by David Reiss
After Technos had been dealt with, I was genuinely looking forward to piecing through the smoldering wreckage to study his technology. What a remarkable achievement!
A concussion grenade detonated at my feet, throwing me sideways directly into the path of a 120mm slug. Even inside the massively defended Mk 29 powered armor, the blast was sufficient to knock the sense from me. I became a passenger inside my own suit while I blinked away flashes of light.
An alarm on my neural link noted that my retina had become detached; I shut off my left eye while repairs commenced, instead drawing on sensor readings transmitted directly into my brain to analyze the failure in my predictive algorithms.
The mini-tanks were bouncing grenades off of solid surfaces, using timed fuses and indirect fire to overtax my ability to dodge. Clever machines! Not true artificial intelligences, but well-constructed nonetheless. I remained limp, trusting complete control to my armor's automated combat system while I designed a subroutine to address the oversight. In the meantime, my drones swarmed closer to compensate.
Titan and Aeon rejoined the battle. The seven-foot mystically empowered warrior leaped forward to close distance with one of the mini-tanks while Aeon remained at a distance to throw one energy blast after another directly at Technos' primary tank. Raw physical power appeared to have better luck than energy; Titan tore off a tank tread and used it as a flail to tear a gaping chasm through the mini-tank's turret.
Conflict made for strange bedfellows; I'd half-expected for Titan to join forces with Technos against me. In this instance, I supposed, the Californian villain was threat enough that the so-called 'heroes' chose to fight at my side. Their decision made sense. In all my villainous career, I had never demonstrated quite so great a disregard for civilian casualties as did Technos and his soldiers.
Microdrone sensors flooded my brain with raw information. Titan's physical attack, I determined, had been timed to land a fraction of a second after one of my robotic defenders had landed an energy-based attack. Whether by chance or by battlefield insight, Titan had exploited the regular cadence of particle beam fire to uncover a flaw in the mini-tank's defenses: a weakness against solid force in the brief instant after defending against energy.
With a new program in place to keep track of grenade ricochets, I reclaimed partial control over the Mk 29's actions and worked my way closer to the second mini-tank. There was fresh blood on my tongue, but I was nonetheless grinning behind Fid's emotionless faceplate.
My war-staff screamed as it spun, a full-force swing that landed microseconds after one of my drones' particle beams. The impact was epic, and the shock-wave made my chest ache and my vision blur. I howled my triumph when he tank’s forward armor crumpled like tin foil.
There was spark from within that battered shell, yellow-white, and then the tank detonated. I was too close; there was a brief sense of movement and the world went white. My eyes closed…
For the second time that day, I was shocked into awareness by an artificially-induced adrenaline dump. Fifty-two seconds had passed. A long time when at the center of active battle. Yet again, I was grateful for automated combat programming.
All four of the mini-tanks had been completely disabled. Titan appeared to be stunned but Aeon fought on. The personnel carriers had returned, the soldiers within intent on providing covering fire for their beleaguered employer. Unfortunately for them, Regrowth had reappeared as well. The collateral damage costs would be astronomical, but the green-and-brown clad heroine used her ability to animate plants to excellent effect. Deciduous trees erupted straight through concrete and the vehicles were thoroughly entwined by roots and branches.
Three of my heavy-combat drones were inoperable. Two had sacrificed themselves to protect me while my armor fought with an unconscious passenger; the third’s walking legs had been severely damaged by an explosive device cleverly planted by the foot soldiers. That one, at least, would be able to escape under its own power once anti-grav tech was again available.
The Mk 29 powered armor was still in working order. Concussive force had, however, induced significant soft-tissue damage to my left arm and leg. I hurt, I was irritable, and my medical nanites would be working overtime for days.
“ENOUGH!” I roared. “Technos! If you surrender, I will allow the Guardians to arrest you.”
“And if I don’t?” He sounded shaken but still rebellious.
“Then we battle to the death,” I laughed menacingly, spinning the war-staff in a deliberately slow figure-eight pattern. “And I promise that it won’t be quick.”
The presence of a crimson fog near Titan’s form indicated that the Red Ghost had arrived, and Veridian’s green glow was approaching from the south. Four of my heavy combat drones were already present and another five en route. Technos’ massive tank was still a marvel, true, but he was surrounded and I’d vividly demonstrated the ability to overcome his mini-tank’s shielding. It was likely that his main vehicle suffered the same flaw.
“Damn you, Fid!” he howled. “I’m coming out!”
And that was that. The Red Ghost’s mist-like form hovered around the tank’s escape hatch until a slender, sweating figure emerged. The Ghost pounced, and Doctor Carl Schlumpf was taken into custody. Somewhere on campus, the remains of Technos’ soldiers skirmished with police…but this battle was over.
Sensors captured high-definition footage of the Red Ghost's stony expression. It was likely that this scenario, all this horror and destruction, had been his brainchild. It was equally likely that he'd foreseen the possibility of events spiraling out of control and thus fought against the plan's implementation.
He'd been proven right, and I was sure that his failure to scuttle the plot weighed on him heavily. He was, however, able to maintain control over his anger; he handcuffed Schlumpf professionally and did not use the slightest amount of excessive force.
