To my surprise, when Stuart is released from home confinement and returns to school on Thursday, very begrudgingly, he’s not the least bit pleased to hear of Ronny’s torment. He’s not sorry for the guy, not at all, but it’s not cheering him up at all.
“I know what you need,” Matt says at lunch. “Penguins.”
“Penguins!” Missy echoes gleefully.
“Penguins?” I say.
“There’s a penguin tank at the aquarium in the city,” Sara says. “We go there whenever we’re in need of a super-strength pick-me-up. You’ll love it.”
“I’m sure I will, but it’s not about me, right, big guy?” I say. Stuart’s mouth gets halfway to a smile before giving up.
His uncharacteristic melancholy is concerning enough, but what really worries me is his reaction, or lack of one, to what we witness as we’re leaving the cafeteria. At the bottom of the stairs Gerry and Angus, deliberately and with malice aforethought, plow into Ronny. Ronny falls hard and whacks his head on the railing. The jocks, they put on blatantly false expressions of surprise and offer lavish but utterly insincere apologies. Ronny says nothing. He touches a hand to his scalp and his fingers come away pink with blood.
“Oh, did you crack your skull on the stairs?” Gerry says, bending over Ronny. “Gee, killer, that must suck. At least you’re getting back up.”
Gerry flashes Stuart a smile and slaps him on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie, and Angus gives him that upward-chin-tilt-reverse-nod guys give each other, as if to say, Got your back, buddy. Angus freakin’ Parr! The same meathead Stuart almost flattened last week!
To a casual observer, Stuart might seem indifferent to the whole episode, but I’m close enough to see the faintest of smirks playing on his lips.
This isn’t the Stuart Lumley I know.
THIRTY-ONE
Matt checks his copy of the train schedule and then his cell phone, comparing the times. “Seven minutes late,” he says as the commuter train rolls to a lazy stop. “All right, gamblers, check your slips.”
Sara unfolds a piece of paper the size of a playing card. “Nuts. I had one to five minutes late.”
“I had sixteen to twenty,” I say.
“I got eleven to fifteen,” Stuart says.
“Six to ten!” says Missy, winner of today’s round of Late-Running Train Lottery. “Free lunch for me!”
“Better than free lunch for Stuart,” Matt says. “I only have a couple hundred in my bank account.”
“A couple hundred? Woo-hoo, look out Harvard, here comes Matt Steiger,” Stuart says, and we smile at the first joke we’ve heard from him in days.
We climb aboard the nearest car and take the center seats, which face each other across a table riddled with graffiti. “That one’s imaginative,” Matt says, pointing to a particularly vulgar phrase written in magic marker.
“I don’t know what that means and I don’t want to because it might be icky,” Missy says. “Is it icky?”
“Oh yeah,” Stuart says.
“Ew.”
“You just said you don’t know what it means,” I say.
“Ew on principle.”
“Here we go,” Matt says as the train jerks beneath us. “Boston ahoy!”
“Boston ahoy?” I say.
“It’s a seaside city. Ahoy is appropriate.”
“I’d’ve gone with ‘Boston ho!’ ” Stuart says.
“Are we going to make it to the aquarium in time to see the morning feeding? ‘cause the only thing better than penguins is watching penguins eat,” Missy says. “And swim. And slide on their bellies. And waddle around. Okay, penguins are always awesome but I want to see them eat.”
“If the transit system doesn’t screw us,” Matt says.
“Big if, dude,” Stuart says.
“Shyeah. Anyway, if there’re no more delays we’ll get there in time for the nine o’clock feeding. If we miss that, I say we putter around for a while, grab lunch, then head over for the two-thirty feeding.”
“I like this plan and am proud to be a part of it.” Stuart says. “Seriously, guys, I appreciate this.”
“It’s what we’re here for, brother. Today’s a day off from downer life crap,” Matt declares. “No Ronny Vick, no Angus Parr, no Concorde, no super-villains. Any further mention of these forbidden topics will be met with swift and brutal punishment.”
“Such as?” I say.
