Pinnacle City

by Matt Carter

  “Well, well, well, we’ve found us three billy goats beneath our bridge, haven’t we?” the chainsaw man says in his southern accent.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Tragedii says, calmly unzipping her duffel.

  “And neither do we,” the chainsaw man says. “As a matter of fact, we’re here as a public service on behalf of Mr. Milgram to keep people out of trouble. This river’s a dangerous place. You’d be amazed at the accidents that can happen if you’re not careful.”

  Milgram.

  And I thought it wouldn’t be worth it to bring Harriet today. Live and learn.

  “Well, thank you for the thought. So, we’ll just be on our way then,” Tragedii says, stepping toward them.

  The chainsaw man puts one of his chainsaw hands up, calmly blocking her path.

  Petting Zoo snarls.

  “Now if only it were that simple. Offering public services is costly and time consuming. While Mr. Milgram is indeed a conscientious fella, he’s not running a charity, and would greatly appreciate a donation from you fine people,” the chainsaw man says.

  This is not a suggestion. The woman opens her jacket to reveal a row of glowing, magenta daggers, while the gene-job opens his mouth to reveal rattlesnake’s fangs. Petting Zoo bares her own fangs and looks ready to pounce. Much as I’d rather avoid this fight the way I’m feeling, I’ll throw myself in if I have to. Not gonna leave two friends in the dust.

  Tragedii just raises her human hand to us.

  “You want a donation?” she asks.

  “If you’d be so kind,” the chainsaw man responds.

  “Fine, here’s my donation,” she says, reaching into her duffel and pulling out a massive gun that continually unfolds and extends into a seven-foot-long monstrosity of rotating barrels, glowing lights, and rockets.

  The body language of Milgram’s team drastically shifts to terror as Tragedii narrates, “Fresh from the year 2147, meet the Genentech Model 39-27b Flesheater, a phased temporal-plasma cannon capable of firing nearly a thousand rounds per minute, with a variable time-displacement range agony generator that’ll give your ancestors third-degree burns the moment I blast your guts all over the river. While I’m rusty when it comes to murder, I’d be plenty happy to oblige you with a demonstration.”

  The chainsaw man keeps Milgram’s other goons from running.

  “Perhaps, this once, your donation can be excused. But don’t think this disrespect will be forgotten. As far as he’s concerned, a threat on Milgram’s employees is a threat on Milgram himself, and he doesn’t cotton to threats particularly well, especially from uppity cyborgs.”

  Now, if he wanted to piss off Tragedii, he did a damn good job, because she starts to charge up the cannon. Before she can get off a shot, though, the woman with the glowing daggers throws one at the ground before her, creating a vortex that Milgram’s thugs disappear into.

  “Pussies,” Tragedii says, spitting on the ground they disappeared into.

  “You sure you want to piss these guys off?” I ask.

  “Someone’s gotta stand up and shove some cannons up the right asses. Might as well be some high-powered, non-traceable, future cannons, right?” Tragedii says.

  I smile. “I know. I just like hearing you talk shit.”

  “Did you get what you needed?” Petting Zoo asks me, human again.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good,” Tragedii says, retracting her cannon back into something that’ll fit into a duffel bag. “Then let’s head back to the Lineup. First drink’s on me.”

  And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why it’s not about what you know, but who you know.

  While I’m all set for a night at the Lineup trying to forget everything I saw today, and maybe even some group therapy if Tragedii gets insistent, it’s not meant to be.

  After a couple drinks, I text Ruby Herron that I got what she wants.

  I probably shouldn’t have done that.

  She texts back and wants to meet right away.

  I’m not ready for anything right away, but since she’s still got me on contract, I tell her to meet me at the Lineup.

  At least this way I don’t have to unlock the office.

  I’m not sure how many drinks in I am by the time she finally arrives, but it’s not enough to make me forget how gorgeous she is.

  Or how out of place she is in here.

  Nervously, she meets me by the bar, her eyes darting to Tragedii and the various barflies as if worried each of them is going to attack her.