With anti-gravitic fields now functional, I signaled for my drones to begin removing any of my own technology from the wreckage. Anything that could not be carried away was set to self-immolate.
“Well, Guardians, I suppose that I will take my lea—” I was cut off by a phenomenal impact, so sudden and unexpected that my sensors barely had opportunity to blare warning before I was struck. I was thrown backwards fifty feet, through a wall and into the community college’s student union building.
Titan had hit me with a steel I-beam. I stood up slowly, sore but furious. The Guardians assembled outside the ruined atrium.
“Are you insane,” I demanded incredulously, “or just legitimately stupid?”
◊◊◊
It was late before I finally limped home. The Mk 29 and drones required inspection before they could be left to automated repair systems, and I’d wanted to catalog the W-G reactor parts and the bits of Technos’ technology that I’d been able to pilfer from the wreckage. The extra time also allowed my medical nanites to repair my detached retina and the worst of my bruising.
In one day, I’d defeated Technos, handed another thorough beating to the Guardians, and insulted Titan while news camera-drones were surely within range! There would, I was sure, soon be an exposé that revealed the origin of the Westler-Gray reactor that’d been the impetus for this entire debacle. I was tired, my bones ached, and I was ravenously hungry. Even so, it had been a good day. A victory on all counts.
“Whisper?” I knocked gently on her door. “Can I come in?”
“Mm.” The android affirmed, sniffling as though she’d been crying.
“I’m home safe.” I opened the door and found Whisper laying in her bed. “I’m sorry that I was gone for so long.”
“You’re hurt,” she accused, and scrambled over to give me a gentle hug.
“Not badly,” I replied, wrapping my sore arms about her in as comforting a manner as I could manage. “I promise.”
“Mm,” she acknowledged. “It’s just been a bad day.”
“Not so bad. Like I said…I’m fine.”
“O
h. Oh! Um.” Her eyes widened and she nibbled nervously at her lower lip. “Check the local news from Staten Island.”
Mystified, I did as she recommended. The only report flagged was an explosion at an abandoned textile factory. Bodies (homeless squatters or drug-related criminals, the reporter intimated) had been found but not yet identified.
I recognized the facility, of course. I’d visited the location with Starnyx when he’d proudly showed off the FTW’s hidden lair.
Damn.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I heard a joke once. It went like this:
“What,” the comedian quipped, “are the most common last words that a supervillain speaks to his henchman?”
I remember that he’d been drinking some sort of pumpkin-spiced craft beer; he wasn't a known mask, just some guy who seemed to be enjoying the unique ambiance and clientele at Lassiter's Den. The short, stout man seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of gags and wisecracks.
A crowd had gathered, and the performer hadn't needed to buy his own drinks for more than an hour.
“I don't know,” someone piped up, “What are the most common last words that a supervillain speaks to his henchman?”
In retrospect, I suspected that both speakers were Cloner. I've seen enough archival footage to know that he did that often: used duplicates to play straight man to his own jests. The two didn't look or act alike; the retired superhero had long since evolved past that limitation of his power. Each replication was potentially unique, an ordinary-appearing person capable of acting independently or in tandem with the other clones.
He'd been one of the founding members of the New York Shield, the laughing prankster who hammed up his performances whenever a camera was near. The hero had never been a powerhouse; his ability to create and control a near-infinite number of artificial bodies had, however, granted a certain utility. He'd been known for using his doubles with slapstick humor and suicidal abandon. Something had changed, though, and Cloner quietly disappeared from the Shield roster. It was rumored that he'd stumbled across Lassiter's Den while investigating a case and had been infiltrating the bar undercover ever since.
Perhaps none of the nameless newcomers were Cloner. Perhaps all of them were. Who could know for sure?
“The supervillain says: 'No, you fool! If you touch that button you'll kill us a—'”
Everyone laughed. For those of us who had doomsday weaponry in our bunkers, however, the laughter was a bit forced.
◊◊◊
Peregrine and the Sphinx both had exceptional alibis. I checked their whereabouts first, even before the arson investigator had started filing reports. Peregrine was signing autographs at a convention several states distant, and the Sphinx wasn’t even on the planet; Valiant had requested the assistance of several prominent ‘heroes’ to offer humanitarian aid to an alien settlement.
(Valiant’s spacecraft was impressive. He’d taken the ship as spoils of war after being kidnapped by some would-be intergalactic warlord. Engineers at Paragon Research were permitted to examine the vessel, and I’d established a digital back-door into their servers years ago. The faster-than-light-travel technology was intriguing but not particularly useful within a planet’s gravity well. It required a full six days of constant acceleration away from earth orbit using a conventional ion-drive before the FTL functionality could be engaged. Sphinx had been a third of the way to Mars when the warehouse explosion occurred.)
Suspicion still burned like madness. It had been theoretically possible that the two members of the New York Shield could still have been involved indirectly. They could have hired or coerced an assassin to perform the deed. I’d wasted days searching for evidence of such but found nothing.
