“Yes, yes, yes! It is alive! It is working! I am the greatest scientific genius of all time! Who’s crazy now, Dad?” the Professor shouted, dancing around like a madman.
“So we can really use this to steal a superhuman’s power and give it to someone else?” asked Rex.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Am I not the greatest? I am the greatest! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
The cannon looked forbidding, even to Rex. Its silence roared with power, and it gave the impression that once it started rolling it could never be stopped. It was the key to changing the world forever, and its power was in Rex’s control. He smiled.
“I can’t wait to tell Jenny and the League about this.”
THE END....
…OF THE SUPERHEROES IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER.
Rex and the League of Teenage Supervillains will return in Jenny Doom And The Venus Wars but only if I get 50 reviews of this book. Lady Doom needs YOU leave a review right now!
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PS - Below is a story from The Origami Dragon And Other Tales, I hope you enjoy it
ROB ECHOSOUL AND THE ALICE INVESTIGATION.
-from the notes of Dr Whenson
It has now been three decades since the day I met Rob Echosoul, that remarkable man who lived such a dangerous life and had such strange friends. I kept my knowledge of Rob to myself for many years to protect both his life and my own, but his exploits were never meant to remain hidden from the world. You may have first heard of him during the time of the red canary drug busts, or his vendetta against the London wing of the magical mafia. He gained worldwide fame for his work as a mediator when the dragons returned to the world, but my story predates all these and is set in a time when he was a simple freelance hunter trying to make his way in the world, pitting his wits and strength against the world and all that’s in it.
I found him lying dead on my lawn. It was an inauspicious start for a relationship, but a memorable one. I gave his body a cursory examination, but his injuries were too terrible for him to be alive. He looked like he had been attacked by a pack of bears and then dragged through a field of barbed wire. He looked quite, quite dead, but I nevertheless checked him for signs of life and pulled out my phone to call for help. He had no signs, and I had no signal. I ran inside to use my home phone. At my daughter’s request, I had recently bought one of those home tablet phones, and I grabbed it. Instead of the normal screen of icons and numbers, there was a single white sentence against a blue background.
“Take him inside and treat him”, I read aloud. I remember thinking that was odd, at the time. The phone wouldn’t let me make a call out. I heard a knock on the door, which startled me. I opened it and found the previously dead man lying against the wall. He appeared to be gasping for breath, but otherwise unconscious.
I should have called for help. I should have gone to the hospital, or the police, or even just to my neighbour’s house. That would have been the smart thing to do, but then I would never have met Alice and my life would have remained completely normal. Instead of going for help, I somehow dragged the man inside. Like all country doctors, I had a black bag of all the necessary tools sitting by my front door for emergencies, so I went to work.
I checked my telephone again. Its screen had the word “Good” written across it, and it still wouldn’t let me make any calls.
I had served as a doctor in Afghanistan for many years, treating both soldiers and civilians as part of the N.A.T.O. alliance, so I don’t shock easily. He may have been dead, and then alive, but he was my patient and it was my job to heal him. I dragged him into the spare room, made sure that he was safe, and ran to my car. It was a technologically advanced Land Rover, a self-driving model that refused to start. The on-board computer flashed “Fix him” repeatedly, stubbornly remaining despite my pressing every button I could find.
“OR ELSE!” the screen flashed as I exited the car.
My little cottage is a kilometre from my nearest neighbour, a distance I could easily run, but I didn’t want to leave my patient alone. I went back inside.
He was still alive, although all my experience suggested that he wouldn’t remain that way for long. On the other hand, he had already died once that day, so I did what I could for him, patching up the worst of his injuries and dealing with his pain. I had to use all tricks I knew, and by the time I was done I had used every stitch and bandage in my bag.
His injuries, deep lacerations, covered most of his body, and I had cut his clothes off to treat them. He was a lean, muscular man of average height and pale complexion, and I noticed he was covered in old scars. I wondered where he had come from, how he had sustained such terrible injuries, why he had come to my house. His possessions included nothing that I could use to identify him, although his pockets were full of the most unusual collection of odds and ends: a small silver knife, some coins from across the world, a small soapstone figurine of a lion, a couple of pouches and USBs. I placed these on the bedside table and continued working. I sat with him, expecting him to die at any moment. Somewhat to my surprise, his vital signs grew stronger over the next hour, and it wasn’t long before he woke up.
I was dozing off when he finally opened his piercing blue eyes and coughed loudly.
“Where….am…I?” he demanded, wheezing painfully.
I told him who I was, where he was, and how I had found him.
“And Alpha?” he asked, trying to sit up from the bed.
I didn’t know what he was talking about, which seemed to confuse him. I increased his painkillers, and he dropped back to sleep. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that, but I was worried. I knew my young daughter would be coming home soon on her bicycle, and then I could send her back into town for help.
