She sighed and stared into the distance, realizing that the senator was speaking at a fast, excited clip, informing her on what he expected to achieve. Her violet eyes refocused, and his words came back into her awareness.
“…by then, the team should be coherent enough for rudimentary missions. Your duties will change at that point, but we’ll wait until then.” Pride filled his eyes as he poured himself another brandy. Again, he offered her some, but she passed. He leaned back and loosened his tie. Considering something for a moment, his face darkened.
She had seen this expression before, and wondered about its source. The senator seemed to carry a deep longing, a mistake, perhaps, trapped in his past. He revisited it often, allowing it to tarnish even the best of his moods. Her curiosity almost made it to her lips, before she held her tongue. If she needed to know, he would tell her. Of that, she was certain.
He swirled some ice around his emptied glass, as his thoughts came back to the present. He regarded her anew. “Thank you for doing this. I don’t know if I’ve said that yet.” His politician smile held real emotion. His darkness seemed to dissipate.
She smiled, her face again filling with a blush. She pulled at the hem of her robe and crossed her legs beneath. Looking at it to avoid eye contact, she nodded in reply. It was nothing really. She had been helping Jack for quite some time, ever since he had found her, but his gratitude was appreciated.
Their relationship wasn’t one-sided; the senator had given her much. He had rescued her from an uneasy childhood, and granted her a life of comfort and happiness. Jack Williams had adopted the girl, taking her as his daughter. Even before she realized her own potential, he seemed to be there, caring. That kind of support was priceless, and for it, she was grateful.
“I am happy to do it.”
She looked up, and caught his smile. He patted her on the knee, before pouring himself another drink. The two of them sat back and contemplated the future. The limousine rolled on.
__________
Across town, an elevator’s double doors opened to reveal a large desk, bathed in an overhead spotlight and seeming to float in the darkness. The luminous spectacle of the city’s nightscape served as a backdrop, the panorama offering more light than the darkened room. Cronus Tower, the city’s tallest building, stood central in the distance, outlining the figure of a seated man, his backed turned to the new guest.
The elevator’s passenger exited, and the doors closed behind him. Like an approaching locomotive, his oval light made its way across the void. He plunked a cylinder onto the desk.
The figure spun in a half-visible chair, revealing himself in the spotlight. Stephen Detch, the glowing liquid’s new owner, remained seated. “You’ve done well,” he said, giddy in the moment’s portent. He gazed over steepled fingers. “I’m not easily impressed.”
The hired mercenary stood motionless. “I’m here for the money,” replied his echoing, electronic voice. He folded his armored arms, patience fading. His green eye glowed with a sick ferocity.
“You’ll get it.”
Stephen pulled open a desk drawer, and withdrew an attaché case. He opened it to allow his associate a view of the stacked hundreds within, before snapping it shut once more. “But first, I have to inspect the merchandise.” He reached for the canister.
The cap spun off with ease, lighting the area with a toxic glow. Shadows formed above Stephen’s lips, nose, and brow, lending his face a sinister aspect. Another drawer opened, and he withdrew more items. Slipping his hand into a heavy glove, he dunked an eyedropper into the fluid, and raised a small amount. He expelled the droplet onto a prepared platform to his left.
Closing a windowed door, he watched blue lasers twist and assault the writhing goo. Stephen turned back to his computer. The screen filled with data, and a fiendish glee covered his face.
He looked up. “You remember the rest of the plan?”
The Aegis nodded.
“Then go. We have work to do.”
Business done, Stephen again rotated his chair, leaving the armored man to the money. He listened as the elevator doors opened and closed once more, leaving him alone with his prize. Flipping the overhead light off, he cast himself in the liquid’s green luminescence. It burned hazy afterimages into his eyes.
His hand found the button, and he pressed it with fervor. One of the building’s support columns twisted, revealing its hidden hollowness. A near perfect recreation of Dr. Malorius’ vintage costume rested within.
He touched a button on his telephone. Seven tones sounded over the desk-implanted speaker. A voice answered.
“It’s me, Father. I’ve got it.”
Chapter Four
Later that night, on the city’s Lower East Side, a man known as Faction crouched in the breeze. He shivered against the cold as he looked down on a small, rundown factory. From his ledge above the alleyway, both of the squat, brick building’s entrances stood stark in the dim light. The spot was perfect for surveillance, or would have been if he weren’t flesh and blood. The night was turning cold, and the wintry wind whipped along the building’s glass and stone, biting at his warm body. He wrapped his cape closer, trying to force out some of the night’s chills.
This wasn’t an easy thing, the life he had chosen. It required patience, courage, and a willingness to suffer. He did not move, allowing his mind to drift.
Without the mask, he was known as Red Cunningham, husband and former factory worker. He lived with his wife, Cynthia, in a small two-bedroom home not many blocks away. His life had been a tough one even before his empowerment, but now he struggled to make ends meet and keep his dual identities as together and separate as he could. Needless to say, it was difficult.
