Rise of a D-List Supervillain

by Jim Bernheimer

  The base will feel lonely with just me, Gabby, Andy, and his two robot puppets about, but there’re things to be done and anthills that need kicking over.

  Trouble isn’t likely to come to our little corner of Alabama, so we need to stretch our legs and go looking for it.

  I suspect it won’t be too hard to find.

  Chapter Six

  Sometimes a Naked Woman is a Bad Thing

  Havana is an interesting city, almost trapped in a time loop, and not a good one, either. It’s run down, and a decade’s worth of economic embargo has taken its toll. I don’t really care about a missile crisis from times gone by. Face it! That might have been one of the first times that the world teetered on the brink of destruction, but there have been a slew of them since.

  Maybe it’s just the realist in me. If the ruling brothers were more of a threat, they would have been dealt with by now. There’s a rumor going around that they might be supers themselves, but it’s never been proven.

  Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. A place is a place as far as I’m concerned. Plus, when do I get to see so many classic cars out on the road?

  The word has gotten out pretty fast concerning our presence. Mega is kind of a sight to behold, and Wendy isn’t exactly hiding, either. She’s chatting amicably with a pair of the local talents, a man who can control sand and a cybernetic clawed woman. I’m more interested in the modified Type-B robot hooked to a cart filled with sand.

  Fernando is trying to impress us by making sculptures in his sandbox as we head to the hotel where Wendy is meeting her mother. Unless we are fighting El Salvadera on a beach, he’s a lightweight, and La Tejon de Miel looks more threatening than she actually is. But they’re two of the more prominent heroes in this country, and they want to make sure we are properly escorted.

  Of course, properly escorted means having a news crew documenting our “historic” visit.

  “Our presence is already being reported on the BBC,” I say, using my digitized version of Andydroid’s voice.

  “Won’t be long then before DC knows, if they don’t already,” Wendy replies. “Keep an eye out for Apollo’s Chariot. If it takes off, let me know.”

  “Acknowledged,” I state, sticking to the “Andydroid gone wild” story. The Olympians would be the most likely candidates if Uncle Sam tried to send someone after us. They would also be the most likely to refuse that request, because Cuba is a sovereign nation and whatever trumped up charges the government has on us don’t warrant an international incident, in Hera’s eyes.

  I’ve never really been the source of an international incident—

  surprisingly enough, I can’t cross that off my bucket list, which makes me wonder if your bucket list resets when you are faking your death.

  Those are the kind of things that cross my mind when I’m not actively doing something. Trying to be useful, I call up the specs for the hotel where Wendy is meeting her mother and run a few simulations. The results are not terribly helpful.

  “It appears you will be on your own, Wendy,” I say in a slow and measured tone. “The penthouse will be unable to withstand the weight of the Megasuit. I advise caution and to be wary of the possibility of a shapeshifter.”

  “We have a set of code phrases, but I will leave my transmitter on so you can hear what’s going on. If there’s a problem, come running. Either way, stay in the area and be ready to move fast.”

  I nod. It’s either a trap or it isn’t. Anyone stupid enough to try it deserves what happens next. Wendy’s mom used a cover story that she was down here scouting talent in Cuba for a Canadian production company. To me, it sounds a little convoluted, but hey, I’m just pulling bodyguard duty today.

  “Honey Badger,” I say using the English version of the woman’s name. “I would like to do a scan of your cybernetics sometime before we depart, if you permit. I am always considering upgrades to this suit and lack quality melee options.”

  The clawed woman, who looks more like a body builder, shrugs at my request. “It’s not like bootleg plans of this old Spetsnatz tactical gear aren’t all over the Internet. I’ve fought over a dozen in the past five years. Almost any idiot with half a million U.S. could build one in their garage these days.”

  “True, but this is one of the original sets produced in the 1980s, and it has stood the test of time quite well, thanks in part to your own body density manipulation abilities.” She was correct. I’d even built a knockoff set back in the day, but it would be interesting to analyze one of the originals.