I leant over my patient to check the bandages on his head. I started as his hand grabbed my own.
“If you help me, I will repay you!” he said forcefully, before slipping back on to the bed.
I couldn’t believe that he was still conscious after all the drugs I had pumped into his system. I pushed him back gently, and told him that I would take care of him. I went back to my computer and read the message on the screen. I read it again, and a third time. There was no mistaking the words.
I typed “OK” with some worry.
The message changed. I used the computer to open up my bank account, and whistled when I saw what was now in it.
“OK!” I typed again, this time with more enthusiasm.
I didn’t know how my computer was being hacked, but it was clear that my mystery patient had an extremely rich guardian angel.
When my daughter came home, I explained the situation to her without holding anything back. My daughter is a sensible but ambitious young lady, so she was easy to convince. We took turns looking after our patient, who slept through the night and late into the next day. His recovery was truly remarkable, but he was still very weak. It w
asn’t until two days later that we were able to finally have our first conversation. As you might expect, this was a somewhat difficult situation. As was my normal practice, I had my small digital recorder on hand to ensure that I was able review the interview later. I hesitated before entering the room, slipping the recorder into my pocket. This act made me feel deeply uncomfortable, but the voice of my intuition insisted on this precaution.
I entered the room and sat next to my patient.
“My computer has been threatening me,” I said, surprising myself a little by my choice of opener.
I had intended to start our conversation off more gently, but the weirdness of my computer had worried me more than I had realised. My patient laughed to himself, and I rather rudely asked him if he didn’t believe me.
“Your computer is threatening you? Of course I believe you, Doctor, of course I do. I’m no computer expert, but I have a theory if you would like to hear it. I’ll talk as you clean out my cuts, I’m sure we will both appreciate the distraction.”
I remember doing as he suggested, knowing that it was a necessary chore that neither of us would enjoy.
“My name is Rob, Doctor, and I appreciate your help. You will be repaid, I promise. But first, my story. It was about ten years ago now, but I still remember it well. I was shining my favourite silver knife with a yeti-hair cloth at the time. The very same knife your daughter stole from me when she was watching over me this morning. Don’t give me that look; I know she did. A talented youngster, I thought. Tell her to keep it sharp.”
He ignored my half-hearted protests with a gentle wave. I knew the knife he was speaking of, it was one of the few possessions I had found on him. I let the mention of a yeti go unchallenged, thinking instead that I would need to talk to my daughter.
“I put the knife down when I heard my laptop beep as a message arrived. It had been a while since I had been called to action, so I was keen to be moving again. I don’t normally hear from my clients by email, because they prefer more old-fashioned methods, like familiars and messages on my mirror.”
I rolled my eyes and stood up, backing away. The man was clearly mad, and I was wasting my time. He saw the look on my face and laughed to himself. He said a single word and I felt my body freeze in position. Only my eyes could move, and they followed his finger as he pointed to the stone lion on the table. I watched in amazement as the little creature stretched and then roared. He said another word, and my body relaxed again. I swore loudly, and he motioned me back towards him.
“Please, continue your work. I promise not to hurt you, Doctor. I give you my word, and there is no stronger contract than that. I can tell you might not believe everything I have to say, but I can’t lie to you in your own house.”
He stopped and took a drink of water from the glass next to him.
“What happened to you, Rob?” I asked.
“I was burning down a drug factory when I had a run-in with my brother, and a blade golem. These things happen.”
I stared at him, wondering what he was talking about.
“You must have realized by now,” he continued, “that I am a rare kind of man. We both know that I should have died a dozen times over from my wounds. Your medical skills are excellent, to be sure, but alone weren’t enough to keep me alive.”
He was right, of course. I would later learn he how had managed to survive, but at the time I was overcome by his endurance and was not prepared to hear all of the extraordinary things he had to say. Perhaps Rob could sense this, because he continued his story without explanation.
“You see than I am strong, healthy and fit. I stay that way through genetics and training. It is necessary in my line of work.”
“Which is what, exactly?” I demanded.
“I make my way in this world,” he said with a faint smile, “as a freelance monster hunter and doer of impossible things. My unusual… upbringing, shall we say, has prepared me for the supernatural, magical or downright weird problems of this world. Of course, there are others who do similar work to me. Some of them are my friends, some my competitors, and most of them are mostly human.”
I remember opening my mouth to ask him what he meant by that comment, and then decided I didn’t want to know. I let him continue without interruption.
“The people who hire people like me prize discretion and I rarely meet a client in person. This arrangement suits me well, as I have my enemies, some even in the same line of work. Unfortunately for my clandestine career choice, my face is far from unique, although there have been fewer of me around than there used to be. Let’s just say that I’m my own worst enemy, if you know what I mean. But that’s a story for another time.”
