Just Cause Universe 3: Day of the Destroyer

by Ian Thomas Healy

  “What’s that mean?” Irlene asked.

  “I guess it means his lungs collapsed so bad they ripped apart.” Faith read through the teletype again.

  “That sounds horrible!”

  “And impossible, which means it may have been a parahuman ability. This is bad.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “If a parahuman murdered someone, it reflects badly upon all of us. It means the FBI will be involved. Parahuman powers used in the commission of an index crime violate federal statutes.” Faith quoted what she remembered from the Just Cause rulebook. She looked up at Irlene. “It says here the top suspect left town and they believe she came to New York on a bus. Photo sent by fax.”

  “The fax is coming through now,” reported an officer. The machine wheezed and chattered with agonizing slowness. Finally, the officer tore away the sheet and brought it over for Faith.

  “Gretchen Gumm, 19 years old, suspected of the murder of Donald Milbrook,” read Faith. “Suspect may be parahuman; approach with extreme caution.” She turned to the sergeant. “Can I have a copy of this?”

  The sergeant nodded and snapped his fingers. “Mac, run these through the copier.”

  A plucking at her elbow made Faith look behind her. The purse-snatcher stood there looking nervous and guilty. “What?”

  “Hey, uh,” he said, nervous. “I seen that chick.”

  The sergeant snorted. “You’d say anything to get out of here, skell.”

  “No, man, I seen her at the Greyhound station. I, uh, offered to carry her bag but she got pissed off.”

  Faith raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why,” she said. “You’re the very picture of chivalry. So what happened?”

  “There was thunder and the bus windows broke. Freaked me out, so I left.”

  “Did you see where she went?” asked Faith.

  “No, man. I had other pressing engagements.”

  Faith took Irlene and the sergeant aside. “What do you think?”

  “He’s a lying sack of shit,” said the sergeant. “He’s saying what we want to hear.”

  “We can check out his story easily enough. If there’s a damaged bus, then at least that much holds up,” said Faith.

  “I think he’s telling the truth,” said Irlene. “He’s scared of us, of parahumans.”

  “Tell you what,” said Faith. “Hold him here until we check out his story. If it holds up, just cite him and let him go. If not, throw the book at him.”

  The sergeant grinned. “With pleasure.”

  “Come on, Imp,” said Faith, “let’s go catch a bus.”

  #

  Harlan pedaled his mongrel bicycle into East Harlem. He’d built it from scrap parts of several junked Schwinns. It wasn’t much to look at—merciless kids teased him about it whenever he rode it into his own neighborhood—but he’d outfitted it with several gadgets, which made it cooler than any of the retards on his block could even imagine. His pedals didn’t crank the sprocket, but instead charged a powerful, lightweight generator which in turn drove a motor that kept him tooling along at a steady fourteen miles per hour. A gyroscope kept him upright even when he braked to a stop. He imagined it must look odd to anyone who actually noticed him sitting at an intersection, pedaling hard without ever putting a foot down.

  Gonsalvo Ramirez was a mechanic and tinkerer, much like an older, crustier version of Harlan. Harlan had been searching for someone to help him acquire parts he couldn’t find in the scrapyard, and had found a kindred soul in the old Hispanic who spent his days fixing carburetors and changing oil on other peoples’ cars and his nights rebuilding a ’51 Mercury he’d named Carmella. In return for Gonsalvo’s help, Harlan brought the man parts for Carmella whenever he could.

  Harlan pulled his bike up at the front of Gonsalvo’s Auto Repair. All three bays were open to let in what little breeze forced its way through the heat of the morning. The stench of ancient oil and fresh welding spilled outward onto the street.

  Gonsalvo was welding a patch over some sheet metal when Harlan walked in. He tipped his welding mask back to reveal a pockmarked face with black stubble and sparkling eyes. “Buenas dias, Harlan.”

  “Hi, Gonsalvo,” he said.

  “No school today?”

  “It’s summer. No school.”

  “Mm hmm.” Gonsalvo wiped his face with a rag only a little cleaner than the shop’s floor. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I need some thermocouples. Do you have any?”

