by Ben Bequer
“Is that a fact?” I said, putting the Tesla book back on the shelf where I had found it.
He turned away from me, and pounced around the study, looking at Dr. Retcon’s memorabilia. He picked up a medieval helmet and laughed.
“Ok,” he continued, “let me tell you something about myself. I’m a freak. You fuck with me and it’s over. You dig?”
“I wouldn’t want that,” I said, wondering if this was a test.
“I mean, where do I start?” He paused, putting the helm down in the wrong place and not so gently and picking up a fragile glass figurine, gesticulating wildly with it. “I’m known worldwide. See, I’ve had a bunch of names; Madcat, Redline, Nuclear Ketchup-”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the last one.
“Oh, you’ve heard of me? Good, I’ve got a new name I’m working on: Cool Hand Luke.”
I figured the guy wasn’t a threat, and was probably one of the team. I sat on a leather sofa and took a sip of my drink.
“You like it, right?”
“Yeah, it’s cool,” I said. “You a fan of the actor, or the movie?”
He seemed confused and smiled defensively, putting the glass figure down.
“There was a movie called Cool Hand Luke. It had Paul Newman in it. It was actually a book first.”
“Nah, man,” he said dismissively. “I made that shit up. The more I hear it the more I like it. And you, you’re like famous out here, right? Big Bad Blackjack”
“Not that much,” I told him. “I’m getting started.”
He grinned, still rifling through the Doctor’s things. “A nublet. Well that’s cool. Stick with me and I’ll watch your back. I don’t know the scene out here on the coast but I hear it’s cool. I bet the chicks are off the chain out here, right?”
A moment later, a humanoid figure came into the room from the same door. At first it looked like a person, because its movements were totally fluid, not like the usual jerky motions of a robot, but as soon as it came close to us, it was pretty clear that it wasn’t a living being. Though its figure was humanoid and it wore clothes, the skin was polished and metallic.
“Forgive me gentlemen,” it said, with a voice that was hollow and inanimate. “It is time for you to meet the other team members.”
* * *
The majordomo robot led us through the labyrinthine halls of Dr. Retcon’s apartment. There was art everywhere, presumably replicas of Vermeer, Renoir, de Kooning and van Gogh, but tackily displayed, intermingled with Warhol, Rothko and Picasso.
We stopped in a room that was decorated garishly. Sitting in an over-sized rocking chair was a mannequin with the head of an enormous toy rabbit. It wore a kimono and samurai swords and I half expected the silly thing to stand up and draw its weapons. My attention, though, was drawn to a vast window on the far wall that revealed the night view of Los Angeles. From the vantage point, I estimated we were somewhere north of Mulholland in Griffith Park, near the vicinity of the Hollywood sign on Mount Lee. Somehow we were miles from where I had arrived in the lobby below. And to the best of my recollection, were no structures here other than the famous sign up on this hill.
I had no time to ponder that because I noticed another wall dominated by Pollock’s No. 5, 1948, but the 8’ x 4’ sheet of fiberboard was placed sideways instead of the long way up and down as it is usually displayed. And tucked under it, almost forgotten, was Ceźanne’s The Card Players. To the best of my knowledge, it was one of the most expensive paintings ever sold at auction, but I didn’t recall it being sold to Dr. Retcon. It was most probably a copy or replica like many of the other rare paintings I had seen tonight. Next to it were a series of swords, axes and even a halberd that hung over a vintage Elizabethan sofa with a modern pair of chairs, and amidst them was a priceless Tuft Pier table, upon which a bald middle-aged man in lab coat leaned against, threatening to break its rickety legs.
His black eyes were upon me, visible to me even though he was swathed in an unnatural shadow that obeyed his commands. He had a neatly trimmed full beard almost completely shot through with gray, with the strange effect of his moustache being darker. He wore a filthy lab coat, closer to a shade of charcoal than to white with a dingy black oil stain around the lower hem. On his chest pocket his name was embroidered, “Dr. Zundergrub.”