  The Cuban superhero has the ability to harden her skin to the point that it is nearly impenetrable, which seems like a handy ability to have if you ask me. She doesn’t quite get to the point of Seawall’s invulnerability, but by the same token, she isn’t a walking douchebag like he is. The other reason I want to take a good hard look at her gear involves Seawall. If the U.S. government can effectively replicate his powers, even for a few minutes, I suspect I’ll see them outfitted with things like this.

  Unfortunately, the real Andydroid hasn’t cracked those little patches that Uncle Sam was developing in conjunction with Seawall. I’m looking forward to trying one out sometime. I could just picture the conversation:

  “I didn’t know you smoked, Cal.”

  “Nah, I’m on the invulnerability patch. Possible side effects include vomiting, nausea, and turning into an all-around raging dickhead.”

  “Something funny?” Fernando asks me.

  I’m sorely tempted to start playing a certain ABBA song, but that would be too easy. I need something better.

  “Oh, I am trying to emulate human actions,” I say, in an effort to cover and not draw the ire of Wendy. “My subroutine indicated that I should choose a random action. In this case, it was a chuckle. I considered belching, but that seemed inappropriate, and I have not decided if I should add an odor component to them.”

  “Andy, knock it off,” Wendy says in a terse fashion, and I realize that my save failed to prevent the wrath of my team leader. I will definitely hear about that one later. She will ask about that vocal cutoff switch again. Somehow, I never get around to making it. Wonders never cease.

  As far as Wendy is concerned, I am quite possibly the worst actor ever. Bobby is always trying to convince me that I should have been the leader and never recruited her. On occasions like this, I actually entertain the thought, but leading is too much responsibility. Cal Stringel and any form of the word “responsibility” usually don’t go well in a sentence together, unless it’s an accusation like “Cal Stringel, are you responsible for this mess?”

  “Understood,” I say and cut off my external microphone. Sometimes, it is actually best to be seen rather than heard. I’m sure Wendy would agree with that sentiment.

  Maybe I could run the burp through the copy of my friend’s sonic bugle in the thorax to get something that would shake the nearby windows?

  I really do come up with the oddest ideas when I am bored.

  “This is where we separate,” Wendy says. “Stay out of trouble and don’t make me regret bringing you.”

  It’s a throwaway line, she already does. Ha ha! Points for me!

  Honey Badger escorts Wendy into the hotel, leaving me in the company of The Sandbox. He seems disappointed that I’m his assignment. I would prefer the woman with the tech over the guy who uses his robot as a sand bucket. Although I do see a drop-down undercarriage turret with twin plasma rifles, so maybe Fernando isn’t a complete tool.

  Ah, the pitfalls of the hero lifestyle and all that jazz.

  Did I mention that I don’t really like jazz?

  I try to stir up some conversation with The Sandbox centered on whether the sand in his converted robot fouls the internals of the plasma rifles and whether he would be better served by using sonics.

  Gawd! I’m turning into the effing Bugler!

  Wendy’s conversation with her mom makes me almost wish for a shapeshifter. There’s a mixture of “I’ll support you whatever y
ou do” and “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” Politicians have fewer flip-flops.

  Fortunately, Wendy is not some shrinking violet and can go toe-to-toe with the strongest beings on the planet. Even if she doesn’t know what she’s doing, she will make it work out in the end.

  And ultimately, that’s why she’s in charge and not me.

  Fernando actually is interested in my idea about sonics and confesses that the sand does really hamper his weapons, which sort of makes me feel even worse, but there are worse ways to pass a few hours. Fortunately, I’m really back in the base and have all the diversionary wonders of the Internet at my disposal. When the conversation lags and drops off after forty-five minutes or so, I cut off my external microphone and queue up one of my playlists. Instead of the fearsome foursome from Sweden, I go a different route and put on Bad Company just because it fits more with the theme of today. I could never convince my college band to do a cover of it. Instead, it was Bob Seger this and Bob Seger that. Hey, I like the man from Detroit as much as the next guy, but how many people in Southern California were crying out for a Seger cover band at the time? I wouldn’t even call it a niche market, it was so small.