  Gonsalvo leaned back on his stool and looked at the ceiling deep in thought. “I might have one or two. I’ll have to check the Parts Room.”

  Harlan loved the Parts Room. It held some thirty or forty years’ worth of tools, gadgets, gizmos, devices, and parts that Gonsalvo thought he might need for something someday. For Harlan, it was like Wonderland and a candy store all mixed into one. He’d whiled away many hours amid Gonsalvo’s trinkets, helping to organize and catalogue them, and occasionally helping himself to items he figured he might need.

  “Oh, I brought you something.” Harlan dug in his pocket and pulled out a bent metal implement. He thrust it at Gonsalvo, eager to see the man’s reaction.

  The aged mechanic dug his glasses from his breast pocket and squinted at the piece. “Outside door handle,” he murmured. “’51 Mercury. Passenger side.” He smiled at Harlan. “Carmella’s been asking for one of these for a long time. Gracias, my friend. She’ll be very happy. Where did you find this?”

  “I saw one in a junkyard up north. I knew you needed a handle and took it.” That wasn’t precisely true. He’d seen a Mercury, but it was parked on a street. With the small tools he carried in his pockets out of habit, Harlan had popped off the handle and run away before anyone saw him. “And the thermocouples?”

  “I have work to do. If you can find any in the Parts Room, they’re yours.”

  Harlan leaped to his feet and hurried toward the rear of the shop, eager to begin the hunt. He slipped into the Parts Room. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling and bits of sun leaked in through a window encrusted with decades of grease and dust. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Stale lubricants provided a sharp tang to the air, balanced by the bright accents of copper and steel, the sweetness of plastic, the subtle cool of ceramics, and the persistent thrum of rust and dust underneath it all. With the scents of industry flooding his head and making his mind whirl with possibilities, Harlan dove into the drawers, piles, and stacks of parts in search of the elusive thermocouples. Minutes stretched as he sorted through mysterious pieces, pocketing those he thought he’d need for his own work. He didn’t consider it stealing; that was why he brought Gonsalvo parts for Carmella. The old mechanic understood Harlan like nobody else in the world. Given a chance, Harlan thought he might like to come and work for Gonsalvo and maybe someday the garage would be his.

  “Hey, Harlan, come out here a minute,” called Gonsalvo.

  Just then, Harlan saw the parts he’d sought. He must have looked right at them four or five times and not seen them. He grinned and tucked them into his bulging pockets before sauntering back into the shop.

  Gonsalvo had his welder apart and was wrestling to reconnect something within the framework. Sweat poured off the man, its odor enough to overpower the normal miasma of the repair bay. “I need your help,” said the mechanic. “My hands are too big to fit in here and reconnect this stupid plug that came loose.”

  Harlan took a step toward the welder, but a loud pop and unmistakable hum and hiss of freed electricity made him freeze in his tracks. He felt the hair on his arms and neck stand on end. “Gonsalvo?” Fear danced across his shoulders, making them twitch.

  The mechanic sniffed the air. Harlan did likewise and caught the reek of sharp sourness and smoke. “Blown transformer,” said Gonsalvo. “I bet there’s a cable hanging loose on the roof. We better get out of here, amigo.”

  They left the garage and crossed the street. Harlan looked back and saw a spitting wire dangling do
wn from a smoking transformer. It sparked every time it brushed against the roof of the shop. Up and down the block, people were peeking out windows or stepping out of buildings. Gonsalvo pushed a couple of dimes into Harlan’s hand. “Here, go find a pay phone and call Con Ed. Tell them that if they don’t get somebody out here soon there’s going to be a fire.”

  #

  “Hey, I gotta take a leak,” announced Javier as he and Tommy flew along the Hudson. He pointed toward an innocuous warehouse. “Those guys don’t mind me using their can. I busted up some kids who were looting stuff from there and reselling it last year. They said swing by anytime. Besides, it takes a few minutes for me to get out of this armor.”

