Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One

by Catton John Paul

  There were three of them. Soldier Blue looked around her with a face unreadable through the half-mask, her red lips tight beneath the shielded eyes. Her statuesque form was sheathed in the red, white and blue costume, made of God knows what kind of indestructible fabric, and in her right hand she held her trademark torch. The torch that flickered not with fire but with a red, ghostly light that had never been put out in thirty years.

  Beside her walked a giant in shining green armor; Gauntlet. He moved in smooth, precise movements, his head enclosed in a helmet that bore the stylized, minimal depiction of eyes, nose and mouth embossed on to the metal. His suit hummed with power that made the hair on Cambridge's arms prickle with static.

  The third member of the group had no costume or mask, but wore a black jumpsuit with the E.A.G.L.E crest on one shoulder, next to the holster with its futuristic looking ray pistol. He clenched the stub of a cheroot cigar between his teeth, and looked around him with shrewd grey eyes. This was Max Jankowitz, the Executive Director of EAGLE himself.

  Cambridge studied them carefully as the cops in his squad muttered behind him. Jeez, he thought, how old were these people? They'd fought in World War Two, and Cambridge had seen them on TV since he was a kid back in the Fifties. They still looked younger than him. There were rumors that Jankowitz and Soldier Blue were involved in something called the 'Over-Soldier Program' back in the early days of the War, but whatever loopy juice they took, it sure wasn't available to the public.

  Gauntlet was another mystery. He looked like a robot, but it was common knowledge there was a man inside, working the suit; he was officially known as an employee of Stone Industries and served as the corporation's security chief. His identity was a strictly guarded secret.

  These guys almost never have contact with the public, Cambridge thought, they're usually hidden away in the giant pyramid-shaped Tetra-City, headquarters of E.A.G.L.E., floating out in Hudson Bay. What were they doing here?

  "Who's in charge?" asked Jankowitz, his deep, gruff voice echoing off the lobby's marble.

  Cambridge stepped forward. Jankowitz held out his hand and the Lieutenant tentatively shook it. He felt warm, firm flesh though the glove. This was Jankowitz's real hand, Cambridge thought with relief, not the bionic arm that he'd been fitted with after a battle with the Bend Sinister.

  You don't remember me, Cambridge thought bitterly. We shook hands once before, after the Over-Human tests, but I was just a kid to you. Just another rookie cop who'd failed the tests.

  Cambridge introduced himself and the team, and Jankowitz nodded quietly. He took the cheroot out of his mouth and spoke in a deep, throaty rumble. "You've been given instructions?"

  "Something's causing havoc with transmissions. We can't get through to HQ on walkie-talkies or the car radio."

  Jankowitz nodded again.

  Cambridge couldn't take his eyes off the two Over-Heroes standing in front of him in the lobby. He'd seen them before – from a distance, soaring through the skyscraper canyons, and on stage at open-air public celebration services. Never before so close. Soldier Blue's expression beneath the cowl was almost as unreadable as Gauntlet's metal mask.

  "E.A.G.L.E has declared a Code Resurgam," Soldier Blue said in a voice of steel and honey, "which means a situation that requires full deployment of Over-Human resources. We released a statement to the media shortly before, saying that a series of lightning strikes at around 8:37 pm knocked out a tower carrying conductors between substations at Buchanan and Millwood. That led to a power surge that caused the other substations to overload and fail, cutting off power to most of Manhattan."

  Jankowitz clicked open a Zippo lighter and relit his cheroot. "The problem is, gentlemen, none of that is true. There were no lightning strikes and the substations are working normally."

  For a second, the men stood in the lobby, perfectly silent.

  "Whaddaya mean, working normally?" asked Carlini.

  "The electricity is being generated, but it's being diverted. New York City consumes six thousand megawatts on an average summer night, and that power is being siphoned off and used for something else."

  "Used for what?" said Levitt.

  "We don't know."

  An electronic buzz signaled that Gauntlet was about to speak. "A TRANSMISSION FROM THE FUTURE FIVE LED TO SPECULATION THAT THE ENERGY IS BEING CONVERTED INTO MATTER."

  Cambridge and Levitt glanced at each other.

