The Good Fight 4

by Ian Thomas Healy

  Will was not angry when he got the letter. His father was bigger than life, and if John Underhall could have saved his natural son the hurt of the old mystery man’s apparent death, then he would have. But, heroes are often tied up with struggles bigger than themselves, and the side-effects can be convoluted, and hard to explain, to say the least.

  “You’ve undoubtedly heard of the new Johnny Saturn. That’s not me. I have it on good authority that he’s an honest but troubled police detective named Greg Buchanan. I’m okay with him carrying on the tradition—it’s an honor, I suppose—but he’s got a lot to learn. I wish I could tell you more, but all I can say is I’ve got a bad feeling. If the criminals don’t kill him, his personal demons will.”

  Will considered this as he sipped his coffee. The attorney may well have sat in a small but well-appointed office, dressed in an expensive gray pinstriped suit, and seated in a state-of-the-art wheelchair that cost more than most peoples’ cars, but his mind could not have been further away.

  It was true that Will had followed the exploits of the new Johnny Saturn, the so-called “Giant Killer.” The new hero, who had no metahuman powers of his own, had already built a solid reputation for taking down dangerous, powered criminals, thus earning his “Giant Killer” title. Will had figured out early on that this new man was not his fallen father, because this new Johnny Saturn played well with the police, used a different martial art (Krav Maga, not boxing), and was less taciturn than the infamously frowning John Underhall.

  Will was jealous, of course—there was no way around that. He could not discuss it with anyone, but, in his heart, Will believed that he should have been the new Johnny Saturn. The fact that his paraplegia made that impossible only soured it further for him. Will had learned to live with his disability years ago, but now he had to face it all over again. He had a recurring dream where he suited up as the new Johnny Saturn, tracked down the pretender, and then claimed his birthright as his father’s one true heir. Upon waking, Will’s mood would shift from the muzzy glow of validation to the deepest dregs of self-recrimination and guilt.

  To make it worse, Will knew the new Johnny Saturn was a good person trying to make the best of a rotten situation. Greg Buchanan could have no idea that there was another man out there who felt cuckolded by fate. Indeed, a deep and driving conviction must have burned Greg into picking up the mantle of a fallen hero, putting his own life on hold, and facing danger night after night without recognition or recompense. All this made Will even guiltier for his dark, vindictive dreams. In short, Greg Buchanan did not deserve Will’s ill will, and Will was too fair to go on feeling that way.

  “Will, I would not have wished my life as a vigilante on you. It is a hard career, with a hard ending. You would have been a great hero, though. I know heroes, and you have the seeds of greatness in you. This path was denied you, and there is nothing I can do about that. Yet, you are a warrior—you face your challenges fearlessly, like the samurai of old. Like one already dead. I’m not great with words, so if you don’t understand what I’m saying, look it up.”

  Will felt like crying, but he did not. He had not cried since before he injured his spine. He would not cry again. He understood what his father meant, of course. The warrior who fought as one already dead, with fearless abandon, with no concern for self-preservation, was unbeatable. Such a man would fight until his last breath was spent; fight until all his blood had drained away. He had the will to win no matter what the cost. It was the highest compliment John Underhall had ever paid him, and it was a testament to his father’s life as well.

  “Son, I’m going to ask something strange of you. Help this new Johnny Saturn. He is going to need it. As an attorney, and a good one, you can advise and shield him. As a money manager, you can relieve him of the stress of daily need. Greg Buchanan is a brave man, but he’s not me.

  Okay, you may think this request is cruel or insensitive. It may be. But, here’s the kicker. I am not asking you to play sidekick to a man who has claimed your birthright. It’s time for you to be the hero.

  As much as I might have wished it, you cannot get out of that chair and take my place. But, you can rise up as the mastermind behind Johnny Saturn. You can be the force that takes our title and keeps it alive. If Greg Buchanan falls, then it will be up to you to choose another to wear the Saturn crest.