  “I can’t believe you haven’t redesigned it yet,” said Tommy. This was an ongoing issue with Javier.

  “I’ll get around to it one of these days when we have some down time.”

  “All we have anymore is down time,” Tommy said, but Javier was already diving down toward the warehouse’s concrete apron. Tommy sighed and followed him.

  Javier landed with a heavy thud, but the shock absorbers in his lower legs easily soaked up the impact. “Buenas dias, amigos!”

  Warehouse workers whistled and shouted “Hola, Javelin!”

  “Necesito los baños.” Javier strode into the warehouse like he owned the place, leaving Tommy standing alone in front of the building and feeling foolish. He didn’t feel like dealing with curious fans, so he sprang back into the air and circled high over the warehouse for several minutes. Eventually, Javier strolled out and ignited his boot jets without paying any attention to his surroundings, setting some barrels on fire.

  Before any of the warehouse workers could respond, Tommy created a whirling vortex over the barrels to draw the flames up and away from them.

  Javier whooped and laughed as he did a loop-the-loop. He had his lips pulled back in a snarling grin behind his visor as he flew up to circle Tommy. “Man, I feel so much better!” he said. “My back teeth were floating.”

  “Your nose is bleeding,” said Tommy. Streaks of blood flecked the inside of Javier’s visor.

  “It is? Oh, shit, it is.” Javier reached inside the visor and swiped the blood from his upper lip. “Hey, man, I need to go take care of this.” He raised his visor, sniffled, and then blew out a glob of bloody snot, which spun away in the breeze.

  “Do what you have to,” said Tommy. He knew very well that Javier had snorted the coke they’d just confiscated. It suited him fine; he’d rather be alone with his thoughts today.

  “I’ll catch up with you later. Cover for me?”

  “Of course.”

  Javier heeled over and headed back inland, in the general direction of his bachelor pad.

  Tommy’s radio beeped. He pulled it from his belt. “Tornado,” he said.

  “Tommy, it’s Bobby. I can’t reach Javier.”

  “He had to head back to his place. For repairs.”

  “Ah,” said Bobby in a voice that implied he knew Tommy was lying. “Anyway, there’s a potential jumper on the GWB. Are you close enough to intervene?”

  Tommy turned to look toward the George Washington Bridge. He could see flashing lights on the distant deck. “Affirmative. I’m on my way.”

  He summoned up gale-force winds to carry him over the water at blistering speed, his eyes locked on a white speck where none should be—against one of the towers. As he barreled onward, the speck resolved itself into a young woman who perched on a narrow ledge just out of reach of the NYPD officers trying to reach her. Tommy poured on the speed because he could see the woman was distressed. As he approached, she either slipped or jumped.

  He had only moments to react. He created a powerful updraft beneath the tumbling woman. The swirling air mass sucked up water from the Hudson into a powerful miniature waterspout that slowed her fall. Without hesitation, Tommy dove into the spinning vortex and gathered up the shrieking woman in his arms. Air buoyed them both to safety on the far bank. Tommy pushed his sopping hair out of his face. They were both drenched from his waterspout.

  “Are you all right?” He took the woman by her shaking shoulders as sobs racked her. She collapsed into him and bawled like a child. He felt awkward but held her as she clung to him.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated like a refrain.

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  Over several minutes, her tears wound down until she only had occasional hitches of her shoulders and a case of the hiccups.

  “What’s your name?” asked Tommy.

  “M-Miranda. Miranda Kovnesky,” said the young woman. She was pretty in a way that Tommy would have found appealing if he were into women. Honey blonde hair, dark eyes, full lips. In her white button-down and pencil skirt, she looked kind of like a secretary, although she had execrable taste in shoes.

  “I’m Tommy. Nice to meet you, Miranda.”

  Miranda shivered a little. Tommy called up a warm, drying wind to wick away the last of the Hudson from their skin, hair, and clothing.

  “I feel so stupid,” said Miranda. “Right after I jumped, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake.”

  “Why did you think about jumping at all?” Tommy laid his hand on her arm. “What’s so terrible about being Miranda?”

