Hostile Takeover

by McLean, Patrick E.

  "Lead?" asked Topper, immediately thinking of the symbol for lead on the periodic table. "This guy's name is Lead Man?" Topper realized that this was a joke too far. "Okay, okay people. We gotta think. Does anybody know this guy?"

  "Well, he's not a hero, or he wouldn't be destroying the factory," said someone.

  "Un-hunh," said Topper, "What else? Research, we have to find out who this LeadMan is and how we ground him out but good."

  "Uh, sir?" said an intern in the back. "Lead doesn't even conduct electricity all that well."

  "Yeah, yeah, clearly the guy's idiom needs some work. Now I want everybody on this guy until—"

  "Klibanov," said Edwin. Nobody really heard it, but the entire room fell silent at the sound of Edwin's voice. "We need Klibanov."

  "Oh, boy," said Topper heavily, "okay, everybody back to work. Your President of Vice can handle this."

  No one moved, they just stood around staring at the image on the screen.

  "C'mon!" Topper screamed, "What are you all standing around for? We got work to do!"

  A woman from the reinsurance division gave voice to the question on everybody's mind. "Does this mean we're actually going to pay a claim? Pay out money, I mean?" This was a first. Since Edwin had acquired the company, Omdemnity had not paid a single insurance claim. It was contrary to the business model. An insurance company was an organization designed for the accumulation of cash. To think that they would actually pay a claim was heresy.

  Edwin stood up, buttoned his jacket and said, "I assure you all, we will not be the only ones paying for this incident. You know your jobs. Do them."

  As the room emptied, Topper stayed close to Edwin. "E, what can I do?"

  "Review our contract with United Motors. See if we can limit the damage."

  "I tried to put those loopholes in there big fella, but you made me take them out, remember?"

  "Topper, please."

  Topper nodded and shuffled from the room. In the hallway he stopped and made a yawn and stretch that was twice his size. He wasn't used to being up this early in the morning. Not sober anyway. As he lowered his arms and the world came back into focus, he saw Jerry sitting on a chair all alone at the end of the hallway. He had cupped his head in his hands and looked like he was crying.

  "Ah, shit," said Topper. This wasn't good. He hoped that none of the other adjustors had seen Jerry like this. The way they were trained to pounce on weakness, Jerry wouldn't stand a chance.

  "Hey," Topper started, smacking Jerry in the shin, "what gives?"

  Jerry looked down. There were no tears in his eyes, but he looked just awful. "Oh, it's you. Uh, you know. Nothing, it's all fine. I, uh—"

  "Jerry, what is it?" Topper said with uncharacteristic tenderness.

  "Ah, it's my kid. Jerry Junior. He's home sick. I got him this week and now he's all alone."

  "Sick?"

  "Yeah, he caught a cold sitting on the front steps when—"

  "Jerry, I took care of that."

  "I know, I heard. Thank you."

  "Yeah, that guy pissed me off. So what are you doing here?"

  "Well, the manual says…"

  "Ahh," Topper cut him off with a wave of his hand, "I've heard just about enough of that manual. Has everybody lost their minds? Go home Jerry. Go take care of your kid."

  "Well, I don't think I should."

  "Jerry, your President of Vice commands it."

  "But it will catch up with me. You know, prospects for advancement."

  Topper looked around the hallway and then he leaned in close to Jerry. "I want you to listen to me very carefully Jerry. One, you gotta take care of your kid. It's the most important thing. Believe me, if you don't, bad things will happen. He could wind up like me. Two, you got no prospects for advancement. This is not the place for you."

  "Oh, but I like it here, Mr. Topper. It's important work. We're an elite cadre."

  "You're an idiot, Jerry. But worse than that, you're a nice guy. We're not in a nice guy business. Now get while the getting is good."

  "If I go—"

  "I'll cover you Jerry. I promise. I got this."

  "Oh, thank you. Thank you, Mr. Topper. I won't forget this."