  The way Ruby looks, I’m getting flashbacks to the other night, to the hero, but I fight them to the back of the mind.

  “Evening, Miss Herron,” I say, putting on my PI face, which seems like a brilliant idea with my head swimming the way it is.

  “You know your office is just across the street, right?” she says, taking the stool next to me. Her coat opens slightly, revealing a dress that tightly hugs her frame.

  “Look, I’ve had a long day, and I’ve seen some things I wish I could forget. Cut me some slack.”

  She readjusts her coat. “You … have it?”

  I slide the memory stick across the bar toward her, and she picks up enthusiastically.

  I explain, “The murder of Quentin Julian. I wouldn’t recommend watching it if you want to sleep tonight, but if you take that to the cops they’ll be hard-pressed to ignore it.”

  “Thank you,” she says, looking at the stick in her hand thoughtfully. “Who killed him?”

  “A few gene-jobs. Got good enough looks at their faces that they should be pretty easy to find.”

  “Good. I’ll transfer the remainder of what you’re owed immediately and deliver this to the proper people so justice can be served.”

  “Good.”

  I can end this right now. Just let it all go. But there’s things I saw in my vision that just don’t add up, and I’m liquored up enough to consider them worth asking about.

  “Did you know why Julian was there? Who he was meeting?”

  “No,” Ruby says.

  “And you were his assistant?”

  “I didn’t pry into his personal life,” she says, though I don’t buy that for a second.

  “Even though you wanted to be a part of it?”

  She doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “Did you know he was killed in Milgram territory?”

  I notice a twitch at the word Milgram, but nothing more.

  She stands up from her seat. “Unless there’s anything else, Mr. Enriquez, I’ll be going.”

  “Just one more thing,” I say, the liquid adding a bit of boldness to my voice.

  “What?”

  “You have any plans this evening?”

  She doesn’t look too disgusted, but doesn’t answer me either as she heads for the door.

  “Can you at least give me a good Yelp review? I could really use some!” I call after her.

  She doesn’t respond as she leaves the bar, and my life.

  Turning back to Tragedii, I order another drink and try to ignore whatever nonsense is blaring from the TV.

  And now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

  CHAPTER 8: THE SUPERHERO

  I don’t have to look up directions to the Card mansion. Everyone in the city knows it on sight.

  It’s the opening shot of that show, In the Cards, the one that follows the family around recording whatever they do, but it’s also the most ostentatious building in the North Hills, overlooking the valley and the I-6, so even if you’ve managed to never stumble on it while channel surfing, everyone who commutes anywhere in the city sees it daily.

  Mayor Card’s installation of a defense force field over all ten acres of the property made news a couple years ago, so I land outside the ornamental front gates with the giant “WC” on them and push the button on the intercom.

  It crackles.

  “Estate of the beloved mayoral family,” the answer comes in a habitual monotone. “State your business.”

&n
bsp; Beloved. Right.

  “This is Solar Flare with the Pinnacle City Guardians,” I say. “I believe I have an appointment.”

  Okay, even on a first assignment this crummy, announcing myself out loud sounds pretty cool.

  “Thank you for coming, Solar Flare. Please approach through the staff entrance on your left to sign in.”

  The gate swings open, and I have to abandon the intercom promptly to dodge out of its path.

  The main entrance up ahead is shaped like a diamond and flanked with marble pillars and topiary sculptures of Mayor Card, his current wife in her runway model strut, and three of his assorted known kids from the previous two marriages.

  I don’t mind turning left.

  The staff entrance leads directly into a room full of lighting and sound equipment with several curtained off dressing room spaces. People in black button down shirts are buzzing frantically in and out of the space, the air is thick with aerosol, and no sooner do I shut the door behind me than I’m being yanked into a chair in front of one of the lighted mirrors by a woman in a black apron.

  “Finally,” she mutters, attacking my face with an alcohol wipe. “Who did your makeup this morning, a blind chimp?”