  Jankowitz unclipped a futuristic-looking gadget from his belt and held it up. "The E.A.G.L.E sensors have found traces of a highly unusual radiation signature at several sites; Wall Street, the Rockefeller Center, and here – the Empire State."

  "Radiation?" asked Gonzalez. "You mean like someone's got an atomic bomb?"

  "THERE IS NO EVIDENCE TO SUGGEST A POTENTIAL EXPLOSION," buzzed Gauntlet.

  "Nevertheless, we're not taking any chances," Jankowitz continued. "We're assuming overall charge of the investigation, and we'd like to ask you for any assistance we require."

  "What kind of assistance?" said Cambridge.

  "S.O.P. Get in, assess the situation, respond within set parameters."

  "But this time, there are no set parameters," Cambridge said.

  Jankowitz scowled. "Except the ones I'm setting now."

  "Hey look," Carlini interrupted. "The whole of New York is having a party while we're standing here, like it's Looters Night Out. We've got neighborhoods to protect – can't ya get some of your Over-friends to help out?"

  "All E.A.G.L.E operatives have their assigned duties," Jankowitz said grimly. "As for the Future Five, they're fighting the Tyrant King in Central Park. He's taking advantage of the blackout to open up a hole into the Mole Kingdom under Manhattan. The Morrigan should be here, but there was a crisis in Tir Na Nog, and she went back a couple of days ago to reclaim the throne."

  "What about Bohemiath?" Gonzalez asked from the back.

  Jankowitz snorted with impatience. "Aw, nobody knows what side the big red brute's fighting on these days. He turns up, he'll start smashing your patrol cars as soon as look at them."

  "So it's us," Cambridge said, glaring at Carlini.

  "This is a matter of national security," continued Jankowitz, "so let me disabuse you of a few notions right now. The NYPD – "

  It was almost impossible to stop the Director of E.A.G.L.E when he was sounding off, but the loud, booming explosion in the lobby achieved it.

  Cambridge spun around in shock, seeing the other cops react in the same way; Jankowitz, Gauntlet and Soldier Blue did not even flinch. The crash and bang of tortured metal peaked, accompanied by screams of fear and alarm. It sounded like a bomb had gone off. He ran through the lobby towards the corridors holding the dozens of elevator shafts, the others behind him, past huddled groups of bystanders looking around in horror. "Christ!" he muttered.

  "What is it?' asked Gonzalez, in a tone that suggested he really didn't want to know.

  As he turned into the corridor, it really did look as if a bomb had detonated in the east reception area. A ruin of twisted wreckage lay outside the door to one of the elevators, wreathed in guttering grey smoke. Blackened chunks of metal, wood and plastic were scattered across the tiled floor.

  The uniformed figure standing near the wreckage swung round, and Cambridge saw the Fire Chief had got there first. "What happened?"

  "Cable must have snapped," said O'Hallorhan. "The elevator car fell maybe fifty floors."

  "Any casualties? Anyone inside?"

  O'Hallorhan closed his eyes and nodded. "Yeah."

  Cambridge waved away the smoke and leant in for a closer look. He'd seen a lot of violent death and gruesome crime scenes in his career, and this was as bad as he expected. There had been maybe half-a-dozen passengers trapped in the elevator, and now they were just a heap of arms, legs, ripped clothes, burst shopping bags, bloodied faces and dead, staring eyes.

  "Madre di Dios," whispered Gonzalez, the other two cops right beside him.

  Cambridge
leaned in closer. The corpse closest to the door was almost intact – a young man in a business suit, his face smeared with blood. "What the hell's that on his hands and jacket?" the Lieutenant said.

  The corpse's hands and lower body were covered in some sort of grey gunk – not blood, not dust – something like machine oil but the wrong color. It was clear, almost transparent, and glittered as the cops turned their flashlights on it. It reminded Cambridge, for one crazy moment, of the stranded jellyfish he'd seen occasionally on the beaches at Coney Island.

  "Stand aside." Jankowitz shouldered his way past, the gadget in his bionic hand again. He held it out over the young man's body, and it bleeped and clicked excitedly. He grunted, put the device away, and turned back to Gauntlet and Soldier Blue. At a brief move of Jankowitz's hand, all three of them began to walk away.

  "Hey!" called Carlini, "you gonna tell us what's goin' on, or should we just go screw ourselves?"

