Catalyst: A Superhero Urban Fantasy Thrillride (Steel City Heroes Book 1)

by CM Raymond

  Chem’s feet echoed down the empty corridor. At this time of night, and this time of year, the University’s Medical and Chemical Research Division was practically a ghost town. Students were too busy partying. Professors were too busy enjoying the relative calm of the semesters’ early weeks. Which suited Chem just fine.

  He preferred the solitude anyway. It made breaking and entering all the easier.

  Chem slid the fake access card into his bag, next to his real one. The one actually issued to Percival Carver Scott—and deactivated several months ago. He didn’t know why he kept it. It was nothing more than a symbol of how far he’d fallen.

  He turned right down Hallway B, avoiding the working security cameras on A.

  Once Chem had been a prized asset of the academic community, a rising star. But the University had since disavowed all connection with him.

  He couldn’t blame them though. The breakup was mostly his fault. Failure to produce results, the debacle with the research ethics board, and even his half-assed performance in the classroom provided a compelling case against him. Without tenure and few political allies, it was a fight he couldn’t win.

  He stepped into an open classroom and paused for a second, letting two voices pass down the hallway. Grad students, burning the midnight oil.

  Suckers, Chem thought. Wasting their talent working to make someone else’s name and someone else’s buck. He wished he had a grad student of his own to boss around.

  Getting canned by the faculty left Chem without a job, and without proper access to the supplies he needed. The lack of supplies was a relatively easy fix. Thanks to the technological prowess congregating around Pittsburgh’s several fine universities, it wasn’t difficult for the defrocked professor to find a hacker who could be bought for a couple bills. And for a couple bills more, he received his totally serviceable fake ID—and an open door to the supplies he needed.

  The lack of a real job, however, was a harder fix. He had a couple less than legal irons in the fire to hold him over, but none of that would be necessary once he completed his research. Once he finished the Vida Serum.

  Media attention on DARPA, The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, revolved around exoskeletons and other technical enhancements—devices that increased soldier speed and lifting capacities. Front-line machines that could replace their biological counterparts also held the public’s eye. And why not? That stuff was a Tony Stark kind of sexy. Robots made good headlines and fit the techno-utopian vision that most Americans swore by.

  But Chem didn’t care about that high-profile, sci-fi bullshit. His interests were focused on what went into a soldier.

  It wasn’t as if biochemical enhancements didn’t exist in the military world, they just failed to garner the same press. Altered caffeine pills kept soldiers awake, and Ritalin provided extreme focus. Strictly speaking, the US military had been using chemistry on its troops since before it was called the US military. Washington administered vaccines to his troops to counteract British biological warfare in the form of smallpox—a type of combat that had been terribly successful against the native people years before.

  Chemistry and biology could kill in ways tech never could. A lifetime ago, when he was a foolish youth, Chem had set out to create just that. Something that could create the perfect killing machine. Now, a decade later, that work had led him here. Sneaking around a college lab in the middle of the night.

  From a foolish youth to a foolish adult. That will make for a great biography, he thought to himself.

  He took the stairs up a level, then back down a few hundred yards later. This kept him out of the watchful eye of an administrative assistant who was friendly in the, “Why yes judge, I remember exactly who I saw on the night of the incident” kind of way. Before exiting the stairwell, he took off his lab coat and replaced it with the zip up hoodie from his bag. The lab coat was kind of his signature look—not something you’d want remembered if you happened to find yourself before a jury.

  This was his life now—unattached to a school or lab, stealing the supplies he needed, stepping on, or in some cases way over several laws regarding unsanctioned chemical research. Discovery took risk. Chem knew that better than anyone. But he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not ever. Not until the work was complete. The Vida Serum. The answer to Chem’s problems.

  Left, right, straight, left.

  He had navigated the labyrinthine building for years when his work was more or less legitimate. And now, when getting caught could land him in prison, that work paid off.