Zundergrub did something because his eyes flashed ever so slightly and before I knew it, I was moving towards him not fully in control of my faculties. His eyes and mine were interlocked and I could see nothing else, as if we were looking at each other through a tunnel. Slowly I became aware of other things surrounding us. Dark imps, alive and demi-human, dancing at the edge of my vision. Apparently, he stood and side-stepped me as I came almost to the place where he had been sitting.
“I see you,” Zundergrub said with a leathery voice, thickly accented with Indian or Pakistani. “I know who you are.”
Others came into the room behind us, interrupting whatever Dr. Zundergrub was doing to me and I felt him release his hold. Gripped by dizziness, I leaned on the table the Doctor had been sitting on, my weight almost collapsing the legs. I looked over at him, but he was past me, and I swear I saw a hint of a smile on his face.
I guess one of the side effects of being “big time” was working with total psychos.
“Good, everyone is here,” said a woman entering the room, leading the entourage of people that joined us.
I instantly recognized her as the sexy blonde I had seen leaving the court room.
She was almost six feet tall and sultry, with poise and confidence born from knowing every eye in the room was always upon her. Her hair was medium length platinum blonde, layered and wavy with alluring blue/gray eyes that seemed to glow. She had a cotton white vest, much like a big game hunter with tiny canvas shorts and high brown leather boots, with an impressive broadsword sheathed low on her left thigh. She had a model’s body, with long legs that seemed to go on forever and despite being quite thin, there was a lithe spring in her step. Her face had an intense demeanor, and a confidence that denoted her power, and raw sexual appeal. Her jawline was long and pronounced with a long, elegant nose and seductively wide and full lips.
Behind her followed a small cadre of men in lab coats, much like Dr. Zundergrub’s but clean and new. It took me a second to realize they were all robots, not much different in design from the majordomo but in different clothing. I guess I was affected by both the after effects of the doctor’s spell, and the beauty of the woman who led them who gave me a slight nod of recognition.
“Outta sight,” Cool Hand said, eyeing the woman like a hound after the fox.
“Maybe you didn’t know it, but you’re hot” he started coming into her path and interrupting her before she could start. “And I’ve got a few days to kill so maybe-”
“Please take a seat,” she told him with a voice so commanding he shrunk from her like a child. She waited until he took a seat on one of the Ikea chairs before she continued.
“I’m sorry that Dr. Retcon himself won’t be able to meet with us, but he has asked me to lead us through the introductions, and afterwards, I will brief you on our first mission.”
“I will start with myself. I am Influx, formerly known as Moonglow.” She smiled as most of us seemed to recognize her. In fact, she was known world-wide, as a former heroine turned villain. Now faced with her, it surprised me that I hadn’t put it together before, even from the brief glance in court.
Influx paused and eyed us all closely, before sweeping her right arm towards Zundergrub, “This is Doctor Nariman Zundergrub, of Darjeeling, India. He is a master of quantum constructs and a powerful telepath, so I would ask you all to be on your best behavior.”
She smiled; expecting laughter, but none came and continued.
“This fellow is Nuclear Ketchup-”
“It’s Cool Hand Luke,” he interrupted.
“I’m sorry?”
“I changed it. No more Ketchup. It’s Cool Hand Luke now. Got to keep moving, keep people wo
ndering what’s up.”
“Very well,” she said, her frustration bubbling up. “This gentleman can control temporal energies, allowing him to travel at incredible velocities, through the use of ‘time bubbles’. He can also use them on his enemies to-”
“Yeah,” Cool Hand interrupted, standing up and gesticulating wildly. “That’s just the half of it. The dopest thing is-”
“You might want to let me run my own damned meeting,” Influx snapped back.
“Yeah, sure,” he cringed. “I’m good.”
Influx turned her attention towards me.
“Blackjack, an archer without peer, and near-Ph. D. level engineering skills. Also possesses Class-A physical skills.”
Class-A physical skills? I couldn’t believe what she was saying; placing me so high on the scale that normally went from A to E for most supers. There was a higher category, Class-X, but that was seldom used, save for the Original Seven. In any case, before I could give it any further thought, she turned her attention to the final member of our motley crew.