Most of the night had passed without incident, but he was used to waiting. In his early days of vigilantism, he had been surprised at the amount of patience this whole superhero gig required, but he soon learned the unwelcome reality. Crime happened on its own schedule, and there was no way around it. Unlike the televised heroes breaking through walls in the nick of time, he had to wait. He settled in, adjusting himself along the stone shelf.
He wouldn’t be here, had it not been for his informant. This tip had come from his best, and while he couldn’t gather all the details, he knew enough. The certainty of things to come held him in place. A good informant was never wrong, and so, he waited.
Another hour passed before he saw something. Shapes moved beneath his perch. Five shadows scuttled through the dirty snow, looking from side to side, but never up. They sprinted across the street like little bugs, quick yet cautious, dragging their feet through the freezing slush. Two headed for the factory’s side door.
Faction stood, adjusting his footing on the icy parapet. Five might be difficult. Odd numbers always were. He looked down at them again, and raised his hand to focus. Their minds came into his mental reach.
A thief struggled with the lock at the factory’s entrance, and Faction aimed his ability at this one first. He stepped into the teenager’s mind, feeling the criminal’s mounting frustration. He grabbed the growing rage.
“Hurry up,” another delinquent half shouted in the lowest volume he could muster, stoking the emotional fires. Faction could hear it through the boy’s ear, and could feel the cold, hard lock picks flounder in the teen’s freezing hands.
The frustration grew. They all knew the risks, and although no cops had yet shown, it didn’t mean they weren’t on their way. Paranoia added itself to the swirling fog. The boy would have been sweating if not for the sub-zero temperatures.
Faction pressed harder, and the rage within the would-be thief blossomed. The meticulousness of lock picking became impossible, and the teen abandoned his attempts. Seizing an errant two-by-four, he looked to his accomplices, stood, and swung. The man closest to him fell into the dingy snow. Others looked toward the sudden noise, and drew closer.
Faction concentrated, continuing to stir the eddy of anger. Two more went down with little fight,
surprised by unexpected attack. The last of them, seeing his team fold, ran away when he realized what was happening, leaving his buddies to freeze off their knotting head wounds. Faction released his power’s hold, and the teenaged picklock did the same, shaking his head and running into the darkness.
Red waited, watching to ensure the lack of activity. Satisfied, he descended, looking after the scattered group. One loose board had produced three cracked skulls. Not bad for a night’s work.
He made his way along a preplanned route, walking into a dark alley that he knew to be safe. Where Faction entered at one end, Red Cunningham stepped out of the shadows at the other. It was a short way to the graffiti-covered payphone he used to report the incident. It waited just where it should be, symbolizing the neglect that the neighborhood had endured. He dialed the police, knowing that by the time any of them got there, he would be long gone.
After the call, he set the receiver down upon its cradle. A click resounded from behind him, and Red spun. His eyes saw first the onyx barrel of a handgun, then a dark face hidden from the pale streetlight by the shadow of a cap. The orange end of a burning cigarette blazed against the darkness. That and the gaping gun stood out, and they were enough.
Red closed his eyes, trying again to focus. The man was a typical street tough, not unlike those that Faction had just influenced. This one however, used more than a board to get his way.
“What are you doing?” a gruff voice asked. “Praying?” The mugger laughed. “You should know better than to be out at this time of night.” A grim smile found his lips. “Now give me your money, and I won’t have to use this.”
Red drew from inside himself again, aiming at the new threat. He could sense the man’s jaded outlook, and felt little good left within him. Crime had been his career, or rather, it had used him, spending his life like so many stolen dollars. The mugger’s mind seemed barren, void of any emotional handholds. Red started to fear for his life, searching with more urgency.
Through the mental shadows came a light, and Red saw a little girl, the man’s daughter. They hadn’t spent much time together, their family broken by prison and divorce, but the man loved her. Red watched a memory of them playing in the sun, feeling the affection of their bond.
He clung to her six-year-old likeness, broadcasting love and hope through the criminal’s mind as best he could. At first, he wasn’t sure that it had worked, not until he heard the cold clink of metal against the pavement.
Red opened his eyes.
The man was on his knees, weeping into opened hands. The gun lay useless upon the frozen street. Red looked down upon them, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he had held. He felt an urge to help, but walked on instead, heading home after a long night.
He had his own problems.
Chapter Five
The next morning, a telephone rang in the bedroom of a small apartment. It rattled on the dresser, issuing the dulcet tones of Led Zeppelin. Both of the apartment’s occupants heard it, but neither wanted to answer. They were otherwise engaged.
Lieutenant David Mead was showering when the call came in. He excused himself for a moment, and stepped out, dripping on the tile floor. A female sigh escaped from behind the curtain as he wrapped a towel around his waist, leaving his vast, bulging chest naked. Of all the inopportune times he could get a call . . .
Leaving puddled footprints behind, he reached the phone halfway through its fourth melody. The electric guitars met an abrupt end. “Hello. This is Mead.”
A voice responded, and David recognized it from the very first word. The knowledge did little to improve his mood, and the words that followed stirred his unease even more. “David. We need you here now. It’s important.”
“I’ll be right there, General.”
His morning fun would have to wait.