  She shook her head. “It was about a man. God, it sounds so stupid when I say it like that.”

  Tommy spread out his cape across the dirt riverbank, sat down, and patted it. “Want to talk about it?”

  Miranda blushed. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I’ve already wasted your time today.”

  “Saving a life is never a waste of my time. It’s not every day you get a second chance to be alive.”

  “No, I guess not.” Miranda started to sit, but then paused. “I’m going to get your cape all dirty.”

  “It’s machine-washable.” Tommy grinned. “Now what’s on your mind?”

  Miranda sat and drew her knees up to her chin. “Have you ever loved someone you knew would never love you back?”

  Words caught in Tommy’s throat and he could almost see the granite face of John Stone reflected in the water. The great pylons holding up the bridge over their heads were exactly the same shade of gray as John’s skin. He coughed. “Yes,” he said at last. “I believe I know exactly what you mean.”

  #

  Shane smoked cigarette after cigarette as he drove the service truck through the streets of Harlem. He’d explained that if he didn’t have specific job duties, he was supposed to monitor the local power grid for any trouble or potential repairs. “They train us to watch for loose power lines or to recognize the sound of a transformer blowing or whatever.”

  “I always thought power guys just hung around drinking coffee and eating donuts until something went wrong,” said Gretchen.

  Shane laughed. “When we can. But I’m trying to give you a better impression of New Yorkers. How am I doing so far?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Hey, you hear that? Under the sound of the traffic?”

  Gretchen cocked her head and listened. Just barely, she could hear a humming, hissing sound. It reminded her of something from a mad scientist’s lab in an old black and white movie. “I think so,” she said.

  “That’s a dying transformer.” Shane checked his mirrors and then cut across two lanes of traffic onto a side street. “Any second now…” Gretchen heard a loud bang like a gunshot and saw a puff of black smoke rise a block away. “There it goes,” said Shane. “Now I get to play hero, because I’ll be Johnny-on-the-spot.”

  “Shane on the spot,” said Gretchen.

  He got on his radio and called in the blown transformer, repeating a bunch of numbers and information to the Con Ed dispatcher. Shane parked the truck in front of a small auto mechanic’s shop. “You want to get out or wait here?” he asked.

  Gretchen looked out at the street full of unfamiliar dark faces. She didn’t think of herself as racist, but she felt completely out of her element. “I’ll wait.”
<
br />   “No problem,” said Shane. “I’ve got a thermos of Coke under the dash. You’re welcome to it. We’ll grab some lunch after I’m done here.”

  The word lunch made Gretchen’s stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten since the day before. Her stomach grumbled again, this time loud enough to make Shane look back at her as he climbed out of the cab. She bent her head forward to let her hair fall across her face, obscuring the blush she could feel crawling up her cheeks.

  She watched in the side mirror as Shane pulled tools and equipment from the side of the truck and then jammed a hardhat on his head.

  “It just hummed and then blew,” said an old Hispanic man with oil-stained hands. “You got here just in time.”

  “I’ll take care of it, mister.” Shane grinned from ear to ear. “I’ll need access to your back lot. You don’t have a dog back there, do you?”

  “No, no dogs.” The man led Shane behind the shop.

  Gretchen reached down, found the thermos, and poured herself a cup of soda. A few people glanced at her riding shotgun in the Con Ed truck, but most of them went about their business or watched as Shane climbed up the telephone pole toward the now-quiet transformer. She sipped at the Coke and then heard the sound of parts and tools rustling around. She looked in the mirror and saw a kid was rummaging through the side-mounted toolbox on the truck. Shane was already up the pole, and nobody else seemed to notice. She’d have to be the one to do something.

  She leaned out the window and looked back at the kid. He was scrawny, in his early teens, and filthy. He had the furtive, haunted look about him of someone who’d been persecuted pretty much every day of his life. In his own way, he was as much a victim as Gretchen was. She felt a little sorry for him, but she couldn’t let him steal something from Shane’s truck. She cleared her throat. “Can I help you?”