by Stan Lee
No, the Masters could defend themselves. But Robert sincerely hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. Thomas and his escapade on the streets of the city had caused enough damage to Robert’s plans. Destroying these National Guardsmen would mean war with the Lessers—a battle of forty-nine against millions.
Much as Robert would love to send the curs lurking at his doorstep yelping back to their kennels, he had to keep his larger purpose in mind. He didn’t want to massacre a few Lesser warriors ... he wanted to exterminate the majority of the troublesome dwarves.
To achieve his long-term goal, he must have freedom of movement. He wouldn’t have that with troops surrounding his compound. Thus, Robert must somehow resolve the tense situation of the past few days. His impromptu speeches to the media and his visits to his injured people had made a start. Sound bites had appeared on the Tee-vee, pictures of Kevin and Penelope as victims ...
Robert smiled to himself. These Lessers loved to see victims. It was just unfortunate there were so many Lesser victims from Thomas’s riot.
But it would take more than fair words and sad pictures to win the Lessers back. Robert needed allies, Lessers themselves, to speak out for his people. Since his return to New York, he’d called Senator Demagogua’s office several times. The local office had referred him to Washington. The Washington staff had assured him for the last few days that the Senator was unavailable. Even over the long-distance connection Robert had detected the lie. The politician was distancing himself until this affair reached some sort of conclusion.
Robert could easily call on the Washington figures he’d bound to his will, but doing that would expose part of his master plan. He didn’t want to move those pawns until it was time for Armageddon.
Sourly admitting he had no option, Robert got out his giant-sized cellular phone, dialed the Fantasy Factory, and asked for Harry Sturdley.
Sturdley was astonished to hear his enemy asking for help in damage control with the public. “And why should I do this?” he asked.
“Your company has invested considerable money in the Heroes comics. I should think you’d leap to protect our good name.” Those, at least, were the words he used on the open airways. His subtext came as a psionic message. You daren ‘t tell the truth about us, or your fellow Lessers would tear you limb from limb.
After a brief silence, Sturdley finally said, “What do you think I can do?”
‘Talk to the media... intercede as you did when we first came here, when our cultures clashed initially. You can explain how shock and anger overcame Thomas’s judgment, that he was instinctively trying to clear a path to pursue the attackers.”
And then kicked the hell out of a few hundred people because he was in a snit, Sturdley sent telepathically.
Aloud, he said, “No matter what the extenuating circumstances, Thomas will have to face trial, at the very least.”
“Of course,” Robert said smoothly. A trial would be no bother, with his immaterial abilities to influence prosecutor, judge, and jury. “We’ll all happily commit to community service, and if Thomas must suffer more, that will be the price we pay—as long as we. can enjoy freedom of movement.”
“I don’t know, Robert,” Sturdley drawled. “I sort of liked having the National Guard all around you guys.”
Matavi schooled her face into a smile as she stared into Dirk Colby’s reptilian eyes. She was handling the negotiations with Dynasty Comics, just as she was the one who’d detected the operatives searching for herself and Emsisdin.
Matavi had researched the world of comics, dressing in Earth-type clothes and visiting a nearby comics shop. She’d been amazed at the reaction of both customers and staff. The young males had clustered around as if they’d never seen an attractive woman before. Matavi was aware of her body—the genetic tinkerers who’d constructed her had developed a comely package for the psionically gifted mind they’d created. It had been simplicity itself for Matavi to obtain mental data as well as samples of comic art. She had then used her intelligence-gathering abilities to infiltrate both the Fantasy Factory and Dynasty Comics.
One thing was clear. By having their adventures rendered into comics, the giants she’d recently fought had established a comfortable base on this world—both politically and financially.
When Emsisdin heard all this, he was amused and interested. “What exactly are you suggesting?” he asked.
“I think we should deal with this Dirk Colby,” Matavi said. “The citizens of this world know of our existence. This will bring us a position—and a profit.”
