For a moment, the guards stared at him with dumbfounded gazes, but soon their own brains began filling in the memory gaps as well. The human mind abhors a vacuum, and memory is already such a pliable thing. It was almost no task at all to shift a few facts around until they formed a story that made sense.
“Sorry about that, sir,” the first guard said, grabbing his injured coworker by the elbow and dragging him out of the room. “We’ll get it taken care of right away.”
“See that you do.” Alderman Douglas sat back down at his desk as the last of the three exited the office. There was still a tickle in the back of his mind, some nagging sensation that there was an important thing he’d forgotten. He brushed it off as overactive worry. When one was as busy as he, there were bound to be a few things that slipped through the cracks. That was what the little people were there for: to clean up after him.
In the hallway, the guards passed a man whose dark-purple eyes cusped just on the verge of black who was calmly waiting on the elevator. They gave him a business-appropriate nod, which he returned, and then continued on their way, immediately forgetting about him.
* * *
Establishing Link . . .
Link Established
Start Conversation
Msg – 1422 – DV: Sending a data upload via the usual channels. Alderman Bertrand Douglas has been hiding and stealing quite a bit of money to finance his election. Some of it was going toward paying off a gang of Supers to scare or injure his opponents out of the race.
Msg – 1423 – Dispatch: How did that escape us? Those incidents are usually reported as soon as they occur.
Msg – 1423 – DV: From what I saw in the files, one of them can muddle memories. Not a full wipe or negation, but enough to leave victims confused.
Msg – 1444 – Dispatch: We’ll send Heroes with appropriate resistances. Apprehension will occur within the next three hours.
Msg – 1445 – DV: While you’re at it, can I get Fix-Up or someone to come patch me? Got captured during my recon and the escape left me short some blood and skin.
Msg – 1446 – Dispatch: If it’s critical priority, we can get a healer and teleporter to you in five minutes. If you’re stable and safe, it will be a few hours.
Msg – 1446 – DV: Hours it is, then. Also, I’ll need to borrow some new toys from Gearbox soon. Running low on gadgets.
Msg – 1448 – Dispatch: I’ll put something on the books, but you know he hates when you raid his armory.
Msg – 1448 – DV: Guess it’s a good thing we’re the only two who remember that.
End Conversation
Link Terminated
* * *
“I’ll have the usual.” The man at Karen’s booth hadn’t bothered to pick up a menu. He sat there, narrow frame and curiously wide shoulders, dressed in an uninteresting grey shirt, a black tie, and a white-cloth bandage wrapped around his left hand. He had bruises beginning to show just along his hairline, small cuts running down the side of his face, and what looked a lot like dried blood splattered on his tie. Karen was so distracted by his evident injuries that she didn’t even notice the pale lavender color of his eyes.
“I’m sorry, the usual?” Her auburn hair fell to the side as she tilted her head in confusion and concern.
The man sat silently for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. “Two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, and a cup of coffee.”
“Right away.” Karen jotted down the order, doing her best not to stare at his injuries as she scooped up his menu and headed toward the kitchen. This was a relatively safe city, but things still went wrong on occasion. If he’d been jumped or something, she didn’t want to make him feel more self-conscious about it. The diner was almost empty; it was too early for the late-evening rush. Thankfully, Karen would be gone by the then, the last hour of her double-shift finally over.
She grabbed a carafe of fresh coffee, a clean glass, and some cream, then brought the whole assortment to the injured man’s table. He was staring at the television hung in the corner when she arrived, reading the closed captioning about some local politician’s arrest that had gone down earlier in the day. Karen had been a bit interested at first, but after seeing the same minimal footage cycle several times, all her captivation had waned.
“Looks like some Heroes brought down a crooked politician.” He didn’t look over at her as he spoke, instead grabbing pink packets to dump in his coffee cup.
“My mother always says ‘crooked politician’ is a redundant term.”
The man dropped his pink packets as he barked out a laugh of surprise. He glanced up at her, and for what was the first time and also very far from the first time, Karen noticed the strange color of his eyes.
“Your mother is a smart woman.” He said it with more certainty than she’d expected, as though he knew firsthand just how right she was. “I’m glad to see the Heroes sweeping up the worst of them.”
Karen nodded. Supers could be a troublesome bunch, and Powereds were a category all their own, but it was hard to dislike Heroes when they were out and about every day saving people. “My mother also said they were people doing God’s work.”
“Did she now?” This time he didn’t laugh, but he did give her a gentle smile as he filled his mug with coffee. “And what do you think of them? The Heroes, I mean.”
“I think they do great things, but they’re also lucky sons-of-bitches,” Karen admitted. “Flying around in beautiful costumes, greeted by crowds of people cheering when they arrive, knowing each night they go to sleep that they made the world a better place; who wouldn’t want a life like that?”
“Do you ever wonder if they get lonely?”
“Lonely? With all those fans begging for their attention?”
“Fans and friends are different things,” the man pointed out. “To me, bearing all the power and responsibility, it would get hard after a while.”