  Before him stood the secured chemical supply closet, a veritable grocery store of hard to get goods.

  Sure, there would be a clear record of his having entered the building. That couldn’t be helped. There were enough faces around that recognized him, so he couldn’t go with a fake name for his fake ID. But the complex was huge, and there was zero evidence that he was anywhere near the supply closet. If a few items went missing every couple weeks, who would be there to point the finger at him?

  He didn’t even work there.

  The key Chem pulled from the stash pocket of his bag was more difficult to obtain than the hacked ID. It took several rounds of laced drinks with an old colleague. Rohypnol wasn’t just a date-rape drug, after all. Poor Michael likely got chastised for his “absent-mindedness,” and maybe even had to pay a fine to replace the “lost” key, but science was a costly endeavor.

  He’d pay his friend back with plenty of interest if he ever solved the damn problem.

  Chem stepped through the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. Auxiliary lights would have to do; cameras kept a watchful eye on every square inch of the place. He knew just what he needed and where it would be anyway. The same key unlocked the cabinets.

  The base of Chem’s serum was a neurotransmitter inhibitor called gamma-aminobutyric acid. The snake oil salesmen called it GABA—the fountain of youth. Soccer moms around the country swallowed the stuff by the fistfuls in an attempt to counteract the anxiety created by grandé lattes and screaming kids. And while GABA’s theoretical benefits might sound good in an advertisement, oral dosages would have the same chance of crossing the blood-brain barrier as a fourteen-year-old boy had of getting into an upscale gentlemen's club.

  Which meant the pills didn’t do jack shit. It was the problem Chem had spent every waking hour of the last two years trying to solve.

  GABA could be found at any health store, but he was engaging in this particular act of larceny for something harder to come by. He waved his phone in front of the shelves to illuminate the labels. A muscle relaxant called Baclofen. The right combination of these two drugs might just solve the next step of Chem’s riddle. One step out of ten thousand. But progress was progress, and Chem wasn’t about to sneer at a potential answer.

  Chem snatched a bottle of pills and dropped them into his messenger bag, happy with a job well done. His grin faded as footsteps and a faint whistling approached the storeroom.

  Scoring drugs was on his to-do list—a fistfight with a security guard was not. Chem’s strength was his mind—and his will—not his body. Fumbling with another cabinet, he found something nestled in a plastic bag that would do the trick in a pinch. He grabbed a handful, crouched, and prayed he wouldn’t need what was in the bag, that the footsteps would just pass by.

  They didn’t.

  The door opened with the creak of a B-grade horror film. Overhead halogen lights flashed on just as the chemist ducked behind a cart of empty beakers and five-gallon buckets. His eyes cut over to the cabinet.

  Shit.

  The door was ajar. Scientists pride themselves on their precision. How could he have been so careless?

  His uninvited guest had seen it too. “Hello? Somebody in here?”

  Chem held his breath like a Japanese pearl diver.

  “Hey, Ken, it’s me.”

  A radio crackled to life: “Yeah, Bill. What’s up?”

  Chem cursed under his breath.

  The
voice was a familiar one—Bill, a fifty-year-old guard working the halls at night so his little girl could attend class for free during the day. The man was friendlier than a golden retriever and just as loyal. The chemist would often take a break from his lab on the other end of the complex and join the night guard as he sucked down a cancer stick on the front steps.

  He liked Bill—but not enough to serve time. This was going to have to be perfect.

  Static, and then another line from the radio. “You need me to come down?”

  Bill laughed. “Sure. You could use the exercise, and we might need to sweep the place. I got an open cabinet.”

  “Roger that.”

  A lab towel with the iconic mascot was just within reach. It would serve as a makeshift mask, and Chem tied it over his face like a bandit from the wild west who was really into college basketball.