  For old time’s sake, I line up “Still the Same” to follow it, because that is still my favorite one of all his hits.

  More time passes, and I’ve resorted to playing ABBA while Fernando signs autographs and entertains his fans with his power. Based on two-guy/two-girl bands, I’m running a simulation of a steel cage Deathmatch between ABBA and Fleetwood Mac, and I’m rather disappointed at seeing them lose to the Europeans.

  “Contact!” Andy warns. “High-speed approaching just above sea level. Five miles out and closing from due north. The target passed a weather detection buoy and alerted me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Too slow to be a missile,” Andy says. “Attempting to get a fix.”

  “Wendy!” I cut over to her channel. “Something’s coming. Not big enough to be a plane and too slow to be a missile. My guess is that it is one of our kind. I’m moving to intercept. Better wrap things up quickly and get your mother to safety.”

  “Mom! We have to get the fuck out of here, now.” I hear Wendy shift from calm daughter to her “command” persona. The lady knows how to flip the switch.

  “Possible enemy on approach,” I announce loudly to my escort. “Switching to combat mode. You will need to clear the streets. I will investigate and intervene before they reach the shore.”

  “Si! I will get to the beach and back you up there.”

  “Agreed.”

  Sandbox starts shouting for everyone to get out of here while I activate my jets. He looks a bit nervous. I can’t blame him. After all, how many heroes and villains come down to this island to throw down?

  I accelerate and start searching for my quarry. I don’t have to look far—a powersuit.

  Magnify.

  It’s the Canadian chick, Amanda-what’s-her-face, in her Promethia-provided Protector armor. What the hell is a West Coaster doing here, and what does she want with us?

  I don’t suspect it is to fight, because she’d have brought her whole team, and I can’t see the angle where they’d be willing to start an international incident. Opening a channel, I broadcast a simple greeting to the woman. Her seven seconds of precognition is a bothersome power, but I’ve beaten her before and I could do it again. Although underestimating someone who can see the future is a recipe for disaster.

  “Megasuit! I’m glad I found you! I need to warn you about the Overlord’s trap.”

  “What is this about a trap?” I ask as the woman approaches. I switch to just hovering.

  She draws closer. “He knows Wendy is in Cuba. He has people staged there already. They could be attacking at any moment.”

  I have Andy relay the warning to Wendy and motion for her to follow. “We should get back to the others so you can tell us all at once.”

  “Lead the way,” Amanda replies.

  The moment I turn around, my sensors detect a massive energy spike. I divert what power I can to the back arc, but she went full on Alpha Strike on me.

  The force blasters hit every bit as hard as when I fought Lazarus Patterson’s final Ultraweapon suit, and Mega takes a dive down toward the shore from the force.

  But my shields hold. Bad news for The Protector as I level out and turn on my new enemy. Andy updates Wendy while I prepare a suitable counterattack.

  The next blasts strike my front shields and barely cause any damage, and I wonder if her seven seconds of precognition lets her know how badly she failed.

  “Is this the Overlord’s trap? It is rather ineffective.”

  “Pity.” The voice switches from female to male. “I was hoping for more. Hello, Tin Man.”

  It’s not The Protector. The Overlord spent years harassing Patterson by making his armor look like Ultraweapon and committing various crimes from robbery all the way up to murder.

  Apparently, the M.O. stays the same. I return fire and hit the Donkey Kong switch on my console to start powering up the railgun, but something’s wrong. It’s too easy. I start a scan of the nearby area, figuring that I need to find whatever other toys he’s brought with him—probably a ballistic missile submarine around here.

