Rise of a D-List Supervillain

by Jim Bernheimer

  At least Stacy will be home from her extended Pacific Rim Adventure this week and I will finally get the opportunity to hold her in my arms again, unless her jackass friends stumble into some other world-threatening plot. She has been gone for far too long for my liking. After all, I don’t really care if Mount Pinatubo blows its top and destroys a few towns; it is interfering with my love life. Somehow, I don’t think Stacy would see that the same way.

  I suppose if she feels like I do, then she wouldn’t be the person that I am in love with. Just because she makes me consider the possibility of being a better man doesn’t mean that I want to drag my Olympian girlfriend down to my level. She has the entire world depending on her. Me? I can barely shoulder the responsibility of being on an illegal super team and chipping in to raise my daughter.

  “I’m not getting anywhere with this,” I say, realizing how far off track my mind has wandered. José isn’t getting found anytime in the next few hours, at least not by me. All those folks who cry out that they won’t rest until someone is rescued or saved—well, they’re idiots. I function better on a good night’s sleep.

  “I will continue to search for potential leads on the Internet. Perhaps Mr. Walton will have better results on VillainNet? It is less than optimum, but I have provided him with several query strings he can attempt.”

  Cringing at the thought of Bobby attempting to find anything other than porn online, I do my best to nod at my favorite non-human. I constantly fight the temptation to turn Andy loose on the criminal version of the World Wide Web, but the Wireless Wizard would catch us and cut us off before we got anything useful. The Wizard has a special relationship with telecommunications. Running the hidden version of the criminal version of the Internet is more profitable than pulling bank jobs. Plus, the last time Wizard was in the public eye, he was huge. Who knows what he looks like now? He might have gone on a serious diet or have found a way to upload himself.

  “What’s Mega doing right now?” I ask Andy, jealous of his ability to multitask.

  “We are out over the Pacific, responding to a fishing vessel in distress,” he answers.

  My mechanical brother from another circuit board doesn’t mind doing the grunt work of the hero world. I’m sure the folks on that ship appreciate his diligence.

  “Any systems showing wear and tear?”

  “All of the systems are showing varying degrees, but there is not anything worth noting at this time.”

  Smartass, I think. Andy is kind of like the ultimate straight man. “We may need to schedule a maintenance window, soon. That’s all for me. I’m going to get some sleep.”

  “Good night, Calvin.”

  Bobby is up in central command playing a game amidst a pile of beer cans as I finish climbing the steps.

  “Thought you were already asleep,” he says. “Burning the midnight oil?”

  “Looking for the Six Pack. Seen any jobs south of the border?”

  “Not really,” he mutters. “Probably all those damn Manglermals down there taking up the jobs.”

  “There’s a joke there, but I’m not going to make it. How about Eddie? Has his dumb ass shown up yet? I would love to beat some information out of him.”

  “Not a word from him, but he’ll turn up sooner or later, kind of like herpes.”

  My response is interrupted by a door sliding open and a crying child. “Oh good, you’re still up.”

  “I was about to turn in,” I say to Wendy. “But I can sit up with her. Night terrors again?”

  Doesn’t look like sleep is coming any time soon.

  Gabby has two of the most powerful supers for parents, but she still has the same problems that every kid experiences. Will she develop powers of her own? Do I even want her to get mixed up in this business?

  Wendy passes Gabby off to me and turns back to her room, leaving me with an upset toddler in pink ducky pajamas.

  “Rough night, huh kiddo? Let’s go to my room and I’ll put a Disney movie on. How about we go old school with The Jungle Book?”

  • • •

  Just outside the smog cloud that envelopes Mexico City, I meet up with Paper Tiger, our newest member—sort of. I’m still smarting from having to fly close to the ground after a couple of Mexican fighter jets began shadowing me. Who knew they gave a shit about their airspace?

  Maybe I’ll fly high on the way back if I’m in the mood to screw with them.

