by Tom Andry
* * *
The drive from my flat was uneventful. The sun had set and the stars, such as you could see over the city lights, were out. I drove the speed limit, not really wanting to rush to my appointment with the doc. The area around my flat was industrial, busy with people on the streets shopping and eating after a long day's work. Traffic wasn't bad, considering. A whoosh of air past the passenger side door indicated that someone with super speed was using the super lane. Above, a streak of flame and a cloud of darkness revealed that whomever it was wasn't alone. Patrolling for villains, on their way to a meeting, or just late for dinner - you couldn't tell. All around, people barely noticed.
The area directly adjacent to the city center was more run-down. That's always been the case. Either you have the money to live in the city or you have the money to live someplace nicer. In between fell everyone else. Multifamily apartments were omnipresent, cut only by a few single-family dwellings that looked like they should be condemned, and a few general stores with teens sitting outside drinking out of paper bags. Many of them nodded at me as I drove by. I'd employed more than one of them for information, stakeouts and other less desirable jobs. They were more than happy to help, though the money was definitely a plus. They loved spying on the supers.
As I exited the city proper and drove into the suburbs, you could see the difference. There were more single-family homes, larger yards and more strip malls. The roads were rough all over, neglect obvious. It was hard for the local police and government to keep up. Anytime there was a major battle between the supers you'd end up with major city damage. Of course, the Super State would pay out most claims, but a lot of that money would end up in the pockets of the politicians, shady developers, and others. The Bulwark and the government of the Super State didn't care as long as the money left their hands. With their superior technology and intelligence, all they needed to do was release a new patent to replenish their coffers.
The City Guide - full of maps of the city and the suburbs - sat unused on the passenger seat. I knew just where I was going. I'd been there plenty of times before. The car sounded good - better than before actually. The new side panel didn't match, but Khan knew I didn't care about that. The engine purred as the houses and yards got progressively larger as I entered Avondale. The streets weren't any better but the yards were. On more than one, I saw small signs near front doors and in flowerbeds. I smiled as I recognized some of the names of the protection companies. "This house protected by CyberTec," by "VeloCyn," or by "The Axiom Consortium." Depending on the package, the protection could be as little as insurance that would replace or repair damages to full-fledged force fields. I'd heard that the uber-rich even paid to have anti-bug/temperature control fields installed. Would be nice on a buggy summer night I suppose.
The sad part was that half the corporations were fronts for super-villains. This didn't mean that the protection was any less valid, it just meant that they left in a backdoor. Well, you'd never convince me the heroes didn't do that as well, but you never heard about it. What does happen is that, occasionally, some villain will decide to make his power play and will tap all his clients for the capital they'd need. Within a day or so there would be some sort of invasion or major attack and The Bulwark and others would be called in. Everyone who had been protected by the phony corporation would have a claim. They'd probably get paid off by the Super State and they'd look for another protection company. The cycle continues.
Of course, there were no signs on the lawn of Doc Arts. I slowed my car and parked in front. I hadn't been this close to his home in four years. I glanced down the street at the bend in the road where I used to park, thinking about - well - just thinking. And drinking. More drinking than thinking now that I thought about it. There was a big part of me that wished I'd had something to drink right now. Another, smarter, part was glad that I didn't. I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I grabbed my notebook out of my glove compartment, stepped out of the car, and headed up the front walk.
Ignaro Medico, or Doc Arts as most knew him, didn't live in Hillside proper. He lived just down the road in Avondale. A slightly less affluent suburb, it was filled with the upper middle class for the most part. For a super, especially one of his status, this was slumming it. He lived in a fairly routine six bedroom, seven and a half bath house. Though I couldn't tell now that it was night, it was a light brown stucco number with large bay windows, all the upgrades and a three car garage. I'd seen the blueprints and it had a large theater room, a huge master bath, and a spa out back. While I knew how to access his lair intercom, I decided to just knock on the front door.
Medico lived in a brand new, planned community. It wasn't gated but it could have been. There were all the usual amenities - pool, gym, golf course, etc. - though I was sure he never used them. In fact, chances were none of his neighbors actually knew what he looked like. As the door opened, my suspicions were confirmed.
The man standing in front of me was most definitely not Doc Arts. Every bit the butler, the balding man with the thin mustache, tight vest, white shirt, and dark slacks looked like he stepped right out of a fifty's flick. At first it seemed that he was a bit taller than me, but as he motioned me inside, I could tell that he was just a hair shorter.
"Ah, Mr. Moore," the butler stepped aside as I entered, "the Doctor is expecting you. Please follow me."
I stood in the foyer for a moment, taking in my surroundings. The house was immaculate. Cream carpets, white walls, minimalist furniture - the place reeked of a hospital waiting room. As I followed the butler through the house I noted that the low couches were white leather with chrome accents, the coffee table was a chrome and glass affair with magazines perfectly fanned across the top, and even the fireplace brick was painted white. The few pictures on the wall were abstract art pieces obviously meant to add color to the place. I guessed that the good doc had hired an interior designer. I also guessed that he almost never stayed up here.