  “No, that’s just my face.” I joke agreeably, dodging her hands.

  I skipped the salon at Guardian Tower this morning and am rocking the barebones lip gloss and mascara look.

  One of the men in dark shirts—this one with an earpiece—hurries over and holds out his hand.

  I take it, a welcome rescue, but he only gives mine the briefest shake before nudging me back into the seat.

  “Solar Flare, welcome.” He talks faster than Cory, like he’s challenging himself to fit twice as many words into half as many seconds. “I’m Jacob, producer of In the Cards. Sally, can you do something about her eyebrows before we go on?” he turns to the woman in the apron, who’s already comparing different pairs of tweezers from her apron pockets.

  “Oh, I’m not ‘going on,’” I try to explain. “I’m just here to meet with Mayor Card or his chief of security about the family’s safety.”

  “We know, hun,” says Jacob. “But in this house, we’re always rolling. No one goes beyond this point unless they’re camera-ready.”

  Oh god, please no.

  I’d rather star in a full season of Rickie Maroon’s undercover celebrity journalist show than do a ten second cameo on In the Cards.

  I’d rather appear during the commercial breaks, selling rash ointment and vibrating dumbbells, than do a ten second cameo on In the Cards.

  Can’t I go back to worrying about that henchman, Eddie, bragging to the paparazzi? Even that would be better.

  “I haven’t signed a release for that,” I tell Jacob as casually as I can.

  “Don’t worry, the PCG have the rights to your image,” Jacob speed talks, gesturing Sally and her tweezers to continue. “They took care of all the paperwork in advance.”

  Crud.

  That’s it. I’m trash. I shall forever be known as that superhero who appeared on In the Cards, chumming it up with bigots and narcissists, and thus will die the legacy of Solar Flare.

  No. I think it over in a rush, while I let Sally yank fruitlessly at my eyebrows to her heart’s content.

  They can film me all they want. It doesn’t change the vows I took or who I am or why I’m here. I’m Solar Flare, I’m a superhero, and I’m following up on some terrorist threats just like Pinnacle said, because killing the Mayor is illegal no matter what kind of a person he is, and superheroes uphold the law.

  That’s all this is, and as long as I’m careful, as long as I stick to what’s right and don’t say anything that could be taken out of context, that’s all anyone will see.

  I just have to be myself.

  Sally finally gives up on prying my already sparse eyebrow hairs out of their invulnerable follicles—no way am I letting her know that I could remove them with my energy powers if I wanted—and settles for penciling over them.

  It takes almost half an hour of brushes, sponges, and pens before she gives me the aesthetic all clear, and Jacob ushers me out of the dressing room at the same speed he uses for talking.

  The farther we get from the staff entrance, the more mounted cameras there are in the ceiling and walls, and the shinier the house’s décor becomes, until literally every surface is encrusted with gems in various playing card motifs. Real or glass, I can’t tell, and I’m honestly not sure which answer would be better.

  Not going to ask. Not going to say a word. I know it’s not what’s important. It’s just interior design. But … holy wow, this place puts the ack in tacky.

  Ack.

  I mean, my family’s never been exactly shy about our money, either, but somehow we’ve never felt the urge to bedazzle the tar out of everything we own.

  “You like them?” Jacob wildly misinterprets my reaction to a set of velour couch cushions studded with bright red stones, veined with gold. Thankfully, his vocal schedule-keeping leaves no gaps for answers. “They’re Wubblyan blood crystals.”

  “I thought trade with the Wubbly system was illegal,” I say, even though I don’t think so.

  I know so.

  “Yes, they’re very rare. Mayor Card has some fortunate connections in the Roball Empire that excel at obtaining unnecessarily controversial off-world items. Get your fresh batteries ready!” he shouts abruptly down the hall in front of us. “First meeting of the kids and Solar Flare! Let’s try to get this in one take, shall we?”

  “Your security here looks more than adequate,” I hint. “But if there are possible weaknesses, I should really talk to whoever knows them best right away.”