  Jankowitz halted and turned back. "Boy, you are really startin' to piss me off. We're gonna go up top in the helisaucer to take a look. I suggest you use the stairs and clear the civilians from the area – unless, of course, you're inclined to refuse."

  Cambridge looked at Carlini and glared. "Shut your mouth, Carlini, for once. We got a job to do."

  FOUR

  One hundred and two floors. One thousand, eight hundred and sixty stairs. Seventy-three elevators, all of them immobilized, an unknown number of them holding passengers going out of their minds. Cambridge, Levitt, Carlini and Gonzalez took the west staircase, Rizzo and the other three cops took the north, and O'Hallorhan and the fire officers took the south and east; they had the equipment to open the elevator doors and get people out.

  Cambridge and his team didn't see anyone for the first twenty floors. The west staircase was quiet, and dark, an endless succession of steps, iron railings and plain concrete landings.

  On the twenty-third floor they met a group of about fifteen men and women, and a uniformed officer leading them down floor by floor, two by two. The customers seemed nervous, tired and confused, but not exactly scared.

  "See any Over-Heroes up there?" Cambridge asked.

  "No, sir," said the officer. "Only thing we saw was some kind of smoke coming out of the air ducts. The fire crews couldn't find any flames, but we asked the civilians to evacuate."

  "So is this all of them?"

  The officer looked embarrassed. "I'm afraid not, sir. Some of the customers are refusing to move – they said they're waiting for the power to come on so they can leave in the elevators. I'm taking this group down first, then I reckoned I could go back for the others with reinforcements."

  "You don't have to do that, son," said Levitt. "We'll go up there and kick their butts for you."

  The officer grinned sheepishly and adjusted his cap.

  The party of gossiping customers continued downwards, crocodile fashion, and Cambridge and his men continued to climb.

  "They're gonna have one heck of a story to tell," Gonzalez said.

  "What kind of a story's that?" said Carlini. "I went to the Empire State and the lights were out, so all I saw was the inside of a goddamn staircase?"

  "Knock it off, Carlini," yelled Levitt.

  "Let him," said Cambridge. "I could use a bit of business as usual right now."

  Levitt paused in his ascent and looked up. "Listening to his dumb jokes is your definition of business as usual?"

  Cambridge grinned. "Could be. What's your definition?"

  "Good question," said Levitt.

  "Bad answer," muttered Carlini from the back.

  At the landing on the thirty-seventh floor, they all had to stop and get their breath back. Bending over, coughing, squatting down and rubbing their legs, they felt more like a gang of bums standing around a trash can bonfire than a group of plain clothes cops.

  "Can you believe they're talking about holding a marathon here? Running from the ground all the way to the top?" commented Gonzalez.

  Levitt swept a hand through his hair and put his trilby hat back on. "You're gonna have to cut down on the donuts before you enter, that's for sure."

  Cambridge walked over to the safety rail and looked down into the stairwell. The darkness was lit by the faint glimmer of metal railings below. The silence, no elevator hum or air-conditioning whoosh, was broken only by scattered whispers coming from somewhere below, or maybe above.

  He jerked his head back in shock as the sound of gunshots ripped the silence apart and echoed up and down the stairwell. "What the hell was that?"

  He stared again into the darkness. Nothing. The gunshots weren't repeated.

  Cambridge wished to heaven he wasn't here. Every inch of him wanted to run down another staircase, get back in his car, speed across town back home to check on his wife and kids. He wasn't supposed to be here. There should have been an Over-Hero standing on this bridge between the sky and the sidewalk because Over-Heroes don't go weak at the knees, don't feel their heart trip-hammering in their chest, don't feel the pressure in the bladder, when the unknown is just a few steps away.

  "Someone's coming upstairs," said Levitt suddenly.

  "You sure?" said Gonzalez. "I can't hear nuthin'."

  Cambridge lifted his walkie-talkie and flipped the 'call' button. "Rizzo, do you copy? Report your position."

  A muffled voice crackled back. "We're in the east staircase, Lootenant, on the forty-third floor."

  "Roger that." Cambridge clicked off the walkie-talkie and turned back to the others. "It ain't them."

  "It must be the fire crew."