I didn’t know what he meant, then. Although my ignorance was annoying at the time, I look back on it wistfully now, because knowing was no easier than not knowing.
“I can tell a lot about my clients by how they choose to contact me,” Rob continued, “My older clients have no time for computers, preferring the tried and tested methods of snail mail or winged delivery. My ancient clients couldn’t even be bothered with those, and generally contact me via my bathroom mirror. I hate it when they do that.”
He took a break again, drinking more water and coughing a little.
“I am generally only contacted by serious players, as I am considered among the best of my profession and my time is expensive. I’m no Mr Sunshine or Feather, of course, but I’m good at what I do.”
“Mr Sunshine? Feather? Are these people?” I asked.
“I can’t answer for Mr Sunshine, but Feather is a person. He and I have worked together in the past, and I count him as a friend. He is the best of the freelancers, but I’m not one to begrudge a friend his good fortune. Especially as Feather isn’t around enough to threaten my livelihood.”
“Where is Feather now? Perhaps you should call him, ask for help?” I asked, jumping at the chance to pass my patient onwards.
He gave me a long, deep look as if trying to decide if I was fishing for information.
“I don’t know where Feather is. How could I? He just turns up. We call him Feather, because he is terrified of birds. Even finches,” he said, watching me carefully.
I said nothing, but my recording felt impossibly heavy in my pocket as I worked. It was lucky for me that I didn’t recognise Feather’s name.
“Don’t ask me about Feather, it’s best if you don’t know. Let’s get back to the story. The email meant that I was working for someone relatively new on the scene, but resourceful enough to find me. This was unusual, but not unprecedented. I read the email with mixed expectations. Some of my dealings with new blood have caused me problems when clients ignored the genteel set of rules that the older players rigidly adhere to. Some try to escape paying me, or threaten me with violence or the law. Such a lapse in a contract is the only reason I ever meet my clients face-to-face, and even then only one meeting is necessary. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”
“Is that what happened to that Middle-Eastern Sheikh who just vanished into thin air a month ago?” I asked, curious despite myself. The mystery of the disappearing Sheikh had made worldwide news.
He gave me an odd look and shook his head.
“No, I never worked for him. Bet you ten dollars it was an Ifrit, though, it always is with those Arabian magi. Dealing with the desert spirits can be lucrative, but the unwary are likely to be burnt on those deals.”
I apologised for my interruption and asked him to continue.
“Don’t worry about it. Ifrits are old, but the clients I was telling you about were new money. Despite the problems they can cause, new money tends to have some refreshing ideas about the world. I enjoy being the occasional instigator of change, a thing that all too often I was hired to prevent. New money also tends to be impatient, which could be either a good or bad thing depending on the circumstances. They would be waiting for my answer. I printed the email out and lay on the table as I sat down to a breakfast of three protei
n drinks, a litre of mango juice and a coffee.”
I had examined his body at great length during his treatment, and so I knew why his meals were mostly liquid.
“The email could have easily been dismissed as spam by those not expecting it, but I could pick the relevant words out of the lines of nonsense. Amongst the chaos of words scattered across the email was the sentence ‘Echosoul, A.I., three golden eggs’. The short message was followed by two strings of numbers that I took to be a location and a contact number.
I guessed that Echosoul was code for something, but Rob explained to me that it was his last name.
“But keep that to yourself, if you please,” he said pointedly.
I tried to forget about the recorder, but it was heavier and hotter than a bar of red hot steel. I couldn’t believe that Rob hadn’t noticed it burning through my pocket.
“The message was concise,” Rob went on, “but telling. My identity isn’t a secret, but I try to keep it from being widely known. So just by naming me my clients had shown that they know something about me, and that in itself is an achievement of sorts. My prospective clients were obviously worried about an A.I., and so they had hired me to sort it out. But hired me to do what, exactly? I don’t steal A.I.s, because their hardware is far too large to move. Nor was it to be an infection, because I hadn’t been sent a data file containing a virus. All they had sent was an address, so the only option left was destruction.
I hummed to myself as I thought about my options. I could turn a contract down, of course. That’s the beauty of being self-employed. I had walked away from jobs in the past when the pay was too low or the mission disagreeable. The death of an A.I. didn’t worry me, for most of them are closer to clever algorithms than real intelligence. Even on the rare occasion that they have transcended their code to become something more, their lack of emotion generally makes them dangerous to my fellow man, and I view their destruction as a public service. I had played a part in the removal of two such A.I.s in the past few years; perhaps that was the reason I had been contacted.”
Rex Rogue And The League Of Teenage Supervillains Page 20