  As Jerry scrambled off to take care of his kid, Topper turned and walked away. Before him he had hours of scouring the United Motors contract for a loophole he knew wasn't there. It was going to be a shitty start to what would probably be a shitty day, but Topper had a spring in his step anyway. He was feeling something he hadn't felt in a very long time. Maybe not ever. He was feeling good about himself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the concrete room, the light shone directly into Toppers eyes. On the other side of the light, the interrogator leaned back and loosened his tie. The team talked this strategy over before they began. The little man likes to talk. Be sure to give him room to run. Through his earpiece he heard his boss telling him, "Wait for it." He nodded in response, knowing that he too was being watched from the other side of the one-way glass window.

  When Topper could stand the silence no longer, he said, "Look, when he started off, it was different. Sure he was ruthless—efficient. But it was always for a reason. A bigger reason. He didn't kill people. He didn't hurt people—if he didn't have to. I was the guy who hurt people. And some people, well excuse me, it's the one thing they got right in Texas, asking, "Did he need killin’?"

  "Sure, he was pissed. I mean deep down, pissed off in a calm way I could never understand. I'm a simple creature. I get angry, I get hot, and blagGOW! I break something and I feel better. But Edwin, he was trying to fix a hole in the world. At least, until Agnes died. Then, well, I don't know what he wanted to do then. I guess I wanted revenge. I mean, doesn't everybody?"

  "I don't," said the interrogator.

  "Ah, ya just lyin' to yaself, then. Everybody wants revenge for something."

  "How did Windsor penetrate security? How did he find out who it was?" asked the interrogator.

  "Penetrate?" said Topper with a chuckle. "You make it sound so dirty. Penetrate? He used a lot of lube. At least I hope he did."

  "You think this is a joke?"

  "If I'm not laughin' I'm cryin'. Which one do you want?"

  "How did he find out?"

  "Klibanov."

  "Who's that?"

  "Like you guys don't know. He works for you, right?"

  "I'll ask the questions," said the interrogator.

  "You'll ask the questions! Jeeze, don't you guys ever come up with new material? It's just a shame I didn't have an accomplice. Then you could tell me that he was ratting me out in the room next door."

  "You ratted yourself out."

  "Don't I know it. Okay, whatever. I told you, I’ll tell you everything.

  "About Dr. Yosef Klibanov?

  "Ah, so you've never heard of him? Yeah, that's the guy. Can you revoke his license? 'Cause let me tell you, this is one Doctor who—“

  "We know all about him," said the voice in the darkness, "We need to hear about you, not him."

  "What, you got an important appointment to get to? Do you know why Klibanov is like he is?"

  Silence.

  "Aha, Mr. Smart Guy! Still want me to shut up? I'll tell you why he is like he is. Edwin Windsor. He's the guy did a number on Klibanov. Hoo boy, did he ever!

  “It goes like this. One day, this guy comes to Edwin. Dr. Stephen Grapewigget. Yeah, that one. Billionaire inventor and technologist. He has this crazy idea about transplanting his brain into this pod thing, you know, like a bubble, with tentacles and shit like that. Crazy."

  "Brainitar?"

  "Exactly. Brainitar," said Topper. "Only then he wasn't Brainitar, he was just a rich guy with a crazy idea. Edwin tried to talk him out of it. I tried to talk him out of it. I said, 'Buddy, seriously, you're like the richest guy. You can afford to have degenerate sex with the most beautiful women in the world.' He told me that the physical didn't interest him anymore. I said, Bullshit! Have you tried a John Cassave
tes? How about Philadelphia Flyer? A Smoked Blumpkin with a twist? He said no to all of them.

  "And then I was like, HA! So you don't know. Please, before you do this, go to Thailand for a month and make sure you’ve checked off the list. The WHOLE list. Please, for all the rest of us. For the little guys. Before you go do anything stupid! But he didn't listen to me."

  "I can't imagine why not," the voice in the darkness said.

  "Okay, so you're not FBI. FBI guys have no sense of humor. Who are you with?"

  The interrogator continued, "So what does Grapewigget have to do with Klibanov."

  "Well, he had the plans all ready to go. He just needed somebody to perform the surgery. And there was only one guy who could."