Emsisdin sat on their newly purchased sofa. “We’re making a good enough living as we are.” His argument wasn’t exactly heartfelt, Matavi noticed. With the ease of their jewel robberies, his delight in that activity had begun to pall.
“Still,” the young thug said, “to go over to the law—even this primitive world’s law .... Do you really see us playing S-Force?” Emsisdin finally asked with heavy skepticism.
“For a while,” Matavi said. “Think of it as eliminating rival gangs. And getting paid for it.”
“And then?” Emsisdin demanded. “What about our own gang?”
Matavi gave him an entrancing shrug. “We’ll see.”
Thus it was that Dirk Colby got to enjoy an eyeful as Matavi leaned over his desk in her revealing half-armor. She carefully kept her face blank as she picked up the agreement memorandum. Colby had some dark places in the corners of his mind, and she did not like the images of herself appearing in those corners.
“Speed is of the essence.” Colby’s voice came out as a wheeze until he got his eyes back to her face. “I want to get a book about your exploits against the giants on the stands as soon as possible.” He had been delighted when the lush blonde appeared in his office to negotiate without a lawyer.
Matavi was about to change that attitude. “The royalty percentages are acceptable,” she said, looking at the paper. ‘They’re industry standard. But your upfront money is inadequate.“
“That’s as high as I’m willing to go on an untested commodity,” Colby responded.
“It’s considerably less than Harry Sturdley offered the giants,” Matavi said.
Her knowledge shook Colby, but he came back quickly. “That was a deal for fifty potential licenses. I can’t go much higher than the figure I outlined.” In his head, however, Matavi discerned an outlay twice as high.
Calmly, she leaned over the desk again, snatching pen and notepad. As Colby gawked, she scribbled an amount twice as high as the one in the publisher’s mind.
The negotiation was furious, but Matavi was relentless. In the final draft of the agreement, the payment was halfway between Matavi’s note and Colby’s mental top figure.
Colby sucked his breath through his teeth. “You’re a tough one,” he admitted. “And you’ve left me considerably less budget to get the artist I wanted.”
In the newsroom at INC, Leslie Ann Nasotrudere pored over an untidy pile of research. Copies of police reports lay interlarded with newspaper clippings, faxes, and a couple of videocassette boxes.
Gemma Donelson, a fading star on the network’s news team, stopped by the desk. “What’s this supposed to be?” she inquired cattily. “A model of the Matterhorn?”
“Is that a smile, Gemma,” Leslie Ann responded, “or is your facelift acting up again?”
The brunette newswoman ignored Leslie Ann, riffling through the pile. “Flying figure, possible UFO—” she glanced up. “This isn’t the Silly Season, honey. You won’t stay on network news with flying saucer crap.”
“It’s not flying saucer crap,” Leslie Ann replied. “I’m trying to get a line on those armored types who intervened in the Sixth Avenue thing.”
“And saved that slightly expanding ass of yours,” Gemma finished. “You’re getting to that dangerous age, Nasotrudere. Secretary spread sets in real fast.”
Leslie Ann ignored the comment, but the donut in her hand abruptly fell into the wastepaper basket. “That stuf
f there is the manure pile. I’ve gotten reports of flying figures from all over the country.” She picked up a small sheaf of papers. “These, however, are all coherent, consistent in their details—and they all come from here in New York.”
She frowned. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be a connection she could exploit to find these flying figures. Because, until she could speak to them, she had no story at all. Who were they? Where did they come from? Why did they intervene in the Slaughter on Sixth Avenue? And why was one shooting at the other two?
Leslie Ann noticed Gemma Donelson craning her neck to get a look at the papers in her hand. Instinctively, she crumpled them, then put them out of sight in her desk drawer. She wasn’t about to share this story.
Nor was she going to share the odd split in her “good” sighting reports. Half the accounts put armored figures near the sites of major robberies. The rest described a figure in armor nailing criminals.