  “Hello, Charles,” I say as he exits the SUV. As strange as it is to see a Bengal tiger/human hybrid carrying a pair of taser batons at his side and a plasma pistol in a holster, it probably is the second strangest thing I have seen in the last hour, and it probably will not make the weekly top one hundred. “I see you’ve lost the Siberian look.”

  “I draw the fur heavier on the Siberians. It’s too damn hot to be running around like that.”

  He’s practical. I’ll give him that. “What kind of leads did K-Otica have? Our mutual friend says most of the jobs down here are being taken by Manglermals.”

  I detect the approach of an airborne vehicle. Small profile, one hundred fourteen miles per hour, two passengers, hoversled, two hundred thirty-seven feet above ground level. IFF code Gulf Coast Guardians.

  “You were followed,” I say to Phipps and gesture to the sky. I’m not really in the mood to deal with those K-Otica and Spiritstaff today, but there is the old saying from Mick Jagger about not always getting what you want.

  “Should have known when they lent me the vehicle.”

  “Yes, you should have,” I say. Neither one of us is truly there. Phipps is in his little private sanctum, supposedly in Nevada based on my best guess, and I am, of course, in the control chair in Alabama, but it is somewhat irritating that we are being followed.

  Amateur hour at its worst. Wendy will probably give me no end of shit over it, but the upside is that she will have to chew out her boyfriend as well.

  Popping the visor up on my immersion helmet, I beckon to Andy and shut off the external microphone. “Andy, better take over the conversation. I don’t care for Spiritstaff, and the last time I had any real conversation with Karina, she was my hostage.”

  Ah, the good old days . . .

  Andy cuts over onto the command circuit and I reluctantly relinquish control to him.

  The hoversled descends and the former Gulf Coasters climb off. Karina is in a darker costume than the bright swirling colors she used to wear. Perhaps an attempt at being somewhat stealthy, completely ruined by her long pink hair. If Karina is going to be a walking billboard for loud fashion statements, she should just own the look.

  Considering I would have said that to her, tagging Andy in remains a good idea.

  Her husband, Mystigal’s brother, irritates me. His magic staff blocks anything that comes his way—up to a point. Beyond that, he’s a world-class martial artist. One of my fondest memories from my villain days is seeing the look on his face when I tossed a dumpster at him. Of course his Latina wife went into a berserker rage at that and wiped the asphalt with Hillbilly Bobby, and I’d been lucky to get out of there with my Mark II Cal suit still functioning. Bobby took a trip to the hospital and then to prison.

  Karina’s power levels fluctuate on an hourly basis. At her peak, she is a top-tier threat—flying, energy beams, and an adrenaline-enhanced temper. On her off hours, she’s a little bitchy, can run and jump faster and higher than normal humans, and makes a pretty light show that is more amusing than threatening.

  “Greetings,” Andy offers.

  “So this is the vaunted Megasuit?” K-Otica says in Spanish. I glance at the scanners to see if I can get a read on her power levels. My best guess is that she’s near her peak and that makes her more confrontational—almost a ’roid rage situation. “I’m surprised you are working with it, Tiger.”

  “He considers José a friend as well,” Charles replies. “He also appreciates the gravity of the situation if Doctor Mangler is experimenting on José. As you can see, I have all the backup
I need. You two don’t have to tag along.”

  Paper Tiger also appears to be annoyed at being followed.

  “It is good to see you, Andydroid. I can’t remember the last time we worked together,” Spiritstaff says.

  It’s a test. One that I would have failed.

  “It was when we took the Silver Squad into custody in Macon, Georgia. Six hundred forty-one days ago.”

  Back in the base, I laugh and tell Andy that he should have given the value in seconds just to screw with him.

  “Longer than I’d thought,” Spiritstaff says. “You’ve changed.”

  “There is a human expression that change is constant. I still find it odd that your species creates statements that are contradictory on purpose. But you are indeed correct that much has changed. You and Karina have married and procreated. The human race was almost exterminated by an ill-conceived genetic experiment. I have been disassembled and turned to stone, crafted a more useful body using Calvin Stringel as an inspiration, and made a decision to protect humanity from its own self-destructive tendencies. Your skin pigmentation is seventeen percent darker. Are you enjoying the warmer climate of Mexico?”