  His steady hands worked fast. He opened one of the tiny plastic bags he’d palmed from the shelf and shook it. A piece of metal the size of a ten-sided die tumbled around inside. Cesium—a soft pyrophoric element. From the Greek, meaning fire bearing. He pulled a water bottle from his bag, broke the seal, and took a long drink.

  Looking under the table, he could see Bill’s legs across the room. The guard stood directly in front of the storage cabinet. Chem did a quick calculation and blew on his hand, hoping to rid it of any condensation. In one fluid movement, he grabbed the Cesium, flipped it into the water bottle, and twisted the cap in place. Without hesitation, he slid the bottle under the long lab table toward his old acquaintance.

  Chem blocked his ears and put his head between his legs.

  The blast split through the room. The deafening chemical explosion was accompanied by the tumult of shattering glass on steel. The reaction was perfectly timed and placed. Chem leapt to his feet and shot for the door. He cleared an overturned cart and caught a glimpse of a crumpled mass under an upended table. He prayed to whatever gods might exist that Bill was okay.

  The hallway was still empty, but it wouldn’t be for long. Exiting through the front would be a mistake. He pulled his hood over his head and angled toward the rear emergency exit. His heart jackhammered in his ears, his lungs screaming.

  I’m not in any shape for this shit.

  Coming to a T in the corridor, Chem groped the wall and catapulted himself around the corner—directly into the chest of Bill’s brick wall of a shift partner. The maybe-racist who had scanned him in.

  “What the hell?” the man shouted.

  He was even more imposing out from behind the desk. The security uniform barely fit the guy. He looked like he got the job right after failing off the offensive line.

  Though tall, the chemist was rail thin. But he could use his body strategically, and the element of surprise was on his side.

  Chem grabbed the man’s uniform; his knee shot upward, targeting the guard’s soft crotch.

  Bullseye.

  A gravelly groan escaped the lineman’s mouth, and he dropped to a knee.

  The researcher wasted no time fleeing through the rear of the building into the brisk December air. Chem compartmentalized his thoughts, shifting from his narrow escape to the promises held in his personal lab.

  There is no progress without risk—a line Chem had repeated to himself hundreds if not thousands of times in the past decade. Tonight was peril, plain and simple.

  But there would be a breakthrough before the sun rose.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Willa groaned as she walked toward the elevator. Her body ached from where she landed on it the previous evening. She felt the bruise with every step toward the Cathedral of Learning. But she had been summoned, so there was nothing she could do.

  The Cathedral of Learning was the tallest academic building in the United States—a church devoted to one god—knowledge. Willa couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe every time she entered the building. She wondered if some arcane magic gave her that feeling, or if it was just the innate power of architecture.

  Ding.

  A young couple emerged through the open doors, each clutching a four-dollar coffee. Their conversation, about some viral post on social media, spun them into laughter. Willa sighed. She tried not to judge, not to become like the bitter old professors she knew all too well, but it grew harder every year. The cult of ignorance held sway over the campus. Shallowness of thought, an unwillingness to comprehend the depths of the world—seen and unseen—marked its young minds. It was the young poet’s true fight, why she stayed in the academy. Apart from the magic she could pull from poetry, she knew it also had the power to enliven minds. Willa didn’t need fame or riches but only a few students to wake up. Even just one would be worth it.

  She thought she had found one in Sean.

  Stepping into the ancient elevator, she considered the young man. His absence made no sense. Why would someone attack him? Was the quiet soul involved in something nefarious? She shook her head. Somehow, she couldn’t picture the bookish young man caught up with the masked assailant.

  Her mind wound back to the biggest question of all. Why was that man there? Sean had been absent from class for several days. The apartment was tossed, that was clear. But it felt old to her, like it happened some time ago. If that was true, then what drew the masked man to the place? Why return to the scene of the crime?

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was a predator, lying in wait. But for what?

  Willa pulled the key on a slender chain from around her neck and inserted it into the elevator panel. She pressed forty. One could push the button all day, but without a key, it would never light. Her stomach turned as the elevator lurched skyward, though she couldn’t tell if the lift or the meeting that waited for her caused her gut to churn.