David arrived at his destination a little less than half an hour later, seeing the vast aircraft hangar rise from the surrounding landscape like a half-inflated zeppelin. He had been stationed here for four months, after his apparent discharge from the military proper, and even though his role was much different than that of his old Marine days, his rank remained the same inside it.
He swiped his keycard and entered, seeing the group of decision-makers already waiting in the atrium. They stood in dark-colored suits, their shades contrasting the light, industrial grays of the testing facility. General Frost was leading the group as they turned to greet him. “This is our pilot, Lieutenant David Mead.”
The General’s tour had not yet made it into the showing room, which was a good sign. Standing in the pallid glow of the halogen lamps, David smiled his lopsided grin. It was clear for whom they had waited. He stripped off his leather bomber jacket, revealing a nonregulation T-shirt, and prepared for the demonstration.
The people shuffled, and he caught sight of someone he hadn’t expected. The huddle opened to reveal a feminine figure of pale softness. She lifted her gaze, violet eyes holding dark and pure from her oval face.
David shook a few of the extended hands, and tried not to stare. He found his eyes shifting back to her as more introductions were made. The young woman was attractive, and her robe did little to hide her slender body. Best of all, she watched him too, maintaining a slight smile.
He enjoyed the attention, but as he looked, began to feel as if her gaze were staring into him. He shook another hand, glancing back to her eyes. There was a brief moment of contact between them, before she looked away and he dismissed the idea. It was the jetpack that they were interested in. He was a mere pilot.
After a few more pleasantries, the group split. The visitors were taken to the viewing room, and David made his way to the preparation chamber. The technicians had already assembled the flight suit and gear, waiting for the man needed to wear them. He was more than happy to oblige.
He unclipped the dark grey suit from its casing and slid one leg through. The material was slippery, more like plastic than cloth, but he knew that it would protect him from the low temperatures of high altitudes. He inserted another leg, positioned the rest of his body, and zipped up. The suit’s hard infrastructure pressed against him as the outer layers conformed to his shape. The endoskeleton lent support to the suit, intended to help the pilot to endure the pressures of flying. David gained more than that however, enjoying enhanced strength and speed as well, features that helped to make certain assignments, like his recent encounter with the Aegis, more bearable.
Of course, they didn’t assure victory, and the man inside knew its limitations. David thought about his recent failure as he clipped the red straps across his chest, securing the experimental jet pack to his shoulders. The pack’s energy fed the rest of the suit, and he felt a surge as its engines powered up. The control panel that the Aegis had exploited had been modified, integrated better into the overall design. Revisions had given David a more intuitive command over the suits systems now, and he wriggled the wrist sensors to ensure their calibration. Everything responded well.
Suited up, David entered the testing area. He walked into the center of the secured circle, checking his placement against taped markers on the floor. Men stood around him at the ready, and fire suppression hoses were positioned on the sidelines in case of emergency. Behind the long, smooth window of reinforced glass, he could see General Frost continue his presentation. The General shifted his weight, and turned to look out at David.
The pilot adjusted himself, a little tense but not showing it. He pulled the thick, polarized goggles down to cover his eyes, and tested his hands on the suit’s controls. Satisfied, he spoke into the suit’s microphone. “SkyRise ready.”
Inside the room, video monitors flickered to life, feeding live images from both on-board and stationary cameras. The General pressed the intercom’s button. “Any time, Lieutenant.”
David flashed a knowing smile, and twin engines flared to life. Heated air whirled around him, and nudging the control, he lifted off of his feet. The test room filled with the odors of
burnt octane, and the flames behind him intensified, before becoming invisible. He levitated upward.
At the height of ten feet, he hovered, shifting from left to right, back and forth along the same horizontal plane. The pilot had no problems keeping himself upright, appearing to float above the technician’s heads. He took a few more spins around the practice area to ensure that his audience got the full impression. Then, it was time to boogie.
The hanger’s halogen lamps cut out, filling the room with total darkness. A thin strip of sunlight forced itself inward and grew. The sky outside was clear and blue. He clicked the radio again. “Now, I’ll show you why they call this thing ‘SkyRise.’”
In that instant, he was gone, shooting vertical like a rising star. Not even a condensation trail was left to mark his passage. As they lost sight of him, David knew the group would be watching the monitors now, admiring his speed as the landscape rushed past the suit’s onboard cameras. He climbed and spun in the morning air, performing corkscrews and high-G turns with ease.
He jetted toward the mountains north of the city; the flat, expansive suburbs giving way to stony wilderness. He was amazing at how fast he could fly, but it all felt so comfortable and natural. The tech boys had outdone themselves on the suit, and David felt lucky to be its pilot. His body raced between narrow rock formations and skimmed crystal-clear streams. Flying vertical, he soared along and above the craggiest peaks, giving the cameras a bird’s-eye view.
Giving his spectators at the hangar a good show, he dove and rose, weaved and dodged. Muting his microphone as he zipped above the treetops, he let out a celebratory “Woohoo!” at the top of his lungs. He followed his course for another ten minutes, before he heard the General’s voice in his earpiece.
Preternaturals: A Superhero Thriller Page 3