“Mr. Haha 2000,” she said, motioning to the mannequin with the toy rabbit head. It stood quite fluidly and bowed to us before standing straight, almost seven feet-tall with its ridiculous rabbit ears. “A sentient AI, residing within this form, Mr. Haha 2000 will be our access to all forms of information through his permanent connection to the internet. He is also near indestructible, and a master of all forms of combat.”
“A pleasure, my friends,” Mr. Haha said with a voice that was part machine, part radio talk show host. “Later on we’ll have to discuss your signature of waivers of consent for my persistent upload stream-”
Influx interrupted, “which is temporarily offline pending our missions, and final permission from Dr. Retcon.”
“What stream you talking about?” Cool Hand asked.
“Why my blog of course, with access to Facebook, Myspace, and most other social networking sites around the globe. Allow me to show you.” Mr. Haha pointed at a television and the old CRT set turned on. At first it was merely snow, but the robot turned his fingers, as if tuning the television and the set finally became clearer, displaying a web page with a rolling blog on one side and a video display on the top right corner. The video was presently a first person angle from Mr. Haha himself and one by one we appeared on the screen as he turned his big rabbit head to view us one by one.
“At present, I am offline though everything is being recorded for later distribution, of course with Dr. Retcon’s tacit permission. And normally, I have multiple hover probe cameras for maximum coverage, edited in real time, but at present the probes are stored away.”
“You’re telling me the stuffed doll is recording everything we do and say?” Cool Hand shot in. “Fuck this, I don’t need evidence for the cops, I got enough problems.”
Influx stepped forward. “We will only record for our own purposes during our first mission. And Mr. Haha does not have approval for any online uploads until further notice.”
“Indeed,” Haha added. “No reason to worry, my friend. We are all on the same team.” He drew his katana, a rusted, old piece of junk. “By the blade of Miyamoto Musashi, I swear my allegiance to this new company.”
Haha swept his sword with the skill of a thousand programmed sword masters, and placed the point of the blade aimed at the middle of the group.
Influx, liking Mr. Haha’s ceremonial pomp, drew her blade and crossed it with the robots. I drew my most potent arrow, The Nuke, and gently placed it atop her blade. Cool Hand hesitated for a moment then pulled out a stainless steel softball bat from a shoulder harness and did as we did. It was so dinged and dented the label was but a distant memory.
Finally, after a long delay, Zundergrub moved forward and in one hand held a small animated imp of oil/shadow. He grabbed the tiny anthropomorphic imp by its legs, and stretched its neck until we heard a pop and the monster was dead. But still he molded its malleable form into a rough club, and he too joined our group, his mace atop our weapons.
And like that, I was in a super group.
* * *
An elevator took us to a helipad on the roof of Dr. Retcon’s lair that housed the strangest looking helicopter I have ever seen. The big, slick beast had four rotors in outward opposing sponsons, two each in forward and aft ailerons and a trio of thruster engines to the rear, which were more suited for an F-22 at Mach speed than for a helicopter. It also had a side gate open, like a Vietnam-era Huey, where the co-pilot waited for us.
Cool Hand was the first one aboard, chatting away with the co-pilot, who probably couldn’t hear a thing he was saying with the noise of the rotors. He handed Cool a wireless headset. Zundergrub needed help up the ramp from the co-pilot and took a seat, followed by the walking rabbit, Mr. Haha. I hopped aboard and last was Influx, who looked back to the stairwell up to the helipad where a lone figure stood.
The man was in his mid-sixties, and wore an immaculate dark blue pinstripe, cross-over suit with a white rose on his lapel. He stood next to Dr. Walsh, looking straight at us while the chopper slowly lifted off.
Influx waved at him and he seemed to nod, but I couldn’t be certain because the helicopter tore off into the night.