“Still, seems a far sight better than being a regular old person, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe for some. There’s bound to be a few who are burdened by it, though. Ones who take the responsibility to heart, who live their lives so completely as Heroes that it consumes the other side of them. Heroes who never take off the mask, or remove all the reasons for needing one in the first place. Maybe they don’t start out that way; it just sort of happens after too many close calls. They realize that the only way to protect others from the consequences of their choice is to ensure there are no others to protect.”
The man paused to take a sip of his coffee, breaking the spell Karen all at once realized she’d fallen under. He seemed to sense it to, as his mood suddenly lightened.
“Sorry about that, I’m slowly reaching the age where I’ll give my opinions to anyone whether they want them or not.”
“No, it’s an interesting thought. I never looked at Heroes that way. I mean, I always assumed Powereds were the only ones who had it rough, not being able to control their abilities and all, but Heroes may have some drawbacks too. You’re pretty smart, Mister . . .”
“Verdant. Devin Verdant.”
“How funny, my last name is Verdant. We might be related,” Karen said.
“Could be, but I doubt it. There are a bunch of Verdants in this area.”
“Tell me about it; I went to high school with three of them, one whose name was Kasey. Teachers got us mixed up all the time. Well, you sip on the coffee; I’m going to go see if your food is about ready.”
“Thank you, Karen,” Devin Verdant said.
His food was ready, and she quickly brought it over to him. Though she meant to talk more with the odd man, her tables began filling up. The longer she worked, the harder it was for her to remember why it was she’d wanted to speak him, or what they’d talked about in the first place.
He finished his food quickly, keeping an eye on her as she scuttled about. She’d forget him soon: his ability was far more dialed down than it had been at the alderman’s office, but it wasn’t off completely. No one
had ever really been able to figure out what his power was; it overcame telepathic and illusion defenses with no trouble at all. Only those with outright immunity to mental alteration were able to hold on to their memories of him. Even on film, he would be seen and forgotten in the same minute; the same would happen even if it was just his voice. Of course, he could have always turned off his ability if he really wanted to be remembered.
With minimal rummaging in his wallet, DV produced a hundred dollar bill and set it on the table to pay his eight dollar tab. She wouldn’t remember which table had given this to her; that was for the best. If she’d known, she might have realized he always tipped in such a way, and that would have led to questions that he didn’t want her asking.
He headed out into the early evening air and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes until his meeting with Fix-Up, and then on to recon work for his next project. DV wasn’t a fan of downtime; it gave him time to dwell on all the things he’d sacrificed along the way. With a final glance through the diner’s window at the young auburn-haired waitress scurrying about, DV headed off toward his next meeting.
There was work to do.
Back to Table of Contents
Archenemy
A Just Cause Universe Story
Ian Thomas Healy
Ian Thomas Healy is the author behind the Just Cause Universe, a series of superhero fiction novels spanning more than seventy years of history in a world very similar to ours, but with superheroes. Centered primarily around three generations of speedsters—Colt, Pony Girl, and Mustang Sally—the heroes of Just Cause are always at the forefront of the most dangerous challenges to the safety and order of the world.
The first five novels of the JCU are Just Cause, The Archmage, Day of the Destroyer, Deep Six, and Jackrabbit. All JCU books are available in print and ebook format from online retailers as well as from Local Hero Press, LLC. Book Six, Champion, is scheduled for release in November 2014.
Ian can be found online at www.ianthealy.com, on Twitter as @ianthealy, on Facebook as Author Ian Thomas Healy, and all over the Pen & Cape Society forums.
* * *
Once again, Mustang Sally wished she could run across water. She’d tried, of course. Dozens of times. She’d spoken to physicists about it and it wasn’t a question of speed, especially for someone who was the sole member of the world’s most exclusive club of people who had broken the speed of sound on foot. According to every scientist she’d ever spoken with, she should glide across the surface like a jet boat on hydrofoils. She’d tried running faster, slower, stomping, and tiptoeing. She’d tried shuffling her feet like a supersonic speed skater, all to no avail. No matter how fast she was going, if she hit water, she was going for a swim.
Jason always laughed at her, but not in an unkind way. “Babe, I’ve seen you jump across gaps at speed that would terrify me, and I’m a lot tougher to hurt than you are.”
And it was true; she could do running long jumps that made some people think she could fly. But still, the water thing frustrated her to no end. “I should be able to,” she complained.
“Maybe it’s all in your head,” said Jason. “Maybe you need a parahuman psychologist.”
“Are you calling me crazy?”
“You’d have to be, to do what you’re doing. Let me examine your head, though . . .” And then of course, things had been better.
With the change in presidents had come a dramatic reorganization of Just Cause, going from two teams to eight. Sally had expected she might get promoted to a leadership position somewhere in Just Cause, but she was completely floored when they asked her to take over the New York branch.
And so she and Jason, and a couple of her friends from the Denver team, packed up and moved to the City That Never Sleeps. It was hard leaving behind so many people she loved, but the adventure of a lifetime awaited her amid the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan.
The new headquarters, officially known as Just Cause New York but colloquially as Fort Justice, wasn’t even within the confines of Manhattan. Instead, the government had purchased a floating oil drilling platform and refurbished it into a secure, mobile headquarters with nearly all the comforts of home.