  "Klibanov."

  "Exactly. I'm glad you’re paying attention. 'Cause in the dark like this, I can't tell. It's cool though. Just keep your hand off my knee. I don't go that way. Besides, I'm gonna get raped enough in prison."

  "Klibanov," prompted the interrogator.

  "Yeah, so he's this brilliant Russian surgeon. Did all kindsa crazy shit behind the Iron Curtain. The story is—well the stories are insane. Everybody is pretty sure he's given people superpowers and he's like only guy who really knows how they work. Some even say he invented them in a crazy cold war experiment. He knows more about human and human performance than anybody. He would have won a Nobel Prize by now, except that he's on the wrong side of too many things. So the reason Edwin wanted him is, if anybody would know who destroyed the factory, it would be Klibanov.

  "So Klibanov has a daughter. When his wife dies in childbirth he repents his former ways. He's going to be a good man—a simple man—raise his daughter. He wants to leave all the madness and the evil behind him. Very sweet, but you and I both know, that's not how it works.

  "But Klibanov doesn't. He says he doesn't care about the money. So when Grapewigget asks him to do this surgery, Klibanov turns him down. This makes Grapewigget a man with an unusual problem. So he turns to Edwin Windsor. 'Cause Edwin has a reputation for solving unusual problems, one way or the other.

  "Poor bastard didn't know that Edwin was already halfway to becoming the Devil. Sure, it seems like he can make your dreams come true, but it always goes wrong in the end. Kinda like that story about the Monkey's Paw. You ever have to read that one?"

  "No."

  "They made me read that one in school. Anyway, so, Grapewigget tells us he wants to become a brain in a jar, and we can't talk him out of it. Edwin gets him to sign a deal. Scribble scribble, initial here, initial there, the deal is done. Grapewigget asks him, what are you going to do? Edwin looks at him and says, 'I'm going to shift his demand for money to the right.'”

  "What does that mean?"

  Topper looked down at the table for a long time. When he looked back into the darkness, there were tears in his eyes. "I think he gave the daughter an incurable disease. Look, it doesn't excuse what I did. But it shows you. Edwin was already a monster."

  "So Klibanov did the surgery."

  "Edwin didn't even have to ask. Klibanov came back on his own and begged to do the surgery. He wanted the money to try and cure his daughter. He needed equipment, he needed facilities, he needed expensive medicines. Resources. And I sat there and watched while Edwin made with the long face and nodded understandingly. He said, 'Of course,' he told Klibanov, 'I'm just so glad we can be of assistance in your time of trouble.'

  "But as we watched the surgery—well, Edwin watched, I ran out halfway through to pick up a ham-on-rye and a two-day drunk—but before I left, I heard Edwin say. 'He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune.'

  "I'm tellin' ya, before this story is done, you're gonna give me a medal," said Topper. "I won't take it. But I did the world a favor, I tell you. A favor."

  CHAPTER NINE

  For the meeting with Dr. Klibanov, Topper once again brought a chair into Edwin's office. He sat at one side of Edwin's desk for the meeting.

  Klibanov stood awkwardly on the other side of the desk, looking for a chair.

  "It's healthier to stand," said Topper, enjoying it.

  Edwin said, "Ah, Dr. Klibanov. So good of you to come. How goes it with your daughter?"

  The Doctor's weathered face softened and he said, "Not well I am afraid. She remains in stasis, and for all our hard work, we are no closer to a cure. With more money, with more research teams we could—"

  "Ah, money. If that is all you need," said Edwin with a cold smile, "we have that in some abundance around here."

  "What would you have me do for your blood money, Windsor?" Klibanov said warily.

  Edwin slid a photograph across the desk, a picture of the man with lightning leaping from his fingers and “PB” emblazoned on his chest. "Can you identify this man?"

  Klibanov considered the picture. "Hmm, it is the Faraday effect," he said quietly.