John Cameron slipped his helmet on, donning the final piece of his Argonian armor. He felt a little conspicuous gearing up in the morning daylight. All his crime fighting excursions had been at night. Still, it wasn’t as though he’d go flying out his window and be spotted by all Astoria.
He concentrated, feeling the familiar vertigo of transit into the Rift, frowned, and abruptly broke the spell. John bent to pick up the duffel bag on his cot. Then he went back into the Rift again.
Moments later John landed on the carpet in Harry Sturd-ley’s office with an audible thud. Peg Faber knocked on the closed door. “Harry? You all right?”
“Fine, fine,” Sturdley replied, motioning for his protege to get up off the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a hiss.
John removed his helmet, revealing a pale face. “I got caught in something in the Rift.”
“How do you get caught in a dimension full of nothing?”
“You know there are currents in the Rift,” John said.
Harry nodded. Those currents had dragged the three of them off to the home world of Robert and company. A very unpleasant place. “Yes, I’ve felt ‘em.”
“This wasn’t exactly like a current,” John said. “It felt more like a tornado.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Harry said, cutting him off. “And you brought your armor as I asked.”
John nodded, working off his breastplate. “I figured this would be the best place to keep it. Those Deviants know who we are—we didn’t exactly hide our identities on Argon. And I guess you figured they’d have an easy enough job finding us.”
He tapped the weapons set in the armlets. “There are two of them, so I figured it would be good to have two sets of blasters on hand in case they show up.”
“You haven’t found them.” Sturdley made it more a statement than a question.
“Not even a trace,” John admitted. “There’s just too many minds out there. I had a lot better luck on Argon—the cities were smaller.”
“And there were more Deviants to find,” Sturdley suggested.
“I’ve got to find these two.” John’s voice was flat, and he could feel the muscles on his face tightening. “They were part of the squad that tried to kidnap Peg. In fact they were the leaders—”
“Peg told me all about it,” Sturdley said. “Ten Deviants tried to kidnap her, but you and Melador came flying to the rescue, scragging eight of them. Melador got a posthumous medal.”
“Yeah. Right.” John did his best to remain stone-faced as Harry told the story. Peg had been unconscious at the time. She’d never seen John blow out the brains of the eight foot-soldiers with a mental attack after killing the turncoat Melador. Then he’d had to arrange a heroic death for the traitor.
It would be such a relief to talk to Harry, to get the massacre off his chest...
No, John decided. Not with Peg right outside.
He had to find the two Deviants and deal with them. The one with the force cannon had killed Mike, and who knows how many others. He and the blonde had been at the top leadership meeting of the Deviant commanders, murderers all. The blonde must have somehow managed to tag along when John Rifted for Earth.
Of all the Deviants to escape, it would have to be the only two survivors of John’s worst secret.
“Well, I gave you the time off to go searching,” Sturdley said, opening a file drawer in his desk. “Now we’ve got to get down to cases. Whatever those two were doing on Argon, it looks like they’re going into the superhero game here in New York. Do you know Dirk Colby has people out looking for them, trying to sign them up for Dynasty Comics? That’s why we need ... this!”
Sturdley brought a large, square radio up onto the desk. He switched it on, but neither music nor happy talk came out of the speakers. Instead, constant murmur of voices emerged amongst bursts of static.
“One-Adam-K,” a female voice suddenly made itself heard. “Three-oh-one East Nineteenth Street. Possible ten-thirteen.”
“What is that?” John said.
“Police-band radio,” Sturdley replied. “I figured we’d need it with a superhero in the office.”
“What?” John forgot Peg’s presence outside, his voice rising.
“I’m not going to ask you to draw, or write, or anything.” Sturdley raised placating hands. “Although a book done directly from the hero’s point of view ...”
“I don’t believe you!” John burst out. “We start out discussing the appearance of two dangerous killers, one with a superweapon, the other able to twist people’s minds—a pair at least as dangerous as Robert—and all you can think of are the comic book possibilities!”
