Chapter 1: Surveillance Footage

Venice, a city destined from birth to be extraordinary. A Renaissance stronghold, a center of commerce and industry, the busiest port on the Mediterranean. Throughout European history before the twentieth century, it passed through successive periods of prosperity and decline, leaving behind a picturesque city on the water, full of poetry and charm.

But all that belonged to the past.

Nearly a hundred years ago, imperial rule changed the order of things here.

In those turbulent years, with rebel armies rising everywhere, false accusations, assassinations, and property seizures were commonplace. Before long, religion became the next target, and virtually every religion in the world was stripped of any real power. Finally, commerce too came under imperial control. From then on, nobles and royals took a cut of the profits from every major deal on the planet.

Venice was merely one of countless historic cities affected.

Today, all seven churches here charged admission. Some were effectively museums open to the public, while others served purely as tourist attractions. The “priests” and “nuns” inside were only playing the parts and might well head straight to a nightclub after work. The hundreds of palaces and mansions along the Grand Canal had also been divided up by the Empire. These masterpieces of old European architecture now mostly housed imperial government offices. Very few remained private residences, and their occupants were generally the same people who worked in the palace next door by day and returned to sleep in their own mansions at night.

Given enough time, the silt of corruption was bound to settle beneath those glittering waters.

In 2101, Venice was part of the Crown Commandery, one of the Empire's five Western European commanderies. Little remained of the romantic city on the water, and its former glory was unlikely ever to return. Its population consisted mainly of five groups: port workers, sailors, service workers, tourists, and the self-employed. Bars and nightclubs were everywhere. These establishments, so at odds with the city's atmosphere of European art, were the only solace available to the common people who lived here.

January. The tourist off-season, the gloomiest stretch of chilly, rainy weather in Venice.

Yellow police tape stretched across the entrance to the Copper Parrot, and several officers held back a crowd of onlookers.

A man approached silently through the night.

With his coat collar turned up and an old-fashioned flat cap on his head, he looked as though he were playing a detective from the days of black-and-white films.

He showed an officer his identification and headed into the bar. The police tape in his path twisted and rose of its own accord, untouched, letting him through. It took only two seconds, and no one noticed that his hands had remained motionless in his coat pockets the whole time.

His name was Elot Nice. Thirty-three years old, Strong rank, a legend in the Venice police department. The city's villains called him “Paper Hero.”

Paper Hero liked the name very much. As he saw it, however impressive your birth name might be, your parents had given it to you. Paper Hero was a name he had earned himself. Superman, after all, was called Superman not because he had superpowers, but because he used them to help and save so many people. If he never did anything, he would just be Clark.

“Hey, you're finally here, Elot.” The potbellied Chief Deacon beckoned to Paper Hero. “You've got to come see this. Ha ha, a rookie took one look earlier and puked all over the floor.”

Paper Hero walked over to Deacon, took the pvp670 from him, and immediately tapped play. “Surveillance footage?”

“That's right. Look, the suspect's the big fellow on the left, the one drinking at the bar... Look over there. Three punks are harassing the waitress. She knocks over the drinks on her tray, spilling them on the big fellow's clothes.” Deacon pointed here and there on the player's screen as Paper Hero held it. “Then... buddy, you'll want to watch this closely...”

The suspect on the screen stood over 1.90 meters tall, with the build of a water-sports athlete and a buzz cut. He wore sunglasses even inside the dimly lit bar.

When the waitress accidentally spilled the drinks on him, he slowly turned his head, took off his sunglasses, and said something to the punks. Ordinarily, it would most likely have been “Leave her alone,” followed by a fine display of a hero rescuing a damsel in distress. But the next thing he did in the footage was grab the waitress's head with one hand, lift her bodily into the air, and casually toss her aside.

Paper Hero raised his head slightly and glanced toward the spot the camera hadn't caught. Following the direction in which the waitress had been thrown, he saw a wrecked liquor cabinet against the wall.

“How's the waitress doing?” Paper Hero asked, his eyes already back on the footage.

Deacon replied, “Alive. Multiple cuts and soft-tissue contusions. The neck injury's fairly serious, but her life's not in danger. She'll be out of the hospital in a couple of weeks. Compared to those punks, she got lucky.” As he spoke, he pointed at the pvp670's screen again. “Look, here's the first victim.”

On the screen, the big fellow punched the nearest punk. His fist went in through the left side of the man's chest and came out through his back, clean and neat, as smoothly and effortlessly as a sharp knife passing through a lump of fat.

“I reckon that sobered up every drunk in the place. About twenty seconds later, we'd lost all our eyewitnesses. They moved faster than people fleeing a fire.” Deacon took a chocolate bar from his jacket pocket and began eating it.

Paper Hero's brow furrowed deeply. That punch was terrifying. Had it been a thrust with the fingers held together, fingertips first, it would have been understandable. But an ordinary fist had punched clean through a body without shredded organs spraying out of the victim's back. That showed just how astonishing the force and speed of the blow had been.

In the footage, the other two punks stood stunned for two seconds, then tried to flee as well. But before one could get out of the camera's view, the big fellow caught him by the back of the neck. Judging by the expression on the punk's face, that hand was squeezing tighter and tighter. In just a few seconds, blood began pouring from his mouth. It was like someone squeezing a tube of toothpaste hard around the middle. His neck was squeezed out of shape, his face turned purple, his eyes rolled back, and his whole face began to swell.

Finally, with a vicious grin, the big fellow slammed the punk's head against the hard bar. It was like a swollen pustule pricked with a needle, the fluid flying a very long way...

Paper Hero looked up again, toward the bar. “Right, that explains the smell that's been hanging in the air since I walked in...” He switched off the pvp670 and handed it back to Deacon, then asked, “What about the one who got out of shot?”

Deacon said, “The big fellow caught him as he reached the door. You'll never guess what the murder weapon was.” He tilted his head toward the pool table.

Half joking, Paper Hero asked, “What? He made a ‘kebab’ with a pool cue?”

“Ha!” Deacon didn't laugh, merely gave a perfunctory imitation of one. “I told you you'd never guess.” He curled his hand as though holding something and gestured toward his own eye. “The suspect stuffed a billiard ball into the kid's eye socket.”

“Oh? I thought those things were wider than our eye sockets.”

Unimpressed by Paper Hero's deadpan joke, Deacon said, “Yes, which is why the victim's brow ridge and cheekbone were both fractured. Like forcing a puzzle piece into a slot it doesn't fit, the killer filled up some of the space inside the victim's skull. Needless to say, we collected some brain matter that had oozed out of his nostrils and ears, and the coroner will find an eyeball in a lump of brains mashed to pulp. Most fun we've had since the New Year's party, isn't it?” His face grew stern. “All right, enough jokes. From this moment on, the whole thing's yours. I don't want to get mixed up in this mess.”

Paper Hero said, “I know. You're only responsible for taking the credit when the case is closed.”

“Hey! Listen, do you know who's been doing all your damned paperwork...”

“All right, all right. You and your people carry on clearing the place. I need some air.” Paper Hero cut off Deacon's grumbling, turned, and walked away. As he passed a young officer looking green in the face, he smiled and said, “Hey, buddy, do you like cheese sandwiches?”

The instant he heard that, the officer turned, doubled over, and vomited violently.

Deacon's roar came from behind him. “You idiot! I already told you, get a paper bag!”