In a strange way, the probable innocence of Sphinx and Peregrine was comforting. Had I, instead, found them to be culpable...I couldn't be certain how deep I would have been willing to descend in order to gain vengeance. There’d been twelve people in that warehouse when the explosion occurred. An atrocity more blatant even than that which had been committed by Bronze! I would have lost myself; Doctor Fid's retribution would have shaken the fundament.
They'd been responsible for the death of Kenta Takuma, once known as Beazd. For that, Sphinx and Peregrine would eventually be held accountable. But for the blast that claimed Starnyx, blame must fall upon another target.
◊◊◊
“Wait, wait!” the comedian who’d probably been Cloner insisted. “I have another one!”
His brow was damp from the prior performance, a long shaggy dog story whose punchline implied that Majestic drunkenly convinced a companion to leap to his death while another hero watched. The portly man drew out the joke, expertly acting out each character's role with exaggerated gestures and vocalizations.
The crowd quieted, expectant, and the comedian extended the moment by taking a slow sip from his beer.
“Why,” he began, eyes sparkling with amusement, “does Atlantea wear that seashell bikini?”
A relatively new heroine at the time, Atlantea had claimed to be the princess of a vast and hidden undersea kingdom. By the time that assertion had been disproved, her undeniable power and attractive appearance had gathered enough goodwill that being caught in a lie barely cost her any support.
“I don't know!” called another Lassiter's Den patron, who was also probably Cloner. “Why?”
“Because she's too well-developed for B-shells and not quite large enough for D-shells!”
It took a remarkable amount of self-confidence to make a joke about breast size when the ultra-feminist Amazon was drinking a few booths away; she'd performed unspeakable violence upon construction workers for making similar comments. Atlantea had, however, twice clashed with the Amazon and embarrassed the tall, muscular dusky-skinned villainess both times.
The Amazon smiled vindictively while the rest of the bar laughed.
◊◊◊
The police and fire department arrived more-or-less simultaneously. Officers cordoned off the surrounding area and sought out eyewitnesses. Since there had been reports of an explosion and no evidence of civilians in need of rescue, initial efforts were put towards containment; they worked to keep the fire from spreading until the fire department Captain reached the site and made the judgment call that it was safe for the firefighters to move closer and douse the flames.
The fire department Captain and a few of his men performed their initial inspection soon after the blaze was extinguished. When several bodies were discovered, the FBI was informed; an arson investigation was recommended as well. The FBI maintained control over the inquiry for the first twenty-seven hours.
They were thorough but slow.
(Hours, they waited, for results from a simple mass-spectrometer test! Doctor Fid’s microdrones could have offered similar results practically instantaneously. The urge to fly to New York was overwhelming. It was, however, better to be patient. The agents on site were competent, trained investigators! My results would be faster but not necessarily superior; instead, I hacked into their files and followed their progress.)
When one of the deceased was confirmed to be a known member of the FTW’s superhuman team, the FBI handed custody of the investigation off to the Department of Metahuman Affairs.
DOMA operatives have far more specialized skills. Debris and remains were quickly cataloged and analyzed, examined and interpreted. Within a few hours of their arrival on the scene, they’d identified the destruction's origin. The precise cause, however, was still under investigation.
◊◊◊
“Ok, last one!” the broad, dark-haired joker laughed. “It’s getting late and I oughta get home.”
Did Cloner have a home? It’s likely that he owned several. No one knows how many bodies he’d created over the years, and there seemed no limit to his ability to multitask. During Locust’s infamous assault upon central park, dozens of copies of Cloner had been strewn across the battlefield. Shaky camera footage showed units of Cloner acting with intric
ately timed tactical movements. Armed only with clubs, bare hands, laughter, taunts, and strength no greater than that of an average human, Cloner had expertly managed to distract and corral the insectoid menace for several minutes until reinforcements arrived. Other duplicates were witnessed performing first aid or assisting civilians to escape. He’d maintained dozens of simultaneous conversations with non-combatants, while simultaneously coordinating attacks and defenses against a first-tier supervillain! At precisely the same moment, several of Cloner were in Japan giving a paid motivational speech on the value of teamwork.
“How many minions does it take to screw in a light bulb?” the comedian asked. A few audience members chuckled in uncertain anticipation. Again, the short man took a slow drink of beer while letting the tension build.
“I don't know!” several patrons chorused. “How many minions does it take to screw in a light-bulb?”
The battle against Locust had left Central park an abattoir, a horror of pain and gore. The fallen replications struggled, broken and bleeding, choking and fighting for every last breath. And yet, a few minutes after the clones had expired...they all disappeared without a trace. A catastrophe of human wreckage gone up in smoke.
In an interview, Cloner mentioned that he could not un-summon a body; once he'd created a new member of his mob, that body would exist until it perished. Perhaps Cloner had one home that he returned to after stand-up comedy performances, perhaps he maintained dozens, or perhaps there existed a hidden warehouse in which he stored his extra bodies stacked up like cord-wood until they expired of starvation or dehydration, and thus evaporated.
Who could know for sure?
“Only two, unless they are particularly kinky.” the entertainer offered an obvious response. “But you should convince Micron to let them out and return them to full size before they run out of oxygen!”