  Andy cuts over on the private circuit. “It is someone else in the armor. A carrier signal is being bounced off several communications satellites.”

  OK, maybe his M.O. has changed slightly. The suit dodges my first four shots before the fifth tags it. I keep up the pressure and try to drive the armor to the beach. I’d rather interrogate the pilot and see what I can learn.

  Since it’s not The Overlord himself, I do a deeper scan to see if I can see what’s really going on. The armor flying around is a cheap copy of an expensive copy of the Ultraweapon suit. The weapons are top shelf, but the rest of the suit is more on par with my Mark II Mechani-Cal suit—in other words, not that great.

  “You are not in the suit, Mr. Orlin,” I say. “Who is your lackey today?” I miss the next two shots on purpose to keep the suit moving the way I want it to. Just call me a sheepdog, because I’m herding my opponent right now.

  “I would have thought you would have figured that out more quickly, Tin Man. Perhaps your cybernetic mind has been weakened by playing the part of that oaf Stringel.”

  Hey! I resemble that oaf, and I’m not playing!

  I don’t bother answering since I have no idea if his power to detect lies extends to long-distance conversations.

  “This message is meant for the person in your imitation battlesuit. You should take this opportunity to surrender. Your chance of surviving this encounter will improve significantly.”

  “OK! OK!” This voice is back to being female with an English accent. “The Overlord has my kids. If I don’t try and fight you, he’ll kill them! I have to do this!”

  A part of me feels bad for the woman. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He isn’t above using people like this. Her force blasters score a couple of hits while I process this. Ten or fifteen more and I might start to worry.

  “Just land on the beach and we will sort this out. You will run out of power before you get through my shielding. The Overlord knows this already.”

  “He’s a madman! He’ll kill them anyway!”

  I don’t think Jerimiah is a madman. He’s a little too sane for my liking. That’s what makes him so dangerous. He wants this woman to beg me for her kids’ lives. Otherwise, he’d have shut her up already.

  Cutting off the externals, I look at Andy. “Take over the flight path. Dodge her and get us to the beach. We’ll try and disable her armor there. See if you can find any English women who work for the Overlord.”

  Andy nods, and I sense him take over a portion of Megasuit. A few years ago, giving up control of my armor, even the tiniest bit, to anyone, would be like asking me to cut off a finger. I’m more mellow now, at least with Andy, and have embraced the idea of “tagging out” and back in
at will. We’re an awesome duo! Just don’t remind me that Andy is better at operating the armor.

  Turning my attention to the weapon systems, I focus on what I can do to overwhelm the armor. Based on what I can guess about Orlin, there’s a mighty big self-destruct mechanism inside. The woman or her kids are probably going to die anyway, but anything I can find from the debris might be useful in tracking The Overlord to his base.

  “We can jam his signal so that he cannot hear what we and the woman are discussing,” Andy suggests. “According to latest estimates, there are at least seven women with English accents that are potentially employed by The Overlord.”

  It sounds like a good addition to the half-formed plan I have. “Yeah, let’s do that!”

  Andy starts a broad-spectrum jamming as we pass over the sand. The imitation armor drops like a rock.

  Maybe I’m not the only one dabbling in remote control?

  I land next to her and divert energy from propulsion to shielding.

  “If you can hear me, I will try to get you out!”

  I barely get the words out before the armor detonates. It is a pretty strong blast; the armor suffers a thirty-seven percent shield depletion and one of the shield modules is in danger of failing. That’ll cost me a few hours on the workbench reconditioning it.

  While I wait for the dust to clear, I note that the extra work The Overlord has caused is bothering me more than the dead English chick. Guess I haven’t crossed the “goody two-shoes” demarcation line just yet. Stacy would be mad at me, but I gotta be me.

  Much to my surprise, there’s a transparent figure at the bottom of the fifteen-foot wide crater. She’s also naked as the day she was born.

  She doesn’t appear surprised. So, she’s not a ghost.