  That wheelchair be damned, Will, it’s time for you to be the hero of your own story. I built my life around a commitment to my mission and the belief that the absolute will to succeed at any cost is superior to any ridiculous, metahuman power. By now, my message should be crystal clear.

  I look forward to the day when I see you again. It may take months, but I believe we will meet again in this life.

  Your Dad, John Underhall.”

  Will folded up the letter and put it in his inner suit coat pocket. He sat in silence with his eyes closed. He felt a great weight of impending fate, or imminent change, resting on his head. When change comes, you can dig your heels in and fight it, or you can abandon yourself to it and see where the winds take you. Will had been happy with his life and what he had made of it, but no more. Something bigger than him had come, and J. William Medal could feel that there was no turning back.

  * * *

  Will was no fool.

  Just because his father wrote him a rousing letter, Will had no intention of supporting an unproven mystery man’s mission without the attorney in him first doing his due diligence.

  The research was easy. Detective Gregory “Pretty Boy” Buchanan was a media favorite, and the photographers loved him. He had a knack for landing the high-profile cases, and his closure rate made him a city darling. Once you got past Greg’s Brad-Pitt-good-looks and colorful reputation, though, another picture began to emerge.

  A trust-fund son of old money, the Buchanan’s were as old as Spire City and as wealthy as they were well-connected. Greg’s uncles included one Catholic archbishop, a city councilman, and several prominent leaders in the business community. Greg’s immediate family history was tragic, though. When he was eight years old, his older brother, Pete, was kidnapped and killed by one of his father’s enemies. Soon after that, police officer Thomas Buchanan, Greg and Pete’s father, took his own life. The specific details were messy, and they marked young Greg’s life from that point forward. As a police officer, Greg was the cop no one could touch—his connections were too great, and his successes were too public, so the police brass shielded him from his failings.

  Will rolled over the threshold of his favorite pub, the Leather Mug on South Clinton Street. The staff knew him there, so they showed him to his preferred table and brought him a glass of his preferred wine without asking. Will did not have to look at the menu because he already knew what his favorite dishes were.

  When Will spoke with some of Greg Buchanan’s associates in the 103rd Precinct, another, darker layer to the detective was exposed. “Pretty Boy” Buchanan got his nickname out of spite, not camaraderie. Buchanan could not keep a partner because no one could put up with his perceived arrogance, crazy hours, grandstanding, and secrecy. Detective Buchanan worked when it suited him, and he kept his counsel to himself. His primary defender was Lieutenant Detective Harry Brezneski, and that was likely because the “Brez” had been close with Greg’s father, Thomas Buchanan. Greg had no close friends in the police department, just allies, and enemies. This “Dirty Harry” ethos had tainted Buchanan’s whole law enforcement career.

  Then there was the depression. You did not have to be a trained mental health professional to see that Greg Buchanan suffered from long-term clinical depression. Some of his detractors had waited years for the detective to eat his gun, but he never had. Detachment and depression was Buchanan’s lifestyle, but he had never succumbed to the pain and ended his life.

  Will finished his second glass of wine and helped himself to some of the fresh-baked bread and herb-infused oil that the waitress had delivered to his table.

  Greg Buchanan
was a huge question mark, one that Will was not sure he should support in the role of Johnny Saturn II. His father’s letter had made that much clear: It was Will’s choice who took the name Johnny Saturn.

  A shadow fell across his table, but it was not the waitress. Will looked up, but he already knew who would be standing there.

  “This is not a big town,” said Detective Buchanan in a flat, menacing tone. “You’ve been asking around about me. You knew I was bound to hear about it.”

  “Have a seat, Detective.”

  “I’ll stand,” replied Greg.

  “Fine. But, I think we should talk, and it would be easier if I didn’t have to keep looking up at you.”

  Greg sat down opposite of Will, but the detective seemed taught and expectant. “You are J. William Medal, Attorney at Law, no criminal record,” Greg said flatly. “Why are you poking around my past?”

