“They’re really gonna leak it, aren’t they?” I said, dim awareness washing over me.
“We think they already have,” Foreman said softly. “To at least five major press outlets. Three of them dismissed it as utter rubbish, two are investigating. One of the reporters is … dogged, shall we say.” He took in a deep breath and let it out. “We think they have a personal history with a meta-based crime, might have been a witness to something extraordinary.” He grimaced. “Word is, the president is talking to the governors as well in the next few days. He’s circulating a briefing paper on calling up the National Guard in order to cope with some unspecified internal emergency—which is really code for whatever Sovereign and Century are planning next.” He spread his arms apart. “Word will get out.”
“Son of a …” I pondered the implications of that for a minute. “Can’t he just use the Army, keep it federal?”
“It may come to that, but Sovereign and Century are operating in the United States. That makes it subject to the Posse Comitatus Act of—”
“Spare me the legal mumbo jumbo,” I said, cutting him off. “Bottom line, metahuman affairs and all this extinction business are about to become front page news.” I rubbed my jaw. “I’m going to have to answer to Congress for what we’ve done in the last few months.” I thought about that trail of bodies he’d mentioned. “Aw, shit.”
“It gets worse,” he said, and I could sense him slumping lower even though I couldn’t see him because my head was down.
“Because getting better would be completely unacceptable right now,” I muttered. “How?”
“You’re not just going to have to answer to Congress,” Foreman said. I looked up and saw a ragged weariness on his face that seemed to be all too common in every ally I had lately. “Part of what we think was leaked was a complete profile on our present response to this crisis.” His lips formed a thin line as he paused. “Including a full profile of you, naming you the head of Agency operations. So you’re not just going to have to answer to Congress when the storm comes.” He drew himself up to his full height, and suddenly I felt very small indeed. “You’re going to be a household name when this breaks, and that means you’re going to be in the full spotlight and scrutiny of every single American watching, in addition to the rest of the world.”
Chapter 22
There’s a reason the phrase “the shit hits the fan” is such a popular way to express a complete and total mess. Because really, what other image could you conjure up that encapsulates the absolute, disgusting mess you’re dealing with when feces hits a dispersal machine like that?
I didn’t really know until that moment, but it seemed likely that “Nineteen year old shut-in and murderer has fate of the world handed to her by United States Government” might actually trump “the shit hit the fan.”
Foreman had parted ways with me after leaving me with that lovely tidbit. He’d promised to stay around campus for a little longer afterward, which I might have been more enthused about had I not felt like he’d just informed me that someone had dropped a pickup truck from orbit and that it was going to land on me sometime in the next week or two. No, don’t worry about it because you can’t do anything to stop it. Go perform brain surgery, and try not to think about that inevitable doom that’s heading your way. No pressure.
I dressed in silence in my quarters. I cast aside the bloodstained hospital robe and realized I’d been in more of those than most nineteen year olds. When it came to physical wounds, I’d probably had more than most people on the planet. Not that that would matter when the press came calling for me. I kind of had a feeling about how this was all going to play out, and it reminded me of that time I’d been cuffed and perp-walked out of the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport customs area.
Except with a wider circle of judgment this time. Like “everyone on Earth” wider.
Being hated isn’t so hard, Little Doll, Wolfe said. You get used to it after a while.
“However hated you are, I doubt you’ve had seven billion people despising you at once, Wolfe,” I said.
Perhaps not, he said. But everyone in the ancient world did hate me at one point. He let out a soft growl. Wolfe and his brothers were not gentle spirits, and there was so much anger …
The old gods knew the power of vitriol, Bjorn chimed in. Your lessers will always resent you. That is the curse of power, and it takes a strong person to wield it—