  "His name is Faraday?" asked Topper

  "No, no, no, you strange little man. That is not his name. That is my name for how he became like this. If you take a strong, very, very strong electromagnetic field, place a man in it and rotate him very fast, sometimes he develops these abilities. Becoming, in effect, a battery able to channel negative electrons. But this is on a scale and power that I have never seen before."

  "So you do not know this man?"

  "I did not say that. But what is first notable to me is the magnitude of discharge that this person is producing."

  "You mean LeadMan?" asked Topper.

  "What? Why do you interrupt me, troll?"

  "It's just, we figure, that his name is LeadMan or something like that, on account of the, uh, chemical, yeah, chemical symbol for lead on his chest." Topper said, trying to sound smart and scientific but not quite sticking the landing.

  "PB? Would it not be more sensible to assume that his name is PowerBoy?" said Klibanov.

  "Oh," said Topper.

  “The only ones I know of who can control the Faraday effect are PowerBoy and WeatherGirl."

  "Those names are so cutesy, they are kind of disgusting," countered Topper.

  "The names are not important," Klibanov snapped, "You see, it is so much electricity. Too much. It cannot come from himself alone; he must have another source of power."

  "You mean like batteries?" asked Topper.

  "No, NO! Batteries? There is no battery in the world powerful enough to—ah, but why do I waste my time. Windsor? You understand."

  Edwin stepped in, "It's an industrial facility. One that uses a great deal of power. Dr. Klibanov is suggesting that he draws his power from a dynamo, or transmission lines. Perhaps buried underground?"

  "Yes, exactly."

  "And who is he?"

  "I cannot say for certain, but there was a young man in Chicago. The son of an electrician."

  Topper tried one last time. "Ah, c'mon. Why can't he be a plumber? ‘Cause pipes and lead and PB, y'know?" Klibanov and Edwin both ignored him.

  "As a child he survived a tremendous shock. One that should have killed him. A kind of punctuated evolution, I would guess. Under strain his body had to learn to deal with the extreme current. He would be the only one I know of. But things are changing so fast. Your government does a poor job of regulating such things."

  "Our government does a poor job of many things. How do we neutralize him?"

  Klibanov studied the picture carefully for a time. Then he said, "He is channeling powers that do not truly belong to him. The solution in such cases is uniform. Ground him. That is how you neutralize his power. Once his ability to affect the electromagnetic spectrum is removed, you may use any of your usual methods to neutralize him."

  "Thank you, Doctor."

  The strategy and planning session lasted throughout the day and long into the following night. Edwin never seemed to get tired. The Adjustors gathered in his office. They would be dispatched for a piece of information and return. Slowly but surely a plan began to take shape.

  It had always seemed strange to Topper,
downright inefficient, that Edwin never had a computer in his office. With most of Edwin's requests, one or more of the severe men in black suits would leave Edwin's office, walk to a computer, find the answer, and return with it or a printout or a drawing of some kind.

  In distant, happier times, Topper had asked Edwin about this and Edwin had replied, "Computers are useless, all they can give you are answers.”

  Topper wasn't too sure it made sense to him. He was the kind of person who always knew the question. "Where's the bar?" What's a good place to eat around here?" "Where's the strip club?" Life just wasn't that complicated for Topper. He knew what he wanted, and he went about getting it the easiest way possible. Topper was pretty sure Edwin would be a lot happier if he adopted a similar view of things.

  As Edwin asked his questions, the empty parts of the room were filled with papers and implements. Revisions were made to equipment lists. Maps were drawn and re-drawn. By about five in the afternoon of the following day, the plan had come together. It was physically manifest in Edwin's office. As the tall man talked it through and refined it and asked questions, he literally paced through his conception. He arranged and rearranged it, adjusted and caressed it, until finally each item was in proper relation to every other. The physical organization mirrored and extended his mighty mind.

  The broad strokes of the plan were simple enough. They didn't have to find the man with the PB on his chest. They knew what he was going to do. He would come to them. Some unknown party was trying to bankrupt Omdemnity Insurance by creating the exact event that the company was supposed to insure against. No amount of financial engineering could change the nature of losses in the real world, or the fact that Omdemnity, as a legal entity, was obligated to pay.