  Will’s meal came, and he began eating his Irish stew. He was used to tense negotiations—in the world of corporate deal-making that was the standard. Will had developed an unbreakable poker face and a calming air that could defuse most tensions.

  “Detective, I’m going to cut to the chase. The new Johnny Saturn has been quite effective at making enemies. Many of the criminals you’ve taken down have teams of lawyers. As of the last count, you, in your role as Johnny Saturn II, have thirteen civil cases filed against you, two criminal cases, and the police commissioner is being pressured to place your vigilante license under review.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” growled Greg, rising to his feet.

  “Please sit down, detective—you haven’t heard nearly enough. The image of the lone mystery man is romantic and all that, but it’s not an accurate picture anymore. The bad guys all have attorneys, and the good guys now need them, too. You need someone to make all those charges against you go away, as well as someone to deliver your statements to the police and the press.”

  Greg had not sat back down, but he had not left, either. Will knew enough about human nature to know that Greg was hooked, and now he just had to be reeled in.

  “I’m not saying that it’s fair or right,” continued Will. “That is just how it is anymore. Nothing gets done without lawyers.”

  “So, what do you want?” asked Greg.

  “I’m not looking for you to hire me if that’s what you are asking,” replied Will. “I’m looking for a partner. You need someone like me.”

  Greg took his seat again, and the two men sat in silence for an extended moment.

  “Assuming that you are the real deal,” said Greg, “and not the hired pawn of someone out to get me, what’s in it for you?”

  “Great question. This alliance will do nothing for my career as a corporate attorney, I’ll tell you that. I will have to start my own practice.”

  “And?” pushed Greg.

  “Well, look at me,” said Will. “I cannot fight the bad guys the way you do, but I know I can make a difference. You cops may not think much of lawyers, but some of us got into this business for the right reasons, and I sure as hell didn’t ace law school just to negotiate the finer points of leases and mergers.”

  The two men sat without talking for a bit until Greg ordered a beer.

  “Thanks, by the way,” offered Will, “for not insulting my intelligence.”

  “About the secret identity thing?” said Greg. ”Don’t worry about it. With facial recognition software, voice recognition programs, and not to mention DNA, it won’t be long until that’s all a thing of the past anyway.”

  “Don’t forget satellite surveillance,” added Will. “Privacy is—”

  Will never finished his sentence, because that is when a massive explosion rocked the Leather Mug’s front door and shattered the plate glass window next to it.

  * * *

  Chaos.

  Glass exploded into a thousand hungry knives, and people near the front of the restaurant fell before the glass’s glittering razor onslaught. Pierced and lacerated bodies tumbled through tables, chairs, and carts. Will and Greg were far back enough in the pub to avoid getting cut.

  Will immediately lost track of Greg—where had he gone? Had the detective fled toward the kitchen? Will could not be sure, and he had other things on his mind now. He and his chair could handle most obstacles with the ease of long practice, so he rolled to the front of the restaurant. The chair itself was rigid styled, manually powered, built of ultra-light aircraft aluminum, and fitted with cambered wheels that were tilted wide at the base for maximum stability. That was a real blessing with all the broken furniture, shattered glass, and chunks of busted decor that choked up the floor.

  There was not much Will could do for the wounded, but he could make for the street to find the source of the carnage.

  Was this a terrorist attack? A bomb seemed like the most likely explanation.

  What he found surprised him.

  A giant woman, an Amazonian figure a foot taller than most men, was pulling herself from a mound of rubble and the ruins of a flatbed truck out in the street. She was a frightening creature, all muscle, tattoos, and leather. Even her face was tattooed, and she wore leather thigh boots, leather forearm-length gauntlets, a corset and a thong. An impossibly long ponytail whipped around behind her head as she moved. Her tattoos did not look like run-of-the-mill skin adornment, but more like a mix of mystic symbols.

  Her identity came to Will quickly, because this woman was one of the city’s most wanted criminals. She was called Skorn, and she was one of the top lieutenants to the city’s premiere crime lord, Tactical, master of the Iron Brigade. She was a ruthless enforcer.

