RWD: 4.06

4.06

“Any Family in my Empire could so deploy its atomics as to destroy the planetary bases of fifty or more other Families.”

—PAUL ATREIDES, DUNE

Two days passed in the measured cadence of preparation. The morning air carried the rousing rumble of activity—Brockton Bay awakening to another day of controlled chaos. Paul walked the familiar streets toward the Hebert residence, his footsteps echoing against pavement still damp with the morning fog. In his mind, he noted the smells in the air as he climbed the steps—brine, creosote, and the faint metallic taint of far-off industry, wrapping the Hebert home in salt-touched mist.

Paul approached the front door and pressed the bell, hearing its chime echo through the interior spaces. Danny Hebert answered at once, tieless, sleeves rolled, contentment softening the lines that grief and union wars had carved into his face. “Greg! Morning. Come on in, Taylor will be down in a minute.”

“Good morning, Mr Hebert.”

Paul stepped across the threshold into the warm domesticity of the Hebert home. The living room bore the comfortable clutter of daily life—newspapers folded on the coffee table, a mug of cooling coffee beside a pair of reading glasses that could only be Danny’s. Paul shrugged off his backpack as he settled into a worn armchair directly opposite the framed photo of Taylor’s mother. 

"You hungry?" Danny offered, already moving toward the kitchen. "I was just packing up Taylor's breakfast."

"Thank you, but I’ve eaten," Paul replied, settling his backpack by his feet. 

Danny leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. “So, any plans for you two today? Please don’t tell me it’s more homework.” The chuckle carried fatherly indulgence and a glimmer of teasing.

“Not sure yet,” Paul replied with a light shrug. “But, I have a personal project we could work on together. We’ll see how it goes.”

Danny's laugh was warm, paternal. "You're an interesting kid, Greg."

Before Paul could respond, the sound of footsteps on the stairs announced Taylor's arrival; she appeared clad in a mousy, nondescript hoodie and jeans, hair still damp from the shower. Pink stole across her cheeks when her eyes flicked from her father to Paul and back.

“Morning,” she mumbled.

“There she is,” Danny said, his voice amused. He moved into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a brown paper bag. “Sandwiches. And an apple. Make sure to share; there’s enough in there for two people.”

Taylor’s face flushed. “Dad, you don't need to pack me lunch."

"Humour an old man," Danny replied, pressing the paper bag into her hands. "Besides, Greg might get hungry too. Growing boys need proper nutrition." He shot Paul a conspiratorial look. "Make sure she eats something, will you? She has a tendency to skip meals when she's nervous."

"Dad!" Taylor's flush deepened.

"What? I'm just saying, if my daughter's going to spend the day with her boyfriend—"

"We're not dating!"

"Ah, yes. Of course not. Apologies."

Paul simply stood there, deciding it would be in his best interest not to intervene. "We should go,” he finally said when the teasing subsided. “The bus runs on a schedule."

"Right, yes," Taylor agreed quickly, fleeing for the door.

Danny saw them off. "You two have fun. Stay out of trouble." He paused, his expression growing more serious. "And Greg? Have her back home before dinner."

Paul waved without looking back. "Sure thing, Mr. Hebert. Take care."

“You too!”

The morning air felt cool against their faces as they walked toward the bus stop. Taylor was quiet beside him, her embarrassment gradually fading into something more like resigned acceptance.

"He's not going to let this go, is he?" she asked finally.

"Probably not."

"Great." She shifted the wrapped sandwiches from one hand to the other. "As if things weren't complicated enough."

The bus arrived with mechanical punctuality, its doors hissing open to reveal the familiar tableau of morning commuters—workers heading to the docks, students bound for schools, the ordinary citizens of Brockton Bay navigating another day in a city that had learned to function despite its underlying chaos.

They rode in comfortable silence, watching the city pass beyond the windows. Paul observed the subtle signs of recent upheaval—boarded storefronts in formerly contested territory, the occasional PRT patrol, the careful way pedestrians moved through spaces that had once been battlegrounds. The city was healing, adapting, finding new equilibrium in the absence of the old powers. He was almost loath to have to disrupt things again. Alas, such was the cost of progress.

Thirty minutes later, they disembarked near one of Paul's safe houses—a nondescript building that served as a waystation in his carefully constructed network. The transition from public transportation to his truck was swift, efficient, designed to minimize exposure and observation.

"Where exactly are we going?" Taylor asked as Paul navigated the familiar streets toward their destination.