There were lots of ways to get to the mainland. A regular ferry serviced the facility every four hours. Speedboats were available for faster response, and for full emergency deployments, the team had a brand new VTOL jet called the Dorothy, after Dorothy Dandridge.
But Sally wanted to run, and she was impatient, and she couldn’t run across the water.
It was only her second day in New York. Every minute of hers and Jason’s arrival had been filled with unpacking, getting to know the layout of Fort Justice, getting lost and then found again, greeting new team members as they arrived, meetings with everyone from the chief of staff to the legal and public relations directors to the chief cook and bottle washer. Oh, and paperwork. Reams and reams of it. Sally wondered how many forests had been leveled solely for the purpose of having triplicate copies of every single form and document that a government-run superhero team might require.
At last she couldn’t take it anymore. She left Jason in charge of getting their apartment in order, since her husband was far more organized than she was, threw on her thermal costume (it was ridiculously cold in a miserable way that made Sally’s bones ache for the warmth of her home state of Arizona), and hopped onto the departing ferry for Manhattan. She didn’t get seasick—and thank goodness for that!—but she felt a nervous queasiness lapping around her edges like the cold gray waters of the Upper New York Bay at the hull of the ferry. She was barely twenty-four years old and the President of the United States had asked her to lead the most important branch of the most important superhero team in the world. That she wasn’t running to the bathroom to throw up every few minutes was a small miracle.
The ferry bumped up against the Pier 11 slip and people filed across the gangplank onto the pier itself. Everything was shades of gray; gray clouds reflecting upon gray water, the gray walkway with gray railings. Sally found herself scanning up and down the pier, focusing upon any splash of color she could see. Although the passengers on the ferry from Fort Justice were Just Cause employees, inured to the brilliance of superhero costumes, many of the pedestrians on the pier were staring and snapping pictures. Even the lifelong New Yorkers, which Sally equated with a certain willingness to step on another human’s face, lost some of their blasé, already-seen-it-all expressions as they took in the crimson and gold of her costume, from her traditional horse’s-head logo to the horseshoes slung at her waist to the tremendously expensive running boots that had been created by an unlikely partnership of an Italian footwear designer and a NASA engineer. She made herself smile at the citizens; part of her job was to be a visible representative of the parahuman community and to do whatever she could to cast Just Cause in a positive light.
“Mustang Sally, checking in at Pier 11,” she murmured. The microphone button sewn against the collar of her bodysuit picked up her voice and relayed it across the water back to Fort Justice. “I’m going to patrol.”
“Control, receiving you,” said the disembodied voice in her ear. “We’ll monitor you and inform you if you’re needed.”
“Copy that.” Sally took her goggles off her forehead and shook out her hair. She was still getting used to her new short hairstyle after years of having long braids hanging down her back. She’d felt like she needed a look that was more grown-up given her new position, and had spent an entire weekend flipping through webpage after webpage of hairstyles until she’d found one she thought she could live with. Jason had given her his blessing, and she’d cried when almost two feet of her hair hit the floor. Once the stylist had finished giving her a layered cut that accentuated her natural waves, she had to admit that she looked pretty good. At least it was easier to manage and could all fit beneath her cowl so it didn’t get windburned. She pulled the cowl up and over her head, tucking any flyaway locks beneath the edges. The goggles went back on ov
er the cowl, connecting to tiny catches that would keep them from being ripped away due to wind friction. She wouldn’t be running fast enough to need the breath mask to protect her lungs, but she wore it anyway because there was nothing worse than aspirating road grit at triple-digit speeds.
Her face fully protected from the wind, she waved at the onlookers, and then lit out. Her perceptions accelerated along with her speed, giving her plenty of time to avoid collisions. She zipped across the pier and turned right to follow FDR Drive along the East River. She’d checked the GPS map on her phone on the ferry, and she knew to count bridges. The fourth one would be the Queensboro, and taking a left there would bring her right to Central Park, which was where her mother had run when she was in Just Cause back in the Seventies. The Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges flashed past, great titans sprawling across the icy waters. Sally kept well to the right of traffic, running along the breakdown lane as much as possible. It had been her experience that running too close to the speed of traffic tended to be a distraction for drivers as they actually had time to look at her. Going two or three times faster than the flow meant she was gone from most drivers’ vision before they really registered what they’d seen. When there was no breakdown lane, she dipped down an exit ramp to run beneath the FDR viaduct, having to weave around ubiquitous construction sites.
The buildings in that part of Manhattan were much more reasonable, reminding her of Lower Downtown in Denver. She passed by a lovely park near the Williamsburg Bridge, which was a welcome relief from all the gray. It was too early in the season for any real greenery, but a few hardy crocuses were pushing their way up through the dirt. Horns honked and a police siren blared and she wondered if she should stop, but one of the things Juice had told her was that Just Cause wasn’t supposed to respond to every minor infraction or incident. If local law enforcement needed parahuman assistance, there were avenues for them to request it, whether from local-level Champions or escalating to Just Cause if needed. “It’s important that local police don’t grow to resent you,” he said. “We want them to be willing to call for help, and they can’t do that if they feel like you’re trying to replace them.”
The Good Fight Page 8