  Come to think of it, Andy is actually pretty good at messing with people.

  Spiritstaff holds up a finger. “I am enjoying my wife’s homeland, but I can say that not all change is for the better. You have also fought against my sister and her team.”

  “They picked a fight with my team,” Andy corrects. “They chose poorly.”

  “True, but you have also shown that you are willing to take a human life,” he says, unconcerned by Andy’s interruption.

  “Ultraweapon’s actions in San Francisco killed dozens and injured hundreds. His armor constituted a weapon of mass destruction. My actions were justified to remove him as a threat so that his nuclear-powered warbot and the other warbots could be stopped.”

  I make a note to ask Andy if he truly believes that. He’s justifying what I did to Lazarus Patterson, and doing a better job of it than I ever could have. It makes me consider if Andydroid actually believes what he is saying.

  Spiritstaff scratches his chin. “Even so, we shall come with you and observe your behavior, old friend. Showing restraint on this day would be a way of demonstrating that you have not degenerated into an amoral killing machine.”

  Andy actually does pause at that for two whole seconds.

  “We are coming and that is not negotiable,” Karina states and adjusts her pistol belt. She’s packing a pair of bioshockers for those times of the day when she’s not feeling so fresh. “Our lead is in the jungles approximately two hours south of here. There is an encampment of Manglermals that appears to be some form of training base or a recruiting center. Our source indicated between forty and fifty Manglers present. The leader is presumed to be White Rhino, a mercenary for hire currently wanted by Interpol for numerous crimes in Africa.”

  “I find this arrangement agreeable. I will do my best to ensure your safety, but the overriding objective is to learn the whereabouts of Doctor Mangler. There is a low probability of damage to this suit based on the capabilities of a typical Manglermal. I will take point and suppress their electronic communications. The three of you will prevent any of the Manglers from escaping. Optionally, we could employ Paper Tiger as an inside agent before resorting to hostilities. His form could be construed as a Manglermal. This course of action carries a slightly increased risk for Mr. Phipps, but significantly decreases the potential for collateral damage.”

  Karina holds up her finger and says, “Even though Charles could have his current form destroyed and not really suffer, I think that we can go ahead with the first option. White Rhino is a wanted criminal and we have the opportunity to question him while we bring him to the authorities.”

  Charles takes that moment to comment that whenever one of his drawings is destroyed, it gives him a terrible headache. While he is doing that, I wonder what is with Karina and her husband and holding up their fingers. Home life with these two must be strange. There are probably several jokes I could make, but I am stuck in a position where I can’t make a single one of them!

  The struggles of a sarcastic asshole. The fight is real!

  The group settles down for a quick discussion about the logistics. Spiritstaff flies back to get the picture frame Phipps uses to travel here since they have only one hoversled. He can climb back into the frame and they can carry it in the sled’s cargo compartment. It is somewhat refreshing. If they were still working for the U.S. government, there would be red tape without end to work through to coordinate this with the Mexican officials. Instead, Karina calls the personal cellphone of the Attorney General and politely informs the man about our plans.

  It’s nice to have people around me that have some decent pull. It’s a definite upgrade from the way my things usually end up.

  On second thought, I probably shouldn’t jinx myself.

  • • •

  For anyone considering the glamourous life of a jungle mercenary, I should take a picture of the ramshackle collection of battered trailers, trucks, and tents. It looks . . . quaint. With amenities like an open latrine trench and the stack of rusted fifty-five-gallon drums, it’s surprising that more people don’t come here.

  The welcoming committee shows up in the form of a hastily fired shoulder-launched stinger missile—good old American technology and yet another instance of Uncle Sam being a tad careless with his toys. In the old days, I made a living off government idiocy. I’ve mellowed, and these days it just irritates me.

  “Going loud,” I transmit to the three heroes assisting me.