"So, Jeeves," I said to the back of the butler's head, "what are you, a hologram or something?"
Without missing a beat, the butler replied, "Very good sir. Yes, a hologram. I've been mated with a force field that allows me to interact physically with my environment. If I may ask, sir, how did you know?"
I nodded at his feet, not that he was looking at me, "Your feet, no footsteps and no indentation in the carpet."
He continued into the kitchen, "Ah, very good. Doc Arts said you were astute...for a tippy. I'll have to put in a request during my next scheduled maintenance." The butler stopped in front of a standalone freezer, "Here we are sir." He opened the door.
The freezer looked packed with food. Frozen meats, ice cream, vegetables - everything you'd expect to see in a freezer. He reached inside, near the roof by the door, and I heard a switch click. In place of a freezer full of food, I now saw a set of descending steps.
I looked at the butler whose neutral expression conveyed years of waiting patiently on others. Whoever created this thing did a great job.
"How very quaint." I started down the stairs, "I'm surprised the doc didn't spring for an elevator or teleporter."
The butler's voice rang out from the bottom of the stairs, "Oh, the Doctor doesn't mind such inconvenience. I believe he finds it stimulating."
"Stimulating?" I exited the stairs where the butler was now waiting.
"The walk, sir."
The butler turned and led me through a series of doors, which snapped open and closed with the whirring and clanging of machinery as we passed. You could bet I wouldn't get past one without the butler. The level of protection of the doctor's lair was impressive. He could probably survive a direct nuclear blast. Finally we exited the last door, which was as thick as a baby's arm.
"Your guest has arrived, sir."
"Oh, thank you, Butler," Doc Arts' head popped up from behind what looked to be a corpse on a table. "Could you get me some water?"
Before Butler could leave I turned to him and add
ed, "I'll take a scotch, neat, thanks."
If the upstairs house was a study of organization and cleanliness, the lair was the polar opposite. Though I had seen the plans, I couldn't tell you how large it was from where I was standing for all the equipment and clutter. While my terminal linkup to The Bulwark's database was no larger than a keyboard connected to a small desk, Medico had floor-to-ceiling devices with screens, lights, and paper feeds. There were instruments connected by wires that hung free as well as what looked to be a huge chandelier, which not only provided light but also had a number of retractable devices. I didn't recognize any of them. There were piles of printouts, discarded boxes and even a few portable coolers with markings indicating that they were used for organ transport. The place smelled of antiseptic, mostly, but there was another sweetly sour undercurrent that didn't sit well with me. I immediately regretted my choice of beverage.
"Scotch, eh?" the doctor turned from the table, placing his gloved hands inside one of the large machines. A mist smelling faintly of lemon and roses floated down upon his hands. A moment later, he removed his hands. The black gloves gleamed as if they had just been polished. "I don't remember you being much of a drinker."
The doctor stepped forward, offering me his hand.
"Yeah, well, things change." I ignored the gloved hand.
"Yes," the doctor dropped his hand, "well, yes, that's true." He started to pace, "You see, the reason I asked you here..."
"Whoa, Ignaro," I interrupted, "let's get one thing straight; I'm not here for you. I'm doing a favor for the police. I won't even discuss your case unless you agree, in advance, to two conditions: first, you'll meet my price, whatever it is, and I can assure you it's going to be high; and second, when I say I'm done, I'm done. If you still think there's a problem, you get one of your super friends to deal with it. You keep off my and the police's backs."
"Ah, yes," he stammered, "I'd heard you'd taken to finding out our identities. I'm guessing Gale helped you with that."
I stepped forward, face to face with Medico, "Don't you ever say her name again, you understand?" My teeth were clenched, my face red.
The doctor was a small man, maybe five foot, five inches. He was completely bald with a reddish chinstrap beard that grew pointy at the corners of his jaw near his ears and again at his chin. In public he wore dark glasses, but down here, in his lair, he left his mechanical eyes exposed. They looked like small, metal tubes that protruded from his eye sockets. The skin was red and irritated where it met the metal. He was wearing his standard outfit of a white, knee-length lab coat, black, rubberized gloves, green pants, and black boots. I knew from Gale, and others, that a good portion of his body had been replaced over the years, not just his eyes. I couldn't tell because his mechanical eyes didn't have irises, but it seemed that he was avoiding my gaze.
"Surely, Mr. Moore, you can't blame me for your divorce," he said.
"You'd be surprised at what I can blame you for," I muttered.
Just then Butler showed up with the drinks. I grabbed mine and swallowed half of it at once.
Medico delicately picked up his water from the tray, sipping it through a straw.
I noticed that even though Butler was just a bit shorter than me a moment ago, next to the doctor, he looked a bit shorter than him. Apparently, he would never appear taller than anyone he was serving.
The doctor used the interruption to put some distance between us. "I accept your conditions." He cleared his throat, "Now, may I continue?"
I nodded.
"Fine, good. Okay," he started pacing again, "there have been disappearances."