"The warehouse. We have work to do today."

"What kind of work?"

“You’ll see.”

***

When they got to the base, the Undersiders had not yet arrived. A hiss of equalising pressure greeted them as they passed the airlock into the cavernous silence that filled the main floor, broken only by the hum of the new HVAC system. 

Inside, the lair had continued its evolution. The lounge area and Lisa's workstation were now properly demarcated by brick walls, creating discrete zones within the larger structure. The rest of the warehouse retained its industrial character—high ceilings, concrete floors, the infrastructure of serious work.

Paul placed his backpack on one of the metal tables of his workshop, retrieving a few printouts and a pack of nitrile gloves from within. "Put these on," he said, handing Taylor a pair of gloves. "We need to avoid leaving fingerprints on anything we handle."

Taylor accepted the gloves and printout with a frown. "What are we handling?"

Rather than answer directly, Paul led her to a section of the warehouse that had been empty the previous day. Now it contained a twenty-foot shipping container, its metal sides bearing the weathered patina of international commerce.

"That wasn't here yesterday," Taylor observed.

"Delivery arrived around midnight." Paul handed her one of the instruction sheets he was holding. "We're going to unpack some equipment. Follow these directions exactly."

From a tool cabinet, he retrieved a pair of heavy bolt cutters, applying them to the container's security seal. The plastic bands snapped with a sharp crack, and the massive doors swung open with a slow groan to reveal carefully packed cargo—dozens of sealed boxes arranged in neat rows, each marked with alphanumeric codes that spoke of deliberate organisation.

Taylor examined the printout she was given, her brow furrowing slightly. "These look like assembly instructions. For IKEA furniture."

"They are; though not for furniture." Paul selected the first box, checking its markings against his own copy of the instructions. "Let's begin."

Together, they unloaded box after anonymous box, Taylor removing the smaller ones while he handled the larger ones. With exacto knives, they sliced through packing tape, laying the contents out on the concrete floor. Electronics. Spools of intricate cabling. Long, lightweight tubes of black carbon fibre. Pre-cut composite panels shaped into aerodynamic curves. Motor casings. Pre-wired avionics sleds. Filament-wound propellant grains sealed like pastries. The components of a complex machine, broken down into simple, digestible parts.

The sound of the airlock cycling announced the arrival of the others. Paul looked up to see Paige enter first, followed by Lisa, Brian, Alec, and Rachel with Brutus. The group moved with the casual familiarity of people who had grown accustomed to working together, though their expressions carried curiosity about the morning's activities.

"Morning," Lisa called, her eyes immediately cataloguing the scene before her. "What's all this?"

“An experiment,” Paul said without looking up from his work. He gestured with his head toward his backpack. “There are instruction sheets and gloves on the table. Each of you take a set and join us. Make sure to have your gloves on and follow the instructions you are given precisely.”

Alec grumbled, but took a sheet. "And this is all about what, exactly?"

“I need to ascertain how effectively an untrained group can perform a complex assembly task without direct supervision,” Paul replied. 

Lisa, however, was not looking at her own instruction sheet. Her gaze moved from the components laid out on the floor to the sheets in the hands of the others. Her power, he knew, was not truly necessary for the deduction that followed. The shape of the parts told its own story.

“What kind of experiment is this?” she asked, confused. “These are rockets. High-power rockets.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “No. The dimensions… the fuel casings… they’re too big. Too powerful for a hobbyist launch. Sounding rockets?”

“No,” Paul corrected her, his voice flat. “They are payload delivery systems. One is designed for suborbital insertion. The other… is a more conventional surface-to-surface munition.” He saw the understanding dawn on her faces, the shift from curiosity to alarm. “Part of this test is to ascertain the viability of a decentralised assembly and launch protocol, executable on a squad level. Four personnel or fewer.”

Lisa’s expression hardened. “Are you insane? A launch like this—especially the munition—will light up every government sensor from here to Cheyenne Mountain. NORAD, the FBI, Homeland Security… they’ll be on us before the booster even separates.”

“Their attention is a known variable,” Paul said, dismissing her concern with a wave of his hand. He felt a familiar flicker of annoyance at the shortsightedness of the opposition. The PRT’s decision to classify them as a national security threat was a foolish, emotional gambit, a bureaucratic tantrum. It had simplified Paul’s own calculations immensely. “Director Tagg has already painted us as terrorists to save face after the Coil debacle. The FBI and Homeland Security are already looking. NORAD is an acceptable escalation.”