  One of the nice things about fighting humanoids that have undergone a partial animal transformation is that many of them have a heightened sense of hearing. I give them the Biloxi Bugler treatment and observe the chaos. The missile shooter, some kind of leopard or jaguar, collapses on the ground as my high-pitched wail tortures it.

  “Bad kitty!” I mutter and descend. The suit comes in hot, with automatic weapon fire plinking off my shields like rain on a car’s windshield.

  Shutting off the sonics, I see Manglerals stumbling around. It brings a smile to my face.

  This should be an easy cleanup, I think before I can stop myself.

  “Missile inbound.” I hear the same voice from my suit that warned me about the stinger thirty seconds ago. It belongs to a dead woman, the first real love of my life, Vicky. Despite my flourishing relationship with Stacy, I haven’t parted with the last few audio files Vicky recorded before she went up in the explosion that destroyed Omega Base.

  I expect the missile to be an RPG-7. The Russians are even more careless with their tinker toys than Uncle Sam is.

  And then I get a scan on it. Shit! It’s an overloaded powercell missile. Just like I used against Patterson’s first atomic robot! Bastards must have read my book! I think this is the first time other than being shot with force blasters that someone has turned one of my inventions on me!

  I don’t like it one bit!

  The improvised weapon detonates on my front shields and it takes a good thirty percent off the top.

  “Missile inbound. Missile inbound. Missile inbound.” I get to hear Vicky again. These are actual RPG-7s. Guess they didn’t have too many powercells to spare. Good thing, too!

  “Increasing power to the forward shield generators,” Andy says from his console as my plasma cannons try to run interference. Two of the three hammer on my weakened shields and Mega actually staggers. The blasts barely scrape the paint job, but even so, it rattles me. I don’t like being rattled.

  “Shields at sixty percent.” Andy provides a dismal update. “Recommend we swap out the two of the four forward shield modules.”

  “We can do it as soon as you tell me what the hell is shooting us.” Cakewalks aren’t supposed to be like this.

  “A speedster,” Andy answers as two more RPGs are fired at me. The small arms fire stops as the Manglermals sprint for the jungle. Memori
es of Maxine Velocity, using my weapon designs, running circles around Ultraweapon before he killed her, assault me. I am on the other side of the equation this time.

  “I hate speedsters! Andy, warn the rest that there’s a little more waiting here than a trip to the zoo. Have them circle the base and see if they can get some of the runners.”

  “I am informing your three allies on scene. Larry, Wendy, and Bobby are being notified as well.”

  “Energy spike detected.” The warning is in Andy’s voice. Vicky never got to that one.

  A bolt of energy smashes into my shields. It is similar to my sparring sessions with Larry Hitt.

  Threat assessment locks onto the source of the psychic battering ram, a thin man floating in the air next to a broken-down Chevy truck. His limbs dangle uselessly as another bolt of white energy is launched at me.

  Jorge Delgado—The Holy Ghost. One of the Apostle’s Faithful. He’s a heavy duty telekinetic with Lou Gehrig’s disease. That means the speedster is probably The Grace of the Almighty—a terminal brain cancer patient named Mitch Calhoun. His top speed is around two hundred seventy-five miles per hour.

  I’ve fought faster with much less than Mega and won. Maybe it’s arrogance, or maybe I am really pissed about José, but I start the suit forward and cut loose with the sonics again. The weapons panel shows green and I cycle through the cannons and lay down a barrage of plasma bolts for suppressing fire. The Faithful are zealots, all dying of fatal conditions and kept alive by Apostle’s transferred power. They’d most definitely know where my friend is, but the odds of their giving up that nugget of information without a telepath are slim and none.

  Apostle has committed two of his six followers to this ambush. But are the rest ready to pop out of the woodwork? The whole group together might pose a serious threat.

  There’s a rush of air through the room and I hear the boots of my boss hit the floor behind me. Here comes the cavalry.

  “Larry’s suited up. He’ll be here in a second. I need you to pull back so that we can deploy without the others noticing.”