  Someone had tried to kill her by throwing a truck at her, but now she shrugged the massive vehicle aside. The concrete beneath her had been caved in partially by the force of the impact.

  Will rolled onto the street, awed by what was taking place. Was this the world his father had inhabited? One where gods and monsters battled?

  In the sky, several city blocks to the south, a metahero in powered armor (Deco, if Will remembered his heroes correctly) had just hefted another truck at the woman. The rocketing semi-tractor hit the Amazon with force of a bomb, and its fuel tanks exploded. Black smoke billowed into the sky and obscured everything for a minute.

  Will heard the screech of tortured metal, and something at the core of fiery, smoking wreck moved.

  Filthy, angry, and cornered, Skorn emerged and ripped out the semi truck’s engine block. With a ripple of muscle and a titanic heave, she sent her steel missile careening at the hero in the sky. Deco was not fast enough to avoid this, and the burning engine winged him, sending him spinning out of sight. There were two loud reports in the distance, one as the engine block smashed into a building, another as Deco crashed onto a roof blocks away.

  Will was not sure what he should do—it never occurred to him to flee, or that he had rolled himself into the middle of a metahuman war zone. He should have been terrified, but it was as if his mental wires had crossed. Instead, Will was . . . fascinated, mesmerized.

  The giant woman turned to leave, but again she was knocked off balance.

  “Hello, Skorn,” said a newcomer.

  Johnny Saturn II, dressed in his blue and green armor with bronze fittings, had jumped her from behind, and he swiftly wrapped his staff around her neck in a cruel choke hold. He was using his new carbon fiber bo staff (a useful weapon that he also could employ as a pole vault, crowbar, and shield) to strangle her.

  Skorn tried to dislodge him, but his staff was lodged securely under her chin, and it was painfully cutting off her air supply. Skorn threw herself backward, trying to pin him to a wall, but he climbed her back and leaped forward. She hit the wall, but he landed nearby and faced her.

  Sirens filled the near distance as the police approached, and most onlookers fled. This was Spire City, and civilians knew better than to get caught in a meta-throw down. People died, or worse.

  Skorn and Johnny traded blows, and Will watched, rolling closer and
closer. Skorn was fast, very tough, superhumanly strong, and a trained wrestler. Johnny dodged her every strike, deflecting here, turning his body there, and avoided damage with an exceptional economy of movement. He landed several blows on Skorn, but as yet he not gotten the right leverage and angle to deliver a decisive strike. He actually seemed to be faring reasonably well against a metahuman who far outclassed him.

  Giant Killer, indeed!

  Johnny Saturn delivered a jab home to Skorn’s tattooed stomach, knocking her back, winding her. She returned a savage, backhanded blow that knocked him away with such force that he bounced down the street like a rock skipping across a lake. He disappeared from view and landed somewhere behind the hastily erected police barricade.

  The police were choking off South Clinton Street’s north and south exits and boxing in Skorn. She had a momentary breather, but her situation had turned desperate. With a mighty stomp, she sent shockwaves out and away from her. Windows shattered, fire-hydrants erupted, and cars knocked this way and that. Her force wave drove back the police, at least for a few minutes, but it was only a matter of time before Johnny Saturn or Deco returned.

  Skorn’s force wave knocked Will and his wheelchair to the pavement. He lay on the street, still strapped into his upturned conveyance, his hands bloody, and helpless.

  That is when it happened, something that would haunt Will all his days. He would look back, over the years, and he would marvel—it all seemed so implausible, so unlikely. Surely, no one would have believed it. In a world of flying humans, raging mutants, and arcane wonders, something incredibly odd happened.

  Will looked up from where he lay, and his eyes locked with Skorn’s eyes. It could only have been a moment, in retrospect, yet for the two of them, it was millennia. He looked down the Amazon’s line of sight, and he saw her as he had never seen another living being. It was as if he had been blind, and he was granted vision this one time, this bare moment, and Skorn was who he saw.