"That's not exactly reassuring," Lisa muttered.

"I've taken precautions to minimise risk," Paul continued. "The launch site has been selected for minimal air traffic exposure.

“That’s not what I am worried about; they’ll still detect the thermal bloom, the trajectory,” she insisted. “They’ll send people. Heroes.”

“They will be occupied,” Paul refuted, popping open another box. “I've arranged for suitable diversions to occupy local law enforcement and parahuman assets during our test window."

Brian looked up from his instruction sheet. "What kind of diversions?"

"Using intelligence Lisa gathered last week, I've scheduled simultaneous raids against ABB, Empire, and Merchant operations across the city. My mercenaries will initiate contact, then withdraw when PRT assets respond. The Merchants and the Empire will likely cut their losses; they are weakened, their leadership in disarray. But Lung… Lung will not. He and Oni Lee will likely attempt to intervene, which will require sustained heroic response to contain."

Paul let the strategic calculus settle over them. “The PRT will receive anonymous tips moments before the raids begin. They will respond. The ABB Cape duo will intervene to protect their territory. The heroes will be forced to engage. The Wards remain benched by Tagg’s order; at least for a few more days. That leaves Armsmaster, Miss Militia, Velocity, Assault, Battery, and the New Wave capes. A limited roster, easily bogged down by simultaneous, city-wide threats. By the time they have the situation contained, our work will be done.”

The logic was cold, inexorable. Paul saw the acceptance in the group’s posture, the reluctant alignment. They were soldiers, even if they did not yet fully grasp the nature of the war they were in.

For the next two hours, they worked according to their randomly selected instructions. The assembly process revealed itself as elegantly systematic—each off-the-shelf component selected for efficient integration, each step building toward a larger whole. Alec, Brian, and Rachel, their instructions chosen at random, found themselves assembling the propulsion systems—solid fuel rocket motors, graphite nozzles, ignition assemblies. Taylor and Lisa focused on structural and control components—fins, thrust vanes, servos, the mechanical elements that would guide and stabilise flight. Paige, whose sheet detailed the guidance and avionics packages, struggled with the breadboards and plug-and-play connectors, eventually requiring assistance from the other two women. 

Paul moved between them, a silent observer, assessing the flow of the work, the efficiency of the human components. His observations were methodical, clinical—noting efficiency rates, identifying bottlenecks, cataloguing the human factors that influenced performance under novel conditions.

As the components took shape, the rockets' true scale became apparent. Each assembly consisted of three stages—nose cone with payload bay, second stage, and first stage—designed to stack into a vehicle approximately six meters in total length with a diameter of twenty-five centimetres. The finished assemblies would mass nearly three hundred kilograms each, substantial enough to deliver significant payloads across considerable distances.

From a storage locker, Paul retrieved a device he had crafted earlier—an optical sensor housing incorporating oil len technology that exceeded anything available on Earth BET. The sensor suite was the only part of the delivery system—along with the chemical composition of the solid-state fuel—Paul had deemed important enough to conceive himself. He carefully placed the sensor module in a paper bag marked "Payload 1" with black marker before leaving it beside Paige to be included in the final stages of her assembly.

Several minutes later, and the group was finally done. The components of the two separate rockets lay on the floor, complete and ready for final assembly. Paul connected each section to a laptop, running a diagnostic that confirmed every component was operating as expected. 

Satisfied with the results, Paul retrieved a cup and tore pages from a notebook, writing names and folding the papers into makeshift ballots. "Random selection for the test team. Three participants."

The drawing proceeded with theatrical solemnity. Lisa's name emerged first—though Paul suspected she had used her power to influence the selection so as to end up on the test team. Brian and Alec followed, leaving Taylor, Rachel, and Paige to attend to other matters.

Loading the assembled rocket stages into his truck required careful coordination. The components were heavy, unwieldy, requiring all four of them to manage the transfer safely. A collapsible, heavy-duty launch platform joined the cargo, along with the laptop and additional equipment necessary for the test. The entire package was tied down to the truck bed before being covered with a thick tarp.

The drive to the launch site took thirty minutes, winding through increasingly deserted sections of the docks until they reached a location Paul had selected for its isolation, non-existent overhead air traffic and sight lines. A secluded, weed-choked pier jutting out into the grey waters of the bay. Here, surrounded by abandoned warehouses and rusted infrastructure, they could work without immediate observation.

Assembly of the complete rockets took another thirty minutes. The modular design simplified the process—each stage mated with its neighbors through standardized interfaces, creating two towering vehicles, six meter tall, that dominated the cleared space around the launch platform.