  Cambridge leant his head over the stairwell again. There were clear sounds of feet on the steps, dragging sounds like someone hitting each step with his shoes on the way up. It didn't sound like a fireman hurrying because they had a job to do. Shadows moved in the deeper darkness.

  From somewhere beyond the tower walls, out in Manhattan, Cambridge heard the muted sounds of gunfire. The cracking of a semiautomatic pistol followed by what sounded like an assault rifle. The skin on the back of his neck grew cold.

  "NYPD," he shouted down into the darkness. "Identify yourself."

  The figure on the stair lurched around the corner of the landing and stood at the foot of the stairs. Cambridge lifted his flashlight and turned it on the visitor.

  It was a man dressed in an expensive suit, his hair short and groomed, his face relatively handsome. All of that was made irrelevant by the silver, glittering slime that he was drenched in and the cuts and bruises on his face and hands. His mouth open, he stared up at Cambridge with a terrible blankness in his eyes.

  "Holy crock, that's–"

  "No. No, it can't be!"

  "Lemme see! Lemme see!"

  Carlini elbowed his way past the other two and stood at Cambridge's side. He echoed what the others were thinking. "But that's the guy we saw downstairs!"

  "In the elevator! And he was dead!"

  The figure climbed the stairs, slowly, his feet knocking against the steps, both hands holding the rail to drag him upwards.

  "The guy must have just been injured," Levitt said, and started to move downstairs but Cambridge grabbed his arm to pull him back. "Hold on, Gene. Something's all screwed up here."

  "NYPD," yelled Carlini. "Stay where you are!"

  The figure didn't stop. It pulled itself up, steadily, almost at the landing now, leaving a trail of viscous droplets behind it. "Fall back," shouted Cambridge. The cops moved away from the staircase and stood tensely, guns drawn, inside the main corridor.

  Except Gonzalez.

  "Listen," he called down the stairs. "You're hurt and you need an ambulance. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  The figure was almost at the landing.

  "Reni, get the hell away from there!"

  "I need you to stop, and show–"

  Then the figure reached out as swift as a snake, and grabbed the cop's head, twisting it and snapping in one short sinuous movement. It was almost too quick to see, but everyone he
ard the sound of cracking bone. Gonzalez dropped to the floor heavily and lay still.

  The three cops opened fire.

  The corridor rang with the metallic thunder of three Colt.38s firing at once. Cartridge shells bounced up and gunpowder smoke hung in the air. The bullets struck the shambling figure, arm, shoulder, leg, chest. It shook with the impact and remained upright. Its eyes and mouth were wide open, and nothing human could be seen there.

  Cambridge squinted and took aim, holding his pistol with both hands, and fired again. The bullet hit the man square above the eyes, snapping the head back. He sank to its knees and then fell onto his face.

  They lowered their guns and stood still among the echoes and gunsmoke. The walkie-talkie crackled into life.

  "Lootenant, we heard gunshots. What's going on?"

  Cambridge looked at the others. They stared back at him in disbelief, then looked at the fallen figure of Gonzalez. The figure that had attacked them wasn't moving, but the liquid gunk that covered it was sliding off, oozing onto the concrete. Cambridge lifted the walkie-talkie.

  "Officer down," he said quietly.

  They left the bodies where they were and moved into the nearest office.

  One of the doors in the corridor was emblazoned with a sign saying Conway, Thomas & Moench Insurance, and it was open. Cambridge pushed through into the office. It was open plan, divided by movable screens at chest-height, with desks and molded plastic chairs arranged in little islands stretching all the way to the back wall. A main thoroughfare had been created through the centre of that office with the screens. On the left was a typing pool, on the right stood tidy ranks of reel-to-reel computers and filing cabinets.

  "Okay, listen," said Cambridge. "Nobody touches the bodies. That guy was covered in some kind of crap and now it's all over Gonzalez's body too."

  Levitt looked grim. "Luke, what the hell's going on here?"

  "We know what's going on here," yelled Carlini. "That creep Max Jerkoffitz didn't tell us the goddamn truth, is all. The Over-Heroes don't get involved unless there's major cosmic shit going down."

  "And I'm startin' to think this is very much major cosmic shit," growled Cambridge. He snatched at his walkie-talkie. "Rizzo, do you copy?"