“Depends on the person. Like, if Missy breaks protocol, I’ll tell her dad she’s planning to major in philosophy at a community college.”
“Harsh!” Missy says.
“Mwa ha ha.”
The evil laugh goes to waste; none of us tempts fate, nor wants to. Stuart’s not bearing this burden alone. It stretches across the shoulders of his friends who knew Jeffrey and feel his loss—not as keenly as Stuart, certainly, but Ronny’s return opened more than one old wound. This day is a day of recovery, of reinvigoration, for everyone.
Nothing bad will happen. I declare it so.
News. News. Cartoon so simplistic it insults the intelligence of the children for whom it was meant. News. News. Infomercial. News. Insulting cartoon imported from Japan. News.
No wonder shut-ins tend toward the eccentric, Archimedes thinks; modern television programming is enough to rot the strongest of minds. Garbage in, garbage out, as the saying goes.
Nevertheless, Archimedes has been unable to go for more than a half-hour without the drone of the TV, his only company aside from the two guards stationed outside his room to prevent him from straying off his level. You haven’t earned wandering privileges yet, the Foreman had told him. Or unsupervised Internet access privileges, premium cable stations privileges, or talking to people privileges. Oh, he’s free to talk to the guards, his support team, the various and sundry support staff he encounters in-between his room and his office, but they say nothing to him in return.
(He assumes they’re under orders to keep silent. He asked his guards if that was the case. They didn’t answer.)
They’re saying something now though, to someone in the hall, and they do not sound welcoming. Who could it be? Archimedes wonders. Whoever his employer is, he believes in the sanctity of weekends; the facility runs on a skeleton crew Saturdays and Sundays, and everyone here is someone who should be here, but whoever the guards are addressing...
Someone shouts, then utters a brief, shrill cry. Someone opens the door without unlocking it, splitting the door jamb effortlessly. The man who enters has to duck under the top of the frame, and when he straightens, his bald head almost brushes the ceiling.
“I want to talk to you,” he says. “You’re the Internet guy, right? The guy who can control computers and junk?”
“And you are...?”
“I’m Minotaur. One of Manticore’s—”
“Yes, I know you now. By reputation, that is. You should have worn that foolish helmet of yours, I might have—”
Minotaur pokes a finger into Archimedes’ sternum. Archimedes tries to wail in pain, to call for help, but his lungs refuse to work.
“I got more where that came from if you give me lip again,” Minotaur says, picking Archimedes off the floor one-handed and tossing him onto his bed. “Answer the question. You the Internet guy?”
Archimedes nods from a fetal position.
“You can control computers and cell phones and stuff like that?” Archimedes nods. “Good. You’re going to help me with something.”
“Help...you?” Archimedes croaks.
“That punk kid I fought when we grabbed your fancy robot suits. I want to know where he is.”
“Where...I can’t...”
“Don’t screw with me, man.”
“I’m not—aaaagggh! Give...I can’t...give me...” Minotaur folds his arms and waits until Archimedes can breathe again. “I’m not screwing with you. I can’t find him.”
“Can’t as in can’t, or can’t as in won’t?”
“I can, as in it’s within my capabilities,
” Archimedes says, “but I can’t, as in the Foreman hasn’t given me clearance to do anything he hasn’t directly ordered me to do.”
“He’s not the boss of me, I’m freelance. You think I care what that guy says?”
“No, but I do. My entire life is in his hands.”
Minotaur’s fingers wrap around Archimedes’ face, covering it like a catcher’s mask. The stinging stink of sweat fills his nose. “Then here’s what we’re going to do,” Minotaur says. “You’re going to tell your weird boss I threatened you. You’re going to tell him I said if you didn’t do what I told you, I was going to pop your head like a zit. Got it?”
He presents the scenario as a ruse, but Archimedes has no doubt the threat is quite real.
“Are they dead?” Archimedes says, stepping over one of the two guards now lying face down in front of his apartment.
“Nah. Don’t worry. They’ll be fine.”