  The Guardians’ case file was annoyingly sparse on this subject.

  “Yes, yes, next stop, I promise,” says Jacob. “We just have to get a quick initial reaction shot. The kids have been talking nonstop about you. We can’t leave the thread hanging.”

  I don’t want to be a thread, but before I can reiterate this, Jacob shouts, “Natural chatter in 3 … 2 … 1 …” and pushes me down the hall in the direction of the chatter of voices that rises in response.

  In the room ahead, two teenage girls and a guy in his early twenties sit together on a jewel-encrusted sofa in a staged attitude of casualness, while three separate camera crews hover around them from different angles. A TV takes up most of the wall across from them, and the guy is flipping channels disinterestedly.

  I could go on pretending that I don’t know their names, but I don’t live under a rock, so yeah, I do.

  The guy with the gym muscle chest that makes him look too top-heavy to stand is Ace. The older girl in the too-red lipstick is Jackie, and the younger one dressed all in pink is Diamond.

  “We can always order from the location in Amber City,” Jackie’s saying comfortingly, with her hand on Diamond’s knee.

  “But that’s not fair,” Diamond sniffles.

  I hover for a moment, waiting for someone to do an introduction, then realize that the cameras are framed on me lurking behind them, and the whole crew’s waiting for me to … I don’t know, jump out and say, “surprise?”

  Fine, let’s get this over with.

  “What’s not fair?” I ask.

  Three heads swivel toward me with artificial shock.

  “Solar Flare!” Diamond leaps over the back of the sofa and jumps me with a hug. “We’re so glad you’re here! Everything’s been so scary lately. People are talking about, like, killing us and stuff, and now they’re breaking things and setting fires!”

  “Yeah, don’t worry,” I say, because when someone threatens to kill a fifteen year old, you kind of have to say that. “No one’s getting through me.”

  Then, because someone’s finally giving me some actual details about the supposed danger they’re in, I ask, “Who’s lighting what on fire?”

  “People, stuff,” Jackie answers unhelpfully, pointing at the TV.

  Ace changes channels past several breaki
ng reports of violence and rioting spilling out of the Crescent, settling on one headline.

  “Humanoid Rights Attorney and Philanthropist Murdered by Gene-Jobs.”

  Under a warning of disturbing imagery, a video plays, dimly lit but crystal clear, of four gene-jobs savagely beating a fifth.

  The breath goes out of me when I recognize the unlucky fifth, long before the video ends and is helpfully replaced by a photo of him alive and well at a shelter fundraiser just weeks ago.

  “Quentin?” I breathe, taking an uninvited seat on the armrest of the sofa, the jewels of which dig into my bare thighs.

  “You knew him?” asks Jackie.

  “Just a little,” I mumble. “He was a good guy.”

  All three manned cameras in the room angle in on me, and I want to break each one of them into a million pieces. I want to ask Jacob what on earth he was thinking, springing this on me here.

  But that’s insane. He probably didn’t even know that I knew Quentin, let alone that I’d show up today without having glanced at the news. That would be downright psychic.

  “It’s just so mean of them,” Diamond laments.

  “Yeah,” I say softly. “Yeah, it is.”

  “I mean, I get that everyone’s sad and angry about the murder and stuff, but what kind of monster wants to burn down Gidgette’s?”

  “… What?” I try to recapture the train of the conversation.

  Ace changes channels again, away from Quentin’s face, across images of picket signs, gene-job rights slogans interspersed with slurs against not only gene-jobs but a dozen other groups, broken windows, looting, police shooting a fleeing suspect, and finally a Seaside boutique in flames. Gidgette’s. I remember the place now.

  They sell cheap purses for designer prices.

  This is the image that refreshes Diamond’s sniffles.

  “What do you expect them to do, be reasonable?” says Ace. “They’re barely better than animals.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “There’s no proof that gene bombs alter cognitive function.” But the words come out flat as the clip plays again in the background, while one of the news anchors goes over some reports that the killers might have been regulars at the Julian Foundation shelters.