* * *
I’ll admit I wasn’t prepared for how fast the craft traveled as it zipped through the city of Los Angeles, or how thrilled I was at the mission. My immediate concern was low-flying aircraft, for they were quite numerous even at night, over a city as busy as Los Angeles.
I noticed Influx was staring at me like a prize boxer stares down a chump. But then her face broke, and she let down her guard, flashing me a smile.
“This thing stealth?” I asked.
“Are you nervous?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
She smiled back. “Good. You’d have to be crazy otherwise.” Influx looked over at Zundergrub, who was actually asleep. “This candy bar is chock full of nuts.”
“Talking about crazy,” I said, “at least I’m not the only freak wearing a costume.”
Influx chuckled and looked out the open door.
“So,” I started. “Was that Dr. Retcon?”
“Yes.”
“And that woman, the one from the briefing-”
“That’s his daughter. She’s flesh and blood, unlike all his robotic creations.”
“I thought he was in jail.”
She smiled, “He is.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” I said.
“How much do you know about him? About how his power works?”
“He’s smart, like off the charts smart. Class-Zero strong, fast and tough like Valiant was, but he doesn’t like to use his physical abilities.”
“He doesn’t really have to,” she admitted. “But do you know about his other powers?”
“No.”
“Retcon is a man unstuck in time,” Influx said, watching me for my reaction. “Whatever it is that gave him and the others their powers, caused a rift of space and time within his body. Retcon of the present, Retcon of this very instant is in the Utopia jail. But Retcon can access his forms of the past. The guy is everywhere.”
I took that all in, suddenly overwhelmed at the possibility. “Then why does he even need us?”
“Like you said, he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. And besides, if they thought he was up to something don’t you think they would all gang up on him? With us, who’d give a damn?”
It made sense. We could operate relatively under radar and be much more effective than he would, and not have to fight off every super in the book.
“So are you management, or one of the help?” I wondered aloud.
Influx flashed her trademark crooked smile. “I’m just a schlub like you, Blackie,” she toyed.
“I don’t know if I like that nickname.”
“Then how about BJ?”
I cringed.
“Guess not. You’re not leaving me much to work with. I give everyone I work with a nickname.”
“Old Rabbit Head,” she joked. Her laughter was like soap flowing down a baby’s bottom, silky smooth and womanly.
“That’s not bad.”
“Cool Hand is Runny Red Sauce and Zundergrub is Oil Stain.”
We both laughed.
“You’re slacking then.”
“What?” she said and punched me in the shoulder, a lot harder than I expected.
“Blackie?”
“Hey, I’m working on it,” she managed, and I could feel her gaze on me as we flew over the city.
The chopper neared the US Bank Tower, Los Angeles’ tallest building, lit in purple and gold to celebrate yet another Lakers’ victory. The pilot flew high but slowly dropped to the street level as he circled the building. Our target was on the top floor but our entry was from the bottom level. Influx wanted to make a statement, going in through their toughest defenses.
“Here’s where the fun begins,” I said as we made our final bank before beginning our hovering descent, and I felt it, I was honestly excited, looking forward to my first mission as Blackjack.
“I know you can handle the front lines,” she told me, “but I’d like you to leave that to me and Rabbit Head until you get a handle on things. Red Sauce is a lot better than he looks, and he’ll stay busy in their rear ranks.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “So what do I do?”
“If we get in trouble, you drop your bombs. You’re the heavy artillery, ok?”
I nodded.
Chapter 5
The pilot set us down on Fifth Avenue right in front of the building. I looked at my watch as we jumped out of the helicopter and saw it was after 3:00 AM. There was almost no traffic, save one car that hit the brakes violently.
“Cool Hand,” Influx said, drawing her sword and aiming it at the car.
In a flash, faster than I could even perceive it, Cool Hand was next to the car, smashing the window with his aluminum bat and pulling the driver out of the car. The next second, the man was tied up on Cool Hand Luke’s shoulder, and a moment later he was buried unconscious in a thicket of bushes.
“Mr. Haha,” Influx commanded and our robot companion picked up the car and tossed it into an empty parking spot on the street.