"Yeah, the cop filled me in. Some of your patients?" I leaned back against a table and felt something wet soak through my trousers. I looked back. I had knocked over a tray with some sort of clear liquid.
The doctor noticed and looked at it.
"Oh, don't worry about that; it won't stain," he picked up the tray and Butler took it from him. Of course, Butler wasn't there a second ago. "I'll have to give you an injection, however."
"What?" I replied, concerned. "What for?"
"Oh," he replied absently, "you know, just in case."
"Great," I muttered. "So, how many disappearances we talking?"
"Oh, not many, really, when you consider my caseload. A few have shown up recently but there are five patients over the last two months I haven't been able to contact."
"Doesn't seem like a lot. So, what do you want me to do?"
"Well," the doctor started fiddling with some of the larger machines, "to put it simply, I want you to follow me."
"Follow you?"
"And keep an eye on my patients, yes. Shouldn't be too hard I would think."
I grimaced, "So, these disappearances are happening soon after your visits?"
"So it seems," he was more wrapped up in his machines than me at the moment. "You know how people are. They're always going off on some mission or another."
"People?" I said. "You mean supers."
"Eh? Yes, whatever." He continued, "I can't be sure how long it's been going on, but I recently noticed that an unusual number of my followup visits end up with me finding empty houses and no patient."
"And the police don't see a problem."
"The police?" he reached to his face to adjust his glasses before he realized he wasn't wearing any. "Oh, they were a last resort. It's my colleagues that don't think there is a problem." He approached me with a syringe.
"So, you've already been to The Bulwark," I sipped at my scotch. "Ouch!" I said, as he stuck me in the arm with the syringe. "A little warning would have been nice," I muttered.
"Oh, of course," he laughed ignoring my remark, "you don't think I'd go to the police first, do you? That may be sore for a day or so."
I replied into my glass rubbing my arm, "No, of course not. We're only tippys after all."
"Exactly!" he exclaimed. "But you see, no one believes me. There's been no evidence of struggle, no bodies, no complaints other than mine. I had hoped that getting the police involved would pressure some of the others to investigate further, but it was to no avail."
"I see."
"So I had no recourse but to turn to you. Will you help me?" he stopped working for a moment, waiting.
I stared at the last of the scotch, looking for answers. Regardless of our past, I stood to make a lot of money on this deal. I could really milk Medico. Plus, I might get a lot of good will out of that cop as well. That could really work for me down the road. There was no downside for me other than my near pathological hatred of the doctor. I sighed and took my notebook out of my jacket pocket. I flipped to a blank page and wrote a number on it. A large number. I looked at it for a second and then I added a zero at the end. I tore it out and handed it to the doc.
"This is my price, Medico."
He looked at the paper and slowly nodded. It didn't seem to me that he was as shocked as I had hoped.
"Per day," I added. "Up front. I'll call my bank every morning. You do whatever it is that you do to transfer money. I find that amount in my account in the morning and I'm yours for the day. I don't, and this deal is off."
He nodded slowly, "You really don't like me, do you, Mr. Moore."
"No Medico, I don't," I replied. "Feel free to say no. I've got lots of other cases I could be on for clients that didn't..."
As if on cue, a little girl bounced out from around the corner. I knew her from pictures and news reports. Her birth was the proverbial miracle. As I well knew, babies of mixed super/tippy parents, or cross-births, had a very low chance of survival. This child had miraculously beaten the odds, though her mom hadn't survived the birth.
"Daddy?" her voice was like the tinkling of wind chimes. She was pale in the way that happens when overprotective parents keep their child from the sun or slather on sun block when they can't. Her short, bobbed, brown hair hung down just below her ears, and a green bow topped her head. Her triangular face was framed by straight cut bangs
, large ears and pouty lips. Her nose was pointed and bridgeless, her eyes dark brown and thoughtful. "Are you done with Assistant yet?"
"Almost dear," he turned and faced the girl, hands uncomfortably at his sides. "Give daddy a few more minutes."
"Who's that?" she stared at me without a hint of self-consciousness. "He looks angry."
I got down on one knee, cleared my throat and forced my lips into a smile, "No, I'm not mad," I replied, "just..." I stuttered, "your dad just gave me a shot," I covered lamely. "You know, you're a lucky little girl."
She smiled, her perfectly straight teeth gleaming white, "I know." She turned back to her dad but then stopped. Looking over her shoulder at me, "Why?"
"Well," I said, my voice cracking slightly, "if you had been born to a different dad, you might not be here today."
She smiled again, "Oh, I know all about that. I was sick but my dad made me better. My dad's brilliant. Everyone says so."
"Yes, well," the doctor interrupted, "thanks for that dear. Why don't you go and play while I finish up with Mr. Moore here."
"Hurry up with Assistant, daddy, I want to play." She turned back and skipped back the way she came. I slowly stood watching her retreat.
"Well," I said softly, wishing there was more scotch in my glass.
"Hmmm? Oh, yes," the doctor replied. "Okay, Mr. Moore, I accept. The money shouldn't be a problem."
I nodded, teeth clenched.
* * *