As Brian and Alec worked the cranks to raise the launch pad into its upright, vertical position, Paul retrieved his laptop and a cheap burner phone from the truck. He composed a single text message and sent it to a distribution list containing the squad leaders of all the mercenary teams being deployed today. Commence. He then snapped the phone in half and tossed the pieces into the churning water. He booted the laptop, confirmed the onboard systems of both rockets were active, and set the terminal to receive telemetry. The launch sequence was now automated. Ten minutes.

"Everyone in the truck," Paul instructed. “We’re leaving.”

They drove away from the launch site at measured speed, Paul internally keeping track of the time. Lisa was already on her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “It’s starting,” she said seven minutes in, her voice a low murmur. "PHO is lighting up. Posts from the Docks, the Trainyard… pictures of masked gunmen in tactical gear hitting gang locations. Gunfire.”

They drove in silence, the city’s renewed chaos reduced to the filtered glow of Lisa’s phone. Paul watched the side mirror. The ten minutes elapsed. Far behind them, a thin, impossibly bright white line silently tore a gash in the grey sky. The first launch. Moments later, the supersonic crack-howl finally reached them.

Paul pulled the truck to the side of the road and opened the laptop, watching telemetry data cascade across the screen. The others crowded around, their faces illuminated by the screen’s glow. A flood of flickering numbers and scrolling graphs painted a story of immense violence.

Ignition. A calculated, instantaneous combustion. The telemetry reported an acceleration of 74.3 g’s. Supersonic speed was achieved in less than a second.

Burnout and Stage Separation. At 0.6 seconds, the first stage was spent. Altitude: 150 meters. Velocity: 450 meters per second. Mach 1.3. The booster fell away.

Second Stage Ignition. The acceleration intensified, freed from the mass of the first stage. An average of 112 g’s. The air thinned, drag lessened, but the sheer velocity maintained immense frictional forces. Burnout. Altitude: 400 meters. Velocity: 1,200 meters per second. Mach 3.5. The second stage was jettisoned.

Third Stage Burn. The sustainer. A long, efficient push through the near-vacuum of the upper atmosphere. Acceleration began at a mere 7 g’s, climbing to 17.5 as the last of the propellant was consumed. The 45-second burn carried the payload into the lower thermosphere. Burnout. Altitude: 150 kilometres. Final velocity: 5,500 meters per second. Mach 16.

The 40-kilogram payload, now inert, continued its ascent on a pure ballistic trajectory. It coasted for minutes, reaching its apogee at 387 kilometers in the upper thermosphere above the curve of the Earth, where the payload section deployed its sensor package. Thrusters powered by three twelve grams canisters of compressed COs delicately oriented the optical system toward Earth's surface, and Paul's laptop began receiving high-definition imagery of the planet below. The view was stunning—The entire American northeast spread like a detailed map, traffic patterns visible as moving dots, the geometry of human civilization rendered in precise detail.

With the feed now providing targeting data, the second rocket launched. It did not ascend vertically, but instead performed a gravity turn. It rose only high enough to clear the launch tower and surrounding buildings before its nose nudged slightly toward the horizon. The first and second stages fired during the steep initial climb, pushing the vehicle up and out of dense atmosphere. By the time the third stage sustainer began its 45-second burn, the rocket was already at high altitude and moving a speeds just barely exceeding Mach 5.

Paul watched the telemetry, silently calculating and making his own predictions. After burnout, the inert 25-pound payload should coast along a flattened arc, reaching an apogee of just 150 kilometres before descending back toward the planet. Re-entry into the denser atmosphere would slow it to somewhere around Mach 1.9. With an estimated remaining flight time of no more than a few minutes, the vehicle’s effective range would fall somewhere around 1900 miles, meaning it would most likely touch down in some desolate patch of the Atlantic Ocean with an impact velocity just under Mach 1. 

The payload was unlikely to survive touchdown, and the sensor package still falling out of orbit would almost certainly burn up on reentry soon after. Satisfied, Paul snapped the laptop lid shut, leaving it to keep gathering telemetry. The results matched his expectations, but real-world data was never unwelcome. He restarted the truck, eased onto the road, and headed for the warehouse. Beside him, Lisa kept up a running commentary on the battles ripping through his city—Lung, Oni Lee, the heroes. In another dozen minutes, the fighting would settle, the heroes having done their part, softening up his targets for the next phase of his plan.