“Hey, don’t tell me my responsibilities,” Sturdley said. “I’ve got a bunch you apparently don’t think of. Like a responsibility to keep all the people here—including Peg— employed. And then there are the stockholders.”
“Oh, yeah, all the relatives of the people who founded the company—Cousin Louie and Cousin Louise,” John couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice. “Thinking they should run things because they’re a Fanchik, Fanciulli, or O’Fanahan.”
“Don’t make fun of the Fan-Boys,” Sturdley shouted. “They gave me my start.”
“And you gave me mine,” John said. “I’m sure you’ll wind up reminding me of that all too soon.”
Harry tried to lighten things. “I’ve hired artists, writers, editors, even marketing people. But this is the first time I’ve actually taken a hero on board.”
John clambered out of his plast-alloy armor, depositing it in a pile in the middle of the floor. Then he opened his duffel to slip on jeans, a flannel shirt, and a pair of running shoes.
“So what’s my origin supposed to be?” he finally asked. “Are you going to put Silicon Savage through some major plot change?”
Sturdley shook his head. “Actually, I was thinking of creating a character from scratch.”
“Not exactly from scratch,” John pointed out. “After all, Leslie Ann Nasotrudere caught me on videotape. I guess we can’t change my look.”
He gave Harry a sour, “I-don’t-like-this-but-I’m-going-along” sort of glance. “That means we’re stuck with the big, squiggly S on my chest. Do you intend to revive the S-Force and send us all flying around?”
“I don’t think so,” Sturdley said. “The longer we keep our armor a secret from the giants, the better.”
“So, I’m just a lone, armored hero with an S on my chest.” John’s tone grew sarcastic. “I’ve got it! The Super-humanl”
Sturdley was bent over the police scanner, turning it off. “Copyright infringement,” he said seriously. “Even if that was the name on your birth certificate, we couldn’t use it.”
* * *
CHAPTER 29
The conference room at Dynasty Comics was crowded with media people. Dirk Colby didn’t usually resort to press conferences. Publicity was, in the main, handled through releases and interviews by selected journals. But this was a big story, bigger even than Zenith’s death and transsexual resurrection. Not
merely journalists interested in the comics field were on hand, but business reporters and general-assignment types from local newsrooms and the national newsweeklies. Even a network camera crew had wangled a spot.
The crew was led by Leslie Ann Nasotrudere, and she had come because, of all the newspeople in that room, she’d had a breath of a hint on what was to come. All the other media types had merely been told that they’d have a chance to meet two people they’d very much like to interview.
Dirk Colby stepped to the podium at the head of the room, his usual expensive suit hanging from his skeletal frame. After identifying himself and greeting the ladies and gentlemen of the press, he said, “While my company will make an announcement of serious import to the comics business—”
A rustle of annoyance came from the reporters.
“The more newsworthy story is the introduction I’m about to make. Meet Emsisdin and Matavi, the heroic team soon to be known as the Deviants.”
Leslie Ann had to give Colby credit for showmanship. A pair of armored figures suddenly hung in midair outside the conference room windows. Dynasty Comics staffers opened the windows, and the couple made a spectacular entrance.
The room was a chaos of journalistic pack madness, with reporters wildly yelping questions. Colby tried to make himself heard over the podium microphone, but was drowned out. Then the impressive-looking costumed blonde made a hand gesture, and the room grew still.
“We will make a brief statement,” the woman said in a slightly accented voice. “I am Matavi, and this is Emsisdin. We are strangers to your world, having arrived by way of a freak space-warp.”
She smiled at the reporters. For some reason, the questions Leslie Ann had been about to shout were stilled on her tongue.
“On our homeworld, we fought for freedom against a repressive and stagnant government, and were branded with the title Deviant. Now that we live in exile on your world, we intend to continue our fight for freedom and justice against any who would use their strength or size to dominate the weak.”