  The elevator chugged along, carrying Willa toward the top floor—just one floor up from the Accounting Department. Passing Floor 39 always elicited a smile from the young professor. Who would put the least romantic department possible on the highest public floor? She considered it a waste.

  The Babcock Room—a swanky conference space for dignitaries and cabinet meetings—remained one of the only useable areas on the top floor. But down the hall stood a door, hidden away, that always remained locked. She curled her slender fingers into a loose fist and rapped lightly. Holding her breath, she hoped for no response. Perhaps she could slip away unnoticed.

  “It’s open,” a voice croaked from behind the door.

  She grabbed the familiar knob and felt energy pulse through her hand. Stepping through the doorway, Willa froze as warm sunlight beat against her face. The sound of the ocean filled her ears as the smell of sea salt rose in the air. She paid them no heed. Her eyes were fixated on the dozen men in armor running toward her, spears raised to kill.

  She was no longer in Pittsburgh.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bright sun gently warmed Willa’s skin, a stark contrast from the cool winter morning she had greeted on the streets of the Steel City that morning. The hardwood floor of the academic building was now a soft, sandy soil. It shifted beneath her feet. Willa could feel a warm breeze brush against her cheeks.

  She registered all of these details in an instant, but her focus remained on the charging soldiers. The sun flashed off of their bronze armor, highlighting the intricate designs scrawled into the metal. What would have appeared beautiful in a museum now carried nothing but menace as they rushed toward her.

  Willa reacted the only way she knew how.

  “Are you a beast of field and tree,

  Or just a stronger child than me?

  O wind, a-blowing all day long,

  O wind, that sings so loud a song!”

  Wind rushed from behind her, whipping up sand into the men’s faces. They staggered, blinded by her attack. She took advantage of their distraction. Her brain instructed her to run.

  But there was nowhere safe in sight.

  Screams filled the air as men clashed against men, spilling blood with ancient swords and arrows
all around her. War raged on as far as she could see. A massive fleet of ships sat against the shore to her right. All of them lit up like giant candles. Smoke filled the sky with giant black mushrooms and whisps for miles. To her left, up a long sloping hill sat a walled city. Soldiers sprung out of its wide gate.

  A chariot raced past Willa, just barely missing the young academic. She shook her head. Now wasn’t the time for sightseeing. She needed to focus on survival.

  She crouched low near a small mound of dirt. It looked man-made, like some sort of crude defense. She turned and started making her way through the warzone. Wherever the hell she was, this wasn’t her fight.

  She moved quickly, keeping her head down, toward the outskirts of the battle, before running into a dead end—a small group of soldiers fighting hand-to-hand in front of her. She looked for safe passage on either side, but before she found a path through, the fighters blew to pieces. A giant of a man now stood in their place. Eight feet tall and made of pure muscle, he waited casually, as if out for a walk in the park. But his face told a different story. A hungry smile shone out from under his helmet.

  He raised his giant sword and pointed it at her.

  “You are no soldier, yet you will die on this plane of battle all the same.”

  The sword swung in a vicious arc, threatening to cut Willa in half. But she was ready. She held no sword, wore no armor. Instead, she raised her voice in defense.

  “In his hands he took his shield, all glittering:

  no one ever broke it with a blow or crushed it.”

  The giant’s sword shattered, but he was unfazed. He kicked her, his sandal finding its mark like a cannonball. She fell to the sand, gasping for breath.

  Raising a spear high, he stepped forward. His laugh echoed over the battlefield, cruel and deep. But then it began to soften. Gone was the hatred, the malice. Instead, Willa could hear something warm in his voice. As he laughed, he shrunk in size. The sand grew cold then disappeared. The light dimmed. Suddenly, she found herself on the floor of a simple office, filled to the brim with old leather-bound books.