“Doubtful. While popular entertainment would have you believe otherwise, a person who does not revive right away after being knocked out has almost certainly suffered a concussion. The longer they’re out, the more likely it is they’ve suffered serious brain damage.”
“That a fact?” Minotaur says, unconcerned. “Huh. Learn something new every day.”
Minotaur makes short work of the office door. The interior lights flicker out automatically. As Archimedes sets to work booting up the system, he dares to ask, “What do you plan to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you’re looking for one of the Hero Squad. Why? What are you going to do?”
“Going to pay back the little turd for showing me up in front of the others is what I’m going to do.”
Archimedes pauses. “Revenge? Really? Because someone, briefly, got the better of you in a fight?”
“Hey, pal, you know how humiliating it is to get owned by a kid?”
“Why no,” Archimedes drawls, “I have absolutely no idea what that feels like.”
“It sucks. Kobold and Hydra have been riding me ever since that job and I’m sick of it.”
“So you plan to do what, exactly? Ambush the boy in public and beat him up?”
“Short and sweet and to the point.”
He doesn’t deserve the advice—in the lingo of the institution, he hasn’t earned the privilege—but Archimedes offers it nonetheless. “It’s a bad idea. You may think you have all the angles covered but you don’t. Too much can go wrong and if—when it does, you’ll be worse off than you are now. Trust me, I’m speaking from bitter experience. The smartest thing you can do is—”
“The smartest thing you can do,” Minotaur says, “is shut up and find. That. Kid.”
“Your funeral.”
Archimedes plugs himself in and settles into his seat. Minotaur stands at his head and rests his hands on either side of the headrest, a silent threat: no funny business, no excuses. A portion of Archimedes’ mind enters the virtual world and he begins the necessary detective work, using what little he knows about the Hero Squad as a starting point. The Kingsport High School network, hardly a challenge the first time he hacked it, welcomes him with open arms. It takes one second to find the database containing students’ academic and personal records, less than a second to sift out the females, and another full second to scan the photographs.
Hello, Stuart Dean Lumley of 23 Forest View Drive.
The next stop is the customer database for the nation’s largest cell phone carrier, which produces no results, but he hits pay dirt with the second-largest carrier in the form of records for LUMLEY, FOSTER of 23 Forest View Drive. Two numbers are listed under his name, one of which was assigned six years ago, the other only two. Within a nanosecond he’s located that number and tapped the phone’s GPS chip.
“Perhaps this is your lucky day,” Archimedes says. “It appears your friend is on his way into the city. Based on his current location and heading, the speed at which he’s moving, I would say he’s on a commuter train en route to South Station. Conservative estimate, he should be at the station in ten minutes.”
Minotaur grins. “Perfect.”
***
The gods of travel remain uncooperative; thanks to a couple of short delays (both of them unexplained, as is typical for Boston’s public transit system) the train enters South Station at 8:45 AM, “Which means there’s no way we’re going to make it to the aquarium for the morning feeding,” Matt says sourly.
“Then we go with Plan B,” I say. “Let’s go to Faneuil Hall, poke around there for a while, get food, then head over to the aquarium.”
“Yeah, minor setback, man,” Stuart says. “The penguins will still be there after lunch, waddling for our amusement.”
It’s cold out but not unbearably so, so we opt to make the rest of the trip on foot rather than leave ourselves to the tender mercies of the MBTA. We can only deal with so much tardiness in one day.
“Y’know, I have heard rumors of Boston trains running on time,” Matt quips, “but I always thought it was a local urban legend. Like the Boston Clown Scare of 1981.”
“The what what now?” Stuart says.
“My dad told me about it. He said in 1981 the whole city was freaked out by stories that men dressed as clowns were driving through the city kidnapping kids. Police actually issued a public warning and everything, even though they couldn’t confirm a single report.”
“Dude. That’s wicked creepy.”
“Even if it isn’t true,” Sara says over her shoulder. Her eyes pop, and as I’m asking her what’s wrong, she whirls around and her hands snap out. I turn. There’s an SUV hovering two feet from my face. Sara lets it drop to the sidewalk and topples into Matt’s arms, her skin as white as chalk.
