammunition types both lethal and non. Note that I can also charge up the ammunition. A railgun-type electromagnetic launcher would be ideal.

“If that is still not feasible, then I need only a forearm-mounted barrel with feeder and loader, no need for powder of any kind. I can accelerate the ammunition on my own.”