That means she’s in no condition to stop the flying Toyota. We scatter as the car skips off the SUV like a stone on a pond, flips in midair, and lands on its roof.
“Hey, kid! Remember me?” It’d be darn near impossible to forget that stupid helmet, which, at the moment, is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen, because its wearer is standing in the middle of the street.
Minotaur found us. He knows who we are.
“I owe you some pain, son! You come take your beating like a man,” he says, spreading his arms wide in invitation, “and maybe I’ll let your friends leave in an ambulance instead of a hearse!”
“Five against one,” Matt says. “We can take this guy.”
That’s optimistic. Sara’s fighting to stay awake, I doubt Missy’s fingernails could penetrate Minotaur’s hide, and Matt...well, he’s Matt.
“Matt, get Sara clear,” I say.
“Missy can get Sara clear,” Matt protests. “Who put you in charge anyway?”
“Do what she says!” Sara says.
Minotaur doesn’t give us time to finish our poorly timed argument. The motorists and pedestrians have wisely cleared the scene, but there are plenty of light poles around. Minotaur snaps one off at the base and, gripping it like the world’s largest baseball bat, charges.
Screw Concorde’s ground order. I shoot skyward while Matt and Missy carry Sara clear. Stuart, he stands his ground. It looks like he’s going to take the attack but he dodges to the side at the last minute. The steel light pole hits the street with a deafening ring. Stuart grasps the end, wrenches it from Minotaur’s grip, and swings for the bleachers. The blow staggers Minotaur—momentarily.
“Not bad, boy,” he says, laughing. Stuart, foolishly, barrels toward him. Minotaur stops the charge cold with a kick to the chest. He grabs Stuart by the hair and pitches him overhand. He spins in a high arc over Atlantic Avenue and caves in the side of a tour trolley abandoned by its riders.
I hit Minotaur from above. It takes him off his feet but again, he recovers quickly. Fortunately, so does Stuart. The tackle would snap a normal man in half. Minotaur, he folds under the impact but doesn’t break. They hit the sidewalk, shattering concrete like it was glass, and let the fists fly. There is no martial artistry in their
brawl, no grace, only brute force channeled into punches thrown helter-skelter like two boys scuffling in a schoolyard—boys capable of bench-pressing Cadillacs.
Sara enters my head. Carrie, we have to do something, he’s going to kill Stuart!
No he’s not, Matt says. Stuart can take this chump.
We can’t just stand around and do nothing! Missy says, and I’m with her. This may be a grudge match as far as Minotaur is concerned, but playing by his rules will get us all killed.
Things go from bad to worse when a Boston police cruiser flies in, siren screaming, and screeches to a stop. The officer jumps out, gun drawn, shouting instructions neither Minotaur nor Stuart are about to heed.
Minotaur kicks Stuart away and he goes skittering down the street. Minotaur, almost casually, advances on the cop. The cop opens fire, point blank. Bullets spark as they ricochet off Minotaur’s skin. I prepare to fire but I freeze up; my aim hasn’t improved so much I trust myself to make the shot at this distance without hitting the officer.
Minotaur raises his fists. My hesitation is about to cost a man his life.
Missy is moving so fast Minotaur doesn’t see her until well after she’s reached the cop and pulled him out of the way at the last possible instant. They hit the ground rolling. Minotaur’s hammer-blow bends the cruiser in half.
I expect my blast to fling Minotaur halfway across the city, but he’s braced for me this time and only staggers back a little. He shouts a curse at me. In two steps he reaches Missy and the cop, and before I can react, even think of reacting, Minotaur grabs a handful of the cop’s jacket and—
“Go fetch!”
Oh God...
“Oh God,” Matt says as a dark form hurtles skyward as if launched by a catapult. A streak of light gives chase.
“GUYS!” Missy’s warning cry reaches Matt and Sara a split-second before she does. She shoves them away as she passes, giving herself and her juggernaut of a pursuer a clear path.
Action Figures - Issue One: Secret Origins Page 25